Very little preamble from me (thankfully, I hear you say) Not as much action in this chapter but I promise you - it is MORE than made up for in the next! Enjoy :)

MyselfOnly xxxx


The sunrise finds us back upon the trail.

Legolas scouts ahead from the trees but returns from time to time. His presence seems to comfort Finulfin who associates elves with safety and protection. I do not believe he has met a dwarf before today but well rested and with help at hand he is calmer and proves to be good company. He is a quick and affable lad now that he does not feel the need to drop to his knees as often.

I learn that the family of his father settled in Bray from Rohan a generation ago, and that his mother hails from Laketown. He was not drafted to the armies of Gondor but rather volunteered with his brother, to the consternation of their parents. His brother did not return.
He saw action, he tells me, and although it was immediately plain that he was never built to be a solider he had always been considered quick and this served him well during battle. He had hoped to see no more strife for the rest of his days but he was born a child of Mirkwood – fostered or not – and so darkness is something that he knows.

His sister was born late, he tells me: an unexpected blessing. She was a healthy child, rare to cry and quick to laugh and shamelessly spoiled by all in the village. During the darkest of times she gave his family hope and during the endless days and nights whilst he fought in Gondor's armies, his brother fallen before his eyes, she and his parents were the light that brought him home. He fought for a future for her and for all of the children like her. His eyes darken in grief then and he says no more upon the lost child; it is too much for him.

He asks instead of King Elessar: is he as great as the tales speak? As wise?
At this I hear the elf snort again – that really is a lamentable habit that he is getting into – and I cannot bring myself to tell the truth of it. The Aragorn that I know is indeed kind and good but he is also perpetually untidy and much in his own head. He falls into trouble quite by accident and often loses things. I tell the boy that the tales are all true.

He falls into contemplative silence when the elf begins to sing to himself on the road, listening intently, and when we stop for a brief meal he watches us both closely. I build a small fire and Legolas takes no time in shooting three birds from the very sky. We are efficient and quick in preparation but do not need to speak. We would not normally pause so long as to cook meat for lunch but neither of us knows the boys endurance and the noises his stomach has been making are wearing my nerves raw. Legolas sits at watch on a low bough a distance away. He has taken feathers and fletches arrows whilst I cook, humming to himself again.

"You are both of the nine walkers, are you not?" Finulfin asks. "We know that the prince was a companion of the Ring Bearer. You are truly the same Gimli?"

"I am." I confirm, turning the birds.

"And you travel together still? Are not elven and dwarvish relations still strained?"

I think on this and I see the elf's head tilt, waiting on my answer.
There is much I could tell the lad; of how the elf infuriates me to distraction and how difficult it can be to keep track of his moods. I can tell him that the elf tolerates my gruff and brusque manner as few ever have, that I am at peace with the Gimli that I have become because of him. I can tell him of the bonds that form upon a road as long and dark as the one we walked. Of the brotherhood of those who survive something they never thought to, and who have saved the life of the other times beyond count. I could speak of these things, but it does not feel right. These things belong to Legolas and I and to speak of them so freely to this stranger is a betrayal of it. Instead I say:

"It is like travelling with a flittering bird and I find myself speaking up into trees much more than I ever did, but he is my friend."

I see the elf relax and a small smile lights his face as he works with nimble fingers.

"I have known elves my life through," Finulfin tells me, eyeing the birds hungrily. The lad does not know that Legolas can hear him. "The warriors of Lasgalen would come into our village at times. I found them very frightening; their eyes burned into my dreams for many nights after. Always they seemed so ready to flee, to fight. Never were their eyes much off the trees and sometimes they would pass in the night and we would hear them singing. I have never met a dwarf before though."

"They are often ready to flee also." Legolas says archly, returning.

"You will have to forgive my friend," I tell Finulfin, exhaling a great deal of pipe smoke toward the elf. "He took a few blows to the head recently and believes himself witty."

Legolas mutters something in his nonsense language and it has the desired effect. The boy smiles, despite his shyness.

