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Chapter Text

Doom, doom, went the drums of Moria, and doom doom sounded in the company's hearts. Legolas stood as frozen for a moment, rooted in horror as though they were part of the cursed stone. Rooted for a moment as long as an age, as their great guide stumbled and slipped and finally fell into the abyss where the bridge had been.

Fly, you fools, Gandalf had called, and sound came rushing back out of the chasm as if they woke from dreams into a nightmare, and then the rough voice of Aragorn was calling them on and the arrows came whistling past once more. Legolas turned away from the place where Mithrandir had fallen and fled with the others all around him. Up the dark stairs they went, heedless through tunnels and dark halls pierced with shafts of day until at last they stumbled out of the blackness into the free air again.

For a second Legolas was overcome with the loveliness of cold daylight and he thought only of the wind and the sun. Then time caught up with him and the sun went dark.

All around him, his companions were tumbling from fear into sadness. Merry and Pippin lay upon the ground, and they clung to each other as they cried. Frodo sat a little way off upon the cold stone with ashen face, and Sam had a hand about to comfort him, though his own face was streaked with tears. The dwarf Gimli was bent double, leaning on his axe like a man of great age, and Legolas had to turn his face away, so sudden was the memory of Gandalf lighting his staff in the mines to show the way. He saw that Boromir had knelt beside the younger hobbits to comfort them, though on his face was a look of great pain. The three of them clung together, and Legolas wondered, for it seemed to ease their tears. Only Aragorn still stood tall, yet though his eyes looked for danger about them they were so clouded that to Legolas it was a wonder that he could see at all.

How could it so, that Mithrandir was not here with them to lead them on, or to sit and blacken the sweet air with his pipe smoke. Legolas stood on the slope of the mountainside, and somewhere beneath, Mithrandir still fell.

He felt stunned, as though an unseen opponent had given him a mightly blow. Worse than that, he felt unbalanced. The ground pitched and tossed like treetops in a storm and his stomach lurched as it had that day when, still half grown, he had misjudged the weight of a branch and leapt for it, only to come crashing down to earth. He had been so sure the branch would hold him, but it had broken.

Aragorn came towards him. “We must press on. It is not safe to linger here.”

Legolas nodded. His silence seemed to answer a question he hadn't realised he was being asked, for Aragorn now sighed and straightened his back. His hand, ever at his sword, rested proudly on the hilt.

“Let us make for the woods of Lothlórien.”

Legolas' heart soared to hear the name. “ Lothlórien,” he repeated, as though the word itself was a balm. “There is much comfort to be found in the Golden Wood, so I have heard.”

Aragorn smiled now, and the stern look was replaced for a moment with a rueful laughter. Legolas found he liked it better. “That has ever been my experience.”

Legolas wanted to ask him a thousand questions, how it was that he had spent so much time in a realm feared and little trodden by mortal men, why it was he had grown up among the elves at all and whether he really was great friends with his cousin Arwen as Elrohir had said at Imladris. Aragorn seemed to guess his mood, however, and spoke first.

“Come, Legolas, help me gather the others. They do not know their peril.”

Then he turned and went to Boromir, and the two of them spoke rough words in their grief.

Legolas looked for the Ringbearer. Frodo no longer stood alone with Sam. To Legolas's surprise, Gimli the dwarf was beside him, leading him away down the Dimril Dale. Legolas was not too troubled by this, for the ears of elves are keen, and besides, Samwise would let no harm come to Frodo.

Gimli's speech was passing strange to Legolas. The dwarf spoke not, as he had expected, of Gandalf, nor of his fallen kinsmen, but told instead to the hobbits the tale of the Mirrormere and Durin's sunken crown. Seven times would Durin come, so the dwarves said. Six times since the making of the world had he been born, and once more he would come again. Legolas wondered truly then, for Gimli's words were beautiful, though his speech sounded harsh to Legolas' ear, and there was much comfort in what he said.

The little group stopped on the bank of the Mirrormere. Sam and Frodo looked into the pool in wonder, and on Gimli's face was a look of peace. Was this, too, not strange, for Gimli had been wild in his grief at Balin's tomb. Mortal folk were quick to sorrow, perhaps, and quick also to forget.

Then Aragorn came up beside him with the others and called them all to make haste, for Orcs are swift of foot and fond of revenge, and might yet chance the daylight.

The eight remaining members of the company picked their way down the Dimril Stair, and Legolas resolved to watch his companions. Did they feel as he did, that a great strong branch had broken underneath them even in the summer of its time? Certainly they looked unhappy, after the manner of their kinds. Aragorn led them at a great speed, and his back was strained as if under a great weight. Boromir's stance was low and his voice no longer boomed in remark or jest, and it may have been that the dwarf's tread was even heavier than before. Merry and Pippin trailed Boromir like sad leaves in the current of a stream, and Legolas fixed his mind for a time on Lothlórien, where the Mallorn leaves would not fall until spring. There was great comfort to be found in that land, where no thing withered or died.

Grief made the company silent, and each walker's eyes were fixed upon his feet. After a time, Legolas noticed that Frodo and Sam had fallen behind. He halted Aragorn with a word, and the ranger looked back in pity and said that they would go no further until they had eaten, and until he had seen to Sam's wound.

Gimli and Boromir lit a fire. Legolas had little use for fires and no skill with them, being neither hot nor cold out of doors, nor blind in the darkness, yet he had grown to like the circle they formed about it at dusk. Often they would exchange tales of their own peoples to pass the time in the dusk. That night, however, each one sat silent, busy with his own thoughts.

The silence was broken at last by a thing so unexpected that Legolas almost laughed aloud. Frodo, whose wound with the orc's spear had been forgotten by all save Sam, was questioned on it, and reluctantly pulled down his tunic to reveal a coat of Mithril mail. Then all forgot their sorrow and drew round in wonder.

“Mithril,”said Gimli, “I have never seen or heard tell of one so fair. Is this the coat that Gandalf spoke of? Then he undervalued it. But it was well given.” His voice was not jealous, and his eyes were round as the high moon.

The sight of the Mithril coat and Frodo's miraculous deliverance from harm gave them heart, and they used the last hour of twilight to press forward once more. As they came down into the next valley Legolas had another reason for cheer, for such trees as there were in that bare land began to speak of Lórien. His heart leapt and his pace quickened. He had longed for many years to see the Golden Wood again, but his companions were slow, and so he matched his pace to theirs. I go to find the sun, he had said on the slopes of Caradhras, but that had been folly. The company must walk together, or not at all.

Yet the pace was punishingly slow. Strange indeed it must be to be mortal, Legolas thought almost aloud, to feel so much and yet see so little.

Two more vales they passed through in the gathering gloom before at last, in the last light, they came upon the edge of the wood. Then all Legolas' sorrow was put aside for a moment and only gladness was in his heart, gladness and longing to see the Mallorn yet in spring.

“Lothlórien,” he cried aloud in greeting to the trees, and their leaves whispered back. “Lothlórien,” he said again to the others. “We have come at last to the eaves of the Golden Wood. Alas that it is winter.” For the leaves of the trees were dry and golden, and not fresh green, as had been dream. Greenleaf was his name, and green the new leaves that were most beloved. Yet even in winter the power of Lothlórien was strong, and the leaves were still thick upon the branches in promise of the spring to come.

They went on in the night into the forest. Gimli and Frodo were at the rear of the party, and Legolas was curious, for it seemed that the dwarf could offer comfort to the ringbearer of a different kind to that given by his kinsmen. He did not stay to listen, though, for all around the trees and streams and creatures were singing, and behind them the stars. One voice came to him ever clearer as they walked, and Legolas thrilled to hear it. For this song came over the night breeze like the chiming of many bells, or the watery song of the Blackbird, a sweet air that Legolas knew of of old, though never had he heard its source. It was the singing of Nimrodel, famous in Silvan song.

When they came upon her banks, Legolas was moved first to complete silence, and then to speech. He puzzled at the broken down bridge that stood there, but the water still was bright and young and swift, and he bade his companions to wade in the healing waters.

“Follow me,” he said, with a cry delight. “The water is not deep. Let us wade across. On the father bank we can rest, and the sound of the falling water may bring us sleep and forgetfulness of grief.”

The music of the water was indeed very lovely, lovelier than all the songs sung about it, and this troubled Legolas even more than the bridge, even as the water washed his body free of cares. Could it be that his brother had been right, and the songs of old truly spoke of times more perfect and more lovely than their own later days? Still, long he had listened to the songs of his people, and great peace and comfort they had brought him. And so Legolas sang the song of Nimrodel as best he could in the Westron speech, so that they others might listen and understand. After a time he faltered, for the tale grew sad and he had never cared to set it to memory, preferring the loveliness of the beginning. It would have been fitting, for the same evil that had taken Nimrodel had now taken one of their number. So he spoke of the rest plainly, in speech, until it ended on the shores of the sea.

Legolas did not like to leave the story so.

“It is told that she had a house built in the branches of a tree that grew near the falls,” he said. “for that was the custom of the elves of Lórien, to dwell in the trees, and maybe it is so still.”

Samwise gasped and looked up and about, but Gimli merely grunted. He, and perhaps Boromir, had seemed the least impressed by Legolas' tale. “And even in these latter days dwelling in the trees might be thought safer than sitting on the ground,” he said.

Aragorn stirred himself then. “Your words bring good counsel, Gimli,” he spoke. “We cannot build a house, but tonight we will do as the Galadhrim and seek refuge in the tree-tops, if we can. We have sat here beside the road already longer than was wise.”

Legolas felt rebuked. Why had he not spoken sooner, if the tale of Nimrodel had displeased him. Too much of this there had been already, first he had been sent to tell tale of Gollum's escape, then there had been his own foolishness on Caradhras, and now again he hindered the company when he should have been a help.

“I will climb up,” he annouced. “I am at home among trees, by root or bough” he paused, “though these trees are of a kind strange to me, save as a name in song. Mellyrn they are called, and are those that bear the yellow blossom, but I have never climbed in one.” Whither came this strange mood? Never before had he hesitated to greet a tree or to climb in it.

He walked round the trunk, avoiding Aragorn's eye. He alone had spent time among the elves, and might read meaning in Legolas' face or words.

“I will see now what is their shape and way of growth.”

Pippin piped up before he could begin the climb, complaining that he could not sleep on a perch, and Legolas was impatient and bade him dig a hole in the ground before the Orcs came, if that was more to his liking. Then he sprang lightly for the first branch.

“Daro!”, an elven voice boomed, and for the second time, Legolas slipped from the tree.

“Stand still,” he whispered urgently to the others. His heart was pounding in his ears in an echo of the drums. “Do not move or speak.”

Then laughter came down from the trees, and a voice called to Legolas in his own tongue.

“We heard your song, Northern kinsman,” it said. “Who are you, and who do you bring to Lórien in these troubled days.”

“It is Legolas Thranduillion, prince of the Woodland Realm. I am come from Rivendell on the orders of Elrond Peredhel.”

There was more laughter, but it was not evil.

“The little Greenleaf. That is well. We have not seen one of your kin in Lórien for many a year. But did your father never teach you not to climb in other people's trees?”

Legolas squirmed slightly, but it was not so unpleasant to hear Sindarin once more.

“My apologies,” he tried, before realising he did not know who he was speaking to.

“Haldir am I, and these are my brothers Orophin and Rúmil,” the elf said, guessing his hesitation. “A star shines on the hour of our meeting, Legolas. But tell me, who have you brought with you into our woods. They are no elves, of this I am sure. They breathe so loud we could have shot them in the dark.”

