Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Alas! alas!” cried Legolas, and in his fair Elvish face there was great distress. “The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem to this company. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

“Escaped?” cried Aragorn. “That is ill news indeed. We shall all rue it bitterly, I fear. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?”

“Not through lack of watchfulness,” said Legolas; “but perhaps through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish. We guarded this creature day and night, at Gandalf’s bidding, much though we wearied of the task. But Gandalf bade us hope still for his cure, and we had not the heart to keep him ever in dungeons under the earth, where he would fall back into his old black thoughts.”

The days were dark, and Legolas knew this. He knew also that his few responsibilities were important, that indeed everything they did in these times was important.

Still he was doing a poor job at hiding his emotions, and had expected a summons to answer to his impatience long ago. This impatience only grew when he wondered why his father had not noticed; after all, he was hardly doing any more than Legolas himself.

This was a dangerous thought, and so he pushed it down, as was prudent in Thranduil’s halls.

When the summons came, Legolas went without argument. After all, it wasn’t as though he could claim to be busy; he wasn’t. No one in Mirkwood truly was.

The first thing his father did was apologize for the oversight, which Legolas first appreciated, but then he said how much there was to do at all times, how the war creeping in from all directions had occupied his attention.

This did nothing to temper Legolas’s frustration, and it became harder not to let it show; yet he stilled his face and his racing heart, for there was nothing to gain by speaking displeasure.

Yet still the displeasure remained. Safe they remained in their fortress, only venturing out to dispatch the few bands of Orcs who threatened their borders, before retreating. In his heart Legolas knew there was more they could do, though he could not say as much. Still he tired of this talk, when Thranduil would not even consider further action, and suggestions to do so would be met with frowns and censure.

As such, there were only a few responses Legolas could give to his father, and he had to give one quickly, and so when Thranduil was finished speaking, he held his high and calmly asked why he thought something was wrong.

His father looked at him. Legolas did not like the look.

“You did not like to be left at home for the Battle of the Five Armies,” he said.

Legolas almost flinched; he was sure he’d hidden his frustration. He'd accepted his charge to stay in Mirkwood while his father and armies marched on Erebor, and taken great care not to show any feeling at all when he heard about the surge of Orcs and how Elves had fought alongside the Dwarves.

“It was my duty to protect the forest,” Legolas said, instead of putting voice to any of this.

“But you've been upset ever since,” his father countered. It had happened over seventy years ago, but that was no time at all to Elves.

“I have not complained of my duties,” Legolas said, thinking quickly. He must not pause too long; it would be suspicious, and give his father time to tell him once more that these duties were important.

The few duties he did have, he could have said, but did not. Besides the occasional fight against raiding parties of Orcs, he had been put in charge of the group guarding the recently-captured Gollum, a task of importance—but its importance did not make it more interesting. Trapped in a fortress, guarding a creature who flinched and shirked away from all wholesome things, wailing and gnashing his teeth, and swearing at his captors, no matter how kind they were; though his words were proud, this time, he did not wonder how his father knew that he found this duty tedious.

Thranduil looked at him long, and Legolas knew from his gaze that he was wondering what had happened to him. He knew they both missed the days of cheer in Mirkwood, when singing came more easily than speaking and Legolas could have easily expressed what was wrong.

If he had asked, Legolas would have given an answer as to what happened. The answer was war. War happened, and there was no escaping it. Hiding from it only made it worse.

And his father no longer listened; he thought of too many things at once, and not of the words Legolas said.

“Complaint is not the same as discussion,” his father said at last. “Perhaps if you talk about it, we can find a way to fix it.”

Legolas doubted that, but he hesitated anyway, wondering if speaking his thoughts would change anything. “I do wish there was more for me to do,” he admitted finally; he’d thought long about what he could say if he was ever asked, and he thought this was the only thing that had a chance of being heard. “There are is so much trouble outside of our borders. I want to do more to help; the duties I have do not demand my full attention.”

“Keeping watch over Gollum is part of that,” Thranduil said, confirming Legolas’s fear that saying something would change nothing. “You cannot shirk that duty.”

“I will not, of course,” said Legolas, repressing a frustrated sigh. He had not, so far. Why would that change? He had said that he could do more, not that he wished to give up the duty entirely. “I only wish for a more active role.”

“If such a thing becomes possible, I will consider it,” his father told him. “Will that suffice?”

Legolas should have agreed and left, keeping his thoughts on that offer to himself. Likely he simply meant going on more patrols, while changing nothing about their strategy. But it was a rare thing to have his father’s full attention, and so he tried one more time. “There is nothing else? No other need? War marches on all of our borders, and I am still to wait for further assignment?”

His father gave him another long look, perhaps wondering what the source of his restlessness was; yet Legolas had no words to explain it that would not cause trouble, and Thranduil did not ask. He could see his father’s attention slipping, perhaps to all the other vastly important matters of the realm.

“I must think on it,” Thranduil said. “There are many things to consider.”

“Of course,” Legolas said. He smoothed his face into the mask of serenity that he’d been wearing for months now. “Is that all? I was planning to go look in on our prisoner.”

“Yes, of course,” said his father. “Just be careful with him. Mithrandir said it was important.”

“I know, Father,” said Legolas, bowing politely. He did wince this time; it rang false, and his face had gone rigid, but Thranduil’s attention had truly slipped, for he did not notice. Not knowing whether to be relieved or furious, he turned and left the room, now fully seething.

In truth, he had not been this angry in hundreds of years. As he walked through the halls his footsteps were not light, and he very nearly stalked. Only two thousand years of self-control kept him from clenching his fists, or worse.

Be careful with Gollum, indeed! He felt sorry for the poor creature, and had taken to allowing him to climb the trees a bit, but he always set a guard. And they kept a close watch. He wondered if his father had even looked at Sméagol—Gollum, he supposed it was now, though it felt cruel to think of him by that name—since he'd first been captured.

The grave importance of his small tasks did not make him feel any less like he wandered around a stone prison, waiting for a hammer to fall upon it.

His father had been right that he’d wanted to go to Erebor, for though the darkness had grown outside in the last few years, the way he felt now had been building for years, and the behavior of the Dwarves in his home had only made it worse.

He'd never met many Dwarves until Thorin and his company came to the forest, though he'd heard plenty of stories. Yet their rudeness and impudence had been appalling beyond anything he'd expected. He'd been so angry, that Thranduil refused to let him anywhere near the Dwarves.

Legolas was sure that if he’d been at that battle, he would not now feel as though his skin was stretched too tight and like he was fraying at the edges, ready to snap like the worn-out string of a bow. Especially if he’d accidentally hit one of those Dwarves in the eye (if only to get through their thick, obstinate skulls).

There were Orcs creeping into the forest—far too many—and killing them was even more satisfactory, for there was nothing more vile under the sun. But sorties and ambushes in the woods were a distraction from the turmoil in the wide world, and Legolas longed for battle. All that they did now was meant to keep the kingdom safe, but how long would that last?

Legolas wanted to do something about it, something besides defending the borders as they shrunk further and further inwards and finally disappeared. His father’s strategies would lean only to ruin, yet he could say nothing. Anything he did say would result in his duties shrinking even further, or to nothing at all.

Still, even fighting off an Orc attack might at least help him feel useful. Maybe the bow-string of his mind would not snap today, if at least he could ward off a threat for another day.

Later he regretted ever having this thought.

But for now, he merely sighed. The day was nice, he decided, and he needed to leave the cave and go into the woods. He decided to gather a group of guards and take Gollum outside. Maybe among the trees he could get his mind off the growing darkness and his pervasive restlessness.

The attack was swift and deadly. Legolas handled it as well as possible, managing to lead some of the guard to drive the Orcs off, but the guards who remained behind all perished, and Gollum disappeared. Legolas led the Elves on a hunt, and would have gone all the way to Dol Guldur to recapture his charge, but wiser heads prevailed. “A great evil yet lies on that place,” they all said, and Legolas gave in. He had no true desire to go there, but guilt pushed him farther than was probably wise.

“Do not blame yourself,” Thranduil said. He was not angry with Legolas at all; he seemed only to be very tired. For that Legolas was grateful, but in the absence of blame, he was inclined to be even more frustrated with himself. “Gollum is very cunning, and there are still many spies of the enemy in these woods. You did well, Legolas. Do not feel regret for pity and kindness.”

Legolas shook his head. “I should have been less careless,” he said, too angry with himself to measure his words carefully. “This was my only charge, and I failed at it.”

“Do not say that which you know to be untrue,” Thranduil rebuked him. “You were very careful. If this is the worst mistake you ever make, you will be very lucky indeed. You did not err on the side of cruelty, and that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Legolas wasn't entirely convinced, but he had enough reason left to know that he could not argue further. “What shall we do now?”

Thranduil sighed. “Mithrandir must be informed,” he said.

“He travels far, and we have no knowledge of his location or movements,” Legolas said cautiously, not daring to hope.

“Then someone will need to go to Rivendell, and inform Elrond,” Thranduil said. “He has long withstood the enemy, and has many dealings with Mithrandir. He may know what to do, or how to reach the wizard.”

Legolas felt something rise in his chest, and the words came out before he could think them through: “I will go.”

Thranduil looked at him in surprise, but it seemed he had no objections prepared, for Legolas spoke before he could begin to argue.

“Father, this is my fault,” he said impatiently. “I should take responsibility for it. I will not mind the journey.”

“You are needed here.”

Legolas swallowed down down a host of protests; he was right, and Thranduil would see it, but he must remain calm. “Yet my main responsibility here was to watch Gollum, whether I succeeded or failed. In failure I must still own the task, and see it through, for it is not finished. It will not be more dangerous for me than anyone else.”

It would also get him out of Mirkwood and into the wide world, but he refrained from saying so.

