CHAPTER 3: REFLECTION
Gimli felt stiffness begin to settle into his shoulders and his back. He began to notice the ache of various bruises and scrapes he had earned during the fighting. The glow of the moon filtered through the dingy little window above their heads. He felt tired and worn and worried. Gimli wished for Aragorn; he might have known what to do. Gimli certainly did not. The Dwarf wished also for a bath and a soft bed and cold ale, but knew he wasn't likely to get any of these things for some time yet to come.
He shifted his position on the floor to keep his legs from cramping and he chided himself. He could do without a few comforts on the battlefield. He had seen worse than this by far. He wanted sleep, but sleep would not come to him. He could not stop his gaze from straying constantly to his stricken friend. He feared to close his eyes lest Legolas should wake. He feared to close his eyes lest Legolas never wake again.
Gimli sought reassurance from the slight rise and fall of Legolas's breast and he measured each breath until, at once, he became terribly, terribly still, Gimli's heart lurched; the Elf's name was upon his lips, but his companion shifted and murmured softly and returned from the black dreams into which he had wandered.
Gimli reached out to him and stroked tentative fingers down the column of the Elf's smooth neck, feeling again for his pulse. It was faint now, but steadier. Like a wounded animal, Gimli thought as he watched over him. Like a proud deer, such strength and innocence bound into one being, brought down by a heedless hunter.
Gimli jerked his eyes away from Legolas's face in irritation and shook his head. "I am becoming as sentimental as you," he told the unconscious Elf. "If I am not careful, next I will be out singing to the trees." An unsteady snort of laughter escaped him. He clapped a hand over his mouth and stifled it with a cough. He looked askance at Legolas next to him to see if he had disturbed the Elf's rest, but he had not. The Elf slept on.
As he gazed at his companion the Dwarf realized something that gave him some comfort. The moonlight was not so bright now, but Legolas's face still shone. The Elf's skin shimmered faintly in the near darkness. This was nothing new, certainly; the Dwarf had noticed this long before and had shrugged it off as yet another annoyance than came from keeping an Elven companion. He had scoffed during the nights of their long hunt with Aragorn, telling Legolas to cast a blanket over himself lest he keep the other two awake. "Like sleeping next to an enormous will-o-wisp," he had grumbled.
Now, as he sat there in the small room, Gimli had naught to do but worry himself to death or pause and reflect; he chose the latter and let his mind roam.
Perhaps the elves were made up of a bit of the stars they loved and revered, he thought. A fanciful notion, but then the fair folk were a fanciful people. He had certainly never been close enough to many Elves to ask such personal questions, and during his time with Legolas, such matters had not come up. Gimli had never had much reason to gaze at the sky and the stars unless he had some need to judge the weather or direction. Much of his life had been spent below the ground, and when he was beyond cavern or cave, he kept his attention to matters close at hand and his head out of the clouds. He much preferred the earth; this was what he could touch and feel, and it seemed a waste of effort to be dreaming upon the sky and contemplating the stars. What Dwarf would! Such things were far removed from practical life and served no purpose.
But that luminous glow about his companion gave the Dwarf hope, even as he shook his head once more at the strangeness of this eldest of races. It reminded him of Rivendell, of Lothlórien... of Elrond and Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel, of something more profound that those bound to Middle-earth could fathom. Perhaps someday Legolas would explain it to him. The Elves were fading, if all that was said about them were true; but there was greatness in them yet, and he had to admit that there was perhaps more to life now than he had ever understood living with his kin beneath the Lonely Mountain.
Whatever fate held in store for Legolas, he was not meant to die here; of that the Dwarf was certain. The Elf was immortal, he was constant! Death was too slow to ever catch him up. Legolas had become such a close friend over the miles they travelled together. No matter the danger, Thranduil's son seemed ever above it. Gimli had left behind that hard-nosed Dwarf who not so long ago would have scorned the suggestion that he'd be concerned about an Elf. There was a time he would have thought anyone mad who told him that without a moment's consideration he would willingly trade his own life for the life of Legolas, to have him hale and whole beside him, dauntless and unaffected and irritatingly light of heart as ever he was; but this was true. Gimli wanted nothing more. He looked anxiously at the pale face of the Elf before him, such exhaustion closing even those eyes, and he felt fearful. Yet Legolas's fair skin still shimmered with a light that the devilry of Saruman could not quench.
Gimli grew weary and became so lost in his thoughts that he did not actually notice Legolas wake until he felt the almost imperceptible pressure of fingers upon his arm. He started and found the Elf watching him with an unfocused gaze.
"You are still here..." murmured Legolas and he withdrew his touch.
"Of course I am, you fool of an Elf," answered Gimli brusquely. "Where did you think I'd go?"
Legolas closed his eyes again. "Please... do not leave me," he whispered.
Gimli bowed his head, overwhelmed. "I will not." He bent forward and clasped his companion's hand and tenderly pressed his lips to Legolas's brow. Legolas moaned at the touch. A compulsion took Gimli and ere he stopped to consider what he did, his lips brushed over the Elf's.
Legolas caught a slight, startled breath. Gimli drew back, fearful and uncertain.
