Hooves thundered all around him; despite the height offered from his
vantage point on Firefoot's back, Gimli felt suffocated by the
sound. Inexplicably, he wanted to turn around, to see the fierce
would-be warrioress left to guard the remaining citizens of Edoras. Her
defiant but unwavering gaze had reminded him of Galadriel, though the
power of the Elf-queen, the Vrâlsfire, radiated with the light of a
thousand diamonds. This young sword-bearer of the horse lords brought to
Gimli's mind a newly hewn opal; fire obviously blazed within, but it
was unpolished.
As they rode swiftly away from the Golden Hall on its hill, the seeming
chaos of warriors fell into organised, orderly ranks. Gimli turned his
head to the left to glance at Legolas, riding Arod as always without the
benefit of saddle and reins, but the Elf kept his eyes focussed on the
horizon ahead. After a time the incessant jostling and constant motion
of sitting astride a horse settled painfully in Gimli's backside. It
wasn't long before the soreness and chafing reached down to claim
his thighs as well. At least the going was flat, and he was able to
lessen his grip around Éomer's waist.
Firefoot pounded the earth, carrying them across the wide plains to this
stone stronghold of the horse lovers. Gimli felt they couldn't get
there fast enough. He would gladly have taken flight on foot again,
especially after the hearty meals and ale generously provided by the
King and his house. Once his axe had been returned to him, he had slept
well, swaddled in the fur bedcoverings which the people of Rohan
appeared to favour. During the day he'd walked about the sturdy
enclave, ignoring the curious looks from many in Théoden's
household. Gimli knew that some of his distant kindred must have
travelled through this country; though now most preferred to keep to
themselves, certainly there had been those Dwarves who were driven to
lands and riches farther afield. His own father came to mind, and a
rueful smile ghosted across his lips. Gimli was sure that he would much
prefer to be housed in a barrel and sent floating along a river or even
be back in one of the Elven boats than spend hour after hour on the back
of an uncomfortable, stampeding beast.
The hours progressed with bone-jarring monotony. At two points during
the dusk and evening Éomer broke ranks and pulled away a short
distance, providing the two of them an opportunity to relieve
themselves. The indignity of having to be helped down and then hoisted
back up on the seemingly-disgruntled steed was rankling, but Gimli was
practical enough to acknowledge his body's limitations.
During such a respite, Gimli took the opportunity to pace several
strides toward the disappearing phalanx of horses and riders before
returning to the King's nephew. The solid terrain had never felt so
powerful, so much like a sundered companion. Gimli had felt the burning
desire to stamp his boots against it, feel its dull thudding shoot up
through his legs, grounding him. He resisted that urge, but did allow
himself to stretch discreetly.
"Are you in pain, Master Dwarf?" Éomer asked, tending to
his lacings on his breeches, his behaviour startlingly immodest to
Gimli's perceptions.
Obviously Gimli hadn't been as covert as he'd hoped. "No,
I'm not," he replied brusquely. He adjusted his wide belt and
leggings, wincing as the sore skin of his inner thighs rubbed against
his breeches.
"Very well," Éomer replied. He took a moment to put the
many strands of hair that had worked out of his thong back into order
before placing his helm back on his head. For his part, Gimli saw no
need to uncover his head unless he was settling in to sleep, and
indoors. "Step into my hands. We cannot tarry," he
continued.
Gimli managed not to growl as he grasped the saddle and put his boot in
Éomer's intertwined hands before being heaved back up to his
unnatural perch. He had neither knowledge nor love of horses, but even
he could now appreciate the intuitive grace and understanding of Arod.
It was decidedly lacking in Éomer's proud stallion.
"Would you like some meat?" Éomer asked as he situated
himself and took the reins, offering a strip of dried veal from his
provision sack.
"Certainly." Gimli accepted the proffered meat and put it
quickly in his mouth as they galloped off. "What I would most
like is to be in front of a roaring fire, solid stone walls around me
and my pipe full of fine leaf," he thought to himself. Even the
hasty image of comfort and smoke made him think of Meriadoc and
Peregrin, and he found himself under a cloud of melancholy, anxious for
their safety.
