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Chapter Text

The Company was arranged in this way: Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam were in one boat; Boromir, Merry, and Pippin in another; and in the third were Legolas and Gimli, who had now become fast friends.

…

Then the Lady unbraided one of her long tresses, and cut off three golden hairs, and laid them in Gimli’s hand. “These words shall go with the gift,” she said. “I do not foretell, for all foretelling is now vain: on the one hand lies darkness, and on the other only hope. But if hope should not fail, then I say to you, Gimli son of Glóin, that your hands shall flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion.”

…

The travellers now turned their faces to the journey; the sun was before them, and their eyes were dazzled, for all were filled with tears. Gimli wept openly.

“I have looked the last upon that which was fairest,’ he said to Legolas his companion. “Henceforward I will call nothing fair, unless it be her gift.” He put his hand to his breast.

… “I would not have come, had I known the danger of light and joy. Now I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord. Alas for Gimli son of Glóin!”

“Nay!” said Legolas. “Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days. For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Glóin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise. But you have not forsaken your companions, and the least reward that you shall have is that the memory of Lothlórien shall remain ever clear and unstained in your heart, and shall neither fade nor grow stale.”

“Maybe,” said Gimli; ‘and I thank you for your words. True words doubtless; yet all such comfort is cold. Memory is not what the heart desires. That is only a mirror, be it clear as Kheled-zâram. Or so says the heart of Gimli the Dwarf. Elves may see things otherwise. Indeed I have heard that for them memory is more like to the waking world than to a dream. Not so for Dwarves.”

Legolas had relaxed around Gimli now, to the point where he seemed less uncomfortable in what Gimli had always thought of as companionable silence, but which perhaps was more awkward for Elves. But he would still rather speak, if only lightly, given the chance. They now had the chance, yet Legolas behind him in the boat was quiet.

They had spoken a little, coming out of Lórien. But perhaps Legolas, like Gimli, did not wish to dwell anymore on the beautiful land they were leaving behind, that had been so kind to him and in which he had learned so much. He would not weep openly for it again; but though the memory was sweet, it was indeed not enough, and the loss of it would always sting.

The silence and the gentle lapping of water slowly became soothing, and as such Gimli was startled nearly out of his skin when Legolas spoke.

“You were not the first, to ask for the Lady Galadriel’s hair,” he said. “Did you know?”

“No,” said Gimli. “But I am not surprised. It is beautiful, and it shines with light more lovely than any gem.”

He could almost feel Legolas smiling; certainly he heard it in his voice. “Fëanor, the maker of the Silmarils, begged her for a strand of hair. Three times, he asked. He admired its light, as you did. It is thought he wanted to make gems similar to the Silmarils, something just as beautiful. She refused him every time.”

“Yet when I said I would set it in crystal, she agreed,” Gimli said.

“She did,” said Legolas.

Gimli turned this thought over in his mind, but did not speak. He was not sure what to say.

“It is said she read only greed and darkness in his heart,” Legolas said, filling silence as he was wont to do. “Ever she opposed him for that reason.”

“Then you believe she read otherwise in the heart of a Dwarf,” Gimli said.

“I do.”

Gimli sighed. “She is a wise lady. We are wiser for knowing her, Legolas, I think.”

There was another smile in Legolas’s voice. “We are.”

“Will your family find it strange?” said Merry to Gimli, one night when they had made camp and all was quiet, except perhaps their thoughts. “That you love an Elf?”

Legolas’s face did not heat up, but he did stare intently into the fire, confused and flustered and—

“What?” said Gimli, apparently as confused as Legolas.

“The Lady Galadriel,” said Pippin. “Wait, what else could we mean?”

Legolas breathed out, realizing only then that he had failed to do so for far too long. Of course. Galadriel.

Gimli did not answer Pippin’s question.

“It’s just, we’ve heard the Dwarves love only once,” said Merry. “You know, from Bilbo. Will they not think that odd?”

“Ah, I see you are determined to spill all our secrets,” said Gimli, smiling. Was the smile forced? Was it because the hobbits had forced this out of him? Why was he uncomfortable?

Aragorn was looking at him. Legolas quickly looked away and into their little fire.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Merry quickly. “I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine, lad,” said Gimli. “There is no one in this Company that I would hide such things that are not secrets from, not anymore. And you are right, but I would not say—I would not use so strong a word. I am an admirer only, for so fair a jewel is most beautiful in the place where it belongs. I am not fool enough to attempt to remove it, even if such a thing was possible.”

“But cannot you love from afar, even if it is not returned?” said Boromir.

“Sometimes,” said Gimli. “But it is rare. I fear and abhor the kind of love that consumes and is not returned; most Dwarves do. Even a dwarrowdam who cannot have her choice of partners will retreat from them and find other pursuits, so as not to dwell on a feeling not returned. It so easily turns to obsession, and becomes cruel instead of kind.”

“You are wiser than most men,” said Boromir. “For courtship can be messy, and many a man and woman have wanted what they could not have.”

Did Gimli’s eyes flicker to Legolas? He wasn’t sure, but Gimli did shrug.

“To break up a marriage or obsess over someone who does not care for you is a foul thing, among Dwarves,” he said. “It would not be well to speak of it, even if it did happen.”

Merry snorted, and they all looked at him, but it was Pippin who spoke. “Why should a marriage be only two people, then? Why not more, if the love between them is true?”

When they continued to stare, Merry looked directly back. “It takes quite a lot of people to raise hobbit children sometimes,” he told them. “Hobbits are very practical about that kind of thing.”

“Not everyone,” said Frodo. “My parents, it was just them. And some never look for anyone and are perfectly happy alone.”

“Like Bilbo,” said Pippin. “He wasn’t interested even before he went on the Quest.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Everyone does things in the way that works best for them.”

“That does explain a good bit about why hobbits are so willing to talk about their genealogy to anyone who will listen,” said Gimli, and though he covered it with geniality, his voice was still tense. “It must get quite complicated.”

“Oh, it does,” said Pippin cheerfully, not taking offense. “Our family charts could take up rooms, if we were to hang them on the wall!”

“Dwarves are more like Elves, then,” said Sam. If the hobbits noticed that they were each being stared at in turn, they did not show it. “One person, forever. But I had never yet heard that it was because they could not love anyone else. That’s a difference, that is.”

“Dwarven courtship is also rare,” said Gimli. He would not look at Legolas now, and Legolas did not know why. Had they not passed the obstacle of being surprised at each other’s customs? Could they not now share without fear? Did Gimli still not quite trust him? “Many go their whole lives without meeting one person, let alone many. The Shire would likely be very overwhelming for a poor solitary Dwarf!”

“There are men who live that way, sometimes,” said Aragorn, breaking the silence of the others. Legolas noticed for the first time that he had not looked surprised a the hobbits’ words. “In Bree, for instance.” He shrugged. “It varies, as to who prefers it and who does not, as it does with whether a man loves men or women, or both, or neither. But it is not a thing unheard of.”

“Oh, we know Dwarves don’t care about that,” said Merry cheerfully. He was so loud that Frodo thumped him in the leg, then looked around warily. He took the cue and lowered his voice, but he wasn’t done. “Isn’t that so, Gimli?” He said, more quietly.

“Aye, most Dwarves do not care at all, or if they do care, they can love them all,” said Gimli. “For you left out a few genders, Aragorn, in your explanation.”

“For simplicity only,” said Aragorn. “But yes, among Men also there are those who are neither gender, and plenty of people who will love them. Though Men tend to pay more attention to such things than Dwarves.” He also kept shooting glances into the trees and around the river, and though Legolas noticed this, he was too overwhelmed to think of it further.

“And apparently they don’t care if it’s an Elf either,” said Merry. At Gimli’s look, he flapped a hand. “Oh, I know, it’s not like that with Galadriel. But it’s the first I’ve heard of a Dwarf finding an Elf beautiful!”

“I wonder, does it ever go the other way?” said Sam speculatively; Legolas did not quite like the look he was giving him.

“If what Bilbo says is true, none of that matters to Elves either,” said Frodo.

He and Gimli were certainly not looking at each other now. Had the hobbits done this on purpose? Legolas couldn’t help be suspicious, though what they could possibly hope to achieve, he did not know.

“It is true,” he heard himself say, as if from a distance. “Though I fear I must beg you not to ask more. Elves…we do not discuss this much, outside of courtship itself.”

This was not entirely true, for many Elves would indeed talk genially about the topic given a polite audience, and an Elf in love was prone to much poetry. But this did not feel polite, as much as it did…probing. It was Legolas himself that was uncomfortable, not Elves in general.

And in truth, he feared saying too much.

He felt ashamed immediately after using this excuse, for Merry looked horrified. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable, I—”

“Do not be sorry,” said Legolas quickly. “I have enjoyed learning about your ways, I do not begrudge you the desire to learn more as well. Only…”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Sam, coming to the rescue. “Before we find out if Elf ears can turn dark all the way.” Perhaps not entirely to his rescue. “Boromir, you must have stories of how it’s done in your city.”

Boromir launched into a story about how his grandparents had met (and Legolas noticed for the first time that he never spoke of his mother—he did not know why). He told his story quietly, but again Legolas did not or could not think too long on the tension among the company. He took a deep breath, feeling as though he had just come up for air. He could not truly say he had never been flustered before, but never in all his life had he felt anything like this.

The hobbits, though they were listening to Boromir, also kept shooting him glances. He saw Frodo give Merry a surreptitious pat on the back—why, he did not know.

But more important was Gimli, who had avoided his gaze for so long, now had his eyes on Legolas now from the other side of the fire. And Legolas could not look away.

There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats. Each member of the Company was busy with his own thoughts.

The heart of Legolas was running under the stars of a summer night in some northern glade amid the beech-woods; Gimli was fingering gold in his mind, and wondering if it were fit to be wrought into the housing of the Lady’s gift.

The hours in the boat were long, but they passed in silence that Gimli found restful and that Legolas seemed not to mind. Once they got used to operating the boat, he and Legolas worked in perfect sync. Speech was not necessary; they both let their minds drift, wandering over pleasant thoughts that distracted from the dreary lands.

Sometimes Legolas would sing softly, so softly that none of the others heard, and Gimli wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it. Gimli said nothing; for he did not want Legolas to stop, even when he trailed off, forgot the words, and started on another verse entirely.

Very, very rarely, Gimli would hum softly to himself, and Legolas would make up his own words to old Dwarven tunes. Gimli liked that best of all; the melodies sounded even more beautiful to his ears, for how they blended together. They were strange, but the strangeness only made it more lovely to him.

Maybe the hobbits had gotten into his head with all their talk of courtship, for even though Gimli thought much about Lothlórien, and the Lady, and the honor she had bestowed on him—even though he wished deeply that he could get his hands on a hammer and begin the work of crafting something for it—he also thought much about Legolas.

It could hardly be avoided, with him right behind Gimli in their boat. And in turn, it was harder and harder to deny the thing that was growing between them.

For Men, Gimli had heard, attraction did not always come with love, though the former usually came before the latter. For most Dwarves, attraction was a vague and formless thing, sometimes acted upon then forgotten immediately afterward by both parties. It only crystallized and became consuming when a strong bond was formed between them.

Gimli was starting to worry that such a bond had already formed, on his side at least. And though he knew that Elves were monogamous almost to the point of absurdity, in not only marriage but in all matters of love, he did not know if it would mean the same thing for both of them.

Legolas was singing again. Gimli listened, as he always did—and it was his own song, from the mines.

He smiled, almost in spite of himself, almost helplessly. And then began, softly, to sing along with Legolas.

There was no sound from any of the other boats, but they did not notice that they were the only ones to sing at all, even quietly.

Gimli never asked him to stop singing. Instead, he sang along. Their voices blended quietly underneath the sound of the paddles on the water and the sound made Legolas’s heart grow warm and ache in a way he had never felt before.

They were less attuned to the uneasiness of the lands about them than perhaps they should have been, but it eventually got to them both, and they fell silent for a time, with no other words than “We should veer left a bit” and “That’s enough, we are well out of Aragorn’s wake” and the like.

When Gimli spoke, his words startled Legolas as much as hearing the sound of his voice, for he said:

“Will you tell me of Mirkwood? This dreary land is nearly sending me to sleep, and I have heard little of your home from anyone who lives there.”

Legolas blinked, but quickly rallied. “What have you heard? That it is dark and cheerless, and full of danger?”

“Yes,” said Gimli. “But it cannot be so throughout, or someone such as you—” he stopped suddenly, and coughed, as if covering something he had been about to say. Legolas was filled with a deep longing to know what it was, but it was not to be. Instead, Gimli added gruffly, “What I mean is, you are not cheerless or evil, nor are your people aligned with the Enemy. And you love trees and growing things, so I cannot picture you living in and loving an evil place.”

“You are right,” said Legolas. “My home is not altogether so dark and grim as some of the outer reaches of the forest. It is a great forest, once green and wholesome, and there is nothing so painful as watching it become corrupted when we can do nothing to stop it.”

“But the part where you live is still beautiful?”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “It is a beech forest, the most beautiful in the world. Would you know a beech tree if you saw one?”

He meant no offense with the question, and Gimli did not take any, but laughed. “No,” he said. “Any more than you could tell quartz from granite, I think!”

“I made no such claim,” said Legolas, smiling. “But you shall tell me one day, and now I shall tell you of beech trees: they are tall and straight, with smooth gray bark, and in a forest they remain thin even as they stand for hundreds of years, so there is much space for the light to fall through between their trunks. When they line the side of a path, it is like walking through a pillared hall, only green and still.” He sighed. He missed many of the beech trees at home, wished to hear their voices again, though he knew that would not happen for many months at least. “I would tell you of their leaf shape, but it is harder to describe. Someday I shall show you instead.”

“I look forward to it,” Gimli said. Legolas was surprised at his tone; he was fairly sure Gimli actually meant it. “Are they yellow in the autumn, like the mallorns?”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “A beech glade in Autumn is nearly as golden as Lothlórien. The light itself filters down through the trees and makes the woods fairly glow. And in summer the glow is green, and the voices of the trees whisper in the wind. I do not know what I love more—the fresh smell of spring, the hot green smell of summer, or the mustiness of the Autumn. But in those woods is peace, even with the enemy crawling in around the edges.”