“It is well that you did not,” Legolas said, and he laughed. Then he caught the look on Boromir's face and remembered himself.

“I am come with companions from the House of Elrond. One of our number is charged with a task against the enemy, and the rest of us walk beside him. I would gladly tell you more of our travels, but not here.”

More laughter, slightly patronising, Legolas thought. “Very well, Legolas Greenleaf. Tell your companions they must have no fear of us, and come up to the flet. Bring the companion of which you spoke with you. The others must wait a time, I fear.” Haldir did not sound very sorry.

Legolas relayed his message to the company, then a ladder was let down and he climbed with Frodo following behind.

Haldir's face drew a smile from Legolas, and he asked eagerly for news of the Golden Wood. They spoke for a while of elves they both knew, and Legolas forgot almost that Frodo was coming, so long did it take him to follow up the ladder. He rejoiced to be back among his kinsmen, who spoke to him in the manner of his custom and knew him neither as a young relic of a bygone age, nor as an enemy, foreign and not wanted, nor only through his tidings of Gollum and of Mirkwood's blunder, which made him blush to think of. In fact, trading news and words with Haldir he felt much of his old impishness return. Then Frodo came and the matter turned serious.

In his own tongue, Legolas recounted their quest. When it came to the matter of Mithrandir, and of the Fellowship's coming to Lothlórien he switched to the common tongue, for the matter concerned Frodo, who had sat silently beside them all the while.

Legolas wished for a fleeting moment that Tauriel or even Laerophen was here to hear Haldir's Westron. Here, at least, was something in which the elves of Mirkwood could surpass the Galadhrim.

But the victory was not long to be enjoyed, for now Haldir was pressing Legolas on the company. There was no choice. Legolas skirted the issue, but Haldir could count to eight in Westron and demanded to know who the eighth of their number was.

“A dwarf”, said Haldir, for Frodo's benefit. “That is not well. We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days. They are not permitted in our land. I cannot allow him to pass.”

Wordlessly he told Legolas much more of his feeling. How could he bring a dwarf thus into Lórien, and sing to him of Nimrodel, and let him wash his feet in her stream?

Had Mithrandir not fallen only that day, had he not seen Gimli show the ringbearer Durin's sunken crown, had he not seen how great his grief for his lost kin had been and how bewildering the miles from Moria, he might have struggled to answer. As it was, Legolas found himself taking the dwarf's part, for his own sake as well as Elrond's. He spoke chiefly of Elrond's decision and Mithrandir's faith in Gimli, and of their common battle in Moria. He spoke also of Erebor and the Woodland Realm and the shadow at Dol Guldur, and that wiser ones than he saw it fit to make common cause. He would have spoken of Gimli's grace with an axe and of his words of comfort, but Haldir's face was sharp. Legolas fell silent, he had said already too much.

Haldir gave him a long look, and Legolas felt that he was testing the strength of his judgement. Finally however he nodded and allowed that Gimli should pass, if he would consent to go blindfolded.

Legolas went swiftly down with his message and arranged the company for the two flets as Haldir had bid. Yet when he reached the flet his mind was troubled for a time, for he was unused to the feelings that now came to him. Lórien was very peaceful, there was peace in this place that existed nowhere else this side of the sea in these days. Yet even under the eaves of Lórien, the bridge over the Nimrodel was broken. The sight of it had troubled him greatly, though he could not say why. Did Nimrodel walk her still, or was she gone where Gandalf had gone?

Legolas wished now that he had studied more the lore of the Maia, irrelevant as they had been to him until now. Laerophen would have known. Was Mithrandir really gone? Or, not Mithrandir, who was still a lofty and abstract kind of a thing, but Gandalf, as the others called him, who snapped and joked and whistled as he walked. He found it hard to believe it. But so much had become strange to him. A Balrog of Morgoth, as Glorfindel had slain in the tales of old, had risen up before them in the black pit.

