Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, or any of his works. All recognizable characters and locals are used with the greatest respect, and returned without great harm done.
Reflection
It is quiet now, save for the pop and crackle of the fire as it burns, casting a reddish glow on my two sleeping companions and me. By lot, I have drawn the first watch, and I now have time, too much time, to sit and ponder. This place unnerves me, though I will never say so to the elf. He would laugh at that sentiment, I think. I too can find the humor in it, though once I would have found nothing amusing about denying my fear, especially in front of an elf. I would have kept my silence because I would not want to have the son of my father's jailer know that I could fear. It would be a point of pride, and pride is something that I take very seriously. Now I stay silent for a different reason. He worries so over the fate of the halflings, and I would not add to his burden. I frown slightly at this thought. There was a time, one not so long ago, when I would never have thought such a thing. I would have considered the idea of a dwarf taking extra courtesy for an elf, and a wood-elf at that, as scandalous. For long years my father has filled my ears with tales of the horrors he and the other dwarves had endured down in the dungeons of Thranduil's halls. Mistrust of the Elves of Mirkwood, one even stronger than of Elves in general, became an accepted mindset. The older dwarves even encouraged this mistrust. Thus, this feeling of protectiveness towards the elf is wholly foreign to me. When did I start thinking of the fair elf as a comrade, instead of a creature unworthy of a dwarf's trust?
I believe it was in the mines, though perhaps I would not have admitted it then. Despite his reluctance to enter the halls of Durin, he made the journey without complaint. How many of my own kind would walk the lands of elves without a constant monologue concerning the outrages done against the dwarven race? Yet, from Legolas I heard no blame, nothing but the same air of watchfulness that had surrounded him since the beginning of our journey. I will admit I was not able to do the same when we came to the edges of Lothlorien. Perhaps if I had known then what I know now of the Elves, I would not have been so belligerent, but a dwarf alone must stand up for his rights, lest they be trampled. Yet, when faced with the Lady Galadriel and her kind words, I could not help but wonder if the long antagonism between our two kinds was naught but over-blown pride. As I think of that radiant lady, my hand slips to my breast, over my heart, where inside my tunic I have stashed that most precious gift the Lady bestowed upon me. When I return to the Lonely Mountain, if my path ever leads back home, I will make a fitting vessel for this gift, so that my people may admire this gift for all the ages to come.
As I consider the perfect means of preserving these strands of living gold, my thoughts turn to home. When I left, I did not think I would be gone so long. We sought council, my father and I, from one who was deemed by our leaders as wise in such matters. I wonder if I will ever see the mountain again, if I will ever walk through the many-pillared hall or work in deep mines. There is a beauty that none can appreciate as much as a dwarf can. The lovely walls of living stone, falling like curtains from arching ceilings, the little pools formed in dark corners which catch the light and throw it back in a rainbow of colors, the way the stone breathes and speaks, telling the story of ages past. I long to have solid stone beneath my feet once more, to have a place where I can stand and fight and have solid stone to guard my back.
My gaze wanders upward to the tree branches stretched overhead as the sound of rustling fills the chill night air. I watch them through narrowed eyes, wondering if the movement I see is some trick of the light, or if it is as Legolas said. He seemed so delighted in his notion that the tree enjoyed the warmth of our campfire. Who would better understand the logic of root and bough than a woodland elf? As for myself, I would only ask that these ancient trees allow us one night unmolested, so that we may discover the halflings' fate in the morning. Beside the mysteries of the ancient forest, there is the troublesome presence of that foul wizard, Saruman, to guard against. I have heard it said that he and our erstwhile guide, Tharkûn, looked much alike. Heh, now there was a worthy dwarf-friend. Gandalf, Mithrandir, Tharkûn … so many names for the old wizard who seemed to have a hand in every great deed done in Middle Earth. Whatever he called himself, I wish he had not fallen to that ancient evil in Khazad-dûm. We three hunters could use his wisdom now. His wisdom, his wit, his half-answers and baffling riddles, the way he could seem harmless and dangerous all in the same moment, his wicked sense of humor… all of this and more I miss. I would rather that we had not gone through Moria, if it meant he could be with us. Alas, that Caradhras fulfilled his reputation! I cannot shake the feeling that some of the blame for this horrible loss falls on my shoulders. I argued long and fiercely in support of Gandalf's suggestion that we travel through the mines. Perhaps if I had been more prudent and less bull-headed, Frodo would not have chosen that way, and my dear friend would still be here.
As I muse, I thumb the edge of my axe, an old habit I picked up years ago and one that no amount of scolding from elders worried that I would slice open my hand can cure. I find that notion as ridiculous now as I had when I first heard it. I created this axe, hammered rods of unshaped metal flat and folded them, hammering and polishing until I had the perfect weapon. After all that work, all of that pain-staking attention to detail, it is unlikely I would misjudge its edge and do damage to myself. Indeed, my axe almost seems alive after all of the care I took in its making. I find it is restless tonight, a mood in perfect harmony with my own need for action. Despite the fact that I am weary with long travel and heartache, I find myself wishing that the Rohirrim had left a few of those foul orcs for me. I have hewed naught since the breaking of the Fellowship. I could not even cut wood tonight, for fear it would anger the trees of this strange forest. A row of orcs for me to fight would do much to lighten my mood. It does not help that the rescue I had hoped to participate in will never happen now.
Alas, but I cannot keep the hope that has driven me so far! The horse lord, Eomer, though rough and hasty of speech, seems like a doughty warrior. He seemed sure enough that there had been none left alive, even if those we seek were cloaked in this elven garb. I pluck at the hem of my own cloak, marveling once more at the strange weave. The elves said that the Lady herself wove these, and I treasure mine even more for the care she took. Another marvelous gift from the fair Galadriel… but I would trade it for the knowledge that Pippin and Merry are safe and whole tonight. I fear those two plucky hobbits are now nothing more than ashes, two more fatalities in this never-ending war. If I remember the tales they told me aright, Pippin was to be the Thain of Tookland, and Meridoc was to be the Master of Buckland. I could not believe it at the time, for it had been early in our journey. Now, however, I wonder. They showed courage in Moria, and if Aragorn read the signs correctly, at Parth Galen as well. Perhaps, had they been allowed time to prove themselves, they would have been excellent leaders of their people.
The dying fire pops and crackles, the wood it feeds on turning to ashes. It will be a cold night's camping, for the flame is fading quickly. Aragorn's last warning still rings in my ears, as if I needed it. I would not venture into that dark forest alone for any amount of gold. My elven companion, on the other hand, seems quite eager to explore those watchful depths. Perhaps this longing is due in part to his wood-elf heritage. As my thoughts turn to my most perplexing companion once more, I glance over at his still form. His eyes are open, but they look at nothing – a very disturbing sight to say the least. Of course, that elf is always staring at something, be it the stars, or the sparkle of sunlight on the water, or the shadows cast by shifting leaves. This stare, however, is different. It is as if he is looking at something unseen by any other, and I have to fight the urge to look over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of what has captured his attention. Elves seem to do everything different from the mortals that inhabit this world. They hear the speech of plants and animals, they hear the songs of the stars, they walk on top of the snow as if it were a firm path hewn out of stone, and they sleep with their eyes open. I shake my head. I hope that he is resting, truly resting. While the Elves may be able to do everything with more grace than any other may, they do have limits. The fool elf has not slept for days, instead urging us onward at every opportunity. For four days, we have raced onward in pursuit of the orcs, and not once have I seen him rest. All of my life, I have thought the race of Dwarves the most hardy in Middle Earth, but it seems there is tempered steel in the race of Elves as well. Still, if we are to brave the darkness of Fangorn on the morrow, I would prefer that he be well rested, so that we may not be caught unawares.
The night is still quiet, and the fire burns lower. Nearby, in the darkness, one of our two horses shifts. Crickets chirp their endless melodies. I sit and watch, waiting for a new day and the continuation of the hunt.