Ch. 27 - Gimli’s Grief – A Tribble

I put my hand on his shoulder. Not to pull him away from the tomb. Not to bid him stand and prepare to fight. But to somehow say, ‘I know what you feel.’

Some wonder why warriors cry. I do not. I never question such a thing. Gimli’s tears do not surprise me. I have lived with tears my whole life.

So I comfort him in the way a man does, a fellow warrior. I know he understands, for he does not pull away. His shoulder loses some of its tension. It slumps. I have allowed him to grieve.

Sometimes, a warrior needs permission to grieve. Balin’s Tomb supercedes every need or want that came before this moment. It is terrible in its telling, haunting in its silent cry, wicked in its evil end. The horror of it is silence and dust and bones bereft of flesh.

Tears fall from my eyes. I did not even know this warrior. Gimli’s witness of grief is enough to give me permission to cry, to share in his grief. One warrior for another. It will not be the last time.

My esteem for Dwarves rose the moment Gandalf’s staff lit the halls of Dwarrowdelf. Never had I seen such a city before.

It seems the essence of Middle-earth lies in its vastness. The men of Gondor crafted huge statues, the Argonath; towering cities, Minas Tirith, Minas Isil; and a great civilization.

So, too, I have now discovered, did the Dwarves. The size of it astounds. From such little creatures. I find the magnitude of it unsettling. Would Gondor be built if we had been such?

I will look differently upon my Dwarven friend. Gimli seems to recognize this as he stands, nods his head to me, and clutches his axe. We battle together.