Éomer rode Firefoot hard until they had rejoined the rest of the
éored, up at the front of the column as his rank demanded. Even
after the sun set and the sky transformed to an inky expanse, they
continued riding. Just when Gimli had resigned himself to a long,
painful night bumping behind Éomer's wide back, Théoden
cocked his head and the convoy slowed. As one unit, and without any
speech that Gimli observed, the éored spread out, falling into
organised groups as each of the riders dismounted and set to his
pre-appointed task. This greatly impressed Gimli, reminding him somewhat
of his own khaladbol. Éomer joined the King, Gandalf, H‡ma, Aragorn
and Legolas, who were setting up their bivouac away from the centre of
activity but still well within the outer periphery of guards.
Théoden and his doorward were deep in discussion as Éomer
brought Firefoot to a halt. Gimli was so grateful at the thought of
walking on hard soil again that he nearly dismounted without assistance.
He was judging how best to move his left leg and whether or not he'd
be able to hold both his axe and the saddle as he slid down when
Éomer made such musings moot.
Once his boots were firmly planted on the ground, Gimli stood to full
height. "Thank you," he rumbled, clasping Éomer's
hand longer than necessary. "I was glad to have ridden with you
today. Your penance for speaking with ignorance about Galadriel is paid.
As is said among my kind, grind neither your teeth nor your
axe."
Éomer raised an eyebrow, confusion clouding his features. "I
am unfamiliar with sayings of the Dwarves. But you are welcome. I would
have you ride with me tomorrow as well, unless you would prefer another
of your company." He glanced over at Legolas, who was tending to
Arod, murmuring in words that reminded Gimli of the sound of rustling
leaves.
"I shall accompany you again tomorrow," Gimli stated, grasping
the handle of Gormgloine and crossing his arm at his waist in a gesture
of gratitude.
Éomer appeared pleased. "So it will be. Now I must tend to
Firefoot before I seek counsel with the King and my scouts. I trust you
will find a place to bed; no fires will be lit, the better to pass
through the night undetected."
"I am no green warrior," Gimli said stoutly, glaring up at the
horseman's blue eyes. "I was told I was too young, but still I
had to be tied to a chair to be kept from going to fight in the great
battle of five armies, at which the Dwarves triumphed."
"I did not mean to offend, Gimli," Éomer said, grimacing
as he patted Firefoot's flank. "My knowledge of your people is
almost nothing. Perhaps when these dark days have passed you will tell
me more and so remove my ignorance. I do know that next to the swords
and spears of my own men, I would most welcome you and your axe at my
side in battle."
Gimli nodded smugly. "You shall." He began fishing underneath
his jerkin to find his pipe and dwindling supply of pipeweed. "Now,
however, I will take my leave to stretch my legs. Though horses can go
at speed, a Dwarf is not meant to ride."
Éomer made an agreeing sound as Gimli turned and began walking to
what he thought would be the outside of the encampment.
"Gimli— a moment!" Legolas called and Gimli paused in
surprise. "I, too, want to survey the lands. May I join you, if
indeed that was your intent?"
"Certainly." Gimli found his tinderbox and lit his pipe,
drawing in deeply of the fragrant leaf. He watched Legolas brush down
his fiery horse, shocked at himself when he felt a passing regret that
he had agreed so quickly to Éomer's offer of companionship
tomorrow. Gimli moved closer to Arod but refrained from reaching out a
hand to pet the animal. He was content to listen to Legolas'
incomprehensible sibilants before food and water were placed in front of
Arod by one of the Rohirrim.
At last, Legolas nodded to the blond lad and looked questioningly at
Gimli. "Shall we go?"
Gimli grunted in the affirmative and began tromping toward the outer
edge where the guards stood watch. Each step felt like a homecoming, the
unyielding earth spread out under him as an expanse of welcome. He was
brought up short when he realised how quickly he'd arrived at the
far perimeter. Glancing up at his companion, he saw that Legolas'
eyes shone merrily.
"Your feet seem eager to run across the plains," Legolas said,
a smile touching briefly at his lips. "I would have thought after
the many leagues we crossed together at such a pace that you would be
grateful for a less weary way to travel."
"Dwarves are not meant to ride," he snapped, wondering just
how many times he would have to repeat himself.
While it was satisfying to be on his feet again, Gimli's legs and
hindquarters were sore in ways he'd never before experienced, which
was making him testy. Not that he would admit that to Legolas. After
spending time in Galadriel's presence, however, he had an
appreciation for the strength and power of Elves, as well as their
ability to keep things to themselves. That was a quality he hadn't
witnessed among the hobbits or men. A twinge of pain seared through
Gimli's hip and he winced, but continued determinedly on, hoping
that the stalwart solidity of the good earth would settle back in his
joints.
"You seem lost in thought," Legolas commented after they had
traveled partway around the camp. "My last statement was made in
jest— I hope you took no offense at it."
"What? Oh. No," Gimli reassured him. Legolas had been making
fun, only it no longer grated on Gimli, not since their time in
Lothlórien. Surely that was the Vrâlsfire's power at work,
her understanding of Dwarves somehow enlightening this wood-Elf who had
behaved in a manner so difficult and irritating until they had entered
her domain.
"We Dwarves are not humorless, though I do not think now is the
time for me to share a joke or jibe," Gimli said, puffing on his
pipe.
"I agree. You and I are friends, but there is much about you, and
all Dwarves, I admit, which remains a mystery."
Gimli sucked in a mouthful of fragrant smoke, savouring it on his tongue
as he made a noise of assent. There didn't appear to be much he
could say in reply. The interaction between their two peoples was nearly
always like a blade pressed to a turning wheel; in conflict with each
other, and there were bound to be sparks of distrust and
malcontent.
As they made their way past a small cluster of riders, the hushed murmur
of Rohirric with its roughened syllables rose gently and receded. A
question popped into Gimli's mind as he pondered how different the
various realms of Elves appeared to him. "Legolas, where did you
learn to ride? Your father's folk in Mirkwood marched to the Lonely
Mountain. Those so fortunate as to live in Galadriel's fair lands
also come and go by stealth, on foot. Yet when presented with Arod, you
mounted him without hesitation, even throwing aside his saddle and
reins."
Legolas arched an eyebrow, a thoughtful expression settling on his
luminous features. "To you I must seem young, especially in
comparison with Lord Elrond or Lady Galadriel and some of the warriors
of their realms. But I have lived for many ages of Dwarves or men. In my
youth my father felt it wise for me to spend many years in Elrond's
house; it was there that I learned more fully how to care for and ride a
horse. Even were that not so, I suspect that the ability would come with
ease," he ruminated, his fingers twisting a slim silver band around
his wrist. "Many things come naturally to Elves which take much
instruction for others."
"It comes naturally, does it?" Gimli harrumphed, disliking
Legolas' implications. "Can you also swim to the bottom of a
lake and stay there like a fish? Or fly over mountains like a bird? Now
that would be a skill well worth honing."
The Elf's lips quirked slightly downward and to the side. "You
know we cannot fly. I am bound to Arda in this form until my death just
as you are in yours."
"Until I am in Mahal's safekeeping," Gimli said under his
breath. For several paces he let his attentions focus on how his boots
sounded as he walked, connected to the impassive soil. The nearby
mountain ranges rose like sentries, reminding him of those near
Dwarrowdelf with a pang of longing, as well as a jab of resentment.
"Another question, if I may," he said, sucking on his pipe to
ensure that it didn't go out.
"Certainly." Legolas cocked his head to the side, his open,
expectant appearance reminding Gimli unexpectedly of Pippin.
"Back before we reached the hallowed halls of
Khazad-dûm," he said quietly, finding himself protective of
his language even though he doubted the horse-lords could hear him,
"you heard the rocks speak. Aragorn is of the Dúnedain, and
his abilities appear far beyond that of most men. Why the ground offers
up her mysteries to him I do not understand, but it does not weigh on
me. You, however, are a wood elf. You have no lineage to the Noldor, the
great craftsmen to whom Galadriel is kin. How did the voices of those
stones reach your ears?" he asked, his gravelly voice rising with
his voiced frustration.
As they walked along in silence, Gimli chewed on the stem of his pipe,
grinding it between his teeth. After several moments went by and Legolas
remained silent, Gimli looked up at him, his pale skin reflecting the
chilly glow of the moon. Legolas turned his face to gaze at Gimli,
disquiet in his eyes.
"I do not know that I have an answer," he said, the words
seeming to weigh heavily on his tongue. "I had not thought of it
since we entered Moria, though it appears to have troubled you. Does the
earth here have words for you?"
Gimli shook his head, twisting one of his plaits in his fingers.
"No, but it is good ground. I will sleep well tonight." He
puffed on his pipe and realized it had gone out. He took it out of his
mouth while rummaging through his vest pocket for his tinderbox.
"I was surprised at the melancholy message from the rock,"
Legolas admitted, nodding to a pair of Rohirric guards evidently
returned from a scouting party. "I am not of the Noldo, and am far
more at peace in a forest than on rocky ground. But what of you?"
he asked.
Gimli felt the burden of the Elf's intense scrutiny as he re-lit his
pipe.
"What of me?"
"You are far beyond the realms that most of your kind travel. You
have spent days in a boat, stayed in Galadriel's realms of
Lothlórien, and now you ride upon a horse behind the Rohirric
king's nephew across flat plains. None of these things are very
Dwarf-like."
Gimli narrowed his eyes, thinking of his father's adventures, his
capture and escape from Legolas' father's keeping. He reminisced
about the bitter tears he'd shed at his distant kin's tomb in
the ruins of Khazad-dûm.
"Never underestimate the Khazad," he said, relishing the
imperceptible raising of Legolas' eyebrows at the comment. He puffed
an aromatic mouthful of smoke, his thoughts scattered like sparks from a
grinding blade. He was deeply worried about Meriadoc and Peregrin.
Despite the walk, his joints were quite sore, and he doubted that this
group of horse-lords traveled with ale. He wished that he could write to
his comrade Vram, but his letter from Rivendell would have to suffice
for now.
"We have returned to our resting place," Legolas observed,
gesturing with his long fingers at Gimli's bedroll and his own,
wrapped up tidily next to it. "I will stay on watch, and think on
your admonition."
Gimli was certain he saw mirth in the Elf's eyes, but the levity
passed in a moment. "You are wise, at least among your northern
kind," Gimli said smugly. "As for me, I hope to sleep soundly.
It will be a full day of riding tomorrow until I can stand upon this
renowned fortress of the Rohirrim. I will be curious to see its
construction."
"Until the morrow, then." Legolas turned and slipped
shadow-like into the night, disappearing amidst the muffled snorts of
horses and whispered low voices that sounded like grasses swept by
wind.
Gimli lay down on his bedding, easing off his helmet and placing it on
the ground. He pulled half of the bedroll over him and eased his spine
against the firm earth, letting it cushion his travel-weary body as he
waited for sleep to claim him. Though he was cradled by the ground, the
endless sky above made him uneasy; he felt exposed without shelter of
any kind. After tossing and turning, at last he retrieved his helmet and
put it back on. With a deep sigh, his eyes closed against the glistering
stars above and he drifted into sleep.
A/N
The Dwarvish words are made by me, snagged from other Gimli-centric stories of mine.
Gormgloine- "blue-glass" in Irish. In my story "Speak, Friend, and Enter" this is the name of Narvi's axe, and I imagine that it was handed down through the generations to become Gimli's axe. My vision is that Narvi's axe handle has two sapphires embedded in it, and I love that it has the word "Gloin" in it.
Vrâlsfire is an anagram I made from the word for diamond in High Icelandic: alsverfir.
khaladbol is a Dwarvish spelling of Caladbolg ("hard-belly", i.e. "voracious"), a legendary Irish sword (per Wikipedia). Loosely, it's meant to be a battalion of Dwarves.
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