Chapter Five: Can't see the Wood for the Trees

This felt so much better than being in the betraying open, to Legolas. Pine trees towered above their heads – true, his people were partial to beech, but – at that moment in time – a tree was a tree, and Legolas was grateful.

Gimli eyed the coarse trunks with keen dislike and increasing suspicion. They all looked the same to him...

'Are you sure, Elf, that we are not going round in circles?'

Legolas gave an exasperated sigh, making no effort to conceal his irritation. 'As I told you the last three times you asked that, no, we are not going in circles. I know you have trouble with the whole concept of the word "trust", Dwarf, but it is one that you are going to have to come to terms with.'

'Well that boulder looks very familiar.'

'It is not-' but Legolas stopped his sentence, halting his stride as he stared in confusion at the rock. The Dwarf had sat on it a couple of hour's prior – the moss was still flat.

Gimli's expression was one of pure triumph ... but he took one look at the archer's face and let it slip. The Elf was utterly bemused, clearly completely thrown by the discovery of his rather larger error. His face had paled to nearly the shade of the snow.

'Your leg has slowed your mind as well as your pace.'

Legolas scowled at his stout companion, his nostrils pinched in anger, eyes dangerously narrowed.

'You lied this morning when you said you'd examined your knee,' Gimli continued, totally unfazed by the daggers that were being glared at him. 'All you have done is tend my injury – which is giving me no bother now, by the way – and rock-headedly refused to see to your own. You are being a foolish dolt, Legolas.'

Legolas' expression instantly lifted when the Dwarf used his name – he had always been "Pointy-ear" or just "Elf" until now.

'Now. You will sit on that rock, and you will look at your knee-' Gimli raised his hand when he saw Legolas open his mouth to protest. 'No. Not a word. I have endured your stubborn bravado for long enough; to be perfectly honest, that refusal to limp of yours has been irritating me. I see it in your face with every step you take that it pains you. Sit. You're annoying me.'

Legolas shook his head hopelessly. 'There is no point! We have no supplies with which to treat it, so I really see no logic in an examination.'

'It is logical because you are hindering our progress, Elf! It is not getting better, it's getting worse, and what use to the Fellowship is an archer who cannot shoot because he was too imbecilic to check on an injured knee for the sake of his pride? Think about it!'

Legolas looked down to his leg, seeing that he had subconsciously raised it. Then he turned his eyes to Gimli, emitted a defeated sigh, and crossed to the boulder, sitting himself carefully on the springy moss.

Gimli went with him, quietly triumphant that he had won their battle of wills, and he stood watching as Legolas lifted the stuff of his trouser leg, pulling it clear of his knee. What was revealed made Gimli wince, and he heard Legolas swallow. "Bruised" was the wrong word for it: the entire knee was inflamed and practically every colour besides the one it was meant to be. A considerable gash spanned from the top of the kneecap to the bottom.

'Just bruised, eh?'

Legolas gave no response to that, but tentatively raised his hands. They hovered over his leg for a time.

'Exactly how good are you at the whole healing business?'

Legolas – to the immense surprise of both himself and Gimli – chuckled at the question. 'Not very,' he admitted. 'I know all of the fundamental parts – your head was of no challenge – but this surpasses my skills somewhat. Aragorn in his eighty-seven years has more skills with the healing arts than I have attained in all my millennia.'

'Well. That is reassuring.'

Legolas ignored the sarcasm. 'Can you hand me that broken shaft in my quiver?'

Gimli did as he was bid. 'You are expecting this to hurt?'

'I know it is going to hurt; I fear infection has set in.' He clamped the wood between his teeth, hesitated briefly – and set his hands down firmly to the gash. It exploded with pain as soon as he applied pressure, but he did not raise his hands from their task. He felt around the wound with a firmness that made him wish to hit himself for inflicting such pain, but he continued nonetheless ... and found what he thought he would. It moved. It was not supposed to move. More to the point, it was not meant to be separated from the rest of the bone like that.

Legolas lifted his hands away, releasing the breath he did not know he held. He spat the shaft to the forest floor, noting that it had considerable teeth marks in it.

'I've broken my knee, Gimli. What kind of idiot breaks their knee?'

'Your kind of idiot, clearly.'

Legolas scowled darkly 'Thank you for that useless contribution.'

'If you insist upon saying useless things, expect useless responses.'

Rather than gracing that with scathing words, Legolas focused his attentions on his knee, watching with a grimace as the gash oozed with the application of pressure. The pain was fierce now, tearing at his senses like a ravenous warg. It was bordering on becoming all-consuming ... but he had to be able to move: the Fellowship awaited them; the mission that had been entrusted to them was of too great an import to postpone for a damaged knee.

'I have to be able to walk, Gimli, but I know now that I can't.' Desperation leaked into his voice before he was able to stop it. But he was locked in a desperate situation, and he was a Dwarf if he knew what to do.

Gimli stood observing his companion, his pipe between his lips. Smoke plumed into the crisp air, and Legolas pulled back from the smell, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

'I swear I shall never understand mortals and their love for things that stink like that.'

'There is nothing wrong with a good pipe,' retorted Gimli, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. 'It's good for relieving stress.'

'If you ask me – and I know you're not, before you say it – it's more of a dependency than for relieving...' Legolas' words faded into silence, a strange expression dominating his face, his eyes appearing unfocused.

'Elf? Are you alright? Elf? Legolas!'

Legolas seemed to come back to earth, his eyes lifting to Gimli's.

'Gimli, know you of Dimfornë?'

'Dim who?'

'Dimfornë. It is a plant which is a particularly strong drug. Um – Men call it Coldturn.'

When Gimli's expression remained blank, Legolas huffed with exasperation. 'Used by healers to relieve pain in their patients by making a tea with the bark. You can chew it, too-'

'-Oh! I know what you mean! Elf-knife, we call it.'

Legolas frowned heavily, looking rather affronted by such a name. 'Why do you call it that?'

'Because it is said amongst our race that Elves do not have a strong enough gut to hold it in.'

Legolas shook his head to himself. Has the relationship between our two races degenerated that much?

'Anyway, I need some, and I'd just like to ask-' he faltered, taking an instant dislike to Gimli's smirk.

'Yes, Elf? You were in the middle of saying something.'

'Can – can you find some for me?' Legolas finally finished softly, though the intense loathing that he clearly held for asking such a thing of a Dwarf practically dripped from his voice. His pride was hurt rather badly by such a question.

Gimli's smirk widened, and he chuckled as he said: 'This hurts you, doesn't it?'

The Elf's eyes darkened, a murderous glimmer lighting within them dangerously. 'I would be more than happy to share the experience with you, if you wish it.' There was no humour in his tone, and he twirled the broken shaft between his fingers artfully. Gimli had a sharp image of that wood being jabbed into him in a rather alarming place, and swiftly concluded that it was unwise to provoke the Elf when he was in such a foul mood, so he turned on his heel to seek the Elf-knife that his companion so desired