Please forgive any of my typos, I hope you'll like this one!
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Vanishing Campers
Sighing heavily, Gimli shuffled out of Rivendell's airy council room and wished that he would never have to enter it again. For the third day in a row, he had entered at dawn, felt rather useless amongst doom-laden discussions, and left only when dusk was falling. He was starting to wish that he had gone with Bróin and Frodo and the others. After all, Gimli would not be walking to Mordor. He would be returning to Erebor instead.
To protect his king. And maybe to fight in a war. Gimli was not afraid of battle – in fact, cutting some orc throats would make him feel much better.
But Gimli was terrified of arriving too late. Here he had listened and learnt, and been about as useful as a hair curler to a hobbit. His dreams were plagued by equal helplessness on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, of returning to Erebor and finding that some evil with the power of Smaug had broken in and decimated his home.
Every night, the fireplace stole his gaze, and his mind wandered far to the east. It wondered what would happen if they arrived at a mountain already besieged. How could they help that, in a party as small as theirs? What if something happened to the food supplies, and their people began to starve?
There were so many 'if's, and none that he could change, and Gimli was tired of it.
All around him, people were moving in different directions – most towards the hall where Elrond had promised them supper. But when Gimli paused by a nearby balcony, Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas lingered too.
"Are you alright?" asked Aragorn, staring down at him with raised eyebrows. "You seem rather downhearted."
"And you seem rather chipper," Gimli retorted, raising his own brows in response, "given that we just spent two hours discussing what to do in the event that the entire fellowship is slaughtered."
Boromir clamped his hand down hard on Gimli's shoulder. "What we need is ale, I think. Fortify the blood after such talk."
His worry scurrying towards the back of his mind, Gimli grinned. "Aye, I like the way you're thinking, laddie."
"Ale is not a popular beverage among the elves," said Aragorn lightly, and Gimli sighed.
"I know. I've missed it sorely ever since leaving the Shire. Bilbo has a barrel of Barliman's Best tucked away in the cellar."
Aragorn's eyes raised higher, but now it was a look of great approval. "Does he indeed? That is a good brew, to be sure. I did not know that Barliman Butterbur sold by the barrel?"
"He doesn't," said Gimli, rather smugly. "But Bilbo always tells such good stories and brings such company to the Prancing Pony that he often makes an exception."
"Alas, it does not help us here," sighed Boromir, a twinkle in his eye. Still, there were more lines than usual on his forehead, and his eyes were shadowed by dark rings. It was then that Gimli noticed the tight edge in Aragorn's smile, and the utter stillness of Legolas, as he stared into the distance.
Although, noted Gimli, the latter could just be an elf thing.
"No, but I can," said Aragorn. He gave a wry smile and began to walk in the opposite direction from the crowd. "I know where Lord Elrond keeps what ale he has – I doubt he will begrudge us a mug or two."0
Just a few minutes later, Gimli was much more content. He had a mug of ale in each hand – not as good a brew as could be found in the Shire or the Lonely Mountain, but a decent one nevertheless – and he was sitting on a plain, stone balcony that overlooked the eastern side of the valley. Though winter was drawing ever nearer, it was pleasantly warm, and the company was fairly good.
For almost an hour, Gimli shared stories of easier times and adventures past with Aragorn and Boromir, and the ale drew a much of his worry from his heart.
But Legolas had hardly moved. Though he had accompanied them, he denied any drink, and had been staring with slightly narrowed eyes at a single spot for over an hour. Finally, Gimli had had enough.
"Say, Legolas," he said, finally drawing the elf's gaze from the horizon. "What're you looking at? You've not moved for an hour."
"What I cannot see," said Legolas, a brief smile twitching across his face at Gimli's look of confusion. "It may well be nothing."
"Yet you do not think it so," frowned Aragorn, standing up from where he had slouched against the balcony. Boromir's eyes sharpened, and focused on the elf. None had yet drunk enough to lose their judgement.
"Three nights ago, I saw smoke rising from a glade in the eastern valley, from the cooking fire of the young hobbits, I guessed. I caught glimpse of it the following morning, yet I could see nothing that evening, nor the next day – today. There is no sign of a fire, or smoke, and perhaps it may be only the foreshadowing of fear from the dangers we will face, but there is a shadow growing over my heart."
"You think they're in trouble?" said Gimli, standing up himself. He had no time for pretty words now, not if the young ones were in danger. Why, they were little more than children…
"I do not know," said Legolas. "It could be that now they cook beneath the trees, or chose not to light a fire at all. And evil cannot yet penetrate this valley."
"They are not fools," added Aragorn. "There is no reason for them not to be safe."
Gimli sighed, and stared off to where the trees were blurring into the dark.
"I'm sure they're fine," Boromir said, shoving Gimli's shoulder with a grin on his face. "Think about how angry they'd be if you showed up to check on them."
Gimli snorted. "It'd be worth the trip to annoy them so much."
After a pause, Aragorn spoke. "Then let's take it." The other three stared at him, and Aragorn shrugged. "It takes but a few hours riding to reach the Ice Pool, if we set a good pace. We could be back by dawn, scare some hobbits, put Gimli's worry to rest and have something light to think of during tomorrow's meeting."
"You know," said Boromir slowly, stroking his chin, "we may even be able to miss the council tomorrow. They are to discuss the provisions, and I believe that the hands of hobbits and elves are more than capable of such talk. They know what we need, after all."
"That is a fine point." Aragorn nodded.
"I'm in," grinned Gimli. The night was getting better and better, and he no longer felt tired in the slightest. He would get to surprise, scare, and/or mock his young cousins, and he would not have to attend another useless meeting.
Legolas, the prissy rule-stickler he was, insisted on talking to Elrond of their plan, but both elven lord and Bilbo thought it a good idea. In fact, Bilbo gave Gimli a weary smile, and a hug, and bade him jump out at Frodo if he could.
"The Valar know he could do with a laugh."
But despite the safety both Elrond and Bilbo advocated, Gimli ensured he had all three of his best axes stowed on his person. One was the walking axe that his father had given him, and the other two were smaller, and tucked easily into his belt.
To his relief, Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were all also armed when they met at the stables. No one spoke of it, but with the great shadow hanging over their heads it felt ill advised to travel without them. They took only light packs, with provisions for two days just in case, thick cloaks for the cold night, and some various other bits and pieces. They would be back by the next night at the latest, after all.
All the wolves had gone with the tweens, save Luno, who was really just Kíli's glorified lap dog. Still, Gimli was happy to be reunited with his trusty little pony, Odo. The poor creature seemed a little disgruntled about setting out as night fell, but when the horses of Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir led out of the stables without complaint, Odo stomped his pride and carried Bilbo into the night with his head in the air.
It was cooler now, and the wind was crisp on his face as they rode, but Gimli liked it. It felt refreshing, and so good to be doing something, even if it was unproductive.
They set an easy pace, laughing and chatting as they followed a small trail that Aragorn and his horse picked out through the trees. As the night grew deeper, they rode faster and talked less, but the silence that fell was comfortable.
It felt safe here, to ride beneath a canopy of leaves, littered with stars. Gimli may not fully trust any elf, but he trusted Bilbo, and Bilbo trusted that Elrond could protect his valley. Even as he rode, his fears for his cousins seemed folly.
It was gone midnight when Aragorn checked his horse in a little hollow, and they all dismounted. Quietly, they crept through an overgrown path on foot, leaving their steeds to graze. Gimli felt his heart beating faster and faster in his chest, but when they sprang out into a clearing, he did not see what he expected to.
There was a pond – the Ice Pool did imply something of the sort, and now he could see how it got its name. The rock beneath the water was white, giving the little lake a silver sheen, and it glittered like ice in the starlight. The grass around it was lush and soft, even against the onset of winter, and the trees formed smooth, pale pillars. It was a peaceful place, a wonderful place to stargaze and contemplate life. That he had been expecting.
He was also expecting the nearby remains of a fire, but not for the coals to be cold.
He was not expecting it to be the only sign of a camp.
"Frodo?" he called loudly. "Sam?" If the tables had been turned, and Gimli was now on the receiving end of a practical joke, those would be the two to put him out of his misery the fastest.
The soft hoot of an owl was the only reply, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Aragorn stooped to the ground by the fire, a frown on his face.
"This has not been lit in days," he murmured, his eyes scouring the ground. "And these tracks are just as old – they could have stayed here no longer than a night…"
"Then where are they?" demanded Gimli, squinting into the dark trees and seeing no sign of his cousins.
"Not far, surely," said Boromir, though his face was falling into a frown. "Perhaps they are simply exploring?"
Gimli weighed this in his mind, and then gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose… It wouldn't be unlike them."
But Legolas' eyes were fixed on the trees at the eastern side of the glade, and he walked into them without a word. He returned a few moments later, a piece of ripped, white fabric in his hand. It was smeared with blood.
Gimli's heart dropped through his boots, even as it began pumping adrenalin through his system. This could not be…
"This belongs to Pippin," said Aragorn, his voice tightening as he took the fabric in his hand. "I recognise the pattern on the seam, he showed me the other day…"
The hood was ripped from his head, and though Gimli had believed it impossible, he felt worse. The very first thing he saw was an orc, holding Pippin by his neck like a dog. He looked frantically around, recognising Fíli and Paladin, and seeing bound elves and a young man with a spike against his throat and –
"You got the prince?" A strange, black-bearded dwarf laughed. "That's perfect!"
Gimli glanced at Fíli, hoping that his cousin would do something, would have a blade hidden up his sleeve, but all he had was a scowl.
"Now, here's how things are going to work," the other strange dwarf declared, stalking up and down like a prison guard. "If anyone screams too loudly, one of you will be tortured – severally – and then killed. If anyone tries to escape, one of you will be tortured and then killed. For example, if this fellow here-" he pushed Paladin roughly. "Was to try and escape, we would take his little brat here-" he shook Pippin up and down, and the little hobbit squeaked. Anger rose from Gimli's stomach to his throat. "Break his little fingers and toes, beat him to within an inch of his life and then kill him in some interesting, inventive way. Got it?"
In his mind, Gimli saw it – he could already hear Pippin screaming –
Taking a deep breath, Gimli gave a sharp bark in Khuzdul, and immediately Odo jostled his way over. The pony looked highly disgruntled, but did not protest when Gimli mounted and urged him towards the trees.
"What are you doing?" Boromir stepped forward.
Gimli set his jaw and did not look back. "Finding my cousins. Might be nothing, or they might be hurt. And don't even think of trying to stop me-"
"Gimli," said Aragorn firmly, "it is too dark to track them now. Let's go at first light, I'll be able to search more clearly then."
"And dawn is but a few hours away," added Boromir. He was staring up at the sky. "We should not lose much time."
Gimli blinked, startled. "We?"
"Well, we will not let you go alone," laughed Boromir, shaking his head with a devilish grin. "Come now, Gimli, we're neither faithless nor cowards. We should go with you now if the need seemed more pressing, but chances are Pippin fell into a tree and ripped his shirt. You can't tell me that's out of character?"
Gimli mulled this over for a moment, and then shrugged. "I suppose not."
"Then let's get some sleep," said Aragorn, in a calm yet firm voice – much like the one Bilbo would use, Gimli noted.
"Not much," the dwarf said as he jumped down from his pony and scratched Odo's nose. Perhaps it was just his memories that shook him, the awful knowledge of what evil folk would bestow upon even infants if it would further their cause. It was just as likely that they had tired of the Ice Glade, and Pippin had tripped over his own feet. But when morning came, he would wait no longer. "We must be away as soon as we can see."
It was not long before daylight woke them, pouring down onto Gimli's sleeping face and jolting him into action. His fears seemed less pressing in the light. Aragorn and Boromir were right. Knowing his cousins, they were simply exploring, and making a general nuisance of themselves, the scoundrels. He felt almost foolish, to have allowed himself to get so worked up at a smudge of blood and old memories, but his mother always said to accept that a troubled past led to troubled thoughts.
"Acknowledge it, do not berate it, and move on," she would say.
The four companions followed the trail of wolf prints, talking and laughing amongst themselves, until several hours had passed. It was odd – they were travelling east in as straight a line as they could make, and as time went on they seemed no closer to reaching their friends. The tracks were old, days old, and by noon the hunters were cantering, urging their steeds to reach the fastest sustainable pace.
The trees before them thinned and thinned, until Aragorn led them through a ford in the river with a soft moan, and halted on the other side. His eyes were narrow with worry and confusion, and staring at the horizon. Legolas was shading his eyes, and Boromir's jaw was tight.
Gimli's heart was pounding in his chest, as Odo carried him across the eastern border of Rivendell. For he knew what that river was. What line they had just crossed. "They're… they're gone."
"Where?" breathed Aragorn, his brow creased.
Boromir shook his head. "Why?"
Legolas was the one to wield the word that chilled Gimli's blood. "Orcs."
"Orcs!" he cried, wheeling around. "What the blazes do you mean orcs, they were supposed to be safe!"
"Orcs," Legolas repeated, pointing at an oddly shaped rock in the distance. "There are two orc corpses yonder, and tracks all around here. Trying to enter Rivendell, no doubt, though I cannot understand how they could breach the defences-"
"Did they take them?" Gimli rounded on Aragorn, desperate for the ranger's reading of the dirt, and terrified of it in equal measure. "Did orcs take my cousins?"
Another image from long ago flashed before his eyes – little Pippin, bound and chained by orcs. Not again, that could not happen again.
Aragorn shook his head slowly. "That does not make sense. They would have walked from the valley into their own doom willingly, for there were no signs of orcs within the valley. I cannot fathom that they could cross the river. There are orc prints here, and wolf tracks from our friends, but they are confused. I cannot tell who was here when."
Gimli took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and growled. "Right. Right." Then he flicked the reins, and set Odo on a brisk trot.
"Gimli-" began Boromir, but the dwarf was having none of it.
"I'm going to find those damn rascals, and skin any orc or man or elf that might've hurt them. And, if it turns out the idiots left of their own volition, I'll skin them."
"Not literally, I hope," muttered Boromir. "And I was hoping for another ale tonight. But let's go. The sooner we find them the better."
"Someone should go back," said Legolas, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Alert Lord Elrond."
Aragorn pursed his lips. "They cannot be far. I suggest we ride hard now, and if we have found nothing by dusk, someone ought to return. But still this may be more innocent than it seems, and the council have more pressing matters than six wayward children. That is not an insult, Gimli."
"I know." The dwarf grinned darkly. "Let's hunt some dwobbits."
When Bilbo retired from the fourth day of talks, he had to admit that his concern was growing. He had expected that Gimli would have returned by now, with Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir in tow. But they had not arrived, even for dinner.
Too tired even for the Hall of Fire, Bilbo and Dís made their way to their room, and went to bed. But try as he might, Bilbo could not sleep. He tossed and turned and sighed and snarled, until finally he sat up in bed. At this rate, he would wake Dís.
A sudden thought came to his mind, and he paused. It would not hurt, to have a little peek at his pre- his ring. Just for a minute. After all, he had to build up his strength, and what better way than practise?
He slid out of bed and grappled for the large chest beneath the bed, but as his hands touched the top, they fell on paper. Frowning, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment with Frodo's writing on. Then, he smiled.
Frodo had a habit of writing happy poems, messages or inspirational sayings on bits of scrap paper, and leaving them around the places for people to find. So far, Bilbo's favourite had been the 'always look on the bright side of life' that had been left in the bucket that was tucked in his back cupboard in Erebor, and reserved for vomiting children.
But this one took the cake, though Frodo surely could not have known it would. A lullaby for a sleepless night. Bilbo read the simple verse over and over, and then smiled, and got back into bed. He tucked the paper beneath his pillow, wrapped his arms around his wife and closed his eyes.
And had the best night of sleep he would have for months.
I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Again, it's slightly less altered, so I hope it was not too repetitive for those of you so patiently re-reading. Please do let me know what you think, and I will endeavour to see you tomorrow. Until then, take care!