A/N: This is kind of a companion piece to my other little vignette called "For the Fear of Death," in which Gimli and Legolas talk before the battle of Helm's Deep. I don't think it's necessary to have read that one, but it might help, and it's not exactly a hard or long read. But I don't know if I like this one as much as the other one, but whatever. I just feel like posting something. Oh, and this is movie based, though I have finished the first book and have started the second but for some reason I have all these other books for that thing called school…. Again, I don't know much of anything about elvish/dwarven/any philosophy or psychology and so when I write I just kind of go off and spout random things that sometimes turn out in the forms of stories, kind of like this. I hope I didn't make Legolas a little too…vulnerable, but I think he has good reason to be…just read, and you'll know what I'm talking about. By the way, this wasn't edited in the most thorough manner so I apologize for any typos or bad grammar or bad punctuation or any other problems of that nature.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The Glory of the Day
The morning sun shone, stoic beams slicing sky, casting its rays purposefully on the valley. The bodies of the Uruk-hai made dark masses upon the once picturesque landscape. The blood that still flowed from their wounds slicked their dark armor, staining the ground below, but only evident against their dark skin and garb by the glinting of sunlight against the precious liquid. Fallen Men and Elves, however, proclaimed their fate more overtly. The bodies, disfigured and maimed in the saving sunlight, had changed in death, forever tainted in their eyes of their companions by the blood which washed freely over them, liberally over the ground.
The fortress, which the setting sun had found strong, now lay battered in the revealing light. The outer walls crumbled onto the field, burying uruk-hai, men, and elves alike. The stones, however, even in the sunlight, did not bear the marks of the countless arrows which had pelted it. The arrows, which had flown in the veil of night, now lay stark against the scene, scattered everywhere—protruding fatally from bodies, littering the ground, the castle, the bodies.
Bathed in sunlight, the countryside barely seemed like the dark and chaotic battlefield of the night before. Slowly, now, safe now within the waxing daylight, Men and Elves began the painstaking process of sorting the dead. Bodies were sorted by race. Weapons were retrieved. Not even the day could warm the cold reality in this process.
Laboring along the sides of the weary soldiers, Legolas and Gimli also set to harrowing task at hand. Exhaustion lay heavily upon them. The night had passed without sleep, without rest. The adrenaline of battle had dissipated into reality of victory. They toiled in silence. They did not quip about their feats; they did not compare the number of their conquests. Those were games of the night, games to play to brighten the consuming darkness.
The hours passed in silence. Somewhere within the mountains, women were crying. The King was mourning, strategizing, daring to hope. In Isengard, Saruman writhed in his defeats. In Mordor, the great darkness grew. But on the field, in front of Rohan's last great hope, the long process of recuperating carried on.
As the afternoon approached, Legolas abruptly pulled away, seating himself on a rock. The Dwarf finished lugging an uruk-hai to a pile, tossing the salvageable weaponry aside before turning to his friend. "I did not think Elves tired so quickly," he bantered, trying to keep his tone light.
Legolas could not meet his gaze. He could not look away from the carnage which seemed to stretch forever before him. Before him lay more death in one night than he had witnessed in centuries. "There is so much death," he said softly, nearly dumbfounded.
Gimli looked over the scene again briefly. "This much we knew when we began," he said, his voice sounding too gruff for the sentiment.
"Indeed," Legolas said softly, his eyes still fixed. "But death and war seem much different before the battle—so much different before the morning came."
Somewhat awkwardly, Gimli neared his friend. "Elves are not nearly as accustomed to the ways of death and war as the mortal races," he said consolingly.
"It is not death that stops me here…," Legolas breathed. "It is life."
With his pride carrying him, Gimli did not want to express his lack of understanding to the cryptic statement. But he had no words to say that acknowledged the Elf's meaning.
"All life continues," Legolas continued softly. "And should I survive this darkness, I shall outlast the centuries that rise and fall with mortals."
"The darkness indeed comes, my friend," Gimli agreed. "But look up now. It is day. The sun still shines. Even the darkest nights are broken by the splendor of day."
"What splendor do you see here?"
Gimli ruffled, settling on a rock beside the Elf. "Victory."
"How is this victory?"
"We are still free," Gimli said. "And the light shall not set quite yet."
Tearing his eyes from the slaughter, Legolas sighed, his head down. "We have indeed won this battle. Against impossible odds, we may win this war. The time of Men may prevail. But the loss of this victory will linger with me always. I shall never be the same."
"You said yourself that you were prepared for death," Gimli pointed out in gentle gruffness.
"The glory of this day that you speak of—it is a glory these Men and Elves never beheld."
"The glory of the undying lands surely outweighs this meager sunlight which blesses us."
Legolas smile slightly. "You are profound, good Gimli. The brusque mannerism of the dwarves hides many things."
"As does the elven delicacy," Gimli said. "The strength and vigor of an elven warrior surpasses even the most dedicated Dwarf."
"Years of practice, years of life," Legolas explained vacantly. "Years to learn, years to grow. And years to grieve…."
"What friends have you lost this day?" Gimli asked with an air of quiet respect.
"Many acquaintances have fallen, but they all grieve me. They all astound me. The Men—all so young, even those who have past their prime. I have been shielded from the fleeting nature of mortality too long. Only now am I beginning to understand the absence created by death. I did not anticipate it affecting me so deeply…I had no way to know…even these I knew nothing of…."
Sighing in sympathy, Gimli said, "You will learn to move on."
"Move on? How does one 'move on?' When Gandalf the Grey was lost unto the shadow, we 'moved on' at Aragorn's insistence. I prodded the heart-broken hobbits along dutifully. When Aragorn himself disappeared over the cliff, I 'moved on' though all I wanted was to find him, to disprove what reality seemed so plainly to tell me. I 'moved on' and came no closer to understanding their inexistence in this life. No amount of action or talk can fill the void these have torn from me."
"It is a burden we all bear."
"But it shall endure with every new dawn, every new night, and on until I myself choose to abandon Middle-earth for a better place. By then, their bones will be long gone and their memories faded from even their predecessor," he said fervently, his eyes blazing at the thought. But then he grew quiet again, his voice sounding distant as he admitted, "I do not believe I can face the rising of a new day without those whom I love."
Gimli shifted uncomfortably. The Elf seemed more vulnerable, his emotions strained by the battle, stretched by the loss. Even the elves suffered. More than ever, Legolas seemed…mortal. "Do not fall victim to the elf's egocentricity," Gimli said, not unkindly, but pointedly, trying to elicit the rational mindset he always respected in his friend. "Just because our days are numbered does not mean that we do not suffer."
"Death is built into your lives. Death has validated your existence. Death and immortality do not mix well. Death brings the end of day when immorality is ceaseless dawn. Never before have I doubted the glory of greeting the undying dawn. But that glory, as it is called, falls impotently against my shattered spirit."
"So perhaps we are the lucky ones," Gimli agreed. "But our exposure to death not only elicits in us the fear of mortality, but also a means of overcoming it. You have said, Master Elf, that mortals fight for fear of death, and this I do not deny. But I have fought by your side as a brother. And if mortality has taught me anything it has taught me that only through friendship, camaraderie—brotherhood—can I rise to face the day, despite the pain. You have depended upon brotherhood for a will to fight, but now I beseech you, turn to your brothers for a will to live. Then the glory of the dawn is not so lost, even in the wake of death."
Legolas finally turned his eyes to Gimli, bearing the depth of his heartache honestly to his friend. "These scenes of blood and gore, these smells of metal and rotting flesh, these memories of chaos—they will haunt me. I have fought and I have killed before, but not in this manner, not with mortals forsaking their short existences for an impossible cause."
"If the cause were impossible, then they would not have won."
"Part of me wishes that I had fallen in battle so as to not face the morning of this tragedy."
"If you had fallen, then I would have fallen by your side," Gimli responded fiercely. "We fought as brothers, now let us carry on in that same manner. Your pain is my pain, and I will help you carry it until at last the night truly falls and then, by my word, we shall greet that side by side."
Swallowing hard, Legolas smiled. "Thank you, my dear friend," he struggled to say.
"Pshaw, for what?" Gimli said dismissively. "I have done no more than fulfill my duties to you as a friend."
"Not that of a friend, good Gimli," Legolas countered, "Nay, I have lost a good many friends this day, but you have taught me the meaning of not just mortality, but life, of brotherhood. I have often spoken of all these things, but for the first time in my many years I think I am beginning to understand."
"Then let us go," Gimli said, rising from the rock. "For the glory of this day has not yet faded."