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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.

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Gimli rose in the morning to find the snow had finally stopped and the sun broken through. After the manner of clear winter days, it was very cold. Gimli bundled himself in every item he owned, pulling on his knitted hat and jamming his helm on atop it, before going out to the fire and heating water for coffee. Strider too seemed oppressed by the weather, so Gimli shared the precious stuff. The young ranger smiled at him, folding his hands around the steaming cup.

“It can be a trial traveling with those who do not feel the cold,” Strider murmured to Gimli. “Haldir and Legolas are out by the water’s edge playing in the snow-- they were throwing it at one another.”

Gimli grunted, surly. At least the elf seemed to be happier now he had a friend of his own kind. He filled his empty mug with hot water just so he could hold it in his hands. “I can hear them singing,” he muttered. “They are noisier than a flock of starlings.”

“Pack your things quickly,” Gandalf scolded them both. “We will travel onward today.”

So it went for many days, and every day Gimli wound up riding behind Strider, for Legolas and Haldir had swiftly become close friends. Each morning they announced their plans to forge ahead and scout on foot, leaving their beasts behind, and Gimli was not steady enough to ride alone. The horse lurched and swayed with every step, and he could not even put his heavy boots through stirrups, for the elves did not use saddles, so there were none to shorten for him.

Legolas’s hair returned to its usual braiding as soon as Gimli rode behind him no more, and the dwarf scoffed, trying to tell himself the change troubled him not. Best to stay silent on the matter, though he found he resented Haldir all the more for it.

By the second week, Gimli found himself entirely out of temper. Legolas was so wrapped up in his new friend he had barely spoken to Gimli since they left Lothlórien, and Gimli was forced to admit he missed the elf’s companionship. The lady was beautiful, and he revered her, but her beauty humbled him. He spoke often to her; however, they were rarely words of substance even though he spent much time serving her food with his own hands or making free to provide services for her convenience. The small pleasantries they passed were not satisfying in the same way as talking with Legolas-- or even arguing with him.

Before breakfast was finished the two scouts were ready to depart, and soon after the party set out, they vanished over the next ridge, running lightly. If not for the lady Galadriel riding near at hand, Gimli might have snarled. He did not like the warden of the march, neither his supercilious manner nor his smug way of looking down his nose at those who did not suit him.

Strider slowed their horse, falling in line behind the two unridden beasts. “Have you ever noticed they rarely seem to wrinkle or soil?” Strider sounded rueful. “Elves, I mean. Dirt and snow, rain and trouble, everything falls away as if it had never been. Those two were throwing snowballs since the dawn, and they aren’t even wet.”

“Give me a handful of mud and a clear shot at that warden’s haughty face and I will see to it he has a hard job wiping himself off,” Gimli muttered under his breath.

“Don’t even try,” Strider laughed, rueful. “Somehow they manage to look well even when ruffled. Dust and grime fall on them artfully and leave them delicately mussed, but still quite pale and interesting.”

“Aye,” Gimli sighed. “I would give much for a hot bath.”

“And I would, also.” Strider stretched his shoulders. “But there is no chance of that until Rivendell, I think.”

Gimli grimaced. There might be no warm baths in store, but at least they would part ways with Haldir when they came to the Old Ford! That was, if Legolas did not follow him right back to Thranduil’s kingdom.

“Will you and Legolas ride on to Rivendell with us, or will you remain east of the mountains?” Strider seemed to divine his thought.

“I cannot say,” Gimli said. “Legolas has not told me.”

“I think Legolas will follow Gandalf,” Strider said softly. “He will not return to his father’s halls so soon.”

“I care not what he does,” Gimli lied.

Strider just raised a doubting brow at him. “As you would have it,” he gave in, turning his gaze forward.

Gimli’s frown turned to a scowl, and he swatted at his ear as an insect buzzed past.

But it was long past the season for….

“Orcs!” Gimli bellowed, flinging himself backward off the horse. He scrambled to his feet and whirled to face their foes. Archers stood at the edge of the woods with drawn bows, and another arrow sprang back off his mail. A dozen or more large uruks charged forward, swinging crude swords and spears. Gimli set himself, snatching his hand-axe and wishing he had some smaller blades to throw. They would have to come through him to get to the lady.

He stepped forward and took the leader, blocking a crude sword thrust with the handle of his axe and hooking his heel behind the orc’s knee, heaving and bring it down. A quick chop severed its neck and he was on to a second, but there were too many for him to stop at once.

