Chapter Text
The stones were hard beneath Legolas's feet, too hard and cold and empty to offer him any comfort. This grim citadel of Men had been an unpleasant place even before it had been washed with blood, with no trees or grass or flowers with which to give solace to a lonely Wood-elf; now it was a charnel house of slaughter, stinking with blood and orc-filth and offal.
Legolas's skin crawled at the smell, at the cold touch of the stone, at the stifling closeness of the air; his wounds throbbed beneath their hasty bandaging; his hair hung down his back loose and lank and unbraided and still damp from the cursory scrubbing that had sufficed to remove most of the gore that had dyed the golden strands a gravestone grey.
He paced, despite the pain, because he could not bear the greater agony of sitting still. Of doing nothing.
When the door opened at last Legolas spun around, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shot up his splinted leg from the unforgiving hardness of the flagstones underfoot, and fairly threw himself at Aragorn as he stepped out into the hallway and eased it closed again behind him. For a moment, the stifling hallway had been filled with the sounds of life—painful, moaning life, yes; but still alive—but the thick wood cut it off as sharply as a knife, and now the only sounds were Legolas's soft cry and Aragorn's weary breathing.
He stumbled but Legolas's tight grip on his shirt kept them both from falling at the quick collision, despite their unsteady feet. "How is he?" Legolas cried. "Aragorn, how does Gimli fare?"
"He rests," Aragorn said, his voice a ragged rasp of breath. "I have done what I could for him, and for the others; I can do no more at present. It is up to the strength of their bodies, now, and their own will, to heal the wounds of battle and torment. I have done all I could."
Indeed, the signs of Aragorn's long labors were etched deep into his face, his cheeks gone gaunt and sallow with exhaustion and his eyes pale pools of sorrow staring out of flesh bruised dark by blows and weariness alike. His right arm was swathed in bandages and bound tight against his chest; the rest of his flesh was less deeply ravaged, but bore many marks of lesser hurts.
Legolas should have been asking after his health, too; should have been ushering Aragorn away to take some rest of his own and grant his own hurts time to heal. Some part of him knew that, in a distant sort of fashion; but he could not make himself focus on that knowledge enough to act upon it, not when every thought that filled his mind was an ever-repeating wail of Gimli, Gimli, Gimli!
His thoughts circled the dwarf like a packless wolf, starving and feral and alone. In the face of his terror at the thought of Gimli's death, Legolas could think of nothing else beyond that fear.
Aragorn gripped his shoulder tight. "You are hurt as well, my friend; you need to rest."
Legolas shook his head and pulled away. "There can be no rest for me until I see Gimli hale and well once more," he declared. The strength of the fierce words was undercut somewhat by the ragged croak of his voice, his throat too raw yet from screaming for him to muster any firmer, fairer tones; but even if Legolas had had no breath left with which to speak at all still he would have meant the words with every heartbeat of his soul. "Aragorn, please, can you give me no better hope?"
"There is little hope left in me after this long night, I fear," Aragorn said and sighed. "Yet I will say to you that dwarves are sturdy, and the orcs had not much time to work upon him. Gimli's worst hurt is the wound to his head that brought him low before he was taken from the caves; and dwarven skulls are hard. The next few hours will decide things but there is good reason, I think, to hope that he will live."
Legolas gave a little wail and spun for the door; Aragorn caught him by the sleeve.
"I must see him!" Legolas snapped.
"You have distressed the other patients, and those caring for them, already, Legolas; until Gimli wakes, and you can be calm, you must not intrude again upon the healing rooms. Not unless you are going there to rest."
Legolas tore free with a snarl but he did not push past Aragorn towards the door; instead he spun the other way and resumed his angry circling pace across the cold flagstone floor.
"You are going to do yourself an injury," Aragorn cautioned. "More injury than you have done already, I mean. You should sit, at least, even if you will not sleep. And your wounds should be seen to again, with more care giving to their tending now that there is time to spare. They need to be cleaned again, at least, and bandaged tighter. Well do I know the elvish resistance to infection, Legolas, yes; but orc-blood carries a potent taint. You should not risk it needlessly."
Legolas continued to pace, ignoring him.
Aragorn sighed, and shook his head, and left.
Time passed, bitter and slow. Legolas continued to pace, his heart roiling sharp and shattered against his ribs. Every beat seemed to intone Gimli's name against his soul, a jagged lament half-formed and wholly feared.
After some time—he could not say how much—Gandalf came in. He stood for several moments at the open hallway door, watching Legolas in silence. His gaze was grey with toil and sorrow, and the stare of his dark eyes was heavy.
"Legolas Greenleaf, you know better than to behave in such a fashion," he said at last, and though the wizard's words were sharp his voice was gentle. "This is not the first morning you have spent enduring the bitter aftermath of a long night's battle; nor the first time you have faced the tenuous wait outside the Healing Halls. You know better; sit, and rest, and breathe."
"I cannot," Legolas retorted savagely. "I will not!" He clutched at his hands, clawing at the bandages that wrapped them; his eyes, when he turned to Gandalf, were bright and still half-wild. "Mithrandir, I tell you I cannot; my heart will not settle in my chest, my breath remains as taut as though my ribs were bound by iron. I do not know what ill it is that plagues me so, but I tell you—I cannot!"
Gandalf sighed. "I know the ill," he said, "although I do not know the cure of it; I do not know if any do, though the wounds that such loves cause are often deep. But so too can be their joy, and it is in the chance of joy that you must place your hope, Legolas, however tentative that chance; it is all we have to balance now against the Shadow."
"It is all we have ever had, in Mirkwood," Legolas answered softly. "And yet still, I tell you I cannot!"
"Then rest, at least, while you wait to learn whether the outcome you await will tilt to hope or to despair," Gandalf urged. "We will need you hale and on your feet again soon enough, whatever comes."
"I am on my feet," Legolas snarled. "What more would you ask of me?"
"I would ask that you husband your strength in anticipation of the future war," Gandalf said calmly. "I would ask that you gather the frayed threads of your spirit and stop frightening the Men."
"Men are too easily frightened," retorted Legolas.
"That may be," said Gandalf, his strong voice still mild. "Yet these Men of Rohan were brave enough to stand against Saruman's hordes, and they too have suffered many losses in exchange for their courage and defiance. You might take pity on them, at least, even if you can find none for your own wounds, Legolas!"
"I cannot!" Legolas cried again. "There can be no peace, or rest, or pity for me until I know that Gimli will live, Mithrandir! My fear for him burns hotter than any orcish lash, and cuts deeper than their jagged blades." He spun back towards the door and pressed one thick-swathed hand against the wood, as though if he tried hard enough he might feel Gimli's heart beating on the other side of the heavy planks and bandages.
All the restraint Legolas yet possessed served as barely enough to hold him back from bursting through that door and flying straight to Gimli's side; only the knowledge that many others who bore equally grievous injuries, or worse, rested also within curtailed him. Only the fear that upsetting those who labored for their lives might do some hurt to them—or worst of all, to Gimli—allowed him to grip his terror tight and pace out here instead, where he could not frighten anyone further. He could do that much, and barely; any more was well beyond him.
Legolas was distantly aware that the Men had some cause for their distress, after the doubtless disquieting sight of his loss of control; after witnessing the violence of his whole frame dripping black with blood, so far lost within his own rage and terror that he would have attacked even Mithrandir—but that was a distant, dull sort of half-knowledge; it mattered very little in that moment, when their fear of the danger he might be kept him tethered so far from Gimli's side.
Gandalf placed a heavy hand on Legolas's shoulder, but for once the wizard's presence offered neither strength nor grounding; his was not the hand that Legolas so longed to clasp.
"You must master this fear, Legolas," Gandalf urged him, "as you have all others you have faced before; you must get yourself under control again! This feckless savagery serves no one now, not even Gimli. And we will have need of you soon."
Legolas shook his head, pulling free and pressing himself against the door again. "It is Gimli who needs me now," he said.
"He does not, in fact," Gandalf said gently. "You can do nothing further for him now; unless it is to marshal your strength in anticipation of the greater fight beyond this fortress which will soon decide the fate of all Middle-earth—and that of Gimli Glóinson along with it! Many brave warriors have perished in this battle, Legolas, and many more have been wounded; even Aragorn is sorely hurt, and he will need your strength at his side before the end if we are to have any hope at all with which to strive against the Shadow."
Legolas shook his head again and leaned his forehead against the smooth old wood, so old that it no longer remembered when it had been lithe and green and drinking of sweet light and water in the fields; so old that it could stir no tendrils of comfort in a Wood-elf's aching heart.
Gandalf stood another moment, as though expecting Legolas to come to his senses; then he huffed an irritated sigh and stomped away.
Legolas barely heard him go. He stood pressed against the door as long as he could bear, listening desperately for some sound that would carry word of Gimli's state to him through the thick wood; then, when he felt that he might start trying to flay his own skin off if he stood still any longer, he threw himself back into his frantic, pointless pacing. The sparks of agony as his injured bones struck the cold stone floor did little more than add a thread of trembling to his steps; he was far too absorbed in fear to spare any thoughts for pain.
What would happen if Gimli died? Where did dwarven souls go? It was nowhere that elves could find, of that much Legolas was certain; he would have heard already, surely, if there were dwarves in the Halls of Mandos. He was not even sure if dwarves had souls the way elves reckoned them; certainly he had never heard tell of Unhoused Dwarven Shades wandering the Wilds, or congregating at the Necromancer's citadel. When dwarves died, were their spirits extinguished with their bodies?
Legolas knew that dwarves had not been fashioned to be part of the original Song; they had been created not by Eru Illúvatar, but by Belegol—he whom dwarves named Mahal—alone in his secret workshop, hidden from the light of the One; had the solitary Vala who made them been able to craft souls that would endure beyond their bones, as was the case with Elves and Men? Or when Gimli died, would he simply be gone?
A low moan filled Legolas's ears, heart-rending and hollow; he only realized that it came from his own lips when his lungs began to ache for lack of air. He sank to his knees, folding his arms tight across his chest as though in hopes of holding his shattered heart together between the pressure of his cracked and aching ribs, and rocked back and forth like a terrified child lost in the dark.
His thoughts spiraled, cold and sharp with fear, as though the shadows of Dol Guldur had reached somehow across all the lands of Rohan to latch themselves into his mind and drag him down into that endless, unquenchable black darkness. He moaned again, breathless and keening.
How could he find his heart and lose it all at once? For Mithrandir was right on that count, at least: it was surely love that Legolas felt, the sort of love that was meant to bond souls together for all the days of the world and beyond. How could he go on without Gimli now, with their souls unmelded and their hearts unspoken? Without even having had the chance to tell Gimli how he felt? To even know how he felt, before Gimli was gone?
Why were there no trees, no flowers, in these hollow halls of stone?
Legolas trembled with the effort of holding himself together inside this gravestone citadel; gasped desperately at the stuffy, cloying air, unleavened by even the faintest trace of green. The stink of death and orc-flesh and rusting blood filled his nose; the sounds of Men breathing harsh and noisy filled his ears; the sting of tainted orc-blood burned within his bandaged wounds and lurked sickly-sour at the back of his throat. And over it all, almost smothering the rest, hung the roiling terror of pending loss.
"Gimli, my Gimli, come back to me, please," Legolas whispered to the uncaring stones.
No gentle rustle of kind leaves answered his plea; no reassuring pulse of green rot and blue fungus beat beneath his feet. Legolas lurched upright again, stumbling on feet made stiff with pain and weariness, and resumed his circling vigil. The packless wolf; the solitary spider; the lonely Wood-elf so far from any living wood that he could not even feel the roots of green beneath his feet. He was unrooted, alone and far from home; and so he paced, restless and sick with fear, with no comfort close enough to reach.
Time skipped away from him, lost in the haze of pain and terror; lost in the desperate wailing of his lonesome soul. Lost in the heartless echo of the hollow stones.
Some time, an hour or an eon later, heavy footsteps broke through his muddled solitude like ice cracking over a black stream. Legolas glanced sideways and saw Éomer limping up the hallway, and looked away again; Éomer bore only a few light bandages for his mostly superficial wounds, and had left the rooms of healing hours ago. He would have no fresh news of Gimli.
But Éomer stopped beside Legolas anyway, and said, "How do you fare, Master Legolas?"
It was the polite, perfunctory inquiry of a host checking on a guest; or a leader assessing the state of his forces. Legolas knew that it was no more than that, and meant to answer accordingly: something quick and dismissive that would allow Éomer to go swiftly on his way to whatever greater duties called him forth, and let Legolas return his focus to fighting back the overpowering fear of Gimli's death.
What came out of his mouth instead was, "My own state means little to me indeed when I can think of naught but Gimli, and whether or not he will survive the day. Gandalf and Aragorn bid me rest, heal; but what healing can there be, when I know not whether I shall ever see Gimli alive again?" Legolas had thought his eyes burned as dry as the barren plains of Dagorlad, with no more tears left in him to shed; but it seemed that he was wrong, for as he spoke they filled again and spilled over in thin, sharp trickles down his cheeks: a stream with no roots to nourish, no wholesome pool to fill.
"I am sorry," Éomer said, and his voice was soft. His eyes brimmed with a deep sorrow of his own, and Legolas knew that he should feel worse than he did for adding his distress to the weight of burdens that Éomer must bear; but there was no room left in his heart for such regrets, not when the whole of his being was consumed with thoughts of Gimli's suffering. "I too know what it is to fear for the fates of those you love, and it is a pain that I would spare you, if I could," Éomer continued. "Rohan owes you a great debt, Legolas of the Woodland Realm; and so do I. I would that it were in my power to repay your great efforts on behalf of my people with some better solace for your pain."
Legolas found himself stricken speechless. He stared at the young warrior—the young king—of Rohan in startlement and wonder for his noble words.
Éomer's brow furrowed in a frown, and his eyes moved past Legolas towards the closed door of the healing rooms and back again. "But why do you tarry out here, my friend?" he asked. "Does the nature of mortal ailments distress you? Is the noise too much for your keen ears?"
Legolas struggled to find his words again. Eventually he managed to say, "It is my presence, rather, that distresses those within, I fear. My…fury at the orcs, and the subsequent bloodshed, has left a number of your people…disquieted with me," he said delicately.
Éomer's face twitched into an expression subdued too quickly for Legolas to catch, but he nodded. "I see," he said. "Yes, I understand; it was a fierce and mighty sight to witness, indeed. And my people are unfamiliar with elves, for your kin have long been absent from these lands.They have naught but garbled stories by which to know you otherwise; and those stories, as no doubt you too recall yourself, have become distorted by ignorance over the years into tales of threats more than wonder, alas."
Legolas found it difficult to meet Éomer's gaze, and dropped his eyes to the floor instead as he murmured, "I was also somewhat…loud," he confessed, "and perhaps disruptive, when Gimli's wounds were first being tended." Aragorn had shouted him out of the room, in fact; and only his harsh reminder that Gimli's care would be delayed by the scuffle should Legolas require them to try and remove him by force had finally driven him grudgingly through the door.
He had been pacing outside ever since.
Legolas was not sure how many of the details of that incident Éomer had been told; he did not clarify now, but merely nodded, his young face still awash with bitter sympathy. "I understand," he said again. "I have been dragged shouting from the sides of my injured riders a time or two myself. It is difficult," Éomer said gently, "when the rush of battle is still running hot through your veins, for a warrior to turn and embrace the stillness that must come after; especially when the turmoil of the fight is replaced not by calm, but by fear for those you care for who were hurt in that fighting." He shook his head. "How can one be expected to sit and settle, when one's blood is still running fast with battle-lust and fear?"
He had the courtesy not to point out that, as an elvish warrior of Mirkwood, Legolas had been fighting the Shadow for nigh as long as Rohan had existed; and ought to have better control over himself than mortal soldiers whose whole lifespans were little more than moments in the eyes of the elves.
"Still," Legolas said faintly, "I ought to apologize for my loss of composure."
A statement which was not, itself, an apology; but Legolas could not bring himself to be sorry for what he had done, and pretending otherwise would have been a disservice to the both of them, and Gimli too.
"Perhaps," said Éomer mildly, "but I will not ask you to." His smile was wry and knowing. "I have experienced such things myself before, as I said, and know the hardship of that struggle all too well."
"Thank you," Legolas whispered. "I am…relieved that I did not frighten you."
"Oh, you did," Éomer said, shrugging as though it were a light matter. "Your slaughter of those orcs was a terrifying thing to witness. I am more relieved than I can say that Gandalf was there to be the one to shake you from your fury; I am not sure I would have had the courage to brave the abattoir myself and try if he had not returned!" Éomer shook his head again, his tone more admiring than censorious or fearful. "But I also confess that while watching you, my own feelings were more of awe and—I will admit it!—of jealousy than fear. Many times of late," he said, his voice dropping into darker tones and his warm eyes going cold, "I have longed to deal with those who threatened the ones I cared for with such reckless violence as that which you displayed. Many times, I have longed to do no less to those who skulk and scheme and undermine my home."
"Wormtongue," Legolas ventured.
Éomer nodded. "Yes," he said. "And Saruman, too; although I am not keen to face a wizard in either wrath or mercy. But I will do as Rohan needs, as best I may now that the duty falls to me."
Legolas nodded. "I am sorry for your loss," he managed, scraping his wailing thoughts together enough for that bare courtesy at least. "Your father was a noble man."
"My uncle, actually," Éomer corrected him, "although my own father died so long ago that Théoden was more father to me than any other that I ever knew." He sighed. "I do not know how I will tell my sister that I let him die…"
Legolas knew that he should offer some words of comfort; should tell Éomer that it was not his fault that the orcs overran them, or that his uncle was too brave not to fight to the last; but his mind was empty of everything but his own fear. He could devise no phrases of solace by which he might soothe Éomer's grief, when his own was already so overmastering. Even now, his gaze drifted back towards that bleak wooden door that barred him from Gimli's side, his heart weeping silently inside his own lonely head.
"But," Éomer said after the silence stretched a moment cold and heavy out between them, "I did not seek you out to speak of wizards or of worms, Legolas."
Legolas wrenched his eyes away from the door to focus on Éomer once more. "You sought me, lord?" he said. His bandaged hands clenched tight enough to split the scabs and start the wounds seeping again, hot and damp beneath their wrappings. Legolas had managed to shatter every single fingernail on rough orcish skin; only his long training as an archer had kept him from breaking more than three fingers as he tore their flesh open with his empty hands. Now the grip of his wounded fingers against his own swathed palms was sharp enough to send runnels of pain racing up his arms as he fought the urge to snarl something rude and turn his back.
Whatever Éomer sought from him, Legolas was in no mood to offer it; and king or no, if Éomer demanded that he leave this hall, Legolas would refuse the order. Even if he had to fight Mithrandir himself to stay near Gimli, he would refuse.
"I did," said Éomer, and swallowed hard. If he could see the temper rising in Legolas's eyes—if he felt a tremble of fear at the memory of the last time Legolas's rage had overcome him—he hid it well; he would make a fair king, if he lived long enough to have the chance.
"I spoke with Aragorn 'ere he went to take his rest," Éomer said. He rubbed his bearded chin, as though gathering his thoughts before he spoke them; or perhaps mustering his courage. "It seems there is some question as to whether his sword-arm will ever be fit to use again. Aragorn himself seems but lightly troubled by the possibility, though. When Gandalf spoke to him with concern for his future on the battlefield, Aragorn only laughed harshly, and told Gandalf to remember who had taught him to use a sword, and who had taught them, and who that teacher had learned his sword-craft from; and then said that he would fare well enough with his off-hand, although he might need to have Andúril cut-down to suit the weight of one-handed wielding better, if his injured arm turned out to be too maimed even to help lift the blade in future."
Legolas should have cared more about that news, he knew; but the loss of a limb was nothing to the loss of a life. Many of his people had suffered such ailments in Mirkwood's long fight against the Shadow, and in Greenwood's bitter part in the war before. It was an inconvenience, to be sure, learning to adjust to such a grievous bodily loss; but it was something one could well live with. A wound such as that which Gimli had taken to the skull, on the other hand, was a much more dangerous injury; and the orcs had hurt him so when he was already insensate from that blow. If he never woke again…
Éomer was still speaking. With a mighty effort, Legolas forced himself to focus on the Man's words instead of his own fear.
"...brave and noble," Éomer was saying. "And more concerned for his friends than for himself. He mentioned to me that you were in no small distress over Gimli's hurts, and longed to be at his side."
Legolas looked away. "I do," he admitted, his voice cracking hoarsely on the words. "But what of it? I will not risk the health of all the wounded solely for my own selfish wants, if that is the cause of your concern."
"I am not concerned," said Éomer, "or at least, not concerned for that; I know you are a noble warrior, Legolas, and a good man—elf," he corrected himself. "You can be frightening, yes; but it is our enemies who should fear you, I think, and not your friends. For can all of us not be fearsome in war at need?" He stepped close, and despite his bold words for the first time Legolas saw him truly hesitate; for the first time, he saw the fear of his fury flickering behind the warm smile of Éomer's eyes.
Éomer did not let the fear master him. Visibly bracing himself as though in anticipation of some savage blow, he laid a hand on Legolas's shoulder. "I owe Gimli my life," he said simply, "and likely you as well; at the least I owe you my health, for it was by your actions that I was spared whatever tortures the orcs intended for me. I cannot restore Gimli's health, much as I wish I could; but it is within my power to reunite what was sundered, at least, if you will permit me." He gestured towards the door. "I have not been crowned yet," Éomer said in a quiet, pained voice, "but I am King of Rohan now in all but title; and I am Éomer Éadig of the House of Eorl and a Marshal of the Riddermark. My people know me, and trust me, and will obey me. If you will permit me, Legolas…" He took a deep breath and his grim expression broke into a gentle smile. "I will bring you to your Gimli."
"Yes," Legolas breathed. "Yes, I—please."
He felt as though he was floating as Éomer ushered him to the door, his aching legs barely seeming to touch the hard stones at all. The pain of his hands and ribs and jaw evaporated, but it was not joy that buoyed him up but rather some strange and terrible mix of fear and hope. He was to see Gimli at last—but what sight would meet his eyes, Legolas wondered? That of a dwarf recovering, his great strength unbowed by the weight of his terrible wounds? Or a dwarf dying slowly, each breath drawing closer to the last his broken body would ever exhale? Or, perhaps the worst possibility of all, would Legolas cross that threshold to find a Gimli who was neither dead nor dying but who was rather trapped, malingering hopelessly in a body that was just barely hale enough to live but which would never be whole again, wracked with a pain so great its only cure was the swift, sharp mercy of a blade?
If Gimli begged him for death to free him from his agony and cut his soul loose to go wherever dwarven souls went when they were severed from their bones, what would Legolas do? He could not bear the thought of Gimli in such pain—but the thought of Gimli dead was enough to sap the strength from his limbs and leave him sagging back into Éomer's quick embrace. He murmured something—words of comfort, no doubt, or encouragement—as he caught Legolas before the elf could slump fully to the floor, but Legolas could not make-out his words; all he knew of Westron seemed to have fled, leaving him mute and trembling in horror.
If Gimli begged him for his death, would Legolas be strong enough to grant it?
He did not know. But there was no question now that if Gimli died, Legolas would join him. He knew that as well as he knew the rustle of Mirkwood's leaves above his head; the sound of his father's voice singing to the evening stars; the stink of spider-guts spilled thick upon the ground. His soul was not his own to keep any longer; Legolas knew that, a sudden and irrevocable knowledge as certain and undeniable as a sunrise. His soul was twined forever now with Gimli's; it did not matter if Gimli ever reached back for him or not. Legolas's love was given, and could never be rescinded.
If Gimli died, Legolas would Fade. He knew it, as surely as he knew the taste of rain upon his cheeks or the brush of wind between his braids. He knew it, as surely as any elf had ever known himself. His life was tied to Gimli's now, and would be unto the ending of the world.
And if Gimli died now, Legolas would die with him; he knew that too. Perhaps not right away; an elf might linger for many years in such a Fading. He might march all the way to war with Aragorn, and die sharp and sudden there instead of slow and faint beneath his trees; but die he would, if Gimli did; that much Legolas knew beyond all doubt.
What he did not know was whether there was any place where an elf and dwarf might be reunited after death. Had he found his heart's home only for them to be forever sundered from one another?
Had he learned what it truly was to live at last only in time for him to die?
"Courage, Legolas," Éomer murmured in his ear, propping him back onto his feet; Legolas shuddered and let himself be coaxed forward to the door, although his soul shuddered with each step. It felt as though he was walking deep into the shadows around Dol Guldur rather than to a wholesome hall of healing, and each step closer filled him ever more wretchedly with icy dread.
The heavy door moved easily at Éomer's push, swinging wide to reveal the sight of many bodies swathed in blood and bandages. Some lay quiet, either lightly hurt enough to rest easily or so grievously wounded that even writhing was beyond their strength; others moaned or coughed or shouted, curled in on themselves or thrashing in the grip of agonies of mind and body both. Between the long rows of patients many other mortals walked, carrying basins or bandages; some were other men who had been upon the battlefield before, either because they were trained somewhat in the healing arts themselves or because they were wounded lightly enough that they could bear the gentler duty tending to their fellows while their still-hale companions saw to the multitudes of the dead; others were refugees from the Westfold, now tending to those who had fought and nearly failed to save them.
Legolas racked only one swift glance along the room; that was all it took for him to spot the bed where Gimli lay, tucked in the farthest corner where he was buttressed by sturdy stone along two sides. A comfort to a dwarf, no doubt, if he was sensate enough to notice. Legolas's lips moved, forming Gimli's name, but no sound came out to match the wailing of his heart.
He took three long strides before terror stiffened his long limbs and he nearly fell. Éomer plucked him from the brink of his collapse and hauled him upright once again. If he spoke this time, Legolas did not hear him at all; but he let himself sink, shaking, into the brace of Éomer's strong arms.
By the time they had crossed half the room, Éomer was all but carrying him forward, guiding Legolas's slow and stumbling feet. Legolas did not notice the wide eyes that marked his passage nor the hushed whispers that followed in his wake: he had eyes only for Gimli, lying there so still within the farthest bed. Its unsuitable length, and the terrible stillness of his mighty form, made the bold dwarf look so much smaller than he had ever seemed before, as though Gimli was shrinking in on himself somehow. His head was swathed in bandages and his beard was brushed out loose and limp upon his wide chest. The sight of those bright copper locks bereft of their usual heavy braids and elegant beading made Legolas's heart twist again inside his chest.
If Gimli died, there would be no dwarves here to braid that beard for him; no one who knew the right plaits to twine to honor Gimli rightly before they laid him on his bier. Why had Legolas not asked him about his braids more? Why had he not begged leave to study them, to learn each plait himself so that he might tend Gimli's handsome locks for him, when his friend could not see to them himself? Why had Legolas not thought to implore Gimli to teach him the weaving of those braids, the meaning of each twist and knot? Why had he not asked after the nature of dwarven souls earlier, so that he might know where to seek to find Gimli on the other side of death, or if there was even chance of such a thing?
Why had he not understood his heart sooner?
Gimli was still breathing when they stopped beside his bed; the world had that much mercy on Legolas, at least, to let him see his love alive again before the end.
He trembled like a dry leaf at the end of autumn in Éomer's strong hands. Distantly, Legolas heard Éomer call for a stool; heard the tentative response of a woman worried about having Legolas here; heard Éomer's voice go somehow sharp and kind all at once as he raised it to reassure the whole hall. Legolas heard all that, but it was as though the words were coming from the other side of some heavy mist; as though they were some echo too far away to matter. His ears were fixed instead on the slow rustle of Gimli's breath falling and rising in his broad chest, steady and unbroken. All other sounds seemed to fall away until that was all that Legolas could hear; until it was the only sound left in all the world to matter.
A stool was brought and set behind his legs; Éomer gently pressed him down until his knees folded and he sagged upon it. There was a murmur of noise against his ears—words, words spoken in Éomer's warm voice, gentle and reassuring, although Legolas could not seem to hear them—and a hand gripping tight for a moment on his shoulder; and then the hand was gone, and the presence of the warm body that had bolstered him with it, and there were only footsteps fading out across the stone, and then he was alone again—with Gimli.
Legolas reached forward as though in the haze of a dream and wrapped his bandaged hands around one of Gimli's where it lay limp and heavy on the bed. He bowed his head down low, sinking like a willow weeping over Gimli's silent body.
"Gimli," Legolas whispered, and tears dripped down his chin to dot the coverlet like rain. One fell on the back of Gimli's hand and caught, dewlike and glittering, in the fine copper hairs. Legolas could feel another wail building in his throat and he struggled hard to swallow it, biting at his sore and bloodied lips to hold it back. If he started screaming, they would send him out again; even Éomer's mercy would not be enough to regain him entry this time if he could not keep enough control to keep from keening.
He shook with the effort of restraint, and with the frigid pulse of horror. He could not feel Gimli's skin through the thick bandages that swathed his own bloodied fingers but the warmth of him seeped through the wrappings slowly, climbing up Legolas's trembling arms like a flame pushing back against that icy fear.
Surely someone so warm could not be dying. Surely a heart that beat strongly enough to fill a body with such warmth would not soon falter!
Legolas clung to his dwarf, and shook, and swallowed down his bitter fear.
Time skittered away again, damp and hazy and stained with tears. Here under this smothering weight of stone, where neither breeze nor birdsong could reach, minutes passed like days or hours uncounted and immeasurable. Beyond the edges of the world stars moved, and clouds meandered; and Legolas had naught by which to mark their passage.
Eventually the hand he held stirred, broad fingers curling loose and warm around his bandages.
"Legolas?" asked a whisper so soft it hovered on the edge of elvish hearing.
Legolas jerked upright, his eyes widening in hope and horror as he stared at Gimli's bandaged face. Had he truly heard Gimli speak, or had that voice been but his own imagination?
Had that whisper been Gimli's body waking, or his soul brushing Legolas's in a last farewell?
"Gimli?" he asked, sharp and trembling.
There, a flicker of motion; a flutter of eyelashes brushing moth-like against sallow cheeks; a twitch of soft lips beneath a copper beard.
Legolas held his breath and watched, as tense as he had ever stood with arrow to the string. He watched, and slowly Gimli's eyes cracked open.
"Legolas," he rasped, and Legolas let out a choked noise that might almost have been a laugh if it had not been wrapped so heavily within a sob.
He slumped to the bed, pressing his forehead into the blankets that warmed Gimli in this chill fortress and gathering handfuls of the soft cloth in his bandaged hands, as though the thick wool were a harvest of fine spider-silk. Gimli rested a hand on the back of Legolas's head, fingers lightly stroking his unbraided hair, and Legolas sobbed in desperate relief at the solid warmth of that broad palm.
"Legolas," Gimli said again, his voice stronger now, but tight with worry. "Legolas, are you all right?"
"Me!" Legolas broke-off his weeping with a choked swallow and forced himself to sit up enough that he could meet Gimli's eyes. The dwarf stared back at him with a frown of concern on his bandaged face, his copper hair splayed loose across the thick pillows that propped him up halfway to a sitting position against the headboard. Legolas drank in the sight of him like a flower turning to face the first sunrise. "I am not the one who was nearly killed by orcs," he protested.
"You look as though you were," Gimli retorted. His frown deepened as he raked his eyes across as much of Legolas as he could see without sitting up. He lifted one arm and reached out, almost brushing the bandage that wrapped around the tattered ear an uruk had bitten through, then let it fall back heavily against the bed. "What did they do to your hands?" he asked instead.
Legolas curled the bandaged digits into loose fists inside their linen swaddling. "I may have done most of that to myself," he confessed. "But it is no large matter; they will heal. Gimli, how do you fare? Your head, does it—are you in pain?" Legolas made a short, abortive gesture as though to touch the bandage that circled Gimli's skull, then drew back quickly.
"A little," Gimli admitted, "but it is, as you say, a small matter. My wounds will heal—yes, including this lump." He tapped his bandaged head. "You need not look so distraught, my friend; my injuries are all superficial things. Cuts and scrapes, some lashes; nothing deep enough to fret much over. No bones broken, at any rate; nay, not even that skull you're eyeing with such dismay. I may have some new scars to show-off after this!" He smiled. "But that is all."
"Truly?" Legolas breathed. He would never accuse a dwarf as honorable as Gimli of lying, but it was difficult to believe news so good after so long spent fearing the worst. "Aragorn said…"
"Ah, well," said Gimli, shifting defensively against his pillows. "I am told there was some worry, until I woke; head wounds are like that sometimes. One can hardly look inside the skull to see whether there is some deeper hurt within. But now that I have woken and proved my memory and alertness to the satisfaction of the healers, there remains little cause to worry." He offered Legolas a tentative smile. "Dwarven heads are very hard, you know. We do not falter as easily as Men do from such blows!"
"Oh," said Legolas. He swallowed against the hard lump that filled his throat and choked his words. "That...that is good," he said faintly. "Your words comfort me, Gimli. I...I thank you for them."
"Well." Gimli scratched his chin through the loose strands of his beard, a faint blush restoring some of his customary color to his ruddy cheeks, and admitted, "My people have to be resilient to such things, you know, given our penchant for spending so much time in mines and caves, and the ever-present chance of falling rocks when excavating such places. Mahal wisely put more padding inside our skulls than those of Men and flighty, flitter-brained Elves!" His brown eyes twinkled, bright and clear, and his smile widened. "Dwarven heads are often said to be our least vulnerable spot, and it is true, Legolas! Even a full cave-in will not lightly split dwarven skulls, and not merely because rock is kinder when it falls upon our heads than it is to other peoples. We do need time to rest and heal after, to recover our wits from such rattling, yes; but recover we do, if we can make it out with our heads unshattered by the blow. And I am not shattered, Legolas; I will be back on my feet soon enough." He patted Legolas's bandaged wrist, then winked and offered a mock-scowl as he grumbled, "Although it may be a few more days before I am up to being shaken about again on the back of that rattletrap you call a horse, mind you."
"Oh," said Legolas again, and pressed his hands to his eyes to stem the sudden flood of happy tears.
Gimli shifted half-upright, wide-eyed and startled. "Legolas, what—?"
"I am well," Legolas said hurriedly. "I am only—I am so relieved, Gimli. I was so worried…"
He dropped his hands so he could look at Gimli again, his damp face split in a beaming smile like a sunrise in the midst of a rainstorm.
Gimli stared at him. "Legolas…" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Legolas, you're glowing."
Legolas's smile evaporated. "Are you delirious?" he asked worriedly. "I do not care what is said about the sturdiness of dwarven skulls, that was a mighty blow you took. I know, I saw the blood of it! You may be hallucinating…"
"I am not hallucinating," Gimli growled. "Can you not see yourself? I do not mean that you are giving off light like a torch, Legolas; but there is a…a sort of glitter about you, like sunlight glinting off your hair. It is as though you stand out under a strong morning sun, rather than within these torchlit halls." He stroked one hand lightly through the loose ends of Legolas's hair, weighing the pale locks in his palm as though he measured fresh-mined gold, and frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose it is not so strange a thing, for elves do often seem to have a sort of glimmer to them; yet I have never seen you look so bright."
"I am happy," Legolas said simply. "I am happy to see you wake, and to at last have hope you shall again be well."
"Of course I will be well," Gimli answered with a scowl followed quickly by a wince. He prodded gingerly at the thick bandages that wrapped his skull. "Dwarves are hearty creatures; we can endure much more than a little knock to the pate like this before we crumble."
"I am glad of it," Legolas said thickly. Another swell of tears dripped down his cheeks.
Gimli caught Legolas's hand, his grip tight on the thick bandages. "Were you very frightened?" he asked softly.
"Yes," breathed Legolas. He raised his other hand to wipe vainly at the tears. They soaked into the bandages, but kept rolling down his face, faster than he could brush them clear. "Yes, more frightened than I think that I have ever been in all my days. Gimli, the thought that I might lose you…"
"Me?" Gimli blinked up at him. "You were frightened for me?"
"There was so much blood," Legolas whispered. He dropped his hand and clenched at Gimli's blankets as though they were strong leaves he might anchor himself in. "So much blood that your very beard dripped with it. And you did not speak, you barely moaned. And when the orcs took out their whips and knives…" He shuddered, his whole body convulsing with the remembered horror of it all, and curled low over Gimli's bedside. "I thought that I would lose you," he said again, barely breathing through the lingering fear of it.
Gimli's grip tightened on his hand.
"I…I did not realize I was the cause of your fear," he said quietly. "I thought you were…oh, it does not matter what I thought," Gimli interrupted himself. "Never mind that; my wits are still addled from that blow after all, perhaps. Pay me no heed."
"I will always pay you heed," Legolas said, "addled or not. Will you tell me, please?"
For a long while Gimli said nothing. He held his eyes fixed on Legolas's face with the careful, precise regard of a master jeweler. Eventually, in a low voice, he said, "There are stories told under the Mountain, in the quiet hours of the night, about the world when it was young; about Durin's Days, and the years before, when the dwarves were not yet waking. I do not know if those stories are true or not; no dwarf does. But we tell them nonetheless."
"I would hear your stories," Legolas said softly, "if you are willing to share them."
For another long span of thought Gimli was silent. The bustle of healers and patients behind them was the only sound to be heard in the long room. Gimli reached out with his other hand and cupped his fingers down Legolas's smooth cheek, brushing away his drying tears.
"It is said," Gimli murmured, "that orcs were elves, once. That they were made, in the days of the First Enemy, in the darkest pits of His terrible forges, where He smelted flesh and spirit instead of metal; that He forged his dark servants out of elvish captives, broken and twisted and tortured until their grace was long forgotten, and only the wreckage of their bones remained. That that is why orcs hate elves above all other creatures: because somewhere within the ruined pits of their hearts they remember still the faintest trace of their origins, and they hate the reminder of what they might once have been; that that is why elves loath orcs more than any other servants of the Enemy: because they see in those terrible ruined forms the echoes of what was lost and taken from them once, and can never be redeemed or washed clean again of the Shadow's evil taint."
"The elves of Mirkwood have such stories too," Legolas said. "We do not know if they are true either, or some foul rumor put forth by the Enemy in ancient days; but we tell the stories too, regardless."
Gimli nodded and licked dry lips. He did not take his eyes from Legolas's face, or lift his hand away from his tear-streaked chin.
"I thought," Gimli whispered; "Forgive me, but I thought…I feared…I was afraid that…"
Legolas lifted his hand and pressed the soft bandages against Gimli's hand where it lay against his cheek. "Tell me," he said.
"I thought you were afraid that they would try and do the same to you," Gimli whispered. His gaze was dark with horror. "I thought you feared orcish torture because…because…" His voice faltered; his lovely eyes filled with tears.
"No," Legolas said softly. "No, Gimli; it takes more than whips and knives and teeth to turn an elf into an orc. I do not know if such a thing was ever possible in truth; but if it was, a deed as foul as that would take more than the petty cruelties of orcish torments to enact. I do not think that even Sauron has the power to rend an elvish spirit and remake it so completely; only a mighty Vala like Morgoth, I think, could ever wreck such a deep ruin on a soul: not just to break a spirit and bend it as a tortured thrall to his will, but to reshape the very core of elvish light? No, Gimli," he said again, shaking his head without lifting his eyes from Gimli's face. "That is not an evil we ever need to fear."
"Ah," breathed Gimli, and turned his hand to capture Legolas's and squeeze it tight before reluctantly letting go and sinking back to stroke his fingers through his beard. "Good."
"I am an elf of Mirkwood, Gimli," Legolas continued, his voice a little sharper now as he abandoned whispered tales for known truth. "We are very familiar with the tortures of the Enemy and his minions in my forest. Not only orcs, but Nazgûl too. We have lost many of our people to the Shadow of Dol Guldur, their Unhoused Shades bound by foul necromantic arts to that dread citadel. We know what the tortures of orcs entail, Gimli; and terrible as those are, we know there are worse ways to die than broken open for their evil joy. I knew the fate that waited for me when this fortress fell to Saruman's hordes, and I was prepared to suffer it; what I was not prepared for…"
His voice faltered and his shoulders shook, loose hair sliding down to drape across his face like a grey-washed curtain in a chill pale dawn. It was a relief, to have that shroud to hide behind; it made it easier not to try and meet Gimli's eye. "I was not prepared to see you suffer the same," Legolas made himself say, although the words emerged as a strangled whimper. "That was a horror beyond what I could bear to endure. I am sorry," he said stiffly, "if the results of my loss of control were unpleasant for you to witness."
"Then…" