Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Eighteen

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 Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.

Replies to reviews:

JastaElf:  OHMAGERSH!!!!!!  (Katharine staggers around, lightheaded with delight)  Thank you SO much for all of the compliments, great lady!  I am a devoted fan of yours; though the review board doesn't tell as much.  (Katharine shuffles feet, embarrassed)  I really need to go back and review, eh?  Don't worry, I shall.  Anyhoo, thank you again!  I am incredibly pleased to read that you are enjoying TWW so much.  It's my pride and joy, you know—my first "baby," so to speak.  I, too, am a HUGE fan of Thranduil and Celeborn (BTW, I would also like to *figuratively* slay some of those detestable Thrand-bashers!!!).  And yes, the Mirkwood Elves hold a special place in my shriveled little heart.  ;)  I'm honored that you think so highly of this piece…although I now have a mountainously high standard to adhere to (oh darn). :)  Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the remarks; and as to Legolas and Frodo?  We shall see…(snicker).  Stick around!  There is much to be done before the end!

TreeHugger: Yah, I'm finally spelling your pen name correctly (I always forget that the "h" is capitalized, blast it!).  Thank you for all of the splendid comments, melaglar nin!  I shall also miss Nimfëalórien and Líssulma, but keep an eye out for some briefly-mentioned characters from past chapters to pop up in the near future! 

Raen: Random!  My favorite kind!  Er, um, thanks for all the compliments and stuff…but actually, the story about Astalaewen isn't in Master Tolkien's canon.  The Great Man never said a peep about Thranduil's wife or what happened to her, so I, like so many others, took it upon myself to create a name, identity, and eventual fate for the Queen of Mirkwood.  Lady Astalaewen is purely a component of my own imagination.  I'm glad it's plausible enough to be taken for fact, though!  :)

Laura M: Welcome to "The Weeping Wraith," dear lady!  I'm so glad you're enjoying; you might say I was purring as I read your wonderful reviews!  :)  Oh, I won't hurt Frodo…much…for a while…heh heh heh…Sorry, mildly heinous moment there.  Ruffling?  Oh, I'll do more than ruffle 'em in the future, don't you worry…in the meantime, keep reading and enjoying, because as you said, there's no end in sight yet!

Salak: Welcome back, mellon nin!  I don't recall saying anything of the sort, but if I somehow implied it, I'm very sorry!  I can't get back to Lasselanta and Frodo until I set things up with Gimli and Co.  See the Author's Notes at the end of this chapter for more on the subject.  Until then, enjoy…

Seaweed: Aren't computers a bugger like that?  I shall wait for the really really long review…but until then, thanks for the brief compliments; they were a joy!  Enjoy the continuation!

Now, on to the tale!

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            Gimli shouldered his axe as he strode purposefully toward the campsite of Thranduil's host.  He did not look back to see whether Nimfëalórien and Líssulma yet remained; if he had, he would have seen naught but the quiet forest and a last smattering of the Sun's dying rays, for his friends had already departed for Caras Galadhon.  Gimli put aside thoughts of leaving them for the moment, knowing that such ruminations would only distract him from the meetings ahead. 

The Elves of Mirkwood had chosen an expansive clearing near the bounds of the City in which to make their provisional dwelling; Lórien's colossal mallorns soared upward at the clearing's fringes, neatly hemming its carpet of greenery, but the stars blooming in the dimming sky were clearly visible through the small break in the golden canopy above.  Gimli was not greatly surprised that the Elves had chosen such a locale in which to set their camp, for he well knew how deeply Legolas and his kin loved the stars.  Often he had woken in the night to see the Elf smiling up at the luminous array and humming his delight to the evening air.  Gimli wondered, with a touch of sorrow, if his friend could see the stars from his captivity… 

            "Daro!" a soft voice commanded from behind the Dwarf.

            Gimli paused, but did not turn to face the Elf at his back.  He suspected there was at least one Elven arrow nocked and leveled on him, if not more.  "Greetings," he said courteously, remaining so calm and motionless he was sure Galadriel would have been pleased at his restraint.  "King Thranduil is expecting me, I believe, for he instructed me to join your company this eve."

            Three tall Elves stepped into view, dressed in the dark green and brown leathers of the Woodland Realm.  Their longbows rested at their sides, and they held no arrows in their free hands, though Gimli was fairly certain that such had not been the case a moment past.  "Greetings, Master Dwarf," one of them—a trim warrior with dark locks caught in intricate braids—replied in lightly accented Westron.  "We were told of your impending arrival.  I am to escort you to meet the aranhîr at once."

            Gimli did not recognize the title the Elf had cited, but he could only assume it referred to King Thranduil.  "Lead on, then, Master Elf," he said. 

            The Elf nodded to his companions, who easily faded into the deepening shadows, returning to their duties as sentries.  Gimli briefly wondered at the reasoning behind such guard, for no evil could trespass so far within Galadriel's forest without raising alarm and meeting sore opposition from the Guardians.  The Dwarf supposed it was pure reflex for Legolas' kith to appoint a watch, for they had long shared borders with evil that was not so hesitant to invade their realm.  The Elf who spoke Westron then turned to Gimli and beckoned curtly.  "Come.  The aranhîr expects you."

            Gimli fell into step beside the Elf, refusing to follow behind like a tame dog.  If the Elf was surprised or aggravated at the Dwarf's boldness, he did not evince such.  As they walked further into the camp, Gimli surveyed the surroundings with curiosity—and more than a little circumspection.  He was well aware that the presence of a Dwarf in their camp was not likely to be kindly regarded by most of the Wood-elves, as Glóin had attested to many a time over the years.  Indeed, more than one abrasive stare met Gimli's gaze as he met the eyes of the host of Mirkwood.  Though the green clearing was host to a scattering of cleverly camouflaged tents, most of the Elves lingered in the open air, speaking softly to one another, cleaning weapons, or simply gazing up at the ebon curtains descending upon the heels of the setting Sun.  Nearly all of them were diverted from their tasks by the Dwarf's passing, but very few were then inclined to resume their pursuits with any haste.  Gimli glanced up at the stars himself, ignoring the stares and murmurs from all around; the fiery white flecks had only just begun to twinkle their greetings to those who trod the earth, but would soon blaze brightly in the darkness left by Anor's desertion.  "I do hope that Legolas can see the stars tonight," he found himself murmuring aloud.

            The Elf escorting Gimli jerked his gaze down to fix on the Dwarf's somber face, surprise and suspicion flashing in his countenance.  After a moment of contemplation, the warrior of Mirkwood nodded slowly, his expression briefly flickering with subdued sorrow.  "As do all of his people, Master Dwarf."  He cocked his head inquisitively, directing a keen gaze down at his companion.  "Is it then true, the rumor we have heard among the trees?  Do you sincerely count a prince of the Elves of Mirkwood among your allies?"

            Gimli met the Elf's gaze squarely, refusing to flinch from the considerable severity of that direct stare.  "I count him among my friends, Master Elf, and he does me the same honor."

            The Elf quirked his dark brows in what might have been a subdued shrug, but made no reply regarding Gimli's assertive statement.  "You shall likely spend much time in my company, Master Dwarf," he said, gray eyes glittering with the sheen of what few torches were being lit in the camp, "for I am one of those few among my people who speaks the Common Tongue.  I am named Melereg, son of Melannûn of Greenwood."

            "I am Gimli son of Glóin, of the Lonely Mountain," Gimli replied courteously.

            "'Tis an interesting weapon you bear, Master Gimli," Melereg remarked, flicking a glance up the haft of the axe resting on the Dwarf's shoulder.  "A wicked blade, indeed.  Do you intend to join our company or rend it to pieces?"

            Gimli gave a surprised snort of laughter, then said, "Worry not, Master Elf.  My blade's cravings lie elsewhere, in foul Orc flesh and that of any others who serve the Enemy."

            "Then you shall have no need of it for some time yet, for there are no Orcs within the aranhîr's tent," Melereg replied.  They had come to a sizeable tent overshadowed by the gleaming banner of the Woodland Realm, which fluttered proudly from a rod thrust into the ground nearby. 

