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Chapter Text

The stars released him back into the cool grey grandeur of the world of the dead. Thorin rubbed at his eyes and then he stood stiffly from his bench. The pain in his legs had muted to a dull throb. Around him, his companions came to awareness, most groaning at their aching limbs and blinking in the darkness, dramatic after the blinding purity of Gimlîn-zâram.

Thorin tipped his neck to stretch it, and then peered at the benches surrounding the glassy, utterly-smooth pool. There was Lóni, seated and staring at the water, as motionless as a statue - ah, so it was he who watched for the youngest Hobbits. Not far from Lóni sat Kíli, who was frowning despite the blankness of his eyes. Perhaps some calamity had befallen Frodo and Sam. Thorin fervently hoped not, though the way their luck had turned these last few days he could not exactly rule it out.

Frerin touched his sleeve. "Nadad, you need to speak to Mum," he said softly. Thorin nodded after a last look at Kíli, and then he turned and forced his sore legs to take him away from the Chamber.

Frís looked weary. "Your chase is over then?" she said, and Thorin lifted a hand and rocked it side to side.

"I cannot say," he said. "It depends upon what they will find. What news from the others?"

"Balin reported," she said, turning to a slip of paper covered in Balin's firm, confident runes. "In Dale, King Brand is not the one who stalls us. Rather, it is his parliament. They argue and bicker, trying to gain the upper hand politically. King Brand is constrained by custom and needs the parliament to ratify any decision to go to war, and with such petty power-struggles in his court he cannot pledge himself to Erebor's cause."

Thorin snorted. "Men, tcch. What else?"

"Hold your temper," she said, eyeing him sternly.

"Such a warning does not exactly fill me with confidence, 'amad," he said wearily. "I will endeavour to keep it in check. What is it?"

"Ori has reported," she said, and then she sighed deeply. "Merry and Pippin were alive, at least they were when he last saw them. There was a skirmish with horsemen of some sort-"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted, and the confusion he had felt at Eomer's threat and Legolas' response washed over him again. He shook his head free of his thoughts and refocused. "What has happened?"

"He lost them," she said, and sat down with a short huff of frustration. "Ori could not find them in the chaos and the darkness and the press of orcs and horses. He searched and searched until it was nearing midnight, but the Hobbits are nowhere to be found. Now Lóni tries to seek them out, though it is nearing eight hours since he began the hunt."

"Does Gimlîn-zâram not place them close to the Hobbits when they enter?" Thorin frowned, and then he rubbed at his temples. His temper was indeed rising, but it was smothered under the heaviness of his great exhaustion.

"You know as well as I do that it is very difficult to steer the pool," she said.

"I do not have that trouble any more, though I did at first," said Thorin. "I am mostly taken where I wish."

"You usually have a fair idea of where that is, however," she said dryly. "Ori believes they ran into Fangorn Forest. Even an Elf could not find them in there."

Thorin grimaced. "There are fell tales of that forest."

She nodded, and then she rested her head upon her hand. "That is all I have for you, inùdoy. I am sorry it is not more."

"It is enough," he said heavily, and he kissed her head. "I will play your customary part now, and tell you to sleep. You look tired."

"I am," she said, and then she smiled up at him. "How unusual. Still, I could grow to like it."

He folded his arms and gave her a mock-glare that quickly dissolved into a groan. "Disrespect from my own mother – but ah, I ache all over. I will take my own advice."

"Also unusual. I am beginning to wonder if you are truly my stubborn son," she said, smiling as he pulled her to her feet. "Ori will have the new schedule up tomorrow."

"Good," he said as they began to make their way towards their rooms. Then he hesitated. "Amad, the Elf – he defended Gimli."

"Really?" Her brows shot up. "Well. Against whom?"

"A Man of Rohan, a Horse-Lord. I cannot understand. He is Thranduil's son, an Elf of Mirkwood. He has said himself that he was raised to hate us, and yet he drew his bow and told the Man of Rohan..."

"Thorin," she interrupted him gently, "calm down. You are confused and tired. The Elf will wait until you have rested."

He smiled despite himself, a small tilt of the lips. "Now that is more along the lines of our customary roles. I knew it couldn't last."

She laughed softly. "For how long will you give yourself a respite?"

"Not long. They will arrive at the edge of Fangorn soon, and I must be there to give Gimli this small news of Pippin. They are on horseback: fitting, I suppose, as they are in Rohan. I expect I have no more than a couple of hours."

"Gimli must be thrilled at that."

"Oh yes," Thorin said, snorting softly. "He is as happy as a Stiffbeard in a silver mine. Horses are not precisely his transport of choice, it seems. He sits like a sack of grain and clings to the Elf with all his might – I half-expected him to break bones with those great hands of his."

She smiled. "Then they ride together?"

"They do." Thorin repressed the scowl that threatened to cross his face. He would have time to consider the Elf's baffling behaviour later, when he was more alert.

She hummed thoughtfully, and then looked up at him, serious once more. "Do not overtax yourself again, my dear."

"I do not intend to." He dropped his eyes for a moment, before taking a breath and meeting hers once more. "Here is my chamber, and I will rest for a short while."

She sighed in defeat, and kissed his cheek. "I will send someone to wake you."

He pressed his head against hers briefly, before he left her. His bed was unaired and rumpled, but he did not care in the slightest as he slowly pulled off his boots, and fell back onto his pillow. He was asleep in seconds.

"Thorin, wake up."

He groaned and swiped a hand at the annoying voice. A soft chuckle greeted this.

"You'll have to try harder than that."

"Víli?" Thorin blinked awake, his eyes gummy and his head pounding. That had not been enough sleep to revitalise his aching muscles. "How is Erebor?"

"Tense," Víli said with a wry shrug. "The Elves keep to their rooms, the Stonehelm hovers like a worried crow and Bomfrís argues with both him and that son of Thranduil constantly. They held an archery competition, and she lost. She isn't taking it very gracefully."

Thorin grunted, struggling out of his tangled bedclothes. "And Dís?"

Víli's eyes softened. His voice was wistful as he said, "She's coping well enough with the internal bickering and the increased pressure, though she's slowing down a bit. She hides it well."

Thorin looked up at his brother-in-law thoughtfully for a moment. "She always did."

His sister and her One had shared a strong bond, and it did not surprise Thorin in the least that after so many years Víli still yearned for his mithril-voiced, stern-faced wife. He had been the only one to make her laugh after the double tragedy of Erebor and Azanulbizar. She had given up her place in the succession for him: a lowborn stonemason of no family. Only twenty years had they spent together. Only twenty years – and then a warg had taken Víli. A mere lone scout, ranging over the Blue Mountains, but it had killed Dís' laughter.

Víli sighed soundlessly. "I'll go back tomorrow, and hopefully there will be more to report. Thrór was there: he undoubtedly will have understood more of all that political rubbish. I never did really comprehend the ramifications of it all."

"I envy that. When I was young I often wished I had never been born to politics," Thorin said, and put a hand on Víli's shoulder as he stood stiffly. His sore muscles shrieked at him. "Ah!"

"I heard about all the running," Víli said, and he grinned as he brought up a hand to support Thorin's back. "You should see Gróin and Fundin. They're practically moaning in concert."

"Serves them right for trying to outdo each other," Thorin grunted, and he made his way with aching legs to his table, where a flask of hot wine and a hunk of bread sat, oil and spices ready beside it.

"Some brothers never change," Víli said, and he shook his head in amusement.

"Speaking of brothers, how is Fíli? I did not see him in the Chamber of Sansûkhul, but Kíli is there still."

"He's asleep. He followed Frodo and Sam through the Emyn Muil for nearly the whole day yesterday, and I quote, 'at least Sam has rope'!"

Thorin smiled, tearing off a bite of his bread. "Kíli is a better climber than Fíli."

"He is," agreed Víli, leaning against the table. "Fíli is a better swimmer, though."

"Though Kíli tries to make up for that with sheer enthusiasm," Thorin murmured, and both Dwarrows laughed.

"I must return to Gimli now," Thorin said, and he yawned around the words. "Do you rest?"

"No, not yet." Víli cocked his head. "Back so soon? I don't want to imply, but – Thorin, are you pushing too hard again?"

Thorin's smile dropped away. "I will not make that mistake a second time," he said curtly. "I may not be able to halt my watch as often as I should, but neither do I go beyond my own strength. These are difficult days. I do not forget that I will be needed, yet I cannot be so selfish as to incapacitate myself when events move so swiftly and dramatically. It is simply," and he winced, "the damnable running that has done this!"

"Now, now, calm down," Víli said, holding his hands up. "Just a question. I only didn't want the boys to get so worried about you again."

Thorin swallowed and turned back to the rudimentary meal. "Indeed so," he muttered. "I do not wish to see that either. My undayûy deserve better than that from me."

Víli folded his arms. "Here, none o' that," he said, frowning. It looked quite unnatural on his impish face. "They have had the best of you, and so I won't hear you speaking that way of yourself. Thorin, you've always had their loyalty and love, and nothing will change that, nothing. You worry over them all the time – do you think they don't do the same for you? Care does not only go one way, you noble old thing. Learn to live with it."

Thorin paused, and then he looked up, a smile tugging at his lips once more. "I am being schooled constantly, it seems," he said dryly. "And from sources I do not expect."

Víli shrugged again, his myriad blond braids bouncing. "It's my blinding beauty, I expect. Nobody can ever quite believe that it's paired with such astounding wisdom."

A laugh escaped him again, and Thorin shook his head, before rubbing his sore eyes and gulping down a few sips of the wine. It stung at the back of his throat, and he vaguely wondered which herbs Óin had added to it to give him energy.

"All right," he said, wiping off his mouth and stepping into his boots (clumsily – Mahal, but his legs were sore!). "I will be no more than a few hours. I do not have longer in me today."

"If you're this bad, I can't imagine how Gimli is faring," Víli said, holding open the door.

"Gimli is sixty years younger than I am," he growled. "And before you make a ridiculous quip, Frerin already did so yesterday."

"Damn, he beat me to it," Víli said, grinning his mischievous grin, the very image of the one Kíli had inherited. "Go on then, revered elder."

"I will hurt you."

"If you can catch me," Víli said, and he chuckled all the way to the main corridors, where they parted.

No-one was with Thorin so soon after their last shift, and he sat at his bench before Gimlîn-zâram feeling oddly bereft. He had become used to company on his jaunts to Middle-Earth.

He briskly threw the thought away, and concentrated on Gimli. He would feel less alone with his star.

He groaned as the light surrounded him, warming his aching body and soothing his confused mind. Grass beneath his feet brought him back to himself, and he straightened, blinking away the last vestiges of the starry radiance and his own weariness.

The low crouching shadow of the Forest now glowered very near. The three hunters were fossicking through a great smoking pile of corpses, stinking and rancid in the daylight. The air smelled of burnt flesh and the coppery tang of blood. Memories of the horrible days following Azanulbizar abruptly clamoured for Thorin's attention. He gritted his teeth against them and firmly pushed them aside. Old griefs were not important here.

"Gimli," he said, and his star's furrowed brow relaxed a little.

"You join us at a very unhappy moment, Lord," he said in a low voice, his gauntleted hands busy in the charred remains. "We may have a sorrowful ending to our chase."

"Have you found anything, Gimli?" said the Elf, his face full of disgust at the task they found themselves performing. His hands were bare, of course, and Thorin's own nose wrinkled involuntarily. Neither Aragorn nor Legolas had any gloves at all. No wonder they were leaving the greater portion of this ghastly undertaking to the Dwarf.

"No," Gimli said, louder than before, his hands lifting a thick leg aside. Then he breathed in horror, "Wait. Wait – oh no. Oh, nekhushel!"

"What is it?" Aragorn said, standing.

"It's one of their wee belts," Gimli said, rubbing away the soot and grime from the carefully wound leather twisted into Elvish patterns.

