Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Legolas and Gimli go on a quest chasing a dream. Old truths are revealed and discord in part of the song of Ilứvatar mended.

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

With apologies for the long break, blame the Vor saga. Yes, it’s all LMB’s fault. Heh. Rather more honestly, I have proved to myself, yet again, that an idea is not a plot, bother it, and it has taken all this time for the plot to reveal itself.

Chapter 3

In an obscure basement of Aragorn’s great library Gimli balanced one last, crisp-edged, scroll on top of the weighty pile of books he already clutched to his chest, and then turned, gingerly, to make his way back to the lamp-lit sanctuary he had created. The faint illumination cast by the light-wells had faded to true dark, oh - books and books ago. The golden glow from the oil lamps now cast shadows from the several ramparts of discarded volumes he had stacked to the side during the three days he had been pursuing his search.

Who could have guessed that the second age of the elves would have inspired so many clerks and bards to spew genealogies and fantasies in almost equal measure? The military histories on the other hand, they were fascinating. His quarry was almost alive to him now, even though the elf lord, Celebrimbor, had been slain more than four and a half thousand years ago. Celebrimbor’s friend Narvi, though of dwarven-kind, would not even be bones, no matter her honour; from dust to dust she would have returned. What could his dream have meant after all? As that great space of time ran its daily course from the second age to the fourth, rivers rose, mountains fell; great kingdoms of men had been established, risen to power and fallen into forgetful ruin.

Gimli felt the stack of books in his arms shifting precariously and so lurched the last steps to the table allowing the pile to land with a thud and an unfortunate cloud of dusk. He sneezed, and the library swam in his involuntary tears. Lord Elrond had lived through it all, he realised, as he looked at the scroll that now unwound in crinkled arcs to reveal a map of Imladris. No wonder the lord of Rivendell had sailed at last, to have lived so long. Gimli squeezed his eyes shut, trying to subdue his nose. How did the elves perceive time?

Gimli let out another irresistible sneeze, blowing himself backwards into the padded arms of the chair he had purloined from the entrance hall, a little comfort for his elderly bones. When he blinked his eyes clear this time it was to see his own personal elf materialised like a genie out of the dark on the other side of the table.

Legolas looked perturbed.

“Are you sure you are well, my friend?”

Not waiting for an answer the elf piled a thick blue book on top of two brown gilt-edged tomes, perched one of the lamps on the top of his tower, and in the resulting clearance lay down a bowl containing a loaf of bread, a large wedge of cheese and several russet apples. From a strap over his shoulder he swung down a leather sack that sloshed suggestively.

“Did the librarian see you bringing that in here?” Gimli peered into the shadowed dark. “He was quite fierce about me not eating amongst his books.”

The repositioned lamp caught gold highlights in the elf’s fair hair, and lit the flash of his eyes as he glared at his friend.

“So you eat not, rather than stop. I cannot believe that is good for you, my friend. Even great dwarves need to eat, or so you have always lead me to believe. Or is this need another that has been waived by the grace that visited you in Firien Wood?”

Gimli’s stomach rumbled its denial of any such dispensation. Gimli grinned at his friend and reached for an apple. It tasted miraculous.

Legolas hooked a spindle-legged stool closer to the table and perched on it. He magicked two goblets from somewhere about his person and applied himself to filling them from the wine skin.

“The librarian is in his bed, I warrant. As are most of the good citizens of the King’s city. Most mortals do not have the endurance of dwarves and elves, my friend, but I find my curiosity has driven my patience to its end. Will you please tell me what it is that you are looking for?”

Gimli snagged a goblet and took a long swallow. He eyed his friend from over the rim.

“If I knew, I would send one of Aragorn’s keen young scholars down here to find it for me. It was not clear.”

Legolas folded a lump of cheese into a hank of bread and handed it over to the dwarf. Gimli looked at it, and then back at the elf. He took a bite and washed it down with another swallow of wine.

The elf swallowed a mouthful himself.

“What have you found so far?”

Gimli waved at the piles of books and scrolls around him. “All I have done is confirm the history you and Aragorn gave me. Celebrimbor was slain in the year sixteen ninety-seven of the second age, as the years are calculated here in Gondor. He died defending his brother jewellers and his people in Hollin against the minions of Sauron. Of Narvi there is nothing more than her name.”

“Her name?” Legolas’ dark-pupilled eyes widened.

Gimli scowled at him. “Yes, her name. She was great amongst her people and honoured for her skill. Her name has been handed down the generations of my people even as Celembrimbor’s has been handed down yours. I may count her as an ancestor, many times removed.”

Legolas toasted his loyalty with a wave of his cup. “I think Celebrimbor may be my cousin, once or twice removed.” The elf took a drink. “And the mystery your vision bade you solve?”

“Pah!” said Gimli “I can add little to what I told you on our ride here. My Lord Aule, if in soothe it was he and not some addled dream of this senile old pate,” Gimli hit the side of his head. “My lord showed me a discord, a barren place which should be full of life, left my head ringing with the names of our illustrious ancestors and filled me with a desire to right a wrong that has been bothering our makers for two ages. Just before I woke I saw a ring, mithril bound in gold, with a great blue stone set like an eye in its band. The ring was on a finger that looked like stone, grey and weathered, but it was flesh. Naught else do I know, Legolas. I can find no mention of such a ring, it was no part of the nine, seven or three, but it was a masterwork. I am craftsman enough to know quality when I see it, vision or no.”

“Aragorn and his law-masters know nothing of this ring?”

Gimli shook his head, and waved a goblet-filled hand to encompass the archive. “After his healers had finished with me, Aragorn gave me the freedom of his vaults, but little good does it do me. The events are too far in the past.”

“Mayhap you are looking in the wrong place?” Legolas placed a gentle finger on the crumbling map of Rivendell. He raised an inquiring eyebrow to his friend.

Gimli finished his bread and cheese and then leaned into the circle of light, a look of revelation on his face. He picked up the scroll and rolled it up carefully, thinking.

 “Aye, Celeborn would have been living in Lorien when the refugees from Hollin escaped through Moria.” He mused out loud. “Surely he would be able to shed some light on this geas.” The dwarf looked suddenly more cheerful. “Ah, a journey Legolas, a trip to the Last Homely House.”

“Is this yet another request for a ride, Gimli?” Legolas did not look at his friend, finding something of interest in the set of a fingernail.

Gimli barked a short laugh. “Nay, my legs will do me, as they have done for most of my life. Have you no work in Ithilien that you would tag along with me?”

Legolas drew back, his face suddenly opaque. Gimli realised he had accidentally trodden on his friend’s elven pride. The dwarf leaned forward, his chocolate eyes bright under the silver thatch of his eyebrows.

“Now don’t start getting all ‘Son of Thranduil’ with me, laddie.”  Gimli held his stare until Legolas reluctantly met his eyes. “I would welcome your company, as you well know, but I am mindful of your people, who have tolerated much from me over the years. I may be away for a year or more.”

Legolas waved a hand airily. “One year, several. My people do not need me to manage them for such a short time. They are elves; they have managed themselves for millennia.”

Time again, thought Gimli. He finished his drink and handed the goblet back to his friend who had begun to pack up the evidence of their meal. He pushed back from the table and surveyed the disorder he had created in his research.

“Shall I attempt to put this all back, Legolas?” He scratched his head; it may yet take him three days more to re-shelve all the books.

Legolas came round the table and put a firm guiding hand in the middle of his back.

“Leave a note for the librarian, Gimli. What is the point of having humans if they don’t do chores?”

The lord of Ithilien arched an arrogant eyebrow at the lord of Aglarond, and laughing, Gimli allowed himself to be guided up and out, into the sleeping citadel.

00000

Earnulf consulted the crude map scratched by the master of horse again, twisting it in his hands to compare its scant directions to the chaotic stone labyrinth of the first ring of Minas Tirith.

“Dammit, Esgarth, think you the visitors’ barracks are down there?” He waved a muscled arm towards one of two alleyways and tugged at his straggly yellow moustache.

Esgarth peered at the parchment, squinting helpfully. His head only came to Earnulf’s shoulder and Earnulf was left looking at the thinning hair on his crown. The sergeant looked back up into his officer’s face

“Could be, Captain.” he said, helpfully.

Earnulf glanced back at his sullen éored. Away from their horses and the grasslands they had fallen silent and waited, bunched together. Feared and fearless on the plains of Rohan they were cowed by the stone city with its busy uncaring masses and uncanny geography.

No help there, thought Earnulf. He wished he had not been so quick to dismiss the guide sent by the gate garrison, but the lad had complained of missing his mess, and the men could not be hurried over the care of their horses. Who would have thought he could get lost finding the barracks?

Earnulf shifted his gaze back to the street. He had been made Captain because of his prowess in the field, now it was time to prove his ability off.

“This way.” He strode forward and managed to suppress his heartfelt sigh of gratitude as the barracks revealed itself around the next bend in the pavement.

Praise his master, King Elfwine, or his influence with the city gate guard, at least. Now he could house his men and hasten on by himself to his appointment in the citadel above. The King’s message pouch seemed to burn with its burden of responsibility in his chest. Or perhaps that was just his spirit that felt so trammelled by this city.

His men, all but one older than him, trooped past to take up their rooms, grinning at him now and ready for their ale.

Earnulf and Esgarth counted them in and Earnulf signed the necessary forms. At least the grateful messenger had warned the quartermaster of their coming, Earnulf presumed. Now his men could be comfortable and he could change into more fitting kit for presenting himself at the court of King Elessar.

As he changed in his room, Earnulf wondered if the King could possibly remember him, changed as he was from the young boy the elf lord had taken under his wing ten years ago.

Catching his hulking reflection in the polished bronze of his shield, the young man tugged at his moustache and snorted. He thought not, but felt his heart lift at this chance to see those noble legends again. If he was lucky, his lord Legolas may even be in attendance; he had seen Ithilien and Aglarond’s courtesy flags flying above the great mithril-bound gates as they had ridden in. What prowess in arms he had, he owed to the elf; it would be most fitting if he could show him how his teaching had allowed him to be promoted.

He thought of his sister Aethel, of how she would have loved to be in this great city. Ai, he would just have to remember the details, he suspected there would be a test when he finally got home.

Earnulf’s homely vision of his mother at her hearth and Aethel at her carding was rudely shattered by a peremptory knock on his door, quickly followed by the face and person of his Sergeant.

“Fancy guard from the citadel here for you, Sir. All done up in that black and silver and wouldn’t give his Mam the time of day.”

Earnulf sighed. “Thank you, Esgarth. I’ll be along directly.”

Earnulf turned to pick up his shield, tucked his well-shined, horsetail decorated, helmet under his arm and patted the pouch that held his King’s message, reassuring himself that it was still safe.

Esgarth held the door for him.

“You look fine, Captain.” The older man grinned up at his young officer. Earnulf blushed faintly at the praise; he saw no particular virtue in his physique.

Earnulf strode down towards the entrance and his guide. The sooner he started this errand the sooner finished and back where he belonged, on the wide grasslands of Rohan. Lightning blast that Ent anyway, why did it have to be his patrol that it had chosen to bother.

He saluted the citadel guard and indicated the door. The city man looked wide-eyed for a moment at this large and vital warrior, then pulled his composure around him and led the way outside.

“Follow me Captain. I am to deliver you to the steward himself.”

Earnulf tried hard not to feel like an unwanted package and trod faithfully on the man’s black clad heels, all the way up to the highest level of the city.

TBC

Rose Sared