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The Last Wood Elf	By : Mel99Moe Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 4551 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters or places. No money is being made from this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 31 – The Stubbornness of Dwarves

Legolas opened yet another wooden chest and found so few weapons. The armories had been cleaned, and he suspected Gríma had something to do with it. “What little is left is rusted and dull. How are we supposed to arm the men with such useless weapons as these? You heard Gandalf, the roads will be watched. I have little faith in the idea that the caravan will not be assaulted as we journey to Helm’s Deep.”
Eomer threw the rusty sword he held back into the chest, “I have my company. They’ll spread out along the length of the caravan, and keep watch for anyone or anything. The men who volunteered did so to help protect their families.” He pointed to the pitiful hoard of weapons, “It may not be sufficient, but it is all we have. When we get to the Hornburg, we’ll have the blacksmiths fix these, and there will be more to choose from.”
Legolas knew how desperate their situation was. Without all of Rohan’s armies at the ready, they would have to look to the citizens for help. Eomer was a proud man, and he was proud of his countrymen. He would not deny them their assistance no matter if they could accurately fight or not, but would this be enough?
The choice that lay before him was becoming more urgent every minute … stay with Eomer and prepare for battle hoping that Gandalf would show with the rest of Rohan’s army, or go to Lothlórien and ask for help. Either choice was a risk.
He sat down on a wooden bench, picked up a broken spear from the ground and shook his head. He could feel Eomer watching him curiously, but his friend allowed him a moment. And then, following his heart … not for himself, but for the people who took him in, trusted him, believed him when others did not … he made his decision.
“We need help, Eomer,” he whispered.
“We have help. We have Aragorn and Gimli, and Gandalf will return,” said Eomer with hope.
“And what if he doesn’t return? What if he finds Erkenbrand too late or not at all? What then? Who will you recruit … old men … boys? It will not be enough.”
Eomer had thought of all these same scenarios, but he chose to ignore them and trust in the wizard’s return as well as help from Béma. Legolas had made them more of a reality than he had wished. It angered him that Legolas had the same concerns. “What do you propose I do then?” he asked in a raised tone. Realizing he had shouted, Eomer sighed, plopped down on the bench next to Legolas and shook his head, “I did not ask for any of this. I did not want this responsibility. Second Marshal of the Mark … they are all counting on me to lead this great army. I am overwhelmed at times, and I find myself becoming angry with my cousin for dying. It should have been him here seeing over the troops, not me.”
“But it is you, Eomer, and you are a great man … a great leader. You always have been. Your men have followed you even when it seemed you were going against Théoden’s orders. They put everything at risk because they trusted you, and they knew you would not lead them astray. Do you think Théodred had anything to do with that? No, he did not. It was you, Eomer son of Eomund, and your recruitment in the shadow of Théodred’s death was justly deserved.”
Eomer said nothing at first, but a shadow fell across his face, hiding his emotions. His voice, however, betrayed his feelings, “I … just miss him is all. He was always there for me to turn to. Since he’s been gone, I find that I second guess myself.”
“I miss him too, Eomer,” Legolas admitted. “He taught me so much about Rohirric life. He never judged me, but accepted me as he would a brother.”
They shared a silent moment to mourn the loss of their companion. Then Legolas sat up, straightening his back as he held his head high, “There is one other option, but I will have to leave Rohan and hope to return in time.”
Eomer bent his head to the side and regarded the elf, “Of what do you speak?”
“Lothlórien,” Legolas answered in a word.
“The Golden Woods of the sorceress queen? But you said you would never go to that place. You said your uncle had advised against ever doing such a thing,” Eomer argued.
“I have … learned some things about my father and mother. Lothlórien was her home at one time,” Legolas said carefully, not telling Eomer the entire truth about his noble birth. “I earned the trust of the elleth I met in Fangorn. If I can find her and convince her of the importance of my cause, perhaps she will persuade others. I could possibly bring an army of elves to Helm’s Deep and increase our numbers.”
“That is a risky plan,” Eomer noted.
“It is worth a try, though. What else is there to lose? Still, with or without Lórien’s help, I will come back.”
“Why, Legolas? Why would you go to Lothlórien now and not before? Why do you think you can trust them to help after all you have told me about their culture and their beliefs?” Eomer asked.
Legolas swore to himself that he would not tell another living soul the truth about his father, at least not until he was sure himself. He had told Eowyn, but he had become accustomed to sharing his secrets with her, and only her. Instead, Legolas stood from the bench, grasped Eomer’s shoulder and smiled, “Ask Eowyn about it. She knows.”
“But—” Eomer started.
“It will give the two of you something to discuss as you make the journey to the Hornburg.” Legolas jostled.
* * *
Gríma was gone, his accomplices seized and jailed. Still, Legolas was leery that there may be some who were overlooked that still spied about Edoras. Eomer assured him these were false concerns. He was probably right, but the elf decided not to take any risks. He waited until late into the night before he would leave Rohan. There was no reason to raise any questions about is departure, especially as Rohan was about to embark on its journey to Helm’s Deep.
He was at the stables, checking over Arod, and seeing that his horse was prepared. He would not use a saddle, preferring this way of riding since discovering it in Fangorn. Arod was happier to carry his charge this way also. Legolas’ other thought was that the elves he was visiting might not understand why he would choose to saddle his horse when it was plain that elves preferred not to. It was for this same reason that he would don his elvish attire and not his Rohirric armor, even though Eomer advised against it.
“Going somewhere?” Gimli grumbled as he entered the stable.
“It is no concern of yours, Master Dwarf,” Legolas answered dryly. Although they tolerated each other since coming to Rohan, Legolas and Gimli hadn’t exactly discovered any kind of friendship between them. And since learning of Legolas’ true identity, Gimli sometimes glared at the elf as though he had been personally responsible for the death of his relatives in Erebor.
“Wouldn’t want you to make yourself scarce, not at this desperate hour,” Gimli commented.
“I would not do such a thing,” Legolas retorted.
“That’s not what it looks like from where I am standing.” Gimli planted his feet into the hay strewn floor.
“I have matters to attend to, and there is nothing more you need to know.” Legolas continued affixing his bags to Arod’s back.
“Leaving,” Gimli accused, “just as your father did when he was needed most. I thought you cared for these people.”
“I do care, which is why I must go,” Legolas replied. Then he turned to the dwarf with ice in his blue eyes, “And you will not speak of my father with such disrespect. What’s done is done, but I had no part in his decisions, whatever those may have been.”
Gimli narrowed his eyes, regarding the elf for a long moment, “Do you not care what people will think when they learn you are gone? Aragorn has great respect for you. He believes you strengthen our cause.”
“And what about you?” Legolas asked, catching Gimli off guard.
“I have yet to decide whether your bow will make a difference. I was hoping to see your skills, but I think I’ll not count on it,” Gimli said. He shifted his weight from left to right, as if daring Legolas to break past him.
“You do not trust me,” Legolas stated, “Well, you would not be the first.”
“I may question your motives, Master Elf, but I know your people trust you. I would not like to see them disappointed. They have been through enough already.”
Legolas had heard of the stubbornness of dwarves, and Gimli was a fine example. Arguing would do no good. One could not bandy with a boulder, he thought lightly. There might be another way. He left Arod in his stall, and came up next to Gimli. He looked the dwarf over carefully, then cocked his head to the side, “Since you do not trust my word or my motives, perhaps you’ll come with me then, and see for yourself that I intend to do as I say.”
That was the last thing Gimli expected Legolas to say, and he stuttered behind his beard as he tried to come up with a response, “Why … I … well, I don’t know … I’m not—”
“You speak firmly, Gimli son of Gloin, but your actions leave something to be desired,” Legolas antagonized.
Gimli mumbled in his own language, words that Legolas was sure were insults. Seeing that he was being challenged, Gimli gave in and accepted the offer, “Fine then, I’ll go.” Gimli began to stomp towards Arod’s stall, but Legolas stopped him.
“Well, seeing that I will have company, perhaps I do not need to ‘slip away’ just yet. The night is young and my throat is suddenly parched. Care to join me for a mug before we go?” Legolas asked as he feigned a genuine smile.
Dwarves found it next to impossible to refuse an offer of ale, and Gimli was no exception, “I suppose there is no harm in that.”
“Come along then. I know of a tavern that will still be open,” Legolas said. He untied the smaller of the two packs fastened to Arod, and he and the dwarf walked to the mead hall.
The place was open, but nearly empty. Most of the patrons were probably home, busy packing up belongings and such. A pair of elderly men sat in a far corner, playing a game of cards. The tavern owner was going in and out of his office, disappearing behind the bar and coming up with a few bottles of aged liquor. He saw Legolas walk in and nodded, “The kegs are almost emptied, but I think I can scrounge up enough for you and your friend.
Gimli looked at Legolas in horror of being referred to as a friend, but decided against correcting the man and risk refusal of service. Legolas seemed to ignore the reference, smiled and said in a kind voice, “Thank you Holthain. We are sorry to intrude at this late hour and while you are busy with preparations.”
“Nonsense! Least I can do for a soldier,” Holthain replied as he retrieved two pewter mugs, tilted a small keg sitting behind the bar, and filled the cups. He handed one to each patron, and when Legolas reached into a small pouch that hung at his waist, the tavern owner waved a hand, “No, I’ll not charge ye for the dregs of my stock. Besides, you’ll help lighten my load.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” Gimli said with appreciation.
Legolas led the dwarf across the tavern to a table by one of the windows where he could keep sight of the sky and the moon. He still meant to leave while night was upon him, and he had no intension of losing track of time.
They spoke of insignificant things at first. Gimli told Legolas a bit more about the hobbits they left behind in Fangorn, and how he still worried for them surrounded by all those wretched trees.
Legolas explained Fangorn Forest, the order of the Ents, and how these hobbit friends were safer than any of them were at present.
They talked and drank, all part of Legolas’ plan, for he had no intension of bringing Gimli with him to Lothlórien. What he actually wanted was to see Gimli so drunk that he would eventually fall asleep. Then the elf would leave for Lórien as he had intended. Gimli’s head, as well as his pride might be sore come morning, but it was a small price to pay.
What he hadn’t expected was to actually find himself enjoying this time getting to know Gimli better. They shared a lot of the same opinions and thought processes. The dwarf was turning out to be quite companionable, and Legolas began to rethink his plan to leave Gimli behind. Still, this was a task that Legolas needed to complete on his own. He wasn’t sure what he would find in Lothlórien. His focus was on recruiting an army to march to Helm’s Deep, but there was also the fact that he was going to his mother’s begetting place, the same people who had qualms with Mirkwood and its king. Bringing along a dwarf into an already complicated situation would not help matters much.
He hadn’t realized they had been silent for so long, and Legolas was deep in his own thoughts when Gimli spoke, “You seem troubled. Do you not look forward to going to Lothlórien?”
“That is a small part of it. I really do hate to leave at this desperate hour, but if I can rouse some of the Galadhrim to aid Rohan, it will only better our chances of victory against Saruman’s army.”
“You should not fret. The Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon are fair and wise. I know this because I have met them, and though some of their wardens did not care to see a dwarf within their city, Lady Galadriel was very welcoming.” Gimli spoke with kind remembrance.
“I’m afraid I know only what I was told, and they were not so helpful when my fa— King Thranduil called upon them for aid,” Legolas said, correcting himself.
Gimli gave him a curious cock of the head, “Why do you not call him your father?”
“It seems odd to me, that’s all. He was in my life for such a short period, and during that time, I did not know him to be the king. He was my father, nothing more.” Legolas leaned down and opened up the small bag he brought with him. From it, he took out his book and placed it on the table before Gimli, “This has been with me ever since I can remember.”
Gimli reached out to take it, but Legolas pulled the book away, “It’s all I have of my people, and it never leaves my side.” He gave the dwarf a cold look, and Gimli brought his hand back in front of him. Legolas made his point and relaxed, “It was written by my kinsmen, an account of our history.” Legolas opened the book to the place where it spoke of the forest and its fall into darkness, “The elven king called upon his neighbors for aid, but none came, and the forest grew bleak and sinister. The fell creatures multiplied, chasing the elves north to their fortress beneath the hill.” He paused and looked straight into Gimli’s eyes, “He called upon Lothlórien, but they did not think it was as bad as it was. I intend to find out why they sat in their precious city of trees, ignoring the world outside, especially when one of their own lived within Mirkwood … my mother.”
The dwarf leaned back in his chair, settling his eyes on Legolas, “And now may you understand my questions about your father’s decision to let Erebor crumble.” Gimli’s comment caught Legolas by surprise.
The elf hung his head and stared into his empty mug, “I don’t know why, Gimli, and I wish I did, but then again I hope I never know. The elf I knew as my father would never turn away from anyone. And here you are telling me that is exactly what he did. It is because of this conflict that I find myself questioning whether King Thranduil was my father, and that Gandalf is somehow mistaken.”
Gimli shook his head, “Gandalf is never wrong.”
Legolas sighed and looked over to Holthain, signaling him to bring another round. The tavern owner already had two fresh mugs poured and brought them over. Legolas raised his cup, inviting Gimli to do the same.
“Here’s to finding answers,” Legolas toasted.
“Hear, hear,” Gimli answered.
They drank and talked, Legolas telling Gimli what he learned from Gandalf about his parents. Why he felt compelled to tell the dwarf something he hadn’t even told his best friend was beyond his understanding. But he felt a connection with Gimli, as if they had wrongly pegged each other upon their first meeting.
