A quick note: The idea that Legolas was in charge of the guards and thus
ultimately responsible for allowing Gollum to escape is not mine although I
have appropriated it for the purposes of this story. It originates from
discussions on the Axe Bow list. AU for all sorts of reasons.
This is a slash story, please consider yourself warned.
No ownership claimed. No money made. No harm intended.
4/11/03 Nothing new here - just a few tweaks and revisions. Thanks to whitecrow for the speedy beta.
*** (THIS IS) NOT A LOVE SONG by arachne
It wasn't much, but there would have been a grim satisfaction in puking right in the centre of Elrond's marbled hall. Sick satisfaction, Gimli thought, and winced at his own forced humour. But that would be uncouth - and never let it be said that a dwarf was so lacking in manners as to vomit over the flagstones of his host's abode.
Gimli leant back against a wall composed of twisted tree trunks and allowed his aching head to fall against his hands, trying to ignore the twin evils of pounding headache and churning guts. Wine had been a mistake but it was only with the aid of several large goblets that he had made it thus far with any show of manners.
Rivendell. He coughed and spat into a hazy mass of flowers. Ri-ven-dell. He stretched the word out in his mind, each syllable accompanied by its own personal beat of pain. Aule's blood! Would this affliction never cease? He wanted to break wood or tear iron bars apart as distraction from the torment in his head but there were only the trailing grasses and wisps of flowers that fluttered uselessly through his hands. Maybe he should drink more until he simply passed out? But it would not be seemly for him to get drunk. He thought of roistering nights at home. Perhaps before he passed out he should sing some of the songs of the halls of Erebor, some stirring tune with meat on its bones unlike the milk and water melodies of the elves. Rivendell. Pagh!
Dusk and singing and the faint elusive scent of blossom in the air - these were the overwhelming impressions of the House of Elrond on Gimli. He did not like it, had not liked it from his first footstep over the hidden border. The half-light that Gloin, in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, had described as "enchanting" seemed to him dull, a lingering, whining surrender to the night which crept in all around. At Erebor the darkness came with the swift completeness of a snuffed candle. He had no patience with these half measures.
But that was prejudiced, discourteous - the two things he had resolved not to be. But then no words Gloin had said to him, nor any sight encountered on his extensive travels, had prepared him for the sheer physical presence of these creatures. Or the indifference that he would meet. He would have liked to look at the elves of Rivendell with the same polite disinterest he saw as their gaze passed over himself but was unable to get beyond dumb appreciation of their form. Whether moving or still, the elves were a source of wonder, years slipping lightly over their skin to pool in the eyes that refused to rest on his. It seemed impossible that any living creature could contain such grace. Again and again Gimli found his eyes drawn to trace the curves and lineaments of their long limbs. It made him resentful of the feelings and then doubly resentful of the unwitting invokers of these feelings. The elves' formal halls with their endless rows of statues had less appeal, seeming a mere mockery of the forms they copied but it was harder to disdain the original that provoked the art.
Gimli breathed in, a deep gulp intended to clear his throat and his head. The air in this grove was still and cloying, coating his skin with the scent of decaying flowers. All week he had been unsettled. He wondered if he were fey. For though he himself did not possess the gift of sight he knew enough not to despise such fancies - was it not dreams and portents that had conspired to send him here now? He took another open-mouthed breath longing for the crisp, clean scent of the mountains and ice cold running water. Faugh! What mistaken pride had led him to insist on coming on this journey? Other, equally battle-hardy, dwarves had clamoured to be allowed to join this mission but Gimli would not hear of exchanging his place with any.
Perhaps Gloin had been right in thinking him too undiplomatic for such a cause.
"You doubt my bravery?" Gimli felt his face heat up again remembered anger. His sire had merely laughed and clapped one callused hand on his son's shoulder.
"Nay, lad, do not bristle at me. I doubt not your bravery nor your heart, but you speak as you feel and that is not always what is best."
"No - if one were other than a dwarf! Would you have me hide my thoughts behind my beard? Such has never been our way."
An infuriating smile preceded the answer as his father's other hand clapped down on his remaining shoulder pressing fingers in for emphasis. "And in so speaking you but prove the truth of my words. Remember, it is not always the trader with the loudest call who makes the best bargain."
"And you prove the proof of mine! Or perhaps you have a liking for travelling in a wine barrel?" countered Gimli, hotly. It was an unfair comparison but he could never think of this episode in his father's history without a flush of shame.
Gloin laughed without restraint. "I have travelled in more comfort to less purpose. I complained long and loudly at the time but dignity proved well lost for freedom. Secrecy was certainly the best bargain in that instance. You must see more before you judge so swiftly."
"I doubt I shall have that chance." Gimli pulled away from the restraining grip, furious with himself even as he did so. He had lost the point and had no one to blame but himself.
All the same, when the list of names of the party entrusted to travel to Rivendell was announced Gimli was among their number. He had got his wish and if it was no longer to his pleasing it was his own fault and he would cut out his tongue with a blunt knife before he would complain. Gloin was right. They were traders here but the information they had was poor and what they might get for the telling he did not know.
The singing in the great hall had exacerbated his headache and the voice of Gloin at his side was a persistent irritation. His father had glared at him but neither filial ties nor his duties as an ambassador for his people could keep him within walls a moment longer. Bowing and uttering some polite nonsense he had fled.
Voices drifted near him and then fell away into the distance. Gimli wished he had not come. Pride had led to him to this place. He was a dwarf of Durin's line and would not hold his head low for any on Middle Earth. Let the elves whisper behind their long fingered hands. He had intercepted more than one haughty glance this evening. Looks that spoke of unease and disdain for all the honeyed words their owners might speak. He did not like it here. Mortals had no place in elvish realms. Gloin's composure unsettled him. His sire had read his mood and suggested that Gimli must find his own way to reconcile his unease. Gimli's own way would be axe in hand and to face trouble head on but this was obviously not to be, so he chaffed and fretted and spurned attempts at enticing him to join in the entertainments. Apart from Gloin, the remainder of his travelling companions kept mainly to themselves in the outer dwellings but they were soldiers rather than diplomats and thus excused the interminable hospitalities.
