Lord of the Rings 1. Chapter 1

**Hey all. This is my first multi chapter LotR fiction so here goes. This is all written (apart from some fairly obsessive tinkering) and is about five chapters at the moment with an epilogue. This may change. Tinkering. I can assure you that the action most certainly does start but I wanted to set the scene with this first chapter.**

**Gimli and Legolas friendship fic, naturally, with a bit of whump to come but nothing that drowns out everything else. As always these characters are not mine, I get nothing from this but the enjoyment of it. I truly hope you like it**

**MyselfOnly xx**

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><p>"<em>Gwanno ereb nin!"<em>

The demand is spoken with every syllable dripping with warning. The night is dark and silent and the raised voice is jarring.

"Come down here!" demands another voice; this one cajoling but not without a trace of impatience. If I can hear it, so can the elf.

"_Baw. Im gruitheb nan in"_

"I am well aware of that. Come _down!"_

Aragorn is finally losing himself to his irritation. I am sat by the fire, propped up against my pack. It is early spring but the night is mild and the merry fire is heartening. I am warm and full and have a pipe to smoke, and now I have some entertainment to watch.

The tree that Legolas is in is very old; its branches are thick enough for even one as stout as I to stand quite comfortably upon and they spread very wide indeed. This whole clearing is under its protection. Aragorn – dusty and grimy as he always seems to be – stands beneath the particular branch that the elf stands upon. Legolas is in high agitation – his moon pale nimbus is clear and sharp and his eyes burn furiously at the Ranger turned King stood on the ground beneath him. If Aragorn could climb this particular tree I have no doubt that he would already be halfway up it by now.

Legolas reaches behind him and in a flash has his bow ready with an arrow nocked. It is not yet pointed at Aragorn but there is no question as to his intent.

"You would not." Aragorn hisses, but I note he turns his body slightly to try to make himself less of a target. It is a redundant gesture. It is Legolas and it is a bow. The Ranger tries a different tactic. "_Saes, Legolas._ I am only mortal and we spend so little time together now that the weight of Gondor sits upon my shoulders. Do not make me spend any more of the time we have left to us shouting up at a tree!"

His change in tactic works and I take note of this. Aragorn has known Legolas long enough to know how to manipulate him where I am still learning. I would have started throwing rocks at him long before now.

Legolas groans loudly in frustration. His bow vanishes as fast as it appeared and the elf jumps lightly to the ground. He stalks across the clearing and folds himself cleanly into a seat beside me, staring at the fire as though trying to extinguish it with thought alone. Aragorn tips his head back for a moment, thanking the stars before he too returns to the fireside.

The way that the elf has sat himself so close to me reminds me once again that he may be a half wild thing, he may be thousands of years old and he may have been fighting the darkness for most of that but he is still considered young. His seeking support in my presence is an astounding thing that I try not to think on too much as it twists my thoughts into knots.

"King Thranduil will side with him, you realise" I inform Aragorn. "If Gondor, Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen declare war upon one another I am seeking refuge beneath the mountains and will not emerge until the smoke clears. I am far too old for these things now."

There is a moment of silence before Aragorn barks a laugh and Legolas emits an extremely undignified snort. It serves to break the tension and the elf finally relaxes back to lean upon his elbows.

"_Saes, gwador nin. _I ask only for your welfare" Aragorn picks up discussion again. He is like a warg worrying a carcass and will not let it drop. Legolas' eyes flash dangerous again and he tenses.

"Estel" he warns. "I have travelled the Hithaeglir more times than you can count and in darker times than this. I had no need of an escort then, I hardly need one now, and if I did I would choose better guards than the Elrondionnath – Arwen perhaps."

"Having done something many times does not mean that it is a good idea" Aragorn counters. "And my brothers are fine warriors. The mountains will not be safe for travellers for a long time yet; Orcs still roam there, and bandits and any number of His dark creatures yet left over. You attract trouble in lands far safer."

We are not far from Imladris but tomorrow we leave our friend so that Legolas may return – however briefly – home to his King and father. Aragorn does not wish him to travel the mountains without an escort of Imladrin elves. Legolas disagrees. It is the same conversation that has peppered our last few days together and the elf's patience has finally worn thin. I do not blame him; I grow weary of it myself. I believe that Aragorn is simply struggling with the separation but he is going to get himself shot. Not necessarily by Legolas either. The bow does not look that difficult.

"Those…_Noldor_ have instilled upon you a lamentable habit of saying one thing many times believing the answer might change with repetition" Legolas announces irritably and concludes with a very certain: "They should never have been allowed to raise you."

Aragorn seems to struggle with how to address that. I speak instead.

"Do you think me so useless?" I ask. I keep my voice deceptively calm, curious. Both eyes turn to me in surprise. "I had believed that I had carried myself fairly well during the quest for the ring, and all the years even before we met. I had imagined myself more than enough of a companion for an elven princeling – you do not believe it so?"

Legolas' eyes dart right back to Aragorn, a rather juvenile smirk forming as the mighty King Elessar Telcontar flaps his mouth open and closed like a particularly horrified fish.

"Gimli I meant no offense, truly" he rushes, a placating hand out. "You are one of finest warriors that I have ever had the honour to know. However – "

"Then it is settled" I interrupt. "The elf and I journey to Eryn Lasgalen and then onward, as planned. Honestly Aragorn, you expend much energy coming to conclusions that any sensible dwarf would have put together days ago."

"Dwarves are far quicker of mind than men" Legolas confirms archly in my direction. A piece of firewood flies past his head and I am treated to further angry elvish jabberings that I am glad I do not understand. Aragorn removes himself from our company in annoyance, depositing himself beneath the tree that he had been shouting at a short while ago. Legolas is staring at me.

"This has gone on for days" he accuses. "_Days_. Why did you not speak before? Any longer and I would have deprived the realm of men yet again of any rightful King; the whole quest would have been an absolute waste."

I shrug. "At first it was entertaining. Then I was curious as to how long your patience would last; you are quick to anger at times and distressingly prone to violence but not so with Aragorn, I would have seen how long before you simply ran away into the trees and failed to return again."

Legolas thinks this through. He seems to conclude that this is an adequate answer and I am reminded again that elves are very strange creatures.

"What changed?"

"I learned today that the patience of the Firstborn is no myth, and that Aragorn is very lucky not to be bound and gagged despite the love I have for him."

Legolas laughs and it is good to hear. It is not long before Aragorn returns sheepishly and things are restored; we talk of small things and do not sour the mood with sad reminiscences. It will be a long while before we see each other again and these are our last hours. I drift off in the drowsy warmth of firelight and soft conversation and when I wake a few hours before dawn the Ranger is snoring from within his cloak and the elf is gone. I do not look for him out of concern but rather out of habit and find him back in the damned tree. He is awake and sitting high up, his eyes fixed upon the stars with the same expression that I have seen times beyond number but have yet to unravel. I know that he is listening to the Song so I grant him privacy, returning to my dreaming safe beneath his watch.

~{0}~

"I should have listened to the human" I grumble into my beard. The elf's eyes narrow and he hisses in irritation.

I spend the next few hours walking alone after he takes to the trees to remove himself from my presence and I do not care. Only a week has passed since we left Aragorn behind for the woodland realm and we have only just reached the foothills of the Hithaeglir. The weather has turned oppressive and overcast; the clouds are a low and menacing presence and the air is summer thick. I am uncomfortable and bad tempered and the elf is not responding well to my baiting; the more I snap and grouse at him the more taciturn he becomes, which irks me further. I wish that it was not the two of us so that there might be more people to talk to. A dwarf would be better – a dwarf knows the benefits of a good bellowing argument for stirring ones blood and clearing the air – but the elf is like a wild animal; he will remove himself from unpleasantness to seethe in silence. He will only respond when pushed too far and it is swift and bloody when he does. It is not healthy in my opinion.

When the evening begins to draw in and I decide that we have had enough of walking for the day I bellow up at the trees. I know he is up there somewhere although I can neither hear nor see him. He is always there. But no lithe figure drops to the ground, no slight stirring of the air indicates that he is behind me, no voice calls out.

I find water and I settle down. I am moving no further and I will wait out whatever game this is.

After an hour passes I have built a fire and am starting to feel concern but he finally appears from nowhere, removes his weapons and settles down. The look he fixes me with is unblinking and cold but I do not look up.

"Children sulk" I inform him.

"And warriors scout" he counters, answering the question I have not asked. "You move so slowly I went ahead to see the road. I could hear you grumbling and huffing for miles so I knew you lived."

"The air is too close" I growl. "It is too hot for spring."

"You have too much hair" is his quite certain answer. He pulls one of his silver knives out to twirl it expertly between elegant fingers. It flashes with the firelight. "I could trim it if you wish, or even your beard although it will likely blunt my blade."

My next torrent of epithets is expected; it is a game and we both know it well. I am apologising. He is showing that he bears no ill. His light laughter does my heart well and the unpleasantness of the day is forgotten.

"So what of the road?" I ask. I have pulled out my pipe and he regards it with disdain.

"You will enjoy it" he replies. "We will be out of the wood tomorrow and the path ahead is steep grassland. By tomorrow afternoon we will be in the foothills where the roots of the mountain are open to the world. You may regret us not bringing a horse by then, although you will not be so hot. There is snow on the passes still."

"You saw it?"

He nods. It is nothing to him, to see past leagues. I wonder if I would want to; the world before me is enough. To see and hear more than this would be eternally distracting. I wonder if I have just come to understand his oddness a little better.

We are quiet again but it is comfortable silence and after a while he begins to sing to himself. It is low but he has a pleasant voice and he is lying upon the ground, staring at the stars again.

"Elves and stars" I sigh. He jumps as though forgetting I am there and tilts his head upon the ground so that he can see me. There are leaves in his hair. He is waiting for me to elaborate so I sigh and indulge him.

"Elves – ever are you looking to the night sky. Never is your mind entirely here. It can feel lonely, being in the company of the Firstborn."

Legolas is quiet for a while and his eyes drift back to the shining firmament.

"What do you see?" he asks curiously.

"Blackness" I respond. "With a sea of tiny silver lights spread upon it. What do you see?"

He is silent again for a long time and his fingers dig into the soil.

"I will tell you one day" he promises. He does not mean to sound mysterious; it is likely that he has never thought on it before and has not yet decided upon his answer.

**TBC**

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

**_Gwanno ereb nin! - leave me alone_**

**__Baw. Im gruitheb nan in - no, I am angry with you__**

**___Saes, gwador nin - please my (sworn) brother___**

**______Well that's chapter one finally let go of and set free. As I have said in previous fictions, the Legolas in my head is a much wilder creature than some write him and my Gimli is much wiser and more philosophical. That's just how I see them. Hope you enjoyed; I'll probably post the chapters every three or four days otherwise I'll never stop messing with them. A review would absolutely make my day.**

**MyselfOnly**


	2. Chapter 2

**I won't ramble for long before we get back to our two friends, but a big thank you to my reviewers and those who have put this story on alert. It's extremely rewarding to know that someone has enjoyed something you created.**

**Anyway. Usual disclaimers and we're actually getting to the plot now! :)**

**MyselfOnly xx**

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><p>The elf is right, although it pains me to admit it. We have travelled far north to reach this pass that Legolas wishes to show me but it is worth it; the road through the foothills is like nothing I have seen before. The bones of the earth protrude toward the sky and I hear the song of Mahal clear as a bell. The elf tells me that the elves of Mirkwood do not take this pass; it is a longer route and they find no pleasure in it. This is for my enjoyment alone. He sneaks glances at me when he thinks I do not see.<p>

I walk in bright sunlight that is crisp from the snow that lies in the pass ahead. Things sprout to life around us and we are surrounded by tiny white flowers that nod and dance. All around rise huge stones leaning drunkenly and water rills over shale nearby, the soil picked clean over time. Ahead of us rise ridges and spires – a prelude for what is to come.