Then he heard metal sing, and next to him a long slim blade lit up like a blue flame. Gandalf brought down a second orc with a mighty swing, and Strider’s bow did for another. Then the lady was there, and she lifted one slender white hand, speaking a word Gimli did not know.

A soundless force blew past him, leaving him unscathed, but where it touched the orcs, they crumpled. The archers turned to flee, but they too were lifted and tossed like boneless dolls made of ragged cloth. In seconds, the battle was no more.

Silence fell and no orc stirred. Galadriel stepped forth and drew her sword, prodding at one of the limp bodies that lay on the ground before Gimli.

“If Haldir were here, he might tell us where this band made its lair.” She flipped the orc’s arm away from its chest with the tip of her blade, looking for clan markings.

“My lady,” Gimli breathed. “I had thought to shield you, but it would seem you need none of us!”

She turned to him with a surprisingly youthful smile. “You were valiant, my champion, and gave warning in time. Had they caught one of us with a well-placed arrow, no magic I can make would have undone our loss.”

“It seems strange these orcs are abroad at midday, traveling away from the mountains. No orcs live in Mirkwood, thanks to the vigilance of Thranduil. Or so it is said.” Strider knelt to examine the uruk. “It is a mountain-orc, I think. The goblins of the mountains have a different coloring from those of the plain or wood, and it has an unwholesome smell of cave-lichen and mold.” He stepped back. “Should we burn them, Gandalf?”

“No, the smoke would draw too much attention. I do not like this either.” Gandalf pursed his lips. “Even less since we are separated from the rest of our party. They too might meet with attack.”

“Perhaps the Necromancer sent these orcs to pursue us.”

“I think not, or we would have encountered battle long before reaching Lothlórien, and there would have been many more. These orcs had some other goal, I think. Perhaps they merely stumbled on us. Let us gather the bodies and search them. Perhaps we can find some clue to their purpose.”

Despite the best efforts of Strider in searching the remnants and tracing the tracks of the band back for more than a mile, no clue could be found. They turned up nothing of more use than poorly-made weapons and foul foods none of the party would touch. They rode on, leaving the reeking pile behind them.

“How does she do such magic?” Gimli asked Strider, still in awe of the lady.

Strider hesitated. “It is a thing not spoken of,” he murmured, quiet. “We should not put our noses into matters too large for us.”

Legolas and Haldir returned after the main party halted to set camp, and an animated account of the battle followed, in which Gimli played no part. Instead, he built a fire and began to prepare food as the others talked and Haldir speculated about the exact tribe of the dead orcs, examining tokens Strider had saved from their gear.

“They were not Moria-orcs, that at least I can tell,” he decided. “So they have not followed us all the way from the Golden Wood. But it would be a difficult thing to ford the Anduin at this stage, so if they are not from east of the river, then they have been here for some time. Perhaps they were heading north to find the ford and return to the mountains.”

“Our company should stay together as much as we may, in case we encounter larger groups.” Gandalf advised, and the elves nodded agreement.

Though the wizard had admonished Legolas and Haldir to stay close to camp, Gimli woke alone in his tent again, and again rode with Strider as they went forward. Haldir rode next to Legolas, and the two spoke together in their own tongue, frequently laughing. Whenever they did, Gimli felt his hackles rise. Once Haldir glanced back at him, expression arch and lips curved in the faintest mocking smile, and from that moment on Gimli was certain they were talking about him whenever they laughed.

“Gimli.” Strider complained softly. “You’re hurting me.”

Gimli loosed his hands, flushing hot. Legolas no longer wore his changed braid, and somehow that only made the situation worse. It was a hateful thing to be a possession, but even more so to be an unwanted bit of baggage, and to be mocked by such a--

“Gimli!” Strider turned, his face wry, torn between amusement and concern.

“I am sorry. The Lothlórien elf mocks me, and were I not bound by my vow to the elven-king, I would--” Gimli stopped himself and took a deep breath. “Grant him all the respect due a loyal retainer of the Lady Galadriel, of course,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“They do not mock,” Strider assured him. “I can hear their speech, and they talk of many things. They gossip of family members and their failings and tell one another stories of other elves both have known, and of their own youth. They share lore from centuries ago, and they admire the plants and trees we pass.” He glanced back at the dwarf.

Gimli subsided, sullen and doubtful. “Still, he likes me not. Nor do I like him.” He put his hood over his head and refused to look toward the two again.

Strider sighed a little but was silent. They stopped early to set camp, seeing rain sweeping across the land toward them. "We should make haste," Strider said, pulling Gimli aside with him to pitch their tents.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay