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by JulesAello
Category:
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien. *bowing low*
Feedback: would be very appreciated!
Summary:
A/N: Although this is bookverse, I refer to the final part of a scene from
the movie which I liked very much. This story is still in an experimental stage... It may very well be
revised once or twice ;-)
***********************
Gimli, son of Glóin, awoke in the early morning hours of March the
seventh in the year 120, Gondor reckoning(*). The sun had not yet
risen, and the Dwarf's chamber still remained in darkness. In the
gloom Gimli lay nestled between the silken blankets and soft pillows
provided by Queen Arwen's household. He should have felt most
comfortable, yet he sensed only dread and grief, and above all he
sensed an all-encompassing wrongness. He had no need to think long on
whence this feeling came, for it had not left him since his dearest
friend -- Thranduil's son, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, Lord of the Elves
of Ithilien, Legolas Greenleaf of the Fellowship of the Ring, to list
but a few of the many names bestowed upon his companion over the
years of his immortal life -- had said his farewell to the King
Elessar in Rath Dínen.
Gimli had knelt before Aragorn's last resting place and had watched
as Legolas had touched a hand first to his forehead, then to his
lips, in a gesture they had once witnessed in a forest, in the
silence after a grim battle had been fought and partly lost. Then,
whispering 'Be at peace, King of Gondor', Legolas had bent and kissed
Elessar's brow. After that the Elf had turned and left the House of
Kings swiftly and without a glance at any other.
The image was branded into Gimli's soul, and every time he thought on
this last moment between two of the people most beloved to him, his
eyes filled with tears. Too many had died in recent years. Now only
three were left of the circle that had wreathed itself around the
Fellowship, though he did not truly count Queen Arwen among the
living, for in her heart she seemed already to have left her life
behind. Only her body still moved and had not yet laid her down for
the final rest.
'And if I wait much longer ere I take action,' said Gimli to
himself, 'I shall be forced to watch as the obstinate Elf loses
himself in his despair. His spirit will simply leave his body behind,
if I take no care.'
Yet Gimli was certain that he could out-stubborn his friend. He was a
Dwarf after all! He would sooner be damned before he allowed Legolas
to waste his immortality.
It had been a perpetual cause for dispute between them over the last
hundred years and more. Misunderstandings, jests, and competitions
aside, the only true fights the two had ever had were about Legolas'
refusal to sail over Sea. Gimli, having had to witness the worst of
the Elf's bouts of despair, repeatedly had begged his friend to
leave. And Legolas -- besides other reasons -- had been incensed at
the idea of being remembered as the one who was too weak to last at
least as long as his companions lived.
At one time, in the first years of King Elessar's reign, after an
especially heartbreaking episode, Gimli had pulled his beard in
frustration, crying 'I wish you had never left your father's halls!',
meaning, of course, that his friend would have been spared thus to
hear the cry of the gulls. Legolas had raised himself to his full
height, standing before him in all the haughtiness he was able to
project, and his voice had been colder even than during the grimmest
and bloodiest battles they had had to survive. 'You wish we had never
met? Is your heart so weak that you are unable to look upon the pain
of a friend? I believed your race to be much hardier. If an Elf can
endure this longing for a short while, surely a Dwarf should stand to
be its witness. 'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road
darkens',' said the Elf, throwing the Dwarf's own words back at him.
The blood had nearly frozen in Gimli's veins then. He had whispered
through a throat that had threatened to close from the pain: 'Think
you so little of me and my commitment? You cannot believe that any
other sentiment than the deepest worry for your wellbeing would make
me willing to part from you.' And for the first time it had been he
to turn away and leave his friend behind, for usually it was Legolas
who fled from their fights. It had taken them many long weeks to
reconcile.
"You never truly understood that it was love which prompted my words.
Mayhap your head told you thus, yet your heart could not grasp the
idea that I was as ready to suffer for the sake of another as were
you," said Gimli, staring up to the ceiling of his room. "Not only
the Elves are capable of great sacrifices."
***********************
In the late afternoon of March the fifth Gimli slowly approached his
friend. Legolas stood at the battlement that crowned the highest and
outmost point of the bastion of stone which devided the City of Minas
Tirith in two. This huge mass of rock had often been likened to a
great ship-keel, and truly, as Gimli drew near, it seemed to him as
though Legolas stood at the bow of the ship that would take him to
Eldamar, looking ahead over the endless expanse of waves towards the
horizon where the blue of the sky touched the blue of the sea. From
that line would spring his first glimpse of the Undying Lands.