Two warriors stood before the closed entrance flaps, their eyes shining with keen vigilance.  One of them stepped forward when Melereg and his charge approached.  "Daro," he commanded, then spoke a rapid phrase that Gimli could not decipher. 

Melereg answered shortly, then turned to Gimli.  "They request that you leave your weapons without before entering the king's tent."

            Gimli resisted the impulse to refuse outright, for he well knew that he was a guest among suspicious Elves.  "Are all guests so entreated?" he asked with forced calm.

            Melereg frowned slightly at the Dwarf's reluctance.  "If it pleases you to know as such, then yes, all outsiders are disarmed before they are taken to see the aranhîr.  Prudence dictates that this is done."

            Gimli paused for a long moment, then slowly lifted his axe from his shoulder and gave it over to the waiting Elven guard at the entrance to the tent.  Before he released the hilt, however, Gimli met the Elf's eyes and said, "Be not inconsiderate with this weapon, for it has survived the turmoil of three generations of my family."

            Melereg translated the words for his fellow Elves, then asked, "Do you have any other weaponry, Master Gimli?"

            Gimli hesitated, loathe to relinquish Lord Celeborn's gift.  He dared not conceal the weapon, however, for duplicity on his part would do nothing to foster trust among the Elves.  Therefore, the Dwarf unclasped the rune-graven sheath from his belt and brought the hatchet out from beneath his woven Lórien cloak.  "This was a gift from Lord Celeborn himself," Gimli said quietly, his gaze boring darkly into Melereg and the guard.  "If it meets with any harm, I shall be deeply grieved, and I daresay Lord Celeborn will be displeased as well."

            Melereg's gray eyes widened fractionally, and he related the Dwarf's words to the guard.  Handing the larger battle ax over to his companion at the tent entrance, the first guard carefully took the gleaming hatchet in its sheath with both hands, plainly admiring the beauty of the weapon.  He spoke a few soft words in his own language, and Melereg interpreted them: "You have our word that it shall rest safely until you claim it once more."

            Gimli was not wholly at ease, but he nodded his assent.  "I have no other weapons with me, Melereg."

            "Then come, for the aran brannon awaits."  With those words, Melereg led Gimli past the Elven guards, who had resumed their alert stances to either side, and into the tent.

            The low hum of conversation was heard within, vibrating on the air like a collection of autumn leaves swaying on their slender boughs.  The sound rather resembled that of the Hall of Lórien's receiving chamber when the council had been summoned, Gimli thought.  In the center of the tent's main compartment there stood a table of sorts, upon which were spread a variety of maps and other parchments.  A small assembly of Elves garbed as warriors were gathered round the table, conferring amongst themselves.

            "Greetings, Gimli of Erebor, and to you also, Melereg Melannûnion," came Thranduil's deep timbre from the far side of the table. 

            The Dwarf saw the king then, standing at the head of the ring of Elves convened at the table.  As the fair company turned to regard Gimli and Melereg, the two bowed deeply, and Gimli replied, "Good evening, my lord Thranduil.  I am here at your request." 

            "That is well," Thranduil said, "and I am pleased to note your punctuality.  I have a matter to discuss with you, and we would do well to begin as soon as we may, for we embark in the early hours tomorrow."  The Elvenking cast his glance at the Elven warriors assembled around the table, and spoke in his own tongue for a moment.  The gathered Elves inclined their heads and murmured in reply, then turned and began to depart from the tent.

            One of their number paused before passing by Gimli and Melereg.  He was tall and sinewy of build, with lean features and sienna hair woven into narrow plaits about his face.  The Elf was familiar to Gimli's eyes, but he could not remember where he might have seen the warrior previously.  "Greetings and welcome, Master Gimli," the Elf said cordially.  "I will not hold it against you if you do not recall my face.  I am the rider who bore your friend Nimfëalórien to Caras Galadhon four nights past."

