#16: Amazement

Gimli looked from his sword, wavering in his unsteady hand, up at the stunned faces of Legolas and Aragorn. Before he knew it he was on the ground, blood pouring from a deep wound in his side.

Later he woke to the staring bright eyes of that damned elf. "What do you want?" He asked, trying for gruff, ending up sounding like he felt…in pain. The elf said nothing, just nodded his head and re-wrapped Gimli's wound, his gentle fingers and wide eyes conveying his thanks to the dwarf who'd just saved all of their lives.

.***.

Legolas looked behind him for the hundredth time that day. No matter how often Gimli insisted he was "fine", it still held true that out of the four remaining members of the Fellowship it was the dwarf who had been most injured in the battle of Helm's Deep.

"You look uncomfortable, master dwarf." Legolas said lightly, eyes flitting to the stark white bandage on Gimli's forehead.

"Keep your eyes straight, laddie."

The tinkling laugh that issued from Legolas' mouth made the Rohirrim look up, startled, made Aragorn's lips twitch and Gandalf's eyes dance. It made Gimli harrumph in annoyance. "Confound the elves and their awful horses."

"Take your mind off the horses, Gimli. Participate in a game with me." Legolas suggested. He, too, was weary from battle and the long day of riding. Isengard was another eight hours of tedious riding, with the horses having to pick their way delicately through the dense forest paths. He would be glad for the distraction of a contest.

"Most of the games I know can only be played with both feet firmly on the ground." Gimli mumbled.

"A riddling contest, then. Surely dwarves participate in the game of riddles?"

Here Gimli's eyes sparkled and his whole self became more animated. Chin raised, chest puffed out, face set, he said, proudly, "Aye. Dwarves are the best riddlers of any of the races, including devious elves." He thought for a moment, "All the riddles I know are in dwarvish…this is but a rough translation."

"All the riddles I know are in elvish. We are on an even playing field my friend."

Gimli nodded, eager to begin the game. "Baruk! This language!...What is so fragile that when you say its name, you break it?"

Another laugh, and Éomer kicked his horse lightly, making it trot closer. No one could resist the sound of an elf's laughter. "Strange that you would pick that one to begin, master dwarf. It is a riddle we teach to our youngest children. Silence. The answer is silence."

"If you think my puzzles are so easy, challenge me with one of your own!" Gimli said, caught up in his own bluster. He loved playing the game of riddles, had participated in many contests of wits in his younger years, and there was something about Legolas, his strange, outwardly calm demeanor, that made Gimli want to best him at every opportunity.

Legolas smiled, thinking of the perfect challenge. "Alright then…My back is adorned with feathers. I have a long neck and sharp nose. I am able to fly yet have no wings. What am I?"

Before Gimli could even begin to gnash his teeth over the problem, an arrow flew from the forest, embedding itself in Gimli's pack, its point scraping against his skin. At the same time, four other arrows were loosed into the crowd of horses and men.

Mayhem reigned for an instant. Horses bucked, soldiers yelled, swords were drawn. The attackers had not yet made themselves known and the chaos made the rustling leaves and loud breathing hard to notice. But Gimli was off his steed in an instant, brandishing his ax in the direction of the noise.

Before he could attack, another arrow, then another were loosed towards the horses, aiming for the king. Eomer's sword stopped the first, his back the second. Men swarmed towards him, one maneuvering his horse so it stood close enough to the captain the young lieutenant could prop Éomer up.

"Slimy orcs!" Gimli roared, diving in to the thick underbrush that surrounded the beaten path. There was a brief exchange of blows, a scream that suddenly cut off short, then nothing.

Legolas threw the reigns of the skittish horse to a young man and flew into the bushes, his feet barely touching the ground. Four feet in, the struggle made itself known with broken limbs and trampled bushes. Five feet past that was a dead orc…

…next to a wavering Gimli. Surrounding the dwarf were three other orcs, all dead, all with bows and sharp-pointed arrows strewn around their bodies. Gimli looked up from his ax, from the stolen, curved orc-sword he had stolen from one of the foul creatures, and his eyes met Legolas'.

In that instant, the world was reduced to the two of them in this clearing. Never before, or at least, not documented in any of the history books Legolas had spent his first two centuries studying, had there been a friendship like this, between an old, fair, dignified elf and a younger, hardy, proud dwarf. The two races weren't supposed to mix. They weren't supposed to like each other. They weren't supposed to forge friendships.

But in that instant, in the drawing of a single breath, the lone beat of the heart, when a pair of eyes met across a clearing strewn with evil and death, the two realized that for the first time in history there was an elf who cared whether a dwarf lived or died. There was a dwarf who cared to save an elf when his back was turned.

Of course, that instant, when the whole of the Earth seemed to stand still with the magnitude of the moment, was broken when Gimli hit the ground, blood pouring from his side.

.***.

Legolas sat vigil outside of the small tent that housed a sleeping mat and the dwarf, trying to ignore Aragorn's badly suppressed laughter. "Estel…"

"Geheno nin, mellon." Aragorn said, smile still seeping through. "It is only that I have not seen you fret like this since I was a hurt child and you were acting as a mother bear separated from her cub. I am jealous that your affections have been swayed from me."

"You no longer need protecting, Estel. And we are no longer children."

"Gimli needs no more protection than I, and he is certainly not a child." Aragorn moved closer, clasped his pipe between his lips and drew on it for several minutes, staring at the stars. The elves had taught him the wisdom of patience, of letting conversations be said in silence, the spaces between words.

"He was injured protecting my back."

"As you would have done for him." Aragorn said graciously. "You are a good person, mi mellon, and you would never let yourself be shown up by a dwarf."

Legolas flitted to his feet, the movement graceful, fluid in a way that Aragorn no longer noticed but caused several of the men to stare. Aragorn studied his friend for a long moment, chewing slowly on his pipe before rising to his feet in a calmer manner. "I need to attend to Éomer's wound. Can I trust that you will watch Gimli?"

"Of course." Legolas murmured, already retreating into the small tent.

The waning moon seeped through the crack in the fabric, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on Gimli who slept in a daze of pain, face drawn and pale. His wound, which had bled through the bandages Aragorn had wrapped hours ago, was black and ugly, and Legolas was drawn to it immediately. Elves have no innate gifts in healing though Aragorn, as Elrond's ward, had learned from the best. Still, the worst elf healer was tenfold better than the most accomplished healer amongst humans.

It was with the re-wrapping of the bandage that Gimli's eyes opened. Not with a flutter, a little at a time. Gimli moved as one accustomed to sudden battle; lax one moment, tense and ready the next. "What do you want?" He demanded gruffly, glaring daggers at Legolas' offending hands as they moved fluidly over the bandage.

"Le hannon, Gimli. Thank you, master dwarf." Legolas tightened the cloth and laid a cool hand against Gimli's hot skin, conveying thanks, support, concern. "Are your wounds paining you?"

"Nothing a dwarf can't handle." Gimli said, puffing out his chest slightly. "I took on four orcs in the time it took for you to calm the horse, Princeling."

"I found the carnage spectacular." Legolas assured him before starting to hum low in his throat. If he could see outside the tent, he would know that this hum –a song more beautiful than words – was driving the Rohirrim to madness. Like the laughter, the graceful movements, the songs of elves made the men giddy with a joy they had never felt before.

Gimli, as always, was less impressed, though for once he didn't command the elf to "stop the infernal racket." Instead, he took on a smug look as he settled down into the blankets. "Arrow."

"Aye, the arrow pierced your back, though not as deep as we had feared. Aragorn was able to save your spine."

"No." The smug look became downright arrogant as the dwarf stared down the elf. "...My back is adorned with feathers. I have a long neck and sharp nose. I am able to fly yet have no wings…it is your riddle, laddie. And I deduced the answer while swinging my way through orc bodies. An arrow."

Legolas' bubbling laughter drove the Rohhirim over the edge and many gathered around the tent, entranced by the sound. Gimli managed only a wry smile before succumbing to the herbs and injuries and falling asleep, content in the knowledge that he had bested the elf. Content in the knowledge that the elf would still be there when he awoke.

Gimli and Legolas' friendship reminds us of…of Bones and Spock. Just six hundred years apart.

Anyways, please review. (Next, due to strangely popular demand, Éomer and his family.)