“That’s right,” said Gimli. “You were as restless there as I was at home. Even there, in the beech forest?”

“Even among the beeches,” said Legolas, sighing again. “My father actually called me in to rebuke me. He could tell I was growing anxious—even angry.”

Legolas saw Gimli, ahead of him, nod. It was subtle, hard to tell from behind, but he was watching his friend intently. “I was working with iron,” he said. When Legolas didn’t respond, he snorted. “Gandalf was right that iron is the Dwarves’ servant; it’s useful, and certainly you can do beautiful things with it, but I couldn’t focus properly on anything intricate. It got so bad I was just making nails, which we do sometimes for practice, or to learn on. Even you, with no training, could probably make them well enough.”

“There are great smiths among Elves,” said Legolas mildly.

“I didn’t say Elves, I said you,” Gimli pointed out, actually turning around to shoot him a grin. Legolas smiled back, almost helplessly. He was beginning to think he’d do anything to see a smile like that daily.

“I suppose that is fair,” Legolas said. “I do not think you would do so well hunting among the trees with a bow, after all.”

Gimli laughed. “I certainly would not! My axe is a better weapon with which to hew down Orcs.”

“I wish we’d had your axe on the day Gollum escaped,” Legolas said. “Perhaps you and I could have stopped them.”

“We do well together in battle,” said Gimli. “I think we will do even better now.”

“We will need to hold a competition in true, as you said, to see who kills the most,” said Legolas.

“Yes!” said Gimli. “I had forgotten. But I think you will meet your match, my friend!”

“We shall see,” said Legolas. But then their conversation ended, for the boat had become to drift, and they fell back once again to “Left, left—a little right—that’s good!” and so on.

They did not speak again for a long time, but Legolas’s heart was warm simply from Gimli’s presence, and he did not mind.

“What is that, Legolas?” he asked, pointing to the northern sky. “Is it, as I think, an eagle?”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “It is an eagle, a hunting eagle. I wonder what that forebodes. It is far from the mountains.”

“We will not start until it is fully dark,” said Aragorn.

Legolas did not think it forebade anything ill. In fact, his heart lifted to see it.

But he could not read the riddle. He did not say anything of it, and merely hoped he was not missing anything as great as he had in Hollin.

A few low trees grew there close to the water, and behind them rose a steep rocky bank. Here the Company decided to stay and await the dawn: it was useless to attempt to move further by night. They made no camp and lit no fire, but lay huddled in the boats, moored close together.

“Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!” said Gimli, as he munched a wafer of lembas. “That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!”

“But who can say what it hit?” said Legolas.

“I cannot,” said Gimli. “But I am glad that the shadow came no nearer. I liked it not at all. Too much it reminded me of the shadow in Moria—the shadow of the Balrog,” he ended in a whisper.

“It was not a Balrog,” said Frodo, still shivering with the chill that had come upon him. ‘It was something colder. I think it was—” Then he paused and fell silent.

Indeed, the feeling of dread he had not felt over the eagle came later, after his arrow hit its mark. He should have been proud of his hit, but he did not like what he saw in Frodo’s face.

His uneasiness must have shown on his own face, for Gimli patted his arm comfortingly. “There’s nothing we can do tonight,” he said. “But sleep well and continue in the morning.”

“The same could be said for many of our days,” said Legolas. They exchanged faint smiles in the gray night. “But that does not dampen your wisdom. I will try.”

And he did manage, for a time. Gimli’s warmth next to him in the boat did more to ease his heart than his words.

Legolas stirred in his boat. “Nay, time does not tarry ever,” he said; “but change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they need not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.”

Gimli did not sleep well after these words from Legolas, and Frodo’s revelation of Galadriel’s ring. When he did rest, his dreams were troubled, and when he was awake, he could not stop thinking.

For the first time, he thought of the unbearable sadness that came of being an Elf. He had thought since Lórien that the sadness was for mortals only, to lose such beauty too soon, and to never see fully all the works of Elves. But it was not so. For the Elves ever tarried, as their friends left them one by one.

His heart ached for Galadriel, for the Golden Wood, and indeed for Legolas also. Such bare honesty he had rarely heard from his friend, and it pierced him deeply.

As he stared up at the stars, and the moon slowly passing, he wondered how the stars looked to the Elves, who valued them so highly yet almost did not notice their changes. He was glad for the first time that each moment was important to him for itself alone, as precious as valuable as gold.

Previously, he had thought Elves separated themselves from the world out of disdain for it. Now he knew that they were not separate from it at all, more tied to it than any of them, and were saddened all the time by loss that they could only observe from afar.

Yet he was still jealous. For he was also sad, for the first time, that he would not have more time with—with those he loved.

Gimli felt Legolas’s eyes on him almost as soon as they turned towards him.

“You are awake,” Legolas said in a low tone, not quite a whisper, which would have carried to the others.

“I am uneasy,” Gimli confessed. “And don’t you dare say it—I know.” In the dark, he signed fool to himself.

“Ever wisdom given is not taken by the giver,” Legolas said anyway, but with a smile that Gimli could hear in his voice. “What keeps you awake, my friend?”

“The passing of time, and the ending of all things,” said Gimli truthfully, for under the stars and in the darkness he could not find a lie. Fool. Too honest; hold back. Fool.

“Ah,” said Legolas, barely breathing out the word. “If there is a worthier reason to lose sleep, I do not know it.”

“Don’t make fun,” said Gimli. Fool. “This is your doing—I had not previously known that Elves were full of such grief.”

“I wasn’t teasing,” said Legolas. He shifted, and after a moment Gimli realized that Legolas had turned to lie so that his head was resting on his shoulder. He had done it gracefully, barely rocking the boat at all.

Gimli did not dare to breathe, lest Legolas decide it was a mistake and move.

“I am sorry to have burdened you,” said Legolas.

“Don’t be,” Gimli whispered, so softly that it could have been the breeze. “I would bear your burdens if I could. But you can tell me anything.” He did not sign the word he was thinking; he was too afraid to move.

It almost hurt to say, to speak such truth even in the dark. But he was well rewarded, for looking over he saw Legolas’s smile, faint in the starlight but unmistakably there.

“So can you,” Legolas said, and closed his eyes, as he did not often do when he took the rest of Elves.

Gimli let out a breath at last, and did the same.

His dreams for the rest of the night were quiet, and filled with the sound of trees.

It was decided that Aragorn and Legolas should at once go forward along the shore, while the others remained by the boats. Aragorn hoped to find some way by which they could carry both their boats and their baggage to the smoother water beyond the Rapids.

They did not speak much at first, for concentration and caution were needed in the unknown lands as they searched for a way around the rapids. Legolas was content to let Aragorn search, with ranger skills that were his specialty, and instead kept a sharp eye on the lands for danger.

And indeed it was Aragorn who found the portage-way, but still they were cautious as they went down it. Not until the way back to the boats and the company did either of them speak.