Gimli had to suppress a snort. 'I have become a poet in my old age,'
thought the Dwarf. ''Tis a wonder that my association with this Elf
has not yet driven me to howl at the moon...'
The sun chose this very moment to sink partly below the peaks of
Mount Mindolluin, and darkness suddenly shrouded all of the City,
except for the edge of the outthrust stone keel, where Legolas leant
against the parapet. He was as still as a statue. Only his dark hair
was lifted by a breeze now and again to flutter behind him like a
banner in the wind. The last remaining shaft of light bathed him in
an unearthly glow. It reminded Gimli once more why he seemed inspired
to poetry again and again. His friend truly was an otherwordly being,
and never more so than when he grieved or was in despair.
At this thought a ghost-hand seemed to reach into Gimli's breast and
squeeze his heart, for he knew what he would see when looking upon
his friend's face.
He sighed, and Legolas slightly cocked his head at the sound. It was
a barely visible movement, but Gimli had learned over the years to
watch for, and notice the minute changes in Legolas' posture and
voice.
"You should have stayed inside," said the Elf. "Spring has not yet
arrived and the air grows cold as soon as the sun sets."
Gimli rolled his eyes behind Legolas' back. It had always been his
friend who had disliked the cold, not he. Legolas was able to endure
the harshest temperatures, yet he tended to become discontented and
irritable when freezing. 'Even grumpy,' thought Gimli. 'If such a
word can be ascribed to an Elf.'
"I know that you are making faces at me, my friend." Legolas turned
his head to the right then, but still did not look at Gimli.
"Then you know also that a little bit of chill does not bother me,"
answered the Dwarf. "My bones do not yet rattle against each other
like dry sticks in a sack." Gimli reached his friend's side and
climbed onto a stone bench to look over the wall.
"Aye, you are still as strong and as stout as I have ever known you,
and I thank all the powers that hold you in their favour for it." His
hand drifted towards the Dwarf as if of its own volition, but at half
the distance he halted the motion and his arm fell heavily to his
side.
To Gimli this aborted gesture spoke more loudly of Legolas' turmoil
than any shout. For the Elf to betray that much of his feelings as to
even attempt a touch while in view of the whole City was an almost
unthinkable sign of weakness. Though his behaviour these last four
days had been wholely unusual to begin with: After leaving Rath
Dínen, Legolas had gone straight to this place and had not left
his
post since then. Gimli had visited him here twice each day for some
hours, which had been spent mostly in silence. Yet now the Dwarf had
reached his limit. "Legolas," cried he.
But his friend at once interrupted his speech. "Do not begin anew our
dispute," said the Elf. "I beg you."
"I *will* speak," answered Gimli. "I must. You have waited more than
a hundred years. For most of these years I have bowed to your wishes
and kept my silence. Yet now our King is dead, and I have watched
your suffering for longer than I am willing to bear." He turned his
back to the wall, looking at his friend then, and truly, there was a
brittleness to the Elf's form which his rigid posture did not hide,
but emphasize instead. And the skin of his fair face seemed almost
translucent. "I want you to set sail," demanded Gimli.
"I will not leave while you remain," said Legolas tiredly. "You know
this."
"And how shall I feel during this time? Did you think of it? Believe
you that I wish to spend my remaining years watching you count the
minutes until I die? It would make a poor imitation of our
friendship!"
"Gimli," gasped Legolas. "How can you utter such terrible words?
Never would I feel impatience for your death! Never!!" The Elf
trembled in revulsion against the idea.
"I apologize for the harshness of my speech," said Gimli. "I know you
do not crave my death. Yet every hour you tarry here, your pain grows
greater. As long as Aragorn lived, you found much purpose still by
serving him. The knowledge that you were for him a source of loyalty,
wisdom, and love held your longing for the sea at bay. But what of
the future? Shall you spend the rest of our time in Aglarond? Or do
you wish me to leave the Glittering Caves for good and stay with you
in Ithilien?"
"I do not know," replied Legolas. "I have no ready answers to all
your questions, for I have not yet thought as far ahead."
"But I have -- Legolas!" cried Gimli, and he waited until his friend
met his gaze at last. The vast ocean of pain he beheld in the Elf's
eyes was like a blow to the body, yet Gimli had learned over many
years to endure the full force of an Elven stare.
"It is time for you to leave. Better a painful end, than pain without
an end in sight," said the Dwarf passionately. "Even if you never
spoke of the sea again, never showed an outward sign of your longing,
I would still *know* of it. Remember, Legolas. I sat behind you on
Arod's back when first you heard the cry of the gulls. I stood at
your side when your eyes first looked upon the waters of Belegaer.
"I would rather part from you forever, knowing that your suffering
has ended, than watch this... this poison! darkening your existence."
Legolas shook his head in denial. "My suffering, as you call it,
would not end. Do you not see that, Gimli? How could I sail over Sea
with a light heart while leaving behind my dearest friend to live his
remaining years alone?"
'Hardly alone.' The thought sprang up in Gimli's mind, yet he did not
speak it aloud, for he knew what Legolas had meant. As much as he
loved the friends and kinsmen who had come to the Glittering Caves,
they could never replace this Elf who had wormed his way into Gimli's
life to become the most important person therein.
"Please, my friend," begged Legolas. "Let us cease to argue. It is a
fruitless effort. My mind was made up a long time ago."
Gimli complied, but glowering at his friend, he crossed his arms in
annoyance, thinking: 'My mind has been made up, also, and it has not
yet been determined whether my efforts will truly prove to be
fruitless!'
***********************
While thinking of the dispute which had taken place two days ago,
Gimli had nearly completed his morning routine. Sitting on a low
stool, he finished braiding his hair, which still retained some of
its original colour.
His preparations were all in place, he needed only to harden his
heart ere he followed up on his plans. He grimaced. 'I have not even
truly mourned the passing of our King. Not much longer and I will
surely burst from all these locked up feelings!'
He stood and went to the chest at the foot of his bed. Breathing
deeply, he opened it and then stared at its contents for a moment.
What he was about to do went against his nature in almost every
sense. Yet the worry he felt for his friend had proven stronger than
any other reason and objection his mind had come up with.
Years ago he had decided for himself that, if it ever came to a time
when he had to fear for the life of his friend, he would force
Legolas to leave these shores. His heart had cried out at the
prospect of deceiving or injuring his dearest friend. Yet he also
felt sure, that he would rather live in the knowledge that the Elf
had parted with hatred for the Dwarf, than stand by in silence while
Legolas wasted away. His friend seemed to have forgotten that his
race was capable of dying from grief. Gimli would sooner suffer
eternal torment than watch this come to pass.
When Legolas had begun to build the ship which would one day take him
over Sea -- despite his protestations that he would not sail in the
foreseeable future -- he had unwittingly provided the Dwarf with an
idea and given him the means to see his plans through.
Gimli had then employed the help of his apprentice, Ghân. If truth
be
told, he had shamelessly taken advantage of the devotion the Wood
Man felt for his adopted father. For when Ghân, the grandson of
the
very man who had lead Théoden and the Rohirrim to the battle of
the
Pelennor Fields, had left the forest, he had also left behind his
name and all the rights that came with it. He had forsaken his people
to learn of the ways of other races in Middle-earth. Unlike all other
Woses he had been curious about the world outside his homeland woods.
Secretly he had spied on the comings and goings on the roads between
Rohan and Gondor, fascinated by all the different folk who travelled
there. He was the first and only one of his race to be drawn out into
the open, to feel a desire to be part of the alliances and
friendships between the peoples of Middle-earth that had been formed
after the War of the Ring. He had given up the protection of his
family and the right to use his father's name when he had at last
found the courage to walk into Edoras.
Éomer had been amused, though he had not shown it, and when he
noticed Ghân's childlike fascination with all crafted things, he
had
sent him to Aglarond with one of his Riders. To this day Gimli
suspected the King of a prank, yet nobody could have foreseen what
had happened then.
When they had lifted Ghân from the horse, the young man had been
scared nearly witless. The King's messenger had told Gimli how the
poor thing had clung to him like a leech during the ride and had
wailed into his back continuously. The Lord of the Glittering Caves
could well understand someone's fear of horses, even if he had
learned to endure such experiences. Therefore it had been with pity
that Gimli had first looked upon Ghân, and with good will. And
after
learning more about the young man, and convincing himself of his true
determination, it had not taken long until Gimli had accepted him as
his apprentice.(**)
Now, years later, Ghân considered the Dwarf a father, or
godfather,
and he had asked for permission to call himself Gimli's son. Having
no offspring, Gimli had gladly granted the right. Among the peoples
of Middle-earth it was a common thing, indeed a question of pride, to
use one's father's name, and when the Wood Man had referred to
himself as Ghân-buri-Gimli for the first time, many had been glad
for
him, and also for Gimli's fortune in finding an apprentice in whom to
entrust his knowledge and craft.
Gimli smiled, half fondly and half sadly, for their farewell had been
hard, and he had not yet the heart to think of it. The Dwarf
remembered instead the day on which he had first approached his
apprentice with his plans. Ghân had been unsure. Still his
devotion
had been such that he had not questioned the rightness of their
conspiracy. He had given his support whole-heartedly, and with his
help Gimli had created the device which would now aid him in the
deception of, and attack on his friend.
Reaching into the chest, he took out a bottle containing the potion
that would render the Dwarf immune against the poison he was about to
handle. Closing his eyes and silencing the voice of his conscience,
he opened the bottle and drank its contents. Then he pulled on his
leather gloves and lifted from the chest the net he would cast on his
friend.
***********************
Legolas stared into the darkness which covered the fields below. He
had not looked up to the stars once during the night, or the nights
before. No, the stars did not offer any solace. He felt dark and
hollow in their face, and he dared not confront their light. The
parting of one friend after the other had taken something from him
every time, and Elessar's death had left him with an inner emptiness
he could scarcely comprehend. He felt adrift, and therefore had
hardly dared to move lest he simply float away on a breeze. Surely
the feeling was only temporary... Still, it had seemed safer somehow
to remain rooted to one place.
His sense of time, however, was undisturbed, and it told him that
Gimli would soon arrive for the first of his daily visits.
'Gimli!' Legolas breathed deeply at the thought of his friend. 'You
will ground me to this place... make sure that my feet stay firmly on
the earth. Your presence shall fill this void. Were it not for you, I
would surely go mad.'
As though his thoughts had magically gathered his friend, he heard
the sound of steps approaching. The steel tips of Gimli's boots
echoed faintly on the streets of Minas Tirith. And these days there
was also an unusual heaviness, inaudible unless one had Elven ears.
It was one of the many signs of the worry and grief surrounding the
Dwarf. Even now his friend's presence exuded great pain. To Legolas'
senses it seemed as a dark cloud, veiling Gimli's inner light. And
there was a sharp note to it which alarmed the Elf. Yet ere he could
turn around to discern its cause, he became aware of some *thing*
descending upon him.
It was hardly visible, but felt like a kind of cloth, like the
sheerest silk, light and transparent. At once it seemed to wrap
itself around his body, and when Legolas tried to wipe it away, it
clung to his fingers, reminding him of the dangerous cobwebs of
Mirkwood's spiders.
He struggled against the fabric's hold, but soon noticed that his
movements were clumsy and his limbs did not obey his command. He was
overcome by a sudden dizziness and he swayed. His sight seemed to
dim, to narrow.
Fear gripped him. He strengthened his efforts and tried to turn
towards Gimli in order to alert him to his problem, when his legs
gave out and he fell. His head rolled to the side on impact, and
there stood his friend. The Dwarf seemed frozen to the ground, his
eyes wide with horror.
"Gimli," cried Legolas, his voice a rough croak that would have made
him wince had he still the control of his muscles. He felt as though,
one after the other, his senses were failing, and he was helpless to
resist. What was happening to him? Was this what he had feared? Would
he not float away, but cease to function?
"Forgive me," whispered Gimli.
Uncomprehending, he stared at his friend. "What-?" He had to swallow
around a sudden lump in his throat. Why was Gimli simply standing
there, instead of coming to his aid? And what was he apologizing --
'No!' His heart would surely be the next organ to fail, for in this
moment it ceased a beat and then resumed its throb thrice as quickly
as before. What had Gimli done?
The Dwarf drew near and knelt down beside Legolas, yet he did not
touch or help him in any way.
"Do not fight," said Gimli, his dark eyes shining with unshed
tears. "There will be no pain. You will not be harmed."
Slowly the realization trickled into his awareness that the Dwarf had
somehow caused this state. Not willing to believe, he asked: "What is-
- ?"
"Try not to speak." His friend cut short the question. "Soon you will
fall asleep. The... the potion works swiftly, and painlessly... I
made sure of this."
The truth overtook Legolas then. Understanding came upon him, as well
as knowledge of what Gimli had planned. "No, Gimli," whispered the
Elf, shaking his head in denial. "Release me, please..."
A deathly fright took possession of the Elf. Gimli did not move, gave
no sign that he would help him, although he wept openly now.
Legolas increased his efforts once more to free himself of the web
that was spun about him. Every motion was a struggle, every word
almost beyond his remaining strength. He tried to implore the Dwarf
with his eyes. 'We must not part like this!' cried his heart. He
wanted to scream the words. How could his friend do this to him? His
mind refused to accept the idea. Would he be stuffed into a sack and
carried away like a piece of luggage? Would Gimli then dump him onto
his ship and simply cut the ropes tethering him to these shores?
"No," moaned Legolas. "Gimli, no..." He tried to lift his hands,
reaching out to his friend, but they were like lead and nearly all
strength had left him. His arms fell to his side, useless.
The Dwarf moved at last, taking Legolas' hands into his own. But any
hope of relief was in vain, for Gimli did naught else, and even the
anticipation of his friend's touch, of being comforted by its warmth,
died at once. The Dwarf wore gloves made of a thick leather which did
not allow for the strong pulse of his blood to be felt by the Elf's
dwindling perception.
Hopelessness was then the only feeling left. 'I shall not even
receive a last touch,' thought Legolas desperately. 'Without a final
embrace, I am sent away...' Had he had the strength left, he would
have closed his eyes then. Instead he was forced to gaze upon the
Dwarf as long as his sight still remained. Already it seemed to him
as though he was peering through a dark tunnel. Something pulled him
backwards, and the light at the end, Gimli's image, became more and
more distant. And of a sudden, although just moments ago he had
wanted to turn his eyes from Gimli, he wished for nothing more than
to cling to the image, for the knowledge sank into him, and pained
him like a twisting knife in his heart, that this would be the last
time he looked upon his friend. This would be the picture he would
take with him over the sea, which would have to last him through
eternity.
He fastened his gaze on Gimli's face, anchoring himself to the
Dwarf's dark eyes which were surrounded by deep lines of anguish.
His vision blurred. Through his own tears he caught a last hazy
glimpse of his friend, when darkness took him. His final impressions
were the smell of salt, and Gimli's broken whisper "it's for the
best.... all will be well..."
***********************
Legolas awoke to the creaking of ropes and the sounds of wind and
water. The ground below him swayed gently. Light filtered through his
closed eyelids; night had turned into day during his unnatural sleep.
The only thing that remained the same was the scent of salt water.
His inert knowledge of the passing of time told him that three days
at least had gone by while he lay unconscious.
His other senses, too, had returned to him, therefore he was able to
taste a bitterness like bile on his tongue, and feel the warmth of
smooth wood under his hands. The slight ache in his bones told him
that he had remained in the same position for too long.
Above all, however, he felt a soul-deep agony which caused almost
unbearable pain in his breast. It seemed as though his heart had been
gripped by iron claws.
Never had he been so utterly alone... sent away by the one he had
trusted most, who knew him best, and whom he had shared everything
with, his saddest moments, deepest thoughts and greatest joys.
Legolas rolled to the side, drew up his legs, and pressed his face to
his knees, curling around the pain. His hands pushed against his
ribs, trying to counteract the ache. Surely this could not be born!
'Gimli...' A sob escaped his throat as the weight of his loneliness
crushed him. Glóin's faithless son had abandoned him to the mercy
of
Belegaer. Never would he be able to find happiness now. Already he
cursed his Elven memory. There would be no reprieve for him, not in a
thousand years; every joy tainted by the taste of salt. His longing
for the sea would be turned into loathing, the waters' beauty only a
reminder of the uncrossable distance separating him from the one on
its eastern shores. Another sob broke free, and another. Leaving
behind all sense of pride and self, and his surroundings, he let the
grief overwhelm him.
TBC
***********************
(*) Fourth Age -- 1541 in the reckoning of the Shire.
(**) The full story about these events has been told in the
Chronicles of Aglarond, therefore we need not go into detail here.
END/TBC
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