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Elves very rarely shut down all their senses the way mortals do. Even in their deepest sleep they tend to be aware of their surroundings, unless they are ill or injured, and their waking moments are not as sudden as ours.
That is why, when Legolas found himself struggling with someone in waist-high running water, with no recollection of how he came to be there, he knew something was very wrong. Grabbing hold of the branches of a shrub, Legolas hopped out of the stream, took a few steps back and felt for the quiver on his back. Thankfully, his arrows hadn't fallen out in the struggle. As quickly as he could, he took one of them and drew his bow. The person he had been struggling with – he could see now he was a dwarf – also clambered out of the water, with slightly more difficulty. He reached for his battle-axe and poised himself ready to strike.
They faced each other in silence. Legolas felt a strange heaviness in his limbs, and his mind seemed blank. He could find no clues, in his memory or in his surroundings, to explain what had happened to him.
One thing was certain, though: it had to be the dwarf's fault.
He stood still, his bow tense and aimed at the dwarf, trying very hard not to betray the tiredness and confusion he was feeling. The dwarf stared back at him, his face impassive as a mask.
They were somewhere in Mirkwood – of that much Legolas was certain. Not within the boundaries of his father's kingdom but, judging by the trees and shrubs he could see, somewhere in the more dangerous southern part of the forest. He managed to recall that he had been sent on an errand: he was to deliver a message to Lord Elrond in Rivendell. Gratefully, he was still able to remember what the message was. It seemed that his journey had hardly begun when he ran into trouble.
The dwarf was facing him with his axe at the ready, silent and grim. Judging by the ornaments on his helm, the embroidery on the hem of his sleeve and the way his beard was braided, he seemed to be a dwarf of Erebor.
Legolas frowned a little, trying to make sense of this. Although there was no love between his people and the dwarves of Erebor, they had been allies for the past sixty years. Had something happened recently to change this, something he had forgotten? Perhaps the dwarves had discovered gold in Mirkwood and decided to attempt to conquer it. Knowing dwarves, it was likely to have something to do with gold.
Legolas sighed and decided to attempt to clarify the situation. Even though his loss of memory was a weakness he wanted to keep hidden from his opponent, this silent uncertainty was hard to bear and the dwarf was apparently – for whatever reason – not going to make the first move.
„Why are you attacking me?“ Legolas asked.
The dwarf's face betrayed a small flicker of surprise.
„I am not attacking you, Elf.“
The answer did not make sense.
„You were trying to drown me!“
This seemed to have angered the dwarf.
„Are you trying to play some sort of Elvish trick of the mind on me? You were the one who was trying to drown me.“
„Why would I want to do that?“ Legolas directed the question at himself rather than at the dwarf, searching his mind for an explanation, but the dwarf was quick to respond.
„I should ask that of you! I would never walk through this accursed forest by any other way but the Dwarf Road. We seem to be far from the road now, and the only explanation I can think of is that you have taken me here as a prisoner!“
The words „accursed forest“ were surprisingly hurtful, but Legolas ignored them. Something else, much more important, was betrayed by the dwarf’s words.
„Do you have no memory of what brought you here either?“ he asked and allowed himself to slightly relax the arm drawing the bow. His limbs felt increasingly heavy and tired.
The dwarf watched him in stubborn silence, but still made no move against him.
„And speak not of Mirkwood as an accursed forest! It was once green and fair, and the shadow that has fallen over it hasn't overtaken it yet.“ The words came out almost against his will. He didn't understand what caused this impulse to explain the beauty of his forest to a dwarf. That was, surely, an entirely futile task.
The dwarf seemed just as surprised at Legolas's words as he was, but he too relaxed slightly. He lowered his axe and tilted his head just a little, revealing a silver ornament on his chest that had previously been hidden by his braided beard. This was a new surprise.
“Why would a dwarf wear the emblem of the Lady of the Golden Wood?” Legolas asked.
The dwarf’s grip on his axe tightened again.
“You are, after all, attempting to confuse me by an Elvish trick of some kind! I am wearing no such thing.”