He was in confusion, and not being one who had felt confused before, found himself alone, though all around him the company were falling to sleep. But who among the second-born would understand his thoughts now, for Legolas knew that elves did not grieve as mortals do. Gimli the dwarf was not a second-born, it was true, but what did he know of the resting plaee of dwarves, and besides, the desire to seek counsel from a dwarf was a confusion in itself, and Legolas did not chase the thought.

Instead he listened to the singing of the stars, and distant chatter of Nimrodel. Sweet it had been indeed, to wade in her waters and forget. Sweet, too, were the dances of his homeland, sweet and dangerous, for there they had no stream but only starlight and wine, under the spell of which an elf might forget himself for a time, or simply whirl wildly under the sky, if he, like Legolas, had nothing to forget. He felt a very long way from home, as though he had strayed into a strange world where bridges broke and monsters walked and dwarfs spoke words of comfort where the songs of the elves failed.

After a time, the peace of Lórien came over him, and quieted his mind, and he wandered without a care in elven dreams.

Chapter Text

It was the evening of their second full day in Lórien, and Legolas was ill at ease.

Their meeting with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn had brought him much joy, but the Lady had tested Legolas' mind and taken his thoughts where he did not wish them to go.

It was all Gimli's doing, he thought, looking intently at the moss where it met the base of a tree.

The dwarf had refused to wear the blindfold. And then, thanks to Aragorn, they were all of them led blindfold through the Naith of Lórien.

“A plague on dwarves and their stiff necks,” Legolas had said, and he had meant it. Dearly had he wished to see the sun dance on the winter leaves, and instead he had seen only flickers of light and shade through a cloth.

Haldir had not helped matters, with his gloomy talk of the sea. It had quickened him again to anger. What did the elves of Lórien know of peril and grief, while all the time his own kin had been fighting the blackness from Dol Guldur that daily choked the Greenwood?

Legolas sighed and put his hand against the bark. It was perfectly smooth, with no hold or blemish where a vine might grow.

He had hoped the Lady Galadriel might speak some words of comfort to him, but she had seemed more interested in talking to Gimli about the Mirrormere and the wonders of Moria. The world made little enough sense these days, without the Lady of Lórien speaking of beauty in the tongue of the dwarves. So keen had she been to see to the dwarf's comfort it seemed, that she had bidden a pavilion be prepared for the Company on the ground.

He had rested a little. Indeed, all save Boromir had slept soundly, but Legolas had been roused by the music that followed him out of dreams. The Galadhrim had heard the news of Mithrandir, and had taken up their grief and begun to sing. It was very beautiful, sad and smooth as the Mallorn bark and not at all like the chaos Legolas felt within himself. Sam had asked whereof they sang, but he had declined to translate the words. The Grey Pilgrim they sang of was not truly the Gandalf the Company had known, and besides, he was in the company of better poets than himself.

He had thought he might speak with Aragorn, who had been in Lothlórien before and knew the ways of the Galadhrim, but he had disappeared when the sun rose and left the others to their rest and sadness.

There was a shout from the pavilion. Legolas stirred himself and went inside, wanting company for the while.

The pavilion that the Lady Galadriel had arranged for them was thoughtfully arranged, for everything the Galadhrim made was fair and nothing was without purpose. Yet the elves of Lórien received few visitors in these late days, as Haldir had called them, and still less Hobbits and Dwarves.

Merry and Pippin were scrambling by the dresser. Pippin seemed to have twigs and dirt in his hair, the result of some Hobbitish game, no doubt.

“I can't reach the basin.”

“Yes you can Pip, you have to jump.”

“No I can't. How am I supposed to wash my face while jumping?”

“No silly,” Merry elbowed his cousin out the way. “Jump and sit on it, then you can wash your face.”

Pippin was helpless as a bird scared to fly the nest, and so Merry tutted and made to demonstrate. Legolas, Frodo and Boromir all sensed trouble and turned to look. Sure enough, as Merry jumped, Pippin gave a shout and shoved him, sending Merry tumbling smack into the mirror and then to the ground,

There was a moment of silence. Merry did not move.

“Merry,” squeaked Pippin. “Are you hurt?”

Merry lay very still, but Legolas could tell he was breathing. Pippin, it seemed, could not, and rushed to his cousin's side.

“Merry, oh Merry I'm sorry. Please don't be hurt. Oh, what would Gandalf say.” He shook his cousin's shoulder, but Merry was limp.

Pippin's voice was shaking now, and Legolas realised that he was quite overcome. “I'll get Strider Merry, he healed Frodo on Weathertop, he can heal you too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Gimli come out of his bedchamber and stop in the doorway. The glitter in his eye told Legolas he was in on the trick, and they shared a rare smile.

Merry let the thing go on a second longer. Then, with a great shout, he leapt up and tackled Pippin to the ground.

“I'm alive, and that's bad luck for you Pip,” Then all the Company burst out laughing as the two little Hobbits tussled on the ground. Then Boromir was pulling the two of them apart and saying in his great booming voice that if they wanted to fight they had better come and practice their swords with him and not their fists on each other.

This wasn't strictly speaking allowed. Celeborn had bidden them to draw no weapon in the Naith, but the little halfling swords seemed hardly to count, and anyway, it seemed to cheer Boromir as well as the Hobbits to have a diversion. As the Galadhrim had no Westron they were unlikely to notice, and besides, they were all up in the treetops and had left their guests down on the ground. Besides, Legolas had enough experience with trying to conceal things from Elrond in Imladris in his younger days to know that the Lady Galadriel certainly would know, and would put a stop to it in a second if she truly wished to do so.

The others watched the fighting for a while, and at some point Aragorn returned from his secret wanderings, but then the hobbits began to tire again, and soon they flopped down on the soft cushions laid upon the floor.

Legolas went back out into the afternoon sun. Lothlórien seemed to have a strange effect on his companions. They had slept deeply on the flets, even Pippin, and deeper still last night in the pavilion. When they woke they seemed content to wander beneath the trees and talk, or sit for a long while staring at the patterns made by the light on the leaves. Even the young hobbits were held in this deep calm. They could rest and sleep until the sun was high above them, walk and talk a little under the trees and then turn in once more in the early twilight.

Legolas was unsure what to do. He amused himself for a while with some elves who had come down to forage, and for a while they swapped news and stories of their lands. They were young for Lórien elves, though not as young as Legolas. Then their conversation turned to Mithrandir, and Legolas, desiring at that moment to be alone, had bid them farewell.

Being alone with his thoughts brought him peace for a moment, but they grew dark as the sun waned and he desired company once more.

When he returned to the pavilion, he realised the company had already eaten. All save Gimli and Aragorn were now dozing in the twilight.

Aragorn was abroad again, that was obvious from the empty space where his bedroll should have been, but had Gimli gone with him? Legolas doubted it, somehow. Aragorn seemed restless in Lórien, not the uneasiness of Boromir or the sadness they all felt, but something lay on his heart and troubled him that he did not wish to share.

Gimli was not in the pavilion, but behind it. Legolas had gone to seek him without realising he had been looking, until he found him sitting at the foot of a tree.

Legolas watched him a while. He was whittling a stick with a pocket knife and humming softly to himself, and he had the look of peace on him that he had seen in the Mirrormere, and a sadness. It made him look quite dignified for a dwarf.

“May I sit beside you for a while?” Legolas said, and winced at how stiff his Westron sounded.

Gimli jumped.

“Aye,” he said, as though he had not nearly just cut his finger off, and shifted slightly to make room. It was completely unnecessary of course, for the boles of the Mallorn trees were big enough for eight elves to sit abreast, but Legolas appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Something troubles our companion Aragorn,” Legolas began. “Some other sorrow than Gandalf, though I know not what it may be.”

“Ach, so you've noticed that too, have you?” Gimli chuckled to himself and continued his whittling.

Perhaps Legolas' silence made Gimli nervous, for eventually he continued.

“An elvish lassie, from what I can gather. I think our friend is in love, for all the good it does him.”

So that was what it was. Aragorn was in love. Legolas considered, his mind running on many tracks. The smell of the earth, the memory of their recent journey and running underneath the song of Nimrodel as he had heard it in his own halls, the faces of elf maidens he had known in days past and the tingle of the starlight as it fell now on his skin.

Then it fell on him like a thunderbolt.

“Arwen,” he gasped. “It is Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, daughter of Elrond Peredhil and Celebrían, who departed for Valinor.” It was hardly to be believed, their grim leader of the company, and cousin Arwen. “I had heard he was a ward of Elrond's for a time, but she never spoke of him to me....”

“Shh,” Gimli said. “Keep your voice down.”

That stung him some, especially from the dwarf.

“Why should I. Few of my kin speak Westron. Besides, they are all up in the treetops.”

Gimli sighed and returned to his carving. Among his own people he was often silent for hours at a time, sharing company wordlessly, but trying to read Gimli was about as easy as trying to read the runes on the door of Moria. Still, Legolas' confidence that the conversation wasn't over was not misplaced.

“He won't appreciate it laddie,” he said eventually. “Aragorn's a quiet sort of a man, but he's proud. If he's in love with some elf lassie he can never had...” he broke off. “Ach, look, you've made me cut his finger off.”

Legolas peered at the carving, unsure why Gimli's clumsiness should be his fault.

But the carving was far from clumsy. Legolas was so surprised he almost gasped aloud.

In Gimli's rough palms was nestled a perfect wooden carving of Gandalf as he had been on their journey. His face was sober, but a smile tugged at his mouth as though he was thinking of some secret thing and finding it amusing. That would have been skill enough from such rough hands to give him pause, but what really captivated Legolas was the movement. Gimli had carved the figure with his cloak and hair flying and his hat bent in some unseen wind.

Confusion followed confusion of late. He had underestimated the dwarf, that was clear to him now. And cousin Arwen had given her heart to Isildur's heir, though Legolas knew as well as Aragorn that she could never forsake the call of the Undying Lands, whence many of their people even now made their way. Every day the road East grew darker and the peril more great, and now their guide had fallen into shadow. How could elf or mortal man see clearly in such times?

“It is a true likeness, his spirit is in it, and the spirit of the tree from which it was carved. You have skill with a blade, Gimli son of Glóin.”

Gimli looked momentarily taken aback, and Legolas recalled that his travelling companions were shy about taking such compliments as the Elves were wont to give. Mortal customs would never cease to bewilder him, Legolas thought.

“Ach, it's nothing, just a fancy. I thought my wee nephew might like it, if I ever get back to Erebor in one piece. You should see my countryman Bombur's carvings, now that's real work. A child of forty summers could do a thing like this.”

“Nonetheless, you have a way with wood. Perhaps the Lady Galadriel was right, there is some elf in you.”

Gimli looked at him in frustration and flipped his little carving knife in his fingers. “Well, I'd sooner hew stone than fiddle about with wood. It splinters and gets all over the place and follows what grain it will.”

“Dwarves must be strong indeed,” Legolas said dryly, “if they can chisel rocks with a pocket knife.”

Then he sprang up, for teasing Gimli had restored his spirits, and spoke boldly to his companion. “Come, Gimli, I will show you the wonders of the Golden Wood. The company is sleeping, but the elves are awake, and the Lady's favour is on you.”

It was Gimli's turn to be surprised, though he hid it quickly. “You've changed your tune,” he muttered, getting stiffly to his feet. Legolas marvelled again at how someone so clumsy could make something as delicate and true as the carving. The Lady had been right, she had seen what Legolas could not. There was something elvish in Gimli, he was sure of it.

And he went singing away through the trees, certain that Gimli would follow.