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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.

Chapter List
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Word came in the morning in the form of the wizard himself, who nearly battered down their door with his staff.

Legolas pulled it open, neatly dodging a final blow. Gandalf glowered in, then straightened, his expression smoothing. “At last. I have searched half the inns in this accursed town, for Dori had no idea where you were lodging. Ah, you have Gimli with you!” He broke into a broad smile. “That is good news indeed. They might have told me.” His mood altered in a flash. “Up with you, Gimli. We cannot waste a minute more.”

Gimli scrambled up and hurried to ready his pack. Legolas had not slept, sitting by the window and gazing out at the stars. He was ready to leave as soon as he slung his bow over his back. Despite his slow start, Gimli took but a little longer.

“I want you to meet my traveling companion.” The wizard gestured grandly to one side, where a human male stood. “This lad is called Strider. He has lived nearly all his days with the elves in Rivendell. I am showing him the world.”

Gimli was no seasoned judge of things, but he thought the man a youth, just come of age, perhaps of twenty winters. His legs were long enough to merit his name and more. His beard was sparse and his body lean as though he did not eat enough; he had yet to thicken through the chest as a strong man should. Gimli thought him sad, as if some terrible burden of sorrow or dread weighed on his young shoulders.

“Well met.” The young man had a pleasant voice, if a little high, and greeted Gimli politely with a deep bow. “At your service, master dwarf.”

“I may not offer you mine,” Gimli told him with regret, bowing low. “It is spoken for. But I thank you.”

“Well met! A star shines on the hour of our meeting.” The young man reached to clasp hands with Legolas, his manner painfully polite. Legolas answered in kind, smiling.

Gimli rolled his eyes.

The wizard hustled them down the stair and out into the street, walking swiftly enough Gimli was forced to trot to keep up. Chastened by Tharkûn’s presence, the dwarves in the street held their tongues, offering Gimli no rudeness, not even in hand-speech.

“I have not been within the mountain, Gimli-- few are granted entry now. But I have seen your father and delivered your message. He was glad to have it, and it eased his mind,” Gandalf reported. "Your family is well, though they are concerned for their king.”

He turned his attention to Legolas. “The news Dori reported you bring disturbs me greatly, I confess.” Mithrandir spoke quietly, including Gimli with a look. “Are you sure there was a wraith?”

“I saw no wraith, and none followed us. Yet the trees and the land cowered in terror, and my people were taken without a sound.” Legolas bowed his head. “I could feel a shadow of its evil pressing on my mind as we stood upon the hilltop. There is deep darkness in Dol Guldur. Not so much as before, perhaps, but it is growing again.” He hesitated, and his voice grew bitter. “My father fears the Necromancer. He would not send troops to search the keep.”

Mithrandir’s mouth pinched tightly. “He has reason enough to fear, I suppose. Thranduil often seems cruel to others, though he chooses his actions for the protection of as many of his people as he can. And yet….” He shook his bushy beard. “We four shall go and see what has settled there, and if your people are yet alive, I will get them out.”

Legolas brightened, then his eyes dimmed again. “I doubt any survived the initial attack, but you comfort me.”

“You and Strider must buy more arrows in Esgaroth,” Gandalf told him. “Carry as many as you can. They will be needed.”

*****

Gimli was relieved to depart from Laketown and don his dwarvish clothing once more. Strider frowned, seeming puzzled by the change. The lad was a questioner, asking so politely Gimli could hardly decline to answer, but wanting to know so much the dwarf’s tongue soon wearied of talking as he explained his clothing, the meaning of the engravings upon his axe, and a thousand other things the young man wanted to know.

“Forgive me,” Strider bowed. “But I am told I must learn all I can of Middle Earth and its peoples, that I may speak wisely should I ever need their aid.” He looked hunted, a little desperate, but Mithrandir nodded approval.

“Am I the first dwarf you have journeyed with?” Gimli turned the tables and began to question the man. He looked longingly to the shore of the River Running; he would much prefer his feet to riding in a boat.

“You are, though I have observed dwarves who visited Lord Elrond’s land, and I learned much lore from the scrolls in Rivendell.” He smiled at Gimli, eyes lit with some amusing memory. “Yet you are not quite what I expected.”

“It stands to reason you would not form proper expectations of a dwarf from the lore of elves.” Gimli knew his voice was dry.

“That is reasonable. And yet you do not seem the sort who would frolic naked in the fountain of Rían beneath the noonday sun, as Thorin and his companions chose to do. Lord Elrond was entirely put out of countenance.”

Gimli laughed; his father had said nothing of such a thing! No doubt Thorin would have had them bathe thus just to goad his host. “You have not yet tested me on a hot summer’s day. Yet I would not frolic unclad in an elf-lord’s fountain without a considerable number of like-minded companions-- and a vast amount of ale.”

“Excessive consumption of wine was certainly a factor.” Young Strider smiled, warmth in his eyes, and Gimli found himself smiling back. He liked this young human in spite of himself.

“You are in service to the elf.” Strider’s tone questioned, very delicate.

“Aye.” Gimli scowled anew. “His father demanded a forfeit of my king, and I agreed to pay it for my people. I was given to him for seventy years and seven. Only after that time may I return to my home and family.”

“I see. An unlikely pair of companions.”

“That we are. But perhaps you should not speak so boldly, traveling as you do with the wizard.” Gimli lifted a brow. “I have told you much of myself. What has brought you here?”

“The death of my mother, and the revelation I am a legacy.” Bitterness shadowed the youth’s mouth, yet he tried to pass it off with a smile. “Imagine my surprise that I was not born Estel of the Dúnedain as I had believed all my life, but that I am in fact a stranger of another name entirely, born of a line of fallen kings, and I have a great destiny that lies before me.”

“Aye, well.” Gimli coughed. “That is a troublesome conundrum indeed. I would observe that it is a man’s right to make his own destiny, not to allow others to choose it for him.”

“Lord Elrond counsels my fate may not be so easily avoided.”

“Yet I have heard it said fate often spares an undoomed man, when his courage is strong.”

“If by that you mean I may be spared from death until judgment falls upon my actions, I must confess judgment was passed on my line long ago, for its greatest failing.” Strider’s clear gray eyes darkened.

Gimli sighed. This one had been too long among the elves. “You are young yet. Put steel in your courage, do what is right, and let fate and doom care for themselves.”

“That is wisdom.” Strider smiled again, lighter this time, and reached to clasp Gimli’s hand. “I would call you friend, master dwarf, if you are willing.”

“Aye, laddie, that I am.” Gimli clasped his hand, aware of Mithrandir watching intently while pretending not to, puffing slowly at his pipe.

“We must leave the barge before morning, for the river soon turns away from the East Bight,” Legolas called from the stern of their barge.

“We will disembark at midnight, then.” The wizard seemed to have no eagerness for the prospect, gazing afar with his brows drawn down. “Afterward, we proceed to Dol Guldur on foot.”

Legolas too was troubled, and had no smiles or song to offer. He came to Gandalf and sat down beside him. Gimli listened to them while honing his axe. “I do not like to re-enter my father’s realm thus, so soon after departing without his leave, but I think we will not meet any of my people.”

“I think you are right.” Gandalf raised his voice. “Strider, come here and I will tell you more of the lore of the Nazgûl, for their fate is closely entwined with your own lineage.”

Strider gave Gimli a brief, long-suffering glance and obeyed.

“That lad does not know whether he be man or boy,” Gimli remarked later to the elf, keeping his voice low. “And the wizard’s orders do not help.”

Legolas shrugged. “For my part, I wonder at the lineage he mentions; he will not say more of it. As for your observation, Mithrandir is so old all of us seem children in his view.”

“Is he indeed?” Gimli raised a brow. “He is quite an old man, surely, but no human may rival an elf for long life.”

Legolas blinked at Gimli. “Old he is, but man he is not. He came from across the sea, an emissary of the Valar, when the world was yet young.”

“Durin's beard.” Gimli gave the wizard a thoughtful look. “He has not the look of elves.”

“No,” Legolas agreed. “But looks may deceive.”

“Indeed.” Gimli wondered if they were suddenly speaking of something entirely other than the wizard. “I suppose it is good to know he is somewhat more than I expected, if we go to face a wraith.”

“Have you faced a wraith before?” Legolas asked, his eyes clouded with sudden worry.

“In fact, I have not,” Gimli confessed. “The troll we fought in the wood was the worst beast I have yet to encounter. But I received my training from master axemen among my kin in the Ered Luin, and was examined in battlecraft and passed by Dwalin when I arrived in Erebor, to mark my coming of age. It was late, but the affair with the dragon threw all of dwarven affairs into chaos.” He patted his axe. “Dwalin is a fierce and cunning fighter. He would not have given me leave to go to war if I were not ready.”

“You may find your readiness sorely tested if we find a wraith waiting for us in the wood.” Legolas turned his face south. “And I believe we will. Mithrandir fears there may be more than one at Dol Guldur-- or even worse than wraiths.”

“Then I should go with Strider and learn at the feet of the wizard.” He got up and fitted deed to word, listening to matters of history and lore until he could stand it no longer.

“But how may they be fought?” He demanded.

“It is said no man may kill their leader, and it is hard to kill or harm any of them at all. Perhaps it is fortunate not all of us are men.” Mithrandir smiled kindly upon Strider to soften his words. “But beware, dwarf. To strike a wraith with your axe would destroy the blade beyond saving. They are not easily injured by man, dwarf or elf. No,” he sighed. “Leave the wraith to me-- or wraiths, if more than one come. I will need the three of you to handle all of the orcs and trolls and goblins and wargs while I fight our darkest enemy alone.”

“Is that all?” Gimli scoffed. “A challenge would be welcome, Tharkûn! Do not keep all the fun for yourself.”

Strider laughed, then silenced himself, giving the wizard a sheepish look.

“Do not fear to laugh. It will hearten you before we go into battle.” He gave all of them a stern look. “And all these names… they will confuse any others we may meet. Call me Gandalf, so neither elves nor dwarves need feel slighted by having the other race’s name chosen ahead of its own. That,” he told Strider smugly, “Is diplomacy. Mark it well, my boy.”

Gimli pondered what little useful lore he had learned as they floated through the night, and was still considering as they disembarked from the boat in the small hours. He was glad to leave the teetering gangplank and set his boots upon solid soil once more. “I am prepared to fight anything, if I may keep my feet upon the ground.”

“The elf will not fear the wraith.” Strider stepped near Gimli, and together they watched Legolas and Gandalf move forward, choosing their path. “But the wizard says you and I will fear it, whether we would or no.”

Gimli scowled. “Then stand firm and face your fear.” He hoped he could live up to his own brave words. “And if you master it, I shall share my pipe with you when we come through our fear to the other side!”

“Fear serves the wraiths.” Gandalf had sharp ears, curse him. “The dwarf is right. Master yourselves and do not let your fear master you. It is to be endured, not obeyed. Giving in to fear is always worse than facing your adversary, no matter how terrible he may be, for it gives your opponent power.”

“Share your pipe?” Legolas picked up the thread when the wizard had finished. “We elves do not smoke."

"I have never tried it, but I should like to.” Aragorn brightened. "I would like to learn to blow smoke rings to rival the wizard's!"

“Never smoked? We shall try it together, then. A grown dwarf-- or man-- needs a smoke now and then!” Gimli blustered. “Though not too much, especially at first.”

So the hours passed in pleasant talk until the eaves of the wood drew near, the darkness of the gnarled and sickened trees oppressing them even from afar.

Gandalf gestured them to silence when they stood at the fringe of the forest. “Lead us by the secret ways of your people, Legolas.”

“There will be spiders,” Gimli warned Strider.

“Spiders?” The lad looked unimpressed. “Those are easily dealt with.”

“Aye, but these are spiders the size of ponies.” He chuckled grimly at Strider’s skeptical look. “I’ll let you squash the first one all by yourself, if you like.”

Though Gimli and Strider kept up a light-hearted chatter as they pierced deeper into the wood, the wizard grew quiet. Legolas likewise was watchful, standing guard through the long, dark nights.

“He is troubled.” Strider noticed Gimli’s gaze lingering on the elf.

“Aye.” Gimli knew not how to feel; he should not be dismayed by the elf’s distress, yet he felt protective, and he thought he understood. “He lost kinsmen to this wraith.”

“It is more than that, I think.” Strider’s grey eyes were steady as he watched the elf. “I would ask what troubles him, yet I think my questions would be unwelcome.”

“As would mine, then.” Gimli muttered, and Strider lifted one brow ever so slightly.

“Perhaps so, but who else might ask?”

Gimli brooded on the thought until the man and the wizard lay abed, then went to the elf. He moved himself downwind and sat, scowling, then prepared his pipe and lit it.

Legolas turned his gaze to Gimli, watching him smoke. “Smoking is a strange habit.”

“The wizard likes it well enough.”

“May I try?” Legolas reached as though to take the pipe.

If the polite request seemed odd coming from one who owned him, Gimli appreciated it nonetheless.

“Careful not to spill,” he warned, keeping the thing level as he passed it. Legolas took a puff, wrinkling his face and frowning down, then released the smoke with a cough.

“It is not to my taste, I think.”

“More for me, then.” Gimli took the pipe back. “The woods are quiet tonight.”

“The wizard’s aura holds the spiders at bay.”

“Must I pry if I want to learn what troubles you?” Gimli exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke and watched it blow away. “You mourn your companions, that I know.”

“It is more than that.” Legolas looked into the wood. “I think of the woods, and of my father.”

“Ah.” Gimli looked out into the forest. A ghost of moonlight caught on the boles and branches, which seemed to seethe as they moved with the wind, almost like worms working carrion.

“Once this wood was called Greenwood the Great. Now all but my father’s folk call it Taur-nu-Fuin or Taur-e-Ndaedelos: The Forest of Darkness. The Forest of Great Fear. Mirkwood, it is named by men.” Legolas swallowed hard. “My father's silvan elves have sat in our caverns and patrolled our paths and let our boundaries close in about us as the evil of the land grew greater than we would risk. A friend once told me we could not afford to remain within our sheltered world and let Middle Earth burn around us. I have resisted the truth of her words too long. Now my people are taken by evil. I behold this forest I have loved as if for the first time, and at last I see it clearly.”

He raised his eyes to Gimli. “I should have left my father’s halls long centuries ago, but I let myself stay and turned a blind eye to the decay around me. The woods are sick, and it may be that only fire can cleanse them: only from ashes of war will peace and beauty grow anew. This sickness spreads. It must be banished, no matter the cost.”

“Aye.” Gimli took comfort in the heat of the smoke inside his lungs.

Legolas straightened himself, his eyes searching Gimli’s. “You have pledged friendship to Strider,” he said softly. “The hatred between our people is a symptom of the sickness, and I would no longer be under any part of its spell. Would you be my friend as well, Gimli?”

Gimli hesitated. His heart told him to agree, but there was the indenture between them, and Legolas still held power over his fate. “I no longer count you among my bitter enemies.”

“It is my father’s bargain that holds you back.” Legolas rose, his hand clenching to a fist. “My father, who grows as twisted as this accursed and pitiable thing, this suffering tree.” He laid his head on the glistening bark of a gnarled and withering oak, then pulled it away, curling his lip at the foul residue left on his skin. “All he remembers of love is death and pain. He tells himself his choices protect our people. But they grow ever worse, and his grief makes him cruel. When there are no other, weaker targets left to absorb the darkness, his realm will fall.”

He turned, sudden, and studied Gimli, considering. “You said you could not return to your people. If I renounce my father’s bargain and free you from my service, you would return to his halls to serve out your term.” He spoke slowly, but as one who knew the truth of his words.

“It is not within your power to free me from your father’s contract,” Gimli nodded. “I am honor-bound.”

“How can we fight the darkness when even honor may be turned to evil?” The elf drove his fist against the trunk, shivering the tree and bringing down a cascade of withered leaves. Gimli realized Legolas was just as upset as he had been in Dale, when he had to use his fists or go mad.

“Elf.” Gimli stood, setting aside his pipe. “Calm yourself now.”

“I will return in the morning.” Legolas stood tall. In his grief he seemed as regal and terrible as Thranduil, half his face gilded by the light of the fire. “There are spiders to kill.”

He leaped and caught a low-hanging bough, then vanished into the darkness before Gimli could stop him. After a long moment Gimli returned to the fire with a sigh, tapping out the ash of his pipe before stowing it in his pack.

“Do not worry. Legolas will return safely.” Gandalf lifted the brim of his hat and spoke quietly, his eyes gleaming up from where he lay. “He will not wander far. You spoke well, Gimli. I am proud of you.”

“I can offer no true friendship to one I am bound to serve.” Gimli muttered.

“He is bound as well. He will not let you go back to his father,” Gandalf observed. “He respects you. He begins to like you.”

Gimli growled, baring his teeth at the wizard, but Gandalf only laughed. “You begin to like him, too. Admit it, and things will be easier. Strider, stand watch until the elf returns.” He let the brim of his hat fall back over his face and did not move again.

Gimli lay down with a huff and wrapped himself in his blankets to sleep.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay