Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Fourteen
Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about. If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…
Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.
Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself. I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism! I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!
Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.
Replies to reviews:
Treehugger: I'm glad you liked the link chapter. And hey, I'm a big fan of Celeborn, too! I nearly wept when the poor guy got one flippin' line in the movie (and he sounded all slow when he said it, too!). Unfortunately, the context of "The Weeping Wraith" won't allow me to actually send Celeborn into battle or anything. However, you'll likely get to see another rather well-known Elf do some royal butt-kicking in the chapters to come…and I may have something special in the works for Celeborn himself. But anyhoo, thanks for the review, as always! And you say that I am wicked? (evil cackle) You have no idea, nin mellon, no idea what's in store…Legolas is not forgotten! And lest I forget, thank you for your kind words regarding the meshing of the originals with the establisheds (ßthat's not a Webster-approved word, by the way).
Marcus Hale: Ah, a Silver Wraith fan! Welcome to "The Weeping Wraith," my friend. I, too, would like to see some more Lasselanta-action; however, before I can do any of that I need to set up some circumstances which I think you will like. It may be a few more chapters before we hear from either the Silver Wraith or the Renewed Fellowship, but all will be placed in due time. In the interim, enjoy the doings of Gimli and the Elves! They promise to be…interesting. :) Thank you for your review!
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Few inhabitants of Middle-earth could imagine the stuff of Dwarf dreams. Some had speculated on that very subject, and most of the resulting suppositions were scornful indeed, saying that those who dwelt and delved in the belly of the earth were likely given to fantasies of dirt, wine, and gems, and nothing more. In many an instance, those scoffers were justified, for Aulë of the Valar had gifted his creations with thoughts bent on earthly craft, and not much more besides. However, in the luminous heart of Lothlórien slept a Dwarf whose mind was given to imaginings of far more substance. Gimli of Erebor dreamt of fantastical things: twining memories of days old and new, merry and bleak; and also fresh designs of his own making, sporadically winsome and vile.
Gimli had supposed in his waking hours that he was gifted with more wits than some of his kin; his attempts to discuss his nightly visions with his own people had awarded him mostly bewildered glances. By a strange quirk of contrast, Legolas of Mirkwood had offered much consideration in discussing the matter. He had spoken to Gimli of the waking-sleep of the Firstborn and the reveries therein, describing with delight the brilliance and beauty of Elven dreams. And he had listened curiously to his Dwarf companion's telling of his own dreams, which frequently contained light and song just as the Elf's imaginings did. The songs in Gimli's thoughts, of course, were not drawn from Elvish lore, nor were they so beautiful in the ears; but they were tunes from the Dwarf's youth, heard over a full mug at one of the feasts in his father's hall. The light was not that of the stars, but of the great roasting-fire by which he had heard many a tale spun by his kinfolk. Gimli remembered well his Elf friend's blithe laughter, and his cheery response: "Our two peoples are indeed more closely bound together in sleep than they are in waking, Master Dwarf! Mayhap I shall dream tonight of a mountain, and you of a forest; and we shall each be confused and consider ourselves addled."
In truth, though he would reveal the deeps of his heart to but a few, Gimli missed his friend terribly. Grudging respect had ripened to genuine fondness in his mind, and he had come to consider Legolas both a worthy warrior and a valued companion. Neither of them truly understood the other, for their peoples and paths were far too dissimilar; however, they each made a genuine effort to esteem what the other held dear. That, more than any likeness between them, was at the heart of their uncommon friendship.
The words of Galadriel and Celeborn on the grass of Egladil had served to greatly encourage Gimli, for he had begun to question whether Legolas could truly by salvaged. Galadriel's gentle reassurance, in especial, had lifted Gimli's heart. After bidding a good night to the Lord and Lady and wishing Gandalf fair travels, he had retired to his flet without delay. The bedding there was vastly different than any found in the Lonely Mountain, but it was surprisingly comfortable: a veritable nest of pliable tree limbs and cool leaves. With the evening's discourse in his mind, and the soft melodies of nearby Elves in his ears, Gimli had fallen into deep slumber.
It seemed to Gimli that he had only been asleep for a short time before he was awoken by a voice and a hand shaking his shoulder. He was lying on his side with his fingers wrapped about his axe's hilt, as was his custom. Before him knelt a lone Elf dressed in brown and gray. The Dwarf squinted slightly in the yet dim lighting so as to perceive his caller. The Elf was young and fair-skinned, with eyes that gleamed in the faint glow of the luminous vines woven with the boughs that comprised Gimli's flet. "Wake and stir, Master Dwarf," the Elf said upon seeing that Gimli had roused from his slumber. "The Lord and Lady have need of your service."
At once shrugging off all vestiges of sleep, Gimli rolled up to his feet, axe in hand, and tugged his chain-mail shirt downwards so that it was again properly positioned. "What need is there to be met at this hour?" he asked briskly; for the Sun had not yet risen, and the night lay still upon the earth—yet not in Caras Galadhon, for the City of the Galadhrim shimmered always with radiant lamps and gently glistening vines.
"A great force of the Enemy has been seen approaching from across the River to the east," the Elf replied earnestly. "They will reach the Wood ere the Sun climbs the Sky. I was sent to ask that you accompany the warriors of Lothlórien in the defense of my Lord's realm."
Gimli grinned in spite of the ominous report, pressing his helm down more firmly onto his head. "With much pleasure, Master Elf. Am I to follow you?"
The Elf nodded and turned toward the flet's ladder. "Yes. I will take you to join my Lord's host, for I am also to go into battle this morn."
"Well then, I would have your name, as we are to be fellow warriors today," Gimli said, causing the Elf to pause. "I am Gimli son of Glóin, although I expect you knew that before."
"I did, but that is no matter. My name is Nimfëalórien, and I am certainly pleased to greet you," the Elf said congenially, and he turned to face Gimli with a small smile of apology. "Forgive my lack of manners, good Dwarf! I am fairly distracted by thoughts of the forthcoming enemy force."
"No offense is taken. I am glad to meet one so agreeable as yourself, Nimfëalórien," Gimli stated. He thumped his axe hilt against the flooring. "Let us be off! I would be present for the welcoming of our enemies to the Lady's Wood."
Nimfëalórien gave Gimli a surprised glance, but said nothing in reply. He nimbly descended the thick-runged ladder and dropped to the forest floor without a sound. Gimli followed with less grace but with equal quickness, and so they were soon traveling at a swift pace under the silent trees. The Dwarf was not at all familiar with the expansive forest realm, but he assumed they were moving toward the outskirts of Caras Galadhon. The towering mallorns stood hushed, gold-leaved monoliths laced with silver moonlight. The tiny pale flowers gathered at their roots hid their faces, waiting for the coming dawn to bathe them with light enough to drown the worries of their elder kinfolk. It was as though the Wood itself dreaded the coming battle, knowing that both Elf and plant would lose numbers in the course of the conflict.
Lothlórien's bright City hung suspended far above the ground, and the glittering shine of many lamps reached down to lend a faint golden glow to those walking among the foundations of the mallorns. Even so, Gimli found it difficult to see much apart from the silhouettes of the tree trunks and Nimfëalórien's shadowy figure walking at his side. Caras Galadhon was much quieter than was the norm. So quiet, indeed, that the Dwarf noticed his ears straining to hear even a note or two of song from the flets clustered high in the branches above. "This stillness is disturbing," Gimli muttered.
"I did not know Dwarves were fond of Elven songs," Nimfëalórien remarked.
Gimli was not certain how to respond. He had cautiously judged Nimfëalórien to be a civil sort, but he could not now tell if the Elf was sincere or mocking. "Most are not," Gimli said neutrally. "But I have never experienced such silence in this place, and it is unsettling."
"Ah." Nimfëalórien nodded, glancing up into the shimmering collection of dwellings. "You speak truly, Gimli. This calm is rare here." He paused, then said, "I meant no insult, if any was taken; I have been curious to meet you, for visitors to the Wood are much fewer than in olden days. I know but little of your folk, although I have been most eager to learn more."
"Have you never traveled beyond the borders of this realm?" Gimli asked in amazement.
Nimfëalórien sounded somewhat chagrined. "Nay, not I. 'Tis not of my own will that I remain, though I love this Wood above all; rather, it is the desire of my father, whom I am yet obliged to obey."
"There is no shame in heeding the bidding of your seniors," Gimli replied. He now perceived that Nimfëalórien was much younger than Legolas and Lelemir. It was usually difficult to determine the ages of Elves, for they were immortal and nearly unchanging in appearance. However, in the course of the first Fellowship's journeys Gimli had become familiar with Legolas' manner, and he could see that his present companion was not nearly so experienced in the world. According to Gandalf's story of days past, Legolas and his sister were well over two thousand years old. Gimli wondered how many years Nimfëalórien could claim.
"That is true," the Elf was saying, "yet my heart longs to journey beyond the Wood, and to meet such folk as yourself in the lands past."
"Perhaps you shall indeed do so, Nimfëalórien," Gimli said. He had decided that he was pleased with his young guide's seemingly intrepid spirit. It would be some time before he could ascertain the actual degree of the Elf's courage, but Gimli liked Nimfëalórien enough to avoid giving him grievous insult by asking his age. "I admit, I have found many of your people more to my liking than I would ever have imagined was possible. My friend Legolas has taught me much about his folk."
"Legolas? The missing prince of Mirkwood?" Nimfëalórien's tone turned sober. "Yes, all who dwell in Lórien have heard of his fate. It is said that you remained among us to seek a means of rescue for him."
"They who say such are truthful indeed," Gimli replied. "But for Legolas' captivity, I would surely have continued in my duty to aid Frodo in his Quest."
"Are all of your people so eager to travel about on long journeys, Gimli? Or do most remain in their mines and caves?" Nimfëalórien asked curiously.
But for the innocence in the Elf's tone, Gimli might have bristled with indignation at Nimfëalórien's offhand use of the term "cave." Instead, he replied, "Dwarves do not live in mere caves, Master Elf! If I could but show you the old halls of Durin's Folk, that now darksome place called Khazad-dûm—or Moria, in your tongue! It was not always a place for shadow and fear, good Nimfëalórien, but was once filled with fair crystalline lamps and instruments of gold and silver; music and merriment were ever in the air. The passageways shone bejeweled by the hands of inspired Dwarves, who then fashioned many spears and corselets of no less splendor for the warriors who there dwelt. Alas! those days have passed. Yet the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep remain untouched, it is said, and ah, the caverns described by those who have chanced to visit there: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight.
"And, Nimfëalórien, when the torches are kindled and men walk on the sandy floors under the echoing domes, ah! then gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the lights glows through folded marbles, shell-like, translucent as the living hands of Queen Galadriel. There are columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, Nimfëalórien, fluted and twisted into dreamlike forms; they spring up from many-colored floors to meet the glistening pendants of the roof: wings, ropes, curtains fine as frozen clouds; spears, banners, pinnacles of suspended palaces! Still lakes mirror them: a glimmering world looks up from dark pools covered with clear glass; cities, such as the mind of Durin could scarce have imagined in his sleep, stretch on through avenues and pillared courts, on into the dark recesses where no light can come. And plink! a silver drop falls, and the round wrinkles in the glass make all the towers bend and waver like weeds and corals in a grotto of the sea. Then evening comes: they fade and twinkle out; the torches pass on into another chamber and another dream. There is chamber after chamber, Nimfëalórien; hall opening out of hall, dome after dome, stair beyond stair; and still the winding paths lead on into the mountains' heart. Caves! The Caverns of Helm's Deep! If I were a lord or peasant in such a place, I should never leave, but remain and bask in the fair glow of its lamps. So it should be of no surprise, Nimfëalórien, when I say that far travel is not common among my folk; for no creature who lives in comfortable and bright abode wishes to be gone from it for long. What say you to this word, Master Elf?"
"Ah! Gimli, you do me a disservice in speaking so!" Nimfëalórien exclaimed with a wondering laugh. "For even now I long to see such places as you describe—and that is much to my family's dismay, I assure you—but I am glad for your words. I do intend to someday contrive to glimpse the wonders you speak of, if it is possible."
Satisfied by the reply, Gimli harrumphed into his beard. "If it seems good to you, then I would enjoy escorting both you and Legolas on a fine tour of the realms of which I have spoken. Certainly you would be in far less peril with a Dwarf as your envoy!"
"Certainly," Nimfëalórien agreed. "I confess, Master Gimli, you have amazed me with your speech. There are many more questions I would like to ask of you, but we are nearing our assignment of my Lord's host now."
"We shall have time for exchange later," Gimli said. He decided that he did like his young escort. In truth, Nimfëalórien rather reminded the Dwarf of a youthful Legolas; Gimli had heard some rumor of his friend's restlessness in his father's halls, a tension that had in the past caused something of a disturbance in the Elvenking's house. Perhaps Legolas' willingness to journey far from his home had been motivated by a longing not unlike that which seized Nimfëalórien, Gimli thought.
The two emerged from the shadows of the mallorns. Gimli had earlier taken note of a decrease in the lights overhead, and he had surmised that they were nearing their destination. They came into a large clearing ringed by small trees with white hides and pale leaves. The grass gave a dark sapphire sheen in the clear, stark moonlight. Gathered in the clearing was a company of Elves dressed in brown and gray leathers that would serve to render them almost invisible in the woods of their realm. Two hundred or so were assembled there, all with gleaming bows and quivers bristling with arrows. Most also bore long-knives strapped to their backs, but there were some who rested their hands upon the silvery hilts of long swords girded to their waists. Strangely, none wore mail or helm, nor did they bear shields to ward off enemy blows.
The Elves there congregated stood in some semblance of order, but not in filed lines like the armies of Men. Gimli knew not the particulars of Elvish defense devices, but he suspected he would soon become acquainted with them out of necessity. He nodded to the warriors as he followed Nimfëalórien through the ranks, presumably heading toward the commander of the assemblage. Some of the Elves nodded gravely in return, having been informed of Gimli's presence and intent. Most either deliberately looked away from the Dwarf, or stared intently at him with brilliantly starlit but completely blank gazes. Gimli was not discomfited by their impassiveness, but he did wish he had a few of his own folk to watch behind him during the battle. He did not know whether most Elves would have honor enough to cry warning to a Dwarf, even one considered an ally, should an enemy approach from the rear.
Nimfëalórien approached a tall, stern-featured Elf whose hair shone like polished silver in Ithil's radiance. They spoke a few words in their own language, and then Nimfëalórien beckoned to Gimli. When the Dwarf had drawn near, Nimfëalórien said, "Master Gimli, this is Lord Silmeros. He commands this wing of Lord Celeborn's defense force."
"Hail, Master Dwarf," Silmeros greeted him in Westron, without a trace of disdain or superiority in his tone. "You are to accompany my Lord's forces into battle this morn, I am told."
"That is the way of it, my lord," Gimli answered.
"What manner of skill do you bring with you?" Silmeros asked briskly.
Gimli clasped his heavy battle-axe in both hands and held it slantwise against his chest, so that the sharpened head with its double blades caught the stars' gleam. "This axe has belonged to my family for three generations, Lord Silmeros. It craves the blood of those who dare tread falsely upon such hallowed ground as this."
Silmeros regarded the Dwarf with a keen eye. He nodded once, a pleased but grim smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "And such blood it shall have, Master Gimli. Come, listen. We embark soon for our position, and you would do well to know into what battlefield you are going."
The Elf-lord stepped away then, and though he did not greatly raise the volume of his voice, every ear was immediately attuned to his words. Gimli listened, but to his dismay, Silmeros was speaking in the clear tongue of the Galadhrim, a fair language not known to Gimli's folk. Nimfëalórien, however, stood by the Dwarf and murmured the Westron rendition of Silmeros' address. "Warriors of Lórien," Silmeros began; and now his gaze grew more intense than before, as though he were a hawk bent on collecting prey. "We are to be the archers of the second ring of the Lord's guard. The first and outermost ring of defenders will be ahead of us; the third will remain behind. We shall secret ourselves in tree and bush, behind rock and mound, so that the enemy bowmen have no target on which to let loose their own assault until they are near enough for our blades to cut them down. Upon such time as our arrows are futile, we shall forsake them in favor of the sword, knife," he glanced at Gimli, then continued, "and axe. Our charge is to destroy as many of the Orcs as possible before they can further penetrate the Wood. Not one of their filthy kind must be permitted to pass through the three rings alive. You are to give chase only to the last dregs of the enemy wave; otherwise, remain in position and slay the Orcs as they rush upon us." Here Silmeros paused, as did Nimfëalórien, and then the two lines of dialogue continued, "Let us depart. May the fair Lady of the Stars lend her grace to us this day, and may she prevent harm to her own."
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The dawn's earliest golden flickers had barely brushed the heights of the mallorns when Gimli's ears detected the far-off sounds of combat. He could just distinguish the clamor of harsh Orc voices raised in threatening howls, as well as the battle-cries of beset Elven warriors. Nimfëalórien listened as well, but his ears were far more keen than those of the Dwarf. Gimli supposed that every Elf in the second ring was likely paying heed to the as-yet indistinct din; though he could not see any save Nimfëalórien. The warriors of the Golden Wood were exceptionally skilled in concealing themselves, and it was for that cause that none had donned sparkling mail or other armament. Though Gimli had seen a large number of them deftly scaling the nearby trees, he could no longer perceive any movement, not even from those hidden on the ground. The Dwarf had been the most difficult to mask, for he was not only an ungainly shape, but also had little experience in camouflage; fortunately, Nimfëalórien had taken great care in the matter, and had ensured that no approaching Orc would catch sight of Gimli unless it became ensnared upon his axe.
"The enemy comes," Nimfëalórien remarked softly, listening to the distant noise of conflict. He was crouched behind a small stone outcropping that seemed barely large enough to shield the Elf, though he had folded himself into a very small parcel indeed. Nimfëalórien glanced over at Gimli, who stood as motionless as he could near the rocks. The young Elf could not suppress a half-smile. "Forgive me, Master Dwarf, but you do resemble a flowering shrub of some sort," he said.
Gimli snorted. He could just see the Elf's merry expression from where he was placed. "Bah! If not for your ridiculous idea of disguising me with all these weeds and plant rubbish, I would enter this battle with much more dignity."
"Lord Silmeros commanded such," Nimfëalórien answered, and his grin widened mischievously. "I cannot be faulted if Aulë did not make your folk to be easily hidden from sight."
"Dwarves do not hide, Elf," Gimli growled under his breath. "And I do not think Lord Silmeros suggested that you make me into a spring flower-hub."
"Ah. Well, good Gimli, I do not think that you understand much of what is said in the Elvish tongue," the young Elf said lightly.
To which Gimli would only grumble a phrase in his own language about Elves, and how he didn't understand why he always got drawn in with the crazy ones. "I shall remember this, Nimfëalórien, mark me, I shall," the Dwarf muttered.
There was a bare whisper in the trees, and Nimfëalórien suddenly tensed. Gimli could not see the Elf very well, but he heard the change in his voice. "There is word from those above," Nimfëalórien breathed. "The enemy draws nigh. We are to prepare to engage."
"Some of us are," Gimli remarked to himself. He did not like being made to wait until the Orcs had drawn too near for the bow and arrow to be useful, for there would be many minutes between. Until then, Gimli had been instructed to remain hidden, so that he might surprise the stampeding yrch, as Nimfëalórien had referred to them disgustedly.
Gimli glanced at the squat stone ridge to his right, behind which Nimfëalórien was slipping a white shaft with speckled feather from his quiver and nocking it to his bow. The color of the young Elf's hair was finally apparent in the growing daylight; it was neither dark nor light, but instead a warm chestnut-auburn shade. Gimli had not been able to perceive the unusual hue in the darkness of early morn. He was somewhat surprised, for nearly all of the Elves he had previously seen were possessed of strictly dark or golden locks. He supposed Nimfëalórien's family must be of a peculiar strain that boasted earthen-colored tresses.
The Dwarf then turned his dour gaze to the forest before him. It appeared mild for the moment, as tranquil and beautiful as ever it had been: the great trees loomed overhead, filtering the Sun's gathering radiance through their golden crowns; the ground was carpeted with small mosses and fallen leaves; the air smelt of life and freshness and peace. Smaller trees—either young mallorns or cousins to them—waved nervously in a slight breeze, for they bore indiscernible archers secured within their dark-leaved boughs. Patterns of warm light played over the forest floor, pooling in some places where there were breaks in the great canopy above.
Yet all would soon be obscured by the howl and clash of battle. Though he did not share an Elf's affection for the trees, Gimli did lament the disturbance of such serenity, which was surely a commodity in scarce supply. Galadriel's haven would suffer the scars of war just as would all other great realms of Middle-earth. Gimli gritted his teeth and glared into the swirls of dissipating morning fog. "May the Enemy come to fear the blades and bows of Lórien," he snarled under his breath.
Nimfëalórien then spoke soft words in his own tongue, and from all around there came assenting murmurs. The young Elf glanced at Gimli and explained, "I have told them what you said, Gimli. Most here do not speak the Common."
Gimli opened his mouth to make reply, but then there came a sound, one that echoed throughout the Wood and drew all eyes and ears to its source. It was the howl of many Orcs, many foul voices raised in a bellow of challenge that made the Elves' blood run cold and Gimli's blood to boil. There was the clash and clang of swords against shields, spears against trees, for the enemy wished to discourage the Elven force ere the attack commenced. However, a clear Elvish voice rang out above the tumult, speaking words that Gimli did not know, but that filled his soul with fierce courage all the same. He saw Nimfëalórien drawing back on his bowstring, aiming the deadly shaft into the Wood before them.
And they waited.
Gimli had taken part in many battles, even before his days as a member of the Fellowship of the Ring. His people had long been at war with the Orcs, wargs, and fell Men that crept ever closer to the borders of the remaining Dwarven strongholds in Middle-earth, the chief of which was Erebor, wherein Gimli's father and kin yet lived. He had seen many attacks, both as a defender and as an aggressor, and many were the times his axe had served to ward off Orkish blades. But never in all his years had the Dwarf seen such a horror as the force that poured from the outer fringes of the Golden Wood.
They came as an endless rippling tide of black. Shrieking, bellowing Orcs clad in dark armor and bearing like blades and shields. They howled unceasingly as they rushed toward the hidden Elven host. Their leaders, fearsome Uruk-hai bred in the caverns of Isengard—curse you, Saruman! Gimli thought—barked out commands in the ugly Black Speech. Black were their banners, and emblazoned with crudely-fashioned red Eyes. But most gruesome and terrifying of all were their trophies: at the front of the black horde were a few Orcs who carried aloft jagged black poles with the severed heads of slain Elven warriors jammed atop. They were scarcely recognizable, crushed and with golden hair matted with blood and dirt.
Gimli caught sight of Nimfëalórien's shocked expression, and he prayed swiftly that the young Elf would not waver. The voice from the trees, presumably that of Lord Silmeros, shouted out a command, and suddenly the foremost droves of the enemy force pitched forward onto the ground in mid-stride, clutching at the Elven arrows buried in their ruined bodies. The Orcs behind continued unhindered, without any thought of their fallen comrades. There was another clear shout from above, and a second wave of pale shafts streaked into the dark host, felling innumerable creatures and sorely wounding many more beside.
Then a third instruction shot through the Wood, and a terrific melee broke loose. Gimli inferred that the last command must have been something akin to "At will!" A hail of arrows speared down and away, out of the leaved boughs and rock outcroppings, darting through cracks in defensive hedges and tracing straight paths into the midst of the Enemy's horde. The Orcs came on with louder cries than before, single-mindedly rushing into the seemingly impenetrable shower of lethal Elven shafts. Yet for every one that fell writhing, there looked to be two more that sprang up to continue the charge.
Though his people were not so skilled with bow and arrow as the Elves, and though Gimli could hardly be considered an expert in the matter, it seemed to the Dwarf's keen observation that Nimfëalórien's hand was a trifle less swift at the quiver than Legolas' hand had ever been. Gimli had grown accustomed to his lost friend's sharp eye and deadly aim, but even more so his unrivaled speed. Legolas' shafts flew just instants before they were looked for, and they never failed to acquire satisfying targets. Gimli had long suspected that the Elf could somehow see a second's glimpse into the future, thereby attaining the awareness necessary to act so quickly.
Nevertheless, Nimfëalórien was hardly slow in any mortal's estimation. His aim was not so sharp as Legolas', but he at least disabled nearly every enemy he shot at. Gimli began to shift his weight on his feet, tightening and relaxing his grip on his axe. The Orcs were drawing closer, and soon the time for bows and arrows would pass, and the time for blades and flesh would arrive. Gimli much preferred the latter, for though the Elven shafts were good for thinning the approaching swarm, the cleaving strokes of his axe would provide him with greater personal satisfaction.
A voice, barely audible to Gimli, shouted out again as before, and Nimfëalórien lowered his bow. "We are to prepare to meet the assault," he told Gimli, slinging his bow over his shoulders. He drew a long white blade from a sheath beneath his quiver.
Gimli's ears registered the sharp sighs of dozens of Elven swords and long-knives leaving their casings around him. His fingers sought a better hold on his own weapon, and he snarled under his breath. Now the host of Dol Guldur would see what it was to incur the wrath of a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain.
With the cessation of the barrage of arrows, the Orcs surged forward more violently than ever. Their heavy tread trampled down the delicate mosses, tearing shrubs and flowers as they pounded forth, and their coarse voices polluted Lórien's sweet air. Those who bore the heads of slain Elves had been among the first to fall, stuck through with multiple shafts, and so their dreadful ploy to dismay the remaining Elven warriors had been swiftly put asunder. However, though the corpses of the enemy lay piled in great masses upon the ground, there seemed to be no diminishing of the force of the Enemy. The Orcs rushed toward Gimli and Nimfëalórien, and all the others who lay hidden.
Yet hidden they were not to remain. Just as the Orcs drew close enough for Gimli to see the flinty glare of their eyes beneath their helms, there came a mighty shout from the trees, and the host of Lord Silmeros burst from within their concealed alcoves and fell upon the enemy warriors. Nimfëalórien leaped forward, his long blade flashing in the light. Gimli gave a shout and tore away his own disguising raiment, sending many flowers and leaves fluttering to the ground like wounded birds. Brandishing his axe and giving voice to a loud Dwarven battle-cry, Gimli joined the Elven tide as they met the surge of the Enemy.
Blade met blade with a resounding shriek. Scores of the black horde fell, rent by blood-laved swords and knives inscribed with Elvish runes. Orcs and parts of Orcs fell to the ground, and as they toppled, the newly-slain crashed into upright combatants. Gimli sank his axe's double-bladed head into enemy flesh with relish, and hot black blood spurted onto the weapon, the ground, and Gimli himself. He barked out a short burst of laughter, glad to be in the deep of action once more. Orc-helms were cleaved and their owners slaughtered by the Dwarf's heavy stroke. He ducked below many a return arc, only to bring his own weapon up in an underhanded sweep that caught his foes in the abdomen and split them to the ribs. His beard was soon matted with black gore, but Gimli cared not. He intended to slay as many of the foul creatures as he was able to, for it was for the sake of both Galadriel and Legolas that he fought.
So the Dwarf hacked a fissure in the Orc lines as they came. The Elves nearby might have shaken their heads in wonder at their unusual ally's ferocity, but they were occupied with their own battles. The ground was soon choked with dead enemies and their reeking spilt fluids. In many places, the living fought while wading among the dead, only to add to the number of slain being trodden upon. Rare was the Elf who fell to an enemy blade; the Firstborn were far superior to their mutilated foes in combat, for they possessed speed and skill that surpassed that of even the highest breed of Orc. Yet there were some few who found themselves surrounded by insurmountable peril, and these were driven to the ground by sheer force of quantity. Still, the losses of Dol Guldur's horde were much more grievous than those of Lórien's warriors.
Gimli caught glimpses of besieged Elves, and these he attempted to aid, hewing Orcs ere they could bring their foul blades to bear on Galadriel's host. He did not see Nimfëalórien for a long time, but the Dwarf put thoughts of his companion from his mind for the moment else he be distracted from his cause. There came a time when he paused to take in the continuing battle around him. It seemed to him that the Orcs were far fewer in number than they had been at the start; and Gimli then realized that he was far from the stone where Nimfëalórien had hidden and he himself had stood in waiting in camouflage. The Sun was high in her journey across the Sky, and still the battle raged within the second ring. Some of the Elves of the first ring who had survived the initial assault had pursued their foes through the forest, and now added their strength to that of the second ring.
Large gaps had appeared in the enemy's force, carved out by the blades and shafts of the Elven host. The Orcs pressed on, mounting one offensive after another, tirelessly driving the warriors of Lórien farther into their realm. Many in the second ring had turned and begun to pull down foes who had rushed past them in the early charge. Gimli actively sought out his opponents, for now there was no great seething mass to fly into with blade aloft. There were as yet large companies of the enemy, which bore down upon single Elves in their path and persistently moved toward the deeper places of the Golden Wood.
Nimfëalórien appeared quite suddenly, dashing toward Gimli as though all the hosts of Mordor were behind him. "'Ware, Gimli, attack is upon you!" the Elf cried out.
The Dwarf did not hesitate. He spun round and was barely fast enough to catch the length of an Uruk-hai blade on the haft of his axe. The immense creature had approached with softer step than was normal, hoping to destroy the lone Dwarf who so puzzlingly fought on behalf of the Elves. Upon detection, however, the Uruk-hai bellowed in rage and bore down on Gimli with a mighty blow, intending to drive the Dwarf to the ground and there slay him.
Gimli threw himself backwards, but even so he felt the air being cleaved where he had stood as the Uruk-hai's weapon sliced down. He knocked the blackened blade aside with the hilt of his axe, and drove the blunt end into his opponent's hideously scowling face. There was a sound of bones crunching, and the Uruk-hai shrieked in pain and wrath. Its bawl was swiftly halted as Gimli's axe severed the moorings that held the creature's head to its shoulders. The body collapsed at once, spewing fetid black liquid.
"Many thanks to you, Master Elf," Gimli began to remark, turning once more to face Nimfëalórien. His words died in his throat, however, as he saw the four snarling Orcs standing triumphantly over a still form crumpled on the ground. The Elf lay unmoving, his face obscured by his russet hair and the dark saffron leaves beneath him.
In that instant, Gimli saw Legolas crushed beneath the hooves of black steeds. He envisioned his dear friend lying trampled on the bank of the Anduin so many weeks past, injured and alone, deserted by those for whom he had sacrificed his own safety, and now in the cruel grasp of Orcs of Isengard, to be taken into the very maw of evil wherein resided a traitorous wizard. Gimli thought of Legolas' last call, urging the Fellowship to flee; and of Nimfëalórien's warning, given in just enough time to save Gimli's life. In truth, the young Elf's cry had likely drawn the enemies to assail him. Two Elves to whom Gimli had become friend; one a royal son of Mirkwood, the other a brave son of Lórien. They were so very different, yet so similar in the undiscriminating mind of a Dwarf. And in the space of a single moment, the fates of the four creatures laughing over their young victim's body were sealed.
Every ounce of rage that Gimli possessed came rushing into his mind in a searing, torrid deluge. It burned in his chest so furiously he thought his lungs might char. For it was a wrath born not of greed or fear, nor of any other less noble cause; but instead, sorrow for lost brothers and comrades. Those who claimed that Dwarves felt loss on behalf of naught but their treasures knew nothing of that folk, for the fury of a Dwarf avenging the slaying of a cherished friend was severe indeed. And so, consumed with that very passion, Gimli raised his axe high, and with a bellow such as none he had ever before uttered, he charged toward the gathering of Orcs.
The creatures heard the sound that tore from Gimli's throat, and they whirled in amazement, forgetting their glee over the Elf that lay at their feet. They snarled in unison, and raising their blades stepped forward to meet the Dwarf's attack. Yet meet it they could not, for Gimli acted not out of rational consideration for strategy, but only out of a deep-rooted thirst for carnage. Gimli plowed into the Orcs' weapons, taking many a glancing blow to his helm and mail, but he felt them not. He drove the filthy creatures away from Nimfëalórien, hacking off the arm of one and cleaving a deep rent in the ribs of another. His axe spun with a purpose of its own, knocking to the side the blackened weapons that sought his flesh; and ere long three of the four Orcs had been felled. The last yet stood its ground, but with a hint of desperation to its actions, and as Gimli struck the fatal blow to this last creature he again shouted to the very heights of the trees.
Then it was done. The Orcs lay dead in their own blood, and Gimli felt the soreness beginning to make itself known; for he had taken some few heavy strikes in the course of the frenzied battle. He breathed hard, wiping black fluid from his brow, and immediately turned to seek out Nimfëalórien's collapsed form. The Elf lay where he had fallen, with his face buried in the leaves and his fine earthen-hued locks fanned out around his head. One slender hand was flung out, and his icor-smeared knife lay beyond his limp fingers.
Gimli dropped to his knees beside Nimfëalórien, keeping a wary eye open to possible threats; though the battle had progressed away from the second ring, with part of the enemy force retreating and part of it yet advancing into the third ring. Gimli fancied he could hear the shouts of a fresh conflict flaring deeper into the forest. He carefully sliced the straps that held Nimfëalórien's quiver and knife-sheath to his back, removing the now-cumbersome things, and then grasped the young Elf by the shoulders and turned him so that his pale face was shown to the day's light. A dark russet stain marred the warm brown of Nimfëalórien's leathern over-tunic, testimony to a grievous wound slit across his chest. The Orcs' assault had done harm to Nimfëalórien's bow as well; for the bow had been slung behind the Elf's back when he had taken to his blade, and it now lay silent and wrecked nearby.
"Ah, young Nimfëalórien," Gimli said mournfully, his rage spent, his grief only beginning. But to his shock, the Elf's body shivered, and he opened his eyes.
"Not so young, good Dwarf," Nimfëalórien sighed with effort. "But not practiced enough to ward off four…" His voice faltered and failed, and he gave a slight cough. Though a mundane sound, it was especially distressing to hear from the lips of an Elf, for those folk were rarely heard to utter such evidence of weakness.
"I am not skilled in the ways of healers," Gimli said measuredly. "But you know better than I how you fare. Is the wound so dire as it appears?"
"Alas…I believe so," Nimfëalórien replied softly.
"Will you endure until the battle here has abated, and aid may be found?" Gimli asked. "Perhaps if I staunch the flow of blood, and you remain still, the wound will work its will more slowly."
"Perhaps," the Elf breathed. "I shall make the attempt."
"And so shall I," Gimli said. He tore a strip of cloth from his under-tunic, for it was as yet the only fabric he wore that was not saturated with Orc-fluid. With that he pressed firmly on as much of Nimfëalórien's injury as he could cover with his hands. The Elf hissed in pain and flinched at the pressure, but he held the cloth to the gash as Gimli had, so that the Dwarf would be free to fend off any approaching enemies. Then, Gimli retrieved Nimfëalórien's long white blade and replaced it in its sheath. These he laid by the Elf's side, along with his bow and empty quiver.
"Now, be still and quiet, Master Elf," Gimli said, his voice raw but kind. "I shall remain with you until help may be sought."
"Thank you," Nimfëalórien whispered. He paused, then forced a few more words out. "I was trying…to stay near. Should you have needed aid…"
Gimli held up a finger, as though warning a small child. "Crazy Elf, you're going to be quiet if I have to stifle you myself."
Nimfëalórien's wan features tightened into a small yielding smile, which then fell into a grimace. He said nothing more. His eyes fell shut once again.
The forest around them had fallen into a near silence. Unlike the peaceful calm of the morning, however, the stillness was thick and oppressive, and reeked of pain and hate and death. The blanket of golden mallorn-leaves and green mosses that adorned the ground was crushed into the dirt, which had become a putrid sludge. The oily blood of the black horde had become stirred into the earth and plants, and Gimli wondered if the Wood itself could feel and lament the poisons inflicted upon it. Everywhere there were broken corpses, most hideous and dark, rent and leaking foul fluids. Scattered among the dead of Dol Guldur were some few slain warriors of Lothlórien, and for these Gimli mourned. The scent of violent bloodshed hung heavy in the clean air of the Golden Wood.
Far away, it seemed, were the shouts and clamor of renewed battle. The third defense ring had been assailed by the remaining Orcs, and the Elves of that ring, combined with those pursuers from the first and second, fought most viciously; for they were the last shield against the invaders. Gimli sorely wished to rise and seek out the heart of the conflict, and so lend his axe to the aid of Galadriel's brave warriors in their defense. But he dared not leave Nimfëalórien unguarded, lest some trailing Orc come upon the wounded Elf and slay him where he lay. The Dwarf supposed he would have to wait until the battle waned, and then capture the attention of whatever Elves returned to the battlefield of the second ring in order to secure a healer's relief for Nimfëalórien.
It seemed to Gimli that many hours passed, but really the time was slow, and it was not long ere another incredible vision stirred the Golden Wood's outer periphery. Unlike the charge of the horde of Dol Guldur, however, the sight that now greeted the Dwarf's weary gaze was a welcome one indeed. The rolling sound of hooves beating the earth echoed through the mallorns, and then they came into view: a throng of gleaming Elven horses riding for the heart of the Wood with all haste. Gimli stared in shock at the swift, unsaddled steeds and their riders, who brandished naked swords and ready bows. They were clothed in mail, these unknown warriors, and their raiment was of earthen-brown and leaf-green. Hair both dark and golden streamed out behind in fluttering waves, as the riders thundered past the astonished Dwarf and his injured charge.
Behind the mounted riders came scores of Elves on foot, running with speed to nearly match that of the horses. Their footfalls were a mere whisper upon the abused soil, and some directed surprised glances at Gimli as they passed, but none halted their charge. Their blades and bows, too, were outstretched and made keen for battle. Truly they were a force resolved, and that they were to join the defense of Lórien was a salvation that could not have been foreseen. Gimli cheered them silently, for he believed he recognized their manner of dress. They were surely Legolas' folk, the people of Mirkwood, come to wage war on behalf of their southern relations.
With the warriors on foot there came another, smaller assemblage of riders. In their midst and mounted upon a white steed there was an Elf-lord of singular splendor. His breast was bright with mail and sash, the latter being of lush green as befitted the Woodland Realm. A rich cloak of like hue flowed from his shoulders, and Gimli noted the ornate gold embroidery set in the cloth. No less golden was the Elf's hair, which fell in thick folds to the middle of his back. A long blade gleamed in his hand, and from his lips came thunderous commands in his own tongue. To his right rode a warrior who bore an unfurled standard of green and white and gold; the banner of the forest kingdom, which confirmed Gimli's guess.
Nimfëalórien blinked dazedly, coming to his senses for a moment. He followed Gimli's astounded gaze. "It is the Elvenking of Mirkwood!" the young Elf exclaimed softly, gripping Gimli's arm with a little strength. "Our northern cousins come to our aid!"
Gimli hushed Nimfëalórien, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the newly-arrived king. "Save your strength, Master Elf, until that wound can be attended to."
"That is no matter now," came the labored reply. "Poisoned, Gimli…the blade was poisoned, and now it is in my blood…"
Gimli jerked his gaze down to the young Elf's face, which was worrisomely dim with pallor. Nimfëalórien's breathing was rapid and thready, and his gray eyes appeared filmy. The Dwarf swore mightily into his matted beard, raking the Elf's still-hidden wound with an angry look. "The beasts!" he exclaimed. "Well, I had hoped to keep you still and further unharmed, Nimfëalórien, until the victory was declared. But there is no time for such a tarry now. You must see a healer."
Nimfëalórien's voice trembled, both with pain and with fear. To an Elf, who was not meant to ever taste death, the endless sleep was a matter of terror. "Where shall we acquire one, Master Dwarf?" he asked.
"From my pocket if needs be," Gimli answered. "Save your strength, Nimfëalórien, and leave the worry to me. Mark me! you shall not die today."
There was no answer. Nimfëalórien had sunk once more into the frightening stillness of the gravely wounded, eyes half-closed with the onset of coma. Gimli cursed again, but silently and to himself. The Orcs had laced their blades with some foul venom or another, so as to ensure that those they felled would die given time. Nimfëalórien's plight was more dire than either had guessed.
The force from Mirkwood had passed, and a roar had gone up from within the Wood; the battle had been joined. Gimli smiled grimly as he thought of the enemies' shock upon seeing a fresh wave of mounted opponents bearing down on them. Also the image of the Elvenking remained in his mind; Legolas' father, and a formidable lord indeed. Gimli remembered his own father's tales of the stern Elvenking of the forest realm, who had imprisoned Glóin and his companions in the deepest dungeons for traipsing about Mirkwood in search of food for their starving bellies. Thorin Oakenshield had been their leader in the quest to recover the hoard of Smaug the dragon in Erebor; whereafter they had re-established the Kingdom under the Mountain, the realm of Gimli's folk.
Glóin's words concerning Thranduil the king of Mirkwood were varyingly appreciative and scathing. The Dwarf-lord was still miffed at the Elf-lord's severe treatment of himself and the others of Thorin and Company. However, the king had not been unkind to his prisoners, furnishing them with food and drink aplenty during their captivity. But then again, Thranduil had been among the most stubborn foes when he and his allies among Men had laid siege to Erebor, demanding a share of Smaug's treasure stored within. So Gimli had a somewhat confused opinion of Thranduil, especially because his dear friend Legolas was the son of that very same king. Gimli did not think it possible that such a cheery personage as Legolas could have come of a tyrannical parentage. He supposed he would have to make his own judgments if he happened to meet the Elvenking himself.
Further musings, however, would have to be delayed. Nimfëalórien had not the strength to walk, and Gimli doubted he could carry the Elf's long, wilted frame all the way to Caras Galadhon, even if he could find his way back there. Also, there were still a great many Orcs in the Wood, and Gimli hesitated to bring his vulnerable friend into the thick of danger. Therefore, the Dwarf made a bitter-tasting decision. He squeezed Nimfëalórien's shoulder to get the Elf's attention, and said, "Nimfëalórien, I must go for help. I do not wish to leave you here, but there is little other option available. I shall disguise you as best I can, but you must remain as still and silent as possible so that you do not attract the attention of passing enemies."
Nimfëalórien nodded slightly, his eyes remaining closed. His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound emerged. His time was undeniably growing short.
Gimli promptly retrieved the mantle of leaves and flowers that had been used to hide him from view at the start of the battle. It was largely intact, having been sheltered from much trodding by the stones it had been cast alongside of. This Gimli placed atop Nimfëalórien's prone form, being sure that the young Elf could breathe easily through the gaps in the leaves. Then, for added security, the Dwarf scattered fallen leaves from the surrounding earth atop the covering, so blending the slight raise in the terrain with the other knolls in the area.
"I shall return as quickly as I can," Gimli whispered to Nimfëalórien, and without waiting for reply, he took up his axe and headed toward the continuing battle in the third ring of Lothlórien's defense. It had occurred to him that perhaps one of the mounted warriors of Mirkwood might be persuaded to turn back and retrieve a wounded Elf, and then bear him swiftly to a healer. Certainly it was more feasible than any plan involving reliance on Gimli's strength alone.
The din of combat had lessened considerably since the initial assault of Mirkwood's warriors. The remaining Orcs had been all but crushed between the steady resistance of Lórien's forces and the fierce onslaught of Thranduil's modest host. A good portion of the enemy had escaped earlier in the day, after the disastrous attack on the second ring of the Golden Wood's defenders. All enemies who had dared to further their foray into Lothlórien, however, were destroyed. Those Orcs who yet remained standing were attempting belated retreat, but they were cut down in their flight by vengeful Elven blades. Not one attained the open forest in which to flee.
Gimli ran as hastily as he could, following the strewn corpses of slain Orcs. His axe he held clutched to his chest, ready to swing out into combat if necessary. His breath came hard, for he was weary with battle and concern for Nimfëalórien. Nevertheless Gimli ran on, seeking the mounted forerunners of Mirkwood's force. He half-thought, half-panted a prayer that the Elves would not drop him from afar with a pale arrow, thinking him to be an enemy.
The bodies of dead Orcs grew more numerous as Gimli neared the third ring's original position. These he avoided easily, for their black husks rose like cancerous growths from the earth. But he nearly stumbled over the still form of a slain Elf; one of Lórien's own, by the gray and brown of his rent clothing. The Elf's legs were buried beneath a heap of Orc corpses, and his visage was so besmeared with dirt and black blood that he all but disappeared into the gruesome scene around him. Gimli paused for but a moment, long enough to reach down and close the unseeing eyes of the warrior. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to Gimli that any of the Firstborn should be left dead with eyes open, as though in mockery of their peculiar waking-sleep.
A sharp voice interrupted the Dwarf's thoughts. Gimli stiffened, and found the hardened tip of an arrow aimed directly between his eyes. The Elf he faced was tall and dark-haired, and wore the raiment and mail of the warriors of Mirkwood. Gimli cast a glance about, and saw five others of the same ilk emerging from their concealment, bows nocked and drawn. Gimli wondered if perhaps they had not been sent for this very purpose; he remembered the glances of the Elves as they darted past. Mayhap one of their lords had commanded them to turn back and seize the lone Dwarf they had seen in the course of their rush. They quickly surrounded their quarry.
The Elf directly before Gimli stood motionless, the shaft at his bow unwavering. His glare bored through Gimli's grim look. He spoke rapid words in his own tongue, which of course Gimli did not understand.
"I am not an enemy," Gimli said, with remarkable constraint considering the urgency of his task. "I am here with the Lady Galadriel's leave, for I seek a means of rescue for Legolas, the son of your king." He knew not if the Elves would understand his speech, but surely the names of the Lady of Lórien and the prince of Mirkwood would capture their attention.
The first Elf's brow furrowed. He looked to one of his fellows and said something more in his own language. The warrior placed to Gimli's left replied in the same fashion, then turned his attention back to the Dwarf. "I alone here speak the tongue of Men," the second Elf said. "I have imparted your words to the others, but we are still unsure of your purpose."
"I have not time sufficient to convince you fully," Gimli answered sharply, spurred by growing anxiety. The longer he tarried with these suspicious folk, the more likely it was that Nimfëalórien would slip beyond the reach of even Elvish healers' abilities. "I was seeking your folk when you accosted me, for I had a young wounded Elf of Lórien in my keeping, and he burns with Orc poison. I hoped to find a mounted warrior to bear my friend to a healer." Gimli drew himself up, disregarding the barbs yet aimed at him. "If you slay me now without at least discovering his location, his death will be upon your hands, for his time grows short," the Dwarf added heatedly.
The Elf who spoke Westron related Gimli's dialogue, evoking pained grimaces from all and yet-skeptical glances from some. The first Elf, evidently the leader, hesitated, then slowly lowered his bow. The arrow he kept notched, however. He spoke shortly to one of his subordinates, who turned and dashed into the Wood, seeming to fly over the earth rather than run upon it. The leader then nodded to Gimli and continued in his indecipherable speech.
"Thalion has sent Dín Duilin to bring one of our folk with a steed to carry the wounded Elf you speak of," said the interpreting Elf to Gimli's left side. He had also relaxed his stance, as had the others with him. "But beware of treachery, Dwarf, for we already do not take kindly to your ilk, and if you have spoken falsely we shall slay you without pause."
"If Nimfëalórien yet lives after all this delay, then you may certainly ask him whether he considers me a friend," Gimli said stiffly. He had not intended to speak sharply to any of Legolas' kin, but their hostility grated on his nerves, which were frayed as it was. The Dwarf turned and marched back the way he had come, followed closely by the five Wood-elves. They stepped lightly, as did all their folk, and Gimli restrained the impulse to glance behind to see whether they had disappeared; they were aloof and distrustful, yes, but their concern for a fallen Elfling was genuine. Too, they were obligated to remain with Gimli until they knew for certain whether he was an ally or a deceptive foe. Gimli cared not what they thought of him, so long as they took in hand Nimfëalórien's plight and bore him to a healer.
"How shall your mount find where we have gone?" Gimli asked at one point. He had not realized how far he had gone in his haste; and though his stride was swift now, he could not run as quickly he had before, and the going was long.
"We are leaving signs that we would otherwise conceal," the Elf who knew the Common Speech answered. "The Elves of Mirkwood are skilled in reading pathways."
Gimli absorbed that information, keeping a sharp glance about so that he did not miss the rock outcropping that Nimfëalórien had hidden behind. It was the landmark by which he had determined to remember where the young Elf lay concealed. Some minutes passed by ere the squat stone came into view. Gimli could not restrain his worry any longer, for he feared above all that he would find Nimfëalórien lifeless and cold. Unheeding of the armed Elves to the rear, he broke into a sprint, and within moments was kneeling beside a slightly raised hillock among the scattered corpses of the black horde.
"Nimfëalórien?" Gimli said softly, pulling the mantle of leaves away from the young Elf's face and chest. He barely heard the Wood-elves' murmurs of dismay; standing all around, they were both saddened by the ashen face of their wounded kin and surprised that Gimli had been speaking truthfully. The Dwarf, for his part, ignored them. "Nimfëalórien, I have found your northern kinfolk. Wake up and be civil to them, ere they slay me for a liar!" This last was spoken in jest, but Gimli hoped to jar Nimfëalórien from his daze with the sarcasm.
To his delight, Nimfëalórien stirred slightly. He drew in a breath, gray eyes fluttering. "The dead are not obliged…to be civil…friend Gimli," he sighed with much effort.
"You are not dead," Gimli said, at once glad and distressed for the Elf's words. "Nor shall you be, not today. A mounted warrior comes hither, to carry you to a healer!"
One of the Elves of Mirkwood had knelt by Nimfëalórien's side. He spoke softly to the young Elf in their tongue, his keen eyes taking in Nimfëalórien's state. He looked exceedingly troubled. The interpreting Elf stood to Gimli's right, and said, "This poison is quite strong, Dwarf. Your haste may or may not have been in vain; we cannot say for certain."
Gimli glared at him. "Speak not of such things, Elf. I shall not concede defeat while Nimfëalórien yet breathes, for he is of a strong constitution." He directed his next words down to his prone friend. "Also, no corpse that I have seen can appreciate the beauty and splendor of the Glittering Caves. As I recall, crazy Elf, you and I have a planned engagement there."
Nimfëalórien did not answer, for the poison in his blood had sapped his strength; indeed, it had required all of his remaining energy to make reply to Gimli's anxious greeting. There was, however, the faintest shade of a smile upon the Elf's waxen features. His breathing was no longer rapid and shallow, but had instead slackened to slow, difficultly-drawn sighs. Gimli worried that Nimfëalórien would slip into a deep sleep from which he could not be awakened, and thence cease to draw breath at all. "Do not sleep, Nimfëalórien!" the Dwarf commanded, shaking the young warrior firmly. "You must not sleep!" There was no answer.
At that moment, the sound of hoof beats danced through the forest and lifted Gimli's hopes. A gray-dappled steed rode up in haste, and halted a short distance from Gimli and the assembled Elves. A warrior clad in raiment similar to that of Gimli's accosters leaped agilely from the horse's bare back. Though it was without bit or bridle, the beast remained still; such was the way with Elven-horses, for they obeyed their masters without need of such trappings as Men employed. After trading brief speech with the Wood-elves gathered round Nimfëalórien, the dark-haired rider turned to Gimli. "Hail, Master Gimli," he said in Westron. "I have heard much of you in my king's court. But further words will wait, for I am told that you possess a wounded Elf in your care, and wish him to be borne to safety."
"That is true, Master Elf," Gimli said. "His name is Nimfëalórien, and he has fought bravely today in the Lady's service."
"Then it is well that he has found a caretaker in yourself, Master Dwarf. I would that every one of Lady Galadriel's warriors were so fortunate," the Elf remarked soberly. With those words, he stepped past Gimli and the other Elves, to kneel beside Nimfëalórien's unmoving shape. Then, having checked the Elfling's breathing, the rider slid his strong arms beneath his charge's insensate form and lifted him, bearing Nimfëalórien to the waiting mount nearby. The horse stood stock-still as its master carefully placed the young Elf astride, then himself leaped up behind and wrapped Nimfëalórien in a protective embrace.
"The victory is ours, but the battle is not yet over," the rider told Gimli and the collection of Wood-elves. "Go, rejoin your lords. I shall take Nimfëalórien to Caras Galadhon at once. The healers there are assembled and prepared, for some of the wounded are already being taken to shelter by others of my contingent." He spoke at length to the Elves then, in their tongue, and when he had finished he looked back to Gimli. "Thranduil the king shall hear of your valor and distress on behalf of this young one," the mounted Elf said gravely. "Of that you may be certain, Master Gimli."
"Ride swiftly, Master Elf," Gimli replied.
The rider nodded, then turned his steed about and departed at a swift pace for the heart of the Golden Wood. He disappeared among the trees, and the sound of the horse's hooves against the earth trailed after him. Gimli watched them fade from view, then turned to the sober Elves behind him. "I am off to enter the fracas once more, good Elves," he told them curtly. He was slightly more inclined to be gracious now that Nimfëalórien was cared for, and so referred to the warriors as "good Elves," though he still thought them to be antagonistic and prejudiced.
The Elf who spoke Westron glanced at his fellows, then stepped forward. "I am called Forngíliath, Master Gimli. On behalf of my companions, I must respectfully ask your pardon, for I fear that in our doubt we have offended you."
"You would do well to learn something of truce from your prince, Forngíliath of Mirkwood," Gimli said. "But if pardon you sincerely seek, then pardon you are granted."
Forngíliath spoke softly with his companions. One, the leader who had first confronted Gimli—Thalion by name, if memory yet served—replied. The interpreter faced the Dwarf and declared, "Then we shall tarry here no further. We go to join our king on the battlefield."
"Be sure to give him the gratitude of Lothlórien for his well-timed aid," Gimli said.
Forngiliath inclined his head. "We shall, although I daresay the Lord and Lady might deliver such appreciation better than I or my fellows." Then, with an aside to his superior, the Elf bowed slightly to Gimli. "Well met, Elf-friend. May your axe never fail to find its objectives."
"And may your blades never shatter or grow weary," Gimli responded properly. "Now let us off, for I am keen to return to my Lady's service!"
Thalion the leader, having received a reiteration of the Dwarf's words, spoke to his subordinates, and as one they sprang away, sprinting with fleet foot toward the now-quieted battlegrounds deeper within the Wood. Gimli let them go, knowing he surely could not keep pace with them, and he set forth at his own hurried stride. He was eager to learn of the state of the defenders of Lórien. Too, he wished to lend his aid in bringing the battle to conclusion; for only then would he return to the City and seek report of Nimfëalórien's fate.
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End of Chapter Fourteen. Wahoo—Gimli rocks!
Note: Most of Gimli's speech to Nimfëalórien about the Glittering Caves was plucked straight from "The Two Towers," when the Dwarf was talking Legolas into visiting those very caverns with him after the whole Ring business was over with. I didn't note the quotes with italics as promised, because the excerpts were sprinkled with slight modifications so that they fit my story. However, the props for the speech's wonderful content go straight to Master Tolkien, no doubt about it.
Also, if anyone's curious as to why Lórien was attacked so quickly after the Renewed Fellowship left…I'm just following the Tale of Years given in Appendix B at the end of "The Return of the King." It gives March 11th as the date of the first assault on Lórien. By my figuring, the RF departed Lórien on March 10th. Granted, the War of the Ring is progressing much more slowly in my story than it did in the LOTR trilogy, but some things (such as the attacks on Lórien) are going to remain where they were in the original chronology, purely for the sake of having some corresponding points from which to springboard my completely messed-up A/U plotline. I hope that clears up any questions about plot development, etc.
Name notes:
1) Nimfëalórien (Elf of Lórien, young warrior who fought in the first assault against Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "white spirit of Lórien." Galadriel gave him the moniker "Fëaneth" ("young spirit"), saying that he was yet too young to carry such a forceful name.
2) Silmeros (Elf of Lórien, commander of the second ring of Lórien's defense force) = this name is a Quenya and Sindarin derivative that means "starlight-foam."
3) Thalion (Elf of Mirkwood, leader of the group of Elves dispatched to accost Gimli near the end of the first assault on Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "steadfast" or "strong."
4) Dín Duilin (Elf of Mirkwood, accompanied Thalion to accost Gimli) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "silent river-song."
5) Forngíliath (Elf of Mirkwood, accompanied Thalion to accost Gimli; interpreter for the Elves) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "star-host of the north."
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