Chapter 11: The Gift

Gloín had barely had time to embrace Gimli and fold him into his fatherly embrace before Dwalin and Co had come thundering down and burst through the doors of Gloín's hall to welcome Gimli home. It had been a chaotic riot of noise and back slapping and headbutting ever since, although at least Dori had come with stew and fresh bread and made Gimli eat while they plied him with questions. Many of those questions they did not wait for Gimli to reply but answered themselves for they had all read his letters and memorised them.

Gloín could not stop looking at Gimli as he ate a huge bowl of stew, tore bread and wiped it round his bowl, talking, laughing, nodding sometimes at something Dwalin said, shaking his head and interjecting. Bombur sat in the big chair beaming paternally at his favourite nephew and nodding wisely whenever Gimli said something about Elven or Mannish culture or customs, and Bifur kept asking him to repeat things and Bofur kept telling Bifur to be quiet.

'… so you were telling us, you left Rivendell and travelled down the Misty Mountains towards the High Pass,' Bombur said, folding his chubby hands over his enormous belly fastidiously. 'And what happened then?'

'Well, that was when they were driven back down the mountains,' said Nori, shaking his head irritably at Bombur as if Bombur should have known.

'Indeed.' Bombur wiped the edge of his mouth delicately and nodded agreement that he should have remembered. He held up his finger for order and said, 'But it is not the same hearing it from the one who actually experienced it.'

Gimli chewed his food for a moment and then he swallowed, wiped his mouth and spread his hands on the table as if thinking. He glanced over at Gloín and then Dwalin briefly but they know what had happened in Moria; he was not telling them news but filling in the gaps.

'As you say, we began to climb Caradhras,' Gimli said, 'but the blizzard drove us back down the mountain side and although we argued over the best way to go, it was decided in the end to go through Moria.'

After all, this was the bit of the story they were most concerned with.

When they heard from Gimli's own lips about the Watcher in the Water they became very quiet and stopped interrupting. They listened in complete silence as Gimli described how Gandalf had lifted his staff and lit the great halls of Khazad-dûm, the glory that was hidden and lost, and then the terrible discovery of Balin's tomb and the Book of Mazarbul.

'I have brought it with me,' Gimli said solemnly. He leaned back in his chair and snagged his pack, pulling from it a weighty book. It was torn, the hard, leather covers were a bit broken and the pages stained. In its pages were recorded the deaths of Oín. And Ori.

'You carried it with you all this time?' Bombur said approvingly. He glanced at Dwalin but Dwalin's head was bowed and he did not speak.

'Well I left it in Minas Tirith when we went to Mordor,' Gimli said modestly. 'But I carried it from Moria to the White City and then here. I thought I should bring it home.'

Gloín's thumb rubbed the bowl of his pipe restlessly. He could not trust himself to speak either.

Gimli lay the book carefully on the table. 'Here. Dwalin I suppose it belongs to you as Balin's closest kin.'

'No,' said Dwalin at last looking up and shaking his head. 'Give it to Bombur. I have not the heart to read it.' He gave a bitter sigh. 'Dáin Ironfoot did not want him to go and I told him not to. But he wouldn't listen.' He stared into his tankard as if he did not see the amber liquid but a towering beast of shadow and flame. Gloín knew, for he thought the same.

Bombur spread his chubby hands, and firelight glinted on the gold rings on his fat fingers. 'Spare some charity, Dwalin for he did not know what still dwelt deep beneath the earth.'

'None of us did,' said Bofur anxiously, glancing between Bombur and Dwalin. 'We would have gone with him if we had.'

Perhaps that was the truth, thought Gloín, for Dwalin stared moodily at Bofur and then dropped his gaze back into the cup once more. Bombur sighed and shook his head. Gloín tugged at his beard; he did not want to think of Oín lost and wounded, dying there in Moria without his kin.

It was Dori who intervened before they became maudlin. He put his tankard down gently and said, 'Now, now, cousins. Here is Gimli, returned home at last from his travels, and all we can do is throw up our hands and shake our beards at those who are not here to defend themselves. And it was our lad here that stood against the Balrog. Gandalf couldn't have done it without him.'

There was an approving chorus, roused by the thought of Gimli's courage.

Yes, it's good thing a Dwarf of Erebor was there to challenge it, ' said Bifur in agreement and slapped Gimli on the shoulder. 'Just think if it had been left to that Man and that hopeless Elf-boy!'

Gimli opened his mouth but Dwalin slapped him on the back. 'Indeed! Tell us how you drove it back from the Bridge so that Gandalf could strike it? it sounds like quite a battle.'

'Um…' said Gimli awkwardly. He looked a little sheepish and his eyes darted from one face to another. 'Well, it wasn't quite like that. Gandalf told us to run and we did.'

'Ach, you've always been too modest, lad,' cried Nori. 'I'll bet you threw an axe or two at it.'

'And if Gandalf told you to run, well you should.' Bombur nodded approvingly. 'You had the Ring to protect after all.'

There was another chorus of cheerful agreement and another round of toasts. Gloín's table gleamed with spilt beer.

'Yes exactly. Imagine if Durin's Bane had seized it?' Dori asked, nodding.

'Well you'd get your fingers burned for sure,' said Bifur, holding his ear trumpet close to Gimli's face.

'No, not seize Durin's Bane,' shouted Bofur at his brother. 'The Ring!'

'Why was he taking the Ring?' asked Bifur, bemused. 'I think you got that bit wrong, brother. Gimli didn't take the Ring. It was Bilbo's lad, Frito. Fredo.'

'Frodo,' shouted Nori.

There was more shouting from one end of the table and Dwalin, who had cheered up enormously remembering that Durin's Bane had been destroyed, said loudly, 'And there was the King of Gondor to protect as well. Good thing you were there to shield him from the Balrog I say.'

Dori was fussily ladling another spoonful of stew into Gimli's bowl. 'Would you like some more bread, Gimli? Here, have a napkin. I find they are very useful if you have a little stew in your beard. Bilbo sent me them.'

'Yes! Look how important HE turned out to be,' Bofur waved a spoon at Gimli instructionally. 'It's a good thing you were there Gimli, or the Ring could have been lost and Gondor be stuck with that awful Man we met in Rivendell.' He shook his head. 'Remember him?'

'Oh that scruffy, smelly fella,' supplied Dwalin. 'Terrible smell of feet.'

'Well, he actually IS…' Gimli tried to speak but he was interrupted by Dwalin banging his meaty fist on the table.

'A toast!' Dwalin bellowed. 'To our little laddie, Gimli, Hero of the War and Saviour of Gondor!'

Gimli opened his mouth but Bombur was struggling to his feet to join in and the whole table lifted slightly as he had got wedged beneath. 'To Gimli!'

'To Gimli! The Bane of Mordor!'

There were lots of cheers then and Gimli lifted his eyebrows and shook his head slightly. 'No, I really can't…'

'And that boy of Thranduil's you had to keep rescuing. What was he called?'

'Oh yes. Leglas? Green something.'

'Legolas- it means Greenleaf,' said Bombur importantly.

'We shoved our wet cloaks on top of him that time.' Bofur snorted with laughter.

'Ah, but his Da's been good about it though,' Nori said and nodded wisely towards the leather sheath that Gloín had so carefully stowed in the heavy chest where he kept all his treasures.

'Show him, Gloín. Come on. What are we waiting for?' Dwalin called and began to bang his tankard on the table, at which Bofur, who always emulated Dwalin, did likewise and Bifur, who copied his brother, followed.

Gloín scowled for he had wanted to wait until he had Gimli to himself but he recognised the look on Dwalin's face and he knew he would get no peace. He saw too that Gimli was looking tired.

'Very well,' he said, pushing back his chair. 'But after that, it's bed for him. Look at him, he can hardly stay awake.' He took the key from around his neck and unlocked the chest, lifting the heavy lid.

Rûk-Shtôl was sheathed, its blade hooded like a hawk but he felt it shiver as he lifted it from the darkness of the chest and placed it before Gimli.

'What is this?' Gimli asked, frowning and wiping his mouth on the napkin that Dori had provided him with. He pushed the bowl away and drew the axe towards him. His face changed the moment he touched the haft.

There was a murmur of appreciation from the Dwarves

'What is this?' he repeated but this time, it was more of a murmur to himself than to the company. He loosened the ties that bound the sheathe and pulled it away like the unhooding of a hawk.

The emeralds glittered like sharp-sighted eyes, and the steel of the double blade flowed and rippled under the stroke of light from the great firebowls, like a hawk flapping its wings on awakening. As Gimli's hand closed about the haft and he lifted it to look at the blade in wonder, it seemed to Gloín that the axe regarded Gimli with the same intense curiosity and Rûk-Shtôl seemed to shiver, like the waters of Kheled-zâram touched by Durin's hand, and its voice, heard by every Dwarf in that room, rang like a bronze bell, like the voice of Erebor itself was greeting its wandering son.

Uzbad.

Siginalâ Idzadân-Úthaar.

Gloín felt a shiver through his own blood at the axe's salutation, and the hairs on his neck stood upright. The light reflected from the rippling steel onto Gimli's face, lit it up like the stars on Kheled-zâram.

Through muscle and bone I cut. Through steel and plate and iron.

I guard fore and aft.

I am the silent slide of steel.

I am the fierce watch. The fierce gaze. I am the Braigtîr-Hend.

Rûk-Shtôl is my name.

There was a shocked silence, and then an awed murmur from the company. But Gloín could only watch with tears of pride blurring the sight of his son with the Gift from the Elves in his hands, and that was so well deserved, so hardly won and filled his old father's heart with such pride that he felt overwhelmed.

0o0o

Later, Gloín sat in the comfortable chair in Gimli's chamber where he had been when Gimli had found him earlier that evening. He watched as Gimli hung up the strange silvery-grey cloak that he had acquired from somewhere in the wardrobe. His mail shirt, helm, old battle axe, gauntlets and heavy iron shod boots were put aside for cleaning and oiling.

'I will do that for you in the morning,' said Gloín. 'You need to rest, to eat and to sleep.'

Gimli smiled. 'I think if this evening is anything to go by, that may all have to wait. I must pay my respects to Thorin Stonehelm, I think. And there are others I wish to greet.' He shrugged out of his tunic.

'Here, give me that,' said Gloín, reaching for it with a grimace. 'Everything needs a good wash. Just drop things there and I will take them with me to clean.'

Gimli moved quietly about his room clad now only in his breeches and shirt, unpacking the few possessions that he had carried from Gondor. His pack had been very light once he had passed over the Book of Mazarbul. A gold locket hung about his neck that Gloín did not remember but he could see it was finely wrought and dwarven-made. He was curious about it for it seemed a keepsake, more than a gift from a grateful King or lord but he did not feel he could simply ask. Gimli had changed, and Gloín felt a deep respect for this man who had returned in place of his boy.

All the softness of youth had gone, chiselled out by the experience not only of War, but of the immensity of the Quest. He looked older, harder, but not like unyielding stone, more like burnished steel. Gimli moved about with strength, with a muscularity that came not only from physical work but from confidence. Already Gloín had seen how Gimli listened more to the older Dwarves, to his Uncles and father's friends, and not only with his ears but with his heart and his Dwarvish nature; his head tilted slightly at times like he was listening for something deeper than mere words. And his brown eyes were deeper, like he had seen more, knew more. He was quieter than he had been when he had left Erebor, and that brashness of youth had gone too, but his new quietness came from strength, not because he had nothing to say, but because he was respectful, and considering. He had gained, it seemed to his father, wisdom.

If Gloín were honest, it was altogether rather overwhelming, watching this man his child had become.

Gimli placed his old travelling pipe in the pipe rack on the chest of drawers alongside the nine other better ones that he had chosen to leave behind. Then he reached into his almost empty pack and pulled out several pouches of pipeweed.

'This is Harad Gold,' he explained, opening the pouch and holding it open for Gloín to sniff.

A wonderfully deep aroma of pipeweed, spiced and flavoursome drifted around his nostrils and he sniffed at it appreciatively.

'And this is from Khand. It's called… hm. Now how do you say it again? Chung-hwa? They have become allies of Gondor now and that means trade!' Gimli smiled at Gloín. Then he sighed. 'I am glad to be home.' He dug into the pockets of the tunic he had hung up and brought out a little tinderbox and placed that carefully beside his pipe rack,

'Well, well,' said Gloín in surprise. He rose to his feet and picked up the box. 'I didn't know you had even kept this, let alone carried it all the way to Gondor and Mordor and back.' He was about to ask why Gimli had not traded it or bought himself a better one when he noticed the design.

Ah. How could he have forgotten?

Gloín mentally kicked himself. Of course. He breathed out slowly and turned the box over in his hand. Then he said very gently. 'Did Brisingr not make that for you when you were children?' He did not wait for an answer. Very softly, very carefully, he said, 'She has taken up with Sigrúnda Hallvarðr-azrâr, you know. Remember him? Very good fellow.' He stayed looking down at it with his face turned studiously away from Gimli. Then with great care, he placed the box back on the chest of drawers. 'I'll go and see about a bath for you. I'll get the hot water diverted here and I will put fresh linen on your bed. I haven't even done that yet.'

