Title:  THE GOLDEN BELL OF GREENLEAF

Author:  lwarren

Summary:  Aragorn receives belated news of Arod’s injury, and sets off to spend some quality time with his friend.

Disclaimer:  The world of Middle-earth and its characters belong to JRR Tolkien.  I make no profit from this story other than the joy I gained in writing it.

Reviews:  Please do!

Chapter 3:  In Dealing With Stubborn Elves

Mae Govannen, Elessar,

     I send this letter to you in the hope it finds you and your family well, and that you will be able to respond to my message quickly.  I am concerned, aran brannon, for the welfare of Lord Legolas.  He has been absent from the colony for six months now, originally to visit King Eomer for his birth day celebration.  An absence of this length is unusual in itself, but it is the reason for that absence that concerns me.  He left a few weeks early, and alone, riding Arod, to investigate reports of orc activity in the White Mountains.  While doing so, Arod reinjured his leg.

     My Lord elected to stay in Rohan and see to Arod’s recovery.  He informed Lord Faramir and me of his decision to remain absent from the colony, and assured us of his good health, but even though we correspond regularly with him, we have become increasingly concerned.  I know you are well aware of the place Arod holds in Legolas’ heart.  The Prince suffers attacks of the sea-longing from time to time, which appear to trouble him to a great extent.  It is during these times when Arod seems to be his sole comfort. 

     Because of these concerns, I ask if it is possible for you to pay a visit to Rohan and see Lord Legolas, if for no other reason than to confirm his continued well being.  I have chosen to contact you now not only because of my concern, but as a favor to King Eomer also, who my lord has made promise not to tell you or Lord Gimli of the situation.  I will send a similar message to Lord Gimli, and await word from him, as well.  Hannon lle, my lord.  I know the Prince will listen to your counsel, as he values your friendship greatly.

                                                                                                                  Aravir

     Aragorn raised his eyes from the letter in his hand and gazed thoughtfully out the window of his and Arwen’s apartments.  The tenor of Aravir’s letter troubled him, especially the mention of the attacks of sea-longing.

     His mind raced back in time to the last night he, Gimli, and Legolas had spent at Edoras during the War.  He had struggled with and mastered the Stone of Orthanc, and that, coupled with a message brought to him by Elrohir and Elladan from his father, had convinced him that his road to Minas Tirith lay by way of the Paths of the Dead.  As they had prepared to leave, he had confronted Legolas.

     “My friend, I must remind you of the Lady’s warning to you,” he had said.

     Legolas’ eyes had narrowed, and he had replied quietly, “My way lies with you, Aragorn.”

     “You know that I need you with me,” Aragorn had returned, “but this road I must travel to Minas Tirith will eventually cross one that Lady Galadriel warned you against!  Remember her message to you:

                    ‘Legolas Greenleaf long under tree
                    In joy thou hast lived.  Beware of the Sea!
                    If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore
                    Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.’ ”

     Legolas had turned from him as he had spoken the words, looking out across the rolling plains of Rohan.  When he had turned back, his eyes had been the gray of storm tossed waters.

     “You need not remind me of the Lady’s words, Aragorn.  And I say again, my path lies with you.  The call of the sea comes to all of my kind in time…I will not turn away from you because of something that MIGHT happen!”

     Aragorn had reached out then and clasped Legolas’ shoulder, shaking it.

     “But think, Legolas.  After we pass through the mountain, we travel through the Morthond Vale to the Stone of Erech, then on to Pelagir upon Anduin to confront the threat there.  That way lays perilously close to the sea, my friend.”

     However, no matter his arguments, the thrice-stubborn elf would not hear of staying behind.  He had accompanied his friend, and of course, heard the cry of the gulls.  His subsequent awakening to the sea’s call had been fairly brief, yanking him into some sort of waking dream, and causing him considerable pain when he had come back to himself.  With the help of Elrohir and Elladan, though, he had seemed to overcome it.  When Aragorn had questioned him later, he had shrugged the whole incident off, saying it was over and would not affect his participation in the coming battle.

     Aragorn shook his head, remembering.  It had not.  The War had been won, and any further attacks of the sea-longing had apparently been concealed by Legolas from his friends.  Oh, Aragorn had suspected they still bothered the elf, but the attacks seemed sporadic and short-lived in nature, an inconvenience rather than a real concern, or so he had been led to believe by his sneaky, secretive friend. 

     Aragorn’s lips tightened with displeasure.  Of all the stubborn, hardheaded, prideful elves…

     He heard the door open, and the light steps of his wife crossing the room to stand beside him.

     “Is all well in Ithilien, Aragorn?” she asked eagerly.  Aragorn turned to his wife and her smile faded at the look on his face.  He shook his head.  Wordlessly, he held out the letter to her, which she took after a long, searching look and read quickly.

     She raised troubled eyes to his, and they studied each other for a time.  “You must go to him, Aragorn,” she finally said.  “I do not doubt that Arod will probably heal.  I am sure you remember Legolas’ perseverance last year when he was hurt.” 

     They exchanged smiles of shared understanding.  Their friend’s resolve had proven unshakable more times than they could remember, once his mind was made up about something.  Arwen sighed. 

     “But a recurring injury… that means Legolas might possibly have to give up riding him, perhaps even leave him behind in Rohan…” she paused again, recalling the strong attachment between elf and horse. 

     “He will need his friends, a’maelamin, especially in light of Aravir’s mention of the sea-longing.  He calls them “attacks” now, did you notice?”  Aragorn nodded. 

     “That can only mean the call has strengthened over the passing of time.”

     Aragorn’s unease had increased by the moment as Arwen had spoken her concerns.  He thought for a moment, quickly reaching a decision.  “All right, it is time I fully understood this sea-longing that afflicts him, Arwen.  He has always been so vague, or flippant about its effect on him.  In the past years, he has not mentioned it at all.  And while I know of its existence from my years of living with elves, your father and brothers would barely speak of it either.”

     He took Arwen’s arm and led her across the room to a large roomy chair placed comfortably before an immense hearth.  She sank into the chair, and he knelt beside her, taking her small hand in his large, warm one.

     “Speak, meleth nin.  I need to know,” he urged, squeezing her hand encouragingly.

     She looked at him a long time, her expression serious.  Long had she worried for Legolas, but Aragorn had never been privy to those fears.  She had known, however, that a day would come when she could protect him no longer, and when Legolas’ need would outweigh her concerns for her husband’s peace of mind.  It appeared that day had come.

     She nodded, and took a deep breath.  “All right.”

     She paused, gathering her thoughts, and spoke slowly.  “The sea-longing resides in all of the Firstborn, as you know,”

     At his nod, she continued.  “From the time of the elves’ awakening on the shores of Cuivienen, the music of water has had a special place in our hearts.  Then came the call by the Valar to return to Aman, and Orome led the three  kindred, the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri on the Great Journey to the western shores of the Hither Lands.  There, Ulmo took the Vanyar and the Noldor across the sea to Valinor.

     “That was the first group to reach Aman, was it not?” Aragorn asked, remembering the history lessons his Adar and Glorfindel had taught him.

     Arwen nodded.  “Yes.  Now, the Teleri were the largest of the three groups.  They were reluctant to answer the call to Aman, and they tarried, traveling slowly, and finally coming to dwell in East Beleriand.  They missed that first journey of Tol Eressea to Aman.  Later, when they learned that many of their people had left, some moved to the coast, near the Mouths of Sirion, while others explored further inland.  One of those groups to move inland was in search of its king, Elwe, who had gone missing.  That group became the Sindar.”

     “It is said that Osse came to those at Sirion and taught them much of sea-lore and sea-music,” Aragorn commented, watching Arwen’s animated face as she related her people’s history.

     “That is how the Teleri, who have always loved water, and who were the fairest singers of all the elves, forever after loved the sea,” she explained.  “Then, as time passed, most of the Teleri went West.”

     Arwen paused, and Aragorn waited patiently as she considered the next part of the story.  “Now, Legolas’ grandsire, Oropher, was descended from the Sindar.  For a time, he and his family lived in Lindon under Gil-Galad’s rule, until he decided he needed more of a challenge.   Adar thinks he chafed at being under another’s thumb, even though Gil-Galad was usually the most genial of Kings.  So, Oropher moved his family, which by that time included Thranduil, and many of his people to the Greenwood. It was because of his hard work and strong character that the Silvan elves living there accepted him, and later Thranduil, as their king.”

     Aragorn stopped her at this point, and rose to fetch her a goblet of water from a pitcher on a nearby table.  She accepted it gratefully and sipped slowly, while Aragorn settled again at her feet.  She smiled her thanks at him and continued the story.

     “Silvan elves have very little concept of the sea and its song, having never seen or heard it, and while Legolas may be Sindarin, he was raised amongst the Silvan people of the forest.  I believe Thranduil might have spoken to him of the sea, but if he did, it was long ago.  So, when Legolas joined the Fellowship, he actually had very little preparation for his experience with the gulls.  He was especially vulnerable because of that lack of preparation, Aragorn.  Add to that his Sindar/Teleri heritage and he…”

     “…would feel the sea’s call deeply, when it came,” Aragorn finished.

     “Yes,” she agreed.  “The need for the sea is very great in one kindred, and relatively unknown in the other, so you can see how he might be doubly affected.  My father always thought the Teleri line had bred true in Legolas.  He used to comment that the stamp of the Eldar was particularly strong on our noble Prince.”

     She looked at Aragorn.  “Have you ever seen how Legolas acts around water, Aragorn?  Around lakes and streams, waterfalls and rivers?  I have seen him lose himself in the music of the water, and later, actually sing WITH it.”

     Aragorn responded thoughtfully, “Yes, actually, I have seen him do that, but it seemed such a “Legolas” thing to do, I never thought too much about it.”

     “I had hoped…” She made a very small, very distressed sound.  “The call of the sea would be magnified tenfold in one with a gift such as that.  I had begun to think he had escaped the worst of it, but it seems I was mistaken.”

     She paused and thought for a moment.  “The call can come at any time in an elf’s life.  Legolas is still rather young.  He does not have the benefit of ages of experience and wisdom to temper these attacks.”

     Guilt and regret arose in Aragorn’s mind, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head to rest against the arm of the chair.  “Had he stayed behind, he might have remained free for hundreds of years yet.  Now, it continues to grow, and plague him.”

     Arwen agreed sadly.  “It will do so mercilessly, year in and year out, until he either comes to find some sort of peace with it, or else it consumes him entirely, and he fades from the pain of refusing it.  Truthfully, he should have left years ago.”

     “Is there nothing we can do?” he asked, knowing in his heart the answer already.

     “There is no cure for this, my love,” she answered softly,  “and only time will reveal the depth of his illness.”

     “He stays for us,” he said, head still bowed.  Arwen placed her hand on his head, stroking his dark hair.

     “Yes, for you, for me and the children, for Gimli,” she smiled slightly.  “His father once warned him of his close association with mortals…that in the end, it might destroy him.”

     Aragorn lifted his head at that, anger at Thranduil’s callous comments about his son’s choices of friends turning his gray eyes hard and flat.  Arwen cupped his cheek with her soft hand, and spoke quietly, “Anger, even on his behalf, will not help him now, nor can you urge him to take ship.  He will not.”  Aragorn opened his mouth to argue, but Arwen’s fingers on his lips stopped him short.

     “No, love, you know him.  He counts you as his brother…closer even than that.  You are his best friend.  He will not leave you.  Did you not tell me of his vow at the end of the War?”  Aragorn shook his head yes.

     “Then he will stay.  His word is his bond.  Urging him to go will only add to his pain.”

     “What about his people?  At Ithilien?  Can they not do something?” he asked, a brief hope lighting his eyes.

     Arwen shook her head, her expression doubtful.  “The elves do not understand  illness, Aragorn.  Injury, yes.  Grief, and the fading caused by it, yes.  They watch their prince suffer weakness and pain caused by some “thing” they cannot see or hear, and all because of his love for Ennor and his mortal friends.  From Aravir’s tone, it sounds as if everyone has probably grown uncomfortable with the whole situation.  He certainly sounds like he has.”

     “What?” Aragorn stood, concern for his friend driving him to his feet.  “What do you mean?  They have cast him out?”

     Arwen stood also, her hands grasping her husband’s shoulders.  She shook him slightly.  “No, Aragorn, not cast him out, just…they do not understand.  It sets him apart…makes him different…alone.  That is why you must go to him.” 

     She paused, and then spoke again softly, almost to herself.  “And now this business with Arod is an added burden for him.”

     Deep blue eyes studied him closely.  “You are familiar with the elven way of training their horses?”

     Aragorn nodded, distracted by her sudden change of subject.  “Of course,” he said.  “I grew up with it.”

     “Legolas and Arod have developed a particularly strong mutual affection, Aragorn.  Arod came to him already grown, and…how can I explain?”  She chewed on her bottom lip, searching for the words.

     “Arod had not been taught or trained to our ways; the language of leg, and weight, and thought.  When they came to each other, Legolas never tried to impose his will upon Arod.  He asked…and Arod gave, willingly.  It forged a very special bond between them, Aragorn.”

     Aragorn’s eyes lit with sudden understanding.  “When the Rohirrim first brought Arod to Legolas, his rider had just been killed by orcs.  He was almost uncontrollable, but Legolas seemed to calm him immediately, and Arod accepted him on his back right away.  The men were very impressed…so was I.”

     “So you see how quickly and strongly they came to rely upon one another,” she added.  “What Legolas might succeed in hiding from us, he cannot hide from Arod.  Such is the elvish way with their horses.  Aravir himself points to that fact in his letter.  I am sure that there ARE times when Arod is the only one Legolas feels he can go to.”

     Aragorn looked appalled.  “But…but, he is a horse!” he sputtered.

     Arwen looked at him impatiently.  “Really, husband, after all your childhood, youth, and most of your adult life spent with elves…your best friend is one, for goodness’ sake…one would think you would have learned to think less like such a…a…human!”

     “Your pardon, my lady!”  He grabbed her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing her knuckles gallantly in apology, a warm smile in his clear gray eyes.

     Arwen narrowed her eyes, giving him her “you will not get away with that so easily” look.

     “You are incorrigible, hir nin,” she replied, a small, knowing smile gracing her own beautiful lips and lighting her eyes to sapphire.

      Aragorn smiled in return.  “I know.”

     Husband and wife sobered then, regarding each other quietly, and Aragorn wrapped his arms around Arwen, holding her close and resting his chin on the top of her head.  “You mean, then, he has no one?”

     “Except perhaps for Aravir, yes, that is precisely what I mean,” Arwen answered.  “Aravir seems concerned enough.  I know he came to Ithilien at Thranduil’s request to serve as the watch commander for Legolas, but they hardly knew each other then.  Still, it is quite possible that a friendship has developed between them.  Legolas has always spoken highly of him.”

     Placing her arms around Aragorn’s neck, she leaned back and looked at him.  “But he is not you, Estel, or Gimli, for that matter.  Legolas will need his close friends with him, whether he knows it or not, if he is going to lose Arod.  I certainly do not look for him to admit that, though, do you?”

     Aragorn shook his head ruefully.  “No, he has not exactly contacted me about Arod’s injury.  And forbidding Eomer to contact me – he will owe an explanation for that!   Six months!  Do you know, love, that elf once had the gall to ask me if I had not learned of the stubbornness of dwarves!”

     They both laughed at that, and Arwen kissed her husband’s cheek and stepped back.  “Get your things together.  I will inform Jarrod of your need to leave.  He will provide a suitable escort.”

     “What about Minas Tirith?  Gondor?” Aragorn asked, already looking longingly toward his wardrobe.

     She laughed.  “I am not totally inept, guren nin.  I can manage things for a time, and you can stop at Ithilien and let Faramir know of the need we have for him here.  Eowyn and Aravir can handle the colony and Ithilien in his absence.”  She shoved him lightly towards the closet.  “Now hurry.”

     He went willingly and began pulling out his Ranger clothing.  At her raised eyebrows, he said simply, “I go as Strider this time, not Elessar.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

     Four days later, Strider cursed vividly.  Too long…too long.  Ever since he had left Minas Tirith, the urgency he felt had increased.  He needed to get to Legolas, and soon.

     The strong, competent warrior who rode at his left looked at his King with dancing brown eyes, and said, “Patience, my lord…er…Strider.”  Jarrod still had trouble calling the King of Gondor by such a common, rough name.  “We will reach Edoras by nightfall.”

     Aravir, a tall Silvan elf with raven black hair, and Legolas’ watch commander, had also joined them as one of the King’s escorts at Ithilien.  His forest green eyes met Jarrod’s, and he shrugged.  The three had ridden hard for the past days, and Strider’s patience had evaporated along with the miles.

     Finally, as the sun slipped behind the mountains, and dusk crept silently across the wide plain, they rode through the gates of Edoras, and began the climb to the great hall of Meduseld.  Strider shivered slightly in the cool night air, and pulled the hood of his cloak up.  He would be glad of a hot meal, a warm bath, and comfortable bed this night.  Summer waned, and autumn beckoned, the nights becoming steadily cooler, and he had not lived as a Ranger for too many years.

     I grow as soft as that big feather bed I sleep in. 

     He frowned with disgust, and purposed to remedy some of that weakness on this trip.  A lanky, sleepy-eyed youth took their horses at the stables, and the three climbed the stairs to be met at the entrance by the King’s door warden. 

     “You may not enter so armed and unannounced,” the guard stated, blocking their path.

     Strider stepped closer to the man and said in a low voice, “Hallas, tell your King I am here.”

     Hallas looked closely at the hooded man standing before him, and gulped as recognition dawned.  “King Elessar!  Sire…forgive me!”

     Strider leaned forward once more and whispered in the young man’s ear, “Go!”

     He went.  The three laughed softly, and followed Hallas through the large wooden doors into the main hall.  As they passed down the long corridor to the family apartments, Jarrod spoke quietly to Strider.  “You know that young guard, don’t you?”

     Strider nodded and explained, his voice low, “We met during the War, on the eve of the battle at Helm’s Deep.  He must have been all of thirteen at the time…frightened to death…like so many other young boys pressed into fighting that night.  Later, when I realized he had survived the War, I mentioned to Eomer he might find a young man such as Hallas useful in the King’s guard.  He was made a squire to one of the older soldiers, and as you see now, the door warden.  I am very proud of the man and warrior he has become.”

     He looked at Jarrod, eyes sparkling with laughter.  “Still, one would think he would have recognized Strider!”

     “Perhaps he has become more accustomed to the sight of the King now,” Aravir suggested.

     Strider shook his head and sighed.  “Now that is a depressing thought!”  The three smiled at one another as Hallas announced their arrival to Eomer.

~~~~~*~~~~~

     Eomer greeted his guests exuberantly, and Lothiriel with a glad smile and a promise of a hot meal at once.  Strider was quick to recognize the relief on her face as she left the room in a flurry to get their food.  He looked at Eomer, and found the same relieved expression filling his dark eyes, too.

     Holding his questions for later, they demolished bowls of the thick hearty stew, several loaves of warm bread, and finished off with tall tankards of ale.  Strider heaved a huge sigh of contentment, and glanced at Lothiriel gratefully. 

     “You have my undying gratitude, my lady,” he said, “I do believe I might survive now!”

     She laughed, replying, “I would not want to have to explain your demise to your Queen, my lord.”

     The group spent a relaxed time exchanging gossip and news from both realms, and Lothiriel finally excused herself to retire.  The men and elf arose and wished her a peaceful night, with a promise to eat every bite of the meal she placed before them in the morning.  She left laughing, and saying the cooks would do their best to accommodate them.

     They settled back into the comfortable chairs, and Eomer considered the dark haired man sitting beside him.

     “So…Strider has come,” he murmured.  “You have heard?”  His gaze took in the other two in the room.

     All nodded, and Aragorn replied, “Yes, and you see before you not the king but the friend, Eomer.  I did not think he would welcome Elessar, so I came as Strider.  Perhaps he will accept my help that way…that is, if he accepts my help at all.  I am afraid that possibility is open for debate.”

     Eomer chuckled ruefully.  “You know him well.  By the way, in case you cannot tell, I am very pleased to see you!  The ways and moods of elves can by wearying, my lord!”  The gazes of the two men locked, and they exchanged a long understanding look.

     After some further exchanges, Jarrod and Aravir stood and excused themselves for the evening.  Strider called as they left to find their rooms, “Thank you both.  Be ready tomorrow to help me hold the Prince down until he listens to reason!”

     Jarrod grinned, and Aravir gave him a startled, slightly scandalized look, until the man jabbed him in the ribs and whispered, “He is joking!”

     Aragorn called back, “I am not!”  The two left the room laughing and discussing the next day’s plans.

     Aragorn sank back into the chair, and looked over at Eomer’s solemn face.

     “I fear for him, Strider,” the younger man said softly.

     “Aravir had the same uneasy reaction to all this and contacted me.  Aravir made mention of some sort of promise Legolas extracted from you, but I thought I would ask anyway…why did you not let me know yourself?” Strider waited, examining the discomfited look on Eomer’s face.

     Eomer shook his head.  “The elf is very sly…before I realized it, he had me promising I would tell no one about what was happening here.  I did not want to anger him, Aragorn.  I feared he would leave, so I kept his confidence.  He said he did not wish to trouble you or Gimli or the colony at Ithilien.  He said he would inform ‘those who need to know what is keeping me here’.”  Eomer’s voice assumed a rather lofty, arrogant accent and tone as he quoted Legolas’ words.

     Strider snorted.  “He plays the role of a royal well, does he not, Eomer?  I can just hear him!  Well, let him beware!  I am here now and there will be no more of this “suffering in silence all alone” business.  Where is he?  In the stables?”

     “Oh, not now, Aragorn.  Arod spent almost a month in a stall, the injured leg splinted.  Between Elfwine and myself, we kept Legolas out of the stable as much as possible after that first week.  Elves are strange creatures, Strider,” Eomer said thoughtfully. 

     He sighed in exasperation. “Take them away from the earth and trees and they wilt, almost like flowers.” 

     Strider’s eyes lit with such an expression of laughter that Eomer became instantly alarmed.  “Do not tell him I said that,” he begged.

     At Strider’s chuckle and murmured, “I would not dream of it!” the King continued.  “My son took care of the elf’s need to be outside.  He appointed himself keeper of the elf’s free time!”  Both men chuckled then, and Eomer proceeded to explain.

     “The muscle was not torn completely, you see, and Ranalf wanted the leg splinted and Arod as quiet as possible for that first month.  Then, he let Arod spend the next month in a small enclosure near the stables as he and Legolas worked exercising the leg and trying other different treatments.   Four months ago, Legolas removed the horse and himself from Edoras to an encampment about thirty miles east of here, on the northern bank of the Snowbourn.  It has trees, I might add!  I send supplies weekly, and Elfwine and I visit them regularly.  They spent the summer there, and Arod has healed well.  I predict in a week or so he will be fit to return to the herds.”

     “So…Legolas is giving him up,” Strider murmured.

     Eomer nodded.  “Yes, and not easily either.  That is what I meant earlier when I said that I fear for him.”

     “Arod will not be easy to replace,” Strider observed.

     Eomer agreed.  “No.  In fact, it is my opinion that Legolas would rather go on foot than choose another horse!  I have made the offer, though.”

     Strider arched an eyebrow at Eomer.  “Have you now?  What horse?”

     “Any one he likes, and right now, he does not like any.  I think he is planning to take Arod north to the Westfold or perhaps the West Emnet.  Arod was birthed in that area, and Legolas wishes to return him to a familiar place.”

   Eomer clasped Strider’s shoulder.  “Come, it is late.  I will take you to your room.”  The two men stood and walked slowly from the room and up the stairs to the sleeping quarters.  Pausing outside Strider’s door, Eomer looked at the shadows of fatigue under the gray eyes.

     “Rest now,” he ordered.  “Tomorrow I will take you and your companions to his camp.  You can see for yourself how it is with him.”

     Strider smiled gratefully, and then asked, “How does he seem to you, Eomer?  Aside from the worry and sorrow about Arod?”

     The King of Rohan sighed.  “I am glad you asked.  I was not sure how to approach this subject with you.  Lothiriel and I have been watching him closely, Aragorn.  He hides much, my friend.  There are times when I seem to see a dark, fearful pain in his eyes.  During those times, he alternates between fits of anger and despair.  Then, he becomes quiet, very much wishing to be left alone.  It is not like him at all.”

     “How often has that happened?” Strider asked.

     “Only twice, and it seemed to pass in a day or two.  Since he left here, I have no idea if it has happened again, or how often.”

     Strider shook his head, and turned to enter his room.  He paused, looking back at the golden-haired man watching him.  “Thank you, Eomer…for watching after him.  Will you help me talk him into choosing a new horse?”

     Eomer laughed.  “I would sooner try to teach a warg to dance, Strider!  But, I WILL stand by you and offer you support and suggestions!” he said helpfully.

     “Well, in dealing with stubborn elves, I have found that binding them to a tree and singing to them can usually bring them around to my way of thinking!”  Strider gave Eomer an evil grin.  “He will never know what happened!”

     The two kings snickered like schoolboys over their plot of the elf’s impending doom, and wished each other a restful night.

     The following morning, after consuming a massive quantity of food to break their fasts (Lothiriel was heard to moan that the rest of the household would starve!), Eomer, Strider, Aravir and Jarrod were sitting at the table planning the trip to Legolas’ camp, when Hallas entered through the large doors of the hall leading a new visitor.

     From the far end of the huge room, a deep, booming voice could be heard saying, “Take me to them, boy…no, I will not leave my axes at your door…you are welcome to take them if you would care to try, you young sprout!”

     Four pairs of bemused eyes met over the table, and with one voice, they exclaimed, “Gimli!”

Translations:

mae govannen - well met

aran brannon - lord king

hannon lle - thank you

a'maelamin - beloved

meleth nin - my love

hir nin - my lord

guren nin - my heart