04/06/05

The muses return! This chapter full of gratuitous Gimli grinding and awful Elfy angst with absolutely no plot. No apologies, it is such fun to be writing again. Rose

I have posted this without a beta (Are you out there Theresa?) because the next chapter is pushing my head all out of shape and I want to get this one away first. Forgive me the obvious edits then - I will put them in later.

 Evensong 7

Gimli coughed a goodly portion of the Entwash from his lungs, spat a tributary into the mud beside him and then struggled to his feet, shivering hard and feeling like an abandoned load of laundry.

Everything oozed water.

He gathered up his beard and strangled most of the wet out of it, and then stripped more moisture from the hair on his head.

A cruel wind flowing off the river ran icy fingers down the back of his neck, cold gripped his skull with iron claws.

Muttering imprecations under his breath, Gimli squelched his way up the riverbank, away from both Legolas and Melusina. The wind found its way under his clinging shirt, it felt sharp enough to be cutting holes right through him.

Legolas turned his head to follow his laboured progress up the bank but did not yet abandon his post just outside the ring of binding he had imposed on the water-spirit.

Gimli looked at them both for a moment, glowing in more than the light of the moon, then turned his back on their uncanniness.

‘Aiie, it was cold!’

The moon painted a wind-bent huddle of shrubby trees silver and black. Gimli made his way into their scant shelter. The wind wickedly found more interesting places to chill as he stooped for kindling wood in the rough grass. His shivers were starting to become full body shudders that threatened the small pile of fuel he gathered.

Cursing monotonously, to the rhythm of the his chattering teeth, Gimli made his way to a slightly more sheltered hollow on the back of the river bank where he kicked some stranded river-pebbles into a rough circle.

He dropped the wood and followed it down to sit hunched by his makeshift campsite, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth.

Now would be a good time for his friend to abandon that witch and arrive – Gimli belatedly realised that he had no way to light the wood into the fire that he needed. His tinderbox was as sodden as the rest of him.

Wishing did not make Legolas appear, sadly, and the moon stalked overhead as Gimli sat in the shivering dark, waiting.

The wind veered around and started a new excavation in Gimli’s ear.

Gimli thought he should stand up, make an attempt to wring some water from his clothes. It seemed too much effort, and the white light of the moon was starting to feel warm. The warmth tempted him to close his eyes for a moment. Legolas was sure to be with him soon and he would light the fire.

Gimli battled with his heavy eyelids.

Perhaps he could hail Legolas, now his teeth were not chattering so. It was strange how warm the moonlight was.

The wind, capricious again swirled round and blew its frigid breath into the dwarf’s face. Gimli opened his eyes. Legolas was floating into the little hollow, his cloak billowing around him in the wind. Gimli’s eyes slid shut again before he could ask him to light the fire.

“Gimli!” A rough hand was shaking him.

“Gimli!” Bother the voice. Lovely comfortable dark beckoned but the voice kept chasing it away.

“Gimli.”

He felt himself swept up off the accommodating ground and into a pair of iron-strong arms. This was going too far, he was a warrior not some hobbit to be carried. His own feet, by Aule. He stood on his…

“Aragorn this way! Valar be praised you have found us. That bitch dropped him in the Entwash…”

00000

Aragorn looked up from the paper packages of herbs he was sorting just in time to avoid colliding with Earnulf’s broad shoulders.

“Sire.”

Earnulf was wrestling with a hastily constructed windbreak. The wind was attempting to pluck it from the young man’s hands, however Earnulf appeared to be winning. Two of Aragorn’s personal guard were holding the other end of the panel.

Aragorn nodded approvingly, “Carry on, Captain. The pickets are set?”

Earnulf nodded and then wielded a mallet with which he drove the end stake of the windbreak convincingly into the turf.

“Aye. Two by the river bank, keeping an eye on Lord Legolas’ captive and two by the horses, as you requested.”

Aragorn looked gratified and started down into the hollow where a roaring fire was settling in the added shelter of the panels.

“Sire?”

Aragorn turned.

“Esgarth is cooking – yonder,” Earnulf waved a meaty arm to indicate the main encampment of soldiers. “Shall we bring food for yourself and Lord Legolas?”

“Aye and some for Lord Gimli, Captain. He will be awake soon or I know not dwarf-kind.”

Earnulf grinned at the King and then ducked his head, “The men will be pleased to hear that, Sire.”

Aragorn smiled back at the man, then carried on down to the fireside where Legolas was tending the small, bundled, form of his friend by the light of the flames. The shadowy silhouettes of the rest of Aragorn’s bodyguard were just visible at the edge of the fire lit space.

Aragorn stooped to crumble the contents of several packages into a kettle he had ordered fetched before he realised he would have to retrieve the herbs from his saddlebag himself. Satisfied with the brew he pushed the kettle into the coals at the edge of the fire to warm.

“Has he woken, Legolas?”

Legolas fussed with the edge of the wool blanket cocooning his friend, flipping it to one side to bare Gimli’s face and part of his shoulder and arm. The golden light of the flames painted copper into the silver of Gimli’s hair and beard, gifting the dwarf the appearance of youth for a space.

The Elf ran a light hand down his friend’s arm and fished out one of Gimli’s work-worn hands.

“He stirs and then settles again.”

Legolas slid his palm under Gimli’s and lifted the dwarf’s limp arm slightly. Aragorn was fascinated to see how much smaller Gimli’s hand was than his friend’s. Gimli’s stumpy digits only came to the second joint of the Elf’s fingers.

“His hands are cold yet, although his shoulder and arm feel warm enough.”

Legolas tucked the hand and arm back under the blanket and shifted the dwarf’s weight back against his chest.

“This is new to me, Estel.” Legolas gazed into the flames, “The endurance of Dwarves is legendary. How could such a little thing as cold bring him so low?”

Aragorn sighed.

“Legolas, look at him.”

Legolas glanced down at his friend and then back at the King, his expression puzzled.

Aragorn moved round the fire and settled beside the Elf. He reached forward across Legolas’ body and folded back the edge of the blanket to expose Gimli’s sleeping face.

“Tell me what you see, my friend.”

Legolas studied Gimli’s still features.

“I see what I ever have, Aragorn. My true friend, a mighty warrior yet a gentle soul. He is anchored in his very being to this earth, as I have rarely been.”

Aragorn reached and ran a soft finger down Gimli’s seamed cheek. Then he looked into the brilliant eyes of his old friend.

“His personality, indeed, seems to inhabit a space big enough to fit young Earnulf; shoulders and all. But you must take the fond lenses from your eyes and really see him, Legolas. He is no longer in his prime, my friend. Long life and poor health have diminished him physically even as nothing could diminish his presence. He is becoming frail, and yet the same flame of passion that has ever filled him, still drives him. In his self I am sure he believes that he is as hale as ever. It is his body not his spirit that betrays him.”

Legolas bowed his head and closed his eyes, as if to deny these unwelcome truths. Finally a faint smile relieved the solemnity of his face, but the eyes that met Aragon’s were ancient, reflecting years beyond the King’s mortal understanding.

“For centuries, Aragorn, my people and I fought in the forests of my father, opposing the great darkness even though we had no hope nor expectation of victory. Many immortal lives were lost to Middle-earth in that struggle. My close kin, friends, innocents that deserved a kinder fate; and then, against any reason, evil was defeated.”

Legolas combed his fingers idly through some stray threads of Gimli’s hair.

“My own part in that unlooked for victory has left me a peculiar legacy. I find myself unwilling to bend to reason, to guard my heart from bitter loss. I will not lose him, Aragorn, against sense or good counsel, I will find a way to keep his company.”

The Elf looked away into the wind-whistling dark and Aragorn found himself bereft of words. He patted Legolas on the shoulder and then moved away to see if the tea had brewed.

00000

The acrid smell of singing wool pulled Gimli up from a disturbingly deep place.

“Faugh! I’ve got it.”

The smell diminished and he felt a faint tugging near his feet. There was the feel of people moving around him. Gimli’s confusion overcame his desire to slip back into the comfortable dark.

When his eyes finally consented to open it was to the indisputable fact that some time had elapsed. Instead of his forlorn pile of sticks a roaring fire was burning in front of him. Someone had removed his wet clothes and wrapped him in a heavy blanket. He was dry, Aulë be praised.

His eyes drifted shut again, only to snap open as he realised he was being held. A warm body pressed along the length of his back, arms encircled his shoulders and his head was propped up against someone’s chest.

What liberty was this! Gimli jerked himself sideways and around so that he could see who would dare.

Legolas’ amused eyes met his with not even the beginnings of an apology dancing in their fire-lit depths.

Gimli summoned all the outrage that wounded pride could muster.

“Put me down, Master Elf!”

Legolas loosened his hold and carefully moved his friend so that he was sitting beside him, rather than in his lap. To his chagrin Gimli found he still had to lean slightly against the elf in order to maintain his balance. Legolas propped him up without comment.

 His treacherous body felt the lack of the elf’s shared heat and he shivered slightly despite the baking fire.

Aragorn, manfully not smiling, handed the disgruntled dwarf a steaming mug.

“Sip this, please Gimli. You got far too cold and I want you warmed from the inside, as well as out.”

Gimli sniffed the contents and wrapped his hands round the welcome heat of the drink but met the King’s eye with a challenge.

“I am a Dwarf. Dwarves do not feel the cold.”

A muscle in Aragorn’s cheek twitched.

“It is good, my friend, to see that you are feeling more like yourself.”

“Whom else should I be feeling like?” Gimli grumped, ungraciously.

Aragorn and Legolas’ exchanged a look. Aragorn reached and squeezed Gimli’s forearm.

“Please indulge me. I can ill afford to lose my old friend to such a foolish hazard.”

“Gimli?” said Legolas.

 Gimli shifted slightly, and then took a sip of the tea.

Aragorn looked over Gimli to Legolas, manifestly seeking a safer subject for conversation.

“I see you have the river-daughter bound?”

Legolas’ expression seemed to harden. He nodded curtly, “She broke her word. She promised my father and me that she would create no more mischief for travellers. Faithless creature.”

“She knows something of our quest though, Legolas.” Gimli paused in his drinking to wave his mug vaguely to the west, “She spoke of some Witch and seemed jealous of her power. She may know more than we could find out from my searching in dusty tomes, saving your pardon, Aragorn.”

Aragorn smiled at him and looked thoughtful.

“Well, she can wait until morning,” Legolas stated, uncharitably.

Legolas reached a long arm and accepted a plate of the food Esgarth had brought to the fire, and then placed its twin in reach of Gimli. Without comment he handed Gimli one of his elegant belt knives to eat with. Gimli looked long on his friend and Legolas held his gaze, and then, as if all had been said of thanks and thankfulness, the two of them turned their attention to the meat.

Aragorn shook his head slightly and bent to his own plate.

In the windswept dark a chorus of frogs started. Legolas lifted his head and looked in the direction of the river.

“Melusina strains at my bounds.”

“They will hold?” Aragorn glanced round into the increasingly noisy dark.

“Until morning,” said Legolas.

And they did, even when the camp was woken by the mewling screams of a flock of summoned gulls.

00000

The Dwarf, once known as Narvi to her kin, now not known at all by any but her sacred charge, pattered down the carved corridor, as she did every morning.

She did not see the riot of beasts and birds that she herself had carved in the endless lonely ages she had held herself prisoner. Her free hand trailed unconsciously along their familiar contours, habit placing her finger into the grooves worn by the uncounted years. The dished granite flags rang softly to her familiar tread and did not disturb the Elf as he sat, cradled in the portal she had shaped to frame him, in the dawn light.

He sang to the sun and let the new day paint a halo around him, limning his hair and white robe to radiance.

Narvi whisked into his presence, bearing a tray with covered pots that seeped mild tendrils of aromatic steam.

The sun rose inexorably and the Elf’s song finished. Narvi placed the tray, just so, on the graceful table beside him, then stifled a gasp as she saw the back of his robe being marred, again, by a creeping stain.

“No.” she whispered, her hand drifting of its own volition to her mouth. Valda the great ring caressed her upper lip and called to her.

“It is too soon.”

Valda made promises, the stain seemed to grow before her eyes, marring the perfection he demanded, that she craved.

Without her volition her left hand, bearing the blue stone, drifted lightly down the arc of his spine. Mending ran through her, again. The web that had sustained them for so long tensed, and far off a branch fell from a tree in the forest, rotted and drained of its life.

Languidly Celebrimbor turned to look at her.

“Should we, old friend?”

He breathed deeply and Narvi could see his rib cage lifting beneath the robe, could see the end of the newly healed but never healing scar that marred his neck. His voice in speech, as in song, caressed her.

“The work Master – how else?”

“The work,” echoed the Elf  “Have you seen it, Narvi? It is good. Good to see and feel and work. I walked the path of dreams for so long.”

“I had to hide you, Master. Until he was gone.”

“Too long, old friend. I am not as I was.”

“Nothing is as it was, Master. Nothing except Narvi. Here,” she lifted the cover from one of the pots, “drink.”

TBC