“It is there, on your chest!” Legolas cried, exasperated. “A silver mallorn leaf! And your cloak is of Elven make as well, woven to blend with the surroundings.”
The dwarf’s dark eyes narrowed. After a few moments of silence he spoke in a cautious voice:
“I can’t decide whether you are insane yourself, or trying to drive me to insanity, Elf. I am not wearing the cloak and emblem that you described, but you are!”
This was an unexpected answer. Legolas glanced at his own chest and noticed a silvery glimmer. His shoulders indeed seemed to be draped in a cloak similar to the dwarf’s. Another wave of weariness came over him. He made a decision. Looking again at the dwarf, he spoke:
“If I put away my bow, do I have your word that you will not attack me?”
The dwarf’s response was irritable.
“Dwarves fight openly and not by lies and deceit. Had it been my intention to attack you, my axe would already be in your neck.”
It would be only natural to take offense at this response, but Legolas found, in spite of himself, a small smile forming in the corner of his lips. He had to admit this was true. In the events of sixty years ago he had found himself fighting first against dwarves, and then alongside with them. However distrustful and stubborn, they had without exception been honourable fighters. Deceit and treachery were not their way.
Very slowly he lowered his bow and arrow to the ground. The dwarf watched him suspiciously, and then lowered his axe to his side.
Legolas unpinned the brooch he was wearing and examined it. It looked as if it were not only reflecting the scarce light shining through the forest canopy but, in addition to that, glowing with a soft light of its own. Watching it gave him a sense of strength and comfort. It seemed to bring to his mind a memory of sunlight shining through the branches of real mallorn trees, but that was impossible: he had never seen a real mallorn tree. He had never ventured far outside Mirkwood, and this was going to be his first big journey.
The dwarf was looking at his own brooch too. The expression on his face had softened. Their eyes met.
“Why are we wearing the same emblem? And who is this lady you spoke of?” the dwarf asked.
“Lady Galadriel is the queen of Lothlórien, the fairest of the Elven realms. As for your first question… I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
The dwarf looked as if he was going to respond, but there was a sudden rustling in the branches above them and a shadow fell over their heads. Looking up, they saw the silhouette of a giant spider sliding down towards them on a silky thread. Legolas drew his knife from his belt. It was not the best weapon to use against a beast of this kind, but there was no time to reach for his bow and to aim. In an instant the dwarf was by his side, raising his axe above his head. A tangle of hairy black legs came into view. The dwarf swung his axe and the spider tumbled onto the ground. Legolas crouched to the ground, grabbed his bow and arrow and rolled away. The spider, wounded but still menacing, lifted itself up, preparing to leap at the dwarf. The movement exposed its belly, and Legolas aimed and shot. The spider fell onto its side. Its legs twitched for a while, and then it was finally still.
“That was a very good shot,” the dwarf said.
“Thank you. You are not a bad fighter yourself.”
This reluctant exchange of compliments didn’t even begin to do justice to what had happened. The attack had happened so fast there was no time to communicate, but they fought with astonishing unity, protecting one another, as if it were something they’d done hundreds of times.
The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then put away his axe and bowed his head.
“I am Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service.”
“Legolas, son of Thranduil,” Legolas replied. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed a little upon hearing the name of his father, but he said nothing.
Legolas walked over to the carcass of the great spider to look at it more closely, and then lifted his gaze up to the canopy, examining it thoughtfully.
“Do you think there may be others?” the dwarf asked.
“I do not think it likely. These spiders do live in colonies, but this one had wandered far from its natural home – there are no cobwebs within sight.”
The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. The monstrous spider must have been frightened and confused to make such a solitary attack. And it wasn’t just the behaviour of the spider that was unusual. There was something different about the forest. The last time he had seen this part of Mirkwood, it had been dark and quiet as a grave. Now there was birdsong, and the faint but sweet scent of flowers. The song of the forest, previously hushed and timid in most of southern Mirkwood, was now more audible and it seemed to have regained some of the beauty it had long ago. It was as if the shadow that had been weighing down the forest were slowly retreating.
None of this was as strange, though, as finding himself in the company of a dwarf of Erebor, both of them wearing the emblem of Lothlórien and neither able to remember why.
“How did you come to be here?” he asked the dwarf. Realising the question sounded too harsh, he quickly volunteered information about himself: “I am on my way to the west, to the other side of the Misty Mountains.”
“I, too, am travelling west.” The dwarf paused as if trying to make up his mind, then continued: “I am going to Rivendell.”
This was another unexpected turn of events.
“I have an errand there as well,” Legolas said.
The dwarf cautiously said: “I have a message from my King for Lord Elrond.”
“Then we are travelling for the same reason,” Legolas said. But just then the dwarf’s face hardened again. He took a step back.
“I was not travelling alone. There were three others in my company when I left Erebor. My father was among them.” There was a hint of despair in his voice, and once again he was eyeing Legolas with suspicion.
“Please believe me, Gimli, son of Gloin: that I do not know where your companions are.” Legolas’s voice was gentle; to his surprise, he found himself moved by the dwarf’s concern for his father, rather than offended by his suspicion. “I was not travelling alone either and, like you, I do not know where my companions are. But it is apparent that some events have happened that neither of us can remember.” He touched the silver leaf that was fastening his cloak as he spoke the last words, and the dwarf unconsciously mimicked his gesture, touching his own silver brooch.
“I know not why, but I trust you, Legolas, son of Thranduil,” he said.
“Shall we continue the journey together, then?” Legolas asked. “I believe we might have been travelling together already, before something robbed us of our memory.”
“I believe that too now,” the dwarf said.
“We should cross this stream if we wish to go west,” Legolas said, and they both approached the stream they had found themselves struggling in not so long ago. It was bridged by a narrow wooden beam.
The dwarf looked over the stream, and then turned to look behind them. “This is impossible,” he said, looking at Legolas with a puzzled expression.
Legolas understood what he meant: he had noticed the same thing. It was not difficult to discern a trail left by two pairs of feet on the damp soil, covered with fallen leaves. There was a visible trail on the other side of the stream, coming from the south-west. But in the east, the direction from which both of them thought they had come, the forest floor was intact. Legolas saw no possible explanation for this. Feeling a new wave of tiredness, he sat down on the ground with his arms around his knees. He noticed that the dwarf’s face showed signs of fatigue as well, now that he was not so firmly on guard.
Legolas looked at the trees above them once again, as if asking them for guidance, and he noticed yet another thing that was not as it should have been. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before – it was easy to read from the colour of the leaves, the song of the trees, the flowers on the forest floor.
“Do you remember what season it was when you started your journey?” he asked the dwarf.
“It was the second moon of Autumn.”
“I , too, left for Rivendell in the middle of Autumn. But it is Summer now!”
“So it is,” the dwarf said. He seemed bewildered. Like Legolas, he sat down on the ground. There seemed no point in walking if they didn’t know where they were meant to be going.
After a while the dwarf spoke.
“Sixty years ago, when my father was passing through this forest with Thorin Oakenshield, one of their company – Bombur, the cook – fell into a stream. When they pulled him out he didn’t know where he was, and the last he could remember was the day before he started the journey. Soon he fell into a deep sleep, and the others had to carry him.”
“Of course!” Legolas said. “Nen Fuin, the Water of Oblivion! I should have recognised its effects.”
All the strange events were now beginning to make sense, but this knowledge gave him little comfort.
“There is no cure for what happened to us. The spell will wear off eventually, but a long sleep and a strong meal would help shake it off faster. Unfortunately, we will fall asleep soon whether we like it or not, and we will be helpless against danger,” he said, indicating the carcass of the giant spider beside them.
The dwarf was listening to him intently.
“You know this forest. Do you know of a safe place we could reach before this happens?”
“Alas, I do not. We are a two days’ walk from my father’s kingdom, and we will not be able to stay awake that long.”
The dwarf frowned and seemed lost in thought for a while. Then he said:
“Before Bombur’s incident, my father and his companions were guests in the hall of Beorn the shape-changer. I have heard that his son Grimbeorn the Old now dwells in his hall. Do you know how far we are from it?”
“It is fortunate that you have remembered the Beornings,” Legolas said. “I think the best we can do is to take the road – the Dwarf Road, as you call it – and to come as close to Grimbeorn’s hall as we can. I fear we will not be able to reach it, but I have heard that his strength is so great that the dark creatures stay away from his part of the forest.”
The dwarf agreed with this plan. In order to reach the road, they still needed to cross the stream and retrace a part of their former path. Legolas walked across the narrow beam with ease. Noticing that the dwarf hesitated a little, Legolas reached out with his arm to offer support. It looked for a very short moment as if the dwarf was going to refuse his help, but then he grasped Legolas’s hand and carefully crossed the bridge. When he reached the other side, both of them waited just a moment too long to release the other’s hand. The sensation of holding dwarf’s hand, warm and strong, with hardened skin, seemed strangely familiar.
They went on, with Legolas leading the way. The shortest way towards the forest road led down a steep slope. They walked quickly, in silence, often grabbing hold of a tree to stop themselves from sliding downhill. The difficult terrain was a blessing, in a way, because it kept them alert and awake. They encountered no danger, but Legolas chose their path with great care, heeding the warning cries of birds in the distance and listening to the hushed, yet audible song of the forest.
Glancing at his strange companion, Legolas remembered the tales told among his folk. Dwarves had no soul, the tales said. They were made of stone and would return to stone after death, and their hearts were stone with only the outward appearance of flesh – the only love they could feel was for gold and precious stones. But the expression of grief he had seen on this dwarf’s face when he thought he had lost his father seemed real enough. It was not the face of one who had no soul.
With this thought came the strange sensation that this was not the first time he was thinking about this. An image flickered through his mind and was gone in an instant: he was in a dark, underground place, and Gimli, son of Gloin was there, standing before a stone tomb. He saw the dwarf’s eyes glimmer with tears for a moment, and then he cast his hood over his face. Had he dreamed this, or was it a memory from the months he had forgotten? His mind was too tired to dwell on the puzzle.
It was near dusk when they reached the forest road, and here they slowed their pace a little. Sleepiness was weighing on their limbs. Aware that once they fell asleep they might never wake up, Legolas felt the need to confide in his companion and to earn his confidence in return. This was partly in order to try and solve the mystery of the forgotten months, but partly because of a deeper, inexplicable urge to open up to the dwarf and try to understand him.
“Since we are in danger and one or both of us might not survive, I would like you to know the reason I was travelling to Rivendell,” he said. “I was bringing bad tidings. My people were entrusted by Mithrandir – by Gandalf the Grey – with guarding a prisoner, but he escaped our dungeons.”
The dwarf chuckled a little. “This is not the first time a prisoner has escaped your dungeons, I have heard.”
Legolas felt a jolt of irritation, but said nothing. The dwarf continued in a kinder voice:
“I don’t think you need to be concerned about this now. Almost a year has passed and this problem has surely been resolved by now, for better or for worse.”
They walked in silence for a while, and then the dwarf spoke again.
“I can tell you this much about the message I was carrying to Rivendell: a rider from Mordor came to the Gate of Erebor and demanded to talk to the King.”
“From Mordor!” Although Legolas’s people had been sensing a dark presence in the East for some time, it still felt shocking to have these fears confirmed. “What did he say?”
“He asked if we knew anything about hobbits.”
This was a new surprise. Legolas had heard a little about hobbits, but he had never seen one and he couldn’t imagine why they would be sought by Mordor.
“He was interested in one hobbit in particular, one to whom my people owe a great debt,” the dwarf continued. His voice was slow and quiet; he seemed to be losing his struggle with sleep. “Our King gave no answer to the messenger, and he immediately sent my father and me to warn our friend.”
“Then, unlike me, you are carrying a message you can be proud of,” Legolas said sadly.
They walked in silence for a while; then the dwarf stopped.
“I cannot fight sleep any longer. My eyes are closing against my will. You should go on without me,” he said.
“No! No, I will not leave you, Gimli,” Legolas said, not even noticing that he had omitted the formal “son of Gloin”. His Elvish ability to be half-asleep but still moving and alert allowed him to resist the spell a little longer, but he knew that this resistance would end soon. Besides, even if he was capable of going on, he didn’t want to leave the dwarf alone in danger. “We will be safer if we stay together. Let us try and find a safe place to sleep.”
They found a weeping willow growing by the road, with long branches that fell to the ground like curtains. It was not a perfect shelter, but it would have to do. Hidden by the branches, they sat down next to each other, leaning against the tree trunk with relief. Their hiding place was not large enough for them to properly lie down on the ground, especially for long-limbed Legolas, but being able to rest was still great relief. The dwarf took off his helm and placed it on the ground beside him. With his hair coming free from the thick braid it was tied into and his eyelids lowered, he looked nothing like the formidable, stone-faced opponent he had been when Legolas had first seen him.
Legolas was still thinking about the story his companion had been telling him, about King Dain and the messenger from Mordor inquiring about a hobbit.
“How did it come to pass that your people owe a great debt to a hobbit?”
Gimli’s eyes were already closed, but he answered in a sleepy voice:
“He was, like my father, in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield when he reclaimed his kingdom. He helped the others in moments of great danger. He rescued them from giant spiders—“
He grinned, opened his eyes again and glanced at Legolas.
“—and he helped them escape the dungeons of the Elven King.”
That was the last thing Legolas expected. He considered this new information, and then laughed.
“So that was how they escaped! We never knew there was a hobbit in our kingdom then – or ever.”
These events had happened sixty years earlier, but for a centuries-old elf sixty years was not such a long time. He never expected he would be laughing about them with a dwarf. It gave him a strange feeling of relief.
Dusk was rapidly turning into darkness, and the sounds of the forest became slightly different, wilder and more sinister. If something were to attack them now, they were not capable of defending themselves any more. Legolas leaned forward and touched the hanging willow branches thoughtfully.
“That is our only defence against the wild creatures of the forest now.”
His eyes saw well enough in the dark to notice that Gimli smiled again, although his eyes were closed as if he were already sleeping.
“What is it?” Legolas asked.
With unexpected warmth, the dwarf said: “You are a wild creature of the forest, Legolas.”
Legolas smiled and leaned against the tree trunk once again. Sleep was flooding him. It was growing colder; he felt the dwarf drawing closer to him, and leaned against him in return. After a while spent trying to find the most comfortable position, they ended up huddled together. He buried his face in the dwarf’s thick hair. It was soft and smelled faintly of pipeweed, which he, surprisingly, found pleasant and comforting. He sank into sleep – not light elven sleep, but the deep sleep of mortals, far removed from the sights and sounds of the outside world.
He was awoken by a rustling in the branches and, even more so, by the feeling that they were not alone. First he saw two glimmering eyes, then he was able to make out the outline of the head of a giant bear peeking through the willow branches.
“Grimbeorn, son of Beorn?” he asked. His voice was hushed and his limbs felt heavy. Gimli was still asleep. If this was not Grimbeorn but a malevolent beast, this was the end: he was not capable of defending himself.
But the bear’s eyes twinkled. He seemed to have understood. Legolas could make out more of his head now: dark brown fur streaked with white and a few scars around the nose. He continued:
“I am Legolas Thranduilion, and my companion is Gimli, son of Gloin. We are under a spell. We have fallen into the Nen Fuin, the Water of Oblivion.”
The bear’s eyes twinkled again, and he reached with his paws – or were they arms? – towards him and Gimli. Legolas flinched a little, but the giant bear scooped up both of them in his arms easily, as if they were babies. He stood up on its hind legs and began to walk down the forest road as a human would walk. Satisfied that they were safe, Legolas sank into sleep again.
When he woke up again, it was because he had been held by the shoulders and shaken. A large, bearded man was standing above him. Legolas was alarmed for a moment, but then he noticed the white streaks in the man’s black hair and the scars on his face. It was Grimbeorn.
“Drink this. It will help the spell go away more quickly,” Grimbeorn said, lifting up Legolas’s head and holding a wooden tankard up to his mouth. Legolas obeyed. The warm liquid inside was a herbal brew mixed with a generous amount of honey and heavy cream. Legolas thought it was the best thing he ever tasted.
“Thank you,” he said when he drained the whole cup, although the shape-changer didn’t seem like someone who cared much about politeness. Legolas’s voice was hoarse and he had trouble getting the words out. Grimbeorn merely grumbled something in return.
Legolas looked athis surroundings. He was lying on a straw bed, and above him was a wooden roof supported by wooden pillars and beams. Daylight was coming in through the windows; he could hear birdsong and the soft buzzing of bees. The house smelled of timber and honey. Gimli was, Legolas saw to his relief, sleeping peacefully on a bed next to his. Grimbeorn walked up to him now and shook him in the same unceremonious way. Although he still seemed half asleep, Gimli obediently drank the herbal brew. He, too, murmured his thanks.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Grimbeorn said. “It is an honour to be able to help great heroes such as the two of you.”
“Great heroes?” Legolas and Gimli spoke as one, with clear disbelief.
“Has the spell erased that much of your memories? Don’t you remember about the Enemy’s ring?”
“Which ring?” Legolas said. He was feeling more and more confused.
The shape-changer snorted. “Which ring, he asks! If I hadn’t heard about your heroic deeds from good authority, I would have thought you had the minds of three-year-old children. Do not worry, you will remember eventually – at least I think you will. Sleep now! I will not be with you during night-time, but my helpers will. They will bring you anything you might need.”
He gave a short whistle and two beautiful, grey dogs approached them and sat down at the foot of their beds. Then he left the hall, leaving them to rest again.
Sleep came far more easily now that Legolas knew he and his companion were safe. As his body rested, his mind slowly started to fill its blank pages. He remembered the shadow threatening to cover the world, and the Nine Walkers starting on an impossible quest to stop it. He remembered a snowstorm in the Misty Mountains, the despair he felt as Mithrandir was falling into an abyss and the joy beyond description he felt when he was revealed to be alive. He felt the salty air of the sea carried by the Great River, and saw armies gathering under the walls of Minas Tirith and in front of the Black Gate. He remembered a black shape rising to darken the whole sky and then vanishing, and the jubilation he felt when it vanished. And through all these events Gimli was with him, at first his most unwelcome companion, but in the end his dearest and most trusted one. He remembered the moment – it was in Lothlórien, under golden mallorn trees – when he became aware that his irritation with Gimli had at some point turned to admiration. Soon after that they made peace with one another, walking through the Golden Wood for hours until they had both forgotten their grief.
It was night-time when he woke up again. The wooden hall was quiet and their host was gone, but the grey dogs were there at the foot of their beds, quietly watching over them.
“Gimli!” Legolas whispered. “Are you awake?”
Gimli opened his eyes and looked at him.
“Do you remember me?” Legolas asked and reached towards him with his hand. His heart was beating almost audibly. He could not imagine what he would do if the answer was “no”.
Gimli reached out to him too and their fingers touched. “I remember you, Legolas.” He smiled, but almost immediately a shadow passed over his face.
Legolas guessed what Gimli was thinking, because the same thought had just occurred to him. After falling into the stream, robbed of their memories, they had drawn weapons at one another. Had one of them slain the other, what a horrible moment of waking this would have been for him!
He said: “We should build a better bridge over that stream.”
Gimli grinned. “A most practical solution,” he said. “You are starting to think like a dwarf.”
Legolas smiled. Their fingers still touching, they drifted into sleep again, this time knowing that all was well with them and with the world.