Title: Legolas, the Dwarf
Author: Maeglin the Traitor
Rating: Currently, PG-13
Warning: Implied Slash L/G
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Tolkien. I write for no enrichment except my own entertainment.
Notice: This is AU. Please do not write to me and tell me that it does not agree with all that Tolkien wrote. To quote my beloved Master Erestor of Rivendell:
"We prefer bow and arrow to canon."
Author's note: I thank The Magic Rat for her kind permission to use ideas introduced in her story "The Last Homely House". The ideas of Gloín adopting Legolas, the dwarven hairstyle and clothing and the necklace of runes were originally hers. She has graciously allowed me to do with them what I will. Thank you, dear Rodent!
To those who are not familiar with her fiction, you do not know what you miss! It is a whole new world. Be introduced to Mauberz the Straggler, Rabbit, Bramble, Frost and--Eru save us--Rúmil the Catamite!
Please note that I have tried to give links for the beloved Rodent and Master Erestor, but the cretins at this site apparently do not accept them. In Google, type in "The Magic Rat" or "Master Erestor" or "The Vanilla Elf". Contact me if you cannot find them!
Maeglin the Traitor
__________________
Chapter 1 - Endings and Beginnings
Gloín had seen the elven messengers arrive early that morning from Imladris and Eryn Lasgalen. He had watched idly as Legolas had accepted several missives to distribute to those elves in his party who visited Aglarond with him. Several letters he had seen the elf tuck inside his own tunic, as if to read later.
Not an hour later, Gloín in his wanderings had first seen the young elf sitting by himself in total stillness. He had shaken his head as always at the ways of elves and continued on with his walk towards the mine and the day's work.
As he walked, he mused about these elves of the new colony in Ithilien. They were different somehow than those he had known before. They had come to this ravaged land of the humans with the intent of healing it. They were serious in that purpose and not flighty as Gloín remembered elves. Or, thought he did. He wondered sometimes if his memory was as clear as he had always been sure. Gloín scowled suddenly. One memory of elves was crystal in his mind. This young one's father had thrown him into a dungeon.
Still, Gloín's mind had always been fair. He remembered also the recent weeks of hearing Legolas' laughter and his son's mingled together. He had seen the skinny creature work as hard as any dwarf, even harder if Gloín were truly honest. He did not know what to think of Legolas. The elf his son said that he loved.
No task seemed too humble or difficult for the elegant creature to set his hand upon. With the others of his kind, he had toiled in the hot sun and dug gardens. He had wrestled with tree stumps and rocks and hauled and spread manure as if it were gold. He came home to the rooms he shared with Gimli and Gloín so dirty that he would not let Gimli near him or come into the rooms until he bathed. Once, he had been so exhausted that he had fallen asleep in the tub, and Gimli still teased him about that.
The dwarves of Aglarond had begun their observations of the elves with thinly veiled mockery, and they made sure their comments were overheard. On more than several occasions, Gloín had restrained his hot-headed son from attacking another dwarf over hurtful words.
Legolas had laughed and shook his head at Gimli each time that his anger exploded. He and his elves wanted peace. Pushing back his golden hair from his sweat-streaked face, he had begun to sing always, and the other elves had joined him. If you were singing, the mocking comments could not be heard.
The mockery had ceased two weeks before. A mine cave-in had trapped several dwarves in a place beyond an opening too narrow for their thick dwarven bodies to enter. To enlarge the narrow fissure would take at least a day. By then, the air within the collapsed tunnel would have been gone, and the dwarves trapped there would be dead.
Gloín remembered how quietly Legolas had stepped before the assembled dwarves with all of his elves behind him:
"Our bodies are slender. They will fit through the opening. Tell us what we must do, for mining is not our skill. We will get your friends out. When they are in the air again, you can enlarge the opening and free them."
The dwarves of Aglarond had watched as one by one the elves twisted lithe bodies through the narrow opening. For hours without stopping, the elves had heeded the instructions of the dwarves and worked to clear the rubble from the tunnel. They had worked silently and beyond the point where even the strongest dwarf would have dropped with exhaustion.
Gloín remembered the tremendous shout of joy from the trapped miners when cool air finally rushed into their tomb. He remembered the cries of glad rejoicing from the elves. The elves from Ithilien had begun to sing then, as elves always seemed to do. Somehow, to the dwarves of Aglarond, the singing no longer seemed funny. The dwarves had continued their sturdy attempts to widen the opening with renewed heart and soon it was done.
The elves came out then, supporting those who had been trapped and carrying those dwarves who could not walk. Their slender bodies were covered with dirt, and their bright hair was hidden beneath the dust of rock. In the chaos and rejoicing of the recovery, the elves had drawn back from the dwarves as they had learned it was safer to do. Gloín was the first to notice their hands. With a cry for the healers, the old dwarf grasped Legolas' wrists.
The beautiful white hands of the prince and those of all the elves were badly torn and bleeding. They had dug away the last stones to free the air hole with their fingers. It had been too dangerous to use picks for they did not know if the trapped miners had enough room to evade the blows of the heavy instruments.
The dwarves of Aglarond had seen the tortured and bleeding white hands, and they had suddenly felt shame. Hatred had begun to die that day in Aglarond.
*****
Returning six hours later from his work in the new mine, Gloín noted the elf was still there where he had been in the morning, unnoticed by all in their comings and goings through the day because his perch was in the shelter of the old cave's entrance. It was a natural alcove that Gloín himself sometimes used for a quiet pipe and some musings at the end of a day. Curious, he approached the hidden elf.
Now, Gloín was a dwarf and no master of silent movement. Never before had he been able to get within twenty feet of Legolas without the keen eyes of the elf noting his approach. When he had been able to not only reach the elf unnoticed but also to lay his hand upon the thin shoulder without the slightest reaction, he had acted on centuries of instinct. This cold stillness could not be normal even for an elf. Gloín had called out to the first dwarf he saw to find his son Gimli and bring him swiftly.
Alone with the elf, Gloin suddenly drew him into his arms and held him. He felt the slender body shudder as if with inner pain and, forgetting that this was his enemy of old, he began to rock the suffering creature gently in his arms, making softer sounds than an elf had ever before heard from a dwarf.
The language Legolas did not know, but the warmth that enveloped him brought healing and desperately called him back from the cold abyss where he was falling. He smelled the scent of the earth in the old dwarf's body, and it seemed good to him. He burrowed his face against it, thinking he would not be so frightened now when they placed his body beneath it.
Legolas had decided to die, but he still feared to be beneath the earth and in its darkness. Perhaps it would not be so bad if it smelled like Gimli's father. He must leave now. He knew it, yet the old and strong voice kept calling him, refusing to let him go. Still falling, Legolas listened to it in the distance as to the rumbling of the earth.
"You must not die, young one. You are needed and loved. What has brought you to this place I can guess. Whatever has been said, we will face with you. You must not leave Arda. You must stay here for this old fool of a dwarf. You must stay here for my son Gimli."
*****
Gloín looked at his son sitting beside the elf. His son. Gimli. Gimli, whom he had raised to despise the elves, especially those of Thranduil.
The old dwarf watched at the awkwardly gentle attempts of his young one to reach the elf he held in his arms. The tall golden creature of beauty lay as still as the stone his son's hands had mined all his life. Legolas let the dwarven hands touch his face and caress his thin arms and back, but he did not react. The elf felt his heart broken, and he continued to turn his face from Arda and fall through his darkness. Gimli saw life ebbing from the eyes of his beloved and called out to his father in fear such as Gloín had never heard drawn from his son before.
The old dwarf made his decision. It went against centuries of the custom of their folk and all that he thought was the inner core of his own being, The elf must not die or his son would as well. Gloín did not wish to lose his son. . .or the elf.
Gloín knelt beside the dying elf and gripped his arm firmly. As he fell, Legolas felt the strength of that old hand catching him, holding him, keeping him from touching the bottom of the abyss that he so desperately sought.
"Legolas, my son, come back to your father. You are my son now as much as Gimli is, and I am not willing that you leave me. A dwarf does not lightly surrender treasure, and you have become my jewel. Heed my words, my son, and return. I love you too much to let you fall." Gloín found himself kissing the elf's face and saw his own tears fall upon it. He did not understand the love suddenly in his own heart, but he knew he was fighting for this young one as he would have fought to save Gimli. This was his son now.
Author: Maeglin the Traitor
Rating: Currently, PG-13
Warning: Implied Slash L/G
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Tolkien. I write for no enrichment except my own entertainment.
Notice: This is AU. Please do not write to me and tell me that it does not agree with all that Tolkien wrote. To quote my beloved Master Erestor of Rivendell:
"We prefer bow and arrow to canon."
Author's note: I thank The Magic Rat for her kind permission to use ideas introduced in her story "The Last Homely House". The ideas of Gloín adopting Legolas, the dwarven hairstyle and clothing and the necklace of runes were originally hers. She has graciously allowed me to do with them what I will. Thank you, dear Rodent!
To those who are not familiar with her fiction, you do not know what you miss! It is a whole new world. Be introduced to Mauberz the Straggler, Rabbit, Bramble, Frost and--Eru save us--Rúmil the Catamite!
Please note that I have tried to give links for the beloved Rodent and Master Erestor, but the cretins at this site apparently do not accept them. In Google, type in "The Magic Rat" or "Master Erestor" or "The Vanilla Elf". Contact me if you cannot find them!
Maeglin the Traitor
__________________
Chapter 1 - Endings and Beginnings
Gloín had seen the elven messengers arrive early that morning from Imladris and Eryn Lasgalen. He had watched idly as Legolas had accepted several missives to distribute to those elves in his party who visited Aglarond with him. Several letters he had seen the elf tuck inside his own tunic, as if to read later.
Not an hour later, Gloín in his wanderings had first seen the young elf sitting by himself in total stillness. He had shaken his head as always at the ways of elves and continued on with his walk towards the mine and the day's work.
As he walked, he mused about these elves of the new colony in Ithilien. They were different somehow than those he had known before. They had come to this ravaged land of the humans with the intent of healing it. They were serious in that purpose and not flighty as Gloín remembered elves. Or, thought he did. He wondered sometimes if his memory was as clear as he had always been sure. Gloín scowled suddenly. One memory of elves was crystal in his mind. This young one's father had thrown him into a dungeon.
Still, Gloín's mind had always been fair. He remembered also the recent weeks of hearing Legolas' laughter and his son's mingled together. He had seen the skinny creature work as hard as any dwarf, even harder if Gloín were truly honest. He did not know what to think of Legolas. The elf his son said that he loved.
No task seemed too humble or difficult for the elegant creature to set his hand upon. With the others of his kind, he had toiled in the hot sun and dug gardens. He had wrestled with tree stumps and rocks and hauled and spread manure as if it were gold. He came home to the rooms he shared with Gimli and Gloín so dirty that he would not let Gimli near him or come into the rooms until he bathed. Once, he had been so exhausted that he had fallen asleep in the tub, and Gimli still teased him about that.
The dwarves of Aglarond had begun their observations of the elves with thinly veiled mockery, and they made sure their comments were overheard. On more than several occasions, Gloín had restrained his hot-headed son from attacking another dwarf over hurtful words.
Legolas had laughed and shook his head at Gimli each time that his anger exploded. He and his elves wanted peace. Pushing back his golden hair from his sweat-streaked face, he had begun to sing always, and the other elves had joined him. If you were singing, the mocking comments could not be heard.
The mockery had ceased two weeks before. A mine cave-in had trapped several dwarves in a place beyond an opening too narrow for their thick dwarven bodies to enter. To enlarge the narrow fissure would take at least a day. By then, the air within the collapsed tunnel would have been gone, and the dwarves trapped there would be dead.
Gloín remembered how quietly Legolas had stepped before the assembled dwarves with all of his elves behind him:
"Our bodies are slender. They will fit through the opening. Tell us what we must do, for mining is not our skill. We will get your friends out. When they are in the air again, you can enlarge the opening and free them."
The dwarves of Aglarond had watched as one by one the elves twisted lithe bodies through the narrow opening. For hours without stopping, the elves had heeded the instructions of the dwarves and worked to clear the rubble from the tunnel. They had worked silently and beyond the point where even the strongest dwarf would have dropped with exhaustion.
Gloín remembered the tremendous shout of joy from the trapped miners when cool air finally rushed into their tomb. He remembered the cries of glad rejoicing from the elves. The elves from Ithilien had begun to sing then, as elves always seemed to do. Somehow, to the dwarves of Aglarond, the singing no longer seemed funny. The dwarves had continued their sturdy attempts to widen the opening with renewed heart and soon it was done.
The elves came out then, supporting those who had been trapped and carrying those dwarves who could not walk. Their slender bodies were covered with dirt, and their bright hair was hidden beneath the dust of rock. In the chaos and rejoicing of the recovery, the elves had drawn back from the dwarves as they had learned it was safer to do. Gloín was the first to notice their hands. With a cry for the healers, the old dwarf grasped Legolas' wrists.
The beautiful white hands of the prince and those of all the elves were badly torn and bleeding. They had dug away the last stones to free the air hole with their fingers. It had been too dangerous to use picks for they did not know if the trapped miners had enough room to evade the blows of the heavy instruments.
The dwarves of Aglarond had seen the tortured and bleeding white hands, and they had suddenly felt shame. Hatred had begun to die that day in Aglarond.
*****
Returning six hours later from his work in the new mine, Gloín noted the elf was still there where he had been in the morning, unnoticed by all in their comings and goings through the day because his perch was in the shelter of the old cave's entrance. It was a natural alcove that Gloín himself sometimes used for a quiet pipe and some musings at the end of a day. Curious, he approached the hidden elf.
Now, Gloín was a dwarf and no master of silent movement. Never before had he been able to get within twenty feet of Legolas without the keen eyes of the elf noting his approach. When he had been able to not only reach the elf unnoticed but also to lay his hand upon the thin shoulder without the slightest reaction, he had acted on centuries of instinct. This cold stillness could not be normal even for an elf. Gloín had called out to the first dwarf he saw to find his son Gimli and bring him swiftly.
Alone with the elf, Gloin suddenly drew him into his arms and held him. He felt the slender body shudder as if with inner pain and, forgetting that this was his enemy of old, he began to rock the suffering creature gently in his arms, making softer sounds than an elf had ever before heard from a dwarf.
The language Legolas did not know, but the warmth that enveloped him brought healing and desperately called him back from the cold abyss where he was falling. He smelled the scent of the earth in the old dwarf's body, and it seemed good to him. He burrowed his face against it, thinking he would not be so frightened now when they placed his body beneath it.
Legolas had decided to die, but he still feared to be beneath the earth and in its darkness. Perhaps it would not be so bad if it smelled like Gimli's father. He must leave now. He knew it, yet the old and strong voice kept calling him, refusing to let him go. Still falling, Legolas listened to it in the distance as to the rumbling of the earth.
"You must not die, young one. You are needed and loved. What has brought you to this place I can guess. Whatever has been said, we will face with you. You must not leave Arda. You must stay here for this old fool of a dwarf. You must stay here for my son Gimli."
*****
Gloín looked at his son sitting beside the elf. His son. Gimli. Gimli, whom he had raised to despise the elves, especially those of Thranduil.
The old dwarf watched at the awkwardly gentle attempts of his young one to reach the elf he held in his arms. The tall golden creature of beauty lay as still as the stone his son's hands had mined all his life. Legolas let the dwarven hands touch his face and caress his thin arms and back, but he did not react. The elf felt his heart broken, and he continued to turn his face from Arda and fall through his darkness. Gimli saw life ebbing from the eyes of his beloved and called out to his father in fear such as Gloín had never heard drawn from his son before.
The old dwarf made his decision. It went against centuries of the custom of their folk and all that he thought was the inner core of his own being, The elf must not die or his son would as well. Gloín did not wish to lose his son. . .or the elf.
Gloín knelt beside the dying elf and gripped his arm firmly. As he fell, Legolas felt the strength of that old hand catching him, holding him, keeping him from touching the bottom of the abyss that he so desperately sought.
"Legolas, my son, come back to your father. You are my son now as much as Gimli is, and I am not willing that you leave me. A dwarf does not lightly surrender treasure, and you have become my jewel. Heed my words, my son, and return. I love you too much to let you fall." Gloín found himself kissing the elf's face and saw his own tears fall upon it. He did not understand the love suddenly in his own heart, but he knew he was fighting for this young one as he would have fought to save Gimli. This was his son now.