I waken, but I do not wish to.

For a while I have drifted between my dreams and there has been a voice telling me to stay, to hide, that I do not wish to wake. When the world resolves itself around me and my memories return I wish more than anything that I had listened.

My friend: I have lost my friend.

There is pain in my head, sharp and thrumming and I lie upon a damp and hard floor. It is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. There is much noise about me and it takes a while for me to question it: there is the sound of voices and movement and horses, but when I crack one eye open I wish that I had exercised caution; searing light blinds me and I groan.

"Master Gimli?" asks a fair voice. I try again and it is not so bad this time: sounds sharpen and clear and I open my eyes slowly, letting the light soften into the clear brightness of a fine day. The face I see before me is familiar; it is Faelwen. She is concerned and serious looking and helps me to sit. Immediately I cast my eye about for Almárean and Idhren; I see the former hunched brokenly upon a log not a stone's throw away. He has a blood stained bandage pressed to his head and he is looking at me but his eyes are flat and miserable. I hear Idhren's voice from somewhere to my right bellowing at someone that yes, he has drunk the tea, and no, he will drink no more and they are to release him so that he may minister to his friends or he will fight his way free. I feel relief that he is recovered enough now to be shouting so heartily but it is swiftly pushed down as I take in my surroundings.

Our clearing has become a camp site for about twenty elven warriors. Most are mounted but there are a handful of archers and from my time at the palace I recognise them as Legolas' men. They are organised and tidy and seem to be waiting for instruction; they do not know what has happened nor do they look as though they have been here long at all, and I feel dread where I should feel joy. Here is our rescue, but now I must explain our failure to them.

"Almárean and Idhren?" I ask and my voice sounds hoarse to me. I press my hand to my head but it comes away clean; a bash about the skull again. Does this shadow never tire of beating me about the head?

"They are well," Faelwen answers me gently. "As well as you are, although you are the last to waken. What has happened here Gimli? Where is Legolas?"

I feel sickened by the question but I have no chance to answer her. There is a stirring in the elves like a rustle in the trees before a wind, and Lord Ionwë strides forth. He is as severe and stern as I remember him and right now he is thunderous of countenance. Faelwen flows to her feet as he approaches and he glares balefully at me before turning his attention to Almárean, and when Idhren finally makes his way back to us he is ignored entirely.

"Speak!" is the immediate demand from him. "What has occurred here, and where is Prince Legolas?"

So Almárean speaks. His voice is flat and he gives a factual account of our ordeal – a soldier reporting to his superior. I realise that this is indeed the case; Legolas commands the archers but Almárean is the prince's protector first, and Ionwë is general to all of Mirkwood's army. I remain silent during the telling and pull myself up to sit upon a low stone, taking time to regain myself since I need not listen to this tale. I know it well, my heart is punishing me quite enough without hearing it again.

When Almárean is finished there is silence for a long time and I do not look up to see how the news has been received, I am sure I know. When Lord Ionwë begins to speak I know that I have read him well; he is controlled and glacier cold, but he is furious.

"How did you allow this Almárean?" he asks, disgusted, and I see my friend flinch. "You should never have allowed him to continue, he should have been returned to the palace the moment you realised what occurred and nothing should have turned your course."

"Lord Ionwë, one does not persuade the Greenleaf of anything once his mind is set," Idhren speaks up in Almárean's defence. It is cruel to put this on Almárean's shoulders.

"I do not address you, laegrim," Ionwë replies. He is flint and thorns. "Return and wait with the archers, you are as much to blame in this."

Idhren recoils, stung but I feel a surge of anger. How dare he? How dare he arrive now and make my friends feel any worse than they do already?

"Be ashamed," I address him and I put every ounce of revulsion that I can muster into my voice. "Shamed that we have waited for you with such hope, that we have fought through these days to find only harsh words and blame upon your arrival. If you come only to inflict cruelty on those who look to you for help then we do not wish it from you, we will find Legolas ourselves."

Faelwen is looking at me with horror, Idhren's mouth is gaping but Almárean finally shows some life to him. The look he gives me is curious and he straightens finally, pulling away the dressing that he holds to his head. His scalp is split brow to hairline and the skin is livid with bruising but he no longer bleeds and I know well how swift the Eldar heal. Ionwë is looking at me as though I am something foul upon his boot.

"I told Thranduil that he had no business letting his son go wandering about with nothing but a Sindar who thinks himself Silvan, a dwarf and a laegrim child," Ionwë tells me. "I have protected the House of Oropher whilst your ancestors burrowed and grubbed within the ground, speak with respect."

Here is the cold arrogance that I once believed all elves guilty of upon a time but I am beyond it now; I care not for his disdain. Gloin would not recognise me any longer and somehow I am brought back to myself in the face of such a creature. It is clear that he does not even favour his Silvan kin, I will find no acceptance from him and I find that I do not seek it.

"The dwarf of whom you speak," I tell him calmly, "accompanied the Ring Bearer from Rivendell as one of the Nine, and has seen nothing worthy of respect yet. The laegrim child and the protector who sees not 'Sindar' nor 'Silvan' but 'elf' have done more to earn my admiration than you currently garner. Leave or stay, it is no mind to me, but we have a thing to do and you are wasting our time."

Ionwë looks ready to respond but he is cut off. Almárean stands and his voice stops us, all the more remarkable for its quiet. He is as soft and as calm as he ever is, but there is no room for discussion in his tone. He is respectful but will brook no argument.

"He is correct Lord Ionwë," he speaks. "I will present myself to my king and accept any blame that he feels I am accountable for upon our return, but for now I must find his son. The prince is my responsibility and we waste time here; we seek your aid if you would give it but if you wish to tarry any longer and insult my friends then I beg your leave for now, we can continue this another time."

He is followed quickly by Idhren who has recovered from being so spurned. "Since I cannot fall any lower in your esteem my lord, I would add that the archers are each and all laegrim, and we will be going as well."

There is a daring glimmer in his eye, a challenge to his stance that is so much the Idhren that we thought lost that I am grateful… so very grateful to see it again. I am expecting Lord Ionwë to turn apoplectic but he falls silent and regards us all with a gaze that crushes me beneath its weight. It is as though he sees every fault, every weakness and inadequacy within me and weighs my worth. When he speaks again there is an odd quality to his voice: a puzzlement that throws me off balance. I do not have his measure yet, it seems.

"You inspire rebellion in my men, Master dwarf," he accuses, but there is curiosity in his voice now.

"Nay," I deny. "I seek only to find my friend. It is he who inspires loyalty."

I am examined a while longer and a decision is made, although I do not know what he has decided nor what he has seen in me. He nods sharply and turns, and as he leaves he is barking orders: we are leaving within moments and the laegrim archers are gone into the trees to scout. I had known that for all of my bold words they would not leave us to continue alone, but I still feel the relief of it when they begin to prepare.

"In all my days I have never heard you stand up to Lord Ionwë," I hear Idhren tell Almárean lowly, and there is astonishment in his voice. "Perhaps you do turn laegrim."

"I am weary and my head hurts, my mood is poor and my manners lost days behind us," Almárean laments. "In that sense I am sure that it seems so."

I hear Faelwen rebuke Idhren soundly for dragging the archers into the quarrel without consent, and she promises him that if they are put on any extra duties for his newfound boldness then he will be in trouble indeed. I hear her but her words wash over me – another thing troubles me. The Shadow has waited long for the chance seized this dawn; it has stalked us and hounded us, it has worn us to the bone to get its revenge upon me. Why then do I still live?

I am to my feet in a moment and although the world tilts and spins with it, I brush it aside irritably.

"Lord Ionwë!" I call, "I would speak with you a moment."

~{O}~

"Too much is left to chance," Lord Ionwë is telling me quite certainly. "It is foolishness in itself to believe this will succeed."

"Speak then of what you intend," I offer. I have told him of the plan I have been thinking on this last day or two and he is being less than cooperative, I am struggling to keep my ire in check. I know that a shouting match right now is folly itself but blast it if he isn't the most infuriating creature! He makes me feel as a child, and I could choke the stubbornness right out of him if I could. He pauses for the briefest moment beside his horse and looks at me as though I am an unruly infant pulling at his trouser leg.

"Whatever we undertake, it will be of sound reason and much thought. It will not rely on possibilities and feeling."

"Take your time!" my hands fly into the air unbidden. "I shall take a seat whilst you think! I recognise your experience Lord Ionwë but you have not experienced this, and you know not a thing about my 'feeling'. The Song of Mahal is as true as that of Eru."

Idhren grimaces. He has followed me just as Almárean has, although the latter stands further apart from us. Ionwë has him lamentably subdued and distant.

"The Song of Iluvatar," Ionwë sneers, and I know why Idhren has pulled such a face. I should have expected such a reaction from what I know of him. "You speak like one of the laegrim; of feeling and Songs. I would never be so foolish as to put the lives of my warriors at risk because a dwarf hears a Song."

"Legolas trusts in my Song," I point out and could kick myself, it sounds as though I pout.

"And I love our prince as a son, but his he is young and his head is too full of fanciful things."

"Was." Almárean speaks softly; just one word. Ionwë pauses for a moment and looks to him to explain himself better. "You say that you 'love' and that he 'is'. He is no longer, and you did."

And then I see it; I see the Ionwë that Legolas once spoke of to me, who read him tales and taught him to ride. Who was there at his first steps and first words, who gave him his first bow. I see the moment when he realises – actually understands what has happened, and I see him struggle not to stagger beneath it. He has no words and I find my patience anew.

"The Shadow endured the burning of its first host," I continue gently. "It survived as it has always survived, but it has never before escaped stone. I feel the earth as you cannot, you must trust me in this. I know it as surely as I know that the sky is above me: the rock about that ravine is as a honeycomb filled with countless reserves of gas – it is saturated with it! If we can cast the Shadow down into the earth we can bring it low in fire and ruin and collapse a new prison for it to dwell within, but I am in great need of your help. My people know to avoid this sense of distortion in the earth, I know neither how deep within the stone it lies, nor how much the land holds – not from here. I need help to reach it and to release it, and to keep the Shadow distracted whilst this is done. The archers must ignite it, for we must be far away by then."

"What you say suggests that we are to throw our prince into the earth, burn him and collapse a hillside upon him," Ionwë says, but there is no heat in his words. He is agonised.

"If we must, aye," I nod. "He knew when his body began to fail that this might occur, and he asked me to swear that I would not let him walk as the Shadow. I did not listen to him then but he is my greatest friend, I cannot see him this way. Do not think that I have lost all hope though… I trust in him. He is Legolas! I do not believe that the Shadow has taken him completely, not yet. There is too much stubbornness in him to allow it."

"I did not expect to survive his attack," Idhren speaks now. "It fights as Legolas and you know his skill as I do; it has his speed and his grace but no mercy or love, and still we were spared. I cannot believe that my friend does not fight it even now, I will not."

Ionwë pauses. I do not know his thoughts, I cannot read this elf, but I hope to the stars and back that he realises that we do not have time for him to doubt. Legolas is half a day ahead of us, we must catch him and somehow bring him to the ravine, somehow bring him back to himself, somehow fashion a way to get the Shadow to fall. We do not have the time!

I am ready to prompt him, ready to shout and grab him so that I can shake him from his reverie but I find that I do not need to. He is back from his thoughts and looks to me, to all three of us in turn.

"You have faith," he says, and it is not a question. "You would risk this, risk him on a plan so full of opportunity for failure?"

"Well," I admit, abashed. "I had hoped that some elements might have been considered further and resolved before now, but I have found myself otherwise engaged."

"I trust in Master Gimli," Almárean confirms to his commander. "He has been our voice of reason and hope; if Legolas has made it thus far then it is down to him alone. I understand why the prince prizes him so highly."

"If Gimli says that this will work then I believe him," Idhren finishes simply. I am humbled, and I am tired and weary enough to feel a pang of emotion that I must choke and push down so that I can face Lord Ionwë with a resolute face. He regards me a while longer and then turns back to what he does.

"Idhren, if you are well enough you are to join the rest of the archers and scout ahead. Almárean and Master Gimli, ride with me if you will. I wish to hear more of this folly that we embark upon."

He has relented and I could weep for the relief of it, but there is no time. A horse is found and Almárean and I ride together – it is all I can do to forget the pang of grief I feel for Naurwen that is swiftly chased by the memory of the last elf that I rode behind, which I also push away. I have no time for it.

~{O}~

It is strange, riding with elvish warriors. My experience has only ever been with Legolas and his friends who are archers all; they run through the trees or upon the ground, they are light and swift and stealthy. I ride now with Sindarin infantry, left behind by those that I know and although we are not a large group I am surprised by the difference to that which I am used to. I have ridden with the Rohirrim, with the Dúnedain Rangers and of course we came here on horseback ourselves but the elves space themselves out in a way that is strange to my experience.

The horses are elvish horses and are tall and swift, unencumbered by saddle or riders weighty with armour. The Sindar bear slender swords but they are elves of the Greenwood still, and they wear light clothing in greens and browns with only halberd and bracer as any form of protection. They are used to fighting in close quarters, and have long ago discarded the heavy weight of metal, no matter how finely skilled, instead relying on their speed and ability to protect them. Coming from a race that favour armour and suchlike it seems flimsy and worrying to be so unprotected.

I have had little time to speak to Lord Ionwë. He asks me questions when we move close enough and slowly enough; firing them at me swiftly and I answer as best I am able. He must shout, but I can answer in my own voice knowing that he hears me clearly. Almárean is larger and broader than Legolas, and I must pay attention to keeping fast hold during our flight, but I am well used to this now.

The trees flood past in a blur of summer green and I am glad that the terrain is so clear; they are the large and old sentinels that I grow used to, tall and wide with little undergrowth barring our way. I see the other horses at times, flitting like ghosts to our left and our right but I see no sign of the archers. They must be far ahead by now, I know well how fast they move but at times I hear them. They whistle and call through the wood and I can tell that they are far spaced and much before us; they speak a story of what occurs ahead and it is as though they have filled the wood with their eyes and ears. There is one elf in our party who is tasked with calling back again, and it is a long time before I can see and focus on him long enough to realise that it is Orthorien. I had not realised that he is riding with us and I am pleased.

I am given enough time after Ionwë's initial questioning to fall into thought and I cannot help myself. I fight it and know I must draw silence in my mind, but it is beyond me. I think of my friend.

Doubts shadow and hound me and I wonder what will happen. What if I am wrong? What if we were spared only for some other torture, what if he is truly gone? What if he is not – that he fights still within himself – but I am unable to do a thing about it? What if I must be the one to end the days of Legolas Greenleaf? It is not just the pain of it, for it sits in my heart like a knife and burns me with every breath that I take, but the method of it. Legolas is a child of the forest, all know this; he is wild and barely tamed and if he is to be sent to Námo before he sails then he deserves the death of an elven warrior; beneath the sky and with free air in his lungs. To be laid low within a ravine and buried beneath stone? It is cruelty itself and I cannot resolve it in my mind, I cannot accept it. It is foolish and childish but I will not think on it. I know that I must be prepared for every possibility but I am ridiculously fond of the awful elf and I will not plan for such a resolution, I cannot.

I am drawn from my reverie by something. The archers that scout ahead call to us again and I understand them as if they speak clear words in my ears; their hunting language is something I have learned well now. They call only words, images, simple messages but I form them together and realise what occurs just as Lord Ionwë does, and he whistles out a call to slow.

We draw side by side at a bracing trot and the others draw closer.

"He is destined for the ravine," Ionwë calls out. He knows that I understand already; he is speaking as he thinks. "The reasoning could be fortunate indeed… or very poor for us."

I understand his meaning. Legolas is heading to the ravine just as we had planned; either he is within himself and influencing the Shadow, leading it so that our plan can come into realisation or the Shadow knows enough of Legolas' thoughts and intentions to be leading us into a trap. My mind twists and knots and tangles upon itself.

"We have too few options for this to matter at all," Almárean responds. "If he fights, it changes not a thing. If it is the Shadow leading us a dance, then still it changes not a thing."

But there is no time to consider this. The elves respond to something that I can neither sense nor hear; they are like a herd of deer that freeze and stiffen and hold their heads as though reading the wind. Something has happened and I am forced to cling for dear life itself as Lord Ionwë gives a sharp cry and we plunge into a gallop. It is pure madness and there is no time to explain, we dash like mad things through the trees with little thought for the recklessness of it and I must trust in the horses and their riders to steer us true through the wood.

We race like this for a while – long enough for my thoughts to become nothing but a repeated wish for it to end but in truth it is likely not long at all. When we pull the horses up and come to a stop we find a sorry sight indeed.

Lord Ionwë slides from his mount as though he flies and is ahead into the clearing just as I tumble from behind Almárean. Here are a number of the archers, clustered together and milling with uncertainty and panic so different to their usual character. I run after Ionwë until I see that Idhren is one that mills about, and not one that has been collected and brought here and sat upon the floor.

The elves upon the ground are being tended to, and as I watch other elves come from the horses to assist. There is blood, much blood indeed.

Faelwen comes forward as she sees Ionwë – I know enough to know that after Legolas she commands the archers – but her face is pale and shocked. There is a graze upon her cheek that bleeds sluggishly and she holds her right arm close to her but she is well. Idhren stands right behind her, a dark expression upon him.

"Herunya," she greets breathlessly. "I could never have believed it. It was Legolas; he has doubled back and followed us these last miles. We could not stop him!"

~{O}~

Out of the twenty one riders to set out, eight were archers and only two are now enough to continue. Six are too badly injured to carry on and although they live and will heal, they are miserable and heartbroken that their captain was the one to do this to them. Faelwen and a small, slight thing with large soulful eyes and hair of acorn brown that I know to be called Sidhion are those left. Idhren takes their number up to three.

Ionwë sees to the injured with care and attention. He is brusque and no-nonsense as he always is but I am becoming used to his ways, and I can see that he cares greatly for their welfare. Supplies are left, all are deemed well enough to make their way home in one way or another, and we help in the binding of injuries and staunching of bleeding before we leave them to limp home alone.

Some argue at being left – they are laegrim after all – but Lord Ionwë silences them with only a look.

I bandage just as we all bandage, but I wish that I did not hear their murmurings. It is like the passing of wind through trees but it is clear as if it was spoken directly into my ear; all speak of Legolas. He is strong and skilled, all knew this. He is a captain by right and not by birth; they are his men and they know his ability but none have had it turned upon them in this way before. The Legolas that did this to them was like a ghost; his ability is in stealth and silence, and not one of them had seen his attack coming. Not one had been able to prepare. All of them speak of the emptiness of him; how his ears had been deaf to their voices, how he had not recognised them nor cared for the injury he inflicted. Nothing had stayed his hand in their harm…and yet all live.

It is puzzle upon puzzle. The Shadow has blinded us but has no reason at all to spare the lives of our eyes and ears; it has not even damaged a single one of them permanently. I imagine that it may have even been faster and simpler to kill them but great care has been taken to ensure their injury is simply enough to stop their pursuit. How, if not for Legolas? Does it do this simply to raise our hope? To keep us chasing, but minimise our threat? Is this just some cruelty that it has devised? I can see that I am not the only one who thinks on this; I can feel Idhren's gaze on me at times although Almárean is deep within himself, and I cannot ever read Lord Ionwë.

"Idhren and Almárean," he calls them to him. "The two of you have run with Legolas the longest and know his habits best: Idhren pair with Faelwen and Almárean with Sidhion; I still need scouts but I will not find myself entirely blinded by the prince that we seek to protect."

"He is better skilled in this than any of us," Idhren sounds doubtful. "I have fought against him only in play or in training, and he was ever the ghost that bested us."

"The Shadow is not subtle, but it knows nothing of warfare that it does not steal from its host," I tell him. "It attacks with Legolas' memory, not his imagination. What now would he do if this were any normal hunt? He has taken our eyes so that we are clustered together, how would you normally deploy?"

Faelwen and Idhren look to one another for a moment.

"We would move as the moon," Faelwen speaks. "No one pair would stay as fore or side or rear, but changing. And he would seek to take our strength next – break apart the formation, confuse and isolate the riders. He will send false calls, he will lead us on paths that separate us before we know it has happened, he will influence the trees and the horses and remove each of us from the hunt at his leisure."

"You are sure that this would be his plan?" Ionwë looks doubtful, and Faelwen shakes her head.

"If we were Orcs, we would have had our throats slit or been shot silently from the trees hours ago, and we would not be having this conversation. If this were us seeking to best one another, then aye: Legolas would always say to take away advantage, sense by sense whilst hiding your own true strength. He was always very skilled at it."

"Then he truly does play with us," Idhren takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "But is it Legolas?"

"What difference could it make?" I ask. "We have no option but to chase him."

"If it is as you say Master Gimli," Lord Ionwë speaks. "Then it responds to actions he knows we will take; it cannot react to any change. If it truly pulls from his memory and can think up naught of its own then we must be creative indeed."

"We will have to ride hard if we are to reach the ravine before the sun sets," Almárean tells us, and I wonder if he were always so gloomy. I ask him so but receive no reply other than a smirk from Idhren.

"It is as you say," Lord Ionwë agrees. "We must be gone, and I do not wish to keep stopping this way. I will not be bested by an elfling whose knives I commissioned myself."

We leave the archers miserable and grumbling to make their way home and we are gone. I ride alone now: this horse is much larger than Naurwen and without saddle but I have made good use of my time at Thranduil's palace, and have practised upon horse the way the elves ride. Legolas has taught me to be master of few things but able in all – I have watched him these last weeks labouring at healing… at learning himself again. Ai, he has even learned to carve stone! I wonder if he knows how he has shaped Gimli these last years, and I resolve to tell him as soon as I am able.

My friend, you must remain Legolas, so that I may tell you of Gimli.

~{O}~

We ride faster now, for we are racing the sun. Lord Ionwë keeps up steady instruction to his men, and his whistles and calls I must learn anew. These are not the scouting cries that I have learned nor are they hunting calls that Legolas has taught me but the telling of a commander to his men on how they are to be deployed. I know the base of the language so I learn quickly.

I learn the difference between 'left flank in,' and 'rear move forward.' I know 'archers back' from 'riders advance,' and it is not long before I move from my position of refuge beside Ionwë to move with the flock by his command. I will not be a burden here; I will ride just as they do, and I see Ionwë give me a piercing look before he accepts it and gives instruction to me just as he instructs the others.

We change often: we sweep and dive and undulate in our formation as though we fly. It is exhilarating, to be a part of a living and surging thing as we race through the trees, and I have no time to think. I feel the warm, early summer air catching in my lungs and the power of the beast that carries me, and for a blessed time I do not dwell on our quarry. I do not think on what we will do when we reach our destination nor what has passed, I know only what is now and what I must do, and it is enough for me.

The sun is setting, and I wonder if I will ever view a sunset the same way again. With each breath that I take I release it knowing that we are closer to the darkness. Every step, every pace, every mile that passes beneath the hooves of my horse is a moment lost, and I glance to the sky. I am not the only one that does so: it is not often than I can see my fellows in flight but when I do I see them snatching brief looks to the falling sun. I realise that these elves are mostly strangers to me, but all know their prince. All have fought with him, all have laughed and run with him, all have watched him grow and have looked to him and their king as a light in their own personal darkness. They saw what the Shadow did to us the last time we encountered it, and I push it away again – I have had respite these last miles, I will not let these doubts in again! It is selfish and it is cowardly, but I am tired… so very, very tired.

Unbidden, the words of the Lady Galadriel spring to my mind: 'Look to the Greenleaf,' she has bid, and when I see him in my mind it is not him that I see but rather myself. I see what he has made me; not by purpose and not with intent, but I have been changed. I think on the Gimli of old and I see a blind and angry thing, and I am ashamed of him. I like much better the Gimli that rides horses – badly, I admit – and teaches elves the ways of stone. I like the Gimli that counts elven lords and ladies amongst his acquaintance and climbs trees. I like him that gives advice to immortals and is heard. I look to the Greenleaf and I know that I am selfish and doubtful, and I know that I am unpleasant to bear at times but I cannot imagine a time now when my good friend is not there, making me wish to be better. He is worth saving, and I will be the one to do it. By Eru, I will do this!

I listen with half an ear to those calls that I can hear from the archers ahead. My ears are full of the thundering of hooves and the rushing of the wind but the whistles are designed to pierce past this, and some I capture. I know that they keep his trail, I know that we follow it true: I hear 'follow here' and 'come left' as surely as anything and although I am thankful for these miles of clarity, I focus now.

The sun is all but gone, but dwarven eyes see much in the dark. I hear the call to stop and I pull my mount in. She blows and heaves at the air, and I look to the west where the sky is a blazing riot of gold and red that I would enjoy on any other day. I pull my horse over to approach Lord Ionwë who is in conversation with Faelwen, and both glance at me but continue with their hurried exchange. I catch little of it but I hear enough to know that the trail is cold: it has vanished like it was never there.

"We have been led a merry dance today," Lord Ionwë states grimly. "Let us see if there is reason for it. The ravine is but half a mile east of us, and I grow tired of chasing."

"No matter the method," I tell him, "we must find ourselves there. Whether he leads or follows, whether it is Legolas or the Shadow all will come to naught if we face him anywhere else."

"Think you that it will follow should we lead?" Idhren asks. I have not noticed his arrival but I do not start at his sudden voice. I note that Idhren does not refer to the creature that we chase as 'he' or even 'Legolas.' To him it is not his friend that we pursue.

"I have been touched by the Shadow," I muse. "I know the strength of its feeling and how much it wishes its revenge upon me. If I go, it will follow us."

And so we go, but it is not the headlong dash that we have kept up all of the afternoon. We are at a run but it is controlled and careful; we do not run for long and I call to Ionwë a short time before we reach our destination – here, I tell him. Here is the where the stone begins to echo, after this it is nothing but brittle hollowness full of those precious vapours we seek. Here is where we must find ourselves when this ordeal is resolved and I see that he marks it well, and we continue.

When we reach our destination, it is full dark. It is dark but I have time enough to note that it is a good night for it; the sky is entirely clear and bright, and there is a wind that brings to me the thick softness of blossom, the tang of wood and the spice of a summer evening as all cools. There is a breeze that lifts my hair from my neck and it is a pleasure to feel it. The grass that meets my feet as I slide from my mount is dew soaked and deep, and I take the briefest moment to close my eyes and breathe deeply.

"There," Idhren points. He is weary – he has run all of this way upon his own feet, and I am not entirely convinced he was in good enough health to do so but there is a fey brightness in his eyes that heartens me. There is a hill at our feet; it is very steep and very long, and straggly hawthorn, bramble and briar choke it all the way down. At the foot of it there is a knot of vegetation but I know that it hides the ravine – I was told that it is narrow but I did not imagine how little space there might be between one side and the next. I can feel deep within me that it falls far into Arda's heart, but I doubt that two grown Men could lie head to foot across its expanse. I quest, because my mind is open to it, and I feel deep within the darkness of the world where I sense only confusion below. There is uncertainty within the stone; an echoing nothingness, and I know that I have been correct. We stand upon a powder-keg and I feel only relief – I have not been wrong in this, I have heard the Song truly.

There is a scream in the forest – so close, so very close and hoarse with anger and madness. The horses squeal and wheel and dance. The warriors stir and mutter, and cast about them anxiously – there are only four of us who have heard this before, and I move close to Lord Ionwë to grasp at his arm tightly.

"It is the call of the Shadow," I tell him. "Do not let your men fall to fear, it calls to weaken them and blind them."

He looks at me and I know not what he sees, but I do not quail beneath such a heavy regard nor do I look away from where I pin him with my own. He nods tersely – I know he feels the fear that I first felt upon hearing that cry – and I release his arm.

"We must have fire," I tell him, but he is already in motion. At his barked orders the elves dismount, the horses are released to find their own safety and they are all in action. They collect firewood as though it is Mithril lying upon the forest floor – great logs and fallen deadwood are dragged into pyres all about the place. Pile after pile. I call Idhren to me and we leave the others behind: a warm thrum of activity at our backs that makes me feel exposed and cold now that we are away from it.

"We have little time, Gimli," Idhren hisses to me as he jogs at my side. "That cry was close indeed, and Legolas is swift."

"Aye," I confirm, "but the Shadow knows not what we do. It will watch for just a breath longer, and a breath is all I need."

And so we skid and clatter and fall down the hill. My clothing and skin are torn by thorn and stone by my haste, but I do not feel it. I trust in my elven companion to arrest my fall should I descend too swiftly: the uncertainty of the ground is of little concern to me, and we cease at the lip of the ravine. There is little to tell of it – it is naught but a thick knot of bramble – but this is something I know. I slide through it as though it is smoke and the elf is at my side.

He watches me crouch at the edge of the deep fall and he is surprisingly patient with me. There is bramble at my back with little room to stand but I am rooted firmly to the earth: I touch my hand to the rock and I feel for the Song, and when I leap from the edge Idhren cries out in surprise. He peers over the edge to where I stand upon a narrow ledge with accusation and annoyance upon his face.

"Warn me better than that, dwarf," he hisses irritably. "We seek to regain our prince whole, but I would spend the rest of my days mucking out the stables should I let you fall off a cliff in the process of it."

"Pay less mind to what I do and more to what happens about us," I dismiss him. My hands are upon a stone wall and I feel; tracing my fingers upon it, sliding to the next perch beneath me and doing the same, letting the Song guide my hands. It is like a giant wave cresting above me; a thousand-weight of rock above and beneath and all of it telling me its story. Finally I feel it – the tiniest give in the rock. I could stop right now and cry out for the relief of it but I settle only for a joyful laugh that has Idhren's head silhouetted again against the night sky above me, curiously seeking what has me so pleased down here in the dark. I realise that I have climbed down a good distance, and know that I have been much longer than I have realised. It is time now for action.

I find my axe from where I have secured it behind me and I ready myself. My perch is narrow but I allow little thought on it; I breathe deeply and I fall into a rhythm that sings back to my father, to my forebears, through all of dwarven history. I pull back, I heft, I tense and swing and absorb the shock of the impact in my body. I am part of this mountain, I am rooted within Arda and the stone is mine to shape. I feel the weakness of it where weakness can be found, I find each whispering crack and fault, every place in which I must strike and my axe falls true. I am at it a long time but I do not feel the passage of it, so tangled am I in the Song.

Finally – Ai! Finally! – I am victorious. I break through the rock and I know that I have done what I have sought to achieve. I smell nothing, I feel nothing, I see nothing but I know that the precious gas nestled deep within the earth leaks free into the narrow ravine. I scramble back up the rock face far faster than I descended, and Idhren helps me up with a single grasped hand. When I feel the wind upon my face again I meet his exasperated look with a wild grin.

"Dwarves are an odd race," he informs me. "Feel you any better for crashing about down there?"

"Aye," I inform him, and my grin does not diminish. "Far, far better."

He claps me about one shoulder and we turn to re-join the others, but there is a cry and a shriek and we are too far away. We struggle back through the brambles and cannot climb up the hill swiftly enough. We are late, and the Shadow has attacked!

TBC


So, the sun has set and the final showdown has begun. For better or worse, everything is concluded before the sun rises... but what a night! Lets see some reviews guys - we've come a long way together and I'd love to know whether you're as anxious to read about this final stand as I am to tell you the story.

Hope you've enjoyed it and I'll see you soon

MyselfOnly