It is beautiful, in the stark way of the earth and I feel beneath me the heavy movement of Arda's heart. It is close and it is almost all that I can feel and hear. He is right; I enjoy it. I enjoy it very much.

When we stop for afternoon repast I perch upon a boulder of sparkling granite and the simple fare from my pack tastes as a feast, the water collected from the stream is sweet and cold.

The elf – as twitchy as a rabbit caught in the open – has taken to the heights. He is crouched on a high monolith a short distance away. His eyes are far away, searching the heights. The wind twists and rakes hair of gold and he is alert for any sound or scent of danger. There is none. Here I am at home and the mountain speaks to me as clearly as I feel the sun upon my face. Here my senses are as keen as his.

I slip off my boots and bury my feet into the soil. My eyes slip closed and I let myself fall into the song of Mahal.

I am gone from the open sky and away from dancing fragile things. I hear the Song within my heart; I feel all things within me and all the life that I sustain. I have a heart of fire and my highest peaks are frozen and distant. I hum a song beneath my breath; one of age and strength and interminable movement, bearing all of the lands upon me. When I come to myself I feel the dratted elf's heavy gaze upon me.

"Must you always stare so?" I complain without opening my eyes. When he speaks his voice is close enough to make me jump. I consider fitting bells to him so that I can hear his approach.

"There are prettier things to look upon" he admits. "But there is nothing that I have not seen a hundred times. I have never seen a dwarf fall asleep sitting upright."

"Not asleep" I snap. "Feeling, hearing. Much as when you turn vacant eyed and seem ready to fall off your branch at the first stiff breeze."

The elf is silent so I groan and open my eyes, defeated. I will get no peace now. He is cross legged in the grass at my feet, peering up through wind tangled hair and has a flower that he is twirling absent mindedly. His nose flares taking in the scent of it but his eyes are upon me.

"What does Aulë speak of today?" He is mocking but it is playful rather than unkind.

"The same that has been spoken since before the elves awoke, the same that will be spoken long after even the time of men passes."

"It changes not at all?" he is truly baffled and struggling to understand. His Song is a many and varied thing, as fast to change as the stream beside us.

"It changes some" I concede. "But it is subtle. Like the moving of shadows as the day passes."

That is something that he can relate to and he nods but his attention is a difficult thing to capture for long. A flock of small brown birds dart low overhead and he is away; he trills to them and goes back to the high places where he feels more secure.

We move on but I do not replace my boots. I am enjoying the feel of all the world so close to the surface beneath me and it is a while before I consider my actions. It is a rare thing that a dwarf would share something so intimate with any creature other than another dwarf. For me to be so open around an elf? It is unheard of! My brothers and kin would have my beard. I may as well be wandering unclothed!

I laugh and my voice echoes deep and hearty off the stone that surrounds me. The elf appears above, confused, and this is all the more humorous.

"Are you well Gimli?" he asks, concern in his voice. "Sometimes the sun makes men ill – Estel was always becoming sick from it. Does this happen with dwarves?"

"I am well my friend" I reassure him. "Although my mind is leaving me, I feel quite fine. It is unlikely that I have forgiven all of elven kind for their ills; I can only assume that I forget that you are one. You are certainly the ugliest dwarf that I have ever seen!"

My raucous laughter confuses him even further and he leaves me to what he can only believe is the continuing insanity of mortals. Only when I begin to sing does he return and he dances ahead of me from rock to rock, to the ground and back as though in play, called down from his high places by the joy in my song.

~{O}~

"Tell me of your father?" I ask him. We are at camp in the lee of stone walls, out of the wind and it is his turn to speak. I have spoken myself hoarse this evening trying to bring him out of his melancholy but I do not believe that he has heard a word I have said. He is far in the past where I cannot reach him and he is unhappy as I have rarely seen.

In the late afternoon we had come upon a marker; moss covered and ancient. Lettering marked the stone, worn almost away by the harsh seasons of the mountain. A village once stood there, he told me, the people long since passed into time. He had known them, and he had forgotten them.

To me it is another reminder of the years he has walked upon Arda; years that only show in his silences. To him it is a reminder of the fragility of mortal life and how those of his friends who are not of the Firstborn will also pass into time. His people know only permanence and become heart weary when touched by our temporary nature. I try to bring him back from days that have passed and those that have yet to pass. My question rouses him slightly.

"My Ada" he says carefully. He is drawn in upon himself and as he thinks through his reply a light graces his eyes and he unfolds like a flower to the sun. "As a King he is feared but he is respected. He is a warrior first and is hard upon his Captains; I have received no leniency in this. As a father he is indulgent but sometimes I think that he despairs of me."

"Then we have a thing in common."

He gives me a side glance that says he will not answer that. "My mother was of the Silvan folk and she and I were very alike. My father is not Silvan, and thinks me strange."

Aragorn has explained to me that Legolas is not typical of all elves. I had thought them all alike until Elrond, Galadriel and Haldir. I was curious as to the difference – Legolas is as different to the Noldor of Rivendell as it is possible to be. I have yet to knowingly meet a Sindarin elf now I know there is a difference to be had but Aragorn assures me that Legolas' Sindarin side is there in his foolishness and also in his stillness. His wildness is entirely of the green folk. King Thranduil is monarch of two peoples and I am told that those of the woodland realm love their prince. Some days I find it difficult to understand why any would tolerate him at all.

"I hear you favour him in your countenance" I remark as he falls quiet again. I do not wish to lose him now that I have his attention.

"We are much similar" he confirms with a small smile. "In nature too – we argue because of it. But I have enough of my naneth to sadden him at times."

I consider my next words long, but I decide that I trust him well enough and tell him: "My mother is also passed."

He fixes me with a gaze so fierce I believe that perhaps I have entered into a subject that is off limits. I force myself to meet his gaze and I am wrong – he is appraising my mood, reading me, ensuring that I am alright to continue. "It is many years past" I wave off his concern with one hand. "I think on her now with sadness, yes, but it is blunted. They are good memories."

The memories of elves do not fade with time but Legolas will meet his mother again one day. We are different in this. He is struggling with his next question and I do not wonder that I can read him so clearly, instead I answer it to save him from the struggle.

"She became unwell; a blight in her bones. She does not hurt any longer."

"My naneth was taken by Orcs" he completes the exchange. The sharing of stories is a building of trust and he upholds his side. "An arrow of Lasgalen took her before they could ruin her."

I look at him in horror.

"Not mine" he reassures me. "Although I was there."

My horror lessens only slightly. With each tale that I hear of his life as a warrior of Mirkwood I find myself questioning over and over again how his spirit is still so whole.

"I have disturbed you" he laments. "It is well! It is a risk, but it is a fate that we all accept to see our Greeenwood restored. My naneth loved our home. She would have seen the darkness driven from it – I know that she is happy in the Halls of Mandos."

His gaze drifts again to the stars and for a moment I believe myself failed. I have only turned his mind to a different sadness. In time though he speaks again:

"_Le hannon, mellon nin. _The past can weigh heavily at times but some memories are not to be stored away they are to be shared and given light. Tell me of your mother, if it is not too painful for you?"

So I speak and he is correct. It feels good to share stories like this. My father will not hear my mothers' name spoken in his presence; the sundering of Gloin's heart is a pain that he will never recover from. With this elf though, the memory of my mother can live and breathe. We learn a lot of each other tonight.

~{O}~

For the next two days it rains, and it is rain without cease. As we climb the heights the air becomes bitter – winter clings long in the mountains.

My good mood does not falter but although the elf does not feel anything of the cold it is plain that he is unhappy. Legolas is not fond of walking out of the trees like this and the inescapable rain does not help his mood. His face is pinched and his gaze fearsome and I would entertain myself by goading him but it feels cruel and possibly dangerous. He is heavily armed and has no trees to escape into to cool his temper.

We shelter at midday in a crevice wide enough for the two of us to sit comfortably. It is deep into the rock face and an overhang keeps us quite dry but we are well held by rock and Legolas' temper fades into a wild eyed and barely concealed fear of confinement. It is a far cry from the look he had worn as he endured the long dark of Moria but back then I had not cared. Back then I had been a far different Gimli.

"How long until the pass?" I ask him. When he looks to me there is a passing flicker of irritation at my relaxed posture. I am sodden and chilled to the bone but am quite at home. He has the miserable look of a half drowned cat.

"It has been many years since I or any other elf has taken a path so far north as this, but if memory serves me well then we will reach the pass tomorrow before midday."

"And how much longer past that must I endure your sighing? The first tree that I spy will be a welcome thing indeed – you are turning me into an elf!"

I am rewarded with the first laugh I have heard in days.

"_Goheno nin, _Gimli. Have I been so unbearable?"

"I do not recall you missing the forest quite so audibly during the quest."

"There were more distractions during the quest" he points out wryly.

"Then for your sake my friend I hope that we run into trouble soon. Perhaps a wayward band of Orcs for you to slaughter, that should burn off some excess breath so that you have less with which to sigh."

A second laugh, a grateful glance and my heart is gladdened. I barely have time to regret my words.

So distracted have I become by the elf, so busy am I in keeping his mind from the stone around him I have ceased listening myself. Too late do I feel the cracks in the walls of our shelter, too late do I feel the shifting of saturated mud far above us.

"Legolas!" I cry sharply as a rending sound splits the air. "Fly!"

He trusts me and does not pause to question my instincts. His reflexes are faster than mine and he does not consider my pride when he pauses to haul me before him. We are dug in deep to escape the rain and the entrance to our shelter seems far – too far for us to reach in time.

The air around us begins to fill with an altogether different rain; rock and stone and soil, faster and thicker within moments. The rain has melted ice deep within the fissures in the rock and our refuge is being reclaimed, swallowed again by the mountain. It is listing, rending apart from the hillside. We are to be crushed, we must fly as swiftly as we are able or this will be our tomb. I shall never hear the end of it if I allow Legolas to die like this.

He hisses in pain and swears harshly in his own tongue. He falters and trips and I do not pause to assess his hurt, I am more firmly grounded on this shifting surface so turn and yank him cruelly on his arm. His hiss becomes a cry but it is swallowed and we are running again.

I am under a barrage of stone fists, beating against me too fast to keep track of the hurts but I am built as solidly as the stone and bear the bruising. I fear for the elf but have no time to think on it; he is not as fragile as he looks and I must trust in that.

We are choked by loose soil, tripped by the bucking and roiling ground, pummelled by falling stone and our world is narrowing. Fast! So fast, we are not going to make it!

But then the pattering of rock and soil is swapped for the cold shock of rain and we are fallen, gasping, onto the wet ground. We are safe, and the sound of the mountain falling closed behind us is a very loud and certain sound.

I throw one arm out to grip Legolas, to reassure myself that he is there and safe. He stares blindly at the sky through the rain that falls against his face and his heart bucks and hammers in his chest like a bird's; it is not exertion but the thought of what he has escaped today. To be crushed by a mountain? I know my friend well enough to know the horror of it to him.

He wraps his fingers about my wrist and grips it hard, grounding himself. I endure the iron of his archers hold whilst he takes control of his panic and I feel his heart slow. Only once he releases my wrist do I sit and he does likewise, choking back a grunt of pain. I recall that he is hurt – I am battered and bruised just as I imagine he is battered and bruised but he holds one arm to him. I see it is open almost shoulder to elbow; blood runs freely and I see hurt in the tightness around his eyes but his first concern is for me.

"Are you hurt Gimli?" he asks. His eyes are wild but his voice is soft. I reach up to wipe rain from my brow and my hand returns red. I have taken a cut to the head but it is trifling enough for me not to have noticed.

"Dwarven heads, as you say, are much harder than those of elves and men. I am well." The poor attempt at humour is appreciated and he quirks a shadow of a smile. "Your arm" I point, and he shakes his head.

"It is painful but it will keep."

Legolas heals fast. I have seen him shake off grievous injury within days but his arm is sickening to look at and must be very painful. I help him to bind it fast and we leave to find more suitable shelter.

We are not far from the hill that had so nearly been our tomb when the elf freezes. He turns to look back at the cracked mountain and suddenly it feels as though I am alone here in the rain. The look he bears is not the fading horror of what we have escaped but something else. He has sensed something that I cannot and my blood freezes with a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Legolas" I prompt to no reaction. _"Laddie!"_

It is possible that he responds to the discomfort in my tone rather than my words, but he returns.

"There is a shadow" he speaks distantly; "come from the mountain. Let us leave Gimli; neither of us are enough to face this right now."

I look at my friend anew. I see every nerve in him singing with the need to flee but still he stands. I see him injured in a way that I do not think I could bear so silently and yet his fingers twitch in want of his weapons. I see the strength of will in him, built a long time in the shadow of Dol Guldur. He sees and senses another world and if he says that it is too much for us then I believe him.

We walk, but it feels as though we flee.

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><p>Translations:<p>

_Le hannon, mellon nin - thank you my friend_

__Goheno nin - forgive me__

__**Oooooh! What escaped? What lies ahead for our stalwart travelers now that it's out? You'll have to wait and see...**__

__**Hope you enjoyed it and as usual, reviews are love.**__

__**MyselfOnly xxx**__


	3. Chapter 3

**So on we go with chapter 3, a little sooner than I'd expected. Special thanks go out to Lindir's Ghost who should hopefully see an improvement in my bad habits with dialogue (or as many as I could find) Thanks for the feedback! :)**

**Hope you enjoy.**

**MyselfOnly xxx**

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><p>Legolas has a fever.<p>

It is slight but there is a red flare to his cheeks against skin of pale white. I have tended to his arm and it is clean and bound and he has cleaned the cut to my scalp, complaining all the while of the thickness and coarseness of the hair that bars his way. He ceases his complaining when I point out what protection it offered me, and what might have happened had my skull been covered in the flimsy maiden fine tresses that he bears. Livid bruises mark his skin just as mine is marked but we have both fared well considering what might have happened.

We both sit in the mouth of a shallow cave, neither of us willing to venture any further in. The rain has finally started to abate but the cave lip runs with water and the air is damp. Legolas shifts closer to the fire. It is uncharacteristic of him to feel the chill; I think perhaps the cold that he feels is within his spirit. He has spoken to me once before of the aversion he feels to confinement; of the sickness he feels, the skin crawling horror of being trapped even if it is above ground. I do not push him to speak of his horror today, nor do I ask questions of what he has felt. The elf will tell me, I trust in that, but he sometimes takes a while.

He is repairing his shirt and does not complain that I smoke my pipe. He rotates his shoulder once, testing himself and he grimaces.

"Would I be correct in my assumption that this incident is to be left out of the account of our journey?" I ask. "I am not sure that it would make a good first impression upon your father: almost getting the crown prince of Mirkwood flattened by a mountain."

"It would be best Gimli. Although to my King the fault would be mine alone, as it ever is." He narrows his eyes at me, reading me and speaks. "No fault lies with either of us though my friend. I am ever in awe of your strength, and you have personal qualities that can challenge the patience of the tides at times but I do not believe that you can split a mountain without even moving."

"I should have felt it coming, I should have heard it. I was distracted."

"You were distracted by distraction. You are a good friend Gimli. I do not blame you for being otherwise engaged in keeping the mind of a flighty elf from his surroundings."

I do not reply to that. He may not hold me to blame but I still do. I will not allow him to come to harm by my failings again.

"Drink your tea," I instruct. He pulls a remarkably childlike face of reluctance but does as he is told. The herbs will help with his fever and pain but by Eru it smells foul.

"Something was released," he says, setting his cup down with care as though not to anger it. He is finally speaking of what he sensed earlier. "Something that the mountain had held for a long time indeed; it is part of the reason for its collapse."

"Do you know what it was?" I ask. I feel a chill too now; there are many things held deep within the world. If one has reached the surface then it is a bad thing indeed. Legolas shakes his head and pauses in his reparations to glance out at the sky. His stars are veiled tonight.

"It was very old, and very angry. Are we to pursue or come back with a party of elves? The darkness frightens me; I think this affects my decisions. I did not fear the One Ring, although I felt its call. I did not feel fear when we travelled as the grey company and I have stood before the very eye of Sauron himself, why does my courage fail me now?"

"Felt you fear in Moria?" I ask.

"You know it," he shoots back, a flash of anger within his eye. Perhaps he recalls how I mocked him for it at the time.

"The fear you felt in Moria was not just the fear of an elf removed from the sky. You were feeling all of the things that live within the earth. It is the same fear that I feel."

"A dwarf afraid of the dark?"

He is playful but I have his attention captured.

"Dwarves are sensible enough to fear the darkness but courageous enough to carry on regardless – "

"Or too dense to recognise the peril they are in."

" – and intelligent enough to know how to avoid the danger." I carry on, ignoring the interruption. "You feel fear because it is right to feel fear. You have more courage than is probably advisable my friend you should not doubt yourself now."

He thinks on this. He says nothing more on the subject for a while so I take the time to check the injury to his arm and he allows it. In any other creature I would say that the injury was a number of days old. It heals fast, as he always does.

"We go to my father," he has decided. "My fear aside, it is folly to chase through the mountains – just an elf and a dwarf who does not know his way – in pursuit of a shadow. A party will do better than us in this." He has made a decision, and seems happier for it. "You are wise" he tells me, then adds: "for one so short."

I snort. I do not need an elf to recognise my wisdom and if his head were closer to the ground it may be clearer at times.  
>I sleep then. I am deeply weary and although I will not admit to it my body aches with every movement. I wake twice in the night; the first after a nightmare of darkness and being crushed beneath the world. The elf sits outside the cave, the faint glow of him the only reason he is visible. The second time he is by the dying fire again and he has finally succumbed to sleep. His eyes are wide open in the odd way of elves as he walks in dreams and I do not wake again until dawn.<p>

~{O}~

The crossing of the pass is uneventful after this. The elf is pained for a few days but his healing is quick and does not encumber his movement. I see him practising bow and knife one night, silently beneath the stars and neither his strength nor his speed seems to be affected. My own body takes longer to heal and I pretend not to notice that Legolas has slowed the pace. I enjoy the rest, and when I am ready I take lead and bring us back to speed.

As we come back down from the Hithaeglir none can check his pace. He can smell the woods of his home, however distant. The weather warms again as we descend and we ford the Anduin easily enough; it is fat with melting snow from the mountains and I am suspicious of the water – dwarves are not natural mariners – but the elf is quite experienced and thankfully keeps us from drowning. As the road flattens I can see the forested hills of Eryn Lasgalen clearly in the distance for the first time in our journey. Greenwood is vast and I had not thought on the sheer expanse of the woodland realm until now; it was always considered a place of elves and darkness and no business of ours but I see it now anew. The elf is unbearable. His memory of our experiences in the mountain is all but forgotten as he sees his home so near.

I am forced to pause a while as he greets the first tree we come to. He stands long beneath the spread of a mountain ash and comes away cheered. We spend the day walking through grasses that reach my chest and I sneeze and curse the whole day. By evening we are in a marsh and the insects are relentless. Rushes and saw grass bar our way and the trees are short and scrubby. Legolas knows his way unerringly through the pools of water and our feet are kept dry but I am in danger of dying from blood loss. Perhaps irritated by my constant foul language and by my slapping at the insects he feeds me a sharp tasting herb. Within an hour I am left mercifully alone but the damage is done. My skin is aflame and I am unaccountably angry with him. It should not surprise me that insects do not bother him as they bother me but it is not right that he does not suffer as I do.

We make camp and he shows me another herb that makes a soothing balm and then he is gone. I do not begrudge him a few hours of wildness away from my complaining now that we are back in the trees. We are not yet in Eryn Lasgalen but all woods are home to the Eldar.

When he returns it is with the wild light returned to his eyes; he is a fey apparition appearing silently in the firelight and he could be disturbing to one who does not know him. Instead I am glad; always should he be as this. Legolas makes such allowances for his friends and being away from the wild woods forces a taming of his fëa; it is good to see the prince of Mirkwood returned.  
>He has a pair of wild birds and suddenly my attention is wholly diverted.<p>

When he removes his bindings this night he does not replace them. It has only been five days and my own bruises are yellowed and fading but his are gone entirely. The wound to his arm is ugly but healed and although it must ache, it does not impede him.

I cook the meat. Legolas may be many things but he most certainly cannot count cooking as one of his talents. After a number of charred meals I took away his right to prepare our food and he I must endure his heavy gaze as he watches me roast the birds with a touch of envy, of all things. Legolas does not like being anything but good at whatever he tries his hand at. After learning this I enjoy it all the more when I am better than him at something; it is good for his growth to know humility at times.

He draws his deadly silver knives across a whetstone, enjoying the practised peace of something he knows well. I am careful about his knives until I am sure he has forgiven me for pushing him so hard today; it has been a long time since Legolas has been anything but patient with me but I have not grown to the age I have by growing careless.

"Am I to assume that spiders still roam Mirkwood?" I ask curiously. I have heard of the giant spiders but I have never seen one before.

"Aye" he confirms. "The Lady Galadriel cleansed the forest and named us Wood of Green Leaves but it will be a long time yet before we rid the forests entirely of His creatures. At least we now know that this fight has an end."

"You have fought many?"

He gives me a strange look before replying: "I have spent millennia as men count the years as a captain of my father's archers. Most of that was spent in the south. I have indeed fought many spiders."

He is laughing at me. It was perhaps a foolish question. "I wish to fight a spider," I inform him quite certainly. "There is little left on Arda now that I have not fought; I will add giant spiders to my count before you elves rid the lands of them."

"Oh, Gimli my friend," he laughs. "I will make sure that some are left for you."

"Good." I mumble through my beard. "When I return to my kin with tales of my doings and they say: 'but Gimli! Speak of the giant children of Ungoliant!' I wish to have a tale at the ready."

"So you shall, you strange dwarf."

"And you are not to kill it for me, no matter how humorous it might seem to you."

"You have my word."

I grumble again but I am pleased. It is a pleasant evening now that I am no longer being consumed or scratching my skin raw. We eat and speak of inconsequential things. I tell a tale that has elven laughter ringing into the silence around us. Legolas often makes me feel a master weaver of tales; he never tires of them. I have seen him up and walk away halfway through the tales of others so it is not simply a love of stories in general. It makes me more willing to speak up and entertain. It is yet another sign of how he is changing me.

We have fallen into a silence when the elf moves swiftly and gracefully from sitting into a crouch. His knives are back in their sheath in moments and his bow in his hand as fast. His eyes are fixed on the tangle of woods beyond the fire, their keen sight cutting through the darkness and I wait to see what has alarmed him so, relying on his senses to read the night.

"_Yrch!" _he curses, spitting the word.

I throw earth upon the fire and the elf is gone but he has not left me. He has taught me the hunting language of his people and the soft bird calls from the trees direct me; we have hunted this way before together and we know each others' movements whether seen or not.

My heart thrums with the thrill of the hunt but I am in control of my excitement. I am seasoned and my hand does not shake. I hold my axe loosely and I flex and warm my muscles in preparation.

The moon is bright and lights my way through the midnight forest. I marvel at the silence of my movement – just as Legolas has spent hour after frustrated hour trying to teach me – but I will never be so stealthy that the elf cannot hear me. He tracks my movement from the trees, truly a ghost. His whistles and soft calls tell me the story of our prey and I learn there are seven of them, and that they pursue a man. I learn how they are spaced, their speed and when the call comes to stop I am ready and conceal myself. Soon I can hear them myself; the crashing and frantic noise of flight.

They are upon us. The first figure to fly past I allow through but then I leap forward to bury my axe deep into the chest of an extremely surprised Orc. He falls in a gout of blood and a shrill scream and I pay no mind to the creature flanking it. I am free to wrest my weapon loose as an arrow whistles from the tree top, burying itself into the neck of the next Orc.

The fight is short and extremely one sided. The elf descends from the trees once our surprise is spent and the Orcs – well used to the Mirkwood archers – space themselves so that his arrows have less of an advantage. His knives flash with silver moonlight as he dances his graceful, deadly dance. Legolas is silent and lethal but I feel the surge of fire within me and roar my battle cry. I feel the power within me, the weight and might in the heft of my axe and we dispatch the Orc band swiftly. Our fighting styles are as different as summer and winter but we know each other's movements perfectly and we complement one another.

We are victorious and all too soon the place beneath the trees falls silent and we come together again. He is favouring his arm once more but he looks exhilarated in the aftermath of the battle. I can see that he is checking me for injury and I am still roused enough to snap at him.

"Do me more courtesy, elf! Seven Orcs are not enough to cause me harm!"

He rolls his eyes and begins the task of retrieving his arrows and cleaning his blades. I turn my attention to locating the man that was chased here and find him poorly concealed in a bush. He has the look of a cornered deer; half wild with fear. He watches me as though I am an Orc myself and is refusing to even look upon the elf.

"Oh, stop that!" I bark. "Do not make me climb into a hedge. Come out of there and make yourself known, and be quick!"

He trips over himself, scuttling from the undergrowth but looks about ready to expire entirely with fear when Legolas approaches. Either he has had no experience of a battle ready elven warrior or far too much and he will only look at me, although he twitches and jumps with my every movement. He is terrified of us both.

He is a young human and I doubt that he has even twenty summers to him. His beard is fine and as pale blonde as his scruffy head of hair and from what I can make of them his wild eyes seem as though they are blue. His clothing is torn and dusty from flight.

"What are you called?" I ask. I try to use a calming tone but my voice sounds just as gruff as ever to my ears. I have tried to learn the gentleness of tone that Aragorn uses to such success in calming both men and beast but it seems I am a poor student. Without hope, some have told me. I do not disagree.

"Finulfin, my lord," he stammers.

"You are of Rohan," Legolas speaks and the boy flinches again. It seems my elven friend could benefit from some lessons from Aragorn too, he sounds accusatory. The boy finally looks as Legolas joins us, twirls his knives once to turn them and then sheathes them. He is struck dumb.

"What ails you?" I ask roughly. The lad is verging upon rude. I have seen much distrust and ill feeling toward the Firstborn and I feel a sense of anger at this ungrateful child whose life Legolas has just saved. The elf holds a hand out to me as if to say _'it is well'_ but then the lad speaks:

"My apologies!" he gushes. "I mean no offence. You are the Greenwood Prince!" He bows and Legolas groans beneath his breath. My friend does not begrudge his position but he prefers that it is not widely known.

"_Mae govannen, ernil nin. Elen sila lumenn omentielvo"_ the lad – Finulfin – speaks respectfully in what even I can recognise is flawless Sindarin. The lad does not fear elves, he knows them.

"_Daro i" _Legolas grimaces, pulling him upright again. _"Man sad telil?"_

"_Telin o Bray" _the boy points down the road. I have had enough.

"Speak a more civilised tongue or speak not at all." I growl. Legolas gives me a look of apology. The boy looks mortified.

"My village is small," he speaks. "We live north of here."

"I know of Bray," the elf confirms. "Long has Mirkwood sheltered your people. How came you to be beset by Orcs?"

"I was far from the village when night fell. We know to be within the walls by dusk; the elves of Greenwood have been good to us. We are protected, but I wandered further than I had thought and was found by these foul beings. I am sorry for the trouble I have caused and I give my thanks."

He bows again and Legolas looks to the stars for strength. I almost do the same.

"And why did you wander?" I prompt. My voice sounds impatient even to my ears.

"I sought my sister," he admits and although I give him credit for fighting it, his voice is choked with emotion. "My parents are older now and have not the strength. Most of the young men of my village were lost to the war and those that are left are too young or too afraid. A shadow has stalked our village these last nights and now my sister is gone. Please my lords. I know I have no right to ask but such warriors as you are and such is our need, I beg you for your aid. I beg it!"

He prostrates himself before us and this time we leave him with his head in the soil. We look to one another instead. It is too much a coincidence.

"This shadow," the elf asks. "How does is appear?"

"In the form of a man," Finulfin raises his head but does not stand. "Or it is man shaped – it has no feature or defined form. It walks the walls of the village and wails through the night. I was on the Pelennor Field and heard the dying howl of the Witch King. I believed I would never again hear such a sound but I will admit that my blood freezes in me when I hear it and I am quite unmanned."

I do not know whether to laugh at this slip of a boy speaking of being unmanned when he is barely one, or to be deeply saddened that he is already a veteran of such a battle. Instead I ask: "When did this shadow appear?"

"A week, no less. Although it feels a lifetime."

"Has aid been requested from my father?"

"A rider was sent but even our best horse is not as she was, they will not reach the King for days and I fear for my sister. She is only four summers in age."

I can tell that the elf is already decided and I draw him away from our burrowing friend.

"This is the same shadow?" I ask him.

"I do not know," he admits "but the time matches."

"Then this is the shadow that we decided is too much for us alone. Your father will send help for these people."

"It will be too late."

"It may already be too late."

He fixes me with a penetrating look and I do not flinch before his appraisal. His lip lifts slightly from his teeth and his eyes are narrowed in annoyance.

"You would walk away from this?"

"Nay," I am unimpressed by his ire. "I wished only to be sure of your conviction. Although if we are killed in this mountain for hunting an unknown foe unprepared then I hope that Námo has much to say to you on the matter."

I can see the annoyance melt from him in the starlit reflection in his eyes and we return to Finulfin. His thanks when we inform him that we are to help are so effusive that the elf escapes to the trees. It is not so often that I wish that I could join him.  
>We find a site away from the stinking Orc carcasses and await the dawn; we will travel hard tomorrow and the boy is exhausted. He argues at first; frustrated at stopping but it is not long before he has fallen into a deep, boneless sleep. Only then does the elf return.<p>

"Coward." I remark lowly from around my pipe. He has the grace to appear sheepish. We have no fire and I am sat comfortably upon stone. Legolas perches upon bough. The trees are thicker here, the land drier.

"I do not do well with children," he admits quietly.

"This one is of age," I nod toward the sleeping figure. "He is not counted as a child."

Legolas snorts as though finding this truly ridiculous.

"You feel to blame for this," I remark. It is not an accusation, it is an observation. He takes a while to respond but then there is a quiet:

"Aye. We should have pursued it at the start; it was my decision to wait."

I nod to myself. My pipe tastes as ash and I have a stone in my gut. "I did not have to listen."

He does not reply. He is gone.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

_Mae govannen, ernil nin. Elen sila lumenn omentielvo - well met my prince, a star shines on the hour of our meeting_

__Daro i - stop that__

___Man sad telil? - where are you from?___

____Telin o Bray - I come from Bray____

____**Nearly there, monsters are on their way and we're heading into the action now. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you're enjoying it :)**____

_**MyselfOnly xxx**  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Very little preamble from me (thankfully, I hear you say) Not as much action in this chapter but I promise you - it is MORE than made up for in the next! Enjoy :)**

**MyselfOnly xxxx**

* * *

><p>The sunrise finds us back upon the trail.<p>

Legolas scouts ahead from the trees but returns from time to time. His presence seems to comfort Finulfin who associates elves with safety and protection. I do not believe he has met a dwarf before today but well rested and with help at hand he is calmer and proves to be good company. He is a quick and affable lad now that he does not feel the need to drop to his knees as often.

I learn that the family of his father settled in Bray from Rohan a generation ago, and that his mother hails from Laketown. He was not drafted to the armies of Gondor but rather volunteered with his brother, to the consternation of their parents. His brother did not return.  
>He saw action, he tells me, and although it was immediately plain that he was never built to be a solider he had always been considered quick and this served him well during battle. He had hoped to see no more strife for the rest of his days but he was born a child of Mirkwood – fostered or not – and so darkness is something that he knows.<p>

His sister was born late, he tells me: an unexpected blessing. She was a healthy child, rare to cry and quick to laugh and shamelessly spoiled by all in the village. During the darkest of times she gave his family hope and during the endless days and nights whilst he fought in Gondor's armies, his brother fallen before his eyes, she and his parents were the light that brought him home. He fought for a future for her and for all of the children like her. His eyes darken in grief then and he says no more upon the lost child; it is too much for him.

He asks instead of King Elessar: is he as great as the tales speak? As wise?  
>At this I hear the elf snort again – that really is a lamentable habit that he is getting into – and I cannot bring myself to tell the truth of it. The Aragorn that I know is indeed kind and good but he is also perpetually untidy and much in his own head. He falls into trouble quite by accident and often loses things. I tell the boy that the tales are all true.<p>

He falls into contemplative silence when the elf begins to sing to himself on the road, listening intently, and when we stop for a brief meal he watches us both closely. I build a small fire and Legolas takes no time in shooting three birds from the very sky. We are efficient and quick in preparation but do not need to speak. We would not normally pause so long as to cook meat for lunch but neither of us knows the boys endurance and the noises his stomach has been making are wearing my nerves raw. Legolas sits at watch on a low bough a distance away. He has taken feathers and fletches arrows whilst I cook, humming to himself again.

"You are both of the nine walkers, are you not?" Finulfin asks. "We know that the prince was a companion of the Ring Bearer. You are truly the same Gimli?"

"I am." I confirm, turning the birds.

"And you travel together still? Are not elven and dwarvish relations still strained?"

I think on this and I see the elf's head tilt, waiting on my answer.  
>There is much I could tell the lad; of how the elf infuriates me to distraction and how difficult it can be to keep track of his moods. I can tell him that the elf tolerates my gruff and brusque manner as few ever have, that I am at peace with the Gimli that I have become because of him. I can tell him of the bonds that form upon a road as long and dark as the one we walked. Of the brotherhood of those who survive something they never thought to, and who have saved the life of the other times beyond count. I could speak of these things, but it does not feel right. These things belong to Legolas and I and to speak of them so freely to this stranger is a betrayal of it. Instead I say:<p>

"It is like travelling with a flittering bird and I find myself speaking up into trees much more than I ever did, but he is my friend."

I see the elf relax and a small smile lights his face as he works with nimble fingers.

"I have known elves my life through," Finulfin tells me, eyeing the birds hungrily. The lad does not know that Legolas can hear him. "The warriors of Lasgalen would come into our village at times. I found them very frightening; their eyes burned into my dreams for many nights after. Always they seemed so ready to flee, to fight. Never were their eyes much off the trees and sometimes they would pass in the night and we would hear them singing. I have never met a dwarf before though."

"They are often ready to flee also." Legolas says archly, returning.

"You will have to forgive my friend," I tell Finulfin, exhaling a great deal of pipe smoke toward the elf. "He took a few blows to the head recently and believes himself witty."

Legolas mutters something in his nonsense language and it has the desired effect. The boy smiles, despite his shyness.

We eat the birds and take a moment to enjoy the sun before collecting our things again. We have not taken two steps along the trail before the elf holds.

"_Lasto"_ he murmurs and we fall silent. A howl echoes from afar; distant and barely there but it is eldritch and sends my skin crawling. It is no natural sound; it is darkness and insanity.

"It is the shadow!" Finulfin cries. He is distressed and afraid. "Never have we heard it in the day before, we must hurry!"

The elf insists that he can take us to where the cry has sounded from and we change our course; we need not go to Bray, but instead we hope to pick up a trail from where the cry has sounded. If we are successful then it will save us much time. If I am honest I have little hope of finding the child well after hearing that cry and I see it in the elf's eyes that he is of the same thought.

~{O}~

By dusk we are there. We have set a punishing pace and the boy is exhausted but I feel a grudging respect for him. He has kept up and has not uttered a word of complaint.

In the gloaming beneath the trees Legolas whistles a warning and I pull Finulfin into hiding. We hold our breath and are ready as three elven warriors drop from the trees like shadows. They are dressed much like Legolas in the greens and browns of Mirkwood and bear the same arms – a bow and knives for close quarters combat within the trees. None have the same golden hair but they wear it bound in the same warrior braids to keep from becoming entangled in bow strings. They are fierce looking creatures and I feel Finulfin sigh appreciatively. The three are overjoyed to see their prince and speak quickly over one another; a musical susurration. Legolas beckons me forward.

"This is Gimli, son of Gloin. And this is Finulfin of Bray" he introduces. He tells me their names too and I almost instantly forget them, tongue twisters that they are. The elves all look the same to my eye and when they turn the full weight of their regard to me I find myself annoyed by it. Surely they must know the affect an immortal stare has upon us? Legolas tells me that it is considered good manners to his kind but it is extremely unpleasant to experience.

"The naugrim!" one speaks. His speech is heavily accented the way that Legolas' is and that I barely notice any more. This one's name I do recall – it is Idhren – and he is all the colours of the wood. His hair is russet and his eyes the deep green of summer leaves, dancing with a barely restrained spirit. He is Silvan, I realise. One of the _laegren _that were his mother's people.

"We had heard that our wayward prince travelled with a child of Aulë. _Mae govannen, _Gimli of the nine walkers and elvellon."

It is a far better greeting than I had ever expected and I am stunned as all three place their hands upon their hearts and bow in their fashion. I see that Legolas' eyes shine with mirth and so I ignore him completely.

"Well met, warriors of Lasgalen." I greet them with equal respect. "I am very sorry but I return your prince to you. We are done with him now."

There is a stifled laugh – Idhren again, I find I like him – and a taller elf with serious grey eyes inclines his head in thanks.  
>We turn then to more pressing matters. They are a small scouting party on their way to rejoin a larger group to the south of here. They also heard the cry and have come to investigate for the darkness in it.<br>Legolas tells them swiftly the story of Finulfin but does not speak of our experiences in the Hithaeglir keeping me silent with a look. I know not why. When he instructs the third elf to take Finulfin home and to then follow with reinforcements the elf accepts the order of his captain without question but Finulfin sets to such strenuous objections I fear that he will call every Orc in the shadow of the Misty Mountains to us. All four elves blink in complete confusion at the display and I know that I am on my own.

"What is this?" I snap. "Throwing your temper like a child; you were a soldier of Gondor! Your prince says that you are to return to your parents who by now must believe all of their children lost. You would deny them tidings and defy your protectors?"

"She will not know you!" the boy cries. Most of the fight has left him as he is shamed. "I have failed her."

"You have found her help but we must hurry; we are slower whilst you are with us. We will return with your sister laddie, you must trust in this."

The boy nods miserably. We have taken a thing from him by denying him the chance to accompany us.  
>He removes a small cloth doll from his pocket and presses it to my hands. The look that I am given as he is led away burns deep into me and I know it will stay with me always. He trusts in us to find her, but in truth he has lost hope. He does not believe that we will find the child alive.<p>

I storm past Legolas and thrust the doll into his chest with perhaps a little too much force and he takes it from me, stunned. Damn him! Damn him for not understanding this, damn him for being naught but an elf. Damn him for forcing me to be the one haunted by such eyes!

~{O}~

After the sun sets Legolas comes to me.

The other two elves – Idhren and Almárean – are in the trees where I know Legolas wishes to be. We are too close now to Mirkwood to travel in the dark; the creatures that hunt there will venture out this far. We have the trail and will set out in the hours before dawn when the spiders sleep.

Legolas believes that he has done some wrong to me although he does not understand what, and he stands like he is haunting the very edge of the firelight. I see that he still holds the doll and his face is confused and unsure. It is rare that my friend ever looks that way and I feel guilt – I have been unfair. I can no more hold him to blame for being an elf than I can blame myself for being a dwarf. He may be insufferable at times but rarely does he mean to be.

"Forgive me Gimli," he murmurs, still unwilling to approach.

"Know you why you apologise?" I ask gruffly. After a moment he shakes his head and is about to retreat to the trees when I call to stop him.

"Sit, Legolas. You have done no wrong. It is I that should apologise; being an elf is an affliction and tolerances must be made."

He is affronted and ready to bite back but then sees the play of laughter about me and relaxes. He is indeed more at ease than I have seen him in a while, despite our circumstances. I realise that he feels the safety of an elven watch without being the elf that always watches. I feel another pang of guilt at that and brush it away. I am becoming soft.

For a short while I consider attempting to explain my ire to him but I am tired. Legolas understands emotions well enough; his own are over developed but they are the emotions of an immortal and different to the sudden bursts of mortal men. Elven hearts are long burning except in temper. They are very short tempered. No one believes me in this.

"Stopping for camp tonight feels as though I am going against my word." I tell him. Legolas nods. He is looking at the doll in his hands.

"We are too few," he tells me. "A full scouting party might travel at night but only four is a target. Spiders will hunt us. The fire will keep them away; they retreat to their nests in the hours before the dawn."

In this I must concede to his experience although I am anxious to go. The elf with the serious eyes approaches soundlessly. He is taller than both of his companions and is sharper of feature. He is Sindarin. He sits by the fire, sees me smoking a pipe and grimaces. I sigh and extinguish it; one elf I can ignore but I will get no enjoyment in it now.

"They surround us," Almárean says, quite casually.

"_Iston" _his prince replies, entirely at ease. Alarmed I scan the trees and undergrowth around us and see not a thing until Legolas directs my eyes. Directly above us shine a thousand red eyes. My skin crawls and I will find no rest now – perhaps for the rest of my days. The elves are unconcerned and this is not comforting, it is annoying. Almárean looks to me with a smile and I feign indifference.

"It is a shame they do not taste well." I grumble instead. Almárean laughs then and comments on the fire within dwarven hearts. Legolas fixes me with a look as the other elf leaves us and I know that I fool him not at all.

There is a point in the night when the elves instinctively know to rise. There is no clue, no word spoken, but Legolas rises and puts out the fire as Idhren and Almárean drop from their roosting places. We are ready now to hunt.

~{O}~

The pace that the elves set is fast. They fly through the trees tops as fast as they run upon the ground and I find myself with a different companion from one moment to the next. Idhren follows the trail – I am told that his senses are keenest – but Legolas sets the pace. He knows my speed and pushes it as he always does. I am faster now than I have ever been in my life. A sprinting dwarf; what a thing!

They see in the darkness as though it is day and I go by their lead. Legolas is there to ensure that I do not fall without ever seeming to do so, just as he always is. When the sun has risen we stop and I am barely even blowing. The two elven scouts seem more comfortable with me now; I have kept pace with elves when speed is their advantage. Now let me see them fight with an axe!

We are upon a rise; a bluff that lets us look upon the leagues of forested hills stretching before us in the full morning light. It is a breathtaking view. Legolas and Almárean are aloft, Idhren crouches by my side. He points, again guiding my eyes only and I see it; a thin tendril of smoke twists through the tree canopy to the sky and is then lost. There is a home, here on the very outskirts of Western Mirkwood. I look with questioning to my companions.

They tell me that she has lived there for a great many years. She is old and chases away elves just as she chases the spiders. She is left to live out the last of her days here if that is her wish. Idhren is understandably confused as to why we are here.

"The trail leads there?" I ask.

"Aye." He nods.

"She seems well, unless the shadow has taken time to cook a meal."

Legolas hisses us into silence. He is listening.

Upon the dawn wind it comes; the faintest breath of sound: an eldritch howl of madness that I recognise. My doubt vanishes and we move again though we are more careful now. Our flight through the trees is forgotten and we move slowly, eyes and ears open and keen. The woods here are choked and close and very little light penetrates. It is perhaps midday when we reach the dwelling, although in the gloom beneath the trees it does not seem it.

The house is small and in sore need of repair. It sits in the shelter of a truly ancient tree; its canopy wide and protecting. The rest is a clearing so that some light filters down in sombre shafts and a slow stream drifts sluggishly past. The house walls are of stone and wind fallen wood, one side is shored up to stop it from collapsing entirely. If it were not for the obvious signs of occupation I would believe it abandoned to ruin. Ragged clothes hang out to dry, furs cure on a rack and some tools are propped against a wall but my eye is drawn to the wasteful carnage about the clearing. The mangled carcasses of chickens and a solitary thin cat lie untended and worried by flies. A sad looking cow lies bloating in the sun where it has fallen and even I can smell the corruption from our hiding place.

"Darkness hangs here like night!" Legolas chokes out. It is for my benefit alone, the elves all feel it.

There is a cry; the hoarse, shrieking wail of the shadow and it is so close! The elves cover their ears in pain and even I feel it pierce me deep within my soul. I feel fear that is blinding, that robs me of all strength and breath and I am not so proud to admit that I nearly flee. But then there is another cry and my strength is returned. It is the frightened cry of a child. She lives yet.

Wordlessly Legolas dispatches his warriors. They flank the house – Idhren left and Almárean right – and they are gone without a sound. The elf and I will approach head on. His silver knives are at the ready and his eyes are hard, fixing on the swirling shadows that surround the house that I cannot see.

"You asked me what I see in the stars," he speaks of a sudden. It is just us, as it so often is now. He seems uncomfortable at first, unsure how to proceed but comes to a decision and continues: "I see the echoes of the first Song and all the songs of the Valar that followed; the song that awoke the elves, the song of all the races after us. My song echoes up there with those of my people lost or sailed." He looks down with all of the affection he holds for me plain there upon his face and he grips my shoulder. I do not know what he sees when he looks at me – I am probably as strange still to him as he is to me – but when I see him I see the greatest of friends. "Your song is in the stars too Gimli. Elbereth shows us all of our days so that we are never alone or lose hope; all of elven kind will watch the echoes of our deeds, even after our days upon Middle Earth are over."

It is the most comforting thing that I have ever heard, and also the saddest. I imagine a far distant Legolas walking the shores across the sea where no mortal may walk, watching the stories of his lost days with long ago friends there in the sky. I understand in a way now how he can become lost in the firmament and his reluctance to know men. A few years of joy followed by an eternity of grief does not seem a fair exchange to me. His friendship is suddenly all the more precious and I vow to be worthy of it.

I have no words – they are all too hollow – but I grip the wrist of the hand upon my shoulder and I pat it awkwardly. He nods, understanding, and we move forward.

**TBC**

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><p>Translations:<p>

_Lasto - listen_

__Iston - I know__

__**I think this is the first time I use the term**__** laegren_ in this fic and I wanted to just clarify. I know that the laegren folk and the silvan folk aren't the same thing but in my version of Thranduil's kingdom the Sindarin folk and the Silvan elves live alongside one another (indeed, Legolas' mother is Silvan in my version) but are very different. I wanted them separated a bit further, and this will eventually explain a very different side of Legolas that has not yet been shown completely. I apologise if this upsets anyone. _**

__**Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. To those who may be lurking, it'd be wonderful to get an idea of what you may think for good or bad. It really does make it worthwhile to know people are enjoying it and concrit helps me improve. Thanks in advance :)**__

_**MyselfOnly**  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey all, I may be about to upset some people as this was originally going to be the final chapter before the epilogue but it was just too huge. Subsequently, this and the next chapter are a bit shorter than I usually post and I personally hate it when authors do this but I now understand why sometimes it just has to be done! I will post the final chapter early next week; probably Monday or Tuesday but less of me, on with the story! Enjoy.**

**MyselfOnly**

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><p>Our approach is uneventful, although the air is thick with expectation and the smell of rot is heavy. No birds call and the silence is unnatural and overwhelming. By the time we reach the door my body is so excited with dread that I feel ready to be physically sick so I remember Finulfin and the look of lost hope and grief that I was given at our parting. I remember the cry of the child. I remember that by my neglect this creature caused harm to my friend by its very escape from the mountain.<p>

I let anger fill me, replacing the fear and giving strength back to my spirit. There is a call from the right. Almárean does not wish us to enter. Legolas dismisses him with a quick '_hold'_ and with a shared look, we enter the house.

Within all is as ordinary as would be expected. Rickety furniture stands in tidy order. A made bed with a clean but threadbare blanket is tucked away. Herbs hang from the beams lending a more pleasant note to the dusty, smoke filled room and a low fire shifts. It is larger in here than expected but also quite empty. We continue further, unsure, confounded by this emptiness. We had expected anything but this.

"Tell me." I bid. "Your senses are keener."

"This room is nothing but scent!" Legolas is frustrated, nudging a pile of rags with the toe of his boot. "I cannot unravel them to any use."

We stand, starting to feel foolish, but as we prepare to leave the temperature plummets and the room is plunged into night. The only light is from the embers in the hearth and the door slams violently shut. I rush over and pull and tug uselessly at the door. I can hear Idhren and Almárean out there hammering uselessly at wood that is suddenly as iron. I bid that they stand back and prepare to see how it fares against my axe but then the cry comes again and it is here, within this very room. The sound of it tears through me like a knife and I falter, deafened and shaken and turn to see the elf fold to his knees with such a look of pain upon him that I fear for my friend. A seasoned warrior he has not dropped his weapons but his fists press to his head. I do not know what darkness besets his senses but I know that he is stricken and needs my help.

The pile of rags beside him shifts and moves and climbs to its feet.

A woman of such years as to appear mere cobweb skin and driftwood bone is here but she is not right somehow; within her eyes is nothing but a madness that burns with a cold fire, sapping what strength I have. She stands and moves with odd, birdlike movements as though something else moves her limbs and her head hangs to one side. Her hands are tipped with claws the length again of her fingers; curved and deadly looking and around her writhes the Shadow as though a midnight mist enshrouds her. It moves as she does, it emanates from her skin and is exhaled with her breath. Perhaps she was human once, but no longer; she is animated by it. Part of me hopes that she is truly dead as any soul trapped within must surely be screaming.

Legolas comes back to himself but in no time to do anything to protect himself as the Shadow falls upon him. He is pushed to the ground and is on his back as the screaming dervish rakes at him with long, razor claws. She has drawn blood before I can make it to him.

I hear his name pass my lips as the sight of his blood upon her talons breaks the hold upon me. I break a chair across the old woman with force that would have a grown man reeling and senseless. It affects her not at all and my friend shouts angrily as he fights off the attack. We are both reticent to use more force – we do not know where the child is – but Legolas is being shredded and it is all he can do to keep her from his eyes and neck. When he calls my name it is with frustration.

"I am trying!" I call back as my axe bounces off her. I do not want to hack at her and accidentally half my elf in the process but it seems that I need not be concerned of this. She is made of stuff stronger than the very walls of Minas Tirith! I put all of my power into one final swing; I roar with fury and take aim for her head to nothing. She is unfazed and I begin to feel true fear for my friend. His hands are all bloody ribbons and if she is this strong she must be wearing him down. I cast my eye about the room in panic and take a burning brand from the fire.

Of this she takes notice.

She rises from the elf as smoke rises from flame. None of the weakness of age touches her in bone or limb and her eyes meet mine. They are pits of darkness, deep as the abyss and as cold as the heart of winter. She eyes the flame with hatred fuelled by madness and I know that this is the Shadow that I see before me, no matter what form it takes.

"Gimli, flee!" Legolas entreats. I spare him a glance. His injuries are to his hands mostly, which he cradles even as he tries to rise. He manages to prop himself on one side and I can see a few rends on his chest and neck where she has broken past his defences and then the possessed woman hisses. It is a hateful sound and my attention is diverted. I sidle, thrusting the brand at the shade until I am between her and the elf.

"Can you rise?" I ask and I mistakenly take my eyes from the Shadow to check on him. The beast screams and it is all that I can hear and see. I am frozen once again. Something strikes me once, twice, like a snake and I fall nerveless to my knees. I hear my name called by a fearful, fair voice as I am struck for a third time and I know only darkness.

~{O}~

When I come to myself it is a slow awakening. My senses return one at a time and build a picture that only raises questions, it does not answer them. I smell earth and mould, the disuse of a place beneath the ground. I know it like I know the smells of my home. I am cold to my bones and have a fierce pain in my head that feels like all of the hammers of Mahal beat against my skull. It is dark but my eyes adjust slowly.

"Gimli?" a voice calls fearfully. The elf has felt my return to wakefulness although I have made no sound. I rectify this now and groan loudly, fighting a powerful urge to retch as I rise. I am against a cold wall and off the floor and wait for the hammers to cease.

"Gimli, speak my friend! _Saes!_"

The elf is afraid for me. I must look a true sight and I raise my hand to feel my hair and face covered in blood. "I am well Legolas." I mumble through a mouth dry and foul tasting. Opening my eyes is a poor choice and I groan again. "I live, at least." I amend.

I look for him, curious as to why he has not come to my side and I am horrified. His wrists are manacled and chained to the wall, although the chain is long enough for him to hold his broken hands to a blood stained chest. He is as pale as ever but in the soft nimbus of his natural light I can see pain in him and his eyes are wild. He is bound and we are somewhere beneath the ground. He is about to fly apart at the seams. I come to him and he will not let me touch him.

Only then do I notice a small, dirty figure curled into his side. It is the child – we have found her, after a fashion – and she has gone straight to the figure that she associates with safety. Unfortunately, that figure is too hurt and too afraid to tolerate the contact even from me. How he is holding himself so calm I do not know; I understand the horror of it for him. My friend has the greatest spirit I have ever encountered before.

"You have the look of a well tenderised slab of beef." He tells me. His voice shakes and it is a poor attempt at humour. When I move again to see his injuries his eyes widen. He will not injure my feelings by recoiling from me again but I see that every muscle is bow string taut and quivering with the need to flee. I know that his heart will be hammering fit to burst and so I sit beside him, providing what comfort I can.

The sleeping child has her doll again. She is a beautiful thing, for a mannish child. She is delicate and blonde but filthy and her cheeks are tear-streaked. Seeing her alive as she is gives me a measure of strength, even as my skull pounds behind my eyes.

"Where are we?" I ask quietly. I do not know why I am so shy but the situation seems to call for quiet.

"Beneath the house," he replies. "We are deep. I do not wish to know the reason for this pit or for these." He shifts his arms so that the chains sing, indicating his meaning. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall. He hums to himself. He tries to remain calm.

"How long?"

"Hours." He cracks one eye open and fixes me with a glazed blue eye. "I was truly worried Gimli; she used a fire iron. I have seen men's brains damaged beyond healing by far less."

"Let us wait before deciding that mine is not," I grimace. "What of your men?"

"The house has been sealed – none may enter or leave. One will be standing guard outside and the other will go to meet with whatever party Orthorien has found." The third elf; that was his name. I recall it now.

"So help comes?"

He shrugs one shoulder and closes his eyes. He is truly a ray of hope in the darkness and I consider telling him as such but after a while of silence I say instead: "I like Mirkwood well so far."

His surprised laugh is loud and stirs the child who is hushed back to sleep. This time when I try to look at his injuries he allows it. I am gentle as I can be but I do not have the slender fingers of an archer or the knowing of a healer and I know my investigation pains him. I do no more than look but I am unsettled by what I see. I fear for the future of those hands if they are not properly ministered to soon. The damage is severe; bones are broken and I fear for the hurt that I cannot see. He heals too quickly; they will heal damaged and he will wield neither bow nor knife if that occurs. I can see that he knows this and I do not speak of it, instead I look to the chains that hold him. They are thick and sturdy and held fast against the wall. I yearn for my axe but our weapons are gone.

I do not know when exactly it is that I realise that we are not alone but all of my senses speak of it. My hackles rise and my blood freezes again – I had thought myself cold before but it seems I had some warmth to spare. There is a brush of air a little fresher than the air beneath ground and a voice croons softly in the blackness around us. It is a terrible sound: the call of a mother to a child but twisted into something dark and ugly, hidden in the darkness.

It is sudden: the child is pulled from Legolas' side and she cries out shrilly in shock and fear. The elf reaches for her in desperation but he is bound to the wall. He fights against the chains, pulling weakly with ruined hands as the child weeps and calls for him even as she is torn away, and as she grasps the air to reach his outstretched hands any control that he may have had before is lost.

I am not bound but as I go after the child I am thrown against the wall with a force that cracks my already abused head against the stone wall. I see stars bloom before my eyes and something give at the back of my skull and all sound dims around me. The cries of the elf, helpless to assist either of us fade and echo about me and when sound and sight focus once more I am filled with anger. Never should Legolas sound like that. Never whilst I draw breath.

I lose myself for a moment then. I cannot keep my eyes open, my vision tunnels into nothing and when I return some time has passed; now I see the ragged woman cloaked in her Shadow crouched in the corner. On her lap is the child, frozen in place with silent tears running down her dirt streaked face. The hag croons and sings to her, stroking her hair. She is gentle and the claws that had torn my friend so to pieces are not to be seen. She seems to care for the child.

I see then something that I had not seen before and my nausea returns but it is nothing to do with the abuse to my head. Irrationally my anger, fear and disgust are touched with a shade of pity. There, in the corner, abandoned and ruined by age but still recognisable are the remains of a child's cradle. This possessed woman, no matter what has become of her now, had been a mother once.

I refuse to think on what had occurred for her madness to manifest so: for her to hide in the blighted forests of Mirkwood alone all the years of her life and to fixate on a beautiful, pale haired child as soon as the Shadow came. If I think on it I may not be able to do what must be done.

I look to Legolas and he is half wild now. The confinement and helplessness are blinding him and although clawing at his chains must pain him horribly he no longer seems to feel it. The child has ceased calling to him but their eyes are fixed on one another and she may as well be screaming his name.

I search and I find what I look for. The hag is too distracted now to see what I do and although I know that my flight back into the house is necessary, leaving the elf feels as though I am abandoning him.

**TBC**

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><p><strong>I am so very, very sorry! :)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

We are deep. The stairs back to the house are long and slick with water upon moss but although it feels like I spend a lifetime trying to reach the surface it is likely not as long as it seems. My breath is harsh in my ears and every beat of my heart is a punishing blow in my head. I am hurt, I recognise it. I am struggling to recall my purpose, struggling to form thought and the pain is overwhelming. I have suffered injury to the head a few times but never before like this. I reach again to brush my fingertips to where the fire originates from and there is give in my skull. This is a very bad thing indeed. I am staggering like a drunkard and everything is a blur but I climb and I climb because I can do no less.

When I reach the trapdoor and find myself back in the house I collapse upon the floor and spend too long finding my legs again. The windows are still dark but we have not been down in the earth long enough for night to have fallen so I know that the house is still protected by the Shadow. I try the door nevertheless. It does not budge.

I find my axe and Legolas' knives but I make a mental apology to him – I cannot carry his bow as well. I turn to face my quarry, the fire. It has gone out.

I drop to my knees, more tired than I have ever been before and could weep. I wish only to sleep but from deep within the earth I hear the muted cry of a child and the frantic, visceral growl of a cornered elf. He will never fight again if he continues to try to reach the child. He will heal only if he sails but he will then be lost to me so I take out my flint and try to focus.

Three tries it takes. Three tries before I can steady my hand and see the flint, three tries before the spark hits the kindling. Three tries and finally I coax a small lick of flame to catch but then I must wait whilst it gutters and struggles. I lose my battle then and the room fades into greyness, I am gone, and when I wake the fire is fully taken. I feel sick when I imagine how much time I have missed to unconsciousness and this time I cannot help it, I empty my stomach onto the floor and the room sways and tilts around me as though taken full sail. At last though I have what I need. The fire is good and bright and I throw all of the wood I can find upon it, rousing it into frenzy. When I go to collect my prize though I realise my mistake: I have missed her return; I have slept through it. She is here with me.

There is the shriek again; that awful scream of madness, an echo of when Morgoth himself walked and breathed life into such creatures. The brand I hold in my hand is knocked to the floor with a blow that freezes to the bone. It is a deep, bone aching cold and I grip my nerveless hand then draw my axe. I know the futility of it but I will not meet my end without a weapon in my hand.

She is furious but will not approach. The fire burns hot and bright at my back and I am dismayed to see that my dropped brand has caught. The house is on fire and flames begin to lick hungrily at the rug, the tinder dry furniture, the desiccated herbs. All is old and dusty dry in here and the fire catches fast. Rotten teeth are bared at me in a vicious hiss even as she backs away toward the shadows. She is afraid and it gives me back my strength. If it can feel fear then it can be killed.

I retrieve the burning brand from the flames and feel the flesh of my hand singe and blacken. It is nothing compared to the rage I feel and this with the desperation draws an almighty cry from me. It rumbles through my chest from my very heart, from my soul, from my exhaustion and pain and my conviction that I will not allow this evil to go out into the world. The girl will be returned to her family. The elf will be returned to his father whole and will walk beneath the trees again. I cry with all of my forefathers and all of their strength behind me. I am clear and my weariness vanishes and I lunge toward her as she comes to me.

I feel her claws as I know Legolas did. They are like ice; an ancient cold that bores deep into me and the pain is indescribable. I know not how he has borne it. My flames catch upon the rags that she wears and her shriek is different this time. It is disbelieving and agonised, insanity and fury but she feels. She feels the cleansing flame as it burns away the Shadow and it is agony to her. Her flight to extinguish the flame that engulfs her completely spreads the fire to the rest of the house and I am in an inferno.

I can see again! Light streams through the windows and she falls through the door. Dancing and jerking she flees but I do not follow. The new air only feeds the flames and I cough and cannot stop. I do not descend the stairs, I fall down them.

The room beneath the house is much as I left it but now it is filled with acrid smoke. My eyes stream and I am choked by it, my head splits with each cough and blood runs from my fight with the Shadow. I am done in, but I set my axe to Legolas' chains with all my waning strength and they are not even marked; they are too thick and I am too weak. Again and again I swing, again and again I fail to set him free and when I finally falter I realise my own madness. The elf has been calling me and I have heard none of it.

When I pause to wipe the sweat that streams into my eyes I find that I can barely breathe through the smoke. Red embers begin to drift down; the tinder dry floor above us has caught and will fall in. I feel then the tears that choke me. I will not save my friend. I cannot free him in time.

"Gimli!" he calls and realises that he has at last caught my attention. "Take her!"

The child is wrapped about him, sheltered as much as he can beneath his arm. Her sobs tear at me; the weeping of the truly young awakening a protective fire within me.

"_Please._" He whispers.

Our eyes meet and there is no pain any more. I can breathe; there is no terrified child or hurt. The building does not burn around us. His eyes are clear and blue and so very frightened but the strength I see humbles me. I weep without shame now. I cannot free him!

"Flee, Gimli." He entreats softly. "Save her, take her home and live. Know that you are the most treasured friend and the greatest strength I have ever known, and look to the stars."

"I will come back." I promise, and it sounds like a threat. I am furious with him! He is saying good bye, he is giving up. "Damn you!" I bellow and cough until I believe I will never stop. "And damn your stars. I will come back."

He meets my gaze again and this time I cannot read him. He nods, and I fly.

The child beneath my arm weighs less than tinder and she is clung on like a limpet. She is too frightened now to make a sound but she coughs as though she means to empty her lungs entirely. By the time I reach the mid-point of the stairs she is a dead weight and my body is moving by sheer will power alone. My muscles scream and my lungs rake in nothing but fouled air. My skin blisters in the heat and I am seared all over. I am spent.

I fall through the trap door much as before but this time there is no strength left to find. The child is up and pulls and tugs at me, weeping and crying out but she is too slight and I am too heavy.

"_Drego, penneth!"_ I urge, glad that I will never have to tell the elf I resorted to speaking in his nonsense language but I know that the child will respond to it. The flames are everything; all I can see and their heat all I know but then there are strong arms beneath me. I am being dragged to the door and then Ai! The air!

I call his name and fight their hands_. "Legolas!"_ I call, but it is not him. It will never again be him. I fight and the voices try to calm me but I am beyond comfort. He is gone and I must return to him, I promised. I did not say goodbye and I swore I would return for him.

I see the house collapse in the weight of its flames and it is over. I am too late. He is gone and I fall into darkness.

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><p><em>Drego, penneth - flee, little one<em>

__**Erm, really sorry. I really am. ****Not only have I done what I've just done but I've done it in a really short chapter.**

**There's an epilogue so I'm hoping to make up for it there; it'll be up by the end of the week. I'd really appreciate a few words from you guys as to what you think. Come on guys, I know you're out there! **

**MyselfOnly**


	7. Epilogue

When I was little more than a lad my father sat with me and spoke of what he believed to be the truth of the world.

He said many things that dark night, deep beneath the earth in a silent hall where the shadows were a comfort to a young dwarf. I remember little but his deep rumbling voice and the warmth of the fire but I recall one thing that he said very clearly.

'_Son'_ he said, '_trust always in your heart and in your axe, for they will never fail you. Never trust in an elf or a woman, for they will betray you and break your heart'._

I hear those words as clearly as if he were sat here with me now.

It is late afternoon and the sun streaming through my balcony is a rich gold. I sit on the edge of my bed in the more than generous quarters that I have been given within the palace of King Thranduil. We are in a mountain, aye, but the chambers of the royal household and those of their guests are on the face of it. It is all balconies and high windows where plants from without may as well be within. My own window is draped thick with ivy and I can see trees outside; not the thick tangle of forest but the airy, sweeping boughs of cultivated trees that have much space. The elves try very hard to disguise their confinement.

The room is not overly opulent; it is large and full of light but the walls are not covered in tapestries and very little decoration fills it. Instead the stone walls are carved with trees and leaves and birds to look as much like the outside as possible. My bed posts are detailed with trailers of wooden honeysuckle, my doors are all over with running water and fish. The craft and time it has taken to create such beauty should fill me with joy but I feel no such thing.

I have not been awake long. I did not expect to wake at all. My body aches with disuse and my head throbs with my heart; a cracked skull I am told. I am lucky to be alive, they say. So nearly was I lost.

A week I have slept. A week!

Idhren was present at my awakening. They believed a familiar face would be best when I found myself somewhere so unknown so he has tended me all of this time. It was his hand that healed me, his voice that soothed me in my nightmares and his skill that means I am awake and here now but it should not have been. Another should be here.

Idhren spoke quietly to me whilst I found my bearings. The hurt to my head means I will forget things, he said to me, but there are things I cannot forget. He told me of Orthorien's return with a party of elves in time to witness the death of the ragged woman and my collapse. He tells me that they watched her burn, there in the corrupted clearing. She had burned as fast as dry tinder and just as hot, and although she had screamed long after she should have been unable to none had tried to extinguish the flames. Her screaming had been something inhuman, it had twisted inside them and kept them at bay in fear – fear, he said, that he had not felt since he had been a child and would hear in his darkest hours for the rest of his days. They had buried her there beside the stream and her remains had been as light as flower dander. I am only half listening and cannot bring any emotion to bear for the woman that had lived in the house by the stream, beneath the tree.

He told me of the flight here to the palace, of the time I had spent here and all that had passed in between and then faced with my long silence he left me. I have been allowed peace to wash and dress in quiet and they have left me a small meal of tea and honey cakes but I cannot eat them. My head is bandaged and so I can do little with my hair but it is tied away from my face and my beard is kempt. My ribs are bound from the deep ridges furrowing them, my burned hand has had salve applied and it too is bound. I wear soft clothes and I am presentable enough but I can do aught but sit here on the edge of my bed, lost as a child.

I cannot help myself. I drop my head into my hands and I weep.

He lives.

Idhren returns and instructs me to rest, but I will not listen. He tries to persuade me but sees the iron in my gaze and relents. I must be quiet, he says, I must not make a fuss and I must be careful but the prince is close and he will take me to him. I list and sway as I stand but will allow no help. The elf simply nods and leads me away down a hall that is wide and carved just as intricately as my own room. When he reaches the door to Legolas' room he pauses and bids I wait. He vanishes within, and is back soon to lead me in but then is gone again.

Legolas' room is as large as mine but even more care has been given to let the light in. There is a corner of the room where I do not believe the doors have been shut for years; the ivy has grown so large it is growing through the frame and into the very room and his bed is close to another set of doors, wide open now. His room is that of a warrior; there are weapons all about and books strewn with little care. There is a desk that holds a great deal of paper but it looks like it has been there for a long time. It holds much of him.

The room is positioned so that the last of the evening light streams in and lights all of the walls rich red gold. The leaves and birds carved on his wall look alive, lit as they are, and the sun turns a golden head into red fire but it is not the golden head that I was expecting. King Thranduil sits with his child, a serene figure in plain robes with a book held in long fingers. He is watching me closely and I feel extremely uncomfortable but I move closer in any case. I want to see the elf but he is in shadow. I shudder.

"He will be well," the King speaks, seeing it. He and Legolas are indeed very much alike. Thranduil is taller, broader, but they have the same hair, the same eyes, the same tilt to their head and spirit about them. He looks care worn and weary but I feel very much the sense of standing before an elven lord of great age; his presence touches the air like lightening before a storm. He beckons me forward and I can finally see the elf.

His face is turned away but I can see the burns upon his neck. He is badly burned, Idhren told me. They found him before the house collapsed, but not before the floor did. He was protected; a section fell askew and it was this that saved him from the full brunt of the flames but he was still touched by them. He will heal, they say. They do not seem to feel the concern I think they should.

"I have much to thank you for, master Gimli," Thranduil speaks.

"I could not stop this from happening to him," I shake my head. My tongue is thick in my mouth. "When I left, I said I would return for him. I did not."

"You saved the child who told Orthorien's men where to find my son. He has been awake a few times, he has told us of what occurred and he says that you fought on through injuries that would have felled most men; you killed the shadow, you saved the child. I am in great debt to you."

I disagree. I disagree quite strongly but it would be disrespectful to argue whether I feel it or not. I latch onto one thing that he has spoken:

"He has been awake?"

"A little," Thranduil turns back to his son and his hand rests tenderly upon a pale brow. "We feed him herbs so that he sleeps; he is pained and frets to leave when he is awake. Our healers say that he is mending as he should now and they will likely stop the herbs soon; he is very much improved from when he came to us."

"And his hands?" I choke. Thranduil's face darkens, his eyes filled with something I do not know him well enough to understand; it is this that is the worry. This is the greatest of his hurt. Thranduil rises to his feet and comes to me and I am quite unable to breathe under the full weight of his gaze. I see now where Legolas gets it from. He rests one hand upon my shoulder and smiles; it is a small thing but it is real.

"We shall have to see if we were in time to save them, the injury is grave but our healers are very skilled. I will leave you with him for a time Gimli, we will speak again."

He leaves us but I barely notice. This is not how I should have met the King of the Woodland Realm. This is not how Legolas should have returned home. This is not how it should have been but he lives. He lives!

I sit carefully at his side and rest my fingers only lightly on his chest long enough to feel the rise and fall of his slow breathing. He looks young; golden hair splays unbound across his pillow and the silken scrap of his eyelashes is dark against pale cheeks. I smile finally and feel the tension drain from me.

"The moon and stars all shine upon you, laddie," I shake my head, my hands moving to rest upon his arm away from the thick bindings about his hands. It is contact enough. He stirs lightly – barely enough to notice – but it is life. My friend lives.

~{O}~

The elves are at play.

I have been invited to join them but I decline politely, I am no flittering bird of an elf and I ceased play when I became an adult so I sit upon the ground with a collection of belongings strewn about me. Idhren and Legolas have left their boots, bows and quivers and I look after their packs whilst they run around like children. Occasionally I hear them shout or laugh but I hear nothing else; their flight through the trees is silent and I leave them to it.

Today is the first day that the healers have given Legolas permission to leave the palace and I am thankful for it. I am days away from finishing what the Shadow started and throttling him and I know that a lot of the palace staff are much of the same mind. He has been like a caged animal; sharp tongued and quick to temper, ever his eyes out in the woods. My injury means that my head aches often, I struggle to focus and remember what purpose I am set to and I am irritable with it; it is a poor combination of things.

Legolas' burns are fading scars but his hands were un-bound mere days ago and they are stiff and pain him. There is little else that can be done now to heal them other than grant them time; we do not know yet the full damage. He has regained use enough to do all the tasks he requires of them, if slowly, but this does not tell us how he will fare with his weapons. Tomorrow we will start on his training – I will have him back to his old self or die in the trying – but for today he is granted a day in his Greenwood.

When they return, they are a mess. They smile like fools and their eyes flash wildly, their clothing is tree stained and dishevelled and one of them is bleeding – what sort of game requires that they be armed with knives?

They sit beside me and help themselves to food and drink and Legolas sits close to mark my progress. I am writing a missive to Aragorn, although I am struggling to pay it full mind. Our friend has sent many letters since hearing of our encounter with the Shadow but only one has he sent to Legolas; a rather terse and exceedingly short letter wishing him a speedy recovery. I know that our Ranger holds Legolas responsible for getting himself injured and does not trust in the elf to receive an honest account of our well being. It is down to me.

"Tell him that we are to hunt spiders in the south!" Legolas prompts. His youth shows today; he is like an excited elfling. Nothing of the ancient stillness touches him and although I am well used to how easily his moods change I do not know which Legolas I prefer: the angry, feral thing of the last weeks or this flitting waif. My Legolas is somewhere between and this version makes my head ache all the more.

"Have the healers told you that you are allowed to hunt spiders again?" Idhren asks suspiciously. The russet head is pillowed now upon his pack and he is at ease. Legolas says something that I am sure is considered rather rude in a dialect I do not recognise and Idhren throws whatever he can find to hand in his direction; it is leaves and twigs and they flutter to the ground.

"You smell of wood sap and soil." I complain and Legolas shifts further away as Idhren laughs.

"You can join our hunt if you wish," Legolas offers the other elf. He pulls a bit of moss from his hair and releases it into the breeze. "You need only ask. I do not mind but Gimli here does not like elves and I would not overly tax his blood."

"It is only one elf that taxes my blood," I comment, not taking my attention from the letter. "Indeed if Idhren wishes to come, you may stay."

I do not need to look to know that Legolas' pulls a face. Idhren sighs and takes one of his prince's knives, admiring the craft of it. I have found that each elf, although armed the same, has a weapon as unique to them as each flake of snow is unique. The design and craft are entirely personal.

"As much as it pains me, not all of us have been released from our duties as our beloved prince has. I am on patrol these next weeks and will have no time for hunting spiders."

"That is all you will be doing!" Legolas snorts. Idhren shrugs. I know that we will be a trio when we leave, whenever that will be; the elves here indulge Legolas and I see now the love they have for him. I am pleased at the thought of Idhren joining our hunt; he is an easy presence and quick witted. I have spent time getting used to the _laegren_ and can bear them as I could not have even a year ago.

Legolas picks up an apple and fumbles, dropping it. He has done too much today and his hands are stiff and clumsy now. Idhren and I are quick to pretend that the moment passed unseen but we cannot fool him; he reddens and his good mood is passed. I feel the moment of it.

When he stands and walks away into the trees he leaves alone. Idhren looks at me – he is miserable – and I shake my head. He does not follow.

~{O}~

I find him on the practise field, as I found him this morning and as he has been all day. I hear him curse as I near and they are vicious, bitter words. The Legolas from yesterday is nowhere to be found and I have thought long on whether to approach him or not, but now I sit upon the ground and observe silently in the gentle breeze of a late spring afternoon beneath the trees. Birds sing and the scent of summer is there in the air but Legolas feels no joy in it, he is the same Legolas as of these past weeks and it is breaking my heart to see him this way.

He takes his stance, pulls the bow with practised ease and releases his shot. It thumps solidly into a target that I can barely see and he swears again. It is not a perfect shot. He has barely improved since this morning and it is strange to see him struggle with the bow, it is not Legolas. He shouts and throws his weapon, pacing like a wild cat and flexing his hands. They must pain him terribly by now but he is frustrated. He turns to me and he is in a high fury.

"Must you linger so?" he demands angrily. "I am sure there are better entertainments than watching a lame elf trying at bow. Came you to laugh?"

"I certainly did not come to be shouted at. You have been upsetting people all day; do you wish to drive away the one person willing to sit with you?"

His lip lifts and his teeth are bared for a moment, danger flashing in eyes as cold as ice. I find it difficult to see my friend in the wild animal before me. He comes close – too close – and I fight the urge to step back before he realises his actions. He turns to stalk away but stops himself and stands with his back to me, his shoulders heaving with the fight to contain himself and I wait. When he turns to me I say nothing. He sees the look I give him and there is a small flicker of regret across his face before he hisses and retrieves the bow.

He stalks to me and falls to the ground at my side, lying upon his back and massaging his hands and forearms. They are no longer bound but the scarring is thick and ugly. I see one scar to his left wrist; there a tendon was cut. I see one upon the right; there the tiny bird bones of his hand were broken. Three weeks since the injury and he is shooting again. Whether he needs to work to regain his skill or not he is lucky to be using them at all and I tell him so. His eyes narrow and he is still angry but he is fighting to rein in his temper. I realise that this is what he does with none but Aragorn usually; I appreciate that I have been deemed worthy of it but my head hurts and I grow frayed by his black moods now. Eru save us, we all have!

"I was not permitted my first axe until I could swing and hit a mark fifty times in a row," I tell him. "I learned strength to wield its weight, I learned skill and precision but it took me many hours to even manage to hit the same mark twice. I cannot even see that target Legolas but can I assume your shot would be counted as good by many?"

"I have always been considered the best of the archers," he complains and realises instantly how childish that sounds. He groans loudly and rests one arm across his eyes to hide himself; either him from me or me from him, I cannot tell. "It is frustrating, Gimli. Long did I train to become what I am; it is lost in an instant. What use a warrior of Lasgalen who can neither shoot well nor wield a knife? I cannot even grip my blades with any strength!"

"Strength will return," I say certainly. "And if you learned skill once, you can learn skill again. But no more tonight; you are pained and do not deny it. You will do no good undoing all of the healers work by pushing yourself too far."

"You think me a fool?"

"Often," I reply certainly. "But not over this."

He uncovers his eyes and looks at me flatly. He turns his gaze to the sky where a small flock of birds wheel and dance in play.

"What if it does not come back Gimli?" he asks me, his voice barely a murmur. I know enough not to mock him for this.

"I will not insult you Legolas," I reply. "I have thought on it. I do not know what you would do, but know you would be my friend whether you can do well with a bow or not. None know if you will heal completely but you will find out if you do not give in to despair, work hard and cease pushing away those who wish to help you."

For a moment I see the shadow of wetness about his eyes but it is gone in a breath.

"I have done little to deserve your friendship these last weeks Gimli, _goheno nin_. I will do better I swear it."

"Do not say untrue things simply because you think I wish to hear it, you know me far better than this. You will be as swift to change and unbearable as you always are!" I brush his words away. "You are Legolas and I would have you no other way, most times. You should be more gracious with your friends here though; they have missed you and they worry for you." I reach out one foot and nudge him. "Come, no more of this for today. My head aches, I am hungry and I cannot find anything in that labyrinth you call a home. Find me some food Legolas and I will tell you all of the evening long of great dwarven deeds and the folly of men to take your mind off your almost perfect archery."

He takes a deep breath, pushing unspoken things aside and is to his feet in a smooth movement. He goes to hold his hand out to me but I do not take it, fixing him with a disbelieving look. His cheeks flush for a moment. He forgets sometimes. We walk back very slowly, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine upon our faces.

"I have been thinking of the girl," I tell him after a while. He does not reply but he is listening. "I have had nightmares of the Shadow, I will admit it. She was held far longer than we were, she must be suffering terribly and I realise that we never learned her name. Perhaps we should go to Bray."

Legolas thinks long and then shakes his head. "Let her forget us," he returns softly. "It is best, but know that she is alive because of you. She is young, and the young are stronger than we ever give them credit for."

He is young, I think to myself, and it gives me comfort. He will mend just as I will mend. We will be well. Tomorrow he will be better on the bow, tomorrow he will hurt less and the day after he will be better even than that. My mind and my head will heal. I trust in it. One day this will be but a tale to tell and although it is only my memory that will fade, the horror of it will lessen. My friend will live.

I stop dead in my tracks and Legolas takes only a few steps forward before stopping and turning. His look is questioning and I must bear some upset on my face for his gaze softens and he is concerned. I open my mouth to speak but the words are dry on my tongue. I stare at him and I feel my heart stutter and choke. I remember. I remember something I had forgotten and for a moment I am choked by smoke, my skin sears and I feel the again the realisation that I would have to leave my friend behind. I think on what could have been.

"I am glad you are well, Legolas," I tell him. He could jest at this moment but he sees how I am struggling with this and does not; his eyes soften with understanding and he comes to rest one hand upon my shoulder.

"I would have given up hope without you Gimli, both in my confinement beneath the house and all the days since I have woken. If I am well it is down to you. I did not need for you to come back for me; you never left."

I nod and give myself a shake, clearing my throat. I move forward, away from the darkness of this moment and he lets me go. I forget sometimes, and he is there when I remember to show that we are both still here.

"Well," I say. "I need you with me a while longer still my friend. I have yet to hunt a spider!"

He laughs and I feel the warmth of it. My friend is here and he lives.

~{O}~

There is a clearing in western Mirkwood where a house lies abandoned to the ages.

It is a burned and blackened shell, collapsed in on itself, and the forest has already sought to reclaim it. Weeds push through a dirt path that had always been so carefully maintained and the tree that shelters it from the harshest of the weather has dropped its progeny upon the ground for years. Now there are none to pull up the saplings, now they begin to take root deep in the dark and verdant soil of the riverbank.

Deep beneath the house is a place that was almost a tomb for a prince. Now it has caved in, the floor that had hidden it burned and collapsed deep into the bowels of the earth and leaves now settle there. A single sad and forgotten cradle sits beneath the wreckage, left to rot and sift to dust.

Darkness walked here for a while. Animal bones will bleach in the summers to come but they are still corrupt and foul things, worried by scavengers and alive with things that crawl and burrow. Darkness walked here, but life has returned. Birds sing and animals wander unconcerned in a place where they have avoided for all the years of a woman's life. They drink at the stream, they leap the paddock fence to graze the well tended meadow within and once, an aged and hoary gray fox curls up to sleep in a shaft of sunlight for an afternoon.

There is a grave a short walk away. It is shallow and hastily dug by hands frantic for flight but unwilling to leave a human shell out for the crows. Bluebells shiver in a thick carpet here and it is a good place to lie for the rest of the years of the world. Snow never lies too thick here, it is not well travelled and the summers will be a beautiful testimony to the woman who never had the life she should have lived. Those that interred her did not know when this spot was chosen, but her husband and child sleep not too far away.

One night, as a storm takes the forest and rain hammers the trees the wood grows silent again. Everything with sense is sheltering from the wild spring weather but it is a different stillness. The wind hushes, even for a moment, and in that moment a shadow grows. It comes from the ground, gathers itself, and it is gone on the wind in search of another warm body and a beating heart to take for its own.

It is very, very angry.

END

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><p><strong>So there we are, all finished! Hopefully, a certain person will stop accusing me of being a murderer now and I can stop feeling so guilty. As my first real multi chapter fic this has been quite an emotional rollercoaster but I've enjoyed it immensely. There is a sequel being written at the moment so I'd really appreciate some feedback. What worked, what didn't, what would you like to see more or less of and so on. It'd be nice to know you're there and reading. Bye for now, hope to see you soon!<strong>

**MyselfOnly **


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