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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That morning the horses would not stir until Legolas had gone about, laying hands upon them and singing. Even then they would bear no rider-- except for Bellas, so Legolas mounted with Bilbo before him. Gimli and Aragorn slogged along, leading the other horses as best they could. Near noon they passed out of the marshes and onto the cold, stony plains before the Weather Hills, and when night drew near they camped on the plain within sight of the road.

The halfling had a haunted look, and Legolas spoke quietly to him as they rode, but he answered in monosyllables, unwilling to share his dreams. He kept his right hand stuffed in his pocket and hung onto the horse's mane with his left.

They camped on the plain under a cloudy sky and Gimli’s dreams turned against him once more. In them the wraith’s cunning deepened. He stood alone, in anguish, and beheld Legolas: tall and fair, so beautiful it made Gimli feel hollow with pain to look on him. Legolas would never accept a dwarf’s love, never. It was madness to think it. Madness to look on him with desire. Madness and pain, to be suffered in full measure throughout long empty years as Gimli remained alone and loveless, his body withering as the elf remained young and strong and indifferent, as Gimli’s heart turned to stone in him save only the part that knew hurt and solitude and despair. Fool, to love an elf. Fool, lowly and rejected. Fool, wounded and bitter, while all turned from him and left him to grow old in sorrow.

Yet….the halfling held a priceless treasure, and Gimli might learn more about it if he wished-- and if he would only take it, it would give him the power to have anything he liked. He might have Legolas, his for the taking. He might command the elf to dance for him, kneel before him, lie with him, love him, worship him. He might disdain the elf’s devotion himself, and yet have it and all the gold of Erebor combined, the elf kneeling before the throne as his footstool, fawning and kissing at Gimli’s feet when they spurned him.

He woke, gasping and wild-eyed, to stare at Legolas, who looked on him with alarm. Gimli hardly knew if he were awake or dreaming, surging to his feet with both hands upon his axe. The fire burned brightly, but its light was fell and cold, staining all it touched with the sickly yellow hue of urine. Then the halfling’s eyes opened, falling upon Gimli looming over him with axe in hand, and Bilbo launched himself to his feet and fled, scrabbling away from the fire in terror.

“The wraith will take you!’ Legolas darted after, disappearing into the swirling mists-- and swept Bilbo up, returning the scratching, shrieking bundle to the fireside before he could flee more than a few ells. It took both the elf and Aragorn to calm Bilbo, who spat and kicked, lashing out with nails, heels, fists, and teeth until Gimli had set his axe aside and all removed their hands from him. Then he crouched, darting wild-eyed glances all about, suffering none to touch him or his treasure, which he held clutched within his knotted fist.

“Did you mean to threaten him?” Aragorn demanded of Gimli, his own eyes wild with untold imaginings.

Gimli had not even been aware of Bilbo lying so close, not until the halfling fled. “Not in my waking mind.” He put his head in his hands. He could still all but taste the wraith’s promise. The elf, his, writhing and wanton, begging eagerly for his touch...! “I would not harm the halfling. I would not take whatever he holds.” He bared his teeth in defiance of the wraith’s poisonous vision.

It had mingled both truth and lies, cleverly drawn from Gimli’s secret heart and twisted to its will. It knew the things Gimli would have no being know, least of all himself. It knew what he had already understood before it tried to use knowledge against him: his love was wasted, worthless, unwanted. Those things were true; the only lie was that there might be a way to claim the elf’s heart.

No. Better he never know the kiss of his One than to fall to darkness for a mockery, not given freely.

His One. Legolas Thranduilion.

Grief drove the breath from Gimli’s lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to curl around himself in misery, protecting this fragile thing the servant of Sauron had torn out of the depths of him, ripped stillborn, raw and bleeding, from its cradle in the womb of his heart, and laid out in pitiless clarity so he could no longer deny its truth or its depth. The shame of it all but crushed him to his knees. Instead he rose, shaking both gauntleted fists at a cold and empty sky. He roared his misery, his rage and defiance, ignoring the panicked shrilling of the horses as Aragorn struggled to hold them, pushing the pain and fear and hate out of him until he could no longer stand and dropped upon his knees.

“I am of Durin’s line.” He husked the words, hardly able to whisper through his raw throat. “You cannot buy me! I will endure!” Blackness seemed to swirl about them all in a vortex, locking them in a terrible diminishing sphere, crushing him to the ground.

Then Legolas was there before him, and the elf’s eyes met his, haunted and dark with anguish. Hesitant, his fingers trembling, Legolas held out his hand to Gimli. He shone faintly against the shadow, silvery light glowing softly about him.

Slowly Gimli took his hand, grasping the warm fingers, twining them between his own, and squeezed tightly. The elf matched his clasp. Legolas drew Gimli upright. Their gazes locked and did not waver. “Fear not, mellon nîn,” he said, his voice steady. “Did we not agree? The wraith lies.”

“Yes.” His voice crackled and creaked. The elf was his friend. That would have to be enough. “My friend. Bâha. Buhel.” His heart surged in him, fierce, as Legolas’s glow waxed bright. This much, at least, was theirs to share.

Gimli groped in the darkness with his left hand, finding Bilbo’s small shoulder, and saw Legolas clasp Aragorn’s forearm. They drew themselves upright, a small circle of strength amidst the darkness, taking comfort in one another.

The wraith screamed its rage and hate, and the enshrouding darkness shredded itself and drained away.

All of us were tempted with some cruel and terrible promise,” Legolas said with certainty. “But all of us have remained steadfast.”

“Yes. It will return to avenge its failure,” Aragorn said, his voice thick with dread. “When it does, it will be done with games. It will mean to kill us.”

Bilbo nodded, his face haggard, and drew himself up to his full height, one hand on the hilt of his little sword. “We should ride.”

“How many days to Rivendell?” Gimli ignored the ache in his throat and spoke quietly to the elf, trying not to let himself be overheard.

“Twelve or more.” Legolas answered just as softly. “Come.” He made a stirrup with his hands and lifted Gimli onto Bellas, who danced and skittered in fear-- but at least the horse would move. Legolas mounted and Gimli set his hands upon his friend's waist to ride-- that much, at least, was freely given. That much he might have, though he closed his eyes in grief at his yearning for that which could not be.

Aragorn scooped the halfling up and they rode forth as if all the orcs of Mordor pursued. They pressed on past noon without pausing for food, and found themselves passing by the great ruined tower of Amon Sûl as the sun sank in the west.

“Look!” Bilbo gasped, and they glanced to the north, where the watchtower loomed against the darkening sky, pillars thrust up from its top like jagged, broken teeth. The rays of the fading sun lay horizontal across the land and caught motion atop the hill, gilding black rags that floated in the wind and gleaming off jagged metal mail and raised swords.

“The nine are on us,” Aragorn spoke, his voice nearly a moan. “Ride on. We will not stop until we find a place we may defend.”

They settled on a copse of half-withered pines perched on the edge of a stony outcrop, set above a small stream through a shadowed vale. “We will only have to guard in two directions,” Aragorn said. “They might contrive to climb up behind us, but we can knock them back before they set upon us.”

He went about, wrenching dried branches from the shattered trees and binding bits of cloth about them, preparing torches while Gimli kindled fire. “These will burn fiercely, though fast,” he said. “The wraiths shun fire. Bilbo, I would have you stay between us. We will circle about you and keep them at bay.”

“Gandalf should have come with you,” Bilbo whispered, swallowing hard, but his back was straight and he did not cringe. "I know enough lore to understand the word you used." He fixed Aragorn with a haunted stare. "Nazgul: ringwraith. They want," He swallowed hard. "They want me. They want this." His palm opened just enough to show a flash of gold, a small innocent-seeming circle just large enough to fit a halfling's finger.

"Aye," Aragorn sighed. "I should not have used the word."

"Better to know." Bilbo squared his small shoulders, setting his jaw. "They won't have it." His voice was small, but it held an edge that could have cut steel.

Gimli stared at the flash of gold until the halfling closed his fist again. A ring of power? It must be. He had not the lore to guess what sort, but it was far too plain for a dwarven ring.

Aragorn set his hand on Bilbo's shoulder to comfort him. “The wizard could not be in two places at once. He has gone south to confront Saruman-- he did not expect the wraiths to come forth so swiftly.” Aragorn brought their horses as close to the fire as the animals would tolerate and picketed them firmly to a stout branch.

Gimli sat by the fire and whetted his axe, his eyes on the halfling and the elf. Bilbo sat hunched, eating a bit of bread as if he could not taste it. Legolas stood nearby, gazing out into the darkness with his bow in his hand, ready to string and shoot.

Gimli rose and went to the elf, standing by him to gaze out across the grass. He could not see as keenly or as far as Legolas by day, but his vision was far better in darkness. Legolas set his hand on Gimli’s shoulder, and Gimli regretted the thick mail and surcoat that kept him from feeling it. He laid his arm across his chest to set his own gloved hand atop the elf’s, wishing he dared do more before they died here together-- and yet, if it chanced they lived, he would not have their friendship spoiled by revealing his pointless longing.

He gazed outward, letting his vision settle and grow used to the dim.

“The plains crawl,” he murmured. “The wraiths are creeping on the ground like worms, coming for us.”

“How many?”

Gimli squinted. “I can see seven, I think, though perhaps some are so near together I cannot make them out, or they may be hidden by the roughness of the ground.”

“How far?” Legolas strung his bow, his eyes flicking back and forth across the ground.

“They are still far away yet, out of bowshot. They are climbing down from the hilltop and spreading themselves in a wide arc that will enclose us.” Gimli heard his voice tremble. “We should be glad they have no bows. The fire shows us up now, though it may protect us later.”

Gimli stepped back and set himself next to the halfling, who held his small sword in one white-knuckled hand.

“Give me a coin,” Bilbo demanded without prelude, and Gimli blinked at him.

“What?” Automatically he balked. “Why?”

“I know you have some hidden. I traveled with your father!” Bilbo put out his hand. “Open your purse. Come on.” He beckoned with fingertips. “A gold one.”

Slowly Gimli drew out his purse and located a gold coin. “What are you going to do with it?”

Bilbo didn’t say, plucking it from his fingertips. “Something useful.” He stared past Gimli into the night.

Legolas’s bow sang, and the elf hissed. “My arrows do no good.” He stepped back into the firelight and drew his knives instead. “They are near.”

The horses snorted, kicking, and Bilbo’s pony squealed, bursting its tether and fleeing. The others danced, tugging at their ropes. Before Legolas could go to them, they too broke their bonds and ran.

“Stand firm!” Aragorn ordered, drawing close, his sword gleaming orange in the firelight. He held a torch in his left hand and thrust it into the fire to kindle.

Bilbo made a low sound in the back of his throat as the first hooded form appeared at the edge of the firelight, a long wicked blade gleaming in its hand. Behind it a shriek arose, curdling the night and freezing the blood, echoed by many others. Gimli growled low in his throat, lifting his axe.

“Let us see if they can be struck!” He stepped over the fire and lashed out, driving his axe at the wraith’s knees. It shivered in his hand as it met the dark blade and more wraiths came forward, hissing.

Then Legolas was beside him, swinging, and Aragorn as well. "Elendil!" he cried as the harsh rasp of parry and strike rang out. Even Bilbo darted in to try his luck, but each time Gimli thought his blade might strike home, the wraith shivered apart and reformed elsewhere, leaving his axe unbloodied.

“This is no good!” he roared. “If we cannot hurt them, they need only wait for a lucky stroke to take one of us!”

Aragorn struck out then with his torch, kindling the shrouding black rags, and the wraith squealed, stumbling away toward the verge of the drop behind. Aragorn pursued, kicking it over, but others pressed forward, converging on Bilbo with blades outthrust.

“You want it? Go after it!” Bilbo thrust his fist aloft and Gimli glimpsed the flash of flying gold following the first wraith in a low arc over the cliffside.

The three who faced the halfling darted aside to pursue the coin, and Bilbo threw himself past a fourth one’s leg, vanishing as he ducked out of the light.

“No!” Aragorn shouted, but he was already gone. The ones who had vanished over the cliff were already upon them again.