Legolas had time now to look up at the crumbling cliffs along which the road ran, wondering at how the rocks loomed out of the fog. He wondered if plants grew here in the warmer months; plants that would be both hardy and stubborn.

Aragorn caught him staring. “It is quite different than Mirkwood, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “But not unlovely. I have found many things that are strange to me yet more beautiful for their strangeness, recently.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows, and Legolas fought the urge to duck his head. But, “You have changed much,” was all Aragorn said in response.

“I know,” said Legolas. “And so quickly. But many things were made clear to me Lórien.”

“The Golden Wood has a way of doing that,” said Aragorn, nodding. He smiled at Legolas. “For I, too, found great beauty there.”

“Arwen,” said Legolas. He hesitated. Aragorn had only spoken of her once, and even then it was obliquely, since they set out. “Is it hard, for a mortal man, to be so far apart from one you love, for what for you is a long time?”

“It is,” said Aragorn. “I think it is for her as well, knowing how short our time is and will be. Yet I do not begrudge my duty to help make the world safer. It is a long labor, but worthwhile, and it is both our hopes that we shall be happier for it.”

“Of course,” said Legolas. “And she and Lord Elrond also labor in their own way to keep Rivendell and the lands around it safe.”

“Yes,” said Aragorn. “All of Middle-Earth is involved in this war, one way or another. It marches on all borders.”

“Yet I also do not regret leaving home,” said Legolas. But he was thinking almost unwillingly of Gimli and how upset he would be, even after a few months, if their already-short time was cut shorter by long separation. He sighed. He would not even be able to imagine the feeling, had he not left. “There are many things I would have missed, if I had stayed.”

Aragorn looked at him for a long moment. Whatever he read in Legolas’s face must have been revealing, for he said, “Will you tell him?”

“Tell who what?” said Legolas, heart suddenly pounding far too hard.

“Ah,” said Aragorn. “I see. Never mind.”

He did not speak again, and Legolas only barely did not give in to the desire to pester him, hobbit-like, with questions until he gave a clear answer.

“I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here.”

“That would not be easy, even if we were all Men,” said Boromir.

“Yet such as we are we will try it,” said Aragorn.

“Aye, we will,” said Gimli. “The legs of Men will lag on a rough road, while a Dwarf goes on, be the burden twice his own weight, Master Boromir!”

…

Then the boats were drawn out of the water and carried up. They were far less heavy than any had expected. Of what tree growing in the Elvish country they were made not even Legolas knew; but the wood was tough and yet strangely light. Merry and Pippin alone could carry their boat with ease along the flat. Nonetheless it needed the strength of the two Men to lift and haul them over the ground that the Company now had to cross. It sloped up away from the River, a tumbled waste of grey limestone-boulders, with many hidden holes shrouded with weeds and bushes; there were thickets of brambles, and sheer dells; and here and there boggy pools fed by waters trickling from the terraces further inland.

It was hard labor indeed carrying the baggage behind Aragorn and Boromir moving the boats. The two men found their own way, faster or slower than the rest of them depending on the terrain, and the rest of them traveled back and forth mostly together.

Still, despite the difficulty, Gimli found himself grinning when Frodo asked what kind of wood the boats were made of. Legolas took about twenty minutes to say he did not know, naming every tree he could think of with similar wood and then deciding that he was not at all sure.

“Is it in the nature of Elves, then to give a lecture rather than admit outright that you don’t know the answer?” Gimli said with a grin, when Legolas was done.

The hobbits all laughed, and Legolas looked sheepish.

“It certainly is when you ask them for advice,” said Frodo. “Gildor, who we met in the Shire before we left, gave me a long speech simply to tell me that it was up to me to decide what to do.”

“That certainly sounds Elvish,” said Gimli, and did not temper the fondness in his voice. “Dwarves, now, Dwarves do not waste time on speeches.”

“When you speak at all!” said Legolas. “It is a wonder you do not grow old waiting to decide what to say!”

“You’d think immortal beings would have learned more patience,” said Gimli to the hobbits, who were now looking deeply amused. He then nearly sunk into a hidden hole on the difficult ground, but quickly righted himself.

“You’d think mortals wouldn’t waste so much time!” Legolas retorted, helping him up. They grinned at each other.

“You remind me of my Uncle Ferumbras and his husband,” said Pippin cheerfully, then paused to pick his way around a boggy pool of water surrounded by soft ground. When they were all back on slightly more even ground, he continued as if nothing had happened. The mood had lightened perceptibly, and Gimli could not say why, but the hobbits all looked at ease for the first time in days, despite their hard labor. “Well, I say Uncle. Really my second cousin, but we always said Uncle for short. Anyway, we joke that Everard’s never said a word in his life, Uncle Ferumbras says all of them for him.”

“Still gets his way most of the time, though,” Merry said. “Even with Ferumbras’s mother Lalia hanging over both their shoulders.”

“Well, of course,” said Pippin. “It is Uncle Everard.”

Gimli looked at Legolas, to find that Legolas was already looking at him. In unison, they both smiled and shook their heads. Strange as the ways of Elves and Dwarves might be to the other, the ways of hobbits were even stranger, and yet they were so good-natured that Gimli often found himself accepting whatever they said without questioning it. And it had been days and days since they’d heard any Shire gossip; now, Gimli wondered vaguely at the lack of it.

“You should tell the story of how they met,” said Sam. “Pass the time a bit, while we go back and forth.” He reached out an arm to help Frodo up over a boulder, and Frodo took it gratefully.

“Why? You’ve already heard i—oh,” said Pippin, catching the look on Sam’s face, though what it meant Gimli couldn’t say.

“Yes, Pip, Gimli and Legolas haven’t heard any of your stories,” said Merry, seemingly to cover for him.

“Right,” said Pippin. “Well, Everard was a Sackville—was, don’t worry, we cured him of it—and so of course they hated each other.”

“No one likes the Sackvilles,” said Frodo. He paused as he navigated the terrain again. “Of all the things, the sinkholes of water are the worst!” He said, pulling out a drenched foot; the foot would dry quickly, but the hems of his pants were also wet, and that would take longer. Gimli did not doubt they would all be similarly drenched by the time they were done.

“It’s not far at all, but Boromir was right—it’s exhausting,” agreed Merry, wiping his forehead.

“Anyway, Great Aunt Lalia didn’t exactly get along with everyone either,” said Pippin, carrying on the conversation.

“She became head of the family after her husband the Thain passed,” Merry said to Gimli and Legolas, as though that explained everything.

“She was all right for a while,” said Pippin. “But when she got older—well, the less said about that the better.”

“Yes, because she was so frustrating that your sister Pearl pushed her down the stairs to her death,” said Merry.

“Rumors and hearsay,” said Pippin loftily. “I’ll thank you not to repeat gossip.”

“I thought the Shire was wholesome and gentle,” said Gimli. He was entirely joking; he’d met Bilbo and heard his stories, after all.

Still, all the hobbits laughed. “When people still tell stories of my mother pushing my father into the lake and him pulling her in after, drowning them both!” said Frodo.

“Now, you shouldn’t be repeating gossip neither, Master Frodo,” said Sam reproachfully. “It doesn’t matter what old Ted Sandyman says, everyone who knows them knows that couldn’t be true.”

