Author's note: I have broken my rigidly self-imposed rule of a maximum 600 words per drabble-I am impatient and did not want to fool with this anymore!

This is based loosely on "The Road to Isengard" (The Two Towers), and takes advantage of an arguably murky transition after Aragorn says, "I will tend it, while you rest." However, this little piece is also heavily rooted in my largely unpublished Mirkwood Series (of which To Rekindle Hearts is a the only complete and published part) and the backstories therein; as such, it may be considered separate from the rest of the drabbles up to this point.

Word count: 1276

7. WIND

When Legolas finally saw him again at the Deeping-stream, Gimli's head had been knocked and was bleeding. While Aragorn offered immediate assistance, Gimli sidestepped Aragorn's ministrations and sent him with Théoden to deal with more urgent things. That left Gimli alone, though, with Legolas, and he felt markedly uncomfortable as his friend's eyes—suddenly alien and strange—swept assessingly over his frame.

Gimli cleared his throat, and Legolas reached a hand to Gimli's neck; blood-stained fingers hovered there lightly, just behind his beard. He stared into the brown eyes, one of which was bloodshot, and then began to palpate Gimli's neck and throat. Legolas worked his way down the larynx and pressed out along the collarbones, tracing each trapezius to the back of his neck.

Legolas pushed aside Gimli's braid and bent very close. Nimble fingers gently probed vertebrae and rubbed small circles between each joint, and he felt the elf's breath on his back as he worked.

When a gust of rain-scented wind tossed the Legolas' hair into his face, the elf stepped back, surprised, and Gimli took the opportunity to spin around, waiting as Legolas dipped his head and twisted his hair into a loose knot.

When the elf finally raised his head, his eyes were dark and wide, and he looked marginally scared, Gimli thought, and rather distant. Legolas reached out again, this time to pull at Gimli's ear and peek at the skin behind it, and Gimli finally sighed and batted away Legolas' hands.

"Legolas, stop wasting your time," he said. "I promise you that I have not been strangled or anything of the sort."

Legolas blinked and stepped suddenly back; he crossed his arms, and tilted his head to the side as he spoke.

"Are you certain?"

"I am fairly certain I would notice being strangled, Master Elf. It is but an orc-scratch, as I said."

"But your eye!" Legolas cried.

"I was struck in the face, as it looks like you have been, too," Gimli said, observing the bruise that darkened the elf's jaw. "I was not strangled while I was away from you for so few hours. I can take care of myself."

"I know."

Gimli was quiet for a few moments.

"Though I do appreciate the concern, my friend."

He was silent for a moment more, then: "Legolas, why did you think I was choked?"

"Your voice sounds harsh, and it frightened me to see your eyes so."

Gimli frowned at the prompt response. Legolas shifted his weight minutely from one foot to the other, and Gimli noted how the long hands wrapped more tightly around his biceps as he watched—something did not feel right.

"Has someone hurt you like that, Legolas?"

"No," the elf said evenly, looking in Gimli's darkening eyes before glancing away toward the forest. "Not on purpose, they have not."

Gimli crossed his arms, too, and raised his eyebrows, skeptical.

"Strangling is a fairly intentional act, Legolas."

"One would think. But it does not matter, friend Gimli. I have lived a long time and seen many things, so I am just glad you are hale with your sturdy legs beneath you! I did not want to have to worry myself with mourning you."

Gimli patted Legolas on the shoulder. He allowed the elf to kneel beside him and tug him to the ground, to lean close again and inspect his cheek. But Gimli surprised Legolas by speaking directly into his ear.

"Your words are riddles, though not as witty as I have become used to—you are tired, Master Elf."

Gimli's voice was stern but his eyes were kind, and when Legolas pulled back to look into them, he seemed to deflate. The gentleness was undoing.

"I am weary," Legolas conceded, and shrugged.

At that moment, Gandalf appeared; he was guiding Aragorn firmly, with a hand on his shoulder. Gimli noticed that Aragorn did not at all look pleased, and that he sighed when Gandalf came to a stop beside the kneeling elf.

The wizard swatted lightly at the back of Legolas' head, and spoke.

"Shoo, Legolas Greenleaf! Take Aragorn back to the Keep and sleep. I will tend to our friend and return him to you. You do not need to be here."

Legolas started and looked up at Gandalf with wide eyes and, without a word of argument, nodded. Legolas rubbed absentmindedly at his nose, and squeezed Gimli's hand before standing.

"Go," Gandalf said again, taking Legolas and Aragorn both by the shoulders and shoving them toward the Keep.

"Go on, now," Gimli agreed, teasing. "I would rather have a wizard with me than you, Aragorn, or an elf who is afraid—in battle!—of being choked."

Legolas' shoulders stiffened slightly, and Gandalf cut his eyes toward Gimli, who watched as Aragorn and Legolas meandered away through the mess. He heard the wizard's slight shift and turned back.

"It is a scary thing, Gimli," Gandalf reprimanded softly, "and it looks to me like you know it, though perhaps you deny it out of courtesy to your friend. Do not make light of death."

Gimli looked away from Gandalf's face and thought. He saw Aragorn stop to move several orc-bodies from the path, and then Legolas yanked an arrow from one of them and slipped it into his quiver.

Gandalf humphed and took a step forward; he waved his arm, and a sudden gust of wind barreled across the distance—it blew Aragorn's hair into his face and sent Legolas into a flurry. The elf spun round and glared at the wizard; Gimli chuckled. The pair began to walk once more, and neither stopped again—nor slowed at all—until they reached the wall.

Gimli shook his head, watching the natural wind tug at the wizard's eyebrows.

"Yes, well," he said, "I have learned today something about how I want to live, and how I do not want to die. What worries Legolas so?"

"Is it not obvious, Gimli son of Glóin?" Gandalf asked, with a vague smile. "Legolas loves you—you are like a brother. And he does not love lightly, I assure."

Gimli licked a finger and rubbed at a dried spot of blood on his forehead that was causing him to itch.

"Someone he loved hurt him once," Gimli stated with a frown.

"Indeed," said Gandalf. "And he is yet young, though he may not seem it, and a Wood-elf. As such, he cannot always corral his responses."

"What happened?" Gimli asked; he unbraided his beard and ran fingers through it, before tucking it under his mail and looking back up at Gandalf, expectantly.

"It is not my place to tell."

"You tell enough else without censor," he murmured.

Gandalf waved a hand dismissively, and his white sleeve rippled like a standard as he gently touched Gimli's shoulder.

"I will tend you," said Gandalf, "and then I will send you back to Aragorn and Legolas, and you will sleep. And only when you are rested will we leave this place for Isengard. Do not let Aragorn run around playing healer, nor allow Legolas to yet clear the battlefield—it is not healthy for any of you, and I require you here and whole, for Aragorn's sake."

Gimli nodded. He understood—now was not the time to worry on the past, when they had enough worry, already, for the future.

"Rest," Gandalf said.

Gimli heaved a sigh and rubbed his throat. He looked up into Gandalf's old eyes—they were pale as shallow water over sparkling mica-schist, cut through with sunlight in a mountain lake.

"Rest," Gimli agreed.

He laid himself back, and allowed Gandalf to tend him.

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