Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Nineteen
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: Though this story has digressed to an absurd degree from the original Trilogy, it is still operating under the rules and within the environs set down by Master Tolkien, the genius who masterminded the whole enchilada. Bottom line: it ain't mine. All props to the Great Man.
Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the Fellowship of the Ring movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, the Two Towers movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.
Replies to reviews: *Boggles at the number of reviews* Thank you, readership; Chapter Eighteen holds the current TWW record for number of reviews garnered by a single chapter! ^_^ Keep 'em comin'!
Enigma Jade: Welcome to TWW! You're ashamed? I should be ashamed, dear; witness two months of no updates on this tale! O_O
AmaterasuKami: Sweet pen name, there! Welcome! Heh heh…I, too, am a huge fan of Celeborn and Galadriel, and now that you mention it, the dear Lord of Lórien has been clamoring for an Uncommon Tale concerning the battle for Doriath…
Badger Lord: Welcome, welcome! Your new fave? Moi? Thankee! ^_^ Oh, Legolas will get more screen time, don't worry…and as for the Fellowship fighting him, well, my lips are sealed…
Elvensong: Welcome to my li'l corner of the site! A nap, eh? Me, too. *Yawn* Again, as to Legolas' fate, I'm afraid I can't say a word without spoiling the whole shebang.
Seaweed: Oh, Gimli and Thranduil are just wonderful, aren't they? I rather like their relationship; they don't really hate each other, they just aren't famous pals. But that might change…who knows? Oh, that's right; I KNOW!!
TreeHugger: Always glad to see ya, melaglar! Oh, I do so love the Elves of Mirkwood, especially their king—although you already know that, eh? *smirk* I'm surprised he even talks to me anymore. Thanks for the long review; and I'm glad you like the OCs! They appreciate the attention!
Soledad: Thanks for coming, and welcome! *Hides from pet Balrog* Um, Thundril…? A little help, here, sweetie? The Sisterhood of Thranduil-defenders, huh? Sounds like my kind of group. Who else is in? And where do I register my many weapons? ^_^
HaloGatomon: I'm not sure the flames of Udûn can be called holy, but thanks anyways… ^_~
LadyJea: Thankee, m'dear, but you're a little late… *snicker* Grasshoppa yourself!
chocchip: Welcome and thank you for the gush! I'm honored that you finished in two days! O_O Did you even leave the computer? Oh, don't worry about the screaming-girly-fan-ex-nay-on-the-screaming thing… *looks around furtively* I'm one myself!
Raen: Hey there! Poor little Elven prince, indeed. I'm surprised he still talks to me, too! *shakes head* Frying pans, eh? Youch. People are vicious!
Irena: Hi! Thankees for the review; I'm SO glad you like my Thranduil. I do so love that guy! ^_^ (Now gimme more Femme Legolas!)
Kollar: Hey hey, welcome! I'm terribly pleased you're actually reading this time; maybe I'll save the evisceration in fiction for a later date. ^_~ Thanks for the reviews, dude, they mean a lot to me!
Niphrandl: Many welcomes to thee! I jumped for joy when I saw all of the praise you gave to my characterization; it's something I labor over until my pores bleed. *Grosses out at that disturbing mental image* As to the blade…well, we'll just have to wait and see… nay, you have not begun in vain, I promise! TWW will see an end, I promise!
Katharine the Great: You blooming dolt, you reviewed yourself. You ought to whack yourself with a large fence post. *Whacks self* OW!
Laura M: Welcome back! Are you still in Japan, or are you back to wherever you are from? How was the trip? And did you actually get to go sight-seeing?
Daphne: Welcome, welcome, all around! Thanks for the multiple reviews; so glad you're enjoying! ^_^
Further other notes: My extremely humongous apologies for the length of time between postings here! After Chapter Eighteen was written and posted, the muses all went on a TWW-strike and skipped merrily away to pursue other things, such as the various humor pieces and homage-fics that were spawned in the interim—not to mention the continuing development of Tales of the Jade King, the collaborative WIP being coaxed into existence by the charming TreeHugger and I. Thankfully, the muses returned to service and churned this chapter out. ^_^ Please bear with my poor gray matter; it slogs daily through an appalling mush of wriggling plotbunnies, plot tidbits, and research materials—in addition to coping with the inescapable madness of RL. I assure everyone, TWW will not be abandoned for any reason, barring the authoress' untimely demise! ^_~
And now, finally, on with the tale…
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"Master Dwarf, if you do not wake within a very few minutes, I shall be compelled to shear away the length of your beard."
Gimli yawned and opened one eye to glare balefully at the fair Elven face peering down at him. Forngíliath was barely recognizable in the dim light; the Sun had not yet peeped over the horizon, and the only illumination was provided by a torch flickering near to the Dwarf's tent. "Touch my beard, Master Elf, and I shall be compelled to avenge it by way of bloodshed," Gimli growled.
Forngíliath grinned in a most wicked fashion. "I am sorely tempted to put that threat to test, truly I am, Gimli. Alas for us both, if you should not rise! The aranhîr would not likely find a shaven Dwarf and a maimed Elf amusing, particularly in the very earliest hours of the morn."
Gimli grumbled a choice Dwarven phrase beneath his breath, and purposefully sat up quickly in an effort to knock the cheeky Elf askew. Forngíliath's agility served him well, however, for he smilingly evaded Gimli's effort to displace him and slipped out of the tent with easy grace, calling back, "Ready yourself swiftly, Gimli! We depart ere the hour passes!"
Gimli sighed in the sudden quiet. He could hear the camp beyond the cloth walls rustling with life—tents being collapsed, Elves speaking and singing to one another, and the occasional rhythm of a horse's hooves on the dew-drenched grass. The Dwarf harrumphed with some small amusement as he thought on Forngíliath's cheerful remarks, for he recalled Legolas making similar threats about his beard. Gimli began to wonder if all of his friend's people were as impertinent as their prince; if so, he doubted he would endure a single day without being driven to menace one of their number with his axe.
With that optimistic notion, Gimli began to straighten his sleep-rumpled appearance for the day. As was the norm, his battle axe lay at his side, close at hand in case of a need for it in the night. The hatchet from Lord Celeborn was also near, but it lay atop the Dwarf's bundled Lórien cloak so that it was kept free of the grass and earth. Gimli wished to keep the marvelous weapon pristine until it found its proper veneer in Orc gore.
Once he had suitably organized his layers of mail and shirt, Gimli stood and attached the hatchet's sheath to his belt. The tent was not exceedingly tall, but neither was the Dwarf; and so where Forngíliath had stooped, Gimli stood straight. He grinned at that revelation. "It seems I have found at least some incontestable advantage for my height," Gimli muttered to himself. Collecting his axe, he then pushed aside the tent's entrance flap and walked outside.
The encampment was nearly completely dismantled. Tents were folded and placed on the backs of willing horses, along with well-balanced sacks of provisions. The Elves stood fully armed, with bows and quivers at their backs, swords girt to their waists, and many a long spear in hand. They were dressed in similar manner to Legolas, but as they were not of the royal family, their garb was more rustic and worn. Most glanced at Gimli upon his emergence, but none spoke to him. It was just as well, however, for most of them did not understand the Westron.
Forngíliath appeared once more, his features alight with enthusiasm, eyes glinting in the torchlight. "All is nearly in readiness, Gimli. I shall collapse your tent and pack it onto Anarokko, and then we will join the company on foot."
Gimli assisted the Elf in the dismantling of the tent. When they had reduced it to a bundle of cloth wrapped about slender support rods, Forngíliath turned and whistled through his teeth, then called out in his own tongue. In response, a sizeable steed of graceful build proudly trotted forth to join the Elf and Dwarf. Gimli looked warily up at the beast; like most of his people, he was not fond of the creatures, and certainly had no inclination to ride one. He was glad he would be walking among the host of Mirkwood—his own feet had always served him well, and much better than the four legs of any horse.
Forngíliath markedly thought otherwise, for he affectionately stroked the steed's nose and patted its dappled flanks. "Gimli, this is Anarokko. He has kindly agreed to bear both your tent and mine."
"I suppose I must be appreciative, then," Gimli replied, keeping a short distance between himself and the large creature. "Does he belong to you?"
Anarokko snorted, as if in direct response to the query. Forngíliath laughed as he secured Gimli's tent to the horse's broad back. "Nay, Gimli, I believe he would dispute any such claim. He is very much his own creature."
Gimli eyed Anarokko dubiously, and he could have sworn that the steed's gaze was just as skeptical. "Then I am doubly glad that I shall not be astride him for the journey," the Dwarf remarked, "for I think that he is not fond of me, and the sentiment is mutual."
Forngíliath turned a considering gaze to the horse, and to Gimli's surprise and confusion, the Elf proceeded to speak a few words to the beast in the Elvish tongue. When he had finished, Forngíliath smiled cheerfully at Gimli. "I have explained to him what manner of creature you are, Master Dwarf. He has never seen one of your folk before."
Gimli harrumphed into his beard. "You speak as though the animal can understand your speech, Forngíliath."
Anarokko stamped one of his forelegs and laid his ears back briefly. The Elf rested a soothing hand on the stallion's gray mane and turned a reproving glance on Gimli. "All good beasts hearken to the tongue of my folk, Gimli. Anarokko does indeed understand me, and I daresay that he knows the intent of your speech, as well."
The Dwarf tried not to allow his doubt color his expression or tone. "As you say, Forngíliath. All the same, I am certain he is as pleased as I am that he shall not be asked to bear me along with my tent."
Forngíliath nodded sagely. "On that we are agreed."
A lilting series of notes floated through the air, delivered of an instrument that sounded to Gimli's ear like a blend of the horn and flute. An Elven device, he surmised. Forngíliath gave Anarokko a quick word, then turned and beckoned to Gimli. "Come, Master Dwarf, we are bidden to assemble with the host!"
Gimli shouldered his axe. "Lead on, Master Elf," he replied.
The grassy clearing was swiftly emptying as the last of the Elves and horses responded to the musical summons. Forngíliath had evidently commanded Anarokko to join the ranks of his fellow steeds, for the horse whickered at the Elf's words and trotted ahead, his gait unaffected by his burdens. Gimli was not at all saddened by the beast's departure; horses were unpleasant enough on their own merit, and doubly so when they gave the impression of uncanny cleverness, as had Anarokko. Forngíliath grinned at the Dwarf's muttered relief, but refrained from commenting.
They passed beyond the bounds of the glade and once more entered under the flaxen awning of the soaring mallorns. Gimli squinted, for the boughs far above them effectively barred the cool light of the stars and Moon, and plunged the forest floor into a deeper dark than had existed in the breach presented by the clearing. Too, the torches had been extinguished, and so the Dwarf relied on the whispers of movement from around him as the Elves moved lightly over the ground. He could scarcely see aught but shadowy shapes against more deeply shadowed backdrops.
"I shall be walking alongside you today, Master Dwarf," Forngíliath murmured from Gimli's right. The slender Elf appeared little more than a vague dark form to the Dwarf's eyes.
"I am pleased to hear it, Forngíliath," Gimli replied carefully, "for I confess, I had found the notion of walking in the midst of so many Elves somewhat disconcerting."
Forngíliath's slim fingers brushed lightly against the Dwarf's shoulder reassuringly. "Fret not, Gimli," he said. "We are a distrustful folk, and most are not overly fond of your people—it has been so for years beyond count. Yet you are strange to us, for you walk in the favor of our king's youngest son, and the highest lords among the Eldar look upon you with goodwill. No harm shall come to you by the hand of any Elf of Mirkwood, you have my word."
"I thank you for your encouragement, Forngíliath," Gimli answered sincerely. He then dropped his voice until it barely stirred the air, knowing that the Elf's sharp ears would easily discern his speech. "But I must admit that I gave more thought to your words than to your blades. I know well that my friend's kin are as sharp-tongued as he is, and I did not relish the notion of defending myself against scores of hostile Elves. To be sure, I certainly could have done so, but it would squander time and energy that I much prefer to reserve for the battles to come."
Forngíliath gave a light, understanding chuckle. "As do we all, I assure you. Yes, we are a churlish lot at times—it is a necessary humor, for our lives are all too often darkened by the Shadow encroaching upon our home. But it is known that the aranhîr has accepted your aid in the recovery of Prince Legolas, and so I think that many of our number will comport themselves with civility."
Gimli smiled to himself. "Ah, then perhaps I shall not be forced to expend as many threats upon your fair heads as I had assumed I would," he remarked.
"And perhaps we shall not have cause to entertain ourselves by composing mocking songs concerning a certain Dwarf," Forngíliath agreed.
"Sing one insolent word, Elf, and I shall use your bow for kindling," Gimli harrumphed.
"If any harm comes to my bow, Dwarf, I shall fashion a new one and use the strands of your shorn beard to string it," the Elf replied equably.
The conversation continued in such fashion as the two companions accompanied the last remnants of Thranduil's host in their passage beneath the concealing boughs of Lórien. The morning was still shrouded in night's star-spangled cloak, for Anor's first golden glimmer had not yet crept over the horizon. Gimli depended on his hearing to guide him through the darkness, as well as the occasional nudge from Forngíliath, who chuckled merrily at the Dwarf's low grumbling. The Elf was very like Legolas in manner, albeit somewhat less refined in speech, and perhaps more inclined to open mirth. To be sure, Forngíliath smiled far more readily than did any other Elf Gimli had met thus far. Gimli found himself greatly appreciating his translator's good humor; it was a welcome respite from the somberness and animosity that seemed to abound among the Elves of Mirkwood when they regarded their Dwarven affiliate.
The forest came to an end somewhat abruptly. Gimli and Forngíliath passed the last line of mallorns and emerged to join a small cluster of Elves on the near bank of a swiftly-flowing river. The water glittered silver as it cheerfully burbled and lapped past them. "This is the fair Celebrant—or Silverlode, in the tongue of Men," Forngíliath explained. "We shall cross here with the last of the host, then assemble together with the aranhîr and the riders near to Lothlórien's outermost fringe."
Gimli did not reply. Nimfëalórien and Líssulma had assured their Dwarven friend that they would see him once more ere he departed the Golden Wood; therefore, he had been watching carefully for any sign of the two Elves, but as yet had seen no sign of them. He reasoned that perhaps they had been delayed by unavoidable circumstances, for surely they would have come sooner if they were able. Still, he held out hope that he would indeed see his young friend and the Lady's lovely handmaiden before he passed beyond the borders of Galadriel's forest haven.
When the Fellowship had first entered Lothlórien's fair wood, they had been compelled to cross the very same river as the one that Gimli presently faced. Haldir had led them all over the Celebrant by means of a series of ropes strung across and bound to trees on either bank. Now Gimli would cross the Silverlode again, utilizing the same method; for the Elves at hand were gracious enough to fix extra ropes out of consideration for the less agile Dwarf. Therefore, the company crossed without incident and continued on toward the southernmost reaches of the Wood.
The mallorns were less plentiful as they drew southward, and so the darkness beneath the golden canopy was not so impenetrable as it had been in the heart of the forest. Gimli and Forngíliath spoke amiably as they traversed among the last of the warriors. Aside from his ready jesting, the Elf was an avid listener who delighted to hear of doings in the wide world. Gimli told his companion of such doings as he knew, and marveled at Forngíliath's insatiable curiosity—a trait that seemed common to young Elves, be they of Mirkwood or Lothlórien. Therefore, it seemed to the Dwarf that hardly any time passed ere he and the others came within sight of the main body of Thranduil's host. The riders and their mounts were assembled together at the head of the company, with those on foot convened behind. Gimli fancied that he espied Anarokko among the ranks of the steeds who bore the bulk of the supplies, though all of the creatures looked much the same to his untrained sight.
The fluttering banner of the Woodland Realm caught Gimli's attention, but the Dwarf did not at first see Thranduil himself. A swift glance round the vicinity revealed a small contingent of Lórien Elves standing somewhat apart from the host of Mirkwood; among their number were Celeborn and Galadriel. Gimli remembered the Lord of the Wood's assurance that he and the Lady would see their guests off in the morning, and he was pleased that he would have one last opportunity to look upon the wondrous beauty of the Lady whose kindness had captured his heart. The sovereigns of Lórien seemed to glow with an ethereal sheen, the light of the few torches held by the Elves of Mirkwood flickering merrily across their white and silver robes. Thranduil stood with them, and as before, his appearance contrasted strikingly with that of Celeborn and Galadriel; the Elvenking's raiment was dark, and the torches' bronze radiance bathed his chiseled features, setting his golden tresses to blaze and lending an archaic intensity to his countenance.
Gimli had been following Forngíliath to join the ranks of the other warriors on foot, but Lord Celeborn caught sight of the Dwarf and beckoned to him. Forngíliath grinned down at his companion. "I shall wait for you, Gimli," the young Elf told him.
Gimli nodded his thanks, then shifted his axe to his other shoulder and made his way toward the gathering of Elven rulers. As he drew near, he marveled all the more at Galadriel's beauty; the stars' soft gleam served to accentuate her fair skin, just as the firelight danced gaily across her golden hair. Celeborn's gaze was warm and welcoming, and Thranduil gave the Dwarf a reserved nod of salutation. "Good morning, Master Gimli," Celeborn said in greeting.
The Dwarf allowed his axe to slip from his shoulder, then planted its hilt on the ground and bowed low. "Good morning, my Lords and Lady."
"We shall not burden you with prolonged farewells, Gimli, for the night is waning and your errand is one of haste," Galadriel said softly. "Nor have I any further gift to bestow upon you, except the blessing of the Lady of the Galadhrim, if such words yet retain worth in these latter days."
"They do indeed, my Lady," Gimli replied. "Surely there will never be a Dwarf so honored as I, if Galadriel would but grant me her favor ere I depart."
The Lady smiled, and it was as though the Sun's first morning ray shone down upon the Dwarf, warm and brilliant, though the Daystar's fiery disc was not yet seen over the hilltops. "That favor you have in full measure, Gimli son of Glóin. I name you Hadh'orë-Findakáno, the Dwarf of Fingon's heart; for your spirit shines with the radiance of Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in days of old, he who defied the Black Hand and rescued Maedhros Fëanor's son from his torment upon the face of Thangorodrim. May your cause meet with like success, friend of Legolas."
Gimli bowed to her once more, and could hardly speak with the depth of his emotion. "I thank you, fairest Lady."
Celeborn spoke then, his voice low and kind. "Be not forlorn at this second departure, son of Glóin. So long as I remain in these lands, you shall be ever welcome in the Golden Wood; and if in time your spirit chafes at sore trial, this will be a place of haven for you, if you wish it." He spread his hands, palms facing upwards, in a gesture of benediction. "Nai Vardo alata cala tenn'tie le pella, Hadh'orë-Findakáno, Elf-friend, Gimli of the Dwarves."
The Dwarf found himself suddenly overcome by the Elven sovereigns' kind words, and he tried to quell the mist gathering in his eyes. "Stars shine on you, my Lord," he said hoarsely.
The Lord of the Wood smiled. "And on you, Master Gimli." Celeborn's silveron eyes slid to regard Thranduil, who had watched the exchanges in silence. Gimli followed very little of the ensuing dialogue, for the Celeborn spoke to the Elvenking in the fair tongue of their folk; the only word that the Dwarf recognized was the name of Legolas, which was mentioned some few times.
At length Thranduil inclined his head and murmured something to Celeborn, then turned his firelit gaze to Gimli. "The stars grow dim in the sky, Master Gimli, for the day is nigh. Take your place among the warriors, and we shall go forth."
"Yes, my Lord," Gimli replied deferentially. He lifted his axe to his shoulder once more, and looked his last upon the fair sovereigns of the Wood. "Fare you well, my Lord and Lady," he said.
Celeborn gave a solemn nod in response; Galadriel's smile had faded, but her eyes shone with warmth. "Namárië, Lock-bearer."
Their words were ended then, and Gimli began to turn away. He paused, however, when he caught sight of the two silent figures standing some distance behind the Lord and Lady. Nimfëalórien and Líssulma stood side-by-side, eyes sparkling dimly in the torchlight, and their expressions were somber but kind. The two nodded to the Dwarf, and Gimli returned the gesture with no small gratitude. He also noted, with some amusement, that Nimfëalórien's fingers were loosely intertwined with the lady's. Gimli smiled into his beard and raised a hand briefly in farewell. His friends did likewise, smiles breaking over their faces despite their attempts to remain solemn at the Dwarf's departure.
Gimli turned and moved to rejoin Forngíliath—the Elf had waited for his Dwarven companion to return, as he had said he would. As the two made their way through the ranks of the warriors, Gimli was surprised to see that the Elves gave way before him, some touching their hands to their hearts or brows in salute as he passed. The Dwarf questioned Forngíliath on the matter when they had reached their position.
"All heard the blessings bestowed upon you by the Lord and Lady," Forngíliath murmured in reply, wonder gleaming in his gray eyes. "To be named for Fingon Fingolfin's son is a great honor indeed, and one worthy of esteem, Gimli."
Gimli did not know what to say in response, and so he held his peace as the warriors around him shifted, awaiting their king's command to proceed. Thranduil's deep voice rang out over the ranks, neatly splicing the morning chill with fluid words, and the host fell into swift step. Gimli watched the booted feet of the Elf directly in front of him in order to determine his own stride, for he did not wish to fall out of rhythm with those around him. He swiftly established his pace—and was only slightly annoyed to note that for every step the Elves took, his own shorter legs were forced to compensate with two steps.
"Good morning, Master Gimli, Forngíliath," came a soft voice from the right, interrupting Gimli's disgruntled musing.
Gimli looked up, mildly surprised. "Good morning, Melereg," he replied, recognizing his guide and translator from the previous night. "Were your dreams kind to you?"
Melereg Melannûnion looked down at the Dwarf, startled. "Yes, Gimli, they were," he answered, his cascade of dark braids spilling over his shoulders as he tilted his head in puzzlement. "Tell me, where did a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain learn such Elvish courtesies?"
Gimli grinned behind his beard. "One must know these things when forced to share the company of such pretentious Elves as the prince of Mirkwood."
Forngíliath clucked his tongue, but a smile crept onto his fair face. "I would take care with my words concerning Prince Legolas, Master Dwarf. He is well-loved by his people."
Gimli snorted, encouraged by Forngíliath's good-humored expression, and replied, "I cannot see why. He is among the most prissy, overbearing creatures I have ever met."
Melereg's dark brows knitted. "Prissy?" he echoed.
Forngíliath laughed aloud. "I should like to know what our prince's reply would be if he heard you describe him so, Gimli," he remarked.
"He has heard it, many times," Gimli stated matter-of-factly, "and I seem to recall him making various demeaning remarks about my height and mental ability. 'If I am prissy, then you are mulish, underdeveloped, and lead-footed, Master Dwarf,' and other such drivel."
Melereg shook his head in exasperation, causing his braids to dance about his face. "It is a wonder you were able to gain each other's friendship at all."
"Those words were exchanged in the friendliest manner, I assure you," Gimli chuckled. "We never intended true affront."
The three companions continued to converse as the host moved beyond the outer reaches of the Golden Wood. Gimli noted the last few mallorn boughs as he passed beneath them, and in his heart he bade final farewell to the Lady and her forest sanctum. The sky stretched above the warriors of Mirkwood, a deep expanse of shadowed indigo yet flecked with white points of light. The Sun would soon peep over the land and banish the stars from sight, but Gimli judged that another hour or so would pass ere the first morning light was glimpsed.
"Tell me, my friends," Gimli said at length, "what is the look of the land? I can see very little besides Elven heads and legs at the moment, and I would know what country we pass through."
Forngíliath's usual smile blossomed, and he cast his gray gaze out over the surrounding warriors. "The land is covered in night's darkness yet, Master Gimli, but there is little to be commented upon. To the rear is the golden crown of Lothlórien; to the fore is naught but grass and sky, though we shall come within sight of the forest of Fangorn ere night falls. When the Sun rises, I will likely see the faintest shimmer of the Anduin to the east, and the west will be marked by the Misty Mountains."
"My thanks, Forngíliath," the Dwarf replied. "It seems that you and Melereg are to be my eyes as well as my voice."
Melereg quirked one brow. "Just so long as we do not have to serve as your legs, Master Dwarf," he remarked drolly.
Gimli gave a short bark of laughter. "Nay, there will be no need of that, Master Elf." He noted that Melereg was fastening a length of leather to his right forearm, wrapping it about his rune-scribed leather bracing and tying it fast. When he questioned the Elf about the extra covering, Melereg gave a slight smile and lifted his eyes to the lightening sky above them.
"You shall see very soon, Gimli," he murmured warmly.
Forngíliath touched Gimli's arm surreptitiously. "He waits for his lady," the young Elf muttered with a sly grin.
Melereg shot his fellow warrior an annoyed glance, but made no reply. Instead, he turned his attention back to the sky, and after but a moment's contemplation, he placed his fingers to his lips and gave a trilling, two-toned whistle.
Before Gimli could form further query, the sound of wings beating the air reached his ears, and a feathery shape descended to perch on Melereg's outstretched arm. The bird's talons dug into the leather wrapped round the Elf's sleeve, and as it settled into place, Gimli saw that it was a woodland owl with dappled brown feathers and a pale underbelly. The creature's white face was shaped somewhat like an apple, with two large eyes glittering brightly in the flickering torchlight.
Melereg spoke a few words to the owl, then looked back down at Gimli. "Gimli, this is Ramíril."
The Dwarf studied the bird for a long moment before speaking. "Your lady?" he asked finally.
Melereg glared at Forngíliath, who was biting his lip to restrain his laughter. "Nay," he answered. "She is a good companion of sorts. My younger brother inadvertently wounded her during archery practice one day, and I tended her until her wing healed. I set her loose among the trees, but she sought me out that evening before taking to her nightly hunt." The Elf flashed a brief smile as Ramíril captured one of his long braids in her hooked beak. "She comes to me with the rising and setting of the Sun, in order that she might keep herself apprised of my doings; though she keeps her own counsel on such matters."
Gimli harrumphed into his beard. "Elves and beasts," he grumbled. "I shall never understand this fascination with such creatures."
"She is a lovely creature," Melereg murmured, lightly stroking Ramíril's ruffled white breast. "She will soon go to her rest, but she will find us once more when the Sun sinks low this eve."
"Do you intend to take her into battle, then, Melereg?" Forngíliath asked.
The other Elf gave his fellow a severe glance. "Nay," he replied. "I told her to stay in the Greenwood, but she followed nonetheless. I can do very little to hinder her as yet, but be assured, I will not allow her to fly free if battle rages about us."
"You told her?" Gimli repeated with some exasperation. "Firstly the horse understands Forngíliath's words, and now Melereg gives directives to a bird. Do rocks understand Elven speech as well? Or perhaps trees?"
"Rocks, no," Forngíliath answered, chuckling cheerily, "but the trees both speak and listen, for they are perceptive and full of memory."
To this, Gimli would only give a snort in response. He did, however, remember well that Legolas had often paused to touch the trees of Lothlórien, smiling enigmatically and whispering beneath his breath at odd moments. The Dwarf shook his head, utterly convinced that he had fallen in with the most peculiar people ever to walk the earth.
Melereg spoke softly to Ramíril in his own tongue, and Gimli nudged Forngíliath. "I hesitate to ask this, Forngíliath, for I am not altogether certain that I wish to know the answer," the Dwarf muttered. "Does Legolas regularly make conversation with dumb beasts in this fashion?"
Forngíliath tilted his head slightly in thought. "The woodland and her creatures favor those of the House of Oropher," he said, quirking a small grin. "Trees, beasts and birds alike hearken to them best, and the king's children were taught from youth to value the forest and all that lived within. Prince Legolas has been known to chatter with the birds in the trees as merrily as though he had sprouted wings himself. Too, in his youth he kept company with creatures of all sorts, such as the small squirrels that frequented the boughs near the palace, and spider younglings as well." For some reason, the Elf chuckled aloud, then continued, "Ah, Gimli, you asked whether Legolas spoke to animals, and I must tell you truthfully that very few among our people are as familiar with the tongues of plants and beasts as are the prince and his kith."
Gimli gave a low groan. "Marvelous," he grunted. "I travel with Elves that speak to beasts, in order to bring freedom to another Elf that speaks to beasts, and I suppose he will also thank the grass he walks upon when he is set loose upon it!"
Forngíliath's smile dimmed. "I should hope so, Master Dwarf," he murmured, casting his gaze to the lightening horizon. "I should dearly hope so."
They said no more for long minutes afterward. Ramíril took flight once more and departed into the early morning gloom, leaving Melereg to unbind the leather from his arm and stow it in a small pouch at his belt. The Elf glanced at Forngíliath, but seeing his fellow warrior's uncharacteristically pensive countenance, he remained silent.
The host continued their journey swathed in the stillness of dawn on the plain; the twitters and hums of birds and insects were but a steady thrum in the calm, hardly the clamor that had filled the trees of Lórien. Quiet Elvish melodies, soft and strange, lingered among the warriors, twining and ebbing with threaded harmonies. The Sun crested the hills with her usual splendor, and the glistening golden beams were met with appreciative murmurs as the shadows of evening fled. True, the Firstborn were ever creatures of starlight; and most especially the Elves of the Woodland Realm, who revered the night as a glittering altar to Elbereth, the Lady of the Stars. Yet the creatures and workings of Shadow cowered beneath the Sun alone of the great lights, and for that boon the Elves blessed Anor when she appeared in the east.
As he walked, Gimli listened to the Elves around him singing softly in their own tongue. Melereg's voice floated nearby, weaving a simple harmony. Forngíliath was markedly silent for much of the time. The rhythmic monotony of the march allowed Gimli to lose himself for a time in thoughts of the past: he thought mostly of his own home and kin, but his mind was persistently drawn to memories of his dear friend. Legolas had been endlessly light of heart, seeming to dance across the land instead of walking, never laden with gloom nor troubled by fear. It occurred to the Dwarf that his friend was as unlike Galadriel and her equals as was Thranduil, if not more so. Legolas is young in the sight of the Elves, and he is not yet weary of the world and its ills, Celeborn had said. Gimli sighed in dour consideration. Like Forngíliath, he too held the desperate hope that his friend's spirit would fly unfettered once again, and that Legolas would indeed cheerily greet the grass.
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End of Chapter Nineteen. Yes, I know it's a teeny little thing, hardly what one would expect after two months of waiting for an update (Katharine drops to her knees and begs for forgiveness); but I had a choice here, to either make everyone wait longer and deliver a mega-monster chappie in which all of the Gimli-and-the-Elves plot bits were developed at once, or to end this one here and get straight to the next one—which, by the bye, will be the last chapter before we get back to Eastfold with the Renewed Fellowship, and poor, poor Frodo. *Sob/snicker*
Expect Chapter Twenty to turn up much more quickly than this one did! The muses have granted me their assistance once more! ^_^
Name notes (yes, both of them are animals, laugh all you want):
1) Anarokko (Horse of Mirkwood; did not especially take to Gimli, but carried his tent anyway) = this name is a Quenya derivative that literally means "gift-horse." Yes, Katharine is attempting a silly pun here; Gimli may not have been literally looking Anarokko in the mouth, but you get the idea. ^_^
2) Ramíril (Owl of Mirkwood, sometime companion of Melereg) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "lady wing." See notes below on why she is not a Marty-Stan hallmark.
Why Ramíril, Melereg's owl, is not a Marty-Stan hallmark:
1) She is not pink, purple, turquoise, silver, gold, or any combination of the above; she is a plain brown and white owl (kudos and a Keebler cookie if you can guess what type of owl she is!).
2) She chows down on rodents and cute little bunnies like any proper owl, not sugar or nectar or any of the other crap MS animals get fed. Oh, and she doesn't eat her furry little mammalian Happy Meals from Melereg's hand, either; she goes out and slaughters her food on her own.
3) She does not shapeshift.
4) She does not speak. Ever.
5) She was not a gift from a wizard.
6) She has no magical powers whatsoever.
7) She has not been with Melereg since his birth, which would be weird anyway because owls don't traditionally live thousands of years.
8) She does not engage in battle on Melereg's behalf.
9) She does not deliver messages.
10) In short, she does not perform any really useful function.
11) She. Is. Just. An. Owl.
A few updates and general ramblings:
For any HASA members who are the slightest bit interested in engaging Katharine in quasi-conversation about TWW, here's a bit of news: I recently created a leetle forum at HASA's site for the tale. It's under the Stories category. Feel free to drop a note in with any questions, comments, complaints, etc. etc. etc. Who knows? I might decide to hand out itsy bitsy spoilers from time to time! (Shh, Spoiler Queens Ara and Drew, don't breathe a peep to ANYONE!! ^_^)
In other news, in case anyone wasn't aware of it, I'm currently writing a piece in collaboration with the lovely Madame TreeHugger. It is Uncommon Tales: Tales of the Jade King, which can be found here at my corner of FF.net. If you haven't checked that out, please do so, and remember to leave a review telling us what you think! It is muy bueno, in my humble estimation! Full of Li'l Legolas cuteness and yummy Thranduil goodness! (^_~ at JastaElf)
Many thanks to everyone who conspired to get that lousy TWW ripoff story kicked off of the site—do you know the authoress of that painful thing actually sent me the second chapter of her ripoff and threatened to post the story elsewhere? O_O *shudder* She's being extraordinarily unkind about the whole business. Please, if anyone sees that horrid piece lurking in any other corners of the Net, PLEASE let me know!
Woohoo for The Two Towers; I went to the second showing—at 12:10 AM on the night of the 17th/morning of the 18th—dressed up as a Nazgûl! I can't say I was very pleased by the portrayal of Faramir (he was mm-mm good and all that, but the Faramir in the book was a lot smarter—disdaining to take the Ring, y'know), or by the hacking at Elrond's character (c'mon, "Do I not also have your love?" was such a low blow!), but all the same it was a thrill to watch. I complained about Haldir being at Helm's Deep right up until I saw him in that wine-red cloak, and then I got over it. Until he died. I think I'll send a threatening note to PJ about the evils of killing off all the cool people (*glares at George Lucas*—Qui-Gon was my fave). Five billion cheers, though, for all of the Rohirrim! Éomer, Éowyn, Théoden, Gríma, and everybody else was spot-on! Magnificent, I say!
Also, just in case anyone wanted to know (which I really doubt), I recently had the distinct cringing pleasure of watching The Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert three times in a row. Hugo Weaving makes an astonishingly unattractive woman. *Blech* I'll never see Lord Elrond the same way again… (Heinous giggle)
As always, thankee muchly for reading; please review, even if it's just to yell at me about taking so long to update!
Next chapter…Gimli's travels with the Elves continue, we see fireside chatter á la Mirkwood, and the gang meets up with an old friend…