Legolas' face drained of all colour, and he bowed his head. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath..." he said under his breath, and Thorin wondered what in Durin's name all those liquid syllables even meant.

"Gimli, no," he began, but he was interrupted by a great cry of rage. He whirled to see Aragorn aim a great kick at a fallen Uruk helmet, his cheeks blotched with fury. Then the Man fell to his knees and sank into silence, his shoulders slumped and his hair covering his face.

"We failed them," Gimli said, his deep voice rough. He ran his thumb along the small Elvish belt once more and his eyes squeezed shut.

"I cannot bear to see you mourn yet again, Gimli," said Thorin, low and fervent. "No, you should not mourn another, so soon after the last! My star, they may be alive – listen to me! Gimli! Listen, nidoyel!"

Gimli did not answer, clutching the scrap of leather to his chest.

Aragorn gave a dusty sigh as his head lifted a little. "A Hobbit lay here," he murmured, his eyes hopeless. His fingers stroked over a narrow depression in the blood-spattered grass. "And the other – here."

"They are lost, but hope remains!" Thorin shouted, before he tipped his head back in frustration. "Gimli, listen, listen to me – ah, Glóin's son, you are as deaf as your uncle ever was!"

"They crawled," Aragorn continued in a heavy voice, his hand moving across the churned ground. Divots of grass thrown by the hooves of horses lay all around, and Thorin gave the markings a sceptical look.

"How in Mahal's name can anyone read that?" he said in rising aggravation, before turning to Gimli. "Hear me, nidoyel! Pippin did not have his hands tied. He had managed to free himself – there is still a chance that..."

"Their hands were bound," Aragorn said, and Thorin scowled over his shoulder.

"I am still talking – "

"Their bonds were cut," Aragorn said, his tone quickening as he moved over the ground, his coat flaring behind him. He indicated a long blade half-hidden in the grass. Scraps of rope lay about it.

Thorin strangled his roar of frustration. He was far, far too tired for this. "If you would just -"

"They ran over here," Aragorn said, and the note of excitement in his voice was plain to hear. "They were followed; the tracks lead away from the battle..."

All three hunters slowly raised their heads to gaze at the solid, sprawling wall of creeping green that crouched before them.

"...into Fangorn Forest," Aragorn finished in a murmur.

"Fangorn," Gimli muttered. "What madness drove them in there?"

"A battle, or have you no wits left in that red head of yours?" Thorin snapped, and then he cursed his tongue. Frerin had warned him that he grew cruel when he was worried.

"Wit enough to ignore that comment," Gimli snapped back just as sharply. Thorin grimaced.

"Birashagimi, inùdoy kurdulu," he said, and rubbed at his slack face.

Gimli's face smoothed out and he inclined his head in acceptance. "And to you, my Lord," he said, before glancing up at the Elf. "Well, Legolas, you did say you would give much to see trees again."

Legolas' eyes glittered. "This is not precisely what I meant."

"We are caught in a fine net," Aragorn said. "We were warned against Fangorn, but now our path leads directly under its eaves. Do we go on?"

"Whether we do or not, we should picket the horses," Legolas said, turning to where they stood and grazed beyond the pyre. Yet even as he did so, they neighed loudly and reared as though spooked. Legolas said a quick soft word in Elvish, but the horses were already galloping away, their hooves further churning the battle-scarred ground.

Gimli stared after them and then he shrugged, entirely unconcerned. "Oh well."

"What happened?" Legolas said, baffled. "All was calm, and then they bolted."

"Were they frightened by the forest, do you suppose?" asked Aragorn.

"It'd frighten any beast with half a brain," Gimli muttered.

"No," said Legolas, his fair brows drawing together. "I heard them clearly. They spoke as horses will when they meet a friend that they have long missed."

"No matter," said Gimli, a trifle more cheerfully. "We began this journey on our feet, and those we still have."

Legolas' mouth twitched. "Did you not enjoy your ride, mellon nin?"

"It was... indescribable, thank you kindly," Gimli retorted lightly. "Well? Do we follow them?"

"We will find Merry and Pippin," Aragorn said, nodding and glaring at the sullen forest before them. Then he plunged into the dark wood followed closely by Legolas, and Gimli steeled himself as he made his way after his companions.

"It cannot possibly be as darksome as Mirkwood," Thorin told him. "Strength, my son."

"Glad the Elf didn't hear you say that," Gimli said, a humorous glint in his eye. Then he looked up at the close, clinging branches with their trailing vines. "I feel the air is stuffy. It is lighter than Mirkwood, but it is musty and shabby."

"It is old," said Legolas from his place upon a gnarled old tree root. He had paused to lift his head up, his eyes distant. "Very old."

Gimli gave him a dubious look, pushing his helm back upon his straight Durin brow with his thumb.

Legolas blinked out of his strange reverie, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he said, "So old that I almost feel young again, as I have not felt since I journeyed with you children."

Gimli snorted. "Three million years, wasn't it?"

Legolas laughed softly, before looking back up at the close, grasping branches. "There is no malice here, but there is watchfulness and anger."

"Well, it has no cause to be angry with me. I have done the forest no harm."

"Yet harm has been done," Legolas said in a faraway voice, and his hand lingered on a twisted trunk, stroking gently. "There is something happening, or about to happen. Can you not feel the tenseness? It takes my breath."

Gimli waited for the space of a moment, and then he shook his head. "Can't feel anything but the complaining of my backside, laddie. Horses and Dwarves do not agree at all."

Thorin chuckled despite himself.

"So old," Legolas said, still in that soft, distant voice, fingers caressing the bark. "And full of memory. I could have been happy here, if I had come in days of peace."

Gimli snorted again. "I dare say you could. You are a Wood-elf, anyway, though Elves of any kind are strange folk. Yet you comfort me. Where you go, I will go."

Thorin's sudden intake of breath felt very loud in the close, stilfing silence of Fangorn.

"But," said Gimli staunchly, setting his helm back more firmly on his head, "keep your bow to hand, and I will keep my axe loose in my belt. Not for use on trees!" he added hastily, before he ducked his head and began to pick his way after Aragorn. His heavy boots were very loud against the leaf litter that covered the ground and piled in drifts against the trees, wet and mulchy.

"I am glad I bring you comfort," Legolas said softly to himself, and he touched the wrinkled bark of the gnarled tree once more, lost in thought. Then the Elf turned and sprang lightly after the broad, low shape of the Dwarf, almost lost in the gloom of the trees.

Thorin stood stock-still for the space of three breaths, trying to understand what had just happened. Yet it eluded him, no matter how he wracked his tired mind for answers. In the end he made a frustrated noise under his breath and stalked after them. The feeling that he had missed something important hung over him like smoke. "Elves!" he snarled in aggravation. "Why must you be so confusing – and Gimli, why must you retreat into obscurity time and again! Why can no-one in the living world speak plainly!"

"Here!" Aragorn called from somewhere to his right, and Thorin swerved automatically, still lost in exasperation. He nearly ran directly through Legolas as he entered a small clearing where a trickling book crossed over the roots of the trees, lined with grasses and mud. "I have found a clear sign!"

"Then they live?" Thorin said immediately, all his irritation forgotten in a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps he had not failed Bilbo: perhaps his Hobbit's cheerful young cousins were close, and well.

"Look," Aragorn said, pointing to the ground. "A footprint! Pippin's, I would think, as Merry is the older of the two and has the larger feet. Still, there is no trail leading away that my skill can find. It is as though they were plucked up into the air by some great hand."

"Let's hope not," Gimli said, and he glanced up at the trees around them.

"Well," said Flói, and he gulped noisily. "We found the Hobbits."

"Ori?" faltered Lóni.

"Yes?" said Ori, just as nervous.

"You're very well-read, aren't you?"

"Uh. I suppose? B-Balin has a far more classical education."

"I don't suppose..."

Ori squeaked.

"Thorin isn't going to like this," said Flói, shaking his head so fast it threatened to tear his braids off.

"Ori, what in Durin's name is that thing?" hissed Lóni.

"I... I..." Ori swallowed and tried to pull himself together. "I think it's an Ent."

Flói looked confused and terrified. Mostly terrified. "What's a Nent?"

"No," said Ori, wringing his hands. "Ent. An. Ent. I think I read. Um. They were t-tree-shepherds of sorts. Trolls were made from them."

"Oh," said Lóni, and he stared up at the thing. And up. And up. "B-Big, isn't it?"

"The Hobbits are riding it," Flói moaned. "Oh, Thorin really isn't going to like this."

Ori thought of the thousands of broken branches and fires (and so on) he had been either responsible for, or a beneficiary of. "I hope they don't hold grudges," he mumbled.

The darkness was soothing, and Thorin found himself dozing as he walked behind his star. Gimli never faltered, though the pale cast of his face showed how out of place he felt. Dark rings lay beneath his eyes, and sorrow still lay upon his brow. His champion had been through much in the past week, and most of it bad.

"Khathuzhâl, zu," Thorin murmured, and if he was exhausted he could not imagine how these three kept going. The Man did not have the advantages of the Elf or Dwarf, and Gimli himself was wearing a full brigandine and carrying his father's heavy axes. All three wore their packs upon their back, though they had been dramatically lightened when they had begun their chase. Everything save their food had been left behind at the fords of Sarn Gebir. "Balakhûn, Gimli."

Gimli's lips turned up a little beneath his beard. "Thank you, great Lord, though I do not feel as though I have done much good, for all my – wait, did you see that?" he broke off, staring into the darkness.

Thorin snapped out of his bemused, half-awake thoughts, and looked up. Gimli's hand hovered over his axe, and his eyes were hard and narrowed as he gazed through the gloom of the trees.

"See what?" Legolas said, swinging down from a branch.

"There!" Gimli gestured. "A flash of white! It was smothered in some old dirty robe, but the outer covering parted briefly and I caught it."

"An old man, cloaked and hooded in white," said Aragorn through gritted teeth.

"Saruman," breathed Thorin, turning back to the trees. A shape moved amongst them, and he could see the figure Gimli spoke of. As the old man walked, a blindingly white garment did indeed flash underneath the faded wrapping.

"He comes this way," said Gimli.

"I see him," Legolas said, his face expressionless once more, blank and calm before this new danger. "Can we be sure it is him?"

"Who else could it be?" Gimli grated.

Aragorn stood and gave the darkness a determined stare. "We cannot attack an unarmed opponent."

"But it could be Saruman!" said Gimli, and with a practised yank he pulled the spinning axe from his belt and gave it a flick or two, loosening his wrist. "It's drawing nearer! Legolas, your bow – bend it! Get ready!"

Thorin took a few steps forward, frowning. Aragorn curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his face tense and ready. "Do not let him speak, or put a spell on us," he murmured.

Legolas drew an arrow and fitted it to his bow with one smooth movement, but he held the shot. "I cannot shoot an old, unarmed man," he said in a whisper. "We cannot know whether it is Saruman or simply another traveller."

"In this part of the world? Clad in white?" Thorin snapped. "Are you mad?"

"Why are you waiting?" Gimli said urgently. "What is the matter with you?"

Cursing, Thorin resolved to curb his tongue. He had forgotten that Gimli was perceptive enough to sense his anger.

"He draws closer," Legolas said softly, and he raised the bow to his eyes, sighting along the arrow. "He comes to us."

"Legolas, now!" Aragorn shouted, and they whirled to the attack. Gimli's axe deflected from a great white blast, sending it hurtling into the soft, musty sod. Legolas hesitated for a moment and then fired straight and true, but the arrow was blasted to splinters. Aragorn cried out as the hilt of his sword grew unbearably hot to touch and dropped it. All this happened in the space of seconds. Thorin span on the spot in dismay, trying to follow, his heart hammering.

"Wizard!" Legolas cried. "What is your name?" His white knives were in his hands.