Legolas was only slightly tipsy, but Gimli was clearly in his cups. Soon, Legolas could leave and Gimli would not know until after he slept off the effects of the ale. One more mug should do it, he thought.
Gimli gladly accepted another mug, and smiled after drinking half in one swallow. He squinted his eyes and looked Legolas over carefully from across the table, “You’re looking a little green there. You’d better slow your pace, Master Elf.”
Legolas laughed, “I appreciate your concern, but I think I’m holding my own. How are you feeling?”
“Never better. You know, this Rohirrim ale is not half bad.” Gimli hiccupped, burped and wiped his fuzzy chin with the back of his hand. Then he gave what Legolas thought was a genuine smile as his eyes crinkled with exultation, “I know how much I’ve had to drink, and you have matched me cup for cup. Most do not come close and are flat on the floor by now. Gimli leaned forward and inched a fat finger at the elf. Legolas crossed his arms, placing his elbows on the table and bent his head towards the dwarf. Gimli looked left and right, as though he was checking to see if anyone was listening, but they were the only people in the tavern now. His eyes settled on Legolas once more. “I must admit that you are a worthy opponent, Master Elf, but if you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny ever giving such a comment.”
Legolas laughed, his shoulders bouncing jovially, “I shall not tell another soul of your admission, and I thank you and take it as a great compliment coming from a dwarf.” Legolas leaned back in his chair and observed Gimli a moment before continuing. “Tell me, why are the dwarves such a stubborn race that they cannot even admit to giving homage?”
“Not just giving homage, but giving it to an elf. I’m not supposed to like you very much … according to my father, my father’s father and all that came before.”
Legolas crossed his arm and glared intensely at Gimli, “But what do you say, Master Dwarf, for I have never met your father or your father’s father.”
Gimli hiccupped again, bowed his head and found his words, “I find you quite companionable, I think. You have a very opinionated point of view, but you are smart, and I find you to be very loyal. I think you will behave in this manner for any of those in which you associate with, including a dwarf such as myself.”
Legolas relaxed his tight-armed stance, bringing his hands down to rest in his lap, “I can say the same thing. According to the records of my heritage, I should be leery of you, and I should not trust you to give help where help is needed. Yet, you are the first dwarf I have ever met, and all that I have to go on, and you are not like the dwarves that have been described to me. I am beginning to doubt what I have been taught.”
Gimli chuckled from behind his bushy beard, “Aye, lad, perhaps we have been taught unjustly.”
“Well, that was our father’s opinions. I see no reason why we cannot make our own.”
Gimli raised his half empty mug, gesturing for Legolas to do the same. The pewter clanked together as if to signal the promise of an optimistic future, and the two companions watched each other a moment. Then Gimli gave his toast, “Here’s to a new beginning. May each of our race learn to find peace amongst one another.”
“Hear, hear,” Legolas complied, having nothing better to add.
They each finished off what was left of their drinks, and slammed the mugs solidly onto the table. Gimli let out an ear rumbling belch, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and struggled to keep his eyes open, “Now, I know you are anxious to be going, but I’ll ask you to give me just a few moments rest before we leave.”
“Of course, Master Dw— Gimli,” Legolas corrected himself.
“I thank you, Legolas,” Gimli answered, and he laid his arms, crossed, upon the table, then his head fell upon his arms and he started snoring instantly.
Legolas chortled to himself. What a sight the dwarf was, drunk on Rohirric ale and befriended to an elf. He really did find that he liked Gimli’s company, which was why he hated to do what he was about to do. His plan had worked, and Gimli was sleeping deeply. The dwarf would wake to find Legolas gone without him. It would probably end any chance of strengthening their friendship, but going to Lothlórien was something Legolas must do on his own. Besides, Gimli would be needed here in Rohan with Aragorn and Eomer. He was just too stubborn to see that.
Legolas waved to the tavern owner, “Thank you, Holthain, and will you see that Gimli is taken good care of?”
“Of course,” Holthain answered as he went about his packing.
Legolas started for the door, but he paused and looked down at the bag in his hand. He really did feel quite bad about leaving Gimli, and worse about breaking the small bit of trust they’d started between each other. He pulled his book from the bag and went back to the place where Gimli slept, laid the book on the table by his head and stroked the cover, “Here’s to righting wrongs and healing old wounds. Take care of this for me.”
Gimli did not move, but he gave a grunt and then a snore. He hadn’t heard what Legolas said, but he would know how important a thing, and how difficult a choice it was to leave the elvish book behind. Gimli would understand and know that their trust hadn’t been broken. And with this gesture complete, Legolas left the tavern, left Rohan, and set his sights on Lothlórien.
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The Last Wood Elf