Shifting his back against the uneven surface, Gimli felt for his pipe. That at least was where it should be. The rest - the heavy mail coat and double- bladed battle axe - were missing. He had insisted on keeping only a single blade, long and ornate, more decorative than useful, hanging from the worked leather belt at his waist.
"It is not right to bear arms in the house of a friend," Gloin had admonished him earlier. A friend would not mistrust the bearing of arms, thought Gimli but said nothing out of respect for his sire. Their talk was all barbs and prickles of late. His thoughts must have shown on his face for Gloin's eyes had turned to his in a clear warning. Their gazes met and locked before Gimli gave a shrug and turned away unbuckling the thick belt that housed his axe and letting it drop heavily to the floor.
Gimli filled the pipe now and drew deeply from it. A thin stream of smoke curled up before his eyes. He blew on it gently so that it swayed and danced like dragon's breath. Then he blew a single perfect ring. A boy's trick, that, one that Gandalf had taught him when he first braided his beard. Despite himself he began to relax. The sharp tang of tobacco momentarily over-rode the softer perfume of the air and if he shut his eyes it was possible to conjure in his imagination the smooth, cool walls of his home. The pain in his head receded to a dull throbbing, pleasant by comparison to what had gone before.
They had been here some days now, forced to kick their heels and bear their news with what patience they could. He wondered how many more days they would wait in this place. Lord Elrond met them courteously enough but bade them wait upon the hobbits' welfare before taking counsel. The Shire party had travelled long and through great danger to reach the sanctuary of the elves. Frodo was still confined to his bedroom while the others kept themselves to themselves or in the rooms of the aged hobbit, Bilbo. Here Gimli smiled and blew another smoke ring. Meeting Bilbo had been worth the journey whatever else happened. And much was happening. Poisonous rumours followed them on their journey; whispers of long-ago battles and the re- finding of the One Ring. Gimli refused to listen to gossip or speculate until the facts were upon them. Waiting he could do well enough, if he knew that upon which he waited. But this inaction, coupled with lack of information, which he was sure was only extended toward his own kind, chaffed him.
He pulled deeply on the pipe for a few minutes longer then cleaned it carefully before returning it to its usual resting place. Then, for the first time, he took stock of his surroundings and found that the wall he had been leaning against was not a path end as he had first thought but formed the outside curve of a small grotto. He followed its line into the shelter. It was empty but strewn with grasses that had been piled up thick along the floor and against the walls. He lay down for a few minutes hoping to clear his head further before returning to the great hall. And indeed, after a while the pain receded but he made no move for he had fallen into a deep sleep.
"-alas that good intentions do not always have good results. Go now, friends, I will see you on the morrow."
Words spoken in an elvish tongue floated through Gimli's consciousness and woke him instantly. The tones were not threatening but even as he woke habit had him groping for his blade. He moved quickly and made no sound, hand settling around the shaft of his axe only to find another weapon already held at his throat.
"A dwarf preparing for battle." The speaker spoke the common tongue but with accent different to those Gimli had become used to hearing. Soft, yes, and melodic for all its hostility, but also earthier, if such a term could be used for an elf. "Guests are not usually so armed."
Gimli could see his assailant now. The elf crouched in front of him. He was fair-skinned with startlingly dark eyebrows over blue eyes and a wide mouth, just now tight-lipped with suspicion. Pale hair spilled loosely over his shoulders.
One hand still pressed a long knife against Gimli's throat while long fingers gripped the wrist of his right hand and pressed painfully against the veins. Gimli forced himself to stay still and not react. Not for life itself would he break the hold on his axe. He could feel each finger of the hand pressing into his skin and knew the pain was not accidental. The elf spoke again, "But these are unusual times. Are you a spy? Speak!" The knife moved slightly so that only the point lightly touched his throat. Equally dangerous but an improvement in that it allowed speech. Amongst friends, indeed! Fury overrode any fear that Gimli might have felt.
"And is it likely that I should name myself a spy if I were?" A question answered with a question and Gimli hadn't bothered to hide his anger.
The elf's lips twitched in an unpleasant smile. "No. Nor would Elrond suffer you to live if you trespassed here uninvited. And yet these are dangerous times and you are a strange guest to find in this place - a mortal hiding in the shadows of an elvish stronghold. Speak your business."
"Strange times indeed but a welcome guest for all that as you would know if you were in the counsel of the Lord of this land," replied Gimli pointedly. "As for my business it is my own."
"I have but arrived tonight and have not yet had more than brief words with Lord Elrond," admitted the elf with a slight lessening of hostility. "He did not mention any dwarves." He dropped the hand that had held Gimli's and stepped back but made no move to sheath his knife.
Gimli's wrist throbbed with returning blood. Now, with less concern for his own safety, Gimli could see the elf was somewhat travel stained and weary. Tired, almost. He was surprised, he had not thought that elves could look less than perfect. It made the stranger seem more approachable, less exalted.
"And your name?" The question was not quite an order.
"That also is my own to give or withhold as I choose. Still, I shall answer you for the sake of our mutual host. " Gimli made his tone neutral. The elf would feel foolish enough when he realised the extent of his discourtesy. Gimli rose without hurrying not letting his eyes stray from those of his interrogator as he did so. As he gained his full height he looked up at his captor and finally, deliberately dropped his hand from his own weapon. "Know that were you elsewhere I would kill you before letting you draw a knife on me. As to who I am -" He sketched a bow. "Gimli son of Gloin from the Halls of Erebor at your service."
The elf swept a bow back, smoother and deeper than his own. It was as it should be but Gimli was aware of a feeling of disappointment. Even while speaking to him the elf had clearly discounted him for other thoughts. They view all mortals as beneath contempt he thought and was swept by a further wave of anger. He would not be put aside so.
"And you are?" The question came out blunt.
"Do you not know?" The elf visibly refocussed back towards Gimli. Something like surprise filtered across his face. Gimli wondered if he was mad. That would explain much and yet the elf did not seem insane for all his odd behaviour.
It was arrogance then thought Gimli and allowed disdain to filter to his words. "Why should I? Are your deeds such that they should be known far and wide?"
The blue eyes flashed. Once more Gimli was struck by the differences in this elf and others he had met. The elves of Elrond's household would not let their emotions show in this way. He felt a twist of unwilling sympathy. Whoever he was, it seemed that this elf was not a born diplomat either.
"Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood." The elf raised his chin as he spoke as if daring Gimli to respond.
"Oh." One of the Mirkwood Elves, that explained why they had not yet met. The sympathy evaporated. The name kindled no warmth amongst his kind in general - and even less so for one whose father had been forced to escape in a barrel after being imprisoned by the King of Mirkwood. If Gimli had been less preoccupied he would have noticed the forced quality of the gesture. As it was he was intent on keeping his temper and not saying any of the words that passed through his mind.
"So you do know me? What have you heard." Legolas had evidently misread his expression. Again the defiantly raised chin.
"I have nothing of you save what you yourself have just revealed." Gimli kept his voice coldly polite with effort. "Mirkwood has no pleasant associations for me, that is all. Enough! I am sure that your deeds are such that they will affect the history of the free peoples and your name will resound through the ages in both story and song. I bid you welcome, Legolas Greenleaf, and now I would bid you leave and allow me to be alone with my thoughts."
Legolas tensed as if he had been struck. He searched Gimli's face as if seeing him for the first time. Then his lips twisted and he smiled. There was nothing friendly in the expression. He had faced men in battle who wore just such a look as they screamed defiance at their foes. "You mock me?"
"No." Gimli stepped forward a pace but found the elf blocking his way. He stopped. It was impossible to go forward without asking the other to move and that he would not do. Legolas' eyes glittered. Gimli thought of the wild mountain cats that were said to entrance their prey before striking. He was afraid to break eye contact lest the creature pounced. He must be mad or dreaming because nothing was making sense.
"Do you really not know who I am?" The voice was soft now, and full of wonder.
"I do not lie. Now, let me pass."
The elf moved slightly so that he leaned against the shelter of the trees as Gimli had done earlier. Whether by intent or design it effectively trapped Gimli within the curve of the structure. "Are your thoughts pleasant Gimli son of Gloin?"
"No."
"Nor are mine." At this the elf sighed, and the look he turned on Gimli was once again tired. "I would rather talk than think."
I would not, thought Gimli, but it seemed as if his wishes were of no concern in this conversation, for words flowed from his companion as if they were chance travellers met at an inn. Gimli scrutinised the fair face in front of him and once again had the idea that the elf was somewhere else entirely in spirit. He wondered if he had imagined that first intense gaze for Legolas now glanced over and around him in the polite but dismissive manner he had become used to. He might as well talk to the trees, thought Gimli.
"What brings a dwarf of Erebor to Imlandris?"
Gimli quirked an eyebrow. "I might ask you the same."
"You might." There was a slight pause. Legolas started to look down then checked the motion. "I have news of a prisoner escaping."
"Oh-" For a second Gimli thought to ask more but something in the elf's face discouraged questions. Yet the answer fell too easily, as if it was a statement long rehearsed. Silence fell again and the uneasy stand off remained. "You are in my way," said Gimli at last, reluctantly.
"So it seems." Legolas agreed. So it had been intent after all. Of course, what could his wishes count against those of one of the First Born? Even moon-addled as this one seemed they were convinced of their own superiority.
"I would ask you to move," said Gimli between gritted teeth.
"I do not wish to be alone." Legolas said again as if that were the end of the matter.
"Then find some other companion."
"I do not think that many of my people would wish to share my company tonight." It was a simple statement. Pitiful but devoid of self pity and, like the words from previous minutes, seeming to shift in meaning and intent.
"Why?" The question came out against Gimli's better judgement.
"I would rather not say."
"And I would rather not stay!" cried Gimli in frustration, "But since you trap me you must kill me or satisfy my curiosity."
Legolas looked at him again. The elf ran an experimental finger along the edge of this knife and grinned. There was something desperate in the smile. "I am not sure it is my place to tell, but perhaps it does not matter for all here will know soon enough. I do not know if that will be better or worse. Do you wager, Gimli son of Gloin."
"Only on myself."
That earned a laugh. "You set yourself high."
"I set my people high. But, yes, myself also. It is a matter of personal honour."
"I ask only for your company but, yes, if you will only give it this way we can wager on your honour and my lack of honour. If you win I shall satisfy your curiosity. If I win you may give me your company. A fair trade, think you?"
Gimli shrugged, rudely. "What is an elf's honour?"
The elf looked amused. "That you must win to find out."
"No. I do not want to bet with you." He tried to sound certain. In fact he was certain of nothing.
"Are you afraid?" asked Legolas. There was nothing taunting about the question.
"No." repeated Gimli, although it was half a lie. How had this happened? This was like falling down a mountain, a mountain he had not even wanted to climb but one on which every word took him higher. He felt the elf watching him and knew that he had been neatly manouvred into this position. He heard himself temporize, diluting the refusal. "I do not know what we wager for."
"Why for the pleasure of your company." And now the amusement was back.
Gimli was alarmed to find himself blushing. "What do we wager on?"
Legolas regarded his knife. "Since we both have weapons let us have a throwing competition. You choose."
Part of him wanted to refuse while another part anticipated the challenge. Here at least was something solid to grab hold of. He would do it and go home - there would be no more worrying and wondering and dealing with these confusing creatures. He made a slow survey of the land in front of them. "There is a lone tree over there. See? The second branch up on that tree. Whoever should hit that closest." It was a slim tree about twenty foot away with the branch perhaps an arms breadth in size. Not the easiest of throws, Gimli judged, but do-able. Gimli threw first and missed the blade landing at the trunk of tree. Legolas threw next. The knife left his hand awkwardly but still touched the vine.
Legolas looked dismayed as they walked to collect the knives. "Best of three?"
Gimli shook his head. "No. I know when I am outclassed. You win fairly."
"I do not think so."
"I do, Master Elf."
Legolas seemed to shake himself in another of those lightning swings of mood. "I do not think so. I am held something of an expert at knife work. It was not a fair wager."
"Then why did you make it?" asked Gimli. "I am not a child to pandered. I accepted the challenge freely." He set his lips stubbornly. "You have the match -despite your best efforts."
Legolas attempted to speak lightly but it didn't quite come off. "But that was not our bargain. I desired only conversation and now you say I must have your honour. What tell me is a dwarf's honour? Is it your name or your beard or your sex?" He glanced at Gimli's face and read the truth there. Held up both his hands. "No! No! I do not wish for such." Then, unforgivably, he laughed.
Gimli clenched his fists. Words spilled from him without thought, "You despise my honour? Then you must kill me."
The laughter stopped instantly. The elf faced him in obvious distress. "But I do not wish to kill you? Or to-or to. Will you not accept the match is void?"
"Is that your way then? To force a wager and then back down when the terms please you not? They did not please me but I accepted and now consider myself bound to my promise." Had such words come from his lips? The very thought was shaming and yet he could not back down from a wager fairly lost.
The elf sighed heavily and moved from foot to foot. Gimli waited unmoving. At length Legolas stilled. He seemed to come to a decision. "It seems we are at an impasse. It is folly of my own making. Are you determined to stand by your word." Gimli set his lips and nodded. The elf sighed again. "Come then. Let us finish this quickly. For neither of us, I am convinced, will find much joy in the act."
Legolas glanced at him thoughtfully and retrieved a silver flask from the folds of his tunic. He took a long swallow before handing it across to Gimli. The dwarf it accepted it wordlessly their hands touching briefly as the flask was passed from one to the other.
It was brandy. A young vintage by the taste. Gimli drank deeply. The fiery liquid warmed him. He drank again. The taste of the wine was still on his lips when Legolas bent his head and kissed him. Then Gimli was consumed by another kind of burning. This was shame and the worst of it was that he did not ever want it to end.
The first time he had fought a man, really fought - not the mock fights staged on fair days - he had been shocked to find himself hard with excitement, prick throbbing against the confining leather of his breeches. He hair hung stiff with dried blood and his lips were salty with the tang of it. The next time he was not surprised and had worked himself to completion in the washouse later, quick and rough. And yet, somehow he thought the act itself would be different. He had pictured himself leading his chosen bride to some candle-lit bower and gently divesting her of her garments, layer by layer, pulling each tie from its confining eyelet with soft words and kisses. He was wrong. There was nothing gentle in the act of mating. He was an animal rutting and the grunts and moans issuing from his mouth uncontrolled and bestial.
Soft hair wrapped around his face and he was held by arms that were maiden smooth for all they were corded with muscle. The body in his moved rhythmically, faltering at the difference of height and resuming the pace. Gimli grunted impatiently - hating himself but needing completion. He moved his hand down to stroke himself and found his fist covered with another hand.
It was like fighting this, with the knowledge that there would be no stopping until one or the other of you had fallen. Red mist hazed his vision. Now! Now! Now! He gave a cry that was cut off by a hand over his mouth.
So now he was unchaste. Unclean by his own standards and not fit to wed one of his own kind. At some point he had fallen to his hands and knees and the grasses he lain on so recently now provided cushioned him a second time. Harsh breathing showed Legolas had similarly collapsed by his side.
Gimli blinked to clear his eyes. A sheen of sweat served only to enhance the beauty of his companion. The elf seemed different - something calmer under his disordered surface where Gimli felt himself fractured inside. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. Once more shame swept over him - a double shame in that where there was regret there was also a bright flame of desire.
"I'm sorry." There was something different to the low voice too - level of calmness that had been missing before.
"I would have won if I could." He shrugged off the apology. It was meaningless. What would Gloin say? He would tear off his beard in horror.
"Gimli." Something in the voice broke his introspection. "I know that this has meant more to you than it would amongst my people. I do not say this to anger you but would tell you now that this is meaningless." Gimli started to protest but the elf overrode him. "I say nothing against your customs but honour is not lost so easily as in the joining of flesh. I know for I am without honour."
"How then?" Bitterness choked him but pride made him add, "You need not tell me. That was not in our bargain."
"I betrayed a trust and in doing so have placed all our lives in danger. No, do not say anything, hear me out now. It was not for greed or gain but because I thought I knew better than others who advised me of what was good and right. I have let a prisoner escape who has the power to do all our peoples much evil. And now I think - I know - I have betrayed a second trust in my dealings with you tonight. I knew you could not win that bet."
Something clenched inside him. Of all things spare him from pity. "My choices are my own."
Legolas continued in that quiet intent voice that forced him to listen even though he did not want to hear. "Yes, but not if they were choices not fairly made. I counsel you to forget this. I promise you this matter is between ourselves alone but what I did will impact the lives of mortals and immortals for many years to come. Go now. Forget this night. Finish whatever business has bought you here and then return to your people and be happy. Tomorrow it will be as if we had never met."
Gimli raised himself on one arm and inclined his head towards the speaker. Although he faced Gimli, Legolas' eyes moved past him with a look that showed plainly that already he was moving away from the dwarf even as his gaze rested on his face. Gimli's body throbbed in remembered response to pressure that was no longer there but even as he sought to hold on to the feeling it was fading. He wanted to hold on to the hurt because at least that was real. He wanted to hold it, feel it, inflict it.
Deliberately Gimli picked up his knife. It felt good in hand. He raised his arm and brought the blade down sharply slashing the pale skin of the elf's collarbone in a single long stroke. The was cut deep enough to scar but not to kill. Blood welled from the wound and began to drip down the pale chest.
Legolas lay still. The elf's knife lay within reach but he made no move to either evade the blow or defend himself. "Are you looking for death? Do not ask me for that."
Gimli shook his head. He felt empty now. "Some things should not be forgotten."
The elf gave a twisted smile. Blood from the cuts had seeped into the fine linen of his shirt but already it was starting to congeal. He spoke sadly, "And some should. Forget this night, Gimli. It has nothing to do with you. I did not need a mark to remember my shame."
Gimli glanced at him but said nothing as he rose and began straightening his clothes. There was straw on his boots and clinging to the knees of his breeches. At last he stood ready to leave.
Legolas stood, too, looking down at Gimli with an unreadable expression. He had not bothered to rearrange his shirt which still hung open. Gimli traced the line of the cut with a gentle finger. His voice trembled, "It is you who do not understand. This is not just about you and your choices and mistakes. My choices are my own and not to be cast aside at your say so, though my life is but the blink of an eye to you. Remember me. As I will remember you." Blue eyes met his in a painful gaze.
"Perhaps" Legolas said at last and turning walked away into the night.
***
This is a slash story, please consider yourself warned.
No ownership claimed. No money made. No harm intended.
4/11/03 Nothing new here - just a few tweaks and revisions. Thanks to whitecrow for the speedy beta.
*** (THIS IS) NOT A LOVE SONG by arachne
It wasn't much, but there would have been a grim satisfaction in puking right in the centre of Elrond's marbled hall. Sick satisfaction, Gimli thought, and winced at his own forced humour. But that would be uncouth - and never let it be said that a dwarf was so lacking in manners as to vomit over the flagstones of his host's abode.
Gimli leant back against a wall composed of twisted tree trunks and allowed his aching head to fall against his hands, trying to ignore the twin evils of pounding headache and churning guts. Wine had been a mistake but it was only with the aid of several large goblets that he had made it thus far with any show of manners.
Rivendell. He coughed and spat into a hazy mass of flowers. Ri-ven-dell. He stretched the word out in his mind, each syllable accompanied by its own personal beat of pain. Aule's blood! Would this affliction never cease? He wanted to break wood or tear iron bars apart as distraction from the torment in his head but there were only the trailing grasses and wisps of flowers that fluttered uselessly through his hands. Maybe he should drink more until he simply passed out? But it would not be seemly for him to get drunk. He thought of roistering nights at home. Perhaps before he passed out he should sing some of the songs of the halls of Erebor, some stirring tune with meat on its bones unlike the milk and water melodies of the elves. Rivendell. Pagh!
Dusk and singing and the faint elusive scent of blossom in the air - these were the overwhelming impressions of the House of Elrond on Gimli. He did not like it, had not liked it from his first footstep over the hidden border. The half-light that Gloin, in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, had described as "enchanting" seemed to him dull, a lingering, whining surrender to the night which crept in all around. At Erebor the darkness came with the swift completeness of a snuffed candle. He had no patience with these half measures.
But that was prejudiced, discourteous - the two things he had resolved not to be. But then no words Gloin had said to him, nor any sight encountered on his extensive travels, had prepared him for the sheer physical presence of these creatures. Or the indifference that he would meet. He would have liked to look at the elves of Rivendell with the same polite disinterest he saw as their gaze passed over himself but was unable to get beyond dumb appreciation of their form. Whether moving or still, the elves were a source of wonder, years slipping lightly over their skin to pool in the eyes that refused to rest on his. It seemed impossible that any living creature could contain such grace. Again and again Gimli found his eyes drawn to trace the curves and lineaments of their long limbs. It made him resentful of the feelings and then doubly resentful of the unwitting invokers of these feelings. The elves' formal halls with their endless rows of statues had less appeal, seeming a mere mockery of the forms they copied but it was harder to disdain the original that provoked the art.
Gimli breathed in, a deep gulp intended to clear his throat and his head. The air in this grove was still and cloying, coating his skin with the scent of decaying flowers. All week he had been unsettled. He wondered if he were fey. For though he himself did not possess the gift of sight he knew enough not to despise such fancies - was it not dreams and portents that had conspired to send him here now? He took another open-mouthed breath longing for the crisp, clean scent of the mountains and ice cold running water. Faugh! What mistaken pride had led him to insist on coming on this journey? Other, equally battle-hardy, dwarves had clamoured to be allowed to join this mission but Gimli would not hear of exchanging his place with any.
Perhaps Gloin had been right in thinking him too undiplomatic for such a cause.
"You doubt my bravery?" Gimli felt his face heat up again remembered anger. His sire had merely laughed and clapped one callused hand on his son's shoulder.
"Nay, lad, do not bristle at me. I doubt not your bravery nor your heart, but you speak as you feel and that is not always what is best."
"No - if one were other than a dwarf! Would you have me hide my thoughts behind my beard? Such has never been our way."
An infuriating smile preceded the answer as his father's other hand clapped down on his remaining shoulder pressing fingers in for emphasis. "And in so speaking you but prove the truth of my words. Remember, it is not always the trader with the loudest call who makes the best bargain."
"And you prove the proof of mine! Or perhaps you have a liking for travelling in a wine barrel?" countered Gimli, hotly. It was an unfair comparison but he could never think of this episode in his father's history without a flush of shame.
Gloin laughed without restraint. "I have travelled in more comfort to less purpose. I complained long and loudly at the time but dignity proved well lost for freedom. Secrecy was certainly the best bargain in that instance. You must see more before you judge so swiftly."
"I doubt I shall have that chance." Gimli pulled away from the restraining grip, furious with himself even as he did so. He had lost the point and had no one to blame but himself.
All the same, when the list of names of the party entrusted to travel to Rivendell was announced Gimli was among their number. He had got his wish and if it was no longer to his pleasing it was his own fault and he would cut out his tongue with a blunt knife before he would complain. Gloin was right. They were traders here but the information they had was poor and what they might get for the telling he did not know.
The singing in the great hall had exacerbated his headache and the voice of Gloin at his side was a persistent irritation. His father had glared at him but neither filial ties nor his duties as an ambassador for his people could keep him within walls a moment longer. Bowing and uttering some polite nonsense he had fled.
Voices drifted near him and then fell away into the distance. Gimli wished he had not come. Pride had led to him to this place. He was a dwarf of Durin's line and would not hold his head low for any on Middle Earth. Let the elves whisper behind their long fingered hands. He had intercepted more than one haughty glance this evening. Looks that spoke of unease and disdain for all the honeyed words their owners might speak. He did not like it here. Mortals had no place in elvish realms. Gloin's composure unsettled him. His sire had read his mood and suggested that Gimli must find his own way to reconcile his unease. Gimli's own way would be axe in hand and to face trouble head on but this was obviously not to be, so he chaffed and fretted and spurned attempts at enticing him to join in the entertainments. Apart from Gloin, the remainder of his travelling companions kept mainly to themselves in the outer dwellings but they were soldiers rather than diplomats and thus excused the interminable hospitalities.
Shifting his back against the uneven surface, Gimli felt for his pipe. That at least was where it should be. The rest - the heavy mail coat and double- bladed battle axe - were missing. He had insisted on keeping only a single blade, long and ornate, more decorative than useful, hanging from the worked leather belt at his waist.
"It is not right to bear arms in the house of a friend," Gloin had admonished him earlier. A friend would not mistrust the bearing of arms, thought Gimli but said nothing out of respect for his sire. Their talk was all barbs and prickles of late. His thoughts must have shown on his face for Gloin's eyes had turned to his in a clear warning. Their gazes met and locked before Gimli gave a shrug and turned away unbuckling the thick belt that housed his axe and letting it drop heavily to the floor.
Gimli filled the pipe now and drew deeply from it. A thin stream of smoke curled up before his eyes. He blew on it gently so that it swayed and danced like dragon's breath. Then he blew a single perfect ring. A boy's trick, that, one that Gandalf had taught him when he first braided his beard. Despite himself he began to relax. The sharp tang of tobacco momentarily over-rode the softer perfume of the air and if he shut his eyes it was possible to conjure in his imagination the smooth, cool walls of his home. The pain in his head receded to a dull throbbing, pleasant by comparison to what had gone before.
They had been here some days now, forced to kick their heels and bear their news with what patience they could. He wondered how many more days they would wait in this place. Lord Elrond met them courteously enough but bade them wait upon the hobbits' welfare before taking counsel. The Shire party had travelled long and through great danger to reach the sanctuary of the elves. Frodo was still confined to his bedroom while the others kept themselves to themselves or in the rooms of the aged hobbit, Bilbo. Here Gimli smiled and blew another smoke ring. Meeting Bilbo had been worth the journey whatever else happened. And much was happening. Poisonous rumours followed them on their journey; whispers of long-ago battles and the re- finding of the One Ring. Gimli refused to listen to gossip or speculate until the facts were upon them. Waiting he could do well enough, if he knew that upon which he waited. But this inaction, coupled with lack of information, which he was sure was only extended toward his own kind, chaffed him.
He pulled deeply on the pipe for a few minutes longer then cleaned it carefully before returning it to its usual resting place. Then, for the first time, he took stock of his surroundings and found that the wall he had been leaning against was not a path end as he had first thought but formed the outside curve of a small grotto. He followed its line into the shelter. It was empty but strewn with grasses that had been piled up thick along the floor and against the walls. He lay down for a few minutes hoping to clear his head further before returning to the great hall. And indeed, after a while the pain receded but he made no move for he had fallen into a deep sleep.
"-alas that good intentions do not always have good results. Go now, friends, I will see you on the morrow."
Words spoken in an elvish tongue floated through Gimli's consciousness and woke him instantly. The tones were not threatening but even as he woke habit had him groping for his blade. He moved quickly and made no sound, hand settling around the shaft of his axe only to find another weapon already held at his throat.
"A dwarf preparing for battle." The speaker spoke the common tongue but with accent different to those Gimli had become used to hearing. Soft, yes, and melodic for all its hostility, but also earthier, if such a term could be used for an elf. "Guests are not usually so armed."
Gimli could see his assailant now. The elf crouched in front of him. He was fair-skinned with startlingly dark eyebrows over blue eyes and a wide mouth, just now tight-lipped with suspicion. Pale hair spilled loosely over his shoulders.
One hand still pressed a long knife against Gimli's throat while long fingers gripped the wrist of his right hand and pressed painfully against the veins. Gimli forced himself to stay still and not react. Not for life itself would he break the hold on his axe. He could feel each finger of the hand pressing into his skin and knew the pain was not accidental. The elf spoke again, "But these are unusual times. Are you a spy? Speak!" The knife moved slightly so that only the point lightly touched his throat. Equally dangerous but an improvement in that it allowed speech. Amongst friends, indeed! Fury overrode any fear that Gimli might have felt.
"And is it likely that I should name myself a spy if I were?" A question answered with a question and Gimli hadn't bothered to hide his anger.
The elf's lips twitched in an unpleasant smile. "No. Nor would Elrond suffer you to live if you trespassed here uninvited. And yet these are dangerous times and you are a strange guest to find in this place - a mortal hiding in the shadows of an elvish stronghold. Speak your business."
"Strange times indeed but a welcome guest for all that as you would know if you were in the counsel of the Lord of this land," replied Gimli pointedly. "As for my business it is my own."
"I have but arrived tonight and have not yet had more than brief words with Lord Elrond," admitted the elf with a slight lessening of hostility. "He did not mention any dwarves." He dropped the hand that had held Gimli's and stepped back but made no move to sheath his knife.
Gimli's wrist throbbed with returning blood. Now, with less concern for his own safety, Gimli could see the elf was somewhat travel stained and weary. Tired, almost. He was surprised, he had not thought that elves could look less than perfect. It made the stranger seem more approachable, less exalted.
"And your name?" The question was not quite an order.
"That also is my own to give or withhold as I choose. Still, I shall answer you for the sake of our mutual host. " Gimli made his tone neutral. The elf would feel foolish enough when he realised the extent of his discourtesy. Gimli rose without hurrying not letting his eyes stray from those of his interrogator as he did so. As he gained his full height he looked up at his captor and finally, deliberately dropped his hand from his own weapon. "Know that were you elsewhere I would kill you before letting you draw a knife on me. As to who I am -" He sketched a bow. "Gimli son of Gloin from the Halls of Erebor at your service."
The elf swept a bow back, smoother and deeper than his own. It was as it should be but Gimli was aware of a feeling of disappointment. Even while speaking to him the elf had clearly discounted him for other thoughts. They view all mortals as beneath contempt he thought and was swept by a further wave of anger. He would not be put aside so.
"And you are?" The question came out blunt.
"Do you not know?" The elf visibly refocussed back towards Gimli. Something like surprise filtered across his face. Gimli wondered if he was mad. That would explain much and yet the elf did not seem insane for all his odd behaviour.
It was arrogance then thought Gimli and allowed disdain to filter to his words. "Why should I? Are your deeds such that they should be known far and wide?"
The blue eyes flashed. Once more Gimli was struck by the differences in this elf and others he had met. The elves of Elrond's household would not let their emotions show in this way. He felt a twist of unwilling sympathy. Whoever he was, it seemed that this elf was not a born diplomat either.
"Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood." The elf raised his chin as he spoke as if daring Gimli to respond.
"Oh." One of the Mirkwood Elves, that explained why they had not yet met. The sympathy evaporated. The name kindled no warmth amongst his kind in general - and even less so for one whose father had been forced to escape in a barrel after being imprisoned by the King of Mirkwood. If Gimli had been less preoccupied he would have noticed the forced quality of the gesture. As it was he was intent on keeping his temper and not saying any of the words that passed through his mind.
"So you do know me? What have you heard." Legolas had evidently misread his expression. Again the defiantly raised chin.
"I have nothing of you save what you yourself have just revealed." Gimli kept his voice coldly polite with effort. "Mirkwood has no pleasant associations for me, that is all. Enough! I am sure that your deeds are such that they will affect the history of the free peoples and your name will resound through the ages in both story and song. I bid you welcome, Legolas Greenleaf, and now I would bid you leave and allow me to be alone with my thoughts."
Legolas tensed as if he had been struck. He searched Gimli's face as if seeing him for the first time. Then his lips twisted and he smiled. There was nothing friendly in the expression. He had faced men in battle who wore just such a look as they screamed defiance at their foes. "You mock me?"
"No." Gimli stepped forward a pace but found the elf blocking his way. He stopped. It was impossible to go forward without asking the other to move and that he would not do. Legolas' eyes glittered. Gimli thought of the wild mountain cats that were said to entrance their prey before striking. He was afraid to break eye contact lest the creature pounced. He must be mad or dreaming because nothing was making sense.
"Do you really not know who I am?" The voice was soft now, and full of wonder.
"I do not lie. Now, let me pass."
The elf moved slightly so that he leaned against the shelter of the trees as Gimli had done earlier. Whether by intent or design it effectively trapped Gimli within the curve of the structure. "Are your thoughts pleasant Gimli son of Gloin?"
"No."
"Nor are mine." At this the elf sighed, and the look he turned on Gimli was once again tired. "I would rather talk than think."
I would not, thought Gimli, but it seemed as if his wishes were of no concern in this conversation, for words flowed from his companion as if they were chance travellers met at an inn. Gimli scrutinised the fair face in front of him and once again had the idea that the elf was somewhere else entirely in spirit. He wondered if he had imagined that first intense gaze for Legolas now glanced over and around him in the polite but dismissive manner he had become used to. He might as well talk to the trees, thought Gimli.
"What brings a dwarf of Erebor to Imlandris?"
Gimli quirked an eyebrow. "I might ask you the same."
"You might." There was a slight pause. Legolas started to look down then checked the motion. "I have news of a prisoner escaping."
"Oh-" For a second Gimli thought to ask more but something in the elf's face discouraged questions. Yet the answer fell too easily, as if it was a statement long rehearsed. Silence fell again and the uneasy stand off remained. "You are in my way," said Gimli at last, reluctantly.
"So it seems." Legolas agreed. So it had been intent after all. Of course, what could his wishes count against those of one of the First Born? Even moon-addled as this one seemed they were convinced of their own superiority.
"I would ask you to move," said Gimli between gritted teeth.
"I do not wish to be alone." Legolas said again as if that were the end of the matter.
"Then find some other companion."
"I do not think that many of my people would wish to share my company tonight." It was a simple statement. Pitiful but devoid of self pity and, like the words from previous minutes, seeming to shift in meaning and intent.
"Why?" The question came out against Gimli's better judgement.
"I would rather not say."
"And I would rather not stay!" cried Gimli in frustration, "But since you trap me you must kill me or satisfy my curiosity."
Legolas looked at him again. The elf ran an experimental finger along the edge of this knife and grinned. There was something desperate in the smile. "I am not sure it is my place to tell, but perhaps it does not matter for all here will know soon enough. I do not know if that will be better or worse. Do you wager, Gimli son of Gloin."
"Only on myself."
That earned a laugh. "You set yourself high."
"I set my people high. But, yes, myself also. It is a matter of personal honour."
"I ask only for your company but, yes, if you will only give it this way we can wager on your honour and my lack of honour. If you win I shall satisfy your curiosity. If I win you may give me your company. A fair trade, think you?"
Gimli shrugged, rudely. "What is an elf's honour?"
The elf looked amused. "That you must win to find out."
"No. I do not want to bet with you." He tried to sound certain. In fact he was certain of nothing.
"Are you afraid?" asked Legolas. There was nothing taunting about the question.
"No." repeated Gimli, although it was half a lie. How had this happened? This was like falling down a mountain, a mountain he had not even wanted to climb but one on which every word took him higher. He felt the elf watching him and knew that he had been neatly manouvred into this position. He heard himself temporize, diluting the refusal. "I do not know what we wager for."
"Why for the pleasure of your company." And now the amusement was back.
Gimli was alarmed to find himself blushing. "What do we wager on?"
Legolas regarded his knife. "Since we both have weapons let us have a throwing competition. You choose."
Part of him wanted to refuse while another part anticipated the challenge. Here at least was something solid to grab hold of. He would do it and go home - there would be no more worrying and wondering and dealing with these confusing creatures. He made a slow survey of the land in front of them. "There is a lone tree over there. See? The second branch up on that tree. Whoever should hit that closest." It was a slim tree about twenty foot away with the branch perhaps an arms breadth in size. Not the easiest of throws, Gimli judged, but do-able. Gimli threw first and missed the blade landing at the trunk of tree. Legolas threw next. The knife left his hand awkwardly but still touched the vine.
Legolas looked dismayed as they walked to collect the knives. "Best of three?"
Gimli shook his head. "No. I know when I am outclassed. You win fairly."
"I do not think so."
"I do, Master Elf."
Legolas seemed to shake himself in another of those lightning swings of mood. "I do not think so. I am held something of an expert at knife work. It was not a fair wager."
"Then why did you make it?" asked Gimli. "I am not a child to pandered. I accepted the challenge freely." He set his lips stubbornly. "You have the match -despite your best efforts."
Legolas attempted to speak lightly but it didn't quite come off. "But that was not our bargain. I desired only conversation and now you say I must have your honour. What tell me is a dwarf's honour? Is it your name or your beard or your sex?" He glanced at Gimli's face and read the truth there. Held up both his hands. "No! No! I do not wish for such." Then, unforgivably, he laughed.
Gimli clenched his fists. Words spilled from him without thought, "You despise my honour? Then you must kill me."
The laughter stopped instantly. The elf faced him in obvious distress. "But I do not wish to kill you? Or to-or to. Will you not accept the match is void?"
"Is that your way then? To force a wager and then back down when the terms please you not? They did not please me but I accepted and now consider myself bound to my promise." Had such words come from his lips? The very thought was shaming and yet he could not back down from a wager fairly lost.
The elf sighed heavily and moved from foot to foot. Gimli waited unmoving. At length Legolas stilled. He seemed to come to a decision. "It seems we are at an impasse. It is folly of my own making. Are you determined to stand by your word." Gimli set his lips and nodded. The elf sighed again. "Come then. Let us finish this quickly. For neither of us, I am convinced, will find much joy in the act."
Legolas glanced at him thoughtfully and retrieved a silver flask from the folds of his tunic. He took a long swallow before handing it across to Gimli. The dwarf it accepted it wordlessly their hands touching briefly as the flask was passed from one to the other.
It was brandy. A young vintage by the taste. Gimli drank deeply. The fiery liquid warmed him. He drank again. The taste of the wine was still on his lips when Legolas bent his head and kissed him. Then Gimli was consumed by another kind of burning. This was shame and the worst of it was that he did not ever want it to end.
The first time he had fought a man, really fought - not the mock fights staged on fair days - he had been shocked to find himself hard with excitement, prick throbbing against the confining leather of his breeches. He hair hung stiff with dried blood and his lips were salty with the tang of it. The next time he was not surprised and had worked himself to completion in the washouse later, quick and rough. And yet, somehow he thought the act itself would be different. He had pictured himself leading his chosen bride to some candle-lit bower and gently divesting her of her garments, layer by layer, pulling each tie from its confining eyelet with soft words and kisses. He was wrong. There was nothing gentle in the act of mating. He was an animal rutting and the grunts and moans issuing from his mouth uncontrolled and bestial.
Soft hair wrapped around his face and he was held by arms that were maiden smooth for all they were corded with muscle. The body in his moved rhythmically, faltering at the difference of height and resuming the pace. Gimli grunted impatiently - hating himself but needing completion. He moved his hand down to stroke himself and found his fist covered with another hand.
It was like fighting this, with the knowledge that there would be no stopping until one or the other of you had fallen. Red mist hazed his vision. Now! Now! Now! He gave a cry that was cut off by a hand over his mouth.
So now he was unchaste. Unclean by his own standards and not fit to wed one of his own kind. At some point he had fallen to his hands and knees and the grasses he lain on so recently now provided cushioned him a second time. Harsh breathing showed Legolas had similarly collapsed by his side.
Gimli blinked to clear his eyes. A sheen of sweat served only to enhance the beauty of his companion. The elf seemed different - something calmer under his disordered surface where Gimli felt himself fractured inside. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. Once more shame swept over him - a double shame in that where there was regret there was also a bright flame of desire.
"I'm sorry." There was something different to the low voice too - level of calmness that had been missing before.
"I would have won if I could." He shrugged off the apology. It was meaningless. What would Gloin say? He would tear off his beard in horror.
"Gimli." Something in the voice broke his introspection. "I know that this has meant more to you than it would amongst my people. I do not say this to anger you but would tell you now that this is meaningless." Gimli started to protest but the elf overrode him. "I say nothing against your customs but honour is not lost so easily as in the joining of flesh. I know for I am without honour."
"How then?" Bitterness choked him but pride made him add, "You need not tell me. That was not in our bargain."
"I betrayed a trust and in doing so have placed all our lives in danger. No, do not say anything, hear me out now. It was not for greed or gain but because I thought I knew better than others who advised me of what was good and right. I have let a prisoner escape who has the power to do all our peoples much evil. And now I think - I know - I have betrayed a second trust in my dealings with you tonight. I knew you could not win that bet."
Something clenched inside him. Of all things spare him from pity. "My choices are my own."
Legolas continued in that quiet intent voice that forced him to listen even though he did not want to hear. "Yes, but not if they were choices not fairly made. I counsel you to forget this. I promise you this matter is between ourselves alone but what I did will impact the lives of mortals and immortals for many years to come. Go now. Forget this night. Finish whatever business has bought you here and then return to your people and be happy. Tomorrow it will be as if we had never met."
Gimli raised himself on one arm and inclined his head towards the speaker. Although he faced Gimli, Legolas' eyes moved past him with a look that showed plainly that already he was moving away from the dwarf even as his gaze rested on his face. Gimli's body throbbed in remembered response to pressure that was no longer there but even as he sought to hold on to the feeling it was fading. He wanted to hold on to the hurt because at least that was real. He wanted to hold it, feel it, inflict it.
Deliberately Gimli picked up his knife. It felt good in hand. He raised his arm and brought the blade down sharply slashing the pale skin of the elf's collarbone in a single long stroke. The was cut deep enough to scar but not to kill. Blood welled from the wound and began to drip down the pale chest.
Legolas lay still. The elf's knife lay within reach but he made no move to either evade the blow or defend himself. "Are you looking for death? Do not ask me for that."
Gimli shook his head. He felt empty now. "Some things should not be forgotten."
The elf gave a twisted smile. Blood from the cuts had seeped into the fine linen of his shirt but already it was starting to congeal. He spoke sadly, "And some should. Forget this night, Gimli. It has nothing to do with you. I did not need a mark to remember my shame."
Gimli glanced at him but said nothing as he rose and began straightening his clothes. There was straw on his boots and clinging to the knees of his breeches. At last he stood ready to leave.
Legolas stood, too, looking down at Gimli with an unreadable expression. He had not bothered to rearrange his shirt which still hung open. Gimli traced the line of the cut with a gentle finger. His voice trembled, "It is you who do not understand. This is not just about you and your choices and mistakes. My choices are my own and not to be cast aside at your say so, though my life is but the blink of an eye to you. Remember me. As I will remember you." Blue eyes met his in a painful gaze.
"Perhaps" Legolas said at last and turning walked away into the night.
***