Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Fifteen

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 a …, 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 Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, 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: Wow, what a gush!  Thank you SO much for all the excitement in your review; it leaked through my computer screen and sent me rolling!  I'm glad you liked Chapter 14; I was somewhat worried about how the battle in Lórien would be received by the readership.  Whew!  And as for my Nimfëalórien, well…keep reading!  Also, your comment about not crying so much since JastaElf…oh, my, that is a HUGE compliment…I loved "Leaf and Branch!"  Thanks, thanks, thanks!!  :)

kungfuqueen: Welcome to my li'l fandom!  I'm glad you're enjoying TWW, and thank you so much for the reviews.  A question, though: you mentioned Denethor in your review of Chapter 1…but I never mentioned him in that chapter, or anywhere else (yet).  What were you referring to?  Anyhoo, thanks muchly, and stick around!  Things are gonna get a whole lot cooler before I'm done! 

Architeuthis: Hey, welcome!  I'm on your fave list?  Woohoo!  Thanks for the review, friend!  And yeah, the formatting was screwed up…I have no idea why.  I hope my re-uploading fixed it.  Thanks again!  :)

Smidge-o-Midge: Hey, Midge, how are ya?  I see you managed to get onto the site finally…yay for FF.net's software upgrades!  Glad you're enjoying!  :)

And now, on with the tale…

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            Lothlórien had withstood the massive assault set forth from Dol Guldur, but not without grievous cost.  The last Orc was felled as twilight descended upon the world, and in the waning light of Anor, malicious fires kindled by the black horde were made apparent.  Many a swift-footed Elf was sent to quench the flames ere they could spread and consume more of the forest.  Already some of the great mallorns that had stood watch at the northern edge of the realm were blackened and scorched beyond salvage.  The broken husks of the slain lay thick upon the ground, the flow of liquids from their severed flesh slowed but not altogether ended; black poison and red sorrow seeped into the forest's foundations, and mournful was the song of the trees that eve. 

Much harm had been done to the Golden Wood itself, for the creatures of Shadow had delighted in senselessly hacking and rending the young trees and shrubs in their path.  Damage there was, too, from the abrasion of battle itself: injured mallorns bled from broad gashes and deep piercings, and many were yet speared with arrows; countless flowers and small plants drowned in the sludge that had become their soil due to poisonous hemorrhaging from the enemy dead; the once-laughing brooks and small waterways that fed Lórien's clear pools had been choked almost to fatality with kicked-up dirt and gore and fallen combatants.

            Gimli knew little of these things as he trudged back to Caras Galadhon in the company of the victorious yet exhausted Elvish host.  There was little speech between the warriors, for all were weary and grieved.  The Elves of Mirkwood walked with lighter step than did those of Lórien, however, and what quiet words they did exchange were darkly cheerful.  Greenwood the Great had long been oppressed by encroaching Shadow, and its people were far more accustomed to such dreadful conflicts.  Therefore, though they lamented the harm that had come to Lothlórien, they were not bowed with their grief as were some of the Golden Wood's younger warriors, who had known naught but peace and beauty all their lives—which had been long upon the earth in the reckoning of Men, if not of Elves.  Thranduil's folk were more inclined to delight in the slaying of enemies, instead of bemoaning that which could not be prevented or undone. 

Most of the mounted warriors had vanished, for after the initial charge of Mirkwood's forces they had set to the task of collecting the severely wounded and conveying them to the healers at Caras Galadhon.  The City remained untouched by enemy footfalls; indeed, the horde had not gotten much beyond the third ring of defense, which was far from sight of the lights of Galadriel's abode.  As the returning Elven hosts neared the City, they began to breathe more deeply and with more ease, for the unscathed air of Lórien's heartland was as a balm to their spirits.  Even Gimli sensed the change, though he was not attuned to the forest as were those around him.  His aches seemed to diminish, and a breath of cool air swept over his warm brow.   

Night was coming rapidly, and the glistening lamps and vines of the City suspended high above were a welcome vision in the darkening heights of the great trees.  Gimli was again amazed by the splendor of the place; it was as though a great many pearls had been set to blaze and then placed aloft, there to illumine the golden crowns of the mallorns.  There were sighs of relief from the lips of Lórien's own, and Thranduil's host gazed in wonderment, for there was not one among them who had ever before seen Caras Galadhon.  Only their king had journeyed to the Golden Wood with any frequency, and even he had not visited that land in many years.

Gimli had not glimpsed Thranduil after the fleeting charge of Mirkwood's host.  The herald who had borne the Woodland Realm's banner had appeared alongside Silmeros and the other lords of Lórien to at last declare the victory and to invite the warriors to return to Caras Galadhon for the night, but of the Elvenking there was no sign.  Gimli wondered, not for the first time that day, why Thranduil had chosen to accompany his warriors into the fray.  Normally kings and lords sent their subordinates out into battle, for the loss of a ruler would be a heavy blow to any land already besieged.  But Mirkwood's king had come himself to the battlefield, proudly flying his colors, as though he wanted to be sure that the enemy knew exactly who was to be the instrument of their destruction.  As one who did not take kindly to deception or cowardice, Gimli appreciated that stance; yet he doubted the wisdom of such a display, for Mirkwood could not surely recover easily from the loss of her king, particularly so soon after Legolas' capture and Lelemir's departure.

            Dwarves were not normally concerned with minor filthiness, but Gimli wished above all to plunge both himself and his clothing into a pool somewhere, for the grime of battle and the stench of dead Orcs clung to him, and they vexed his shredded forbearance.  He could not run a single finger through the length of his beard, so matted it was with greasy enemy viscera.  His chain-mail shirt and protective leathers were encrusted with the stuff, and also with mud and bits of grass.  Being a Dwarf, he was of sturdier make than most other speaking peoples of Middle-earth, but he could feel bruises forming all over.  His muscles were stiff and unwilling to loosen.  Hunger and thirst gnawed at his innards.  In a short telling, Gimli felt absolutely wretched.  But he was somewhat heartened by the grim satisfaction he detected in the voices of a nearby party of Mirkwood Elves.  Their language was strange, but they were clearly pleased with the conclusion of the day's battle.  Truth be told, Gimli shared their opinion.  Hundreds of Orcs had been slain during the course of the conflict.  Their advance upon Lothlórien had been halted.  Fatalities among the warriors of Lórien—and Mirkwood—had been relatively few. 

            That deliberation brought on a fresh wave of concern for Nimfëalórien.  Gimli had put his anxiety aside after seeing the Mirkwood rider bear the young Elf away, but now that the clash was ended, Gimli sorely desired to know of his friend's fate.  He decided to seek out the healers and ask whether Nimfëalórien yet lived, and in what state.   Gimli sighed to himself, grimacing as he gingerly shifted his black-smirched axe from one shoulder to the other.  Bathing and rest would have to be postponed.

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            Well within the borders of Caras Galadhon, beneath the sheltering boughs of thick-leaved mallorn trees, there had been assembled a number of spacious white pavilions.  Here the wounded were brought for mending, in order that they might not be compelled to climb the many stairs to the City above to receive what ministrations were needed.  Gray-robed healers walked softly among the injured, tending to the hurts with all the skill garnered over centuries of instruction and training.  The air was quiet, save for the scattered moans and gasps of victims.  Many an Elf was dismissed from the pavilions with wounds swathed in white linen, and lingering in the surrounding shadows were concerned kindred ready to assist their relatives to their dwellings.  The healers had wisely requested that no more than one family member remain for that purpose, lest the area become too crowded for convenience.

            Gimli had gathered the location of the healers' pavilions from a rather surly Elf, and he had come immediately to see about Nimfëalórien's fate.  The Dwarf wondered if any of Nimfëalórien's relations were present as he drifted closer to the white pavilions.  There were six of them, set a moderate distance from one another; hung round each was a series of bright coiled lamps, whose luminance brought silvery daylight to the night-dimmed Wood.  In various places were clustered anxious relatives hovering as close as they were permitted to their injured kin.  Upon arriving in the large clearing, Gimli had taken a swift glance about but had not seen Nimfëalórien.  Closer scrutiny did not reveal the young Elf, either.  Gimli quelled his abrupt dread and beckoned to one of the many healers, a stately Elf lady with hair the color of rich, dark ale.  "Pardon my imposition, my lady, but I am looking for an Elf named Nimfëalórien.  Do you know where he is?"

            To Gimli's consternation, the Elven healer did not speak Westron, as she merely stared uncomprehendingly.  "Nimfëalórien?" she repeated with a raised eyebrow.  "Im lona úgolodh Edhelneth hi essë."

            "I do not understand you, Lady Healer," Gimli said, somewhat frustrated.  "I am looking for a young Elf named Nimfëalórien.  He was poisoned today in the battle, and I wish to know how he fares."

            The healer shook her head, her fair face wrought with faint sadness, for she plainly did not comprehend his words any more than he did hers.  Gimli glanced about, hoping to secure the notice of a sympathetic Elf who spoke at least some of the Common Speech.  He saw many surprised faces, and a few coldly disgusted ones, but none that registered discernment of his language.

            A soft female voice floated over Gimli's left shoulder, startling the Dwarf and catching the healer's attention.  A weary but beautiful Elf lady stood behind Gimli, her gray eyes bright with unshed tears.  She was clad in robes of blue and white, and wore no ornamentation about her neck or waist.  "Healer Tasáriel said that she does not know of any Elf named Nimfëalórien," the lady explained softly in strongly accented Westron.  Her words came somewhat hesitantly, for she did not often have cause to use the Common Tongue, and Gimli digested her speech for a long moment before discerning her meaning.

            "Thank you, my lady," Gimli said in surprise.  He did not recognize the Elf lady, and he was certain that if he had met her before he would remember doing so; thus, he did not quite understand why she was condescending to speak to what must seem to her fair eyes a reeking, filthy Dwarf.  He supposed she was waiting for word of one of her own kin wounded in the course of the day's clash.

            The unfamiliar Elf lady looked to Tasáriel  and spoke a few smooth words in her own tongue.  The dark-haired healer bowed slightly and moved away, returning to her tasks.  The lady then slid her gaze back to regard Gimli.  "You seek Nimfëalórien," she said, again in tentative Westron.  "None here call him by that name save yourself, good Dwarf."

Gimli was greatly surprised by her courtesy.  "Pray tell, fair lady, who are you, and do you know how Nimfëalórien fares?" he asked her.

            A radiant smile shone through her brimming tears.  "I am the mother of the one you call Nimfëalórien," she said softly.  "And my son lives because of your aid, Master Gimli."

            Gimli placed the head of his axe upon the soft ground and bowed deeply despite his body's protests.  He did not attempt to hide the broad smile that broke across his grime-smeared face.  "I am truly honored to meet you, my lady, and the tidings you have given bring great joy to my heart.  But how have you come by knowledge of me?  Surely my young friend did not speak in his state."

            "Oh, but he did, against all healers' requests," the lady replied.  Though her smile remained undimmed, glossy tears yet trailed down her pale face, which was framed with earthy-auburn tresses the exact hue of Nimfëalórien's own.  The more she spoke of the Common, the more confident she became in it, as though slowly remembering a skill long-ignored.  "My son made certain that all assembled knew who was responsible for summoning the mounted rider of Mirkwood to bear him hither," she continued.  Her gaze grew more solemn as she regarded Gimli.  "The household of Lómeldarion and the lady Tinlórewen is deeply in your debt, Master Gimli.  Mayhap we may be granted the opportunity to repay your goodwill in kind."

            "I wished only to save the life of a friend, Lady Tinlórewen ," Gimli said unpretentiously; in truth, he was overcome with humility at the Elf lady's tearful gratitude.  "But you have made me curious; you said before that none here call your son by the name he gave to me, which was Nimfëalórien.  By what other name is he known?"

            "Nimfëalórien is his given name," Tinlórewen said fondly.  "But when he was presented to the Lord and Lady, Galadriel said that he was far too young yet to bear such a forceful name, for in the tongue of the Sindar it means 'white spirit of Lórien.'  The Lady then bestowed upon my son the name of Fëaneth, which means 'young spirit,' and that is how he has been hailed since then."

            Gimli shook his head and smiled knowingly.  "I perceived that he was young soon after meeting him," he remarked.  "But if I am permitted to give thought of the matter, I daresay your Fëaneth has earned his proper name."

            "Perhaps, Master Gimli," Lady Tinlórewen  said thoughtfully.  "Perhaps.  I will speak with his father Lómeldarion concerning it."  She gave the Dwarf an appraising look, then laughed slightly to herself.  "Ah, my dear mother would be shocked to see me here conversing with you," she said warmly, and her tears dried on her cheeks even as she spoke.  "I come from a line of Elves devoted to the highest ideals of the Eldar, Master Dwarf, and my kin have never been fond of yours.  But you have done much to amend my thinking in this matter."

            Gimli bowed to her.  "Again, I am honored by your words, Lady Tinlórewen .  And now, if I may, I should very much like to see my friend and perhaps speak to him."

            "Of course.  I will ask Tasáriel  to take you to him," Tinlórewen  replied.  Her expression grew grave then, and she bowed slightly, causing her long russet tresses to slip over her shoulders.  Straightening, she declared, "As a mother of children, and as a daughter of the House of Angrod son of Finarfin, I thank you once more for the kindness and care you have shown to my son, Master Gimli.  Be assured, they shall not be forgotten."

            "And as a Dwarf of the Kingdom under the Mountain, and a son of Glóin of Erebor, I extend what great pleasure is mine at the service I was able to give to you and your son, whom I consider a friend," Gimli replied.  "May stars shine on the hour of our meeting, fair lady."  This last phrase he spoke quite cordially, for he had learned some of the civilities of Elves from Legolas during their conversations beneath the mallorns throughout their first stay in Lórien, before the night of ruin on the bank of the Great River.

            Tinlórewen  looked at him in renewed wonder, then murmured, "Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo," thereby lending the Ancient Tongue to Gimli's courteous parting words.  With that, the lady called out to Tasáriel the healer, and bade her lead Gimli to where Nimfëalórien lay.  Tinlórewen  then departed, for as Gimli had learned from his churlish informant, the healers at the pavilions would permit only one alone at a time to visit the wounded.

            Gimli followed Tasáriel  to a pavilion set slightly apart from the others.  A great many Elves rested upon low couches of soft gray cloth; these were too gravely wounded to be sent immediately to their homes.  Their injuries were bound with white linen, and though their eyes were open, Gimli knew that they were wandering the dreams of their waking-sleep.  He wondered how many had been subjected to poison as well as the physical rending of their fair flesh.  The Dwarf winced at the severity of some of the wounds, for Elves were not nearly so solidly built as were Gimli's folk.  Legolas had spoken of the swift healing capabilities of the Firstborn, however, which was perhaps adequate compensation.

            The dark-haired healer led Gimli to a couch set against the far side of the pavilion, and upon it lay Nimfëalórien covered with a light mantle of gray.  The young Elf's bared chest rose and fell evenly beneath the linen swathed round his wound.  His features were drawn with weariness, but he was no longer ashen with the pain of blade-venom.  His pale silver eyes were half-lidded in the peculiar Elvish slumber.

            Gimli thanked Tasáriel , who nodded once and took her leave.  The Dwarf then quietly lowered himself to the flooring by his friend's side, hesitant to disturb the other's rest.  He smiled despite his acute awareness of the aches in his bones.  Nimfëalórien looked even younger than he had before, with his expression relaxed in the oblivion of Elven sleep.  Lady Tinlórewen 's revelation of her son's mild duplicity was more amusing than offensive to Gimli, for he well recalled his own youthful impatience with elders who insisted upon treating him as a mere youngling.  "Fëaneth, indeed," he muttered. 

            "You have been speaking with my mother, I see," Nimfëalórien remarked softly, suddenly blinking to full wakefulness.

            Gimli shook his head.  "Ah, Master Elf, I did not intend to wake you," he stated ruefully.  "How do you fare now?"

            Nimfëalórien considered for a moment, then replied with a pinched smile, "I am now required to be civil, if that can be considered a blessing."  His mirth faded, and he sighed wearily.  "If the healers had been but a few minutes later to my aid, the poison in my veins would have been my death," the young Elf said pensively.

            "Think not on such things," Gimli said reprovingly.  "You shall live, and much longer than I would even in the best of my health.  As to your question, yes, I had the pleasure of speaking with your lovely mother."

            "I ought to have told you my right name," Nimfëalórien murmured.  "Forgive me.  I must appear quite foolish."

            "To be young is not inevitably to be foolish, Nimfëalórien, and I shall continue to make use of the name you gave to me unless I am expressly forbidden to do so," Gimli stated.  He could see that even their short exchange had tired the Elf; further repartee would have to be staved off until Nimfëalórien had recovered more fully.  "I am glad you will recuperate, my friend," the Dwarf said kindly.  "I would linger here much longer, but you should rest, and I must rid myself of the stench of Orcs.  Mayhap I shall see you on the morrow."

            Nimfëalórien smiled despite his fatigue.  "Thank you, Gimli," he whispered.  "I shall dream of your caves tonight…"  The words dwindled into silence, and the young Elf's eyes relaxed and became still.  He slept once more. 

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            Gimli gratefully sank down into the pool's crystalline water, letting it lave his bruises and sluice the filth from his body.  The water was cool but not uncomfortably so, and it felt good against his hot skin.  He soaked the matted length of his beard, carefully untwining the thick warrior's plaits and combing the gory snarls away with his squareish fingers.  The black Orc fluids slowly dissolved in the clear water and then sank to the bottom to become lost in the clean mud that lay beneath.  Gimli gave a short sigh of contentment as he scrubbed the encrusted enemy viscera from his skin; much as he relished the exhilaration of combat, he hated the stench of Orc and refused to tolerate it on his person for any longer than was necessary.

The Dwarf had left his soiled clothing and mail on the bank, along with his axe and helm.  He fully intended to rinse out the fabric and then clean and polish his armaments after he had finished bathing himself.  Also on the shore was a small pile of fresh clothing, the only other garments he had brought with him from Erebor.  The air hovering over the silver surface of the pool was fresh and clean, but it smelled of plants—a scent not especially prized by Dwarves, who were far more interested in their crafts of stone and metal and gem.  Still, Gimli appreciated the absence of foul air in the place; it was a welcome change from the day's business of wading through reeking corpses.  Relief there was to be had in the silence, as well, for the din of blades grew wearisome in the ears. 

The pool itself was located in a small, quiet clearing surrounded by towering mallorn trees.  Gimli had sought out just such a locale, one that was unlit by carven lamps—and unoccupied.  He had surreptitiously observed some of the larger pools nearer to the City, and they were all populated with relaxing Elves.  Gimli had no wish to prance about undressed in the company of such a throng; Elves were known for their mocking dispositions toward Dwarves, and he rather wanted to avoid their prying eyes.  Also, his mind was filled with things that he wished to contemplate without interruption.  So it was that he had come to this pool, a small reservoir of silvery moonlight entrenched in darkness.  Gimli had carefully taken note of the direction in which lay Caras Galadhon, for he had no desire to lose his way in the expanse between the City's light and the deep shadows of the forest. 

"That would be yet another humiliating story for Gandalf to add to his collection," Gimli muttered to himself, recalling the tale the wizard had spun concerning the young Legolas and Lelemir in their father's court.  He scuffed his large hands through his thick hair, dipping below the water's surface in order to rinse away the day's sweat that had collected beneath his close-fitting helm.  For just an instant, he wished he was at home, lounging with his father and friends in one of the steaming underground baths at Erebor.  They were fed by hot springs that ran beneath the mountain, and when aelinros sap was added to the water, a cleansing foam swelled up to meet Gimli's chin. 

Gimli stood up once more, casting a gaze about his surroundings.  The monolithic trees waved gently in a high-wafting breeze, and slight ripples erupted across the pool's serene face with the Dwarf's every movement.  Ithil lent its silver glow to every leaf, stalk, and blade of grass in the clearing.  Nothing Gimli saw reminded him at all of his father's halls in the Kingdom under the Mountain.  He sighed to himself, feeling for the first time a pang of melancholy rooted in longing for his own home and kin.  Even the kindliness of a friendly Elf or the smile of the fairest lady could not supplant the ease and familiarity of home. 

"Ah, my friend," the Dwarf murmured sadly, thinking of Legolas as he had oft done of late.  He wondered how the Elf fared at that moment.  Thoughts of Saruman's treachery brought a black scowl to Gimli's visage, for he knew well that the wizard was not likely to show any favor towards Legolas.  Gimli hated to entertain the thought that his friend might be suffering, but in truth, that was a detestably real prospect. 

Gimli cast another long look around at the silver pool and its ring of looming mallorns.  He quelled the uprising of wistfulness in his mind and swore an oath to himself that he would not set a foot back in his father's realm until—be it in life or in death—Legolas was freed.

With those grim thoughts, Gimli hastily finished scouring his skin, for the water had ceased to be soothingly cool and was beginning to chill him.  He traipsed up onto the bank, dripping clear water all the way, and quickly dressed.  The Dwarf did not care overmuch that his fresh clothing was now dampened by contact with his wet skin and hair.  Truthfully, though he was yet sore and tired, and also hungry, Gimli felt far better than he had.

He squeezed as much water as he could from his long, wiry hair and beard, then set about retwining his thick moustache into the traditional plaits of adult Dwarven warriors in Erebor.  He had first crafted his own twin braids when he had felt prepared to come of age—that is, after his first successful battle with an Orc.  It had been a rather proud day for him, especially after three of his relatives had challenged him to single combat after the day's battle in order to test his readiness and resolve.  Gimli had won two of the three ensuing skirmishes, but the third had been lost only because (being a young Dwarf) he had become exhausted from the two previous conflicts, not to mention his earlier battle with the Orc.

Gimli smiled to himself.  Happier times, those were.  He finished replaiting his moustache, then bound the ends of the thick braids with his small silver clasps.  Having done that, he carefully rinsed and scrubbed his leathern armor, then washed the grime from his sullied under-tunic and trousers; he would clean and polish his metal armaments once he had reached his flet.  Stuffing his feet into his boots, Gimli rolled his wet garments into a bundle and tied them up within his equally soaked leathers.  These he slung over a shoulder, leaving his hands free to carry his axe, chain-mail, and helmet.

By the time he reached the City's bright confines again, the Dwarf was well and truly feeling his exhaustion.  Most of his aches would vanish by morning, he knew, but only if he could find his flet and settle down to sleep.  Unfortunately, each and every tree in Lothlórien looked very much the same to his untrained eyes.  Gimli frowned, muttering a few choice words in his own language.  How was he supposed to find his way back to the flet given him by Galadriel?  Nimfëalórien had guided him to the clearing to join the host of the Golden Wood early that morn, but Gimli had no idea if he was even facing the direction in which lay the tree he sought.

Even as he thought these things, however, a youthful-looking Elf maiden approached from where she had been standing concealed in the shadows of the mallorns.  Gimli rather thought she resembled Lord Elrond's daughter, whom he had briefly glimpsed at the dinner given at Rivendell.  The lady was arrayed in simple gray and white, with long tresses as silver as the surface of the pool Gimli had recently made use of.  Her eyes were wide and set far apart, but they were kind.  "Master Gimli?" she asked softly, coming nearer.

"Yes, my lady," Gimli replied, curious as to her presence and purpose.

"I am Líssulma, a handmaiden to the Lady Galadriel," the Elf maiden said with a small curtsy of sorts.  "My Lady presumed you might seek out the Celebaelin, the Lake of Silver.  I was sent hither to collect you upon your return to the City, for I am to escort you back to your flet."

Gimli smiled broadly.  "By the Hammer, Lady Líssulma, I was just now wondering how I was going to find my way around the Lady's fair but terribly confusing Wood!"  He bowed as best he could with his burdens.  "I thank you for your offer, and also that you have waited here for me!  It has not been too long, I hope."

Líssulma smiled gently.  "Nay, Master Gimli, I have been here but a few minutes.  The Lady is quite accurate in her judgments of time.  Come, I shall take you to your flet, so you may sleep after today's battles."

Gimli adjusted the bundle at his shoulder and fell into step beside the silver-haired Elf maiden.  "If I may ask, my lady, how did Lady Galadriel know I would go to the pool that I did?"

"The Lady knows her realm well, Master Gimli, better than anyone save perhaps Lord Celeborn.  She imagined that you would wish to avoid washing in the company of her warriors, and so by taking into account the more frequently-used pools in the City and the location of the healing pavilions—yes, the Lord and Lady both know of your visit to the young Elf you saved today—she decided that you would seek out one of three seldom-employed pools," Líssulma explained.  "Once I have taken you to your flet, I shall go and retrieve my fellow handmaidens from where they wait still near the other two possible locations."

Gimli was astonished.  Galadriel was extraordinarily concerned for his welfare while he stayed in Lórien, it seemed.  The knowledge was humbling.  He finally found words.  "Please, Lady Líssulma, when you next see Lady Galadriel, give her this message: 'Gimli son of Glóin is amazed and grateful for the Lady of Lórien's interest in his wellbeing, and should like the opportunity to repay her in full kind if possible.'  Will you give her those words, my lady?"

Líssulma nodded.  "Of course, Master Gimli.  If I may say so, Lady Galadriel is not alone in her concern.  My Lord Celeborn has taken a marked interest in your stay here, as well.  They both speak highly of you."

Gimli felt warmed through at the second-hand praise.  "Thank you for correcting me, Lady Líssulma.  Would you kindly extend the same message to Lord Celeborn also, then?"

"Certainly."  The lady glanced down at her charge, then said, "Again, if I am permitted to voice my thoughts, Master Gimli, may I say that you are not at all what I expected?"

"As to your first query, you may speak as you please, my lady," Gimli told her.  "And I do hope that your remark was a complimentary one, although if not, I suppose I cannot be surprised.  Do I still reek of Orcs?"

Líssulma laughed aloud.  "Nay, Master Gimli, Celebaelin has cleansed that foulness from you.  Yes, my observation was a compliment to be sure.  Your folk are not often well-regarded among my people, and if you will forgive my saying so, I was amazed when I was told of the Lord and Lady's decision to allow you to enter their realm.  But I see now that they are far more perceptive than I, for you are indeed a pleasant and cordial sort."

"Thank you," Gimli said, "but I must be honest as well: I have not always been so cordial to your people.  'Twas my friendship with Legolas that bettered my opinion of Elves.  He taught me much, and I in turn instructed him in the customs of my kin."

"Mirkwood's prince was blessed to have secured such friendship; it is rare," Líssulma said quietly.  "Even now I hear your sorrow at his loss, and it moves me.  I do hope you may yet find a means of salvage for Legolas."

"As do I," Gimli replied. 

They reached the base of the great mallorn whose branches supported Gimli's flet in due course, and Líssulma waved a slender hand at the white ladder.  "We have arrived," she said.  "Do you require any assistance in carrying your belongings up to your lodging, Master Gimli?"

"No, but thank you for the offer," the Dwarf replied congenially.  "Again, I thank you for your guidance and encouragement, my lady.  And please, give the same regards on my behalf to your fellow maidens, those who waited at the other pools for me."

"I shall," the Elf maiden replied.  "Sleep peacefully, Master Gimli."

"You also, Lady Líssulma," Gimli said.  When she had gone, he climbed up to his flet.  It was a long journey, and his abused muscles were protesting mightily by the time he reached the white platform, but the softly glowing vines and bed of boughs seemed all the more inviting for his toil.  Gimli carefully hung his wet clothing to dry, then placed his metal armaments on the ground near the bed so that his axe was within easy reach, as was his preference.  He would clean and polish the weapon and chain-mail in the morning, for he was simply too tired to do so before then.  The low, rhythmic voices of the Elves singing nearby did nothing to alleviate his exhaustion.  With a sigh, Gimli collapsed into the bed, and he slept.

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            End of Chapter 15. 

Name notes:

1) Tasáriel (Elf of Lórien, healer at the pavilions) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "willow-lady."

2) Lómeldarion (Elf of Lórien, father of Nimfëalórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "echo of the Eldar."

3) Tinlórewen (Elf of Lórien, mother of Nimfëalórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "sparkle-golden-maiden."

4) Líssulma (Elf of Lórien, handmaiden to Galadriel) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "sweet rain."

A few cultural notes:

Lady Tinlórewen gave Gimli an official statement of gratitude as a "daughter of the House of Angrod son of Finarfin."  That isn't just some random set of names she claimed!  Finarfin was a prince of the Noldorin Elves, and became the ruler of the Noldor who remained in the Undying Lands.  And not only was Finarfin the father of Angrod, to whose line Tinlórewen belongs, but he was also the father of Galadriel herself!  So Tinlórewen is actually related (perhaps distantly) to Lady Galadriel!  Pretty nifty.

Also, Gimli made use of a presumably Dwarven exclamation: "By the Hammer!"  What's the back story there?  It goes back to "The Silmarillion."  See, the Dwarves weren't in the original creation plan, but one of the Valar, Aulë, got impatient and decided to make a race all by himself—the Dwarves.  Well, of course, Ilúvatar (God) knew about it, and when He confronted Aulë, the poor Vala was so ashamed of his own haste that he offered to destroy his creations.  "The Silmarillion" says that Aulë wept and raised his great hammer, and that the Dwarves were afraid and begged him—in the language that Aulë had devised for them—to spare their lives.  Ilúvatar had mercy on them and stopped the Vala from destroying the Dwarves, but that's where I got my exclamation from.  The "hammer" incident seems to have worked its way into everyday Dwarven expression.

Anyhoo, Chapter 16 is in the works.  Review, please!