Gimli had said nothing but he stood very still, and Gloín's heart clenched at his child's sorrow. He took a step towards Gimli and hesitated only for a moment before he pulled Gimli to him. Except that where he expected Gimli's head to be buried in his chest, he realised that his own head was below Gimli's chin now. So he looked up and saw the ache in Gimli's eyes.

'Aye. I know. I know,' he said, wishing he could take all that ache into himself and spare his child. But he had to speak now while he could, and he had to give Gimli good advice, speak words that were truth and from the heart. 'You could go and call upon her father and he would be pleased to receive you, returned as you are a Hero and soon to be lord of your own lands. If you asked for his blessing he would not refuse it. And I think that Brisingr would be flattered and might turn from Sigrúnda, for how could she help but fall in love with you, my dearest heart? This great hero of the War. Lord of Aglarond.'

He held Gimli's gaze, cradled it so gently in his own, wanting to protect him and knowing that this was the best way to do that. He sighed. 'Your mother and I ….' He swallowed for he could never speak of her without the deepest pain imaginable. 'Ours was a love of Autumn not Spring. I was not her first love as you know for she had loved Frár Haddringssen and when he was lost in the Azanulbizar, she was heartbroken. Her grief was as deep as Khazad-dûm and knew no limit. She saw no one else.

'But I waited and waited. I had almost given up when at last, she turned and saw me waiting and she was ready and had done her grieving.' He took his son's hands in his and held them tightly.

'What I am saying, Siginalâ, is that if Mahal wills it, Brisingr will turn her eyes to you again and see you for who you are, her Khabbûn, not the great hero and lord you have become. And if she does not, then perhaps it is you who needs to turn his eyes and look for another who might be waiting for you.' Gloín glanced down at the locket about Gimli's neck.

At last Gimli spoke, his voice very low and quiet. 'My heart had hoped, Addad, that Brisingr had waited for me, had thought of me when I was far from home.' He sighed. 'But my feelings for her were clearly deeper than hers for me, and I did not speak of them before I left. I did not know that I was not returning for so long.' He shook his head. 'I had intended to speak on my return from Rivendell.' He took a sharp breath as if it hurt. 'I know Sigrúnda. He is a good man and I would not use my adventure or good fortune to come between them. And as in all things, I will heed your words for they are wise.'

Gimli swallowed, and then he said, 'I will not go to her father. I will not speak with her of my feelings.' He turned away and stared down at the tinderbox for a moment. Then, gently, he put one finger upon it almost like a farewell. He took a breath and let it out slowly, and then took his hand away.

'I will take a short journey I think.' Gimli looked at his father briefly, and then away as if not wanting to see the aching love in Goin's eyes. 'Not immediately but soon. I will go to Greenwood. I have to thank Thranduil for his gift.'

Gloín nodded. Yes. It was probably no bad thing to have a little time to let the heart ease. And it was courteous to give thanks. But he hoped to have Gimli with him for a little while yet.

0o0o

Gimli lay in his own bed, breathing in the dry, mineral smell of home. He luxuriated in the utter darkness and the silence of the Mountain. There was not even the swoop of bellows far off in the forges and foundries or the distant tap of hammer, although he was certain that some smith or another was still hard at work somewhere deep into the night, caught in the Making. But here in this cocoon of stone there was only the immensity of the rock above, below, around him. Its slow shifting that took aeons, the striations in the rocks, rose and pale cream and the slight greenish shade that indicated copper and iron ore.

He counted them slowly, and then stared at the ceiling for a while.

It should bring him rest.

He sighed and turned restlessly onto his side.

He never had any trouble sleeping usually. In fact the Hobbits had greatly admired his ability to sleep anytime, anywhere and immediately. But it seemed he had lost the peace in his heart that had brought sleep so quickly.

A little pain squeezed his chest.

He shoved away the thought of Brisingr. She owed him nothing. She had made no promise, nor had he. In truth, there had been no real understanding, each was free to follow their heart. But he had never found anyone else who moved him, frankly. No one else who stirred his loins, or caught his eye, or made his heart flutter. Only Brisingr.

He groaned and shook his head and then sat upright, pushing his wiry hair out of his face and catching it up, he shoved a leather tie over it and wound it so it stayed away from his face. At least he had heard the news of her attachment to Sigrúnda Hallvarðr-azrâr before he made a complete fool of himself. At least no one seemed to remember or know how attached he had been to Brisingr before he left. At least no one was whispering behind their hand or looking at him with sympathy, he thought, nursing his pain to himself.

At least Brisingr herself had not come to him, her lovely face tight with anxiety and sympathy. She had sent no message at all. Clearly she did not feel that she owed him even that.

He turned and thumped his pillow very hard and then threw himself back down again and still did not find sleep.

At last, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up. He leaned his hands against the mantle and bowed his head. Too late now whatever he had felt or thought. She was Sigrúnda's. He wished he could hate the man but he was a kind and skilful Dwarf. Many would think them well matched and Gimli would not come between them. Gloín had been clear about that. It would be dishonourable.

At last he gave up thoughts of sleep and lit an oil lamp. The warmth of its light illuminated the familiar chamber that held simple heavy wooden furniture, a chest of drawers that held his clothes, a carved wardrobe where his better tunics hung with his Lorién cloak and his mail shirt hung, lightly oiled and shrouded in a suede cover to protect it. He rolled his shoulders, unused now to not having its weight upon his broad, strong shoulders and wondered how he would feel walking through the streets of Erebor tomorrow, without mail or helm. His battle axes that he had carried with him to war now hung on the walls along with many knives and short swords, but it was unheard of to walk abroad without being armed, and so he would carry Rûk-Shtôl.

He stroked one hand over the smooth leather sheath, worked with runes of protection and the sigil of Gimli's own House.

He did not quite know how to react from this gift from Thranduil. Legolas' father. And he did not quite understand the motivation for such generosity. He was Legolas' friend. They had guarded each other, stood at each other's back and side, hauled each other from danger countless times. And yet Gloín was quite adamant that he felt no obligation to return a gift to Legolas. Gloín had said that Gimli's friendship was enough.

He knew that Legolas would agree.

Gimli sighed; it was getting all a bit complicated. How much easier when all they had to do was steal into Mordor and get rid of the Ring.

Even so, he could not help but take Rûk-Shtôl from its place amongst his other axes. He held the haft lightly, admiring the jewelled lapis-lazuli against the thread of mithril woven about the haft that made it unbreakable. He hefted the axe, turning it this way and that, watching the gleam of the steel, the sinuous fluidity of the blue steel damascene and mithril. Firelight seemed almost trapped in the amber cabochons that were inset on either side of the haft, beneath the Braigtîr-Hend, the emeralds that gleamed like the deep green water of the forest pools. He smiled for they reminded him a little of Legolas.

He lay the axe carefully on his bed and gazed at it; he had not really had the luxury of really seeing it earlier for he had been so aware of the many eyes upon him. Now he saw that the stars damascened along its bevel had been made in the pattern of Durin's stars and a memory struck him so sharply that he could have been standing with Frodo at the edge of Mirrormere, Kheled-zâram.

How clearly he remembered; the mere had been like a spearhead thrust deep into the northern glen but its southern end was beyond the shadows under the sunlit sky. Water that was dark, a deep blue like the clear evening sky seen from a lamplit room. Its face was still and unruffled. About it lay the smooth sward shelving down on all sides to its bare, unbroken rim. Then slowly they had seen the forms of the encircling mountains mirrored in a profound blue, and the peaks were like plumes of white flame above them; beyond there was a space of sky. There like jewels sunk in the deep shone glinting stars, though sunlight was in the sky above. Of their own stooping forms no shadow could be seen.*

There was a strange humming he realised, like a tuning fork and it seemed to strike some chord in his own Song, a deep ring like a bronze bell had been struck deep beneath Erebor. His gaze was drawn to meet that of the Braigtîr-Hend, the great glowing emerald eyes of Rûk-Shtôl.

He remembered the whisper of the blade as he had lifted it first from its sheath and regarded it, how it had called him, named him with his true name. The fierce watch, the fierce gaze. How it suited the axe, he thought.

The greatness of the Gift caught his breath. Soon, he decided, he would begin a new journey….he could not really think of it as a journey. It was not far enough. The Hobbits would call it a trip. So he amended his thinking. Soon he would begin his trip to the Wood, Thranduil's halls.

0o0o

TBC

One more chapter/epilogue