Many, many thanks to Gwynnynd for being such an excellent and helpful beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

~*~

Chapter VIII: Telling a Better Tale

“My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part.”
- Aragorn, The Departure of Boromir

“You are braver than many Elves I know, Master Gimli, to follow a Wood-Elf into the very heart of his home; even more so, with the Elf’s father being Thranduil.”

Gimli blinked and looked at the Elf addressing him. He seemed familiar, and Gimli hurriedly raked through his memory- which was still convinced that all Elves more or less looked the same- until he identified the speaker as the friend Legolas had introduced to him the night he had met Nasseryn. Proof came that his brain had abandoned control of his body in when he automatically got out of his seat and bowed to the Elf, nearly falling over when the wound on his hip felt like he had taken a mallet to it. Fortunately the Elf saw his distress and, whilst bowing in reply, gracefully took Gimli’s arm and helped him back onto his cushioned chair.

Face flushing more from the embarrassment than the pain, Gimli murmured, “I thank you for your kind words, but I fear it was more a matter of convenience that brought me on this road.” Once he had caught his breath, he added a belated, “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service.”

The Elf smiled. “Boronlach son of Ereblach, at yours and your family’s. We met last evening in the Resting Hall.”

“I remember.” Gimli rubbed his hip, where the heavy bandages made a lump on the side of his formal leggings. “Legolas said you were a bard?”

Boronlach inclined his head. “I am, though I do feel that Legolas thinks too highly of my skill. We have been friends since he was but a young Elfling.” A tinkling bell sounded from somewhere. “The King will be entering soon. I shall take my leave of you now, Master Gimli, though I am sure we will speak again later.”

The bard bowed and left to return to his table, the nearest one on Gimli’s left.  The Dwarf shifted atop his cushions, wondering why formal garments tended to be too thick and stiff for comfortable wear. He had been surprised when he found out that he was allowed to carry one of his smaller throwing axes, but now he saw that most of the Elves bore a knife on their person. Normally he would have had the axe hanging from his belt, but with his hip wound he had had to hold the axe in his hand, though now it hung discreetly from the tall back of his chair, within easy reach of his right arm.

Once again, he felt like he had been put on display for all of Elvendom to see. Legolas had explained that usually the children of the King would be seated along his left, according to the order of birth, but tonight their positions as guests of honour superseded this protocol. Legolas now sat to the right of the currently empty oversized chair at the centre of the long table, with Gimli next to him. Opposite them were Thranduil’s other children, beginning with Derinsul, the eldest son and Heir to the King. Next was Edendor, followed by a heavily pregnant female Elf, a male Elf that was very clearly her husband, and two other male Elves whose names Gimli didn’t catch. Further down the table on that end and on Gimli’s right were advisors of varying importance. Their table was upon a low dais, which had the advantage of providing a good view of the room around them along with the disadvantage of being visible to every eye in the room. 

Being a Dwarf, Gimli had seen his own share of beautiful structures- the virgin caverns of Aglarond being at the top of the list, at the moment- yet this one impressed even him. The King’s feast hall gave off a sense of formality similar to that exuded by the throne room, but with substantially more fanciful ornamentation. The walls were covered with exquisite and elaborate carvings, depicting scenes from wild hunts and glorious battles with a liberal use of the usual vine and leaf motifs. A few worn tapestries hung further up the walls, and Gimli’s sharp eyes noted that they had been placed well above the normal range of manually-propelled food and drink. It was the same in Dwarven feasting and drinking halls, where beer had as much chance of ending up on the walls as in someone’s stomach (sometimes going by the latter before the former). Such a precaution in an Elven dwelling suggested that either Elves had their rowdier moments, too, or simply did not wish to rearrange the décor for more careless (and here Gimli’s mind inserted the word mortal) visitors.

As interesting as the scenery was, however, Gimli was far from feeling at ease in his raised seat of honour. Dwarven pride and Legolas’ presence at his side were all that kept him from fiddling with strands of his beard, which was his habit when he was particularly nervous. Having met a friendly sister and brother, and a father-King who was at least not openly hostile, Gimli had begun to hope that Legolas’ family, at least, would accept their friendship and help him towards mending the rift between their Races. Yet the eldest sibling and Thranduil’s heir, Derinsul, had abruptly dashed this hope. Without saying a word, Derinsul had made it clear to Gimli that he was another Elf who did not welcome Gimli’s presence in Eryn Lasgalen. But he had been very warm and concerned when he greeted his brother, and had grudgingly inclined his head towards Gimli after Legolas pointedly glared at him, so the Dwarf did not wish to think too badly of him. He did wish Nasseryn had been able to attend, however. He found the Elf’s presence calming, her inner strength reminding him of the Lady. But he had seen the fear in her face when he inquired if she was coming to the feast, and, not wanting to distress her, did not press the issue.

The bell released a single, ominous note, and the large double doors at one end of the room opened. Thranduil strode inside in all his Kingly glory. His appearance brought silence to the room, and all eyes were fixed on him. Gimli moved to stand, but Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder, and Gimli saw that no one else in the room stood either. Settling back down, he seized the opportunity to examine Thranduil anew. Thranduil looked like a wild, warrior-king of old, reminding Gimli of the stories he had heard of his people when they had not yet perfected the art of delving into mountain-rock, and spent as much time out on the open ground as in their caves. There was something… young and vibrant about the King of Eryn Lasgalen, and even from a distance Gimli could sense a raw energy that seemed barely restrained by kingly façade. His hair was bound in a simple but tight ponytail, and he wore a fresh circlet made of the twined stalks of woodland flowers. His tunic and leggings resembled that worn by his warriors, though the fabric was of better quality.

The Elvenking approached the main table at a steady pace, his expression proud and regal, yet lacking that sternness possessed by Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel. Once he was seated, the conversations began anew throughout the hall. Nearly all of it was in the Elven tongue, so despite the volume and interweaving of words, the noise retained that language’s loveliness and harmony. This annoyed Gimli, for in his opinion a din should sound like a din, not a multi-part musical composition!

“Dear Gimli, you have that look upon your face again,” said a grinning Legolas. “I suspect it stems from lack of sustenance. Pray, eat before your frown sets fire to your beard!”

Gimli was about to counter the cheeky remark when the aroma of dinner hit his nose. So far he had been nibbling on nuts and dried vegetables from small pottery bowls that had been placed at intervals along the table. He had been annoyed to learn that the meat would not be served until the King arrived, but when he saw the roasted boars hanging on spits and platters holding large slices of roast venison borne in by the sudden stream of servants, he wondered if the custom had been put into place so that there would be something left for the King to eat when he got there.

He attacked the varied dishes with Dwarvish gusto. The fare was delicious, as expected, and was not too dissimilar from the feasts found in Dwarven halls. It consisted more of meat and root vegetables and bread than the fruits and fish and elaborate, delicately seasoned concoctions that had been more prominent in Rivendell and Lórien. The wine was also more potent, and Gimli remembered Legolas telling him about the Dorwinion wine that came from vineyards cultivated especially for his father. Though no substitute for good old-fashioned mead, the Dwarf felt quite at home as he drank liberal amounts of the potent wine.

The hall was arranged so that, though every table had plates of everything, only the centre table had the whole roast boar on the actual table. Smaller tables were set up around the diners, on which were placed more roasts and extra helpings of the dishes, so that any Elf whose table had run out of a certain food could walk up to these smaller stations with their plates and get the desired dish. Gimli saw that even Thranduil followed this procedure, when the King himself got up to refill their table’s plate of venison after most of the slices had disappeared onto the Dwarf’s plate. For some reason he followed Thranduil with his gaze, and felt a little sweat bead of apprehension when he saw how efficiently the King worked the oversized cutting knife on the deer carcass.

The volume of conversation had lessened slightly during the start of the meal, but gradually rose again as the Elves sated their hunger. Gimli kept a discreet eye on Legolas, expecting the Elf to engage in as much conversation as he could with their neighbours to save himself from having too eat too much, but despite his lack of appetite earlier that day, he ate no less than the other Elves around him. Which was, of course, still considerably less than the amount Gimli was busily shovelling down (and therefore not enough, in his opinion) but Dwarves took appetite as a symptom of health, so Gimli decided to hold out hope that being back in the woods of his home was doing Legolas some good.

Eventually the meat dishes were cleared away and replaced by fruits and sweetmeats and sticky desserts. At this point Legolas began to look a little anxious, and did not even comment when Gimli popped what looked like a small, brown pebble into his mouth and spent the next few minutes attempting to separate his jaws when the innocuous dessert turned out to be a particularly vicious piece of confection that stuck his jaws together. In the midst of his efforts, Thranduil began coughing.

Once the coughing had subsided, the King explained to the advisor who had pounded on his back that a bit of wine had gone down the wrong way. Out of sheer habit, Gimli frowned suspiciously at Thranduil. He then looked abashed, remembering who Thranduil was, but the King only gave him an innocent smile that looked so much like Legolas’ that the Dwarf was certain where his friend had gotten the expression from.

Legolas’ anxiety was finally explained when an anonymous, yet suspiciously clear, voice rose from a nearby table to be heard by nearly the whole room. It had been uttered in the Silvan tongue, but later Legolas paraphrased it as: “… aye, it is certainly to welcome his son home, but has Thranduil not been delaying just so that we can hear it from Legolas in his own words?” As if it were a signal, Thranduil looked at Legolas with a question in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, his son answered with a reluctant nod.

Thranduil stood and immediately the din in the hall lessened to the point that Gimli was worried that everyone had heard the small ‘pop’ as his jaws finally come apart. “We have heard many tidings, and thrice as much gossip.” At the last word, he aimed a glare at a particular section of the room. Gimli craned his neck and thought that he could see Dinimlad seated at one of the tables there. “I call upon my son, Legolas, who stood before the Black Gates of Mordor,” Gimli could see the formal, restrained fatherly pride on the King’s face- which meant that he was probably bursting with it, “to tell us of how the War was won.”

There was something odd with the phrasing, and the son of Gloin pondered it until he realised that Thranduil was subtly reminding the Elves of Mirkwood that the War of the Ring had been won in the South.  For despite their great victory and abolishment of Dol Guldur, the real war had been fought before Mordor.

Gimli’s brows furrowed anxiously as Legolas began his tale. Yet the Elf began not in Rivendell and the Council of Elrond, but in a little green land further west, where the rolling hills were dotted with smoking chimneys and round doors in front of snug hobbit-holes. And even though the histories would probably record the Quest as having begun in Rivendell, Gimli was assured then that the youngest son of Thranduil had not forgotten how and by whom the real War had been fought.

As I am sure I have mentioned before, certain distinguished persons of the Hobbit persuasion are far more suited to telling that great tale than I. So if you really wish to know of it, kindly pester Misters Baggins, Gamgee, Brandybuck or Took.

Though if you wish to know of some highly amusing anecdotes and approximately one hundred ways to provoke an Elf, I suppose I can be of some assistance.

“Finally the Ring was destroyed by the fires that made it, and the Dark Tower was thrown down.”

During the first week of their journey, Gimli, his head still filled with some very foolish notions concerning Elves that his father had planted there, had wondered if Legolas possessed some form of sorcery in his voice. It was a nice enough voice and definitely lovelier than any mortal’s when raised in song, but compared to other Elves it was not particularly remarkable. Yet at times something else would arise, something with a strange moving power that the Dwarf never thought mere words and notes could possess, and the listener could almost envision the tale as it was told. That was the case now, though for him it was more remembrance than imagination, and it was only the ensuing utter silence that brought Gimli out of his reverie.