Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5311 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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They wasted only half an hour in finding the road, then set forth as quickly as they could manage. There were fewer webs along its length than along the many trackless paths; the elves had taught the spiders to fear them, and the beasts often avoided their works.

Nevertheless they were forced more than once to stand and fight. Whenever the spiders descended, they stood back to back upon the rough cobbles and fought, Legolas with his knives and the dwarf with his stolen axe. The spiders swiftly learned to stay back and tried to snare them with webs, dancing almost out of range, until the two chopped off enough of their legs to send them fleeing.

Legolas fared well for the first few days, able to ignore the burning of his wound and no more than a little dizzy if he moved too quickly. But when Legolas began to flag, Gimli frowned at him.

“We will rest here,” he declared, and Legolas was weary, so he did not refuse. The dwarf took off his pack and rummaged within, coming up with the small pouch of pipeweed the elf had purchased.

“Let me tend your arm.” He unbound the wound and clucked his tongue. “It has begun to fester, but this should help.” He stuffed a wad of the pungent herb into his mouth and began to chew, making a face. “This stuff is better for smoking,” he muttered, but he did not stop until he had worked the stuff down and could smear it over the edges of the cut.

Legolas blinked; he felt less pain almost at once. He moved his arm, testing it. It still served him in battle, but it was slower than the other, and he doubted by morning he would be able to lift it.

“You are not well yet,” Gimli cautioned. “Be still and let the medicine work!” He tore another strip from his tunic and bound the arm.

“I dare not risk a fire,” the dwarf muttered. “We do not want to draw more spiders.” The night was bitter, with a cold wind from the north. It whistled down through the trees, making the forest rustle. Branches rubbed together, cracking and groaning. Though most of the leaves had fallen, withered and brown, clouds covered both stars and moon.

“This road is a funnel that sucks the gale along its path. It will turn my hands to icicles,” Gimli grumbled, tucking the caps of his mitts over his fingers. He led Legolas to the road’s edge, where they settled amidst a cluster of bushes that provided a meager screen against the chill. “Lie here. You may not have to sleep when you are whole, but that wound will not heal if you do not rest,” he told Legolas, stern. “I will sit the first watch.”

Reluctant, Legolas lay back, wishing he could see the stars in the cloud-choked sky above them. The dwarf tucked himself against Legolas for warmth, growling and muttering, folding his cloak and blankets as tightly around them both as he could manage. Legolas blinked at him in surprise.

“Suffer this for me, if you do not mind the cold. I am a creature of forge and fire, not winter wind and snowmelt!” Gimli snapped.

Legolas found himself weary, and closed his eyes to rest—but opened them some unknown time later, shivering.

“Your skin is hot, though you shiver,” the dwarf fretted. He thumbed open one of Legolas’s eyelids, studying it. “And your pupils have blown.”

“I am well,” Legolas insisted, though he did not feel it. He would not confess his infirmity before a dwarf.

“I have felt no wraith-spell, at least,” Gimli sighed. “It must have stayed behind.”

With the prisoners. Legolas scowled. “We should go on, if you have rested.” He could not get home to send help quickly enough.

“It is too cold to sleep.” The dwarf struggled upright. This time he led the way, and Legolas did not question him, focused on keeping upright and walking without a stagger. His arm felt like ice dipped in molten fire.

It was really rather hot in the wood, especially for the month of Hithui. Legolas blinked and pushed back his cloak. Gimli tutted at him. “Keep moving, elf.”

They did, and Legolas decided to count how many times the inky black of night gave way to the dim of day. It took too long to amuse him, and he forgot his count after a time, so he began to sing to himself to pass the miles, drawing a concerned look from the dwarf.

The spiders will hear,” he said with tooth-clenched patience. “For the fourth time.”

“If you would have me hear you, speak louder!” Legolas tried for his father’s best impatient tone and only succeeded in making the dwarf roll his eyes.

“We do not want every spider in this foul wood to come down upon our heads, and the wraith and its legions besides!”

“That is true,” Legolas said equably, and then began again to sing to himself. Rather quietly, he thought.

*****

In another three days, the tobacco ran out. It hadn’t helped much, Gimli knew. The elf had finally grown too sick to sing, his silence a source of never-ending relief. Gimli was glad the prince had revealed the secret of the road, or they would have been lost a thousand times over. Assuming the white stones actually led them anywhere of use.

He eased his chest against the breast-band of the rough travois he had fashioned and glanced back over his shoulder to see the elf lying upon it, his fair face drawn in a scowl. Legolas was mumbling under his breath, quite unintelligible to Gimli.

“If you die on me, elf, your father will string my guts between the trees until I have none left, and leave me to be picked by crows.”

Ignoring his aching, bloody feet-- the rags of the elf’s cloak had worn through and dropped off days ago-- Gimli pressed on through both daylight and dark, sensing the elf’s time slipping away. Under the best of conditions he could make thirty or even forty miles a day, but these conditions were far from ideal. Still, he pressed on, ignoring fatigue and pain. The damnable elf had been kind to Gimli, and was honorable in his way. He might be Thranduil’s spawn, but he did not deserve to die from an orc-scratch.

The two of them drew little interest from spiders now the elf had stopped his infernal singing, or perhaps they had simply entered less dangerous regions. Gimli could hardly estimate their position, but he hoped they would reach Thranduil’s people soon.

After a time Gimli stopped and ate, fueling his body so he might continue marching. The elf shivered, so he lay down at Legolas’s side to eat, spreading the cloak over them both again. Legolas gazed at Gimli with unseeing eyes, expression intent, and peppered him with a rapid spate of fluid Elvish.

“I don’t understand.” Gimli found himself oddly transfixed by the elf’s gaze. Thanks to the difference in height, he had never before seen one of the fair folk so close, nose to nose. Legolas’s eyes were clear blue-grey, but they had flecks of amber and gold in their glazed depths. They had an odd power to transfix, drawing him in as if they were pools of clean water in which he might drown.

Legolas said something, a low murmur, barely more than a breath, but Gimli blinked away the elf's gathering spell, shaking his head.

“I have no idea what you’re telling me, elf, but we have to be moving on. You’re getting worse.” He wrestled himself upright, then folded his fur-lined cloak around as much of the elf as it would cover. Towing the travois and its burden would keep him warm enough. He would not rest until he reached help.

Thus Gimli finally stumbled all the way to the doors of Thranduil, dragging his fast-fading burden.

Guards leaped forward, brandishing spears at Gimli, but their eyes grew wide when they spied their wounded prince.

A frantic bustle ensued. Gimli could understand none of it, but one of the gate guards put the tip of his spear to Gimli’s throat and edged him aside. Legolas was carried inside in haste, leaving Gimli shivering and spent, barely able to stand, his shoulders pressed against the smooth stone pillar by the gate.

Thranduil arrived in a sweeping flurry of robes, his crown glittering in the light. He brought more guards. They bound Gimli’s hands and dragged him from the gate, propelling him inside the cavernous hall.

They finally stopped at the base of the king’s throne. Thranduil ascended, gliding as if there were no reason to hurry. When he seated himself, one of the guards stepped forth. “What happened to the prince?” The guard snapped. Gimli sighed. Of course it had to be the one Legolas named Andrath, who had come so near cutting off Gimli’s beard.

“We were attacked in the south. We fought a troll and orcs. Legolas said—”

“Prince Legolas to you, dwarf!” The elf corrected him sharply, and in his exhaustion, Gimli’s temper failed.

“Crown Prince Legolas Thranduilion, the almighty and puissant superior of all he surveys, he whose shite does not stink and whose feet none are fit to kiss, said there was a wraith!” He found himself roaring the words in the elf’s face. He had known how this confrontation would end before ever building the travois and placing Legolas upon it.

“Where are your companions?”

“Taken.” Gimli ignored the blade at his throat and did not glance up toward Thranduil, who sat watching, silent. “By the wraith, your precious prince guessed. He and I were scouting when the first attack took place.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you met with orcs and betrayed your party to them. Or you slew the others yourself, then returned here with the prince, believing he was fatally wounded, hoping to cover your guilt.”

“Are you truly so stupid as to believe I would return here with your prince in tow had I allied myself with orcs and killed an entire war party of elves? Not to say I’m not flattered you think I could do it single-handedly without armor or weapon. Perhaps I could, if they were all as thick as you!” This time he did shoot a look toward Thranduil, including him in the insult.

The dark-haired elf bared his teeth and the tip of his blade prickled Gimli’s throat.

“You are armed, dwarf, with an orc weapon!” Andrath’s knife slit Gimli’s belt and the axe dropped, clanking to the floor with dull accusation.

“I killed the orc who wielded it and took it so I might defend myself from others like him. Not to mention protecting your precious prince from spiders as I hauled his helpless wounded arse home to the lot of you point-eared ingrates!” Gimli set his jaw, pugnacious.

“How did you find your way through the forest? How did you reach this place? You were led forth blindfold.” Andrath glanced to his king, who leaned forward, intent, to hear Gimli’s answer.

Gimli refused to speak further, accepting the inevitable.

Thranduil stood. “We will do better to ask our questions of Legolas when he recovers.” He spoke lazily, as if the matter was of no import. “If you are lying, dwarf, it will go hard with you." He turned his cool gaze to Andrath. "Take the dwarf to a cell.” He sniffed. “Wash it first.” He rolled his eyes, the smirk never leaving his thin lips. “Do they seek out filth to wallow in?”

Thus Gimli was scrubbed again in icy water and doused in perfume, given no welcome or thanks, little food, no new or warmer clothes, no boots, and thrown inside a rather less comfortable prison than before, with no heat and no rug, just a hard cot.

He would have to trust Legolas would recover. But even so, the elven prince would likely give him no proper gratitude.

That was the way of elves. Was it not?

Gimli curled up under his single thin blanket with a shrug and settled in to nurse his sore feet. His cell was warm even without a fire, when compared to the woods. He fell fast asleep almost before his head touched the meager pillow.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay