Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great, and there is a sample in the middle of this chapter!

Chapter Three

The two healers, Frior, the dwarf bonesetter, and Tolman, the hobbit, were patient. They listened as Gimli explained, at least three times a day, how this outermost chamber was the only one Legolas could be happy in. They looked at the large windows and agreed, and discounted the inconvenience of the long trek to the infirmary. They tolerated Gimli’s continued presence, his questioning of every procedure, his alternating hope and despair at every minute amount of progress, or regression made by Legolas over the first few days. Now they wanted to tweeze the last embedded fragments of metal from the elf’s back, and they agreed, as did Legolas, that Gimli’s hovering, threatening, presence was not conducive to a calm mind and a steady hand.

They banished him to visit Gliver.

Gliver was limping around the paved yard outside the main hall, organising the wagons he was taking to collect their dead. Gimli wished he had a task; even one so gruesome would be welcome.

He walked up beside Gliver and waited as he finished folding a tarpaulin.

Gliver looked up, “My Lord?”

“Can I help? I am forbidden Legolas’ chamber, until called for.” Gimli jerked his head at the windows that caught the orange afternoon light.

“We are done, Gimli,” Gliver swept an arm around the courtyard. “Elfwine’s troop arrive in the morning, and then we will leave.”

Gliver glanced at Gimli, aware that these military precautions were too late. His Lord’s brow creased into a more formidable scowl as he considered the protection hindsight told him he should have accepted earlier.

Gliver cast around in his mind for a task his friend and Lord would accept.

“Why not visit Ascallon? She is still pining for her master in the stables.”

“I am not a child, Gliver. I do not need to be humoured into patting the nice horse to make everything better.”

Gimli turned on his heel angrily, and came face to face with the carts, lined up ready to depart in the morning. He stopped, as if hit by a club. Heard his petulant words re-tell themselves in his mind, pinched the bridge of his nose and examined the toes of his boots for a beat.

“Gliver, forgive me.”

Gliver had already moved up behind him, and now placed a hand on his shoulder.

“My Lord, these are difficult times for us all. There is nothing to forgive. We need to draw up the inventory of the stolen goods for King Elfwine; do you remember he asked in that last despatch? If we work on it together, a tedious task would be halved.”

Gimli looked at the other dwarf with gratitude.

“Aye, that would suit, I think.” He grasped Gliver’s upper arm, then looked up at the afternoon sun, “ I will meet you in the hall, shortly.”

He released the other dwarf, then started off in the opposite direction to the hall.

“My Lord?” said Gliver, bewildered.

“Have to see a horse about an elf,” Gimli replied over his shoulder, before vanishing into the stables.

Gliver shook his head smiling at the older dwarf, then limped back inside Aglarond.

It was well into the night watch before Gimli was able to get back to Legolas’ side. Once his people had seen him sitting in his customary seat by the arched windows in the hall, working, all manner of minor issues found their way to him. A sense of relief seemed to run through the colony, and Gimli felt humbled again by his people’s level of trust in both his, and Gliver’s, ability to sort out even this disaster. Everyone had lost kin in the raid; nineteen people out of two hundred and fifty left a hole that would not be filled any time soon. An air of shocked grief had hung over the halls for days, but at the evening meal a sense of purpose seemed to return to the colony, that eased Gimli’s sore heart.

He pushed open Legolas’ door with his hip. The tray he was carrying held a plate of sliced apples and three different cheeses on a wooden board and a condensation-beaded pitcher of cold water. Even the cooks, it seemed, would like the elf to recover.

Ris had thrust the offering at him as he left the hall, her eyes red from weeping but still attending to her duties, feeding the colony.

“He is too thin by half, that friend of yours. Try to tempt him with this, my Lord.”

Gimli simply nodded and obeyed; he would not risk the wrath of a cook with tales of just how little food an elf could subsist on.

Legolas was sitting up in bed, his torso swathed in snowy bandages, his face turned to the stars outside the windows.

“Do you want them opened?” Gimli asked, as he deposited the tray on the table beside the bed.

“It will chill you,” said the elf.

Gimli simply went over and pushed the windows open.

A smile curved the good side of Legolas’ face as he turned his face to the breeze and looked directly at the stars.

Gimli went back to the bed and sat himself on the side away from the window.

“I wish you could hear them, Gimli,” Legolas said in a dreamy voice. Gimli looked appraisingly at the array of jars beside the bed. The painkiller in the green bottle was one to keep in mind.

“How fares your back?”

“It will mend.”

Gimli examined his friend, while he was still looking away.

“I’m a sight, aye, my friend?” Legolas turned and met the concerned brown eyes, watching him. “These will fade, and quickly,” he waved vaguely at his face and neck on his left side where the skin was red and puffy, but notably less so than the day before. “My hair though, Gimli. What a mess.”

Gimli looked at the fine un-burnt hair on Legolas’ right side, and then took a really good look at the singed area on the left.

“Vain. That’s your trouble, Elf. It will grow back.”

 “And while I am waiting? With one good hand I cannot even braid it, and it keeps getting stuck in the salves they put on my back.” Legolas jerked his head forward so that a hank of hair fell down in front of his face. He blinked at the dwarf through it.

“Fool,” Gimli said fondly. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Would you cut it, so it is the same length all over? It will keep it out of my wounds and be easier to manage while this heals.” He patted the splinted arm, then tucked his hair back behind his right ear again.

Gimli felt a temptation to reach for some of the long strands to stroke them smooth.

“I could braid your hair for you, if you want to keep it.”

Legolas frowned, thinking.

“Nay cut it. If we save what you shear, I can use it to spin bowstring. It will at least occupy my hands until I am hale again.”

“And how is your leg?” Gimli enquired, mostly to give him some time to think about cutting Legolas’ hair. He could not imagine Legolas without his blond mane. He knew the elves did not invest hair with the weight of tradition that dwarves afforded their hair and beards, but it was taking him a minute to get his mind round the notion of being the agent of its destruction.

Legolas pushed the bed cover off his leg, and peered at the bandage on his thigh.

“It has been itching today. Frior threatened to splint this arm as well if I touched it.” Legolas flipped the cover back over the offending limb and looked put out.

“I am not a good patient. I nearly hit him.”

Gimli looked at him severely. “You must listen to him, Legolas. He is our best bonesetter; he knows broken limbs, and lacerations. They are dwarf’s most common injuries.”

“I am an Elf.”

Gimli refrained from replying, with an effort.

“I shall go and get some scissors.”

“And a mirror.”

“As I said. Vain.” Gimli left the room.

**

(This little insert from the wonderful pen of Theresa Green.)

There was no sound in the room save the soft bite of scissors on fine hair. Legolas has expected Gimli to cut his hair swiftly and with little fuss, but the Dwarf seemed to be taking his time over every snip. Legolas sat motionless, staring down at the quilt on his bed. Gimli had not needed to tell him to sit still – in all truth, every movement was painful and the Elf was thankful to be able to rest without moving a muscle. The painkilling draught that Tolman had given him was strong, but the ache in his arm was never-ending and his back still burned cruelly.

Gimli sat on the bed beside him, looking studiously at the progress he was making. He had begun by tiding up the mess on the injured side of Legolas’ head, cropping the hair short with cautious little snips. After the first few cuts Gimli decided to get a sheet to put around the Elf’s shoulders to catch the clippings. Legolas didn’t want hair in his bed after all. So that is how the Elf sat – utterly still and draped round with white cloth. And Gimli worked slowly and with great care, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. Every so often Legolas looked up and caught him gazing not at the hair he was cutting, but at the burns and cuts on the Elf’s face, neck and ear.

Having made the injured side of Legolas’ head neat and tidy, Gimli turned his attention to the long, undamaged hair on the other side. The Dwarf paused for a long time before making his first cut. A hank of hair as long as the Elf’s forearm fell to the cloth; pale gold on white. Gimli stared down at it for a long moment and then up into Legolas’ face. The Elf offered him a small, lopsided smile. Gimli sighed and positioned the scissors for another cut.

After what seemed an eternity to Legolas, Gimli announced he had finished. The Dwarf gathered the sheet from around the Elf’s shoulders, careful not to spill the long strands of hair onto the bed and even more careful not to move the sheet too roughly against the Elf’s injured back and neck. He handed the mirror to Legolas and bent to pick out the longest pieces of hair the Elf intended to use to make bowstring.

Legolas looked curiously at himself in the glass. Gimli, ever the craftsman, had trimmed the blond locks so that both sides were perfectly even. He moved his head from side to side. It felt very strange not to have hair brushing his shoulders and neck. His head felt curiously light and cold.

“Vain, vain, vain,” said Gimli softly.

“Not at all. I was just admiring your handiwork.”

“What do you think?”

Legolas glanced up at the Dwarf and then back at his image in the mirror. “I think it rather suits me.”

Gimli chuckled and shook his head.

Legolas reached out with his good arm and  squeezed the dwarf’s arm.

“Thank you, I am very grateful.”

“My pleasure,” Gimli said, gruffly. “Now it is time for you to get some more sleep.”

To Gimli’s surprise, Legolas did not argue, but allowed the Dwarf to help him wriggle down under the quilt. He still moved awkwardly, struggling to find a comfortable position.

“I’ll leave the hair for the bowstrings just here on the table. Alright?”

Legolas glanced up at the little pile of gold. “Is that all there is?”

“Yes. That’s all. Now, settle down and get some sleep.” Gimli walked to the door. He looked back before he left the room, noting with approval that the Elf’s eyes were already half closed.

Gimli walked thoughtfully back to his own room. Once there he reached into his pocket and pulled out several long strands of pale gold hair and laid them reverently in the drawer in his desk. He would find a more suitable housing for them later, just as he had done with the three hairs from the Lady of the Wood. Gimli smiled to himself. Bowstrings? No, such treasure was far too precious for that.

( End insert. Isn’t she good. R.)

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli worked deep in the forges of Aglarond, toiling over the edge of a battle-axe; the stream of sparks flying from the honed edge of the blade and the red flames of the forge fire the only illumination he wanted. The blackness suited his mood.

Legolas- Legolas! -kept preaching the futility of vengeance to him.

He was hardly appeased. Gliver still walked with a limp, his best friend in the entire world was alive only courtesy of the healing skills of a stray hobbit, and worst by far, nineteen dwarves who had followed him, Gimli, to a supposedly better life in the south, were dead. The ceremonies attendant on the laying in stone had only been completed that morning. He could not bring himself to look their kin in the eye any more, so shamed was he by his failure.

The firelight ran like liquid down the razor sharp blade. He scowled at its perfection. He could not mend bodies so easily, nor minds. Nain’s bride Ris was distraught, as well she may be, not enough dwarf children were born anyway, and now she would have none either.

Fili, his own cousin, dead before his hundreth year, a stripling by his people’s standards and the best jeweller of his generation. Lost.

All because he refused Elfwine’s offer of escort, out of pride. Pride in his people’s success, pride in their ability to defend themselves, and misplaced complacency over the peaceful state of Middle-earth.

Gimli wondered if senility was setting in. He, of all people, should have known better.

He put the axe down carefully and picked up another. His felt ill with the need to wreak violence. Aragorn had better get here soon, otherwise vengeance was going to be meted out personally by him, on the Dunlending villages around the Westfold. He was quite sick of being reasonable.

“Hiding my friend?” Nothing marred the gentle cadence of his friend’s voice. Gimli petulantly kept his back turned to the elf.

“Unsuccessfully,” he snapped back.

Gimli waited, and sure enough the elf moved closer to the fire and what light it gave. He could not imagine what had drawn him so deep into the mines; Legolas hated the underground.

Gimli caught sight of the ungainly cast on the Legolas’ left arm, and winced. It reproached him every time he noticed it under the sling the elf wore to support it. At least Legolas had regained his grace of movement, and he was healing the cuts and burns with a speed that was quite remarkable. Hair and bones took longer to grow back. Gimli was still not used to seeing the vulnerable curves of Legolas’ head and neck, even though it had been at his friend’s request that he had taken scissors and barbered the burnt blond mess into a uniform crop. Despite the dark, his mind’s eye could see all the scars that marred his beautiful friend’s face and body. Legolas was flippant about them; he insisted to Gimli that they would fade to nothing, but Gimli remained furious that Legolas had suffered so. He was not made for suffering.

“Still dining on your dish of ashes, Gimli?”

Legolas moved to pick up a notched sword, sighting along the fire-rippled blade. Gimli could see the elf’s own glow outlining the wire wrapped hilt.

“I would fight, Elf. And you, and my esteemed advisors, tell me nay, and wait. Work eases my chest.”

Gimli put down the now sharpened axe and held out his hand for the sword. Legolas swung it up and then reversed it so the hilt landed in Gimli’s calloused palm. The silver glow of the elf’s flesh illuminated Gimli’s hand.

They held each other’s gaze for a breath, then Legolas stepped away and Gimli bent to his sharpening wheel. Legolas watched the fountain of sparks arc into the mountain’s eternal night.

He raised his voice. “If you attack human settlements, no matter your justification, resentment will follow, Gimli. Many humans are jealous, or scared of your people already. Those are flames that need no fanning.” The mob that had besieged the houses of healing in Edoras only a year ago seemed to take shape in the dark to taunt the friends.

“So, shall we be as lambs led to the slaughter, and meekly allow any outrage against us? I think not, Legolas.”

“Aragorn will come Gimli, and Elfwine. They must lead this campaign. You know this.”

“I fear for my folk, Legolas.” The dwarf paused in his sharpening and bowed his head. “ The humans increase, and the more they fill the land the less they have room in their hearts for old alliances, other ways of being. Their lives are so short. They have no memory for the good done in the past, but infinite patience for wrongs done, by hearsay, to a distant cousin on their mother’s side.”

He looked into the elf’s glowing countenance again, and held his eye. “I fear our time in Middle-earth becomes limited.”

Legolas looked away into the fire. This was not an argument they would finish or he could win.

“Long enough,” the elf said eventually.  “Long enough to sort out this piece of infamy. For the dwarves may be few, but they have powerful friends.” He dropped his voice to a confiding whisper. “I know some of them.”

Gimli smiled in spite of himself. “Mad Elf. You would make a joke of doomsday.” He put the sword down and crossed his arms. “Now get thee out of here before you sicken from the dark. I’ll not have your healers berating me for setting your recovery back.”

The elf did move towards the doorway. “I will visit with your mountain’s trees, and sing to them of brave deeds, Gimli. That will restore any stain on my spirit from your darksome halls. Join me at dinner?”

“Aye.” Gimli waved a dismissing hand and turned back to his lathe, his heart lighter for his friend’s support, and still an armoury of frustration to relieve before evening.

**

Aragorn marked his place in the lengthy document and barked a testy, “Enter.”

“The Queen, Sire.” Cirion’s face followed his knock, then he bowed himself away and Arwen entered.

Aragorn rose reflexively to greet her.

“May I have a moment?” Arwen met his eyes then dropped her gaze to his cluttered desktop.

“Of course,” Aragorn moved around the desk so he was standing beside her. “Here?”

Arwen glanced around the office and found a long seat under the window.

“Here will do,” she turned to her lady in waiting. “Wait with Cirion, Morwen.” Her lady curtseyed and withdrew with her usual discretion.

Aragorn took his Queen’s arm and led her to the chaise.

“How went your visit to the houses of healing?”

Arwen looked up out of the window, to gather her thoughts, then met her husband’s eye.

“They are kind, Aragorn, but they have no more idea than we do of what is wrong with me. Although we have ruled out the sea-longing, which is a blessing.”

She leaned forward and took Aragorn’s hand in her own. “They suggest I consult with Celeborn, as he knew Elros, and he may have some advice for me about the mortal weaknesses of elves.”

Aragorn felt his heart constrict painfully, and struggled to keep a calm face.

Arwen’s expression softened. “My love, I still regret not my choice; even now I would do all the same.” She reached for his other hand and drew them both into her lap.

“Shall I ask Cirion to arrange an escort for me, to Rivendell?”

Aragorn attempted to speak, cleared his throat and tried again.

“I will accompany you myself.”

Arwen leaned forward and made him make eye contact with her.

“You have to go to Aglarond.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, duty warring with his heart, again. He should be used to it.

“Then I will accompany you as far as Aglarond, and then I will suppress this banditry with uncommon despatch, and then I will catch up with you and accompany you to Rivendell.”

Arwen let a smile curve her lips, although the humour was bittersweet.

“As you say, my love.”

TBC

Rose Sared

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