Title: Of Fire and Stars (Part 10)

Author: Ro

Rating: R (for disturbing imagery and gore)

Warnings: Major horror, gore, angst

Disclaimer: I'm not making any profit off this. With the exception of a few of the original characters, Gimli and all the other characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (who's probably spinning in his grave as we speak).

Summary: Gandalf finds out what happened to Gimli in the year while he and Thorin's company were away on their Quest. Takes place during "The Hobbit", don't like Dwarves or Gimli then don't read this fic!

Notes: This is Book-version, not the Movie version.

More notes: Big 'thank you' to my lovely Beta-reader Little My! glomp I don't know what I would do without her!

/" "/ means someone is speaking in 'Raven"

/" "/ Means someone is speaking in 'Sindarin'

Sorry about the long wait! Anyway, thank you to everyone for the kind reviews and comments bows! Thank you, they have really helped motivate me to continue on with this fic.

This chapter is dedicated to veterans everywhere.


"Lost amongst the Dead"

A gangly Goblin weakly hissed from where it lay curled and shivering in a pool of its own blood and filth. It glared up at the stony being that had come to stand over it, blocking its view of the brilliant blue sky above and drawing its gaze to the black- splattered weapon held in the being's broad hand.

The snow-haired Dwarf brought the heavy war hammer down on the goblin's head with a powerful strike, collapsing its skull with the loud wet sound of a smashed pumpkin and killing it instantly. The creature's gangly limbs jerked sporadically for a moment before stopping altogether. Then, without a word, the old Dwarf stepped away and continued on his search for survivors, shoving the black-stained war hammer back in its holster at his side. He had given the dying goblin more mercy than if their roles had been reversed. The Dwarf's fathomless dark eyes searched meticulously over the various sprawled and crumpled corpses as he made his slow way through the bloody aftermath of The Battle of Five Armies.

The desolate, body strewn landscape stretched out around him as the heavy tread of his boots echoed loudly through hush. The proud Mountain and the surrounding ridges seemed to silently stand guard over those in the valley below. A heavy silence filled the air now that the deafening roar of battle was over, as if the very earth was afraid of breathing too loudly. Only the piercing cries of anguish and the moans of the dying could be heard. A chill breeze tugged every now and then on loose hair and the broken flags of those lying unmoving in the mud.

The spiked war hammer at the Dwarf's side was for any goblin or other evil creature he might find and put out of their misery. His deep green hood, with its embroidered silver trim and the thick silver ring attached to the tassel, told all that he was a healer. On his back was a leather traveling pack of extra supplies and his own things, a quiver that still carried some thick armor piercing bolts, and a very large and heavy long bow. Though an uncommon weapon for most Dwarves to take into battle, he was highly skilled with it.

While most could never hope to achieve the level of finesse and marksmanship of the Wood-elves, many Dwarves were surprisingly proficient enough in the use of bows to hunt with them. For like it or not, there was just no better weapon to use when one was trying to put meat on the table— not many animals are willing to stand still long enough to be cut down with an axe or sword(1.).

This large bow in particular was unlike the elegant and deadly instruments used by the farseeing Elves or the usual bows used by both Men and Dwarves for hunting or fighting. It was made exclusively to be an ugly, long distance weapon of mass destruction, and the strength required to pull the string was staggering. The lethal missiles were designed to fly over long distances and punch through almost anything with terrifying ease-- bone, shields or the thickest armor were no defense against the unforgiving harpoons. The weapon even had blades on either end of it in case he suddenly found himself in close-quarter combat (which was very rare).

During the battle he had stood with the other archers on the surrounding ridges, raining death upon the Goblins and Orcs in the valley. His massive bow, along with the bows of several exceptionally talented Mirkwood archers, had proved instrumental in taking out most of the massive armored Goblins of Bolg's bodyguard that had been inflicting such damage on their combined forces.

On his other hip was a flask made from the hollowed talon of a long dead cold-drake, carved and inlayed with worked silver of intricate and interlaced knot designs. The beautiful flask held a very powerful and deadly poison made only by the mysterious traveling bands of Dark Elves.

It was a closely guarded secret, unknown to many Elves and Dwarves, that the rare and ever illusive Avari had a flourishing trade alliance with the small hidden settlements of StoneFoot clans of the White Mountains. The Avari traded food, poison, and beautifully tooled wood and leather goods for the Dwarves' finely wrought weapons, armor and tools, as well as for the repair of damaged weapons and armor.

This rare poison was for any poor Dwarf, Elf or Man who was beyond his help, except to put an end to their suffering. Even Dwarves and Elves, who had a natural immunity to most poisons, had no immunity to this deadly brew. Only a drop or two upon the lips was all that was needed for the fast acting poison to take effect. It could also be dripped onto open wounds and still be just as effective, or mixed with spring water that would slake any being's last desperate thirst before they were suddenly taken by a wave of euphoria as the poison began to destroy their brain's pain center. No matter how severe, all pain would stop as if by magic. Their last moments would be completely peaceful, free of all pain as the powerful poison raced through their system, shutting their body down.

Vestri would respectfully wait for them to pass, sometimes holding their hand if they wished or simply keeping a comforting hand upon the dying being's brow or shoulder, letting them know that they were not alone. He even carried an extra pipe and some good Hobbit-grown weed from the Shire if any wished for a good smoke before the end. He did not care if that being was male or female, Dwarf, Elf, Man or Eagle; he was a healer before he was anything else.

Most Dwarven healers however didn't have this deadly poison in their supplies, unlike this Dwarf who had grown up in one of the small hidden colonies in the White Mountains. Instead, they usually just used their strong hands to quickly snap the neck of those that could not be saved and end their pain.

As for Vestri, Son of Vert himself, he was a very old Dwarf, considered ancient even by his long- lived race, for he was over three hundred and twenty-eight years old (2.). His thick mane of snow-white hair was so long that even braided the thick rope of it touched the ground, which was why Vestri doubled the braid up, attaching the end of it to the start of his braid with a strip of leather. His snowy beard was also immensely long, hanging down to mid-thigh. Luckily a Dwarf's beard takes a lot longer to grow than the rest of their hair, so he did not have to worry about tripping on it. He kept his silky beard neatly plaited and tucked into his thick belt that was full of compartments and pouches for his various herbs, minerals, bandages, needles and thread, as well as anything else he may need.

Vestri was an unusual Dwarf and could consider himself very fortunate. For when a Dwarf's hair begins to turn white it is usually a harbinger of his impending death, often within the next ten years. It is only during these final years that they begin to noticeably age and wrinkle, their strength and stamina slowly ebbing away.

Unlike Men and Hobbits, after they reach maturity most Dwarves, with the exception of hair growth, hardly change in appearance. A Dwarf of two hundred and thirty will look much the same as he did when he turned seventy. However it was not uncommon for a Dwarf's hair to go prematurely white even when relatively young, as a result of some terrible grief or tragedy in their life.

This however was not the case with Vestri. His hair had turned white fifteen winters past and he knew that he did not have much longer-- he could feel it in his aching joints-- but he refused to sit idle when he was still fit enough to be of some use and his skills were needed.

He knew though, deep in his bones, that this was his final battle as well as his final journey. But it was worth it, if nothing else to see the Lonely Mountain rightfully taken back. He had seen much in his long life and travels, had been a part of more than his fair share of battles, including the long and grueling seven- year War of Dwarves and Orcs. He had never married and had outlived all his relatives, including a younger brother. He did however have many apprentices and students that he had taught everything he knew — they would continue his legacy, in both healing as well as the bow.

At the moment Vestri found himself kneeling by the side of a moaning young Man of the Lake, no more than a teenager, partially pinned under the heavy corpse of a less fortunate Man. While the Eagles, Dwarves and Elves had lost many this day (with the exception of the defeated goblins and orcs), the Men of the Lake had clearly taken the most losses. Luckily their kind seemed to breed like rabbits compared to Elves and Dwarves, Vestri snorted to himself.

The dark-haired teen was badly injured, but Vestri's trained eyes quickly told him that the young one could be saved, though he would no doubt be disfigured and walk with a limp. After pushing the heavy body of the decapitated Man off the lad, Vestri gently checked him for broken bones before removing the teen's long leather jerkin and chain mail shirt, and cutting away the bloody under tunic with his knife. After quickly assessing the damage, he went about bandaging the worst of the wounds. While preparing the teen to be moved he gave a long high whistle, calling one of the many Ravens to him, not once looking away from his work.

The injured young Man was delirious from pain and blood loss and was weakly struggling to sit up while he reached clumsily out for the Dwarf.

"Gr-grandfather…Grandfather! You've come back…," he cried in a hoarse voice, smiling vacantly and staring at the white-haired Dwarf with glassy delirious eyes.

"Easy, young one," the old Dwarf said, his voice deep and comforting. He took a moment to look into the teen's pale face as he gently caught one of the lad's reaching hands. Giving it a paternal pat, he smiled comfortingly at the young Human, then laid one broad and calming hand on the young Man's fevered brow. This seemed to work and the teen finally stilled, but continued to mumble incoherently to himself.

"Grandfather…father… everyone will…will be so…so…happy…"

At the sound of flapping wings, Vestri looked up and saw a young Raven land on the ground next to him.

"/Found another live one/" she asked, looking up at the old Dwarf with intelligent obsidian eyes before turning and cocking her head at the wounded human.

"Aye, that I have," Vestri nodded, turning his eyes back to his task. "Now I need a stretcher right away. Take this one to the blue healing tent and let one of the healers there know that this one's been jabbed by a poisoned blade--looks like the typical sludge the orcs of the Misty Mountains use." He took a moment to run an assessing eye over some of the less critical wounds on the boy, paying particular attention to the traces of a viscous brown substance in and around some of the wounds before continuing.

"Make sure to let one of the Mirkwood healers know-- they have a special cream and leaf wraps that will nullify the toxins and clean his blood of infection. If they are too busy tell one of my fellow Kazad(3.) healers to pack his wounds with ground red-bush root and give the lad some sleeping draught until one of the Elves can find time to address his wounds," he instructed the Raven as he finally finished binding a nasty gash on the young Man's side.

There were several large tents set up for the wounded in the ruins of Dale, most of the refugees from Lake Town were in temporary shelters on the shores of Long Lake, just ashore from the ruined town. The large tent that had a simple blue standard flying from the top was for those whose needs were critical, the tan and green colored standard tents were for the less seriously wounded.

"/Right away/" the Raven cawed and with a flap she was in the air, heading back to relay his instructions. Ravens have excellent memories and could quickly direct the people below with the stretchers to where an injured being lay. The Dwarven healers had taken full advantage of this, allowing them to quickly move on and help others. Even a few of the Elven and Human healers had quickly picked up on this as well and copied the shrill whistle they heard the Dwarven healers using to call the dark birds. Though they could not understand the Ravens' language they trusted the large birds to follow their instructions and so far there had been no problems, for all the Ravens of the Lonely Mountain could understand the common tongue, though not all could speak it.

Vestri made sure the young Man was resting comfortably before slowly standing up again with a low groan, his back giving a few audible pops. I'm getting too damn old for this, he thought crankily to himself as he rubbed his lower back. He moved on, stopping every now and then at a particular body, checking to make sure they were truly dead. After inspecting the body of an Elf, missing a leg and a hand and unfortunately having bleed to death before help could arrive, Vestri had just gently closed her dull eyes when he heard a flap of wings and felt a familiar weight alight on his shoulder.

He pushed back his green hood and turned his head to look at the old female Raven now perched on his left shoulder. Her once sleek black feathers were dusted with gray, showing her advanced age, and around her neck she proudly wore a delicate silver chain with a carved opal bead that she had picked out herself.

Her name was Rin and she was his most beloved companion, friend, and confidant. He had rescued her when she was young from a murder of crows that were bent on killing her. She had been badly bleeding and one of her glossy wings had been broken during her desperate struggles with the malicious smaller birds. After chasing off her tormenters, he had taken her in and mended her wounds and in turn earned himself a life-long companion. She watched his back, acted as his look-out, and during battles she was his farseeing eyes, directing him where to aim his heavy bow and fire at their enemies. Only the Wood-elves could claim to have better aim than Vestri and Rin's combined skill. Now after the battle her sharp eyes helped him find survivors amongst the dead.

"Vestri! Come! Look what I found," she said, after lovingly tucking a loose lock of his white hair behind his ear with her smooth beak. Unlike many of the Ravens here, Rin could speak common fluently, though her high voice sounded a bit harsh and clipped to those that didn't know her.

"Well then, let's see what your sharp eyes have found," he said, following her directions and keeping his eyes out for other survivors as he went.

"See, this one lives still!" she cawed, when they had finally reached their destination not far away. She hopped off his shoulder with a flap and alighted on the end of an Elven spear that had been driven through the body of a filthy brown furred warg and into the muddy ground beneath.

"So I see. Good work, my dear," he praised her, taking a closer look at the dirty and crumpled form at his feet, surrounded by the bodies of less fortunate beings.

What he saw was the mud and blood- stained body of a young Dwarf, who could be no more than sixty five at the most, sprawled on his stomach. Clutched in one of his broad hands was a magnificent double-bladed battleaxe, a single- bladed axe still holstered at the young one's side. The only thing that set his body apart from those around him was the steady rise and fall of his chest. Vestri and Lady Rin could not see the young Dwarf's face, but they both took note of the dirty, yet still striking mane of dark copper-colored hair.

With a wince and a rumbling groan the old healer lowered himself down to squat next to the body before carefully reaching out to gently turn the unconscious Dwarf over…

----------------------

Amaras had just returned with one of the last patrols that had been sent out to scour the ridges around the Mountain for any remaining goblins or orcs. He was a rather tall Elf by Silvan standards, and struck a striking and elegant figure with his pale glowing skin and his long dark hair that he had braided back with the delicate tendril of a green fern. Unfortunately his sharp- featured face always seemed to have an irritated look about it. "To match his sour disposition!" his fellows would whisper to one another on patrols. "That or he has a bunch of sour grapes stuck up his rear end!" they would add with a snicker.

At the moment he was exhausted as he and the warriors of his patrol walked back towards the Mirkwood army's encampment. His slender arms ached from the near constant firing of his bow and swinging his short sword during the long battle, but he felt strangely restless. The thought of relaxing with his equally tired fellows under one of the airy green tents back at camp did not appeal to him as he glared at the desolate and rocky landscape of the dragon's desolation around them. Behind him, two of his five companions were snickering over a joke, but the others were too tired to even listen.

/"And the Naug tells her… That wasn't a monster, that was my ugly face!"/ Carnesir told the darker-haired Elerosse before both Elves dissolved into peals of silvery laughter.

/"Oh! Oh, I have one better!"/ Elerosse giggled excitedly, before launching off into another joke. /"How do a group of Naugrim and a group of wargs eat--"/ But Amaras had heard enough, and blocked out the sound of their voices behind him. He had always found those two extremely annoying- both were fast with a bow, but both were even faster with their mouths. It seemed to Amaras that their tongues flapped nonstop, no matter how inappropriate the time, be it on patrol, guard duty or now as the group skirted around the carnage in the valley.

They had almost made it to camp when he heard someone call for him, and looking up he smiled as he saw who it was. Standing in a small group not far away was Prince Valandil, who was a close friend. Looking closer however he felt an immediate frown pull at his lips when he saw Valandil's youngest brother standing beside him.

The tall blond archer waved them over, and as Amaras finally reached the other group he could see that aside from Valandil and Legolas, there were three other Elves there, all of them clad in the green and brown garb of Mirkwood archers. One of the three Elves was clearly injured as he hung limply between the other two.

As Amaras approached he made a point of glaring at the lithe green-eyed Prince next to his taller blond brother. Legolas- beautiful, perfect and coddled Legolas, the shining apple of King Thranduil's eye. How he despised him!

It was with a twinge of pleasure that he saw that the slender Elf's long hair and clothes were liberally caked in mud and blood, his delicate pale face filthy with a few fading bruises marring one high cheekbone. Amaras also noticed that the smaller Elf seemed to be favoring one leg, his luminous emerald eyes troubled but focused. The others of Valandil's group where also covered in mud and less savory things, all clearly as exhausted as Amaras' weary patrol.

Legolas meanwhile was perfectly aware of Amaras' feelings and made no attempt at conciliation, matching the taller Elf's glare with a cool gaze of his own. He might not try to rub Amaras' straight nose in his higher position, but that also didn't mean he would budge an inch either. As long as the tall brown-haired Elf did what he was told and didn't insult him out loud, Legolas could care less what Amaras thought of him.

The fact was that Thranduil's youngest had more than earned his place, starting from the bottom and climbing up the ranks on his own. They were both group leaders, but Legolas had also earned the title of field leader, making him of higher rank than the older Elf. The two of them had competed for the same position many years before, with Legolas besting him in both the bow as well as strategy and fighting ability.

This of course was conveniently ignored by Amaras, who had long ago convinced himself of his own superiority and what he thought of as the blatant favoritism shown to the delicate, ebony-haired Prince. But he managed to swallow all of this before putting a hand on his chest and, along with the rest of his company, giving the two Princes a respectful bow.

/"My lords,"/ he said before straightening up again, a true smile now on his sharp face.

/"Good hunting, my friend?"/ Valandil asked, smiling back as they warmly clasped one another's arms.

/"Slim pickings, my Lord,"/ he said, giving his blond friend a smirk before they both stepped back. He and Valandil had grown up together, hunted together and socialized often, and both held a close affection for one another.

/"We came upon only two orcs attempting to flee,"/ put in one of the other Elves in Amaras' patrol. He was a black-haired Elf of average height, quiet and easy going for the most part. /" But there are foul Naugrim everywhere,"/ he snorted, his sharp grey eyes watching a small group of the stocky beings heading back towards the valley to help with the clean up. The way he said "Naugrim" and the disgust that pulled at his face, one would have thought a group of giant dead rats had walked past. /"Aside from that, all seems clear,"/ he finished with a small shrug, turning again to his two superiors with an easy smile back on his pale face.

/"Excellent,"/ Valandil said, tucking a loose strand of gold hair behind his pointed ear before turning to another matter that had been nagging at him. /"Has anyone seen Captain Calencarka? Last I saw of her she was making her way through the battle with a contingent of our spearmen, towards the ridge the King defended with Mithrandir."/ He looked around at the others, but everyone either gave looks of surprise at the news or shook their heads in the negative, except for two.

/"I heard she fell in battle!"/ Elerosse blurted out, watching as all the others looked in his direction.

/"That can't be!"/ said Carnesir beside him while crossing his arms. /"I overheard Elreols say that she had suffered a bad wound and was taken to one of the healing tents in the ruins of Dale."/

/"I hope you are right, Carnesir,"/ said Legolas in his lilting voice, speaking for the first time since they had arrived.

Amaras spared the lithe archer a look down his nose, before pointedly turning away.

It just stuck in his craw that here he was, two thousand years older than this upstart and a group leader before the little brat was even born, yet having to take orders from him! If Valandil noticed the friction between his little brother and his close friend, he chose to turn a blind eye and ignore it. Amaras had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral as Legolas, who had been looking back at the injured and moaning Elf and his two friends, turned to his brother, totally ignoring Amaras' presence.

/"Brother, we must go. Cutholion worsens as we speak,"/ he urged before stepping away and motioning for the two carrying the limp Cutholion to follow. Valandil gave a sharp nod before turning to Amaras again.

/"I know you must be tired, my friend. But I need a few of our scouts to keep an eye on things- I don't trust all these mortals wandering about. Could you pick some scouts to keep look out?"/

/"Right away! I'll do it myself,"/ he told him. /"Besides, it will be good to get some time alone,"/ he said, giving his friend a crisp bow.

/"Well then. Go find a good vantage point and enjoy the solitude, my friend!"/ Valandil ordered with a laugh, clasping his shoulder before turning and heading after Legolas and the other three. Amaras watched him go before turning to the Elves silently waiting behind him.

/"Melwasul, take the east point. Calacil, you take the southeast ridge. Goalduil, take a spot by those trees near the arm of the Mountain. Elerosse, you will take the west ridge,"/ he ordered. /"I'll take the bare ridge across from the mountain."/ He pointed to the tall ridge that lay on the opposite side of the valley.

This meant that only he would have to walk through the bodies and remains of the battle- the others could skirt around it to their respective spots. For all his own personal problems, grudges and opinions, Amaras was a good group leader and had earned his title. The ridges he assigned the others also had trees and vegetation in which they could hide and rest; the ridge he chose for himself was bare of vegetation, though there were plenty of places to hide out of sight as he kept watch. And it would give him an excellent view of the whole valley and surrounding area.

The warriors only gave a nod before heading for their respective posts, except for Elerosse who let out a tired grumble and all but stomped away to the west ridge, clearly annoyed at the extra duty. The others would return to camp, and with that decided they went their separate ways.

The fastest way to the ridge was straight through the horrors of the bloody battlefield, and as he made his way to the valley, Amaras steeled himself. He had unfortunately seen much death in his thousands of years, but that didn't mean he ever got used to it. Far too many of his people lay slaughtered below- fellow Wood-elves, some he had known before King Thranduil had even taken over the throne after the events of The Last Alliance. It served to fuel the heat of his anger that many a fair Elf now lay broken and cold in the mud when they should be singing and living their lives under the dark boughs of their forest.

He had just entered the battlefield when he passed a tired looking contingent of armed Lake Men, and he just barely held in a sneer as he watched them limp past. Damn Men anyway! Ungrateful simpletons, they are almost as bad as the greedy Naugrim, he cursed to himself. It had not been lost on him nor King Thranduil that after begging for assistance from the Elven army- which they had freely given, draining their army's already low supplies- the Lake Men had loudly praised the Wood-elves for their kindness until they had recovered well enough and regrouped. Yet when both their forces turned their eyes to the Mountain and the thought of the treasure within reach… suddenly the Lake Men under Bard's command decided to set themselves apart from the army of Mirkwood days before the battle. Then again, what should they expect from the ungrateful mortals? Men--greedy and weak!

When Amaras reached the battlefield his sharp ears were immediately filled with the sounds of the dying and the laughter of feasting crows. His nose wrinkled in offence at the thick smell of death and blood in the air as he surveyed the grim landscape with narrowed eyes. With a final internal shake Amaras took a deep breath and began to run.

With the grace of a long legged deer he ran through the now quiet battlefield, dodging past broken standards and healers, leaping over mounds of bodies. He set his gaze firmly ahead, refusing to look at the carnage that filled the valley. His soft booted feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as he flew past obstacles and other survivors, many not even noting his passing except for a brief gust of wind and the fleeting scent of loam and deep forests.

As he ran he let his mind wander back to the battle. He had been on the ridge which had a large contingent of their army's archers, along with a few Human and Dwarf ones. All of them had used their position to rain death down on the dark army below. But out of all of the archers there he had been the best. Dropping goblins and orcs at each pull of his bow, he was shining! That was until Valandil and his spoiled brat brother had showed up.

At the time he hardly took notice of their arrival, being too busy fighting in the heat of battle. He had been targeting one of the massive goblins of Bolg's bodyguard, aiming for one of its pig-like eyes. But the creature had suddenly moved to club an unfortunate Man, causing his arrow to be deflected by its heavy rusted helmet. Then not a second later before he could even hiss a curse, another leaf thatched arrow slammed into the goblin's head. He turned to see who had fired the shot, only to grit his teeth in irritation.

Next to him was the newly arrived Legolas, hands a near blur as he fired his bow with deadly accuracy. That little brat had taken his shot, dropping the massive goblin with an arrow through the eye. It had been his shot! No one else seemed to take notice of this, not even the lithe Prince next to him, all being far too preoccupied firing their own bows, but to Amaras it was an insulting slap in the face. That little brat took his shot and made him look like a fool! he snarled to himself as he slowed to a walk, having finally reached the other side of the valley, the Lonely Mountain behind him.

With a final internal curse, he firmly shoved his resentment for Legolas to the back of his mind and began to climb the ridge. Like it or not, he still had his duty to do and this ridge would provide the perfect vantage point to keep an eye out for any activity below in any of the three camps, including the Mountain itself. Finally reaching the top he walked silently along the crest, coming around a rocky bend as he looked for the perfect spot. Some quiet time alone with his troubled thoughts as he looked over the grand view would do his frayed nerves some much needed good.

However Amaras was surprised and greatly irritated to find he was not the only one with the same idea, for when he reached the rise that looked out over the whole valley, he saw someone else was already there.

Sitting on the ground, gazing out at the view of the proud Mountain and valley below, was a tall dark-haired Man. The Man's attention seemed far away, and his right arm was wrapped around his middle (no doubt holding an injury), his left arm resting comfortably on his one upraised knee. Amaras noticed that he did not wear the simple clothes of the Lake Men, nor the browns and greens of the suspicious Woodmen from the south of Mirkwood, but instead wore dark travel-worn clothes of black and brown. The Man's very countenance seemed different to the Men he had come across in his long life- clearly he was not from around here.

"You are not a Man of the Lake, nor one of the Woodmen," he said in common in an almost accusatory manner.

The strange Man seemed at first not to hear him, and it was a few moments before he turned his head towards the Elf with a look of confusion. He had a weather-beaten face and striking grey eyes-no doubt he would be considered ruggedly handsome by some. He was also clean- shaven and a small part of the archer noticed that the mortal's skin had a strange pallor to it.

The Man gave a blink at the Mirkwood warrior now standing not eight feet away from him before his confusion melted away to mild interest, and he gave a small nod of his head before answering.

"Correct, Master Elf," he said in a husky yet pleasant voice. "My name is Darogon, I am a Ranger from the North."

Amaras' eyes narrowed a fraction as he studied the Ranger more closely - there was wisp of something familiar. Something almost…Elven about this mortal. A hint of something ancient. It was then that it suddenly came to him.

"You are one of the Dunedain," he said, more of a statement than a question, and watched as the Man simply gave an answering nod.

"Why are you here? What business does a Ranger from the north have here?" he found himself demanding of the sitting Man.

"At first I was here only to pay witness to the foolish battle about to take place," Darogon said in a near laugh. "But after the Wizard's intervention and the arrival of Bolg's army, things changed. A true and worthy battle had come. After that I could not stand idly by-- I gladly took up my sword and joined the battle on the side of light, to stand with the three armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves that had finally seen reason!

"It was hard won- I sadly lost my beloved sword and was forced to fight with my knife…but the battle was won nonetheless!" he said with a proud smile on his dirty and blood smudged face. "It will be many years before the goblins and orcs can recover enough to pose a serious threat to any of our people," the Man stated in his husky voice, made rough from years of smoking and long periods patrolling silently alone through the wilderness.

However the Wood-elf's previous bitterness had not yet abated and he gave a derisive sniff at the Man's words.

"Aye. Another battle won, thanks to the spilled blood of the Elves! If not for you damned mortals, many of my brethren would still be under the green boughs of our forest, instead of laying butchered upon the ground!" he snapped bitterly, his far seeing eyes glaring out into the body littered valley. His long pale hands clenched into tight fists as he thought of all the broken bodies of his people and comrades that now lay lifeless below.

"Damn the Naugrim," Amaras snarled, seething with righteous anger. "It is their fault this unnecessary battle came about! First trespassing, then attacking us during our festivities, then insulting our King. Now this (4.)! Curse their grasping greed and stiff necks! No better than the dammed yrch!"

The silent Dunedain meanwhile seemed to thoughtfully consider his harsh words, as if listening to one side of an impassioned argument before deciding to voice his own thoughts on the subject (asked or not).

"Do you know what I think?" he asked rhetorically, a small smile pulling at the corner of his blue tinted lips. "I believe you Elves simply fixate on the misdeeds of the Dwarves and the rest of us mortals because you don't want to admit that your kind be just as flawed as the rest of us."

At those words Amaras' head snapped sharply in the Man's direction, his eyes wide in angry disbelief at what his ears had just heard. The Ranger however took no notice as he continued on in a thoughtful tone.

"Thorin's small band and King Dain's army fought for the treasure, yes," he said with a nod. "But they also fought for the Mountain, their rightful home. The Lake Men fought for their lives and for the means to rebuild their homes lost to Smaug's fury."

"What was it that the army of Mirkwood fought for?" he asked, turning to look at the green and brown clad warrior. "What was the true reason to march your army out from the forest?" Darogon tucked a dark curl of hair behind an ear with his left hand, his other still tightly clutched around his middle.

Amaras could say nothing as he glared incredulously down at the still seated Human, his body taut as a strung bow, his beautiful face full of wrath. Still the Man continued, where any other being would have been cowed by the fury now in Amaras' pale, sharp- featured face.

"Your kind maybe Iluvatar's first and favored children, but you are just as capable of greed, cruelty and ignorance as any Man or Dwarf," the Ranger finally finished.

The tall Elf started badly at this as if he had suddenly been struck in the face, not believing what he was hearing, before his glittering eyes narrowed dangerously and his lips curled back. How dare this ignorant mortal speak such things to him? After all they had done, to dare speak such things?

"Do not DARE to presume to preach such things to me, Mortal! One need only read and listen to the long tales from our past to see that we Elves have much reason to blame the Naugrim and Men! Both your kinds have been the ruin of much and bringers of tragedy in this world. Do not presume to lecture me of "flaws"! Both your kinds deserve much blame! Or need I remind you what misery has come about by the greedy hands of Dwarves or the power hungry fingers of Men? How many lost their lives for naught, because of Isildur's selfish weakness? What of all the lives lost in the wanton murder and destruction of Doriath!" hissed the Elf, looking coldly down his narrow nose at the Ranger as he towered over him.

But the Man seemed unfazed and only chuckled at Amaras' righteous words.

"Yes, you are right… shameful indeed," Darogon nodded sagely in agreement, giving a momentary wince as the movement caused him to irritate whatever wound he clutched around his middle before continuing on. "I do not condone nor seek to absolve their crimes, but if we are in the game of appointing blame… why not put some of it where it also belongs? Let us blame Feanor for the prideful creation of the cursed Silmarils, the terrible jewels that wreaked such horrible havoc and destruction in the years to follow. What of the burning of the White Ships? Or perhaps we should heap blame upon the smith Celebrimbor, for making the great rings and, after falling for the flattery of the disguised Sauron, teaching the Dark Lord his craft and allowing him to forge the One Ring. Who do we blame for the bloody and terrible Kinslaying? How many innocents were slaughtered that day? By who? Perhaps we should blame all the First-Born for the creation of the orcs next? They were once Elves after all, were they not? Twisted and foul though they are--"

"ENOUGH!" Amaras finally exploded, rounding sharply on the Man, his grey eyes flashing dangerously, his pale hands clenched. Any other being would have been stunned and truly frightened by the display, for the anger of the Elves was legendary, but strangely this Man seemed wholly unimpressed and he just shook his head.

"Sooth your ire, Master Elf! I do not seek to lecture, but to perhaps open a new way of thought," he said, making a calming motion with his free hand before continuing. "It is always harder to look in a mirror and see one's own flaws, than to look upon another and count their flaws."

Unfortunately his words only seem to incense the Mirkwood Elf further, who took a threatening step in his direction.

"H-How dare you! My kind-- all that we have suffered! To compare it-it-- !" Amaras could not even find the proper words to voice his angry denials.

"It stings, does it not? Perhaps next time you will think twice before arrogantly wrapping yourself in the petty and flawed armor of "blame", Master Elf. Bigotry and ignorance do not become such wondrous beings as yourself," the Ranger said in a maddeningly calm and cool voice, watching the fuming Elf from the corner of his eye.

"You know nothing, Mortal!" the lithe warrior finally snarled after a strained moment. He walked a few paces and flopped tiredly down on the ground with a huff, his long legs drawn up, nursing his wounded pride as he glared out into the desolation of the valley below.

The Dunedain however only smiled knowingly before giving a silent wince of pain that went unnoticed by the fuming Mirkwood warrior.

"Is it because I am mortal, Master Elf?" Darogon asked after another long pause. "Because I am simply a Man…a Mortal. Does that make me any less than you? Does that make any Man's or Dwarf's pain and experiences any less? Are the things I have seen and witnessed in my long journeys unimportant because I am not of the First-born?" He turned to look at the glaring Wood-elf who sat a few feet away.

"There is much outside of your forest, Master Elf. Arda is so very vast… The things I have seen…. sorrows beyond imagining. It is not only the fair Elves that have suffered much in this world; hardships and terror are everywhere. From Elf King, to Dwarf warrior, to brothel girl. All feel the darkness' cold bite, the pain of loss, the agony of sorrow. Yet there is such wonder and beauty too..." He spoke in a near whisper, his glassy grey eyes gazing out into the brilliant blue of the sky, lost in vivid memories from the past.

"I once saw the sun swallowed by the moon, turning day into night (5.). I saw sleek dolphins spin and leap as they raced along with the gilded ships on the great rolling sea. I watched Dwarves from the Blue Mountains painted in strange pigments that glowed in the night, "fire-dancing" under a sky full of stars. I've sat and listened to the enchanted singing of pale Elven maidens as they gathered sweet figs from Lord Elrond's orchards in the Fall. I've seen totally untainted happiness in the simplest of things… Like watching golden haired youths leap and play with their horses in the rich fields of Rohan on a warm summer's day. Their utter joy and laughter…"

He paused and a small wry smile pulled then at the Man's mouth, and the listening Elf watched from over his shoulder as a spark of humor came to the Ranger's eye.

"One day I even had the privilege of simply sitting and talking with a fair Wood-elf, after a long and hard won battle."

Amaras remained silent, finding himself then of two minds. A part of him felt humbled at what he had heard. Here he was an Elf of twelve thousand years, yet here was this maddening mortal that could only be a mere fraction of his years, a mere blink of an eye in his existence, who had traveled and paid witness to things that he could only imagine (6.).

It was however his hurt pride and the tattered remains of his arrogance that drove him to his feet, the part of him that refused to hear anymore. The part that didn't want to admit that this Man's words rang disturbingly true. He silently stood there for a long time before he finally turned to glare down at the still seated Human with once again flashing and haughty eyes, refusing to listen to anymore of this stupid prattling by this strange lowly mortal. Then with a sharp toss of his long dark hair, Amaras turned on his heel and simply walked away without a final word or farewell.

The silent Ranger did not move from his spot as he watched the elegant warrior walk away on silent feet. "Fare thee well, Master Elf," he thought as he watched the Elf disappear from his sight, giving an internal shake of his head before returning his attention back to the grand sky. His thoughts once again turned to his past, to the places he had seen and the assortment of people he had met along the way. For a long time he stayed like that, with only the occasional playful gust of wind stirring the tatters of his clothes and his dark hair.

No one saw when he slowly fell back to lie on the hard ground. No one saw as he finally released the arm that was clutched around his middle, revealing a terrible gaping wound in his side, his hand and the whole lower half of his left side soaked in his life's blood. No one saw how his body relaxed, his movements stopping all together as his breathing slowed. No one saw as he became deathly still, the sounds around him seeming to fall silent.

His final thought as his eyes finally fluttered shut was the vivid image of a Woman in a simple brown dress, with plaited brown hair and a warm beckoning smile on her freckled face. She would not be considered beautiful by most people, her dress and manner was that of a common peasant. But to Darogon she was the most beautiful creature in all of Arda. His wife-- his beloved Clea.

"Come, my love…" came the whisper of her sweet voice in his mindand he watched the image of her raise a hand out for him. "It's time to go…"

Only the sky above paid witness as one of the last of the Dunedain took his final breath and quietly died.

--------------------

At the same time in the one of the massive halls in the Lonely Mountain, two raven-haired Dwarves sat in the shadow of a massive stone pillar, safely out of the way of any foot-traffic going through the hall. They were both bare from the waist up, their stained tunics and borrowed hauberks laying forgotten nearby in a messy heap along with their borrowed axes. At the moment the broader of the two siblings knelt close to the other as he went about cleaning the ugly wound in his brother's shoulder, a bowl of bloody water on the ground next to him. The wound itself was deep, but was not too serious and would heal with time.

"Ouch!"

"Quit whining, Oin!"

"You're supposed ta be cleaning my wound, not making it worse!" growled Oin with a pained hiss as he watched his older brother work. Gloin only snorted and rolled his eyes at Oin's fussing.

"I have to get all the dirt out of it-- do you want it to get infected? Now shut your mouth!" he snapped, glaring at his younger brother as he re-wet and wrung out the rag he was using. Oin only turned his head, grumbling under his breath before irritably blowing some hair out of his face, and let his brother work.

As Gloin carefully removed the grit and dirt from his little brother's wound he let his mind wander back to the battle, feeling his own aches and pains. All things considered, they were both extremely lucky to have made it through the long battle in one piece. The constant ache of his stomach however made him think of the strange lithe Elf again. The memory made him want to grind his teeth. Of all creatures! To be saved by an Elf! Oin gave another yelp and Gloin quickly pushed his turbulent thoughts to the back of his mind again.

"OWWWW!" Oin cried, squirming as Gloin finished wiped away the last of the dirt. Dropping the rag into the bowl, he then reached for some strips of material to bind the wound.

"Oin, you whine like a mule!" the older Dwarf snorted as he finished tying off the makeshift bandages.

"No I don't-- Ow!"

"There, done!" Gloin finally said as he leaned back on his heels to survey his handiwork. He watched Oin inspect his work with a sniff, no doubt still pouting. Gloin only rolled his eyes again before moving over and sitting with his back to the cold wall of the Hall, careful of his sore stomach, which had a large, ugly and black bruise the same size and shape as the goblin's club that had struck him during the battle. A moment later Oin, who was apparently over his pouting, crawled over to sit next to him, his movements slow and pained.

Aside from their numerous scrapes and bruises, both of them ached terribly all over, especially the muscles in their arms and shoulders. In fact with the exception of only a few, all of their company felt the same, most never having swung an axe or sword so much in their entire lives. At the moment most them, like he and his brother, had wandered off to lick their wounds and moan and groan in privacy. The warriors from Dain's army openly laughed at them and their whining, shaking their heads at Thorin's motley group. "Stick to the insterments you know, and leave the fighting to the real warriors!" several had laughed as they walked by. Truly Mahal himself must have been looking out for them.

Gloin had been contemplating taking a nap when his brother's cheerful voice shook him out if his thoughts. Turning his head he looked at his smaller brother, noting once again how Oin had always taken after their mother. Like he, Oin had inherited her deep brown eyes, but unlike him Oin had also inherited her smaller features. Both of them had her straight raven-black hair which Gloin kept back in a simple low ponytail and Oin braided into a thick tail that hung down his back, a few shiny black strands always seeming to fall in his face. Both of them were of average height and medium build, and were considered relatively handsome by Dwarven standards with Gloin freely admitting that Oin was the more attractive of the two.

"It's amazing isn't it?" And it's ours!" Oin crowed happily, a big grin on his smooth face as they both looked around the massive hall. Running along the walls of the hall were large reliefs depicting great battles and landscapes. A chaotic scene from the Last Alliance was rendered in jaw-dropping detail along the hall across from where they sat. Before the entrance to the hall two massive and gloriously nude red marble warriors held their axes at the ready as they prepared to fight one another, their long hair free and whipping about them, muscles and sinew bunched and tense. They were so wonderfully sculpted they looked as if the would come to life at any moment and do battle.

But even here there were terrible reminders of Smaug's occupation —deep gouges from his claws ran along the great walls of the hall, cruelly defacing the marvelous friezes. Even the two stone warriors and the great carved pillars had suffered damage during one of Smaug's fits —chunks had been knocked out of them and they were partly scorched by the dragon's flames. But even with all the damage, the dark echoing halls were magnificent to behold and they would only become more magnificent after all the debris and damage had been cleared. Then the restoration of the damage would follow, and the many lamps and the great fires would be brought back the massive halls and chambers, to shine brighter than before.

Looking around he should be ecstatic, happy as a fool, but Gloin suddenly found himself seized by a deep and familiar sorrow. The smiling faces of his children and mate appeared in his mind before being cruelly superimposed with their dead faces. The bitter knives of grief and sorrow threatened for a moment to utterly overwhelm him. The incredible accomplishments of their impossible Quest, the victory of taking back the Mountain and winning the battle seemed terribly hollow now.

"Yes, it is… If only my beloved Nei were here to see it," he managed to softly say as he looked around. "If only my children could see it…"

"Gimli will see it." Oin said quietly, bumping against his brother's shoulder, trying to lighten his mood.

"Yes, yes he will," Gloin agreed, a smile coming to his lips as he gave Oin a small bump back, mindful of his injured shoulder. "Harrumph! I imagine he and Ulfr are driving Hanar to absolute madness by now," he chuckled, and Oin joined him as they both pictured the old battle-scarred, silver- haired Dwarf, red-faced and pulling his beard out with Gimli's and Ulfr's antics. But as Gloin thought about Gimli back in Black Hollow a strange and sucking dread seem to slither around his heart again, and the smile disappeared from his face.

"Do you think he's alright?" Gloin suddenly asked, completely sober, the air of amusement evaporating around them.

In his mind he suddenly got a flash of his last day in Black Hollow. The memory of walking alone back to the old barn he, Oin and Gimli called home after trading an old silver bracelet for some last minute supplies with Tror. The rough grey gravel crunching beneath his booted feet, a biting wind at his back, the smothering smell of coal that seemed to cling to everything in that small town. He had been grumbling to himself about Tror's lack of appreciation of 'proper' haggling, a rough sack of supplies over his shoulder, when he saw Rowell come strolling up the opposite way towards him. Gloin only spared the tall blond Man a glare as he continued on-- he had respect for the Man's ailing Father who was honorable and fair, but had nothing but contempt for his spoiled son. There was always a whisper of something truly foul behind that handsome face.

They were just about past one another, when Rowell suddenly stopped him.

"I've heard that you and your brother will be leaving," the Man said conversationally while idly studying his manicured nails.

Gloin looked in suspicion at the white-cloaked Man, his brown eyes narrowed, face guarded.

"Aye, what of it?" he demanded. Again he got the feeling of something dark under that arrogant facade as he watched Rowell glance over his shoulder at him. The Man made it seem as if it was he who had stopped and inconvenienced him.

With a toss of his long wheat-gold hair, the human turned fully to him, the ever- present smug smirk on his lips. .

"Pity. I was just thinking… It's a shame that you and your brother will not be here to take part in the upcoming festivities," the human said in a tone of mild disappointment before giving a shrug. With that the Man turned and strolled away, heading towards the tavern.

Gloin stared after him for a moment, before turning and continuing on his way. The Sickle Moon festival was coming up, but he did not understand why Rowell would even care if he and Oin were there for it. It was almost as if the smug human meant some other kind of festivities, but of what he could not think.

"Of course he is; he takes after his mother!" Oin assured, bringing him back to the present while he leaned against Gloin's side.

"Aye, that he does," he agreed, yet the strange mood would not be shaken. "Even so… I have a terrible feeling, Oin. Like…like there's a heavy stone in my stomach.."

"You worry too much, Gloin!" came a sudden voice, startling both of the raven-haired brothers.

They looked up in surprise to see Balin standing over them, out of his borrowed armor and back in his traveling clothes and red hood again. In one hand he carried a dusty bottle of wine and they watched as he pulled the cork with his strong fingers before taking a seat on Gloin's other side with a grunt.

"That wild son of yours is fine! Nothin' but piss and vinegar, that one!" he laughed. His red hood was back, revealing the many long thick braids that made up the older Dwarf's snow white hair . Balin's hair had originally been the same color as Dwalin's, but it had turned prematurely white after Smaug had first come to the Lonely Mountain. Out of his family only he and his brother survived that terrible day; Dwalin still carried the scars of burns on his body.

"Fear not! You named your boy well, Gloin. Nothin' but fire in that one's belly," he said, giving Gloin a friendly whack on the back. The three drifted into silence once again, back to their own thoughts, as Balin passed the bottle between them.

"Poor Fili and Kili, so young… 'Twas not right for them to die so young," Balin said sadly when the bottle was almost empty. "I do not envy the messenger who will tell the Lady Dis that her brother-- and worse! her two sons are now dead." He shook his head with a sigh.

From the corner of his dark indigo eyes Balin watched as Gloin's customary frown returned, noticeably deepening at the mention of Thorin's sister. A matching frown was also now on Oin's usually mellow and open face. Balin shook his head again before he took a final swallow from the bottle-- in all honesty he could not blame them. There was bad blood between Gloin's family and Thorin's sister.

After the Great War (7.), Gloin and his new mate Nei had come to live in the Blue Mountains and there they stayed for a short time. But the Halls of Ered Luin, while large, were nothing compared to the Halls in the Iron Hills or the Lost Halls of Erebor. Ered Luin was a relatively small city in comparison and not everyone could live there at once without overburdening it. So some of their people were still forced to live in smaller settlements in the region, or travel about as the 'Wandering folk' as Gloin's family had.

Now the true ruler of Ered Luin was Lady Dis 'the Steel-Hearted'. She was the only daughter of Thrain the second and younger sister of Thorin Oakenshield, and both Nei and Gloin fell greatly out of favor with her during this time.

It had all started at a large gathering one evening in the main hall of Ered Luin, a yearly celebration in honor of the first raising of the Great Lamps, with lots of drinking and merrymaking around many roaring bonfires. What had started as a good night of fun and laughter, deteriorated in violence when Gloin apparently uttered something in jest to someone. There was a misunderstanding of words and the Lady Dis took great offence to what she thought she had overheard.

Whatever it was she thought had been said, she nearly killed him for it, using only her bare fists. When angry and enraged, Dwarves are capable of a truly frightening level of violence, and the Lady Dis was not called 'the Steel-Hearted" for nothing. Oin also in turn had one of his arms dislocated and was knocked unconscious after trying to come to his elder brother's defense. Several other Dwarves were also injured while trying to stop the terrible beating.

Nei had been away getting something when the incident had taken place, but when she returned and found the celebration over and in a shambles, and her mate and brother-in-law in an appalling state she demanded retribution!

After the healers had patched Gloin up and had guaranteed that her mate would live and was resting as comfortably as possible in the healers den, safe with the now conscious Oin at his side, she returned to their home and retrieved her battleaxe "Blood-Screamer". Storming her way to the great main Hall, Nei roared her challenge to the eagerly waiting, golden-haired Dis, who gave an answering roar of her own, her great axe "Killing-Frost" in hand.

It was a terrible battle indeed when the two enraged Dwarrow-Dams finally clashed, for both were greatly skilled with an axe and none were willing, nor foolish enough, to stand in their way. Sparks flew as their axes clashed against one another like thunder, their white teeth bared as they growled and cursed with a frightening fire in their flashing eyes. The two battled for hours, covered in sweat, their clothes in near rags. They nearly destroyed the Hall, and injured several unfortunates who could not get out of their way fast enough. It was only the combined intervention of Prince Thorin and King Thrain himself that finally stopped the fight.

By the end of it Dis had a broken jaw and an ugly wound on her back and thigh. A week later, a bruised and still visibly seething Nei and a badly limping and still healing Gloin, with his younger brother in tow, left the halls of Ered Luin with the knowledge that they were no longer welcome there.

"Either way, I am glad it is not me," Balin added as he put the empty bottle down next to him and leaned back against the wall. A heavy silence settled over the three then and no one felt the strength to break it. For a long time the two raven-haired siblings and the white-haired Dwarf sat together quietly, alone with their troubled thoughts in the dark echoing Hall.

-------------------

Gimli was suddenly jolted awake by a harsh smell that hit him in the nose like a punch. His large brown eyes flew open as he bolted upright in a panic. The battle!

He sat there in a daze, a white knuckled grip on the haft of his axe, his heart pounding as he hurriedly looked around expecting to be beset by shrieking goblins, before he slowly calmed and realized that the battle was over. The events from earlier flooded back: watching as the last of the Bolg's army was defeated, the cheers of victory, fists and weapons raised in pride and exhilaration. He remembered raising his own axe and voice in triumph, then strangely nothing….

He quickly concluded that he must have passed out some time later and felt an embarrassed blush rise to his face. Fainting like some delicate noble Woman, how utterly embarrassing! He felt like such a weakling.

Seeing that he was in no immediate danger he sat there in the mud, the cold bodies of the fallen all around him, while he took some deep breaths and calmed his racing heart. Putting a dirty and bloodstained hand to his head, he tried to remember what had happened to him… and what was that strong smell from before? It was then that Gimli finally became aware of a shrill voice.

"Wake up! Wake up!" cawed the strange voice from somewhere nearby, and Gimli suddenly noticed the presence of someone standing over him. The bright light of the clear day caused him to squint as he looked up at the figure before him. At first he thought he was looking at ghost and could only stare, openmouthed.

"H-Hanar?" he whispered as he blinked owlishly up at the vision before him. Maybe he was dead after all?

"Hanar?" said the vision in a low voice that was most definitely not Hanar's, and Gimli watched the scarred Dwarf cock his head questioningly at him. This can't be right, Gimli thought in confusion.

With a groan the copper-haired Dwarf closed his eyes and gave his head a hard shake before looking up again. This time the vision of scarred Old Hanar was gone, and a part of him felt a deep pang of disappointment and loss. Instead he now saw an ancient looking white-haired Dwarf standing over him, clad in mail and light leather armor, a massive Dwarven bow and a quiver that still held a few large armor piercing bolts on his back.

The old Dwarf took a step closer and leaned over to look closely into Gimli's wide almond-shaped eyes. The young Dwarf instinctively shrank away from this stranger, not realizing that the old Dwarf was simply checking the size of his pupils to see if he had a head injury. Seeing nothing amiss the old Dwarf stood up again with a humorous snort at Gimli's reaction to his examination and as he did so, Gimli finally noticed the deep green and silver trimmed cloak he wore, marking him as a healer.

Still feeling a bit dazed and thoroughly exhausted, Gimli looked around at his grim surroundings as he ran a hand through his loose hair—he'd lost his hair tie sometime during the fighting. A flap of wings to his left drew his attention, and perched on the end of a Elven spear piercing the body of a warg was a stately- looking Raven, her black feathers touched by the frost of age. Around her neck glittered a small silver chain with a carved opal bead made to look like a star, that had no doubt been painstakingly fashioned specifically for her. It took Gimli a few moments to realize that she was the source of the strange shrill voice he had heard earlier.

"Come now," said the old Dwarf, drawing Gimli's attention again. "This is no place to take a nap, lad. If I had not found you, you might have woken up in a covered pit." The old Dwarf chuckled as he put a stopper back in the small bottle of smelling salts before storing it back in a compartment on his belt. He then extended a weathered and calloused hand out to the young Dwarf. Gimli looked at it blankly for a moment before allowing the white-haired Dwarf to pull him to his feet, his legs feeling a little wobbly.

"What happened, lad?" the Old healer finally asked, after thoroughly looking Gimli over for any major injuries and seeing nothing serious. With the exception of some minor cuts and bruises, a shallow and inflamed slash across his chest as well as being clearly underweight, he appeared surprisingly unharmed. It was then that the healer finally noticed what the young Dwarf wore or more precisely, wasn't wearing. Aside from the young Dwarf's weapons and thick belt, he wore nothing but a pair of filthy and ripped trousers and a shredded red shirt with a pair of badly scuffed and stained boots. "Did someone steal your mail and the rest of your gear?"

"No…" Gimli said, shifting from foot to foot as he looked at his all but destroyed clothes. There was a large rip in the seat of his trousers, exposing the lower half of one tanned and firm buttock, and Gimli groaned as he looked over his shoulder at it. The thought of walking around with part of his butt hanging out for everyone to see did not particularly appeal.

"I, uh… didn't have any," he finally admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"What!"

"I didn't have any, just my axes and the clothes on my back," Gimli explained, feeling like a little kid who had been caught playing "warrior" in his father's armor.

With a flap of her dark wings the Raven abandoned her perch and alighted on the old Dwarf's shoulder.

"Young ones nowadays!" the old Dwarf snorted, hands now on his hips and shaking his head in disbelief

"Addled brained they all be!" the old Raven on his shoulder agreed with a bob of her head. After the two were done 'tisk-ing' and shaking their heads at him, the ancient Dwarf finally introduced himself.

"I am Vestri, son of Vert," he said with a bow of his head. Being of such advanced years he did not need to bow so deeply when meeting others, nor was he obliged to be at "anyone's service" now. The old Dwarf then raised a hand and introduced his companion. "And this is Lady Rin." The old Raven inclined her head at her name before they both turned expectant eyes on the ragged young Dwarf before them.

"Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service!" he said quickly, giving them both a deep bow after he had put 'Blood-Screamer' back in its holster behind him. Which reminded him — he needed to go find his other missing axe as soon as possible.

"Well, since ya can walk on your own two legs, go over there," the healer said, pointing towards the Mountain. "There be a camp of us 'Wanderers' next to the old watch-post on the western side of the great southern spur, just a stone's throw from where half of Dain's army be camped."

"Not far from the height of Ravenhill it be!" Lady Rin added from her perch on the old Dwarf's shoulder.

"But I must find and recover my lost axe--," Gimli tried to argue, the thought of losing the beloved axe unbearable. But the old healer would hear nothing of it.

"No arguments; your missing axe can wait!" he said in a stern voice that left no room for argument. "No Elf will want it and our axes are too heavy for most Men to want. Besides, it's procedure that all found weapons on the battlefield be collected and laid out before the King's tent. You can retrieve it then!"

Gimli reluctantly began to do as he was told, desperately hoping what Master Vestri said was true. He didn't know what he would do if he lost one of the beloved weapons, and he tried to remember exactly where he had dropped the large orc during the battle, the creature falling with his beloved axe under it. Thinking of his missing axe got him thinking about his mother and--

"Father!" he yelled, his eyes snapping wide, startling both Vestri and Lady Rin with his sudden outburst. They watched the handsome young Dwarf trip over the body of a goblin as he turned in a sudden panic and rushed back over to them.

"Please, you must tell me, Master Vestri! Gloin, my father, does he live still?" he demanded as he gripped the healer's shoulders, causing Vestri to take a step back and Lady Rin to flap her wings to keep balance. "He and my uncle Oin were two of Thorin's company! Did they survive the battle?" he begged the older Dwarf, his brown eyes wide in desperation.

"Calm down! Calm down, lad!" Vestri yelled, shoving Gimli back. "Acting like you've lost your head," he grumbled, and Lady Rin on his shoulder puffed her feathers in irritation as they glared at the copper-haired Dwarf, who looked contrite, but no less eager for his answer. Seeing that the young one had calmed and how important this was to him Vestri turned his mind to the question.

"Let's see…Gloin, you say?" he asked, reaching up to stroke his long silky beard in thought.

"Aye! Gloin and Oin, sons of Groin," Gimli said with an eager nod as he tucked some of his long thick hair behind his ear while he watched the other two with baited breath.

"I did not see either personally, mind you… but I do know from my fellow healers that all of Thorin's company miraculously survived the battle, including their Hobbit burglar. All except Thorin's sister's sons and Thorin himself, who now lies on his death bed."

Gimli felt a deep and genuine pang of loss at the news of Kili and Fili as well as Thorin, but he almost collapsed from relief at the other news. They were alive! He had not lost all, he was not alone in this world! With that Gimli gratefully closed his eyes and turned his dirt and blood stained face up to the blue sky above in thanks as the clenching coil around his heart disappeared. Vestri and Lady Rin shared a look with one another before turning back the young Dwarf.

"My greatest thanks, Master Vestri," Gimli told them, giving them a bow so low that his hair touched the muddy and blood soaked ground. The old Dwarf however just waved this off and pulled Gimli out of his deep bow.

"Enough of that now!" he said, looking the tired and grateful looking youngster in the face. "Now then, you have your answer-- now go! One of me fellow healers is there resting. Get Master Lofar to clean and stitch those cuts closed; he'll be the sour fellow with all the brass rings in his hair. Then get something to eat and rest!" he barked, with Lady Rin nodding her agreement. "And don't think about wandering off and getting underfoot! I better see you there when I finish up here." The old Dwarf shoved Gimli in the direction of the Lonely Mountain, then stood and watched to make sure the ragged pup was firmly on his way. Then he and Lady Rin returned to their grim task of searching the scattered bodies for survivors.

As for Gimli, it was a sad trek to the Mountain as he made his slow way through the eerily quiet battlefield. He felt strangely numb with the wonderful news of his Da and uncle's survival, and the sad news of Fili and Kili's death and the approaching demise of Thorin. But for now the Lonely Mountain rose proud and defiant in the bright light before him, the surrounding ridges standing sentinel to either side of the valley under the clear sky above. Like a weary ghost, he moved through the utter devastation, carefully stepping around and over various bodies and fallen weapons, past hurrying healers and fellow survivors. He knew he was one of the lucky ones.

But he didn't bother to step around the numerous corpses of orcs, wargs or goblins, almost making a point of treading heavily upon them. Once or twice he heard a groan or a weak hiss as he did so, but their pain left him untouched-- he had neither pity nor mercy when it came to their dark kind.

Stepping carefully over the remains of a slender Elf that had cruelly been cut in half, Gimli's large eyes narrowed as he noticed a stained broadsword that stood proudly up from the mire, having been driven deeply into the damp earth amid a tangled pile of slaughtered Lake Men. Perched smugly and disrespectfully upon the sword's hilt was a fat crow, his beak and head slick with blood from his gluttonous feasting, his shiny black eyes watching the young Dwarf pass with only mild interest. A few of the crow's fellows were still feasting nearby, screeching and cackling as they hopped about amongst the bodies.

Gimli was tempted to run over and chase the foul carrion birds off, but decided that he was just too tired and that, in the end, it would just be a waste of time. He knew that the birds would just come back as soon as he left to continue their feasting. Giving the smug and cackling birds a final look of contempt, he tiredly continued on.

He had not gone far when he walked past the strange sight of a powerfully built Dwarf from Dain's army, kneeling next to the huge corpse of one of Bolg's bodyguards. A large black- stained battleaxe was strapped to his broad back, and his long dark beard was forked and tucked into his thick belt. Every now and then there was a terrible wet cracking and tearing sound as the large warrior calmly went about pulling out the goblin's teeth, root and all, with only his thick fingers, as easily as one would pluck the petals off a flower. Gimli didn't know why the warrior was pulling out the dead creature's rotting teeth-- and didn't want to know. Whatever the reason, it was clear by the handful of teeth already in the Dwarf's other broad hand that this was not the first corpse.

A time later he saw a Lake Man, angrily shaking the unresponsive body of another Man, who was clearly dead judging by the large gaping head wound that sluggishly dripped blood and gray matter. The Man however seemed to refuse to admit that his friend was dead as he continued to angrily shake him, demanding that he wake up.

Not far ahead, a dark-haired Wood-elf sat uncaringly in the mud and gore. An empty quiver was on her back and a fine bow, its string broken, lay forgotten beside her as she wailed brokenly. In her arms she rocked the torn and still body of another Elf, his ashen face wet from her hot tears, his eyes closed forever.

The image cut too deep and Gimli quickly turned away, unable to look any longer. Had he not done the same as he clutched Ulfr's lifeless body to himself? Had he not seen his father do the same, desperately rocking his mother's limp body as his howls of grief rang through the cold night? With an aching heart he forced himself on, careful of where he stepped, still hearing the Elf-Dam's mourning behind him. It struck him that there was something almost perverted in the way that even through the Elf's wracking sorrow, her lilting voice was strangely beautiful to hear as it echoed through the valley.

Not far from her were two exhausted Dwarves clad in the gore splattered armor of Dain's army, sitting hunched over the dead body of another armored Dwarf. One of the warriors clutched a cold limp hand in his own as he rested his dark-haired head on the other's unmoving chest. A steady stream of tears fell from his tightly shut eyes. The other Dwarf silently knelt next to the first, his arm and head laying upon the other's back for comfort as well as support.

Many survivors wandered the battlefield-- Dwarves, Men and Elves alike. Like Gimli, they were weary and grief-stricken as they looked despairingly for missing comrades or simpley moved about aimlessly, lost within their own troubled thoughts. And others still had passed from shock into madness.

One particular Man had a truly frightening look about him. His tunic was ripped and filthy, three deep claw marks running down the right side of his face and neck, and in one hand he carried a black dripping and damaged sword. Whenever he stumbled upon a live or dying orc or goblin, he took a grotesque delight in hacking at them with his weapon over an over again, until they were almost unidentifiable, before gleefully moving onto the next creature he could find. Gimli kept a wary eye on the clearly unstable human as they passed one another, one hand straying to his weapons as he gave the Man a wide berth. But the strangely grinning Man paid him no mind, seemingly blind to all else but his grisly entertainment.

Gimli remembered back to what his mother had told him of bloodshed and battle. "What does not kill you, will make you stronger…or twist you," she would say, looking at him with dark eyes that had seen far too much for their years. It was only now, after all that he had been through, that Gimli truly understood what his mother had meant all those years ago. Walking through the valley he could see that the unfortunate Man was not the only one who appeared to be on the verge of madness.

For it was only a short while later, that Gimli stopped to watch a lithe Elven figure wander past. Clad in pale greens with a satchel of healing herbs and bandages clutched to her breast, she was clearly not one of the warriors from the Mirkwood army. The pale and shaken looking healer picked her dainty way through the bodies, her wide luminous green eyes darting darted quickly here and there, stopping every now and then to look closer at a particular body. To Gimli the poor healer looked utterly lost and on the edge of hysteria, and he watched with pity as she unthinkingly ran a slender hand through her hair, smearing the silky brown strands with blood as she mumbled and twittered to herself. In her agitation she had bitten her bottom lip raw and bloody, and Gimli could only conclude that the young Elven healer had never seen death and carnage on such a scale before.

For not far away, another Mirkwood healer with a shining mane of auburn hair worked quickly and steadily to stem the blood flow of a yelling Man's severed arm. An older gray-haired Man helped the Elf restrain and bandage the pained and thrashing Man. The Elf's manner was sure and practiced; by the tight line of his thin mouth and the hard look in his jewel- like eyes, it was clear that he was no stranger to such injuries or even to the horrors of the bloody aftermath of a battle.

As Gimli steadily continued, the heavy tread of his boots ringing through the hushed air, he passed the still form of one of the great Eagles, downed by several ugly black -feathered bolts from a goblin's bow. Its magnificent wings lay broken and useless, never to take to the wind again. He briefly wondered if this was the same Eagle that he had seen plummeting to the ground during the battle.

He gave a tired sigh and ran his broad hand through his hair as he left the great bird behind. They had won. They had been victorious in their combined battle against the dark forces, but like in all war, it had come at a terrible cost to all.

Gimli hadn't even made it halfway to his destination when his steps started to slow before stopping altogether. He found himself simply standing there in the middle of that muddy valley, his sorrowful brown eyes gazing out at the gory landscape around him. The cloying scent of blood and death perfumed the air, while a cold, biting breeze tugged on his dirty hair, bringing with it the sickening smell of burning flesh. Large plumes of choking smoke rose into the air as the Men began to burn the bodies, going about the unpleasant task of tossing the heavy corpses of the orcs and goblins into the large pits they had been digging earlier.

This is how it all ends, Gimli thought. The true price that had been paid for their great victory. Dwarf, Elf, Man, beast…orc. Nothing but so much meat left to rot on the ground.

It is only now, when we are dead or dying… in the clawing grips of our grief. Only now are we truly equal… he thought bitterly. And how truly sad that thought was as he turned his burning almond eyes to the glorious sky above--the blue sky that had no answers as a pale hunter's moon began its early journey across the heavens.

------------------

In the ruins of Dale, there was a tense flurry of activity around the three healer tents as Elves, Dwarves and Men, many working side by side, hurried back and forth on their appointed tasks. Legolas and the others had just arrived when a badly injured woman in the garb of one of the Lake Men—she had clearly disguised herself as a Man to join the battle — was being carried into the tent by a large warrior from Dain's army. A slender spearman from the Mirkwood army walked closely beside them, carefully holding the groaning woman's bloody and badly lacerated leg. With some careful maneuvering the Elf reached out with his free hand to hold the tent flap open and helped guide the burdened Dwarf carefully in without jarring any of the woman's numerous injures before letting the flap close behind them. There was simply no time to indulge in dislike and personal bigotries here, so for the moment everyone had put aside their differences and personal grudges to help those in desperate need.

Valandil and Legolas shot one another a look before they turned to watch a pale young teenager burst out of the flap with a large bowl full of dirty crimson water, dumping it out with a splash before racing back into the tent. Not far from the tent flap, a Man hunched over as he loudly emptied his stomach contents upon the ground. Legolas' taller brother was about to say something when a dark-haired and shirtless Dwarf suddenly shoved past him with two massive buckets of water, almost causing the golden-haired warrior to stumble. But before any of them could react, the rude Dwarf had disappeared into the tent.

Looking at the canvas tent flap that was covered in dirty and bloody hand prints of various sizes, something in Legolas' heart told him that he did not want to see what lay behind that heavy flap of material. Claustrophobia already tugged at his nerves. But a low, weak moan from behind him immediately made him shove these feeling aside as he turned to look at poor Cutholion who was laying limp in Lesgol and Aikanaro's arms.

The two dark-haired archers carried their injured friend between them-- the three of them had grown up together and were near inseparable. As for Legolas he felt partly responsible for them since they had been under his command on many long patrols in Mirkwood as well as during the battle. The gangly Lesgol looked to be on the verge of tears while he unconsciously shook his head at his bloody and unresponsive friend, while the shorter and darker haired Aikanaro turned pleading eyes to Legolas.

/"Please my Prince! We must hurry!"/ he urged, a slight waver to his clear voice. That spurred Legolas into immediate action, and he quickly stepped forward to hold the flap open, motioning them inside. His brother lead the way, followed closely by the other three, and poor Cutholion gave a small whimper before disappearing with his friends into the darkness of the tent. With a deep breath, Legolas plunged in after them.

The five found themselves in a loud storm of activity that seemed to Legolas to swirl around them in a blur. Men, Elves and Dwarves moved in every direction in a strange orchestrated chaos. He could now see that the dark and claustrophobic interior of the tent was lit by small open flaps in the sides of the heavy canvas, including two large open panels in the top of the tent, creating two bright islands of light.

They quickly spotted Dalmar working over a badly injured and unconscious Man with several wounds in his abdomen. He glanced up at Valandil's call before turning and directing one of the human nurses to try and stanch the Man's bleeding while he stepped away for a moment.

The tall and silver-haired Dalmar, who originally hailed from Mithlond was the King's top healer and considered very wise. In fact he was one of the few individuals who Thranduil himself asked his opinion on various matters. Legolas could remember seeing him talking and laughing many times with his father in the opulent private chambers of the airy inner caves that made up the palace. At the moment he now stood before the bloody and unconscious Cutholion, his elegant and long fingered hands on the injured Elf's brow and chest as he ran a critical eye over the unmoving Wood-elf.

/"Dalmar, you must help him!"/ pleaded Lesgol as he and the others watched him silently asses the extent of their friend's injuries.

With plummeting hearts they watched Dalmar finally put down his hands with a long sigh and look up at them, his face grim. By the tight line of his mouth and the flat look in his eyes Legolas knew it was not good news.

/"There is nothing that can be done,"/ Dalmar told them in his calm smooth voice, running a hand through his dirty silver hair. /"Take him out under the sky and make him as comfortable as possible./

/"N-no!"/ Lesgol sobbed, though it was more to himself than to the tall healer as he rubbed his face against Cutholion's non-responsive one. Aikanaro managed to hold in his emotions, but his chin quivered as he silently watched the silver-haired healer step back. Legolas put a comforting hand on the shorter Elf's shoulder, and Aikanaro gave him a small grateful nod.

/"I am sorry, but his body is too damaged,"/ Dalmar explained in a soft but businesslike manner, even as he stepped away to return to his duties. /"His fea even now slips away, there is nothing that can be done."/

But apparently this explanation was not good enough for Valandil, who had been watching the activity around them with a critical gaze, and he now turned that hard gaze to the older Elf.

/"What is this ?"/ he suddenly demanded, stepping forward confrontationally and startling the others with the heat of his voice. /"You are an Elvish healer, yet you waste your skill on these damned mortals when you should be helping your own kind! Dalmar, do not make me order--"/ His next words were lost however when the older Elf sharply seized the blond warrior's arm in a hard grip, then dragged him a few feet away into the corner of the large tent where a large pile of bloody rags and bandages had been dumped. Dalmar's pale angular face seemed made from cold hard stone, and his usually warm and gentle eyes were now like glittering chips of ice. Legolas and the others could only watch with wide eyes as the taller silver-haired Elf rounded on Valandil.

/"Do not think to pull rank on me, my Prince,"/ he hissed, stressing 'my Prince'. /"Firstly I am a HEALER! I will not callously pick and choose which of Iluvatar's creations I will help!"/ His luminous sapphire eyes flashed with a truly frightening anger, stress and exhaustion fueling his wrath.

/"Look around you! I would think it would be quite clear to you by now that we are far too ill equipped to turn up our noses at sharing our help with the mortals. We have not enough supplies and healers to take care of even half of our own wounded people! Our King did not march this army here with the thought of actual battle! And our previous aid of the Lake Men has already greatly depleted our supplies! We have no choice but to combine our healing skills with the mortals. Most of the supplies we are now using are those that King Dain's army brought. Seems they were the only army here sensible enough to bring a full contingent of healers as well as extra medical supplies in case of heavy casualties/

/"As for your friend, I feel for your grief. But would you have me waste precious supplies and time to a lost cause, when I could be saving others that have a chance?"/ he demanded of all of them then, looking over Valandil's shoulder, and they were duly humbled before the healer's piercing gaze.

Seeing that his point had been made, the silver-haired Elf walked past Valandil and went back to work without a further word. He then set about ordering one of the human nurses to get him some more rags and a fresh bowl of water as he went back to cleaning out one of the large wounds in the unconscious Man's abdomen.

As they stood there sadly for a moment, Legolas' sharp eyes caught a momentary flash of a familiar gray-robed figure. Mithrandir? But his attention was brought back to his companions when he heard a choked cry from Lesgol, who was biting his bottom lip in a futile attempt to hold back his sobs. There was simply nothing else to be done, but follow Dalmar's instructions. Without a word they turned and carefully made their way out of the tent and back into the sunlight.

Once outside Lesgol and Aikanaro, who were much closer to Cutholion, said that they would like to be alone with their dying friend and respectively waved off Valandil's and Legolas' offer of help. Legolas felt a bit hurt by this but could not blame them either, knowing he would probably do the same if it had been Valandil or one of his close friends instead of poor Cutholion.

Valandil on the other hand, still feeling embarrassed about the incident with Dalmar, said he was going to see if he could offer their eldest brother Caulnduil and their father any help. Legolas nodded and told him that he would join them shortly. He then stepped closer to his taller sibling and put a comforting hand on his tense arm. Valandil however didn't even look at him and only gave him a sharp nod of his chin, his face still flushed, before stepping away without a word, seeming to take no notice of his younger brother's gesture. Legolas let his hand drop then tucked a loose black strand of hair behind a delicate pointed ear as he silently watched Valandil walk stiffly away.

With that he turned and went back through the heavy flap again. Before, when his true attention had been on Cutholion and finding him some help, his dark surroundings had seemed a blur of movement and sound. Now that he was alone and truly looking around he could see what really was happening in here. The tent, like the battlefield in the valley, was full of its own grim horrors, but for now he was once again able to push anxiety and claustrophobia to the side as he concentrated on finding the Istari.

He did not have to look for long before spotting Mithrandir, who was making his way amongst the various occupied pallets. To Legolas it was clear the Wizard was looking for someone as he watched him stop every now and then to get a better look at a particular patient and more than once being chased away by a healer or nurse.

"Who are you looking for Mithrandir?" Legolas asked in Common, after approaching the Wizard's side on silent feet. A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched the Istari, who had been peering closely at an unconscious Dwarf covered in blood soaked bandages, straighten up in surprise. The Grey Wizard turned to give Legolas a glare, muttering crankily into his beard about 'certain young Elves being far too quiet for their own good, which only made the ebony -haired Wood-elf smile all the more.

"Young Legolas, how many times must I tell you? It is no wise thing to sneak up on a Wizard!" he scolded from under his bushy eyebrows as he clutched at his staff. He had had his utter fill of surprises as it was, without Thranduil's youngest adding to them!

"It is good to see you as well, Mithrandir," Legolas said with deep affection, his heart truly gladdened at the sight of the cankerous Wizard. Mithrandir just gave a derisive snort, adjusting his pointy hat with one hand–the other arm was in a sling, clearly having been injured in the fierce fighting.

"It is a relief to see you, Legolas," Mithrandir agreed, his grey eyes once again warm with affection and relief at seeing at least one of his worries safe and sound. A true smile now on his wrinkled face, he reached out to give Legolas' shoulder a paternal squeeze before turning again to give the unconscious Dwarf on the pallet a final look. Legolas could see the look of worry come back into Mithrandir's face as he began to speak again. "As for who I seek…" His words trailed off, and he gave Legolas a long and rather strange look, as if a sudden thought had come to mind.

"No matter, my good Elf," he finally said with a shake of his head, reaching out to give Legolas' shoulder another pat before turning away. "Who I seek is thankfully not here. Though I am now troubled as to if he lives at all," His tone was tired, and he spoke more to himself than to the elegant archer as he took a final grim look around. "If you will excuse me I must now return to Thorin's side-- I fear he has not much time left," he said, and Legolas caught the tone of deep sadness to the Wizard's voice.

As he watched Mithrandir walk away Legolas decided that since he was here, he would look for his commanding officer, remembering that she had been brought to the healers with a dire wound. And if he couldn't find her here, Legolas knew that there was a very good chance that the stoic Captain of the Guards was dead.

At that moment, the Wizard suddenly paused to look back at him, as if reading his mind.

"Beware not to bother Master Werks, young Legolas. If that cankerous healer could not abide my quiet presence, I doubt he will have much patience for you," Mithradir warned, giving the confused Elf a stern look before gripping his tall staff and making his way to the exit. Light flooded into the dark interior of the large tent for a moment before the heavy flap closed behind him, leaving the Wood-elf once again in the gloom.

Legolas gave a mental shrug then turned back to the interior of the tent, making his meandering way through the maze of occupied pallets, and keeping his sharp green eyes out for Captain Calencarka. His lightened mood from just moments before had evaporated as soon Mithrandir had left.

The air inside the crowded tent was filled with screams and moans, and seemed thick with death and despair. His nose assaulted by the metallic scent of blood, the sharp bite of herbs and the foul stench of bodily wastes. His heart quailed at the thought of going farther, but he forced his legs to continue, mentally steeling himself against flinching at the gruesome sights around him.

He was no stranger to gore or blood. Mirkwood was a very dangerous place to grow up and that was not including the added dangers of the Necromancer's lair in the south. Legolas, a skilled and tested warrior, had seen and received more then his fair share of bad injuries. Death was no stranger to those who patrolled the dark trees of Mirkwood. But this was different. This was not like the fierce periodic skirmishes with spiders or orcs, nor was it like the gore and death seen in the heat of battle. This was a different kind of misery altogether as the people here desperately tried to mend broken bones and torn bodies. It was far easier to inflict damage than to fix it.

A Man let out a horrible ear-splitting scream as several others grimly held his thrashing body down while a tall bearded Man with a face set in a hard mask sawed his left leg off below the knee. The rest of the leg was too badly mangled to be saved, and the blood was everywhere, covering all the healers and nurses. All in all, it looked more like some nightmare scene from a demented butcher shop than a place of healing. Not far from that horrible sight was a female Elf trying to clean a grievous wound on an unconscious Dwarf's face. Legolas felt his stomach give a lurch as he watched her pale nimble fingers calmly pop an eyeball gently back into its socket.

Moving on, he passed one of the islands of light and saw a low pallet where lay a horribly wounded dark-haired Elf, no doubt a spearman by his mostly green garb. The poor warrior was missing part of both his legs, his right arm was nothing but a stump and it looked as if he had been run through by a scimitar. Legolas felt bile rise in the back of his throat as his heart clenched at the sight. The Elf was badly convulsing in his death throes, and only the grim combined strength of a Dwarven and Elven nurse held the bucking body on the bloody pallet. One of the Elven healers, who was a friend of Legolas' by the name of Eilindel, had her small hands on the Elf's frightened face as she sang to him, trying to calm him and ease his passing. But he was deaf to her attempts as he cried out, grey eyes wide in panic, desperately pleading with those around him that he did not want to die. Legolas hurried past unable to stand the sight any longer, fighting the desire to cover his ears.

Unfortunately for Legolas the horrors of war were far from over. Walking through, he saw one human healer gently close the staring eyes of young Man, the human clearly having just died for all the healers' attempts to save him. Legolas was forced to get out of the way as the limp body was quickly removed to make space for another Man, this one badly injured as well, but still alive to judge by his weak moans of pain. Legolas could clearly see that while both the Elves and Dwarves had suffered losses, it was clear that the Men of the Lake had taken the brunt of the casualties.

There was a roar of pain to his left as a large red-haired Dwarf somehow forced himself not to move as several deep cuts running along his broad chest were cauterized with a glowing rod of hot metal. This was followed by the long keening scream of a dark-haired Elf as a muscular Dwarven healer expertly set the broken bones in one of his long legs. Another Elf held the injured Elf's hand as he whispered words of comfort to his greatly pained friend.

Legolas had wandered through most of the tent and had still not seen any sign of Calencarka and was beginning to lose hope when he finally spotted her deep green and gold trimmed cloak. Coming over, he saw Captain Calencarka reclining on a pallet; her bloody and dented green armor had been stripped from her and now lay in a forgotten pile on the ground next to her.

She was slender and rather short for an Elf— Legolas who was the smallest of his brothers stood almost a full foot taller than her-- but there was no one more skilled nor fierce than Captain Calencarka. She was not beautiful by Elvish standards with her light grey eyes and smooth but plain face, but what did set her apart in her appearance was her short dark brown locks. Though short hair was next to unheard of with Elves, especially for a female Elf, her dark hair had originally been cut during her time of torture at the clawed hands of the goblins, many years before Legolas had even been born.

She and a small hunting party had been ambushed and captured by a large band of goblins. It was almost four days later when rescue finally came, and unfortunately only she had survived of the six other Elves of her party. It was only her rage and pride that had kept her from simply fading at the goblin's cruel hands, and from that time on she was never the same. She had been a close friend of the Queen and a strong warrior before, but after she had recovered from that incident, she rose through the ranks and became the best, earning her title and place at Thranduil's side. She also kept her hair short after that, in honor of those lost as well as a part of herself that had been taken from her.

At the moment her still form rested back against the pallet with her green cloak covering her like a blanket, her pale face turned away from him. Sitting on a low milking stool next to her and working on her badly injured arm was a short broad shouldered Dwarven healer-- no doubt this was Master Werks Gandalf had spoken of. Next to him knelt a pale and slender dark-haired female Elf, clad in soft greens. Her name was Dindiliel, who Legolas knew to be a talented singer as well as having a strong gift for healing. Her slender hands could produce a soft blue light that could sooth away pain and redirect blood flow to keep damaged tissue alive long enough to be sewn up (8.). Which was exactly what she was doing at the moment, her eyes closed in concentration. A young healer in training crouched on the Dwarf's other side, acting as a nurse. Legolas didn't know the lanky Elf's name, but he had seen him a few times at court functions and celebrations.

The strange trio worked diligently at saving Calencarka's badly wounded arm, which had suffered a large, bone deep laceration. The arm below the wound had a pale grayish cast to it. As wondrous and seemingly miraculous as Elvish medicine was at times, even it had its limits. If his Captain was to keep her arm she would have to have the blood circulation restored to it, which was exactly what Werks was working on. After he was done with the veins and nerves he would worry about healing the badly torn muscles. It was a wonder to watch such large calloused hands, which no doubt held such massive strength, wield a tiny needle and thread with a delicacy the any Elven musician would be envious of.

Legolas had been watching so intently, filled with concern for his superior, that he jolted with surprise at the sound of a loud voice.

"If you're only going to stand there and stare, GET OUT!" Werks snarled over his shoulder in a voice that sounded like two boulders rubbing together. He then turned back and deftly finished sewing up a vein, his whole demeanor changing when he turned to Dindiliel next to him. She still had her glowing hands hovering over the gaping wound, and his gravelly voice was soft as he instructed her to allow the blood to flow gradually back into the vein. The chanting Elf's forehead wrinkled, her lips thinning in concentration, and Werks and the others watched as the dark vein seemed to inflate. The delicate sutures held and Calencarka's arm regained a little more of its proper color.

Werks gave an approving grunt before holding his hand out to the young Elf that crouched on his left side, who immediately put a needle threaded with a single fine Elven hair into the Dwarf's large hand. Werks then immediately set to work stitching another vein, and the young Elf patiently waited with ready supplies for whatever the healer might need. The two Elves and the cranky Dwarven healer made a surprisingly quick and effective team.

Still feeling the prickle of eyes upon him, the brown-haired Dwarf looked back again to see the tall lithe Elf still standing there. Werk had always hated people watching him work unless they were a fellow healer or nurse and even then, he did not like it. He thought it was just simple common sense: the less people crowding around and breathing near an open wound, the less chance for infection! Needless to say he was also not pleased to see that his orders hadn't been followed and so had no compunction whatsoever to hold back his thoughts on the matter.

"What in Mordor are ya still doin' standin' there? Are ya addle brained or something? Get the FUCK OUT!" he snapped, his olive-green eyes glaring as the ebony- haired Elf flinched in surprise. The Dwarf's gravely voice was once again loud and biting-- apparently the cankerous naugrim deemed to soften his words and manner only when speaking to the softly chanting Dindiliel who knelt motionlessly next to him.

Needless to say, Legolas was not used to being addressed in such a rude manner and could only stand there. Seeing this, the cranky Dwarf turned and snarled at the dark-haired Elf assisting him, who had been carefully blotting some excess blood from the wound. Legolas was even more shocked when the young Elf, without hesitation, immediately jumped up to do the Dwarf's biding.

The young healer- in- training looked apologetic as he respectfully came up and put a hand on Legolas' arm. "Come, my Prince--"

Coming back to his senses Legolas sharply yanked his arm out of the other's grasp, anger now flashing in his emerald eyes, and the young Elf took a step back in surprise, his bright eyes wide with worry. Legolas only spared him a harsh glance before turning his ire on the Dwarf, but the healer wasn't even looking at him, his dark eyes focused again on finishing stitching up a delicate vein. How dare this foul little creature speak to him in such a manner? He maybe third in line for the throne and spend more time out on patrols than he did in his father's court, but he was still royalty and one of King Thranduil's heirs! Legolas took a step forward and was just about to give this rude naugrim a piece of his mind, when a familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Prince Legolas!"

He immediately looked up in surprise to see Captain Calencarka, who he had thought unconscious, glaring at him, her face now turned his way. Her luminous grey eyes were narrowed in pain, her smooth features pinched and terribly pale.

"Do as Master Werks here says," she told him in a calm but clipped voice. "I appreciate your concern but your presence is wasted here, my Prince. You have other duties to perform, like being at the King's side." Master Werks gave a loud snort at her words, not looking up from his extremely delicate work. The Captain of the Royal Guards spared the Dwarf an irritated glance before turning her piercing eyes back to Thranduil's youngest son and her best archer. "The King needs you right now, more than I do. Now go," she finished tiredly.

"With your leave, Captain Calencarka," Legolas finally said after a long pregnant pause, giving her a sharp respectful bow. He might be a Prince, third in line for the throne, but she was the Captain of the Royal Guard and had been one of his instructors in combat lessons when he was growing up. He also served officially under her command as an archer as well as a field officer. She nodded her head in answer before closing her eyes again, clearly in great pain as she rested her head back on the pallet.

Legolas then turned his attention back to nervous dark-haired Elf beside him, who silently pointed towards the large tent flap that was only a few yards away, past some other occupied cots and pallets. The young Elf was careful not to touch the ebony-haired Prince as he quietly returned to his place next to the Dwarf healer.

With his head held high Legolas turned and elegantly glided through the misery and ugliness around him, leaving Calencarka and the foul- tempered healer behind. Like a glowing light in a dark forest, he stood out in his terrible surroundings. More than one being took notice of his with fevered and pained- filled eyes. He did not know it, but his presence offered a strange comfort to some, bring a fleeting moment of something beautiful as he passed by. Legolas schooled his face into a mask of serene calm, the same mask he had perfected in his years at his father's court, even though he wished to cover his mouth in horror from what he felt and saw around him.

It was with a grateful gasp that he finally exited the tent, the heavy tarp flopping closed behind him as he gulped the fresh air, but his relief was short-lived. For here were the patients that had died while the healers tried to save them and those that simply could not be saved, like poor Cutholion or Brandor. They were neatly laid in rows, side by side -- the corpses of Elves, Dwarves, and Men alike, some covered, some not.

Here too there were mourners. A sandy-haired woman with two whimpering little ones hanging onto her, wailed over the body of a poor Man that looked to have been hacked literally in half. Further down the row a still armored Dwarf, notably injured himself, knelt next to the uncovered body of a dead Dwarf, silently holding the corpse's cold broad hand to his dirty cheek. Not far in a second row a young Man sobbed over the pale body of a bearded Man. But the image that stabbed directly at Legolas' heart was that of a slender dark-haired Wood-elf, clad in the garb of a Mirkwood archer lying next to the deathly still body of another dark-haired Elf. He immediately recognized the archer as Elanesse, one of the older archers under his own command, and he knew the dead Elf to be Dindil, a spearman and Elanesse's long time mate.

Bile rose in the back of Legolas' throat as he watched Elanesse lovingly comb pale and trembling fingers through his dead mate's dirty and matted hair, caressing his cold face. The archer's eyes looking so terribly lost as he softy sang words of love that fell on Dindil's deaf ears.

Legolas turned away then, his pale hand going to his mouth as he ran from the sight, his long legs carrying him past rows of dead that seemed to him just then to go on forever. Nimbly dodging past other Elves, Men and Dwarves, he made his escape from the terrible tents. Truly that place had to be worse then the actual battle itself.

He was not paying attention to where exactly he was going in his flight, but he soon found that his feet had unerringly taken him back to the main camp of King Thranduil's army. For he found himself once again amongst the light and airy green tents, the standards of Esgaroth and the Forest flying in the crisp breeze. He had slowed to a walk again, his soft booted feet soundless on the lush carpet of grass that had miraculously grown overnight in and around the Wood-elves' camp. The Elves took their green and mysterious magic with them wherever they went, and the very earth bloomed and came alive in their presence, even in the scorched earth of Smaug's desolation.

It was not long before Legolas found himself outside of the large royal tent-- his father and advisors and no doubt his elder brothers were already inside. Two armed Elves with spears stood guard before the entrance, their armor and deep green cloaks marking them as two of his father's personal Royal Guard, their flashing eyes missing nothing as they silently stood there as still as statues. But instead of going in, Legolas bypassed it and made his way to the back of one of the smaller supply tents nearby, out of sight from prying eyes.

The only other beings behind the tent were two tall Elven horses that had been tied to a post with long lead ropes to their thin halters, allowing them plenty of movement to walk around and graze on the sweet grass carpeting the ground. The elegant horses where in many ways much like the long-legged Elves that rode upon them, with their long necks and powerful yet slender bodies. The two stallions were the color of morning mist, their long silky manes and tails pale as churned butter, their large intelligent eyes a deep glossy brown. Normally they would have been free, but the Elves had haltered the beautiful animals because of the large amount of Men that wandered about. Elvish horses where extremely valuable and greatly sought after for their running and jumping ability; only the Mearas were more sought after when it came to horse flesh. While the Wood-elves trusted their horses to not run off, they did not fully trust the Lake Men not to try and steal one or more of the animals. So they had been haltered and tied for their own safety rather than to keep them from wandering.

Legolas spared the two animals a momentary glance before his delicate- featured face finally crumpled, and the hot tears he had been denying welled up in his luminous eyes before tumbling down his pale cheeks. The two horses' heads came up and their ears perked to look at the slender Elf now standing a few feet away. The Elf's long legs seemed to give out and they watched the lithe ebony-haired Prince sink to the ground.

Legolas crouched there, balanced on the balls of his feet while tightly holding his knees, hiding his face and weeping. He took no notice as the two long-legged horses walked over in concern. Sensing his sorrow they came to stand guard on either side of the shaking figure, whickering softly as they lipped at his hair and clothes and rubbing their velvety noses against him, trying in their own way to console the young Elf that wept as if his heart was splitting in two.

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Next chapter: Gimli meets some new people and is reunited with his father and uncle… after a little misunderstanding. And Thranduil and Dain go head-to-head!

Yes, this was intended to be a very depressing chapter. But I promise the next will be much lighter.

As for my reasoning behind some of the stuff in this chapter: in "The Hobbit" Bilbo is conveniently unconscious for most of the battle and later probably spends most of his time after Thorin's death in the Mountain (though he never really says). So he probably didn't see or simply 'edited' the uglier parts of his story out. I also think Bilbo purposefully changed and conveniently edited certain parts because he was a Hobbit and knew those in the Shire to be a bit xenophobic and insular. After all, who else would read his book, but other Hobbits?

As for the whole thing with the healing tents, this is just me filling in blank spaces again. The aftermath of The Battle of Five Armies is usually skipped over in a lot of fics or is used to leap off into some Legolas/Elf angst. But I really wanted to take a clear and un-colored look at it. Triage unfortunately is a necessary part of war, no matter where or what century, when supplies are limited. The thing with the healing tents always struck me as something that the combined forces of Dwarves, Men and Elves would probably have had to do.

In "The Hobbit" it says nothing of what was done for the wounded (aside from Thorin) and you know that there had to have been a lot of wounded after such a big battle. Yes, Thranduil marched his army out to take a portion of the treasure in the Mountain after everyone thought the Dwarves were dead and the Dragon as well. But I don't think it's as clear-cut as Bilbo makes it seem in "The Hobbit". I am one of those that believe it was for reasons other then greed alone, that Thranduil tried to get the treasure. There is definitely more going on here with Thorin, Thranduil, and the others than Bilbo lets on.

Thranduil did march his army to the Mountain, but it was not with the express intent of actually fighting. When he later turned and gave his aid to the Men of the Lake, it would have probably used up a lot of their supplies. The Lake Men themselves probably didn't have much in the way of supplies, thanks to Smaug burning down their town. But Dain's army was different, they had come expecting a fight and so would have probably marched with plenty of healers and supplies in tow. So in the end, just like on the battlefield, I think the combined armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves would have probably had to combine their supplies and healers.

I also really wanted to show the true horrors of war, not only the casualties of those lost on the battlefield, but those wounded. Right now with the conflict in Iraq going on many people have lost their lives, both civilian and combative. But what our current (#$&$#!) President in the USA doesn't say and the news media doesn't tell the public, is that for every one soldier killed, at least four are wounded. And many of those wounded are horribly so, i.e. missing limbs, disfigurement or worse.

The simple message is that war is ugly and must be avoided at all costs! Make love not war! gets off her soapbox

(1.) It just makes sense. Almost all cultures around the world hunted with bows or spears before gun powder was invented.

(2.) Yes, Dwarves usually live for only two hundred and fifty years. But some do live longer-- look at how long Dwalin lived, he lived 340 years. So it might be rare but not inconceivable that a Dwarf every now and then would live to three hundred or more.

(3.) Kazad: The name of the Dwarves in their own language. Naugrim however is a derogatory name for them by the Elves. In other words people it's like calling someone a nigger, chink, spick or any other derogatory name. A Dwarf would be insulted if he were called a naug or naugrim.

(4.) It only makes sense that the Elves would probably see things differently then Bilbo or the Dwarves, from what happened in Mirkwood.

(5.) He's talking about seeing a total eclipse of the sun.

(6.) The Elves of Mirkwood are considered more rustic and wild compared to those of Rivendell, Lindon and Lothlorien. They're described as untrusting of others and insular in nature, never having seen the light of the Two Trees.

(7.) The War of Dwarves and Orcs

(8.) This is another of my own ideas, but I got the idea from Glorfindel who is said to have special powers that he used to help him fight a Balrog. So I don't think it is too far of a stretch for some other Elves to have similar power but for healing instead