by Spyke Raven
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There was rain that night; water that could have been caught in helms and dented breastplates, water that could have been used to bathe cuts and moisten the lips of the lads and greying fathers who huddled in the centre of the room, surrounded by the few standing men. But the walls that sheltered and protected them kept out all but the sound of life-giving drops beating outside the keep, a counterpoint to the yelling of the Uruk-Hai whose open mouths filled with disgust as they spat towards their enemy. And inside, the men's thirst for water replaced thirst for blood, and the face of Theoden King grew fell and grey.
In the caves below the fortress, the women sat holding rusted, ancient swords, for the best had gone to the menfolk outside. Their thirst, at least, was bearable. When Gimli the dwarf came to find the lady Eowyn, her face was white with pinched sorrow, but her hands were ice firm-wrapped around the sword.
She spoke not, but struck first. He ducked, and the blow glanced off his mithril helm.
"No, lady," he cried, and her stroke halted above his shoulder. He sat rubbing it, rueful gaze making out her features in the dim light. "I thought but to see thee settled," he said.
A moment and then she offered her hand.
"How goes it,Master Dwarf?"she asked, his calloused fingers warm against hers. Gimli shrugged, as the echoes of the Uruk Hai carried down again, magnified and emptied by the hollow rock.
"Well enough, lady. None you fear for are taken hurt. The children?" His eyes roved the darkness even as she answered him.
"Well enough.There is a culvert from which they may drink and their mothers hold them for warmth."
Gimli saw, saw the stinking black drain and the withering hands that closed firm over the babes' screaming mouths.
"And you, my lady? How goes it with you?"
Her hand trembled as she freed it from his, freed it to rest firmly on the pommel of her sword.
"It goes well then, Master Dwarf" she said aloud, so the sound would carry to her waiting people. "We are grateful for your tidings."
He looked at her, fair and icy-cold, fairer than the crystals that grew in the depths of Kibil-nala. His heart smote him for her resemblance to the lady of Lorien, for the thought that the beauty of Rohan was a flower that had yet to bloom.
"Of your kindness, lady," and Gimli bowed gracefully before hurrying away, back up to where the men waited. Eowyn's gaze followed him long into the blackness, long after the sound of his feet had ceased to echo on the stairs.- -
The air was fetid with the stench of orcs; hot with the promise of water only inches away. Gimli wrinkled his nose as he made his way to his companions' side, stomach ill at ease with the news he must bring.
"Well" asked Aragorn. Gimli shook his head.
"Give me twelve months and twenty of my kinsmen and we would make this a fortress that could weather any siege. But now," he looked away, "They cannot bear it, Aragorn. Say I cannot, if you wish, but we must find another way."
Aragorn nodded, hand hovering above the Evenstar on his breast. The fist clenched, then moved away.
"I go to speak to Theoden King," he said.
Legolas made as if to stop Aragorn, then checked himself. Gimli pretended not to notice. He put his eye to the narrow slit in the stone wall.
"Ho, elf!" he chuckled. "I have not your eyes, but they seem a forest of necks out there, ready for the hewing! A red dawn comes, eh? What say you?"
Legolas said nothing. After a moment, Gimli rested his face against the cool stone.
"A good end, lad," he murmured to himself. "A fitting end, of such Durin himself would have been proud. Fine deeds among fine friends..."
"You must lead the women and children through the paths in the mountain," said Legolas quietly.
"Say what?" Gimli turned so quickly his beard nearly caught in the cracks of stone. "What was that?"
Legolas' tone was light, his hand steady on the bow. Only his eyes looked slightly away and higher than was his wont when speaking to his dwarf comrade.
"I said, you will lead the women and children through the mountains. I do not think this dawn will see you ride."
"It is the thirst," Gimli muttered. "It is the thirst that has driven you mad."
"Gimli," and Legolas' fingers were a cold shape against his shoulder, their chill communicating even through the mithril. "I tell you that you will not ride."
"Arod shall bear me!"
"He shall not, not this morning."
"Why you - !"
"- after," said Legolas, softer than a whisper, "After, I swear he shall find you, and bear you wherever you would wish to be. But not this morning, dwarf," Legolas' fingers squeezed the muscle of Gimli's shoulder, echoing the pain in Gimli's heart, "not this morning, for say I cannot bear that you shall ride."
Gimli gaped. "I wish only -" he cried, but before his mind knew the words his heart spoke, they were swallowed, captured between stern soft bars that whispered a single word as they closed.
"Gimli."
Legolas' lips were cooler than rain, brushing over his mouth, entangling in the escaped wisps of plaited beard. Gimli half-realised the elf kneeled, uniting their hands. He half-recognised that there was age in this mouth, age and strength like a young hot vein of magma from the earth's core; hot and younger than the rock encasing it, but older by far than the dwarf in its path.
But Legolas' lips were only cool against his, easing a tormented thirst that Gimli had half-forgotten, so long had it gone without ease.
Am I a child, thought Gimli suddenly, am I a child to be bribed... to be bribed with sweet... so sweet...
A last cool brush over his mouth that could have been air jostled out of place as the elf left to find his lord and master. Gimli stood with a hand fisted over his axe, and the other, bemused, hovering over his lips. So too had Aragorn held the Evenstar. So too, Legolas' gaze held the son of Arathorn.
Didn't it?
As long as we three companions hold true, the son of Arathorn had said. Had promised that dunderheaded fool of an elf - who had believed him. And who it seemed knew that Gimli had never wished for more than the thrill of the hunt, and to die with fine deeds performed among fine friends.
And yet he was told - nay, commanded to withdraw from the field? Gimli snorted and one-handed, hefted his axe over his shoulder.
Durin's folk might be allied with others, but never would they be commanded.
A foul wind blew, carrying the stench of orcs and a baby's cry. Gimli shivered, and his hand fell away.
- -
"You again." Eowyn rose from the shadows, a lily wrapped in folds of death. The sword slid down to rest.
"You do not hit me this time?"
"I know your footsteps," she said. Gimli paused in the act of seating himself beside her, then made it look as though he were brushing off the stone.
"I heard the horn," she whispered, after they had sat a little in silence.
"I come to set your feet on the paths through the mountain," answered Gimli.
"I am glad," Eowyn said. In the darkness, her fingers found his.
Gimli cleared his throat.
"To set your feet on the path, I said. But you must lead from there, lady."
Eowyn said nothing, only pressed her fingers against his for a moment. Only for a moment before Gimli rose, shouldered his axe and led the way.
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