Extermination.
Elves? They were a legend, nothing more than fairy tales told to slave-children to give them hope of days long, long passed. But Gimli? He knew better.
Even after all these years, over four hundred years since The Conquering, Gimli had retained his youth and vibrancy, the second of the only two survivors of the doomed Quest to destroy the One Ring.
He was known as Gimli the Eternal, his axe and wit known throughout the world as a great war hero, having defeated a Balrog under his own strength, alone. He was a warrior for the forces of good…
The Elves were gone, either having been slaughtered in droves or driven from the shores of this world. Gimli himself and young Pippin had watched from afar as Lothlórien burned, an evil spell freezing all movement inside the borders.
Elves burned to death, unable to defend themselves.
Imladris, too, fell much to the same fate. The beautiful buildings had been demolished and historical art was shredded and pulverized, like the spirits of those that had sought refuge in their walls.
Elrond had long been killed as a martyr, and Arwen had died heroically, defending her husband's body from mutilation by throwing both her and the still-warm corpse into the sea.
Glorfindel had survived, becoming the last elf to leave the shores of Middle-Earth. He carried with him the bodies of Thranduil and his sons, minus one.
Legolas…
Gimli still shuddered at the memory. The brave elf had died valiantly, his spirit strong and solid to the end…
The torture was the longest in Mordor's history. Two hundred and twenty years Legolas had lasted in the dungeons of Mordor, until he had but one arm and leg, and still he belittled Sauron, with a light in his one remaining eye and a song in his bleeding heart.
The rest of the Fellowship had died quickly. Boromir had been lucky…
Aragorn had died fleeing Minas Tirith with his children, who were hung from the cliff faces before his eyes. He had been speared through after protecting Arwen…but it had not been enough.
Gandalf had disappeared long, long ago from the world, and he had taken Merry and Samwise, plus their families, with him. Pippin had refused to run, staying instead by Gimli's side, and they had fought together for so long that they thought of each other as brothers.
Before dying, Elrond had given Pippin Vilya, one of the three elven rings of Power. Even though it's power was fading, the hobbit had born it well, and it extended his life graciously.
Through all this…
Could there still be hope?
Gimli prayed for it, even as he hid in the depths of the Lonely Mountain, his hands held out towards a scanty fire for warmth. He fell asleep listening to Pippin's deep, steady breathing.
And he dreamed of old friends.
"Gimli!" Legolas laughed as the dwarf picked himself out of the leaves, "What are you doing? I asked you to practice tracking, not tripping!"
The dwarf remembered this dream, and the ending. So he grinned and stood strong, laughing with the elf, "Perhaps it takes extra effort in one to learn the other! I am, of course, an expert in the latter of the two!"
Legolas chuckled and stood, slipping his long knives into their sheaths, "Come now, we need to make the Refuge by dark."
"You spoil all our rest times with your commands," Gimli picked up his backpack, his face going dark. The dream was shorter this time. Usually he had more time… "Can we go a little slower now? I am slightly tired."
"Come, Gimli, we can rest when we reach Imladris," The elf looked down at him with a smile in his eyes…two eyes…both intact…both indigo…
Gimli could not hold it back any longer, "Legolas, no!"
But the elf had already turned away, and the black blade had already flown. The knife embedded itself in a tree while Legolas fell forward, eyes wide in pain and surprise, teeth clenched. His hands were both clamped down on his throat, blood running between his thin fingers.
The dream was over…and Gimli awoke in the depths of the Lonely Mountain.
Then, when sleep overtook him again, he dreamt of Frodo…kind, gentle, innocent Frodo…his eyes blackened by blindness, his poor body broken and motionless as it lay on the ledge that overlooked the Crack of Doom.
Gimli saw the barest hint of life in the hobbit's body as he struggled to move, straining with all his heart to hold onto life…
Then Sauron, his corporeal body demonic and deadly, had simply nudged the body over the edge. Pippin had been one to witness this as well, and he had screamed in anger and rage as Frodo disappeared into the magma of the Crack of Doom.
Merry was supposed to have been next…but Gandalf had intervened, his freedom from the bonds two moments too late…
Gimli snapped awake again, but this time, he did not allow sleep to take him over again. He stared up into the darkness as he listened to the stone groan, as if in the deepest depths of desolate agony.
Hallucinations came to him…
Gimli…you have survived…
It is all your responsibility now…
There is a way…but it is dangerous…
If you fail, then Celeborn's sacrifice would be in vain…
In the air before Gimli, the ghostly apparition of Legolas appeared, blood marring his throat. But the figure smiled and seemed to sit in the air, relaxed and at ease.
There is a way for you and Pippin to save Middle-Earth…
"Tell me, Legolas, tell me!" Gimli demanded of the ghost.
He continued as if he had not heard the dwarf, But it is so dangerous…but I supposed that I need tell you, for hope is so scarce in these times of pain and want…
The elf leaned forward, Galadriel's Hair, the threefold strands that she bestowed upon you in Lothlórien, if cast into the Pit of Doom…if the blood of evil, good, and neutral are poured into the magma as well…
Saviors will come. I cannot tell you who, for I do not know myself, The ghost's smile disappeared, and crystal tears flowed, I fear for you, my friend, and for the young one. Guard your steps, and keep your way safe, for the five-hundred-year mark comes soon. When the night falls on that day, Middle-Earth will be forever Sauron's…
Legolas shimmered into the stone visage of a dwarven statue that was carved into the wall. Gimli reached under his armor and withdrew a long shard of crystal that held three stands of dulled and plain looking stands of hair.
He rolled the crystal in his hands, and the strands caught the light. For a second, they were the vibrant, shimmering threads of gold newly cut from the head of Galadriel by her own hand, and her smile superimposed on the crystal, her smile beaming light.
Galadriel…
She and Celeborn had been the only Survivors of Lórien, Their lives protected by the power of the Ring that she held, though its powers faded and disappeared soon after. They had escaped the tyranny of Middle-Earth and fled to the lands beyond the Sea.
Gimli clutched the crystal and wept.
The Crack of Doom…
It loomed before them, its gaping maw stretching wide, willing to drink in the blood that Gimli held in the wineskins.
"Do it, Gimli," Pippin whispered, his battle-weary face momentarily returning to the young hobbit that he had been so very long ago… "We've still got a long way to go if we plan to get out of here alive."
He had been struck hard as they fought their way in. His side was bloody, and Gimli knew that he did not have much time left.
Reluctantly, he held the crystal over the lava…
He held the three wineskins over the Crack as well, one dripping with orc blood, one with elven blood, and the other with the blood of a tree, fresh sap that had been cried upon the thirsty ground.
Evil…
Good…
Neutral…
And the crystal-encased hairs of Galadriel…
They fell.
