VII

Rivendell

Coming down from the comfort of the mountain to the valley, Gimli stared in wonder at Rivendell. In tomes of history kept by the Kings Under the Mountain, Gimli had read that the stronghold of Imladris had withstood sieges by the Dark Lord's marauding hoards for centuries.

This place looked as though it could not withstand a strong breeze. It appeared nothing more than a largish hall or two, connected to dozens of fragile-looking gazebos by ropes and bridges of wood. All the good stone was set about the foundations, overrun with water, and all the towers half screened and overgrown with ivy. He had expected a bastion of stonework, sculpted by a millennia of idle elvish hands—but impressive and daunting. This runaway garden made him feel nervous.

By the time he and his companions reached the floor of the valley, Gimli's opinion of Rivendell was changed; they passed a number of cunningly hidden guards, and many which Gimli knew were there but could not see. The forging of this retreat was well-founded, and now within the borders of the place he could discern the defenses; narrow bridges, steep approaches, and many more things that would make Gimli hesitate, if he were planning an assault on this place. Grudgingly—he had to admit to himself that Rivendell was indeed a safe and steady place.

When he saw the Elf standing on the steps of the Great Hall waiting to greet them, he thought for an instant that is was his skulking wood elf changed into finer garments. But it was not so. This Elf was taller, his hair longer and silver rather than light gold, and his eyes were grey. He was dressed in some flowing fabric set with delicate stones faceted to throw light. Gimli restrained himself from coming closer than necessary, though he wanted more than anything to examine more closely this strange garment and its fair decoration.

The Elf welcomed them formally, introducing himself as Erestor of the House of Finrod. Gimli half-listened to his speech; he had spotted the troublesome wood elf lurking in the bushes near a path leading through the trees, spying on them. Gimli had good sight and better hearing than most Dwarves. He said nothing but kept an eye on the elf, while Gloín spoke to Erestor and asked to see Elrond immediately; after all, had they not made a long dangerous journey to speak to him?

The elf began to make excuses, and Gimli felt his blood rising. This was an insult to his father, he was sure. But before he could build up a spleen, a small figure like a grey-haired child came out of the house, and his father shouted with joy and embraced him. Gimli was too surprised to stay angry.

Bilbo Baggins, the legendary burglar! Gimli wondered what he was doing here in Rivendell, and then he wondered again how old the hobbit must be now. He looked old, but not nearly as old as he ought! Intrigued, he followed Gloín and the others into the house to listen to Bilbo's words, forgetting entirely the elf that was watching them.

The tall elf led them to a suite of chambers full of furnishings and niceties suitable for the height and needs of Dwarves. The walls of the rooms were striated rock, layered in colours and glittering crystals washed naturally from the mountainside by the rushing waters. There was a roaring fire warming the rooms and food on a table. Erestor excused himself, leaving them in Bilbo's care.

Gimli was too interested in what the hobbit and his father were saying to be annoyed at the lack of meat and beer. He wolfed down two sweet apples and half a loaf of buttered bread with honey as while listening to Gloín and Bilbo speak of old times.

The aged hobbit was a marvel to the young dwarf. The numbers in his head told him that Bilbo had to be more than 120 years old—which was not old at all for a Dwarf—but old indeed for a hobbit. He looked somewhat more than half that age, robust and energetic yet, but with greying hair and many laugh-wrinkles around his eyes.

But those eyes were now tired and reddened, and as Gimli watched he realized that Bilbo was nervous or deeply worried about something. His eyes darted to the doorway whenever anyone walked past. He fidgeted, putting his hand into his pockets as if searching for something. Then he would smooth the fabric of his clothes, tugging at the edge of his embroidered silk waistcoat, and check his pockets again. He seemed unaware of the movement.

Finally the two old friends fell into an awkward silence. Bilbo was staring out of the window, his thoughts far away. Gloín placed a callused hand gently on Bilbo's shoulder. "What is the care that burdens you, my friend? Will you not speak of it to me?"

To both Gloín and Gimli's surprise, Bilbo burst into tears. He turned away swiftly, but his dignity was gone. His shoulders stooped; he seemed bowed with sudden age and despair.

Gimli felt very uncomfortable, but Gloín cared nothing for manful appearances. He sent all the dwarves into another room except for Gimli; he instructed his son to bring them wine. Bilbo was a friend through dangers and dragons and dungeons, and Gloín would not turn away from him. He set Bilbo down in a chair and put a goblet in Bilbo's shaking hand and helped him drink. Then he sat nearby and waited patiently for Bilbo to talk again.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Gloín," Bilbo said when he had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, clearing his throat. "It's my nephew, you see. He has only just arrived in Rivendell... that is where Lord Elrond is now; why he could not meet you himself. He..." Bilbo had to take another gulp of wine before he could say, "He's been badly wounded, my Frodo lad. Elrond and Gandalf... are trying to save his life."

Gloín rocked back in his chair, his face written with horror and grief. He said, "Bilbo, I have often sworn my service to you and your family, as you have to mine. We are as a family now, so your grief is mine also! You should be with him, not here gossiping with an old friend."

Bilbo smiled a sad, grateful smile. "There is nothing I can do but sit and hold his hand. I feel so helpless... at least here I could do a small service, see you comfortable and explain why Elrond could not come. I asked him if I could do this for him. Seeing you and your son," Bilbo rose and bowed to Gimli, who hastened to return the bow and pledge of service, "Seeing you both has been a pleasure in a dark hour, but I must get back to him now. If I can do no more than hold his hand and pray, then that I will do. Good-bye for now, my good Dwarves! It is good to see you again, Gloín, whatever the circumstances. Gimli, I am glad I have finally gotten to meet you. You are a son that any Dwarf or Hobbit would be proud to claim. I shall see you both at mealtime, unless..." and Bilbo's weak smile faded and he turned away hastily. Gloín tugged on his beard, his face anxious.

Gimli stared after the hobbit, wondering at his own feelings which were all in turmoil now. Gimli took his father's comment to heart; any friend of Gloín's was a friend of Gimli. Bilbo was family, and so this Frodo was family, too. He turned to Gloín, who was now looking into the heart of the fire. He asked, "What is the meaning of this, father? We have come to speak in the council, and Bilbo and Gandalf are both here. Mirkwood Elves have come and Bilbo's nephew; what strange occurrences are coming together? Why now and why here?"

Gloín looked at his son with sharp appraisal. "You speak with wisdom, son. Great things seem to have been set in motion, and we have walked into the center of a storm. Let us hope for Frodo's recovery, if only to soothe the heart of Bilbo. It ruins me to see him so full of despair."

"How did he come to be wounded? He should have had a Dwarf with him! If I were there, I would have protected him with my life." Gimli knew his words were true; he felt a kinship with the halfling who he had never seen before, a strange bond almost as strong as he had to his blood-kin. "If ever he goes forth again, even upon return to the Shire, I shall lend him my axe and the hand that wields it, and see him safe wherever he is bound."

Gloín laid his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "You are a son for which a father can be proud! Let us rid ourselves of our road-gear and see if there is anything we can do to help Bilbo and Frodo. I fear the council will be delayed if Elrond is busy, but I do not begrudge it now! Rivendell is a pleasant house, for all the strange architecture and drafty gardens. You need to eat and rest, and so do I, or we'll be of no use to anyone."

Gimli obeyed his father, but once they were bathed and fed and he lay on his firm mattress, trying to sleep, he found that he could not rest his mind.

He rose quietly, going as soft as he could from the chamber, and walked down the hall. Sconces holding candles of beeswax lit the corridor dimly, shedding circles of yellow light that brushed one another like frozen ripples on the surface of a pond. Gimli paused and listened; beneath the ever-present murmur of water the steady stone foundation of Rivendell carried to him the sound of voices speaking softly. He followed that sound.

His trail led back to the entrance hall and down another corridor, lit sparingly by more yellow candles. Darkened doorway opened to right and left and smaller hallways beckoned, but he stayed on his path, for the voices were becoming clearer.

Elvish words, he guessed. He knew a few words and phrases in Elvish, enough to understand simple things. These words buzzing in his ears were not understandable to Gimli, so he reckoned that they must be an ancient tongue. He stepped carefully, making no noise until he come to the end of the corridor, and found a brightly lit room where many elves were gathered.

He froze, not able to come any closer. Few candles lit the room, but it blazed with light nevertheless, as if the stars and moon had come into the house and settled there. The faces of the elves present were lit as if from within, and they were fair and solemn and intent. They seemed gathered around a table or a high bed. He could not see what the object of their attention was at first. He saw Gandalf there, and Bilbo was next to him, standing on a stool between the Wizard and an elf. He was holding a hand, a small hand like his own but white and limp and lifeless seeming, belonging to someone who lay on the table. Gimli felt a lump form in his throat, and it sank down to his heart.

A slight movement caught his eye, and he turned to find his wood elf sitting in the sill of the window that opened out over the moon-lit waterfalls. Gimli felt a flash of his former anger, but it paled against the anxiety he felt for Bilbo's nephew. The face of the Elf carried none of the aloofness or enmity from earlier that day. He looked worried and anxious also, as if his heart was as knotted and sharp as Gimli's own. He said nothing, just sat and watched.

Unable to help and uncomfortable under the eye of Legolas, Gimli returned to his chamber and lay awake, wondering what would happen next.