“I know,” said Frodo, smiling fondly at Sam. “I would never take it to heart, Sam. I know how the Shire likes to talk, and I suppose Bilbo has worn off on me, for I will never care what people say.”

“It seems you come up with morbid stories of your own to make up for the lack of real ones,” said Gimli. He carefully picked his way around a thorn bush, then huffed in exasperation when he saw his way blocked by a marshy and deceptively grassy patch of land.

“Maybe,” said Frodo. “And it can hurt, at times. But most of it is more benign!”

“Anyway,” said Pippin. “They used to fight all the time. Uncle Ferumbras was only ever really quiet around Great Aunt Lalia, you see. And Uncle Everard thought he talked too much, without ever saying anything interesting. But then Uncle Everard heard her harassing him over something or other, and he actually stood up for Uncle Ferumbras! And it worked—she was so shocked she actually stopped!”

“Was she very angry?” said Legolas. He was having less trouble than the rest of them, but even he was having to carefully pick his way foreward, and dodge as many obstacles as the rest of them. Gimli did not know if it was as exhausting for him, but he did notice the growing furrow of concentration on his forehead with amusement and fondness.

“At first,” said Pippin. “But not for long. She actually laughed, and said Ferumbras could use a friend like that, for when he was getting bullied by mean old ladies like her. She told him to come around sometime and say hello, and he did. They started courting not long after, and when they were married Great Aunt Lalia actually took over his little bachelor pad house and gave him the big hole. She moved back in with them when she started getting ill, of course, and then it was hard for them all for a few years.”

“Until Pearl murdered her,” said Merry. They were walking through thick weeds now, which should have been a blessing, but they were tall and scratched at the skin, even the tough hide of a Dwarf. It was not enjoyable to be both itchy and slightly damp.

“Lies!” cried Pippin. “She tripped on the stairs, and the wheelchair went falling!” As if on cue, he sunk knee-deep into a hidden pool of water, and nearly toppled sideways. Fortunately they were on their way back to the boats and not carrying anything heavy. The hobbits all laughed, then helped to pull him out.

“Your sister Pearl always was clumsy,” said Sam. “Didn’t she break an entire cabinet full of plates once?”

“Never had to do the dishes after that, I bet,” said Merry. Pippin shoved him as best he could without sending him into a thicket of briars, and Merry cackled.

Which of course was infectious, and made both Legolas and Gimli laugh. “I shall steer clear of your sister Pearl if I ever come to the Shire, just to be safe,” Gimli said.

“Uncle Ferumbras would like you, though,” said Pippin. “He would like you both.”

“But he only had one husband?” said Gimli.

“Oh, yes,” said Pippin. “He said one was difficult enough to find, and even then it took quite a while for them to get along. Not at all like my Aunt Bella, who really is my aunt. She has three wives, and they have plenty of other suitors coming and going, and all the Took children are in and out of their house all day!”

“Does that not become complicated?” said Legolas.

“Not with Aunt Bella,” said Pippin. “She’s too good-natured. It puts everyone else around her in a good mood too.”

“Everyone loves your Aunt Bella,” said Frodo. “Ferumbras and Everard are lovely, but you have to get to know them.”

“Yes, Ferumbras seems very full of himself, and Everard very grumpy,” said Merry. “And they’re both horribly stubborn. They both have kind hearts, but it takes one some time to find that out.”

“Which explains why they get on so well,” said Sam. “It takes a hard personality to love a harder one, my gaffer says.”

“It is strange, isn’t it, how often hate is a mask for some other emotion that neither party truly understands?” said Legolas, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said Gimli. “It is a poison that kills. Yet if an understanding can be reached, it can turn into something beautiful indeed.”

The hobbits were grinning at each other again, but Gimli only barely noticed. Legolas looked so happy that he had no further interest in pondering the strangeness of hobbits.

“I believe it is your turn,” Legolas said to Gimli on another trip to the portage-way, after a time of one too many accidents made them fall into silence and focus on picking their paths. They had found their way now, and were less prone to disaster, but it was still difficult work. It was harder than it looked not to move in a straight line, and constantly dodge obstacles while carrying a heavy load. When Gimli looked at him, he added: “You must tell us something of your home. For you have heard of mine, and we now have enough Shire-gossip to last years.”

“No you don’t,” said Pippin. “If anything, you’re months and months behind on it.”

Legolas ignored this; Pippin didn’t seem to expect an answer. “Or, if you have talked enough of the Mountain, tell us a story of your family. Or more about Dwarves.”

Gimli blinked at him. “I’m not sure I can think of anything, with so little to go on. Is there something you’d like to know?”

Legolas hesitated, not sure if he could ask. As he did, he shifted his baggage and held out a free arm on instinct to help Gimli jump over a wide pool of water. And remembered Gimli, saying—

You can tell me anything.

“There is much,” Legolas said, as Gimli made his landing and let go of his arm. Was it his imagination or did Gimli’s fingers linger, just a bit? “But why do you sometimes gesture with your hands while you speak, as if they are saying something along with your words?”

“I’ve never seen him do that,” said Pippin in confusion.

Was it his imagination, or was Gimli very flustered? He stepped to the side, to stand out of the way of the hobbits, who were now making the jump themselves, with Legolas’s help.

“Ah,” he said. “A bad habit, I’m afraid. I don’t do it always. But since you ask—I sometimes speak to myself unconsciously in the sign language of Dwarves.”

“Dwarves have a sign language?” said Legolas with great interest.

“It is secret,” said Gimli. “But it came because are times when Dwarves have need of speech without noise. We work in loud rooms, and in deep mines where sound might disturb stone, and a silent and swift exit is needed. To be without any communication in such situations would be dangerous indeed.”

“But why is it kept so secret?” said Legolas. “Or is it simply a matter of circumstance?”

Gimli shot him a sideways look, then seemed to make up his mind about something, and grinned a bit sheepishly. “Well, it is also sometimes used for silent conversation around non-Dwarves,” he admitted. “In bargaining, or meetings with leaders, to share information secretly.”

“So that’s why it is a bad habit,” said Legolas, helping Sam, the last of them to jump, to solid ground. “Because you are accidentally giving away state secrets!”

“No, no,” said Gimli, laughing. “It is because it’s used in very controlled ways, normally. A misunderstanding while at work could be fatal, and an un-subtle sign in public could be disastrous. My father trained me to be careful out loud and with my hands. Good advice for a Dwarf in many situations.”

“Is that why you never do it around us?” said Merry.

“Yes,” said Gimli. They were moving again, and he was staring straight ahead, not looking at any of them.

“But you sometimes slip into it around me,” Legolas couldn’t help saying.

The hobbits, whom Legolas was learning were much wiser than they seemed, suddenly feigned extreme difficulty with the terrain and dropped back several paces, leaving them alone, or as alone as they could be.

“Yes,” said Gimli again. When Legolas was silent, because that wasn’t nearly enough of an answer, he looked sideways at him again. “I suppose—I suppose I am comfortable, around you. As comfortable as I am at home.”

Legolas swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed with an emotion he feared to name. “I am honored,” he said quietly.

“Don’t expect me to teach you any of it,” said Gimli gruffly, but Legolas wasn’t fooled. “My ancestors would spontaneously rise up as one to berate me.”

“Let’s not have that,” said Legolas, keeping his voice as light as he could. “You must leave me to guess, and I will decipher the code on my own.”

At this, Gimli smiled. “I wish you luck with that, my friend,” he said. And then he launched into a story about how a distant cousin of his had almost lost several fingers due to a mistaken sign. The hobbits caught up with them, gasping and laughing at the right moments. Legolas allowed the sound of Gimli’s storytelling voice to wash over him, even as he wondered what it would be like if he was telling it silently.

Then with little further hindrance, save from sprawling briars and many fallen stones, they moved forward all together. Fog still hung in veils upon the crumbling rock-wall, and to their left mist shrouded the River: they could hear it rushing and foaming over the sharp shelves and stony teeth of Sarn Gebir, but they could not see it. Twice they made the journey, before all was brought safe to the southern landing.

On the last trip to down portage-way carrying baggage only, Gimli found himself walking behind Aragorn and Legolas, with the hobbits between him and Boromir at the rear. The path was easy, but conversation had mostly ceased; the whole party was tired from their labors. Or perhaps there was something more at work—the hobbits had once again fallen almost completely silent, as though whatever burden they’d been shouldering before their early labor had fallen once again.

He did not have much time or indeed energy to contemplate that. He was too busy fighting to remain upright.

And yet, tired as he was, Gimli still noticed almost immediately that Aragorn seemed to be watching them. He and Legolas were walking side by side, with Aragorn slightly ahead of them, yet Aragorn kept darting looks at them.

He glanced at Legolas, who did not seem to notice. He was studying the cliffs, though he must have seen them twice already. Gimli wondered what was so interesting about them, at least to an Elf.

“We’re back to limestone,” he said to Legolas, who startled and looked at him. “I suppose Lórien was a deposit of granite.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “Will you tell me more of limestone? You mentioned, in Hollin, that it is often used to build, but you said nothing else.”

Gimli snorted. “You mean, I lashed out at you for poking that Elvish nose of yours into Dwarvish business! Little did I know that I would be resigned to answering endless questions for days and days to come!”

Legolas laughed. “As I recall it, I kept pushing even though it was so clearly none of my business! But you cannot fault my curiosity, for in truth you are the most interesting person I’ve met in all my years. The ways of the Dwarves are not the only thing I wish to hear from you.”

Gimli’s ears burned at that, and he was glad for the combination of a helmet, thick hair, and dark skin to hide them. This did not stop Aragorn from looking at them meaningfully, though once again Legolas did not seem to notice. “Well, I don’t know if an Elf will even understand,” he began gruffly, to more laughter from Legolas.

“I’m not sure you understood anything I said about beech trees,” he said. “Yet you listened. Give me a chance to do the same!”

“It is very different from granite,” said Gimli. Tired as he was, thinking about rock and stone made him perk up. It was probably the only thing he could have found words to talk about. “It is more similar to sandstone, in its makeup. Most limestone is made of up of the bones of thousands of tiny creatures, ground fine and compressed. And yet it is strong.”

“You say ‘most’ limestone is made this way,” said Legolas. “What other kinds are there?”

It was a good question; very good. Gimli smiled at Legolas, surprised yet pleased that his friend would listen when he talked at length about these matters. “There is one found in caves, that is made of what water running over rock leaves behind when it evaporates.” The Dwarves had a name for this substance, but he did not say it—and he did not know the word in the Common Tongue. “It makes beautiful caves, for as the water wears over it, the shapes it makes are unlike anything else seen on the earth.”

“I have walked in limestone caves,” said Aragorn. “With great pools of still water. In Rohan. They were indeed beautiful.”

“I do not think I should be at home in such a place!” said Legolas, clearly repulsed but trying to be polite about it. Aragorn and Gimli both gave him indulgent looks.

“It is good for building, too,” said Gimli. “In that way it is like granite. It is easy to cut, and to carve into intricate shapes. And it wears well; it can stand for centuries. Small wonder that the Elves built with it! Look how many shapes it makes here, crumbling down as it does.”

“What would you carve into these limestone cliffs, if you could?” said Legolas.

“I don’t know that I would,” said Gimli in perfect honesty. “Such rock is perfectly capable of shaping itself. It does not cry out to be worked with; it is lonely and severe, and best left alone.”

Legolas now stared at him in wonder, and Gimli smiled at him. “Don’t look so shocked. Sometimes it is wise to let things be.”

“It is said in Gondor that true wisdom and skill comes from knowing when to do so, and when it is time to act,” said Aragorn.

“The Dwarves have a similar saying,” said Gimli, though he did not repeat it. The translation was much the same, anyway.

“So do the Elves,” said Legolas. “And I would not be surprised if the hobbits did also. It seems there is much in common among the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.”

“It has always been so,” said Aragorn. “And we likely have much in common with Harad and the Southrons, too. It is through lies of the Enemy that they are deceived and fight against us. Divisions are so often superficial, yet still hard to move past.”

“You have been nearly everywhere,” said Gimli. “You must have practice moving past them with all kinds of different people.”

Aragorn smiled faintly. “I suppose I have. It is a skill hard-earned, from never truly belonging anywhere.”

“It will not always be so,” said Legolas. “Your place is waiting, and it will be ready for you when arrive.”

“So I have often been told,” said Aragorn. “But the years it has taken to reach it are long, for a mortal.”

Gimli cleared his throat. “Perhaps you will take the wisdom of a people so often in exile, then; for though we often are displaced and long for home, we say also that you can carry a piece of home everywhere, so long as you have family with you.”

Aragorn looked troubled. “Family is also something that I do not—”

“I was not quite finished,” said Gimli. He did not say it angrily; he had learned that his companions were not used to the long pauses Dwarves sometimes took, as they formulated their thoughts. “The rest is, that family is not always blood. I think, Strider, that you have found a bit of one already.”

Aragorn blinked at him, then smiled, slowly. “I suppose we all have, if that’s so.”

“It is,” said Legolas softly. “And you shall have us, for as long as you need us.”

At this, Aragorn sighed. “And yet I do not know where my path shall take me next, while even our small family, so tightly bound, grows restless and begins to fracture.”

Gimli would have patted his shoulder, if his arms weren’t full and if Aragorn wasn’t two feet taller than him. “There is yet time to figure it out,” was all he could say, cold comfort as it was. But his feet were lagging, his arms were growing heavy, and he feared he had no other words left in him tonight.

“We are almost there,” said Legolas, seeing his expression. “And we will rest well tonight.”

“I hope so!” said Gimli, as they drew up to the end of their path and the end of the day. It was growing dark, and the fog had not lifted. It looked to be a dreary night, but he did not doubt he would sleep all the way through it.

“Well, here we are, and here we must pass another night,” said Boromir. “We need sleep, and even if Aragorn had a mind to pass the Gates of Argonath by night, we are all too tired—except, no doubt, our sturdy dwarf.”

Gimli made no reply: he was nodding as he sat.

Legolas could not help the look of deep affection he gave Gimli’s half-asleep form, no matter how meaningfully Aragorn looked at him afterwards.

As Frodo was borne towards hem the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North.

Even over the sound of rushing water, Legolas heard Gimli’s gasp of astonishment as they neared the statues of the kings of Gondor.

Yet though Legolas had never traveled this far nor paid much attention to the goings-on in the South, he could remember a time when this was the northern border of Gondor, and when these statues had been built.

Time passed so strangely for the rest of the world, for mortal beings. He did not fear the slow weathering of years; but suddenly he could see why Men did.

Still, this was not—could not be—the reason for Gimli’s low gasp, which Gimli himself confirmed once they had passed through the corridor.

“Did you see their construction, Legolas?” he said when speech was again possible. “Limestone, of course, just like the cliffs. I told you it wears well! And yet I suppose this is why I could think of nothing to carve into it, for the great kings of men had already thought of it and done it. See how they brought in stone for the upper layers, and how their skill in carving has kept the wear minimal!”

“And yet it does wear,” said Legolas. “As do all the works of mortals, and indeed of the Elves also, try as we do to preserve it. Still we must lose everything, in the end.”

If he was thinking of people rather than statues, he hoped Gimli could not tell.

“That does not stop even mortal men, so short-lived, from creating great works,” said Gimli. “And if the work of your hands outlives you, even if only in song and story, are you ever truly dead?”

“I do not know,” said Legolas, startled. “Those are deep waters, through which I have not tread. Is this what Dwarves believe?”

“Not exactly,” said Gimli, growing gruff as he often did when speaking of the secret beliefs of Dwarves. “But I would say it is the hope of every Dwarf to leave something of their own make behind, if only for their family.”

“You will,” said Legolas immediately, so sure that he could not entirely tell whether he foretold or simply knew his friend very, very well. “You will make many great things. But their mark on Middle-Earth will not be as great as your deeds.”

Gimli was silent, for a long time. Legolas drew on his recently-refined patience, and did not speak or apologize, but waited.

“I thank you,” said Gimli at last, quietly. “I do not say you are right—but I thank you.”

Legolas let out a breath. “You will see, in time. I shall be there to watch.”

“I think, Legolas, that you and I will do much together,” said Gimli. “If we are granted the chance.”

Always, always, that was the unspoken doubt in every conversation about the future. For another day, Legolas sought to do as his mortal companions did, and focus on the moment he was in; the present. He pushed the shadow of despair aside, and thought only of the warmth in his heart.

“He fled, certainly,” said Aragorn, “but not, I think, from Orcs.” What he thought was the cause of Frodo’s sudden resolve and flight Aragorn did not say. The last words of Boromir he long kept secret.

Later—much, much later when the truth was revealed at last—Legolas and Gimli both would wonder why they had not seen it coming. How such an evil could have been growing among the company, but they only noticed a vague uneasiness and nothing more. Nothing like this.

For though the journey was perilous and the days were long and hard, they both chiefly remembered their time and conversation together. They spent less attention on the rest of the fellowship, and Boromir least of all, for he had grown silent and brooding and spoke only of returning to Minas Tirith.

Yet they were not wholly caught by surprise when the attack came, for Aragorn at least was watchful.

He knelt for a while, bent with weeping, still clasping Boromir’s hand. So it was that Legolas and Gimli found him. They came from the western slopes of the hill, silently, creeping through the trees as if they were hunting. Gimli had his axe in hand, and Legolas his long knife: all his arrows were spent. When they came into the glade they halted in amazement; and then they stood a moment with heads bowed in grief, for it seemed to them plain what had happened.

“Alas!” said Legolas, coming to Aragorn’s side. “We have hunted and slain many Orcs in the woods, but we should have been of more use here. We came when we heard the horn—but too late, it seems. I fear you have taken deadly hurt.”

The attack came upon them as they were searching for Sam and Frodo, and after they had lost both Merry and Pippin. Yet neither of them was unprepared; Elves, it seemed, also went about armed and ready for battle.

Gimli was immediately glad, at the first surge of Orcs, to have Legolas by his side. He felled many with his arrows, and those he did not were dead from Gimli’s axe as soon as they came in range of it. It was nearly as good as having another Dwarf—better, as they caught each other’s rhythm almost immediately and it soon became clear that their fighting styles complemented each other.

Then Boromir’s horn blew, and they rushed towards it, but had to fight their way through. Without a word, they changed tactics to cut a path in a single direction. It was slow, but they made progress.

The rush of Orcs had slowed, they had laid waste to almost all of them in range, and they were nearly to the location of the horn’s sound, when Legolas said, warningly, “This is my last arrow,” and shot it into the neck of an oncoming Orc. Gimli had no time to worry, however, before Legolas’s knife was in his hand, darting and slashing as quickly as Gimli’s own axe. Their rhythm changed, but did not falter—Legolas was just as deadly with the knife, and Gimli adjusted seamlessly to fighting with another close-range fighter.

He had no time to think of what this meant, for just as the Orcs seemed to all fade or perish away, they reached the glen where they’d heard Boromir’s horn—and stopped suddenly, both immediately overcome by what they saw there.

Through grief and shock, they debated what to do next, until Legolas rightly said that they should first tend to their fallen friend, and in the process also sort through the remains of their fallen foes.

Gimli did not relish this task, for Orcs were even more disturbing to gaze upon in death. He had slain many on this journey, but never had to look at them closely afterwards. Some of them were pale gray, coloring seen on no other creature in Middle-Earth, vaguely sickly-looking yet strong in the limbs. Others were unnaturally pale, almost translucent, with blue veins showing through their skin, and wide eyes, colored so light blue that they were almost white. Underneath their armor, then, were gaping luminous eyes—and grasping, over-large hands that seemed built to take what they pleased as violently as possible.

The Orcs that Aragorn said came from Isengard were pale once, but looked as if they had been seared all over, with red and raw skin that flaked and oozed, as though they had been exposed to fire and sun too long and it would damage them forever, even if they stayed in darkness. Their eyes were wide also, but entirely black with no pupils. Gimli had never so deeply wished to finish the job and burn them all to ashes. Was there more fire in Isengard even than Mordor, that Saruman wanted his minions to appear as eternally burning horrors?

At least their search did not prove futile, for they found the hobbit’s knives, and Legolas obtained new arrows. Aragorn, in ranger fashion, wished to read the riddle of the Orcs, while their dead friend was still in need of a burial—and even when Gimli turned his focus away, worried over their course.

“Maybe there is no right choice,” said Gimli, for in his heart this was what he feared. But at last they fell into silence creating a bier on which to carry Boromir, and he felt a small portion of the weight of sadness brought by atkât.

He saw Legolas look at his face, and understand immediately. When Aragorn would have spoken again, Legolas laid a hand on his arm and shook his head, looking at Gimli. Aragorn could not have understood why, but he stayed silent and did not ask, and unspeakable gratitude filled Gimli’s heart. He looked his thanks at Legolas, who nodded back. And so, in silence broken only with instructions and as little conversation as possible, as was appropriate and respectful, they lifted Boromir’s body onto the bier and carried him to the water.

He and Legolas then turned away together to go retrieve boats, leaving Aragorn to keep watch.

At the water-side Aragorn remained, watching the bier, while Legolas and Gimli hastened back on foot to Parth Galen. It was a mile or more, and it was some time before they came back, paddling two boats swiftly along the shore.

As they walked in silence, with nothing else to do, Legolas found that grief hit him suddenly, as though he had been hit in the chest. He took a deep breath, shuddering, and Gimli looked up at him. Seeing his face, he seemed to understand, and reached up to grip his hand.

For a moment, they stood that way, heads bowed, uncertainty and fear and grief overtaking them.

Then Legolas sighed, releasing—something—out of him, and relaxed his grip. Gimli squeezed once, then let go of his hand.

He missed the weight and warmth of it almost immediately, but he was too full of sorrow to think about it much longer.

Another pang hit him, and—and he could not help but speak.

“They took the hobbits,” he said. “Gimli—what will become of them?”

He knew it sounded empty, lost, not befitting someone of his age and stature. But right now, he couldn’t pretend to be anything but afraid.

“I don’t know,” said Gimli. He also looked lost. They were lost together, but that was no comfort. “I don’t—I don’t know what we should do.”

They stared at each other long, while Legolas tried and generally failed not to imagine the fate that awaited their young friends if they did not go after them.

Then Gimli took a deep, steadying breath. “It is as we told Aragorn,” he said. “We must tend to Boromir first. We must do one thing at a time; it is the only thing we can do, right now.”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “Yes, I know.”

Gimli looked at him long. “It will not make the fear subside. But we must.” He made a sign, as Legolas had not seen him do in days. Legolas tried not to look curious, but he must have failed, for Gimli sighed. “It means family,” he said. “Or, something like that, but the word in the Common Tongue is close enough.”

“You did not have to tell me,” said Legolas.

“I know,” said Gimli. “Yet it makes it harder, that you do not press me to know. I—I do not like having secrets. From you.” He made the sign again.

Legolas looked long into his eyes, but he could say nothing more, for there was nothing he wanted to say that would be appropriate, not here. Not now. Instead, he nodded, hoping Gimli would read the meaning. He wished he could take Gimli’s hand again—he wished that the height difference between them would not make it so uncomfortable. He settled instead for resting his hand on Gimli’s shoulder, as he had done so many times now when he felt the same urge.

This time, Gimli reached up to hold it there, and they walked like this, with Gimli’s arm crossed over his chest, his hand gripping Legolas’s hand on his shoulder.

It was a good compromise.

They continued on like this, falling back into silence, and though the touch was a comfort beyond words, Legolas realized with a wave of anxiety that he and Aragorn would have to sing a farewell song for Boromir, and they had not spoken of it at all. He had learned some of the appropriate poetic forms from Boromir in Lórien, a lesson which now seemed horribly prophetic. But he did not know which one Aragorn would want to use—and as with Gandalf’s death, he found himself blocked off from song by grief, and now, this time, fear.

He took a deep breath.

When Gandalf died, he had joined Gimli in silence. Then he had found some measure of strength to translate Frodo and Sam’s song. And then he had learned Boromir’s song forms and how to fill them in. It had not opened the floodgates of song, but he had been able to compose at least one in the Gondorian manner.

Perhaps he could do that this time too. But first, he needed to let the silence surround him. And there was no better companion with whom to be silent. He focused again on Gimli’s touch, on his sturdy presence by his side, and tried to find a measure of peace.

When they reached the boats, there were only two—Gimli’s hand fell from his, and Legolas removed it reluctantly from his shoulder. Gimli’s face was shaken, and he broke the silence, seeming to decide that this was a worthy reason to do so.

“What do you think happened?” he said

Legolas shook his head. “I cannot say. This is a riddle for our Ranger to read; it is beyond my skill.”

“We can at least say no Orcs have been here,” said Gimli. “For everything lies undisturbed. Shall we at least look for the other boat? Perhaps it came unmoored, but is nearby.”

Legolas looked at the water’s bank, thinking. “Very well,” he said. “But let us be careful not to disturb the ground, or any tracks that may have been left.”

They searched, but found nothing, and did not want to spend too long looking when Aragorn would be able to learn more. Without discussion, they walked the long way around to reach the boats, veering away from the short route that would be full of tracks. Legolas did not think his feet would disturb much, but Gimli’s heavy boots surely would, and in any case it was better if they both left the scene as pristine as possible for Aragorn.

They each took a boat, and began to make their way back.

As Legolas paddled, feeling strangely alone in his boat, he remembered that Boromir had in fact told him of one of the songs used commonly for a great warrior who died in battle a long way from home. It used the scheme of one who asked for news of the fallen one from the winds—all except the East Wind, which Gondorians did not ask for news.

He let out a slow breath of relief. He remembered the words that were set, and which parts needed to be filled in, for he had taken time to commit them to memory.

Truly the Dwarves were full of wisdom, for their sacred silence had cleared his thoughts and allowed him to find even a few words. Mentally, he began composing a verse he knew he would be asked to sing.

For a while the three companions remained silent, gazing after him. Then Aragorn spoke. “They will look for him from the White Tower,” he said, “but he will not return from mountain or from sea.” Then slowly he began to sing.

Gimli stood in silence, listening to the voices of his companions. He had also listened to Legolas and Aragorn exchange low words about who should sing what verse of their song; they did not ask him to do so, and he did not volunteer. Dwarves spent longer composing songs than Men, and much longer than Elves. He had not learned the Gondorian forms with Legolas, being still too desirous of silence to attempt to learn a song, even an easy one. And he would not sing a lament for Boromir with only one voice, here above ground in the sunlight, even if he could find the words.

Moreover, he did not begrudge the chance to hear Legolas’s voice, which even in sorrow was beautiful. He also did nothing to hide his tears, for the sadness he had carried on his shoulders now spilled forth. They had lost another on this journey—and one had already been too many.

Legolas, as he sung, saw him weep, and for a moment he rested his paddle, to reach forward and put his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. He had offered this touch more and more frequently; Gimli did not know why, but he did not wish for him to ever stopped. He grasped Legolas’s hand quickly, before releasing it so that Legolas could return to his labor. But the touch, as always, was a comfort.

When they were finished, at last turning away from the gray shore, Aragorn came to the riddle of the boats, and read it almost with ease. Gimli said aloud that there was little hope in either of their courses of action, but he still felt something like it bloom when Aragorn at last decided to rescue Merry and Pippin—it would be a great task, but a noble one, and one that he was suited to.

He looked at Legolas, who set his jaw and nodded grimly back at him.

They would not abandon their companions.

“Well, after them!” said Gimli. ‘Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs. But it will be a long chase: they have a long start.”

“Yes,” said Aragorn, ‘we shall all need the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Forth the Three Hunters!”

Like a deer he sprang away. Through the trees he sped. On and on he led them, tireless and swift, now that his mind was at last made up. The woods about the lake they left behind. Long slopes they climbed, dark, hard-edged against the sky already red with sunset. Dusk came. They passed away, grey shadows in a stony land.