Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5309 -:- 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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Legolas and Gimli each said little as they journeyed west. The elf kept himself well apart from Gimli, who was more than pleased to do the same. It left Strider somewhat forlorn; he was forced to converse with the wizard if he would have talk around the campfire at night.

Gandalf was patient with the lad, deconstructing the encounter with endless rounds of tactical analysis. They discussed how best to confront a wraith (not at all, if it could be avoided), how to thwart its attacks (with fire or light), the hazards of its weapons and spells (often too terrible to contemplate), and what might be done to heal the damage they dealt (far too little). Strider also gathered any useful herbs he found as they marched.

“He has great skill as a healer,” Gandalf explained to Gimli, trying to engage him in their conversation one night after they had traveled beyond the eaves of the wood. “Lord Elrond trained you, didn’t he, my boy?”

“He did,” Strider said, setting herbs to dry on a stone propped near the fire. “I found the athelas you spoke of, Gandalf.”

“Athelas?” Gimli brightened and straightened up. “Give me a twig of that, lad.” He put it between his teeth and rolled it between his lips. Its sweet, clean scent rose to his nostrils, easing the cloud of horror that had lain over Gimli ever since the wraith attacked in Dol Guldur. “That’s better.”

“It is a sovereign remedy against the Black Breath,” Strider agreed.

“Wraithspell, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Dwarvish loremasters say it helps draw poison from a wound or lighten a weary heart. My people use it for nearly every ill except the dragon-sickness.” If Gimli could have found any while towing Legolas through Mirkwood, it would have helped the elf’s arrow-scratch far better than tobacco. Gimli glanced furtively toward his silent companion, who sat well away from the camp, keeping watch on the horizon all around. They had barely spoken to one another since the wraith’s attack, each trying to deal with the vision in his own way. He could tell the elf was listening, though he looked out into distance, upright and aloof.

“It has virtues many have long forgotten. I am surprised to hear the dwarves know of it, living underground as they do.”

“We may live underground, but we must forage above the stone if we would eat.” Gimli shrugged. “Our loremasters do not forget easily. You must remember, it is less than the life of a single dwarf since our exile from Erebor, and before that, it was but the life of one dwarf since the Battle of Azanulbizar. We still remember much of the lore we knew in Khazad-dûm.” Gimli turned his eyes west, where the Misty Mountains loomed tall and grey on the horizon. “There stands Barazinbar himself, shining in the morning.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Strider. “Snow may fall in the Redhorn Pass even during high summer, and any who climb during winter court their deaths, laddie. Just because I have not set foot on its slopes does not mean I will forget it.”

“We will not go to the Dwarrowdelf today or any other day, if I can help it.” Gandalf huffed, frowning.

“There are those who say we should reclaim all we once lost in Moria, now Erebor is ours again,” Gimli said.

“Any who try will march to their deaths. It is not a matter of orcs, Gimli, or mountain goblins, or even trolls. Durin’s Bane is there. It is too great a foe for the axes of the dwarves.” Gandalf shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “Our path does not go so far west yet, in any case. We travel to Lothlórien.”

They journeyed alongside Anduin, looking for a place to cross, but the water was swift and deep. “We will find a path,” Gandalf seemed untroubled.

They traveled north for several days, and Gimli watched with wonder as the forest to the west of the river slowly changed from the bare branches of oak and fir and elm to slender birches with white trunks and some other, unfamiliar tree, its leaves golden, unfallen despite the chill.

“The mallorns of Lothlórien,” Legolas said when he noticed Gimli staring at them. He kept himself a careful distance from the dwarf, and did not look on him. “They come from a single seed carried from Aman and planted here in memory of Laurelin, the Golden Tree. They are small by the river, but in Caras Galadon, they grow so tall elves have built their homes among the branches.”

Gimli looked at the elf with doubt, baffled by most of what he said. “Is this the golden wood of which the legends warn? We fly from one peril to another just as ill, it seems.”

“You speak without knowledge.” Gandalf thumped his staff on the ground to silence Gimli. “Wait and learn for yourself before passing judgment or listening to lore from those who would twist good to ill.”

Where the Celebrant joined the Anduin, they found a single grey boat waiting to ferry travelers across the swift course of the river. Gandalf looked on it, then turned to the party. “The two of you camp here while I cross the river with Strider. I must consult with the Lady of the Wood. We will return before the moon fades.”

Legolas frowned his disappointment. “But I would see Lothlórien, and learn the ways of its trees. I would come to know its people.”

Gandalf laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It is not yet your time to enter the Golden Wood, Legolas. Nor yours, Gimli, though my heart tells me one day the Lady will welcome you both as honored guests.”

“I am satisfied to remain here,” Gimli said. “Trees hold little interest for me, and cities of elves even less.”

They stood together on the east bank of Anduin and watched Gandalf and Strider paddle across, their boat anchored by a slender rope so they were not carried downstream by the current.

They made their camp within sight of the landing and Gimli kindled fire. Legolas did his part, though he did not speak, lost within his own thoughts, the distance still great between them. Gimli let him be, but he watched his companion, guessing at the causes of Legolas’s dark mood.

This was what the wraith wanted; this was its goal in leading them into its trap in Dol Guldur: to drive them apart, destroy trust and create discord with fear and doubt. A small thing, perhaps, to drive a wedge between two companions, but if it succeeded, it was a victory for the shadow.

Gimli was strong, and he knew the truth of the elf. He would not let the wraith's evil win.

When Legolas made to steal away, Gimli followed. He tried to match his steps to the elf’s, pausing when he paused, but his attempt did not work.

“I can hear your breath even if you do not step heavily.” Legolas turned to him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad and guarded. “What is the matter?”

“I think you need a companion.” Gimli lifted his chin, defiant, prepared to be told to go back to the camp at once.

Legolas studied him. “That is the thought of a friend.”

Gimli felt his ears redden, and was glad of his bushy hair and helm, which covered them. “Or of a good servant.”

A faint smile ghosted across Legolas’s face. “Walk with me to the riverside, then.” He led Gimli forward, and they passed under whispering birches, their feet scattering a thin dusting of fallen leaves. Though it was well beyond the first frost, small golden flowers nodded in sheltered crannies of the rock at the waterside where they sat to look across Anduin at the wood. Lanterns could be seen from afar, hanging amidst the boughs like small constellations of stars, but Gimli could see nothing clearly, as if the wood were wrapped in a soft haze of mist.

Still Legolas did not speak.

“We could not have saved Giledhel.” Gimli said at length. It was not the only thought that weighed on his companion, but it was a heavy one.

“If we had gone at once, we might have saved him and perhaps others.”

“Without the wizard, we would have been lost.” Gimli strode stubbornly forward, shaking his head. “He broke the wraith’s spell and banished him from the bridge.”

At the mention of the spell, Legolas drew breath between his teeth, a swift hiss.

“Gimli.” He halted, staring at the ground. “I know not if we saw the same vision, yet I must speak of it as if you had. I would never compel you to serve me so.”

Gimli stopped also; bending, he plucked a small golden flower and spun it between his thumb and finger.

“I have no fear you would force any to serve you in that way, elf.” He answered shortly. "Such violence is not in you."

Legolas’s shoulders slumped, as though he had been relieved of a heavy burden. “Then it was the same seeing.”

“Aye.” Gimli dropped the flower and his fists closed, his knuckles white. He could still remember every detail, sharp and seductive and bitter, both as vivid and cold as diamond and as hot and shining as molten gold, searing any who might dare touch it.

Legolas picked up the small blossom and studied it in turn. “Why did the wraith send us such a vision?” The question escaped him on a breath.

“It wished to make us mistrust and fear one another. Is that not enough to know? Is that not enough reason to refuse its will? Let us speak no more of what we saw, and be easy with one another again. It was a foul trick played by a servant of evil.” Gimli forced the words between gritted teeth. “The why matters not.”

Legolas reached toward him and Gimli stiffened as the elf’s long fingers neared his face, but the elf only tucked the delicate flower into Gimli’s hair, its slender stem sliding behind his ear. Gimli trembled, not knowing what to think, but the elf barely touched him, so he did not remove the blossom.

“Let us go back to the campfire so you may be warm,” Legolas said softly, but he was quiet through the long evening, and still he would not look at Gimli.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay