Tree and Stone

XV

Farewell We Call

The days crept forward to the hour of departure—and yet seemed to fly past, also. Too little time for those who had dear ones that would be left behind; too short for they who were stepping blindly toward darkness. Those named companions set themselves early to prepare, then had to endure long anticipation, often feeling great loneliness even amid the fellowship in the Hall of Fire.

Legolas was impatient. So long already had nothing been done and the world seemed to deteriorate around him. He did not wish to rush the venture, but he longed for action still. To move, to fight, even to run would be a relief to him, rather than sitting and watching the fear grow in faces around him, and the shadows lengthening.

The wood elf dwelled for long days on the practice ranges, spending arrow after arrow, until his targets were utterly destroyed. His temper became so short that he avoided speaking, and only appeared for the evening meals to dine with the Companions. Aragorn noticed his mood, but he was involved in a struggle of his own and could offer no assistance other than stalwart friendship.

The time crept by for Gimli as well, now alone in his chambers after his father had departed; he and the Dwarven contingent had gone back to Erebor. To fill the endless hours he honed his axes and sang in his echoing chamber the ballads and histories of his people. The hobbits came often to keep him company and he sat with them at mealtimes, enjoying their simple jests and appetites.

His respect for Frodo Baggins increased with every meeting. The hobbit was very much as Glóin had described Bilbo, Frodo's uncle; he was more like Bilbo than Bilbo was himself. He was quiet and attentive when listening to song or conversation, mirthful and merry in voice and manner, polite and correct and yet also honest and direct. He seemed to know the words to every song played, and could tell a tale rousing or hilarious upon asking. The Elves adored him and often drew him into the Hall of Fire after meals, when he could be pried from Bilbo's side for a few moments.

Yet he was also unlike Bilbo. He was more reserved in his storytelling, especially involving himself and his companion's recent adventures. He reduced his own valour or bravery and enlarged upon rather the involvement of his kindred and the deeds of the Dúnadan, taking as little credit to himself as possible for any accomplishments. He did this subtly, so that no protest could be voiced and he took pleasure in the proud glow in his friends' faces.

As merry and cavalier as he was, Gimli could still see that Frodo was concerned about the journey ahead, and that he eagerly filled his waking hours with cheer and pleasantries to avoid thinking about that dark road. Gimli never saw Frodo when he wasn't well attired and presentable, but there was little Samwise could do to conceal his master's eyes, dark-smudged from troubled sleep. Nor could he quiet the soft sound of pacing that whispered through the stone floors of Imladris from the Ring-bearer's chamber, as nightly he felt the growing fear and danger that reared up from the East and spoke to him through the chill winds of the hopelessness of his quest.

Gimli could hear the murmuring of the stones of Rivendell, which rang with history and echoed with long years' tales. Though it was not in words that the speech of the Earth came to his understanding, the Dwarf could tell where and which direction a given individual walked, if he was familiar with their gait or location, so long as their feet brushed the stone. He could hear the vibration of breath, smell the dampness that spoke of morning. He felt the slow formation of crystals buried deep within the granite; alive as no living beast or plant was alive, and yet growing and possessing slow thought, containing hope for the failing of the darkness.

At last the day ordained arrived, and that evening they assembled in the courtyard to take their leave. Legolas' impatience now left him feeling unprepared. He stood for long moments in his chambers feeling that he was forgetting something important, but he knew this fear for what it was. He hurried out and down the steps of the House to find that others had preceded him.

Sam was standing next to a sturdy pony, stroking the little horse's nose and speaking softly to him. Meriadoc and Peregrin were also there, sitting on their packs and speaking with Gimli. Boromir stood nearby, slightly apart from the others. Legolas realized then he had seen little of this Man in the weeks since the council, and in those few times he had noted him, he was ever in Aragorn's company. Elrond had gently reprimanded him for winding his horn before the onset of their journey, and since then he had remained silent, though his manner was proud and without remorse. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground before his feet, closing and opening his hand over the hilt of his long sword.

On the steps Legolas found the Ranger and the Ring-bearer. Frodo was standing beside his uncle; Bilbo was wrapped in a blanket, for the evening had grown very chill. Aragorn sat on the steps with his head bowed. Of Gandalf there was no sign.

Legolas gravitated toward the Hobbits and the Dwarf. Their conversation was light and general, touching upon nothing of their eminent journey. Though uncertainty and fear were in the faces of the halflings, they set that aside. They would not remain in security while their cousin walked open-eyed into danger. They greeted Legolas, now at ease in the tall Elf's company. He nodded in return and stood nearby, not joining their speech but listening.

The evening deepened and the Hobbit's chattering faded. Boromir shuffled his feet. Though truly only minutes passed, it seemed a time intolerably long before Gandalf finally appeared, coming out of the House. Elrond was with him, and he called them to come forward out of the grey shadows and hear his final words.

"The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid…"

Gimli listened to the Half-Elf's words, and his pride was stirred when Elrond spoke of strength of hearts and roads unforeseen. "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," he said.

"Maybe," said Elrond, "but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall." Elrond turned aside each of Gimli's protests gently and refused to bind the Fellowship with any word of his. He blessed them and bade them farewell, and Bilbo stuttered with the cold, his eyes on the pale face of his nephew.

Frodo bowed to Elrond and turned slowly away, his eyes seeming to search over the House and the fair valley as if to commit it all to his memory, before he took a step on the road he knew had no returning. He was clad in his faded travel garments again, mended by the skill of the elves and yet still stained from his previous adventure. At his side hung a small sword of an Elvish design.

He walked slowly, the other companions falling in behind him. Voices called soft words of farewell, but Frodo did not seem to hear them. His eyes were downcast and he moved forward until he became a grey shadow, lost in the twilight.

Legolas saluted Elrond before turning away, catching a vision of Arwen standing in the open doorway of the house. Her fair face was full of hope, even if her eyes were wet with tears. Seeing her in her sadness caught his heart, and he, too, lowered his eyes and watched the path that led them away.

The tardy winter seemed to arrive as they left the valley. The wind blew from the east as if daring them to come forth, and the dark clouds overhead were being snagged and shredded by its relentless fingers. Behind them, the Valley of Imladris lay silent, its songs withheld as if robbed of breath.