"Saruman!" roared Gimli, springing forward and taking up his bearded axe. "Speak! Tell us where you have hidden our friends!"

The old man, stooped and bent, was too quick for him. He leapt up onto a rock and flung back the dirty robe that had covered him. A glaring, searing white light filled the small clearing in which they stood, and Thorin involuntarily cried out and shielded his eyes. It was brighter than Gimlîn-zâram, filled with unearthly fire.

Piercing blue eyes fixed on Thorin before travelling over the three hunters, and the old man had suddenly grown tall and mighty, bathed in that searing radiance. Gimli's hands were pressed against his eyes and Aragorn could barely look at the figure, but Legolas' face filled with a great wonder and elation so huge that Thorin could not believe it. Surely no Elf had ever looked thus, with eyes of honest joy!

"Mithrandir!" he cried. "Mithrandir!"

"It cannot be," Thorin croaked, swiping at his stinging eyes. The light began to fade, the forest returning to its dim cramped gloom once more, and blinking, Thorin looked up into the impossibly alive face of Gandalf. His great grey bushy beard had turned a frosty white, and he seemed younger and more dangerous, merrier than before and yet deeper.

"You live," he said in stunned amazement, his voice a faint whisper. "You live... how do you live?"

"Well met, Legolas," said Gandalf, shifting his staff to the other hand. "Well met to you all." The three companions stared up at him in wonder, fear and joy, and found no words to say.

"Gandalf!" said Aragorn finally, his voice faint. "Beyond all hope you return to us! But how is this possible?"

Gimli said nothing but he sank to his knees, a ghost of the great grief he had suffered passing over his face to be transformed into utter awe.

"Gandalf," said the wizard, mulling the name over in his mouth as though returning to a favourite wine. "Gandalf, yes. That is what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey."

"You fell," Gimli choked, and Gandalf's gentle smile of welcome faded, his eyes glinting with new power.

"Through fire, and water," he said. "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside."

Thorin felt his mouth drop open. "Then he has done as only the greatest heroes of antiquity have done, and slain a Balrog," he breathed.

"Darkness took me, and I strayed out of all thought and time," Gandalf continued, looking out over the forest. A soft yearning filled his voice. "Stars wheeled overhead and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again."

He refocused on the four who stood, motionless and stunned, before him. "I've been sent back until my task is done," he said, "though I have forgotten much that I thought I knew, and learned again much that I had forgotten. I can see many things far off, but many things that are close at hand I cannot see. But tell me of yourselves!"

He laid a hand on Gimli's bowed head, and the Dwarf looked up and laughed suddenly, his joyous, unfettered and booming laugh. "Gandalf," he said warmly. "Ach, this is a miracle unlooked for. But you are all in white! We thought you were Saruman!"

"Indeed, I am Saruman, one might say," Gandalf said, smiling. "Saruman as he should have been. I am Gandalf the White. Now, give me your news!"

As Aragorn began to tell the tale of the Fellowship following Gandalf's fall in Khazad-dûm, Thorin tried to swallow his amazement and could not. The sight of this Wizard cloaked in all the majesty and mystery of his terrible power, yet wise with the weight of the turning Ages and full of compassion and pity, nearly stole his breath from his lungs. He had never seen him so, not in life nor in the eighty years following his death. Gandalf the Grey had been a gruff and occasionally cantankerous figure – mighty indeed, yes, but more often at odds with Thorin than working alongside him.

Here was a Maia reborn.

"Tharkûn, zigrâl belkul," Thorin said, and he bowed his head.

The white head turned to Thorin, and their eyes met. Gandalf's mouth twitched and he inclined his head in return. "So it seems I have finally managed to impress you," he murmured through lips that barely moved.

"You are so changed," said Thorin, gazing up at the Wizard. "You seem more joyous, and yet at the same time grimmer than you were."

"Death has a way of changing people, Thorin Oakenshield," said Gandalf, a faint echo of his previous comforting gruffness in his voice. His blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on snow. "I shouldn't need to have to tell you that."

"You are back," Thorin said, and he let out a long, slow breath that shuddered in his chest. "Beyond all hope, you are back. Thank Mahal. Gimli grieved. They all did."

"Hm. And do they know of your presence?"

"Gimli does, always," Thorin said proudly. "His perception is a great gift to me. Legolas also, though he cannot sense or hear me. Aragorn does not know, though I think he suspects something. Gimli is not subtle."

"I, however, am." Gandalf smiled, as though listening to Aragorn speaking of their brief respite in Lothlórien. "Now tell me, when did Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, condescend to call the son of Thranduil by his name?"

Thorin jerked backwards, and then he scowled darkly. A curious face in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he turned to see Gimli looking up at Gandalf speculatively.

Gimli blinked and his eyebrow crooked. "Ah," he said to himself. "So a wizard may hear my kin as well. That is good to know."

"Even so short a time in Lothlórien works many wonders, and we were in need of healing, heart-sick and wounded in soul," Aragorn continued, and he looked up. "We had a great grief to contend with. Your fall, Gandalf, it tore much of the heart from our Fellowship. The Lady sent us on our journey via the river Anduin with all the blessings she could bestow."

"And those are not to be discarded lightly," Gandalf said, refocusing upon the Man. Then he glanced down upon Gimli, a smile hovering upon his lips. "How did you enjoy your time amongst the Elves, Master Gimli?"

"It is the crowning jewel of my life to date," Gimli said, and he pressed a hand against his jerkin with reverent fingers. "I have never seen a place so fair and sorrowful, nor found such friendship where I never thought to seek it."

"Gimli has become the champion of the Lady of the Golden Wood," said Legolas fondly. "We may expect him to school any and all who speak ill of her - with his axe, if need be."

"She gave me such a gift that my mind still cannot grasp it," Gimli murmured. "Three hairs from her head, shining like golden flowers, like the stars captured in the mesh of wires."

Gandalf's eyes flicked over to Thorin. "I have messages along these lines, but I still find it hard to believe. Truly?"

Firmly, Thorin nodded. "He does not know their import," he said.

"My dear Dwarf, you surprise me," said Gandalf. "I never knew you to care at all for Elves."

"Aye, well," Gimli said, and he sent a sidelong glance at Legolas, mischief lurking in his dark eyes. "Some aren't nearly so bad as they're made out to be. Though I could name one who could drive a Dwarf to drink."

"I also find that Dwarves have been given something of a false reputation," Legolas added innocently. "They are far more irritating than reported."

For the first time Gandalf seemed astonished, and he looked between Legolas and Gimli with growing amazement.

"Do not ask," muttered Thorin, and let his head fall onto his chest. "I beg you. Do not ask."

Gandalf mastered his expression after a few moments, and then he turned back to Aragorn. "So, you made it to Lothlórien? Were you able to make the falls?"

"Yes. But some foul luck was upon us, and all my decisions went astray from the moment we made camp," Aragorn went on, and he passed a hand over his brow. "At Amon Hen, the Uruks attacked. Boromir is dead."

"Ah!" Gandalf cried. "But this is dark news! You bring me grief. He was a great Man."

"It is not the only news that may bring you sorrow," Legolas said, and he closed his bright Elven eyes. "The Fellowship is broken. Frodo resolved to journey to Mordor alone, and Merry and Pippin are lost in this wood. They were captured by the Uruks at the behest of Saruman."

"No wonder you fired upon me," Gandalf said, his face drawn in thought. "Still, I may bring you some comfort here. Merry and Pippin are found and safe – a great deal safer than ourselves! Still, that Frodo is alone: this is hard tidings."

"Not alone," Legolas said. "We think Sam went with him."

"Did he?" said Gandalf, and there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face. "Good! Very good. You lighten my heart."

"But the young Hobbits," Gimli rumbled impatiently. "Where are they? Safe where?"

"Ah, that is a power long forgotten, one that Saruman has foolishly overlooked. Merry and Pippin's coming to Fangorn will be as the falling of small stones that begins the avalanche in the mountains. Even as we talk here, I hear the first rumblings. Saruman had best not be caught away from home when the dam bursts!"

"In one thing you have not changed, old friend," Aragorn said, and a rare smile tugged at his mouth. "You still talk in riddles."

Thorin grunted in agreement.

"Saruman cannot know that the Hobbits captured did not carry the Ring," Gandalf explained. "Neither does he understand that it has passed out of his reach. He is bending all his power upon the world of Men, for in our place he would have journeyed to Minas Tirith and taken refuge there. No doubt he thinks the swords of Men would be a great blow against the power of Isengard. Thanks to his meddling, Merry and Pippin have arrived, with marvellous speed and in the nick of time, to Fangorn, where otherwise they might never have come at all!"

"You still have not told us of this long-forgotten power that sleeps in these woods," grumbled Gimli.

"It does not sleep any longer," Legolas told him. "It wakes. And it is angry."

Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "Yes, it is angry, and still Saruman looks to Men as his greatest threat, never understanding the danger that lurks on his doorstep. He does not know of the Ringbearer, and that is a great relief. Nor does he know of the Winged Messenger."

"The Winged Messenger!" cried Legolas. "I shot at him with the bow of Galadriel above Sarn Begir, and I felled him from the sky. He filled us all with fear. What new terror is this?"

Gandalf heaved a sigh and began to walk south towards the edge of the forest. "One that you cannot slay with arrows. You only slew his steed. It was a good deed, but the Rider was soon horsed again. For he was a Nazgûl, one of the Nine, now mounted upon great winged steeds. They are not permitted to cross the river as yet, and so Saruman is unaware of this new shape in which the Ringwraiths have been clad. No, all his thought is bent on Rohan, and the Ring. What if Théoden, Lord of the Mark, should come by it? Was it present in the skirmish? Was it found? That is the danger he sees, and so he will flee back to Isengard to double and treble his assault upon the lands of the Horse-lords."

"Will you not tell me who and what power has the wee Hobbits?" Gimli pleaded, following alongside the wizard. "We have crossed this land to help them, and now to hear that they are safe and yet in danger? It is too much to bear. Where are they?"

"With Treebeard, and the Ents."

"The Ents!" said Legolas, standing still for a moment in shock. "Nan belain!"

"Then there is truth in the old legends of Rohan!" Aragorn exclaimed. "I thought they were only a memory of ancient days!"

"What in Durin's name is an Ent?" Thorin said, baffled. Gimli wrinkled his nose.

"All right, I'm about to display my ignorance, and if you laugh you'll find yourself without any knees. Please explain for this poor Dwarf what an Ent is, and why it's got the Elf so excited?"

"Every Elf has sung songs of the old Onodrim and their long sorrow. Yet even amongst us they are only a memory," said Legolas, his face alive with excitement. "If I were to meet with one I would indeed feel young again."

Gimli chuckled, and looked up. "So, you're closer to four million years, then?"

Legolas shook his head ruefully and pushed Gimli's shoulder. "Do not make it more ridiculous than it already is."

"Ah, but Elves are ridiculous," Gimli said mock-sadly, and he pushed Legolas' side in return. "Sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings, but to be honest I thought you already knew."

Legolas laughed in delight. "Insolent Dwarf!"

"And proud!" Gimli grinned, and the Elf grinned back. Thorin looked between them and stifled the urge to scream. What in the name of all Seven Fathers was happening between his star and Thranduil's son?

Still grinning, Gimli turned to the Wizard who was listening to the repartee between the Elf and Dwarf in speechless amazement. "So, what is an Ent, Gandalf?"

"Ah – it is a giant tree-herder, Gimli," Gandalf told him, pushing aside a clinging vine. Sunlight was beginning to pierce the trees ahead. The edge of the forest was nearing once more.

Gimli's mouth dropped open a moment, but he rallied magnificently. "I see. And Treebeard is an Ent?"

"Indeed, he is THE Ent, I should say. His long, slow story would make a tale for which we have no time now. Treebeard is Fangorn, the guardian of the forest. He is the oldest of the Ents, the oldest living thing that still walks under the sun upon this Middle-Earth. I hope indeed, Legolas, that you may meet him."

"I should be honoured," said Legolas breathlessly.

"I should be wary," Gimli said. "It sounds as though this Treebeard is dangerous."

"Dangerous!" cried Gandalf, smiling broadly as the trees thinned and the broad sweeping plains of Rohan began to be seen between the trunks. "And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet. And Aragorn is dangerous and Legolas is dangerous. You are beset by dangers, Gimli son of Glóin, for you yourself are dangerous! Treebeard is dangerous too, but wise and kindly nonetheless. Still, now the coming of the Hobbits will spill their long wrath, and soon it will be running like a flood. The tide will turn against Saruman and the axes of Isengard. A thing is about to happen which has not happened since the Elder days: the Ents are going to wake up and find that they are strong."

Gimli fingered the axe at his belt. "Oh. That's... good. Do you suppose they make a distinction between types of axes?"

"You mentioned messages?" said Aragorn as they stepped out into the sunshine. Thorin winced as the light crept into his tired eyes, and he felt once again his great exhaustion sweep over him.

"Oh yes," Gandalf said, and he turned to them with the light edging his white clothes and hair in gold. "I passed through Lothlórien myself following the fall of the Balrog, and there I found healing. The Lady gave me messages to give you, though they may not bring much in the way of ease.

"To Aragorn I was bidden to say this:

"Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?
Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?
Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,
And the Grey Company ride from the North.
But dark is the path appointed for thee:
The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea."

Aragorn's mouth tightened, and his eyes were grim and conflicted. "She brings me no comfort or healing," he said gravely, and he lowered his face in thought.

Gandalf laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, before turning to Legolas. "To you, Legolas Thranduillion, she sent this word:

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."

"Then she sends me no message?" said Gimli, and he bent his head.

"I cannot imagine why you would want a message such as these," Legolas said, a strange obscure sorrow in his eyes. "Dark are her words, and little do they mean to those who receive them."

"Oh, your pardon Gimli," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "No, I was thinking upon the messages. To you she sent words, and they are neither dark nor sad.

"'To Gimli son of Glóin,' she said, 'give his Lady's greeting. Lockbearer, wherever thou goest my thought goes with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!'"

"Oh, now you've done it," Thorin muttered as Gimli's face shone with renewed gladness.

"In happy hour you have returned to us, Gandalf!" he cried, and he began to sing the Song of Shaping, one of the oldest and most joyous songs in Khuzdul. He stamped his foot in an old axe-dancer's movement, spinning his axe in the accompanying pattern and throwing it, turning end over end, into the air. "Come, come!" he shouted, beaming and laughing, spinning upon the spot as he caught his axe deftly, "since Gandalf's head is now sacred, let us find one that it is right to cleave!"

Legolas seemed torn between jealousy, fascination and amusement. "Would we all merited such a reaction," he commented.

Gandalf laughed. "Well, let us find a head for Gimli to cleave. That will not be far to seek! Now we make haste – we have wasted enough time. Our path leads to Meduseld. Théoden-King must be warned."

"That will be a long walk," said Aragorn, raising a wry eyebrow.

Gandalf only gave him a sardonic look, before turning his gaze out over the rolling hills. He let out a whistle of such clarity that the others stood amazed that such a piercing sound could come from those bearded old lips.

Faint and far-off there came an answering whinny.

"What," Thorin began, and Gandalf's hand twitched, his fingers lifting in a signal for Thorin to halt his questions. The four waited, wondering. Before long, there came the sound of hooves upon the ground, barely more than a tremor at first, but growing louder and louder.

"More than one horse is coming," said Aragorn.

"Certainly," said Gandalf. "We will not all fit on one!"

"There are three," said Legolas, gazing out over the plain. "Look, there is Hasufel, and there is my friend Arod beside him! The third horse strides ahead – ai! I have never seen his like before!"

"Nor will you again," said Gandalf. "That is Shadowfax, and he is the chief of the Mearas, lords of horses, and not even Théoden-King has looked upon a better. He has come for me: the horse of the White Rider. We will brave the coming battle together."

"He shines like silver in the sun," said Gimli, wonderingly.

"Did I just hear you appreciate a horse, Gimli?" said Legolas, holding out his hand for Arod to sniff.

Gimli snorted. "Must be imagining things, Legolas. I understand that in the very elderly the hearing may fail from time to time."

The great horse trotted up to them, his mane free of braids and his back bare of any saddle. "Hello, my friend," said Gandalf gently, stroking the horse's soft nose. "It has been a long journey for you, but you are wise and swift and come at need. Let us ride now together and part not in this world again!"

Legolas and Aragorn mounted their horses once more, and Gandalf tipped his head at Gimli, who was looking resigned. "Well, perhaps I can set you before me, Gimli," he began to say, but the Dwarf shook his head.

"Nay, Legolas shall take me. Let me not trouble a Prince of Horses! I will ride behind the Elf."

Gandalf's face was both puzzled and pleased as the Elf pulled Gimli up by the hand once more. Then Shadowfax tossed his proud head and led the pace due south. "We ride to Edoras!" Gandalf cried, and Shadowfax neighed in response, echoed by the calls of Hasufel and Arod.

Gimli gripped Legolas' waist, his thumbs tucked into his belt. "You know, Legolas," Thorin dimly heard him say, "I have only just realised. This was in the Lady's mirror: you and I on the back of a grey horse, riding over green hills."

"So it was," Legolas' voice drifted back through the air. "Please do not grip so, Gimli – my ribs are creaking!"

"Ach, I am sorry laddie. Better?"

"Much. I wonder which time it is you saw, this or the previous one?"

"Perhaps there will be others."

"I would like to think so."

"Aye, and I."

Thorin stared hopelessly after the three fleet horses, and then up at the sky. Overpowering confusion rattled in his brain, but it could not be denied any longer.