The wraiths whirled to seek the halfling, and Gimli shivered one to bits with a heavy stroke, thwarting it, while Legolas struggled desperately against two, then faltered, barely holding a blade away from himself atop crossed knives. Aragorn swung his torch again and took the last one, for the elf could not parry its strike, but his torch was caught in the wraith and jerked from his hand. Legolas quickly flung the dark blade away, dodging another strike, and stepped back, nearly setting his foot in the fire, but he scooped up a torch and then another, kindling them.

“Gimli!” He threw one into Gimli’s hand and Gimli pressed forward, snarling. He heard Bilbo shriek, and he lashed out with the flame, catching it in the garments of every foe he could reach. Legolas followed hot on his heels, darting between the blazing scarecrow shapes to find the halfling.

The wraiths retreated shrieking as Legolas lifted Bilbo's small, limp form.

“Is he wounded?” Aragorn snatched for his bag of medicines as the elf carried the halfling back to the fire and laid him down. His coat and vest were cut, and a bright silver scar marred the rings of the mithril shirt over his left breast where it had turned a furious slash-- but he was unharmed, though he lay deep in a swoon.

“Athelas,” Aragorn muttered, and rummaged in his pack while Gimli turned to guard. The wraiths had vanished, leaving only flaming heaps of cloth to blow in the wind upon the heath. “I will call him back.”

Bilbo moaned, his face white. His left hand he clenched tight against his breast, fist knotted so hard Aragorn could not pry it open. His eyes blinked unseeing at the stars.

“It was a brave diversion,” Gimli murmured. “Against any other creature, it would have worked.” He glanced back to ensure the wraiths had not returned. Legolas knelt by Bilbo. Stroking his forehead gently, he began to sing.

How many days to Rivendell with no horses? Gimli blew a long slow breath out, stirring his mustache. Fifteen? Twenty?

“Why did they retreat?” He asked as Aragorn put water in the kettle to boil. “Why did they not press their advantage?”

“They feel no rush; they have us where they want us,” Aragorn murmured, too soft for Bilbo to hear. “Horseless and far from help. They will try again.”

Aragorn crushed leaves into the steaming water and carried the bowl to set by Bilbo's head, so he might breathe the steam. “We did not fare well, yet it might be worse. Had his mail not turned the strike….” Aragorn closed his eyes in despair. “We cannot count on such luck again. Any who is wounded by one of the nazgûl and dies of it will fall within their power,” he whispered. “Should they succeed in harming the halfling, he’ll soon become a wraith. Like them.”

“Nazgûl?” Gimli sighed. “Ringwraiths, Bilbo said. Aragorn…. what sort of accursed ring does the halfling hold?”

The ranger shook his head; he did not answer. “Repeat none of your fears to him; he knows more than he should already. As soon as I wake him, we must go. Time is even less our friend now than before.”

Bilbo lay quiet with Legolas’s hand on his forehead, but he blinked his eyes open as the fragrance of the herb freshened the camp. “It seems I owe Thorin Oakenshield my life,” he whispered. His hand fidgeted at the throat of his mithril coat, and he smiled an oddly hard, humorless smile. “I daresay he’d regret his gift even more now.”

“Legolas, can you find our horses?” Aragorn asked. “Take Gimli to help track them; his eyes are keen in the dark.”

They took torches and found their horses huddled with the ponies near the road, sheltered in the lee of the cliff by which they had camped. The stream slowed there to make a wide ford, and Legolas judged it safe to cross. They called Aragorn, who hurried down with Bilbo.

“This is a relief,” Gimli grumbled. “I did not look forward to walking to Rivendell.”

“I will teach you to love horses yet,” Legolas teased, but the wind was raw and the memories of the wraiths too close, so Gimli did not argue.

As they crossed the ford the water came up no further than the ponies’ knees, but it was bitter cold, and on the far side Aragorn was forced to stop and take a stone from his mount’s shoe before they could continue. Gimli shivered in the brisk spring wind, cold on his soaked breeches. The elf seemed troubled as he dismounted from Bellas. “Gimli, you ride and I will run along beside. We do not want to weary our mount, and we have a hard road ahead.”

NOTES:

Mellon nîn: My friend
Bâha: Friend
Buhel: Friend of all friends

Nazgul: Ringwraiths

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Nothing Gold Can Stay