            Gimli smiled through his beard, suddenly remembering.  "Hail, Master Rider!" he said genially.  "It is good to see you again, so that I may thank you once more for saving the life of that crazy Elfling."

            A slight laugh bubbled forth, and the rider shook his head.  "Nay, Master Gimli, 'twas your concern and swift attention that preserved him.  I am named Mirmíthuial, but I prefer to be known by my father-name, Mirion."

            "It is an honor to make your proper acquaintance, Lord Mirion," Gimli told him.

            "The honor is mine, Master Gimli, but it is not necessary to employ that title," Mirion replied with a negating wave of his hand.  "I am but one of my aranhîr's host, and not a lord in my own land.  I am simply Mirion."

            "Then I shall certainly object to your use of the appellation Master," the Dwarf countered amiably, "for I am a master of naught but my axe and my own two feet.  I am merely Gimli."

            Mirion gave a slight bow.  "Very well.  I must go now, but I shall speak more with you at a later time.  Mae govannen, Gimli."

            Gimli responded with his own short bow, saying, "At your service, Mirion."  He was yet unsure of the Elven warrior's cause for such congeniality toward a Dwarf, but he was nonetheless appreciative.

            Mirion nodded to both Gimli and Melereg, then departed with hardly a whisper of movement to denote his leaving.  Melereg, for his part, had watched the exchange with faint curiosity; but he withheld any questions he harbored, saying only, "I must leave as well, Master Gimli—or merely Gimli, if you wish—for the aranhîr wishes to speak with you alone."

            "I expect I shall see you again before long, Melereg.  Thank you for your courtesy," Gimli said graciously.  He then added, "And yes, if your intention is further civility, then I shall be glad to be known by my name alone."

            With a nod, Melereg looked past Gimli and said, "By your leave, aran brannon."

            "Take your rest, Melereg," Thranduil replied from behind the Dwarf.  By the slight diminishing of the Elvenking's volume, Gimli could ascertain that Thranduil had either moved further into the tent's recesses, or had turned his back to Gimli and the departing Elves.

            As Melereg swiftly exited the tent, Gimli turned to face Thranduil and the vacant space around the table.  The Elf-lord stood at a smaller table in one corner of the spacious compartment, pouring two glasses of red wine from a slender-necked blue flask.  Gimli curbed his curiosity, deciding to let the king begin the conversation.  He clandestinely observed the similarities and differences between Thranduil's appearance and Legolas'.  The king's fair skin, silken gold tresses, and undeniably proud carriage and manner were manifestly echoed in his son.  Their eyes, too, were of a like hue; however, Thranduil's gaze carried a far greater weight than did Legolas'.  As Gimli watched the Elvenking, it once again occurred to him that Thranduil was somehow set apart from Celeborn, Galadriel, and even Lord Elrond of Rivendell; but as yet, Gimli could not discern the exact dissimilarity.

            Thranduil took up the two glasses of wine and drew nearer to where Gimli stood waiting.  "I would speak long with you, Master Gimli," the king explained gravely, giving over one of the glasses into the Dwarf's hand.  "You may have need of refreshment ere I finish with you."

            Gimli accepted the wine with a slight bow.  "Thank you, my lord.  What do you wish to discuss?"

            Thranduil did not reply immediately, but seated himself on a low pile of mats with easy grace.  "Sit," he commanded, gesturing at a similar heap opposite his own.  Gimli swallowed his pride with difficulty, recognizing the tone in Thranduil's voice; it was akin to that of Legolas at his most annoyingly imperious moments, but significantly more practiced and refined.  In truth, Gimli realized, many of Legolas' mannerisms were patterned after those of his father, despite Lady Galadriel's assertion that the prince was a truer representative of his mother.

When the Dwarf had settled himself, Thranduil looked long on him, unspeaking yet.  Gimli fought the compulsion to flinch from the intensity of the Elvenking's stare; indeed, Thranduil's gaze would have lanced through a deceptive heart like a finely honed spear through an enemy's gut.  But no treachery did his eyes reveal, for Dwarves were equally steadfast in friendship and vow, and Gimli was bound by both.  At length, Thranduil's glare softened, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, sipping from his glass.  "You are unlike many of your kin, Gimli Glóin's son," the king remarked.  "Your heart is sincere, unfettered by the greed and deceit so common to your kind."

Gimli bit back an angry retort, and replied instead, "Is it a custom among the Elves of Mirkwood to insult the kith of their guests and allies, my lord?"

Surprisingly, a faint smile pulled at Thranduil's lips.  "You have been too long among the folk of Lothlórien, Master Dwarf.  Celeborn and Galadriel feel constrained to exhibit the height of courtesy when they entertain guests, and that is their prerogative.  I, however, have no love for your folk, and I am not obligated to feign otherwise."

The Dwarf blinked, at once surprised and satisfied with the Elvenking's candor.  It rather reminded him of his own father's manner; Glóin was hardly a tactician when exchanging words with rivals.  "That is well, my lord, for I chafe at false civility," he answered evenly.

Thranduil quirked one elegantly shaped brow.  "Indeed."  He drew himself up, once again pinioning Gimli with an intent stare.  "Tell me of my son's fall, Gimli of the Walkers scattered."

The instruction struck the Dwarf like a blow.  A deluge of painful memories skittered across his mind, flashing through his dark eyes like the glimmering of an ignited torch.  "Why do you wish to hear of it, my lord?" he asked with some difficulty, setting his wine glass down for fear of breaking it in the grip of such pressing emotions.  "Surely you have heard much of it before now."

"I have heard many a report concerning the incident, many a retelling, but I would hear an account from one who witnessed Legolas' fall for himself," Thranduil replied steadily.  Though the severity of his gaze once again abated, his tone remained steely.  "I warn you, I will know if you speak falsely.  Tell me all that transpired the day my son fell."

Gimli took in a breath and released it in small measures, tamping the rage and grief threatening to burst the dam he had carefully constructed and maintained around his emotions; he had intended to release the whole of his retribution on the enemies he met in the days to come, but Thranduil's piercing directive was grating sorely on his restraint.  "Very well, my lord," he replied.  And thus, Gimli began to speak.  He raised the recollections of each word spoken, each action taken, each terrible moment leading to Legolas' fall and the torn Fellowship's retreat: from their halt at the bank of the Anduin, to Legolas' warning cry, to the Elf's fearless stand and subsequent collapse beneath the hooves of the Nazgûl steeds, and finally to Aragorn's wrenching decision to flee.  Thranduil listened without comment, his gaze never wavering from Gimli's face.  The Dwarf hardly noticed the Elvenking's rapt stare, however, so mired in memory was he as he told the tale in full.

When Gimli had finished, he gave a sigh and slumped with weariness, his shoulders sagging.  He was only marginally relieved that he had kept his emotions in check, even at the most harrowing moments in his account.  The Dwarf took a long drink of the wine, then raised his gaze to meet Thranduil's.  "That is what happened, my lord, in its entirety.  I have told you all that I remember."

The king was sitting much as he had before, with his feet planted firmly on the ground and fingers steepled in his lap.  His expression was as a stone barrier; yet his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.  When he finally spoke, his voice carried palpable fury.  "Then it was Aragorn who gave the command to flee?  Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the heir of Isildur son of Elendil?"

Gimli was weary from the long speech, and so did not quite perceive the deadly inflections in Thranduil's voice.  "Yes, my lord.  He acted out of concern for the remainder of the Company, for if we had not retreated, Meriadoc would have died of his wound and others might have been injured.  If, by some misfortune, we had all taken fatal wounds, the Ring would have been captured and returned to the Enemy's hand." 

"Then perhaps it was deemed best that my son be delivered into Saruman's hand in the Ring's stead," Thranduil remarked icily.

Gimli looked up sharply.  "Nay," he said, shaking his head almost violently.  "Not one of us has felt a single moment of relief at our own escape, King Thranduil, for we all held Legolas dear to our hearts.  If he is my greatest friend, then he is as a brother to Aragorn."

The Elvenking's eyes flashed hotly, in sharp contrast with his frigid tone.  "Little worth do such bonds retain in the shadow of the Dark One, it seems," Thranduil retorted sharply, "for this very same friend and brother you speak of was abandoned to the mercies of the Nazgûl, was he not?"

Gimli's glare took on a potency to rival that of the king himself.  "Legolas chose of his own will to remain on the riverbank as a rearguard, King Thranduil, against the wishes of myself and Aragorn alike.  It was Legolas who first commanded us to flee, in the hope that his defense would purchase our lives.  Would you now dishonor his sacrifice with accusations of treachery?"

Silence fell, heavy and charged with wrath.  They glared at each other, the Elf-lord and the Dwarf, their wills clashing forcefully in the space between them.  Neither would yield to the other; Gimli felt the pressure most brutally, but his pride and anger on behalf of his friends bolstered his strength, and he refused to concede defeat.

"You tread perilously, Dwarf," Thranduil said finally, his voice soft but as sharp as an Elven blade.  "Were you not named Elf-friend by the Lady Galadriel, I would separate your insolent head from your shoulders without a single moment's indecision."

"I do not seek to incur your anger, my lord, nor to abuse the Lady's favor," Gimli replied stiffly.  "But I will not suffer it to be said that Legolas was deserted by his friends.  If there had been any certain hope of rescue that night, I would have gone back myself and retrieved him.  Surely you can see that I speak truly."

            Much of the rage bled from the Elvenking's countenance.  Thranduil did not speak for several long moments, during which time Gimli became increasingly aware of his body's clamoring for rest.  The confrontation with the Elven lord had taken much of his waning strength.  Thranduil, by contrast, held himself upright, with no hint of weariness in his proud features; indeed, he seemed all the more vibrant for the conflict.  Gimli had grown accustomed to the enigmatic radiance that seemed to follow Legolas wherever he walked, but it was as the softest glow when compared to the forceful dynamism of Legolas' sire; and in turn, the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien emanated a far brighter light still.  The Dwarf wondered again at the disparity; and with an inward sigh, he supposed it was an Elvish matter, and one not likely to be grasped by a Dwarf with only small experience in such affairs.

Thranduil flicked his ash-hued gaze up to Gimli's face once again, regarding the Dwarf in silence as thick as the snow clouds of Caradhras.  "You are a strange creature indeed, Gimli Glóin's son," the Elvenking remarked, the flames in his eyes greatly subdued.  "Yes, you speak truthfully, and that is an amazing thing to my mind.  Why and wherefore you came to harbor such loyalty to my son is beyond my comprehension, but it rings in your every word, and I cannot dismiss it from my consideration.  Therefore I tell you this: I yet possess no liking for you, nor do I give you my full measure of trust—but I shall henceforth hold you blameless in Legolas' loss."

            Gimli stared at the Elf-lord in relieved astonishment.  He had certainly not expected such a pardoning from the stern king of Mirkwood, even after setting forth his defense.  "That understanding is all I ask, my lord, and I thank you for granting it," the Dwarf answered.  He felt the impulse to bow, but such an action would have been quite difficult in his seated position, and so he merely inclined his head.

            Thranduil abruptly flowed to his feet in one smooth motion and gazed down at Gimli.  "You are weary, Master Dwarf, and had best take your rest ere the night deepens further.  A tent has been made available for your use; I shall summon an escort to take you to it."

            Gimli stood as well, ignoring the protests of his fatigued body.  "Thank you, my lord."  He was unsure of what to do with the glass yet held in his left hand, but Thranduil wordlessly took it and set it on the table.

            That done, the Elvenking strode to the entrance of his tent and stepped outside.  After but a moment, he returned and said, "Your escort comes.  Be ready to depart ere the dawn breaks."

            Gimli nodded, saying only, "I shall, my lord."

            Thranduil paused then, and turned to face the Dwarf.  "You may find my people less forbearing than those of Lothlórien, son of Glóin; however, I will not abide blatant abuse to your person.  There are not many who speak the Common, but such few as there are have been instructed to assist you when necessary.  You are to march with the company on foot by day, and you are free to move about the camp by night; but do not pass beyond the sentries, or I cannot be held responsible should any ill fate befall you."

            Gimli absorbed the information and answered, "I understand."

            Thranduil gave a curt nod.  "Very well.  You have my leave to go."

            Gimli bowed and wordlessly exited the king's tent.  The depths of the night's obscurity were held at bay by cheerful torches flickering at varying places within the bounds of the camp.  Most of the Elves had retired for the evening, but a few faint melodies yet wafted on the cool air.  Gimli stifled the yawn creeping into his throat and turned to face the two guards yet standing to either side of the entrance to Thranduil's tent.  "I believe you were holding two items in your care until my leaving," the Dwarf remarked.  He was fairly sure that the Elves did not understand his words, but he supposed his intent was clear enough.

            The guardian to the left nodded gravely and retrieved Gimli's axe from where it lay propped against a stone.  The hatchet, however, he removed from within a cloak piled atop the stone—where it had been placed, evidently, to keep it sound until Gimli's return.  These things he gave over to the Dwarf, then stepped back with a slight bow and resumed his task. 

            Gimli voiced his thanks, again knowing that the guards did not understand his speech, then set to fastening the hatchet to his belt once more.  When he looked up, he was mildly startled to find a bright-eyed Elf standing some few paces away, waiting quietly for the Dwarf to notice him.  "Ah, you Elves and your soft tread," Gimli groused affably.  "Why can you not make an effort to alert hapless mortals to your approach?"

            The Elf laughed softly.  "To do so would be to deprive us of the amusement we garner upon seeing the hapless mortals' expressions, Master Gimli," he replied.  "Do you not remember me?  I am Forngíliath, one of those who met you as you sought aid for your young wounded friend on the field of battle.  I shall be one of your guides and interpreters during your travels with our company."

            Gimli vaguely recalled the terse translator, and his expression must have communicated some of his thoughts, for the Elf grimaced slightly.  "Please do not hold against me my ill conduct that day, Master Gimli," Forngíliath said ruefully.  "We of the Greenwood are a distrustful folk, and it serves us well in our forest; yet it can be a hindrance when we encounter possible allies.  I did not know of your intentions then."

            "And do you now?" Gimli asked.

            "Yes, as do all of my fellows," the Elf answered.  "Word travels swiftly among my people.  You were the Dwarf among the Nine Walkers who set forth from Imladris.  You are said to have gained Prince Legolas' friendship, despite the animosity between our peoples.  And you are indeed the very same Dwarf who remained alone in the Golden Wood in hopes of finding a means of rescue for the prince."  Forngíliath smiled then, and continued, "Too, I witnessed your sincerity for myself.  I had not thought to ever see such concern in the face of a Dwarf, and certainly not on behalf of a wounded Elf.  Your young friend was fortunate."

            "Fortune is bestowed upon those with no one to take care for them," Gimli remarked.  "I considered myself rather fortunate to have gained Nimfëalórien's friendship.  But I am curious: I seem to have amassed a number of allies with one simple act of concern, though in my mind I did nothing astonishing.  Surely any Elf would have done the same for a friend?"

            Forngíliath smiled.  "Yes, but few Dwarves can claim an Elf as a friend, nor do many of my people look with favor upon yours.  But perhaps you have begun to amend the beliefs of some."  He then turned, beckoning to Gimli.  "Come, I shall take you to the tent prepared for you.  It is not far."

            Gimli hefted his axe, grunting under his breath as the haft dug into a particularly knotted muscle.  "That is well, for your lord is the most formidable opponent I have ever encountered in an ally's tent," he muttered as he fell into step beside Forngíliath.

            The Elf gave a quiet laugh.  "Be of cheer, good Gimli, for you have escaped the aran brannon's wrath in far better condition than many others before you.  As my grandsire would likely say, the House of Oropher has never been renowned for the patience of its progeny."

            Gimli gave a snort.  "Aye, that is most conceivable.  I shall never forget Legolas' anger when he learned that he was to be blindfolded with the rest of the Company upon our first entrance into Lothlórien.  I had never seen him quite so roused; one would think that he had been commanded to exchange marital vows with an Orc!"

            Forngíliath pressed his lips together to stifle his laughter, but his shoulders shook in betrayal of his merriment.  "It is a custom among my folk to gather in the evening for songs and tales after the day's march, Gimli.  Mayhap on the morrow you shall regale us with an account of our Prince's doings since his departure from our realm!"

            The Dwarf chuckled, but the sound was quickly swallowed by a yawn.  "Mayhap, Forngíliath, I shall.  Unless I perish for lack of sleep ere then."

            "Have no fear of that, for here is your tent," the Elf said, gesturing to a small tent just to the fore.  "Rest you well and deeply, Master Dwarf, for the march will be long."

            "Thank you, Forngíliath, and may your dreams be pleasant," Gimli replied.  With those words, he gave the Elf a slight bow of farewell, and entered the tent.

            The grass flooring was not unlike the boughs of his bedding in the flet in Lórien, Gimli thought drowsily.  The Elvish melodies floating in the air were strange, somewhat more resonant than those of the Golden Wood, but they were sweet even to Dwarven ears, and Gimli was soon lost to a deep slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Eighteen.  Boy, that Elvenking sure is a prickly thing, isn't he?  :)  But Gimli can handle it.

Author's Notes:  Okay, I know I promised to return to the action at Eastfold, and I promised to update everyone on the situation with Frodo and Lasselanta, so here it goes: at this point, the Renewed Fellowship has just passed Sarn Gebir—an action which actually happened way back in Chapter Nine!!  Needless to say, a lot has been going on in Lothlórien…hence, the plethora of Gimli chapters (and that's not a bad thing—the poor guy deserves as much screen time as he can get!).  They're going to continue, too, for a little while at least.  (Katharine hunkers down in preparation for the outraged readership's lambasting.)  Yikes, lemme explain!!  You see, I've constructed a timeline to keep myself aware of when things should happen, in what order, and how they correspond to events elsewhere.  I had intended to return to Eastfold and Frodo by next chapter, but it didn't work out that way.  The cheery Elves of Mirkwood have presented me with several plot pieces to assemble, and all of that must be done before I can pick up again with Eastfold.  After all, the attack in which Frodo is captured (see Chapter Twelve) doesn't occur until two full days after the time in which Chapter Eighteen is set.  If I'm going to keep in accordance with the timeline, as I fully intend to do, then there are a few things yet to do with Gimli and Thranduil's host before I can get back to the Renewed Fellowship and poor Frodo!  I'm thinking (tentatively of course) that there might be one or two more Gimli-and-the-Elves chapters, and then I'll have caught up with the timeline.  I'm terribly sorry if I tick anyone off; I simply cannot forsake character and plot formation for the sake of easing the distressed readership!  ;)  Also, I think I should warn everyone: this will be the last chance for humor and foolin' around to come up for a very long time, so enjoy it while it lasts!  *Sigh*  I expect to get a few small flames for this; don't feel too bad if you choose to do so, since I really am breaking a promise here!  (Katharine shivers.)  I need the heat anyway; my toes get cold in the morning.  I hope you all continue to enjoy the story, though, despite my foibles.  :)  Next chapter: Gimli hangs out with the Mirkwood gang, and the laughs abound…

Name translations:

1) Melereg (Elf of Mirkwood, one of Gimli's guides and interpreters among Thranduil's host) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "beloved thorn" or "beloved holly," depending on which parent is addressing him.

2) Melannûn (Elf of Mirkwood, father of Melereg) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "beloved sunset."  It likely refers to the Elvish preference for the stars, which only appear after the sun sets.

3) Mirmíthuial, whose name was said to be a Sindarin derivative meaning "jewel of gray twilight" at the end of Chapter Sixteen, is better known by his father-name, Mirion, which means "son of a jewel."  His father likely called him thus in honor of his mother, and by continuing to use that name, Mirion also pays her reverence.

Some other translations: Both aranhîr and aran brannon are titles of respect; they roughly translate as "king-lord" or "king-master."