"They are truly friends," he whispered. "Legolas and Gimli are truly friends."

Their names sounded right together, as though they had been made to be said one after the other.

"Hullo, my idùzhib. I am sorry I have not visited in some days."

Thorin yawned hugely and sat down upon the bed. The old Hobbit that lay under the coverlets looked nearly transparent and weightless, as though his body was as flyaway as his thin white hair. Bilbo was peering at a book, his eyes tracing the letters. Occasionally they flicked back over a line, as though he had forgotten his place.

"I have had some adjusting to do, my Bilbo. Dwarves are not as adaptable as Hobbits," Thorin continued, and he gazed down at the indistinct shapes of Bilbo's large feet under the blankets. He grew cold so easily these days. "I cannot bend and sway with the winds of fortune as you do. I hold fast, and the winds buffet me beyond my capacity to stand. So much changes that I thought unchangeable – so much is wrong that I believed was true. I once wished for you to tell me how to understand these Elves. Now - now I find it is all too impossible."

Bilbo sighed and sat back against his pillows, his book falling into his lap. "Oh, I can't be doing with this," he said crossly. "Not enough light, and this author repeats themself far too often for my liking. Shabby work, very shabby."

Thorin smiled. "I imagine you have quite a bit to say about that."

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes with his gnarled old fingers, and then he let his hand fall onto his book, tapping impatiently. "Well, Mad Baggins," he said to himself, "if you're not in the mood to read, perhaps it might be an idea to write? Yes, yes, possibly. I'm sure I could do a better job than this fritterer of perfectly fine ink and paper. I would like to have a few sharp words with them, if ever I met them!"

With a glance, Thorin noted that the book was written in Bilbo's own spidery, thin handwriting. He turned away, a pang shooting through him.

Bilbo carefully pulled his blankets aside and pushed himself up. It took two tries. Thorin watched, his heart clenching, as the once-nimble little burglar hobbled across his room with great effort. He stopped at his desk and shuffled some papers, and then his brows lowered in an expression at once so painfully familiar and so confused that Thorin's breath caught behind his teeth. "Now why did I come over here," Bilbo said, turning back to his bed and frowning at it. It was the same old puzzled, slightly-offended frown.

"You wanted to write," Thorin rasped.

"Oh yes, I wanted to write," Bilbo repeated in a relieved tone, his hand flying to his chest as if in self-reassurance. "Forget my own head next. Now, paper, paper..."

Thorin watched Bilbo rummaging for a few minutes. The peace of Imladris stole back over the little room, and he leaned his chin upon his hand, his eyes lingering upon the old Hobbit. Bilbo picked up paper after paper, squinting at them, reading a few lines, tutting or shuffling them into other piles.

"I find myself baffled, my One," said Thorin eventually. "Legolas is a mystery to me. How is it you can understand these Elves at all? They are thousands upon thousands of years old, ancient and wise and superior, arrogant and aloof – and yet they welcome you amongst them though by all logic they should scorn you. Now, Legolas is truly Gimli's friend, and they will not suffer a parting. Even Gandalf sees this. Yet Legolas was once my bitter enemy, and levelled an arrow at my face and called me 'Dwarf' as though it were an insult."

Bilbo harrumphed beneath his breath. He picked up a few more papers in silence, wrinkling his nose at them and putting them aside, and then absently he began to hum. His voice had become thin and quavering, but the tune was recognisable. Thorin's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"I would have sung it for you again, had I known you liked it," he said in a quiet voice, and he raised his eyes to trace over the wrinkled face. The features he had known so well had been softened and blurred by the passage of time.

"Confusticate it!" Bilbo suddenly exclaimed, snapping out of his humming. "I cannot remember all the words!" He brought his palm down upon his little writing-desk, the papers and the ink-bottle jumping. Bilbo's eyes were full of utter frustration, and it was at that moment that Thorin realised that Bilbo knew. He knew he was beginning to drift, to lose his anchor to the here and now. And he hated it.

His mouth was dry as he began to sing, low and halting, "the fire was red, it flaming spread, the trees like torches blazed with light."

Bilbo's eyes closed, and he exhaled slowly. "Oh, of course" he whispered, still as a statue. A wistful, hopeless longing stole over his features. Then his eyes flew open, and he began to search through his papers with far more purpose. " Now, I must write it down, I must write it, before I - I... Now, where is that pen, I had it only yesterday..."

Thorin could see it, sticking out from upon a high shelf. His creaky Hobbit would not be able to reach it, though Thorin certainly could have. Once. "It is upon the second shelf," he said, and sighed.

"I don't like that pen, Elladan gave it to me only because he didn't want it, and it scratches the paper. I can't abide a scratchy pen," Bilbo said, sounding peevish. "I want the other pen, the good one. It has an eagle-feather, you know."

The eagle-feather pen had been lost when Bilbo moved to Rivendell, nearly eighteen years ago. "I am sure you'll find it. I have every confidence in you," said Thorin, and the sadness welled up in him until he felt he would overflow.

Bilbo snorted. "Well, that makes a pleasant change, I must say."

Thorin's head whipped up.

"Well, I can't seem to find it. No doubt Frodo moved it. Frodo's always moving my things, but then he's young and curious I suppose. He'll grow out of the habit." Bilbo rummaged through the papers on his desk for a little longer, and then he rubbed at his eye. "Oh, drat, botheration and blast. It's definitely gone, and it was my favourite."

"I will make you a pen," Thorin blurted, his pulse thundering in his ears. "I will make you a thousand pens, Bilbo my own, if you will only tell me, please, please... do you hear me, unfocused in time as you are? Do you wander where you might speak with me?"

"Hmm," Bilbo said, frowning again. Then he shook his white head. "Must get the pipes in this place fixed. I will tell Elrond. The Gaffer no doubt knows a stout fellow or two to do the job. They murmur so! Gracious, it's no wonder I can't read!"

Thorin stared at the Hobbit a moment longer. Then, slowly, he bent over under the weight of his sudden sorrow, his hands pressing to his face and his chin touching his chest.