Evensong Ch 14

Sorry for the delay in posting.

I had an attack of adjectivitis and had to go back three chapters or so and do a detailed edit. Sometimes you read what you have written and are as impressed as a budgie at its reflection, other times you go back and it reads like the rather dodgy stuff it is. Personally I blame R.A. MacAvoy – she writes such limpid prose I should never contemplate writing after reading her.

Enough of the penitence.

Thanks to the ever long suffering Theresa Green.

Despite her own stories being at nail biting point she always finds time to Beta mine. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. If you care for your reading health show your appreciation to her by reading and reviewing her original fics.

http://www.fictionpress.com/~theresagreen

You will not regret it. Rose XX

ps: Ruth. Lord Murfae, of course, made sure Theresa got back to me as soon as I did something about the delay! My apologies.

It seemed to Gimli, in the busy aftermath of the battle, that the first time he had an opportunity to pause and draw breath the sun was well clear of the horizon and the wild horns of Rohan were filling the camp with their welcome, if tardy, song.

Curious, he detoured through a line of tents and stood on the rim of the camp looking for the riders. He squinted into the south, but the pall of smoke bending away from where the dead orcs burned marred his view.  To the west the ground rose slightly, but he could hear the steady sound of digging. The slain of Gondor and Rohan would be honoured this evening.

The horns sounded again and finally he saw the first ranks of riders approaching, between the smoke and the digging. A couple of soldiers carrying the colours of Rohan and Gondor were trotting out from Aragorn’s camp to meet them.

Gimli grunted in satisfaction. One more detail ticked off the mental list of tasks he could and would manage to relieve the pressure on Aragorn. Not that Earnulf needed much teaching. Gimli was impressed by the lad’s grim efficiency this morning. Dervoron was mustering Aragorn’s guard and the camp’s servants and services were swinging into action again. The pervasive smell of bread baking was a welcome relief to noses offended by the stench of battle and burning.

Gimli lifted his gaze. Rain stalked the plains behind Elfwine’s troops, greening the grass. Soon the new sun would be veiled. He looked at the smoke again, hoping that the fire’s cleansing work would be done before the rain quenched it. Gimli had slipped out of Aragorn’s tent earlier to get on with things, leaving the king surveying the butcher’s bill of wounded and slain brought to him by Sarthor the healer. Aragorn’s mask-like face as he put his duties on like a lead cape had been as grey as the clouds; he was taking no time for grief or rest.

The oncoming troops were wheeling now, directed by the heralds to the new campsite Earnulf had confirmed with Gimli not a half hour past. Gimli turned his back on the scene, already moving on to the next task he wanted to do, which was make sure that armourer of Aragorn’s had the repairs and sharpening of the soldier’s arms well in hand.

He picked his way back between the tent pegs and then continued on his way towards the smithy. He was preoccupied as he drew near the forest end of the camp, thinking about lists and tasks, but then he looked up and drew a relieved breath, loosing a tension in his shoulders he had not realised he was carrying.

 Legolas and the wizard were watching two ents as they swayed gracefully back into the woods. Gimli saw Radagast pat the elf’s arm as he approached. The wizard nodded to the dwarf confidently, and then made his way back towards the king’s tent. Legolas stayed where the wizard left him, gazing at the trees; he appeared distracted.

Gimli paused at his friend’s side. “You missed a good battle,” he said evenly, tilting his beard up.

“Aye, so I see.” The elf raised his hand and almost touched the dwarf’s blood marred silver hair, “Has no one offered you time to wash this gore off, Gimli?” The elf smiled slightly turning his head to his friend. “You want to scare the cook boys, perhaps?” The elf’s hand ghosted over the shining axe in its sheath, “You took time to clean this.”

Gimli snorted. As if he would leave his weapon sullied. He narrowed his eyes at the elf. Legolas looked ethereal, not frail but otherworldly. His attention had drifted from Gimli and his eyes were now fixed on the black smoke drifting to the south. Gimli felt goosebumps on his arms and suspected that more than one battle had been fought last night.

“Orcs.” The dwarf stated, shortly.

The elf graced him a grim smile, then seemed to drift off again, listening to something Gimli could not hear.

“Have you seen Aragorn, Legolas?” Gimli called the elf back to the moment and watched as the smooth brow furrowed.

“Aye, we just came from his tent.” Legolas looked at his friend. “Who fell, Gimli? Estel looks drawn and joy has no part of him despite yonder pyre that signals his victory.”

“Duilin, amongst others.”

“Ah.” The elf bowed his head, placing a hand over his heart. “He would grieve for him. He ever felt responsible for his life.”

Gimli was silent. He knew Duilin’s tale and Aragorn’s sense of guilt. Eventually he looked up again to see Legolas; he was swaying slightly. The dwarf put a hand on his friend’s back and started him walking.

“You brought Aragorn news of the forest?” Gimli nodded at the trees. “That was Treebeard wasn’t it?”

Legolas caught sight of some grime on the back of his hand and rubbed it against his leggings. He flexed his shoulders, and winced slightly and then looked down at his frowning friend.

“Aye, you remember him well.” He looked suddenly weary, as if some inner light had gone out.  “Aragorn will call us back to council later this day when the Rohirrim are settled or I know him not. Do you know where I can get clean?”

Gimli sighed. Legolas would be no source of information unless this need was met. Whatever he had faced in the woods it had rattled the elf, his fussiness was only evident when he was seriously stressed. The dwarf looked towards the smithy. The armourer looked to have all in hand, the camp was ordered and the chain of command re-established.

The elf and dwarf arrived in front of Gimli’s tent on the edge of the camp. The scalloped awning flapped slightly in the rising breeze.

Gimli stepped round his friend and indicated the open door.

“Come, let us take an hour to make ourselves presentable. I have already ordered a tub for my tent. You can have first go while I go fetch some hot water to ease my old bones. I know you prefer cold.”

He let his friend precede him. Once inside the tent the elf stopped again distracted by the dappled patterns of shadow cast by the trees and the counter-ripples of water reflected from the tin bath onto the canvas. Gimli rolled the door flap down then turned to his friend.

Gimli tugged lightly on the end of Legolas’ bow and the elf came to himself again, shrugging the weapon off his shoulder. Gimli propped it in a corner and turned in time to collect the quiver also. Legolas sat on the edge of Gimli’s cot and then seemed to stall, all the weariness in the world catching up with him. His head dropped into the cradle of his hands.

Gimli sat down, gingerly, beside him. “Can you tell me aught, lad? I am nothing but at least a good pair of ears.”

The elf looked at him, his eyes full of pain. “You are much more than that, Gimli.” He turned back, stared at the canvas floor of the tent. “But this evil. Ai, Gimli, this evil has existed since before our world was built. How shall we oppose it?”

“Do we have a choice?”

The elf breathed out. “Last night,” he rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, snagging his fingers on his braids. Absently he started to undo one, picking at the weaving and leaving the pale strands crinkled. “Last night I had no choice. But the power I tapped to reach the trees and calm them, it cored me, Gimli. Today I am as hollow as a gourd. Yet still, as you say, what choice are we given?”

Gimli tapped the elf on his elbow, beckoning him to shed his leather jerkin. Legolas looked at him for a second and then wriggled his far arm out of the garment; Gimli pulled on his side and shucked the elf out of it. The dwarf folded the warm leather into tidiness on his lap.

Legolas unwound his other braid and then ran his hands back into his hair again, massaging his scalp. Gimli watched the muscles of the elf’s shoulders flex and move under the silk of his dove-grey undershirt. His friend looked too earthy and real to be talking so casually of power. Those muscles were built of hard practise with bow and blade, not some unearthly magic, the residual warmth he could feel under his hands was generated by the same effort of heart and blood that warmed all creation.

The dwarf shivered, reminded of the vital presence that had filled his dream. The life he owed to the Valar.

“Mahal called me, Legolas. By his grace I will oppose whatever is marring our world; it is what I was given this time for. You will oppose the same evil because it your nature to do so, as it is Aragorn’s. The Valar will give us the strength, or they will not. Let us not strive with our fate.”

The dwarf climbed to his feet and stowed the jerkin on the end of his cot. Bending he fished a thin towel and a sliver of yellow soap from his pack and tossed them to the elf.

“Go and commune with the water in my tub. I would our troubles could be wiped away as easily as grime, but all feels more possible when our bodies are clean. I will return shortly to make sure you have not drowned and solved your uncertainties the short way.”

Gimli heard an inelegant insult follow him out of the tent. It made him smile, not much was wrong with the elf if he still remembered that piece of Khuzdul. He snagged a bucket for his own supply of hot water and then detoured past the smithy to make sure Aragorn’s lad really had all things in hand.

He returned rather later than he had intended. The rain had started falling, making percussive music on the canvas of the massed tents. He found the elf brushing his hair dry using Gimli’s own silver backed brush, sitting cross legged in front of a small, lit, brazier in the awning of Gimli’s tent.

“Where is your hot water?”

Gimli waved somewhat sheepishly at the small procession that trailed behind him, three servants carrying steaming buckets and one carrying a covered tray. The dwarf tossed a wine skin and the elf’s own pack to his friend. Legolas wordlessly handed the dwarf back his brush and opened the string of his pack to rummage inside for his own grooming tools.

“They insisted.” Gimli picked a golden hair or two out of the bristles of the brush and directed the helpers inside to re-fill the tub.

Legolas uncapped the wineskin and sniffed the contents. He took a swallow and then grinned up at the dwarf.

Gimli indicated that the tray bearer should leave his burden at the elf’s feet and then ducked inside the tent with an answering grin. Legolas at least had recovered himself with that small gift of time, like a wilted flower given care. He could only hope for such a renaissance himself.

“Don’t drown.” Legolas’ voice teased him from outside as he shed his gear.

00000

When he emerged from the tent, later than he would have chosen if, lulled by the incessant drumming of the rain, he had not dozed in the hot water, Gimli found the awning of his tent rather more populated than it had been when he had left it.

Beside Legolas, Aragorn sat indulging in a pipe, his long legs stretched out to the fire. Radagast lounged on the other side of the brazier, the drips from the canvas edge somehow arching around him. A Rohirrim captain of middle years looking uncomfortable, squatted beside the wizard, equally dry. Black and silver liveried guards flanked the party, stoic in the rain.

“Ah, Gimli.” Aragorn patted the mat that had been put down to protect the enlarged party from the damp. “Thank you for joining us.”

“You could have called me.” Gimli glared at the elf, who gazed back at him innocently.

“Nay, Gimli, I forbade him.” Aragorn turned a worn face to the dwarf, who contrite sat down beside the king. “Truly, I needed the respite.”

Gimli looked into the king’s weary eyes and simply nodded. Legolas looked gratitude at his friend over Aragorn’s shoulder. Gimli settled himself and picked up a heel of bread, spreading what was left of some soft cheese into its spongy middle.

Aragorn smoked silently as the dwarf ate. Finally the king looked regretfully into his empty pipe and then at the dwarf.

Gimli turned an enquiring eye to the Rohirrim and then the King.

“Gimli, this is Captain Healfred, he is leading the reinforcements you billeted so efficiently this morn.”

Gimli shrugged slightly, shunning the implied thanks. Aragorn shook his head.

“Gimli,” The king held the smaller being’s eye. “He has a cave-troll.”

TBC

Rose Sared