We eat the birds and take a moment to enjoy the sun before collecting our things again. We have not taken two steps along the trail before the elf holds.

"Lasto" he murmurs and we fall silent. A howl echoes from afar; distant and barely there but it is eldritch and sends my skin crawling. It is no natural sound; it is darkness and insanity.

"It is the shadow!" Finulfin cries. He is distressed and afraid. "Never have we heard it in the day before, we must hurry!"

The elf insists that he can take us to where the cry has sounded from and we change our course; we need not go to Bray, but instead we hope to pick up a trail from where the cry has sounded. If we are successful then it will save us much time. If I am honest I have little hope of finding the child well after hearing that cry and I see it in the elf's eyes that he is of the same thought.

~{O}~

By dusk we are there. We have set a punishing pace and the boy is exhausted but I feel a grudging respect for him. He has kept up and has not uttered a word of complaint.

In the gloaming beneath the trees Legolas whistles a warning and I pull Finulfin into hiding. We hold our breath and are ready as three elven warriors drop from the trees like shadows. They are dressed much like Legolas in the greens and browns of Mirkwood and bear the same arms – a bow and knives for close quarters combat within the trees. None have the same golden hair but they wear it bound in the same warrior braids to keep from becoming entangled in bow strings. They are fierce looking creatures and I feel Finulfin sigh appreciatively. The three are overjoyed to see their prince and speak quickly over one another; a musical susurration. Legolas beckons me forward.

"This is Gimli, son of Gloin. And this is Finulfin of Bray" he introduces. He tells me their names too and I almost instantly forget them, tongue twisters that they are. The elves all look the same to my eye and when they turn the full weight of their regard to me I find myself annoyed by it. Surely they must know the affect an immortal stare has upon us? Legolas tells me that it is considered good manners to his kind but it is extremely unpleasant to experience.

"The naugrim!" one speaks. His speech is heavily accented the way that Legolas' is and that I barely notice any more. This one's name I do recall – it is Idhren – and he is all the colours of the wood. His hair is russet and his eyes the deep green of summer leaves, dancing with a barely restrained spirit. He is Silvan, I realise. One of the laegren that were his mother's people.

"We had heard that our wayward prince travelled with a child of Aulë. Mae govannen, Gimli of the nine walkers and elvellon."

It is a far better greeting than I had ever expected and I am stunned as all three place their hands upon their hearts and bow in their fashion. I see that Legolas' eyes shine with mirth and so I ignore him completely.

"Well met, warriors of Lasgalen." I greet them with equal respect. "I am very sorry but I return your prince to you. We are done with him now."

There is a stifled laugh – Idhren again, I find I like him – and a taller elf with serious grey eyes inclines his head in thanks.
We turn then to more pressing matters. They are a small scouting party on their way to rejoin a larger group to the south of here. They also heard the cry and have come to investigate for the darkness in it.
Legolas tells them swiftly the story of Finulfin but does not speak of our experiences in the Hithaeglir keeping me silent with a look. I know not why. When he instructs the third elf to take Finulfin home and to then follow with reinforcements the elf accepts the order of his captain without question but Finulfin sets to such strenuous objections I fear that he will call every Orc in the shadow of the Misty Mountains to us. All four elves blink in complete confusion at the display and I know that I am on my own.

"What is this?" I snap. "Throwing your temper like a child; you were a soldier of Gondor! Your prince says that you are to return to your parents who by now must believe all of their children lost. You would deny them tidings and defy your protectors?"

"She will not know you!" the boy cries. Most of the fight has left him as he is shamed. "I have failed her."

"You have found her help but we must hurry; we are slower whilst you are with us. We will return with your sister laddie, you must trust in this."

The boy nods miserably. We have taken a thing from him by denying him the chance to accompany us.
He removes a small cloth doll from his pocket and presses it to my hands. The look that I am given as he is led away burns deep into me and I know it will stay with me always. He trusts in us to find her, but in truth he has lost hope. He does not believe that we will find the child alive.

I storm past Legolas and thrust the doll into his chest with perhaps a little too much force and he takes it from me, stunned. Damn him! Damn him for not understanding this, damn him for being naught but an elf. Damn him for forcing me to be the one haunted by such eyes!

~{O}~

After the sun sets Legolas comes to me.

The other two elves – Idhren and Almárean – are in the trees where I know Legolas wishes to be. We are too close now to Mirkwood to travel in the dark; the creatures that hunt there will venture out this far. We have the trail and will set out in the hours before dawn when the spiders sleep.

Legolas believes that he has done some wrong to me although he does not understand what, and he stands like he is haunting the very edge of the firelight. I see that he still holds the doll and his face is confused and unsure. It is rare that my friend ever looks that way and I feel guilt – I have been unfair. I can no more hold him to blame for being an elf than I can blame myself for being a dwarf. He may be insufferable at times but rarely does he mean to be.

"Forgive me Gimli," he murmurs, still unwilling to approach.

"Know you why you apologise?" I ask gruffly. After a moment he shakes his head and is about to retreat to the trees when I call to stop him.

"Sit, Legolas. You have done no wrong. It is I that should apologise; being an elf is an affliction and tolerances must be made."

He is affronted and ready to bite back but then sees the play of laughter about me and relaxes. He is indeed more at ease than I have seen him in a while, despite our circumstances. I realise that he feels the safety of an elven watch without being the elf that always watches. I feel another pang of guilt at that and brush it away. I am becoming soft.

For a short while I consider attempting to explain my ire to him but I am tired. Legolas understands emotions well enough; his own are over developed but they are the emotions of an immortal and different to the sudden bursts of mortal men. Elven hearts are long burning except in temper. They are very short tempered. No one believes me in this.

"Stopping for camp tonight feels as though I am going against my word." I tell him. Legolas nods. He is looking at the doll in his hands.

"We are too few," he tells me. "A full scouting party might travel at night but only four is a target. Spiders will hunt us. The fire will keep them away; they retreat to their nests in the hours before the dawn."

In this I must concede to his experience although I am anxious to go. The elf with the serious eyes approaches soundlessly. He is taller than both of his companions and is sharper of feature. He is Sindarin. He sits by the fire, sees me smoking a pipe and grimaces. I sigh and extinguish it; one elf I can ignore but I will get no enjoyment in it now.

"They surround us," Almárean says, quite casually.

"Iston" his prince replies, entirely at ease. Alarmed I scan the trees and undergrowth around us and see not a thing until Legolas directs my eyes. Directly above us shine a thousand red eyes. My skin crawls and I will find no rest now – perhaps for the rest of my days. The elves are unconcerned and this is not comforting, it is annoying. Almárean looks to me with a smile and I feign indifference.

"It is a shame they do not taste well." I grumble instead. Almárean laughs then and comments on the fire within dwarven hearts. Legolas fixes me with a look as the other elf leaves us and I know that I fool him not at all.

There is a point in the night when the elves instinctively know to rise. There is no clue, no word spoken, but Legolas rises and puts out the fire as Idhren and Almárean drop from their roosting places. We are ready now to hunt.

~{O}~

The pace that the elves set is fast. They fly through the trees tops as fast as they run upon the ground and I find myself with a different companion from one moment to the next. Idhren follows the trail – I am told that his senses are keenest – but Legolas sets the pace. He knows my speed and pushes it as he always does. I am faster now than I have ever been in my life. A sprinting dwarf; what a thing!

They see in the darkness as though it is day and I go by their lead. Legolas is there to ensure that I do not fall without ever seeming to do so, just as he always is. When the sun has risen we stop and I am barely even blowing. The two elven scouts seem more comfortable with me now; I have kept pace with elves when speed is their advantage. Now let me see them fight with an axe!

We are upon a rise; a bluff that lets us look upon the leagues of forested hills stretching before us in the full morning light. It is a breathtaking view. Legolas and Almárean are aloft, Idhren crouches by my side. He points, again guiding my eyes only and I see it; a thin tendril of smoke twists through the tree canopy to the sky and is then lost. There is a home, here on the very outskirts of Western Mirkwood. I look with questioning to my companions.

They tell me that she has lived there for a great many years. She is old and chases away elves just as she chases the spiders. She is left to live out the last of her days here if that is her wish. Idhren is understandably confused as to why we are here.

"The trail leads there?" I ask.

"Aye." He nods.

"She seems well, unless the shadow has taken time to cook a meal."

Legolas hisses us into silence. He is listening.

Upon the dawn wind it comes; the faintest breath of sound: an eldritch howl of madness that I recognise. My doubt vanishes and we move again though we are more careful now. Our flight through the trees is forgotten and we move slowly, eyes and ears open and keen. The woods here are choked and close and very little light penetrates. It is perhaps midday when we reach the dwelling, although in the gloom beneath the trees it does not seem it.

The house is small and in sore need of repair. It sits in the shelter of a truly ancient tree; its canopy wide and protecting. The rest is a clearing so that some light filters down in sombre shafts and a slow stream drifts sluggishly past. The house walls are of stone and wind fallen wood, one side is shored up to stop it from collapsing entirely. If it were not for the obvious signs of occupation I would believe it abandoned to ruin. Ragged clothes hang out to dry, furs cure on a rack and some tools are propped against a wall but my eye is drawn to the wasteful carnage about the clearing. The mangled carcasses of chickens and a solitary thin cat lie untended and worried by flies. A sad looking cow lies bloating in the sun where it has fallen and even I can smell the corruption from our hiding place.

"Darkness hangs here like night!" Legolas chokes out. It is for my benefit alone, the elves all feel it.

There is a cry; the hoarse, shrieking wail of the shadow and it is so close! The elves cover their ears in pain and even I feel it pierce me deep within my soul. I feel fear that is blinding, that robs me of all strength and breath and I am not so proud to admit that I nearly flee. But then there is another cry and my strength is returned. It is the frightened cry of a child. She lives yet.

Wordlessly Legolas dispatches his warriors. They flank the house – Idhren left and Almárean right – and they are gone without a sound. The elf and I will approach head on. His silver knives are at the ready and his eyes are hard, fixing on the swirling shadows that surround the house that I cannot see.

"You asked me what I see in the stars," he speaks of a sudden. It is just us, as it so often is now. He seems uncomfortable at first, unsure how to proceed but comes to a decision and continues: "I see the echoes of the first Song and all the songs of the Valar that followed; the song that awoke the elves, the song of all the races after us. My song echoes up there with those of my people lost or sailed." He looks down with all of the affection he holds for me plain there upon his face and he grips my shoulder. I do not know what he sees when he looks at me – I am probably as strange still to him as he is to me – but when I see him I see the greatest of friends. "Your song is in the stars too Gimli. Elbereth shows us all of our days so that we are never alone or lose hope; all of elven kind will watch the echoes of our deeds, even after our days upon Middle Earth are over."

It is the most comforting thing that I have ever heard, and also the saddest. I imagine a far distant Legolas walking the shores across the sea where no mortal may walk, watching the stories of his lost days with long ago friends there in the sky. I understand in a way now how he can become lost in the firmament and his reluctance to know men. A few years of joy followed by an eternity of grief does not seem a fair exchange to me. His friendship is suddenly all the more precious and I vow to be worthy of it.

I have no words – they are all too hollow – but I grip the wrist of the hand upon my shoulder and I pat it awkwardly. He nods, understanding, and we move forward.

TBC


Translations:

Lasto - listen

Iston - I know

I think this is the first time I use the term laegren in this fic and I wanted to just clarify. I know that the laegren folk and the silvan folk aren't the same thing but in my version of Thranduil's kingdom the Sindarin folk and the Silvan elves live alongside one another (indeed, Legolas' mother is Silvan in my version) but are very different. I wanted them separated a bit further, and this will eventually explain a very different side of Legolas that has not yet been shown completely. I apologise if this upsets anyone.

Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. To those who may be lurking, it'd be wonderful to get an idea of what you may think for good or bad. It really does make it worthwhile to know people are enjoying it and concrit helps me improve. Thanks in advance :)

MyselfOnly