Whether Thranduil saw the logic of this or there was something in Legolas’s face, he would never know, but he relented. “I suppose you are right,” he said, sighing heavily. “Just promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”

“I never have,” Legolas said, careful to keep his face calm and blank.

“Only because others stopped you,” Thranduil muttered. Then: “You'll have to go alone,” he said aloud before Legolas could argue. “I cannot spare anyone else.”

Legolas winced. It was partially his fault his father was short on warriors. “Very well,” he said. “I will leave tomorrow morning.”

Thranduil nodded. “Many dangers lie on the road ahead, Legolas,” he said. "Move swiftly, and secretly, if you can.”

Another thing Legolas didn’t need to be told, but with a great task ahead of him, he felt much less resentment at the words. “I will.”

His father looked at him carefully, in the way that always stirred in him a touch of unease. “I wonder if you are walking into more than you expect."

“Someone must do this,” was all Legolas could think to say in response. He was already wondering what he should take with him, which way he should go, and whether Rivendell would live up to all he’d heard of it. The road ahead was long indeed.

He was finally going to leave Mirkwood. Perhaps it was too much to hope that Lord Elrond would allow him to be of more aid in the war; but it was a beginning.

“Then about a year ago a messenger came to Dáin, but not from Moria – from Mordor: a horseman in the night, who called Dáin to his gate. The Lord Sauron the Great, so he said, wished for our friendship. Rings he would give for it, such as he gave of old. And he asked urgently concerning hobbits, of what kind they were, and where they dwelt. For Sauron knows,’ said he, ‘that one of these was known to you on a time.’

...

“Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night. We needed not the fell voice of the messenger to warn us that his words held both menace and deceit; for we knew already that the power that has re-entered Mordor has not changed, and ever it betrayed us of old. Twice the messenger has returned, and has gone unanswered. The third and last time, so he says, is soon to come, before the ending of the year.”

Gimli pounded angrily at the iron before him. Iron nails! It was the most tedious thing he could possibly be doing, but right now he was too frustrated to work with anything more delicate. It was September and they still hadn't done anything about the mysterious horseman who had appeared at the gates of the Lonely Mountain. Gimli kept telling his father that they had to tell someone, but Glóin had merely looked troubled. “I am not the one to decide whether Dáin calls for aid,” his father had said.

“Yes, but this concerns us too,” Gimli argued. “Surely we can't sit by and do nothing. We all know this horseman can mean nothing good.” As sometimes happened when he was preoccupied with many thoughts, his hands made the sign in iglishmêk that translated in the Common Tongue roughly to danger ahead, be cautious but ready to act.

Glóin frowned at his hands, but did not comment. He knew that Gimli would normally be more deliberate in his use of the language that the Dwarves used in the workroom when there was much noise, in the mines when speech was dangerous, or around strangers when they needed to silently communicate as deliberately. It was only a because of his comfort that his hands now spoke his inner thoughts. “And who do we call on? We have heard nothing from Gandalf recently. The Beornings have done all they can to aid us. And Balin has sent no word for years.”

Gimli hesitated, wondering if the idea in his head was too obvious. Then he sighed, deciding someone had to say it. “What about the Elves?”

A shadow of anger crossed his father's face. He had never quite forgiven the Elven King for his time in the dungeons of Mirkwood.

“Not them,” said Gimli hastily, making a sign of deference. He'd heard the story many times, and he wasn't sure he'd forgiven them either. The old offense had technically been mended years ago, and the Dwarves had some dealings with Mirkwood, but the Elves always seemed aloof and pretentious on the rare occasions when Gimli did deal with them. “I meant Lord Elrond. Rivendell.”

Glóin looked startled. “I should have thought of that myself,” he said. “It has been too long. I will suggest it to Dáin. But do not expect a quick answer. He will not send Dwarves on the long journey to Rivendell unless he deems the need great indeed.”

Gimli had to be satisfied with that. But it had been weeks and weeks since the messenger had come a second time, with the promise of a third, and the year was waning to a close. How long could they prolong this? What action would make Dáin decide the need was great enough?

If he was really honest, he also wanted to set off for Rivendell himself. It was a long-held desire, to see the Last Homely House, especially after being denied the chance to see it in person on the journey to Erebor (his parents both insisted he was too young to come along, though this was ridiculous—he’d been in his sixties, only a three years away from being old enough to set off on his own, and he could have been a valuable asset), and then hearing all his father's stories about it.

But that wasn't all, of course it wasn't. It was merely an incentive, a faint silver lining in a black cloud of worry and fear. Things grew steadily worse, and he felt helpless to fix them, shut up here with a bar of iron, unable to convince his elders to move, to do something. Exactly how great did the need have to be before Dáin consented to call for aid? Wasn't it great enough already?

The clanging of his hammer sounded in his ears, and it soothed some of his frustration. Sometimes he just needed to hit something. Especially when his father was shut up in a council of Dwarves that would probably end up deciding nothing. It was a pity there were no Orcs around to kill; it would probably be more productive, and much more satisfying.

A shadow appeared at the door of the forge, and Gimli turned to look. "Father!" he said. "That was faster than I thought it would be. What did you decide?"

“We're going to Rivendell,” said Glóin.

Gimli set his hammer down. “We?”

“Yes, you will come too,” said Glóin. “It has been many years since I was able to make a journey so long by myself, and it will be good for you.”

Gimli fought to restrain the grin that was threatening to break over his face. He held his hands tightly to keep them from giving away his mood “Good,” he said gruffly, turning away to clean up his work area. “It’s about time you decided something.”

Glóin laughed. “Don't pretend not to be excited,” he said. “I can tell you can't wait to go.”

Gimli permitted himself a smile. “It’s about time you took me along,” he said. He even managed not to sound bitter about it.

Glóin raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling. “I am excited to get back on the road,” he admitted. Then he sighed, and signed danger, be cautious but ready, as if in a peace offering. “Though I fear the journey ahead may be longer than even our darkest imaginations.”

The journey through the darkest parts of Mirkwood was long, but Legolas did not try to cut through them directly. He had been up and down the Forest River many times, and though it was an unpleasant task rowing upstream, he preferred it to venturing into the deepness of the forest. Much as he loved the trees in all their seasons and moods—as often as he would walk under the beeches in starlight and daylight, in golden sun and whispery, shadowy night—the darkness was stifling, and it saddened him deeply. Woods were not meant to be so dark and angry.

Given time, the Elves could have fought that blackness, and drawn out the rotten anger of the trees like poison from a wound, leaving only light filtered through green leaves and the whisper of the wind. But time ran short in these days, even for the Elves. And with enemies pushing at the borders, it was all they could do to protect what was left, let alone what had been lost long ago.

He had to double around the edge of the forest, another long journey, but he did not meet any Orcs and passed safely through the land of the Beornings. He'd only known of Beorn, and never met him, but he found the lands to be pleasant and wholesome. He could not stay long, however, and soon crossed the River Anduin to take the High Pass through the Misty Mountains.

Though he traveled quickly, it was mid-October when he reached Rivendell at last. Lord Elrond welcomed him warmly, but Legolas soon discovered that as beautiful and peaceful as the Last Homely House was, even in these times, it was currently in an uproar. When he told Elrond he had grave news, he fixed him with a clear, stern gaze that reminded Legolas strongly of his father, though he perceived some hidden strength even greater than that of Thranduil. It was quite possibly the most intimidating thing he'd ever encountered.

“Tell me how grave it is,” Elrond said.

Legolas hesitated, then decided to be as direct as possible. “Gollum has escaped,” he said. “I—”

“It can wait,” Elrond said, cutting him off. “This is indeed news, and soon you will tell me the whole story, Legolas son of Thranduil, but currently there are matters of more importance at hand.”

“What matters?” said Legolas curiously. There was much darkness in the world, and though he guessed at its origin, he had a feeling Elrond knew the whole story, and he greatly wished to know it as well.

Elrond sighed. “I cannot reveal much, though I guess you will learn everything in time. But I can say that the Nine Riders are at large—”

“Alas! The world has grown dark indeed!” Legolas cried out in surprise.

“It will grow darker yet,” said Elrond grimly.

“But why have they emerged?”

“That I cannot say,” Elrond said. “But we know whom they are chasing, and we must send out riders of our own against them.”

“Are there any still in the world who can openly do so?”

“There are a few Elf-Lords of Rivendell who can and will,” said Elrond, but his voice was tight and worried. “But I will attend to that. You have traveled long. For now, take your rest here, and I will summon you to hear what happened to Gollum.”

“Very well,” said Legolas. He found, to his shame, that no small measure of relief came into his heart at the discovery that there were more things, greater things, in the world than his own mistake. Yet he was also desperate to know more, to learn what dangers there were in the world, no matter how troubling they might be.

Thus Legolas spent many long days in Rivendell, enjoying the songs and poetry of the House of Elrond, but with a shadow in his heart, and a growing threat in his mind that made him deeply anxious. All was not well with the world—and he wanted to be a part of it, more than he ever had before.

It was several days before he found out he wasn't the only one who'd traveled to Rivendell recently. A few days after his arrival, a pair of Dwarves came to Rivendell as well, and he discovered their presence entirely by accident. He'd never expected to see such beards in Rivendell, attached to two Dwarves calmly sitting down the table and taking no notice of him!

The Elves in Rivendell looked at him oddly when he expressed his dismay. “Lord Elrond has long been a friend of the Dwarves,” they told him. “They oppose the Enemy, and fight him on their own borders as we do. The elder one, Glóin, was among those who recaptured the Lonely Mountain from the dragon Smaug.”

“He was one of them?” Legolas said in shock. “What is he doing here?”

“What do you have against him?” the other Elves said in surprise. “Are you not grateful they took back the mountain, and made safe that part of the world?”

“Perhaps,” stammered Legolas, feeling as though he'd been caught off his guard—an odd feeling, considering he hadn't known it was even possible. “But they behaved abominably in Mirkwood, and insulted my father. Had I known he was coming—” he stopped when he realized he was being looked at oddly.

“You may hear a different story from him,” was all anyone would say. And they seemed to have no use for his objections. “Those days are long past,” they said also. “We have much greater concerns.” Many welcomed Glóin as an old friend, and as Legolas was a guest in Lord Elrond's house and did not wish to cause an uproar, he resolved to simply avoid him.

This strategy worked, for a time.

Rivendell, Gimli decided, was very nice; except for all the Elves.

Not that they weren't all right, in their own way. His father seemed to get along with them in his own way, but then, he'd had years of practice unraveling the exchange of mystic high phrases that seemed to pass for conversation, and the fact that they seemed more likely to burst into song than to speak at all.

To Gimli, it was entirely strange. And they cared more about trees than Gimli had ever thought possible.

But it was a beautiful place, if you did like trees, and very relaxing. Gimli himself was more interested in the rocks they grew on; he was more used to rocks that had cooled from lava, and to see two different types of rock, both those that had been compressed under heat and those that had been simply compressed, was almost an entirely new to him. He’d not seen such a thing since he was a child.

“Gneiss, schist, and limestone!” Gimli said several times, no matter how much Glóin laughed at him.

“There’s more limestone in this part of the world than they know what to do with,” was all he would say, while Gimli shook his head in wonder.

Nevertheless, a dark cloud was growing, and through the singing, he could sense an undercurrent of fear and anticipation. When he brought it up to his father, however, Glóin merely shook his head.

"Lord Elrond seems to have plans of his own," he said. "I believe we shall soon find out what is behind all of this, but he delays it for his own reasons."

"Typical Elves," Gimli said. "Must be dramatic about it, or not tell us at all."

Glóin gave him a look. "You seem to know a lot about Elves, for someone who's dealt with them very little, and never at all with Elrond's people."

Gimli blinked, taken aback but not abashed by these words. "You're the one who keeps going on about being kept in a dungeon for no reason at all," he pointed out. He did not sign as he would have at home; he was tense, and his hands had been still ever since they reached Rivendell.

"That was in Mirkwood, not here. You'd do well to pay attention, and mind your tongue."

"Well, I heard one of the Mirkwood Elves is here," Gimli said, now angry for reasons he couldn't articulate. "I can barely tell them all apart, but I think I know who it is—I keep seeing him lurking around corners, glaring at me." Many of Elrond’s people were brown-skinned like the Elves of Mirkwood and like Gimli himself, and indeed they did look similar in other ways, but he thought he recognized the clothing worn by Elves in Mirkwood. They liked to blend in with the trees, Gimli knew; the Elves of Rivendell instead wore rich colors, not seeming to have the same need. But anyway, no other Elf had a reason to give Gimli such looks.

"I'm sure he won't do anything out of hand in Elrond's house," Glóin said. "And once we find out what exactly is going on, we'll have bigger things to worry about."

"This is easier to focus on," Gimli grumbled, and his father hid a smile behind his enormous white beard.

“Well, for now you can avoid him. And you’d do well to mind your tongue about Lord Elrond. He has long been a friend to us.”

Gimli took the rebuke about Elrond to heart, but the rest of his father’s advice was easier said than done. For one thing, it was hard to ignore the Elf he wanted to avoid, now that he had spotted him among the other Elves.

But his larger concern, that hung over his head through all the beautiful days in Rivendell, was that Gimli wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing in the Last Homely House at all. Everyone seemed to be biding their time, waiting for something, but no one seemed to know what—and as the time wore on, so did Gimli’s patience.

His father was entirely unaffected. He seemed content to sit in front of the fire with Bilbo, smoking his pipe and exchanging stories. In years past, Gimli would have been delighted to listen to the hobbit who featured so largely in the tales of his uncles and cousins, but Glóin and Bilbo had seen each other so recently, before Bilbo came to Rivendell permanently, that they no longer spent long hours reminiscing. No, their stories now were closer to what Gimli would call gossiping—trading news about people they both somehow knew, despite the thousands of leagues of distance between them.

Glóin also seemed to be the only person who enjoyed Bilbo’s sense of humor even more than Bilbo himself. If Gimli had to listen to his father bellow with laughter at another one of Bilbo’s poems insulting a mutual acquaintance that Gimli had never met—but that was unfair. On most days, Gimili thought Bilbo was just as funny and fascinating as everyone else, and it was hardly Bilbo’s fault that Gimli wasn’t the one who’d traveled for days and days with him on a quest to slay a dragon.

It was only that he was having difficulty pretending that he was not growing weary of sitting and waiting.

“You seem troubled, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli nearly catapulted out of his skin in shock, and his hands were on his axe before he knew what was happening. It was lucky for the Elf who’d spoken that he didn’t take their head off.

He looked up, and revised that thought. It was lucky for him that he hadn’t tried. The other Elves would be extremely upset if he’d attacked Lord Elrond in his own home, not to mention he wasn’t convinced it was a fight he could win.

“My apologies—I did not mean to startle you.” The Elf bowed low. “Elrond, at your service.”

Gimli’s mouth nearly dropped open, but the response was so ingrained in him that he was bowing before he thought about it. “Gimli, at yours and your family’s,” he said mechanically.

Elves, Gimli had realized within moments of meeting Lord Elrond, were unnerving for many reasons, but most of all because their appearance of youth was deceptive. Elrond especially had something in his eyes that said he was old, older almost than time itself, and there was very little those eyes had not seen. His presence alone made Gimli uneasy, and he had not truly wished to run into him again.

It was hard to think under that kind of pressure, but Gimli managed to scrape his thoughts together long enough to continue. “It is I who should apologize—my father continues to tell me it is not wise to be caught unaware, in these dark days.”

“Your father is wise,” said Elrond, leaning the balcony that Gimli had been looking out over, not seeing what his eyes had been trained on. “But if there is a place where one can be unaware for even a moment, it is here in Rivendell. Do not be sorry for being at ease in my home.”

Gimli should have said something polite and inoffensive in response, but he sighed heavily before he could stop himself. The sound drew Elrond’s gaze. It occurred to Gimli suddenly that the only thing as deep as the Elf-Lord’s age was his wisdom. “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “Rivendell—your house—it’s not bad, you know, for an Elf dwelling…” he stopped, cringing, but to his astonishment, Elrond actually laughed.

“High praise, from a Dwarf,” he said. “I am flattered, Gimli son of Glóin, that you do not hate my house.”

“I would say greater than that—I spoke wrongly,” Gimli stammered. What was wrong with him? “The hospitality of the Last Homely House has rightly gone down in legend, I deem,” he continued, hoping he could undo some of the damage from his tongue, which was not usually this clumsy. “And it is a refuge indeed for weary travelers, even someone such as I, who is so used to the familiarity that comes from dwelling amongst my own kind. I am not used to the ways of Elves, but the discomfort is my own to overcome, and not the fault of anyone I’ve met here. I hope you will believe me when I say that I’ve wanted to see it for myself for years, after hearing my father speak so highly of it.”

Elrond’s gaze was steady, but he said nothing. Gimli took a deep breath.

“It’s just…” but words failed him again. He stopped, in the fashion of a Dwarf thinking over his words, but he couldn’t help hoping Elrond would fill in his reservations for him, or get offended and leave, or something.

He did none of these things, only waited. Gimli’s mind made the shape of the signs for uneasy, be silent and wait, but he did not make it with his hands. Then the silence forced more words out of Gimli, for in truth he was not done expressing the things on his mind. “I came here with my father because I wanted to do something—I was tired of sitting in the mountains, waiting for the first stone to fall. And now I’m doing the same thing, only in the woods of a valley—beautiful indeed, but quiet—instead.”

Elrond did not respond right away, but Gimli remained silent. He’d said his piece at last, and though he’d sought for words before, now that he’d found them, it was not his way to keep talking simply to fill silence.

When Elrond did speak, his voice was quiet, and full of the weight of many years. “When the stone does fall, you may not feel as you do now. You may wish it had been prolonged a little longer.”

Gimli snorted. “Maybe Elves don’t mind the time spent waiting, but I do,” he said, and he did not spit the word “Elves” like a curse, but remained diplomatic as he’d been trained. “It feels a waste, to me. My axe grows restless, and so do I—so does my mind. I want to put them to use. To face the danger before it catches up with me from behind.”

At these words, Gimli found himself on the receiving end of a very critical, very searching look. He tried not to fidget under it, or turn as red as his hair, and when Elrond looked away, he bit back a sigh of relief.

“It would not be the first time a Dwarf rushed into danger before the time was right,” Elrond said, but he didn’t give Gimli a chance to retort. “You may yet get the chance. Be patient yet a little longer—the time for action has almost come. If you will hear the wisdom of Elves, trust that we have learned over long years exactly when and how to act when the time to wait is over.”

Gimli managed a nod, and Elrond nodded back, then swept away in a whirl of rich fabric. Once he was sure the Elf was gone, Gimli breathed out the relieved sigh he’d been holding. Bilbo’s description of Smaug was less terrifying than that penetrating stare, and though Elrond’s words left him with much to think about, now he was more anxious than ever. “Elves,” Gimli grumbled, mostly to himself, mostly not meaning it.

As he said the word, he tried not to notice the flash of green and gray out of the corner of his eye, colors that he knew belonged on the clothing of the Mirkwood Elf. Still, his fingers twitched on the handle of his axe—his hands itched for a fight as much as his mind did.

“Avoid him, just avoid him,” he said to himself, and walked away, wishing he at least had some iron to pound at.

That was a regrettable misunderstanding, long set right. If all the grievances that stand between Elves and Dwarves are to be brought up here, we may as well abandon this Council.

There was much to learn during the Council of Elrond, but Gimli found his eyes, for whatever reason, repeatedly drawn to Legolas. The Elf seemed to be ignoring him, but his eyes flashed angrily when Glóin mentioned his treatment in the dungeons of Thranduil, and it seemed to Gimli that he would have retorted sharply without Gandalf's intervention.

And then he seemed slightly startled when Glóin simply bowed and let the whole thing pass, although Gimli could hear his father grumbling under his breath even then. Gimli grinned to himself—he’d have something to say next time his father lectured him about manners.

Moreover, underneath the wave of dismay at Legolas’s news, Gimli had to work to suppress another smirk. It seemed the dungeons of the Elves were no more secure than they had once been. It was a selfish thought, but one that he could not help but hang onto. So much for Elven superiority!

When he did catch Legolas watching him, though it wasn't often, he couldn't read the expression exactly, but it looked vaguely disgusted. And though the long arguments of Elves and Dwarves may have been overshadowed by the rest of the Council, once it was all over, Gimli couldn't help but wonder what the reason was for that disdain. And whether, between his axe and his fists—which longed to curl tightly, and strike—he had an argument that could persuade the Elf not to look so smug and disdainful.

That was best not dwelt on.

Mostly.

Legolas wondered often, in Rivendell, if the Dwarf would be so irritating to him if he were allowed to speak his mind—perhaps even by means of a blow to the head.

Not Glóin—no, shockingly, he found it difficult to be angry at Glóin. The old Dwarf’s manners had been impeccable, despite his flash of temper. Legolas supposed this was the most that could be expected, from a Dwarf, and it was useless to expect the full formal apology he was actually owed. Better to take what he was offered and not let the Dwarf’s insolence get to him.

Such was the wisdom of Elves, that lesser beings could not understand.

Legolas didn’t pretend to remember his son’s name, only the gleam in his eye during the Council, a gleam that Legolas was sure was amusement, and he was sure it was directed at him. What for, he couldn’t begin to imagine, but he knew, could feel in his heart, that the Dwarf was mocking him.

Legolas could imagine him right now, a wry twist to his mouth, a mocking smile under his beard, saying something rude about him.

He could not think that it was odd indeed that it was a Dwarf of all people who had said almost precisely what had been on Legolas’s own mind for days and days. He could not think about that at all—it meant nothing.

More important was that now he had found the source of his unease, that had been growing for days if not years now. If anything was making him restless, it was the growing threat of evil, the knowledge that there was something to be done about it, and the deep, persistent hope that he would be chosen to help.

It wasn’t Gim—the Dwarf. It couldn’t be the Dwarf. Even if Legolas knew he was somewhere in these halls, laughing with his father or the five halflings at how foolish Legolas was.

He was looking carefully at the autumn leaves of Rivendell, beautiful in orange and yellow, ash trees such as he had never seen, for he was in a stand of them—and trying very hard not to think of Gimli’s mocking smile. This was why Aragorn startled him by coming up behind him and speaking a greeting in Elvish.

It was not because he was a failure to all Elvenkind, to be caught off his guard by a mortal man, even if it was one of the Dunedain.

Most would not have seen the surprise on Legolas’ face, but Aragorn had grown up around Elves. “Goheo nin,” he said, the apology delivered in flawless Sindarin, with the direct yet graceful accent of one who had spent half his life in Rivendell. Legolas knew his father would be angry at him for admitting it, but he’d grown fond of the Rivendell Elves and their no-nonsense way of speaking. It was so different from the tone of his own land, that alternated between overly flowery and severe bordering on harsh.

He pulled his thoughts away from his father and his home and managed a small smile at Aragorn. “The fault is mine,” he said in the Common Tongue, inclining his head and hoping Aragorn couldn’t see the turmoil of his thoughts on his face. “It is not often that I have the chance to be among new trees—I was lost in thought, listening to their voices.”

If Aragorn could tell this was not entirely true, he did not say so; he merely smiled in return. “A fair excuse. I fear the Valar themselves could not count the number of times I have startled an Elf who seemed to be alert, but was in fact listening to the forest.”

Legolas fought back the urge to give him a sharp look, and merely furrowed his brow in confusion. At the expression, Aragorn laughed. “It was a joke, mellonamin. But come—I did not seek you out in jest only. I wished to confer with you.”

Legolas blinked. His friend? Aragorn considered him a friend? They had interacted once or twice, it was true, but it had been his fault he had to search after Gollum all those months and—never mind. It was unimportant. “On what business?”

“The Quest,” said Aragorn. “Elrond tells me you have been chosen to represent the Elves, and since I have agreed to go as well, I wanted to discuss some matters of strategy with you and with Gandalf. And Gimli, of course.”

There was something in that sentence he didn’t want to hear, but he couldn’t think about it yet. “I have been chosen?”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Did you not know? Elrond said—”

“I offered to go, of course, but—” Legolas swallowed, trying to suppress a shout of joy. Could it be true? Was he really going?

And then the rest of Aragorn’s words caught up with him. “Gimli? The Dwarf is going?”

Aragorn’s eyebrows climbed higher. “You and he were chosen to represent your respective races, the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. It is only fitting to bring a Dwarf as well as an Elf—to leave either out would not be right.”

“Yes, but—” Legolas stopped. He couldn’t put his objection to Gimli into words, and he had a feeling that “but it’s him” would make no sense to Aragorn, and only succeed in making him look foolish. “Very well,” he said finally. “You really wish to confer with both of us?”

“You both have experience that we will need if this Company is to be successful,” said Aragorn firmly, and something in his tone made Legolas stand up straight at the words.

“I will come,” he heard himself say.

Aragorn smiled again. “Very well. Can you come now? The others are gathered already.”

“Please, lead the way,” Legolas said, and followed Aragorn out. He was more than a little unnerved to realize that the steely note in Aragorn’s voice had almost sounded like his father.

Legolas never did find out what the true purpose of the meeting was. He and Gimli were glaring at each other before it even began, making snide comments under their breath, and eventually outright fighting. It ended in a screaming match that Gandalf had to intervene in, dragging Gimli away while Aragorn took Legolas’s arm and marched him out of the room.

Aragorn said nothing of the affair, only gave him a long, measuring look that spoke volumes of disappointment—and again reminded him strongly of Thranduil—but when Legolas tiptoed back to see him meet back up with Gandalf (and eavesdrop on the conversation), he thought he heard the wizard say, “I did warn you.”

Whatever that meant.

Gimli the dwarf alone wore openly a short shirt of steel-rings, for dwarves make light of burdens; and in his belt was a broad-blade axe.

…

“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens,” said Gimli.

“Maybe,” said Elrond, “but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.”

“Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart,” said Gimli.

“Or break it,” said Elrond. “Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts!”

Gimli though the wizard’s scolding would blister his ears right off—he hadn’t gotten a tongue-lashing like that since he was sixty-two years old. (He’d been caught packing supplies for the Quest for Erebor, and his plan was to sneak after his father until they had traveled too far out to send him back, and then reveal himself. His parents had not been impressed. Gimli had had his mother, his grandfather, and his cousin Dís watching his every move for weeks until they were sure the Company was too far away for him to follow. That had not been a pretty sight. Gandalf’s disapproval had nothing on Dís.)

He bore it well, hoping it would convince Gandalf not to rethink the decision to let him come on the journey, but he did not apologize. That Elf had to learn now that nobody made nasty remarks about his heritage without getting a boot to the knees, at the very least. The possibility, however, did not seem to occur to Gandalf. Gimli guessed that aside from there being no other Dwarf to send, once Elrond decided you were going somewhere, you were going, and that was that unless you yourself raised an objection.

Strangely, Glóin didn’t bring the disastrous meeting up at all. Instead, he was quiet for all the time leading up to Gimli’s departure, though they spent more time together than ever. Bilbo wasn’t around now—he spent all his time shut up with Frodo and the other hobbits, as they soaked up as much time together as possible before the journey began. And so Gimli was left alone with his father.

He didn’t mind. There was no more sitting in front of the fire gossiping; instead, Glóin took him out into Rivendell daily, showing him secrets and hidden paths that he’d discovered on his previous stays. He said very little, and Gimli knew they’d both prefer to be underground for this, but in the late autumn light, with the sound of the wind whispering through falling leaves and the feel of strong, steadfast rock underfoot, he thought that perhaps this wasn’t the worst place to say goodbye.

The last night before he left, they performed the parting rituals as best they could. They were traditionally done at the parting itself, but the rites were secret, known only to Dwarves, and there would be no chance to do them the next day, to sneak away from the eyes of men and elves.

Gimli had long dreamed of drinking the cup of parting, of donning the mail shirt that he would not remove unless at great need until his journey was done, of saying the secret words, and finally setting off on his own adventure. But now, looking into his father’s eyes, he wondered how many others had done this, how many times it had been the last words they ever said to their friends and families.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because his father gave him a grave nod. It would be an ill omen to shed tears at the parting ceremony, so they both carefully kept their emotions in check, but he knew Glóin was as relieved as he was when the rites were finished and they could embrace for what they both hoped against all reason would not be the last time.

Gimli held the last words of his father that day close to his heart, though he never spoke of them to anyone. He would not see him again—the ritual was finished, and Glóin could not be present to see the Company off.

If anyone found it strange that he wasn’t there, they did not say so. They said farewells by the fire in the great hall, but they were all wrapped up in their own thoughts and affairs to wonder about him, Gimli supposed. Perhaps the hobbits even knew something of what had passed the night before, but knew better than to ask.

As they prepared to leave, they were still mostly quiet. Even he spoke only to counter Elrond’s words—no one would say that he was anything but loyal, even on the darkest of roads! But it was a short conversation, and Elrond paid no heed to Legolas’s stormy face at the exchange, so Gimli tried to do the same and not wonder what the Elf was so upset about.

And then, with a short farewell from Bilbo, and a few parting words from Elves who had come to see them off, they were on their way at last, winding their way through the dusk into the wild.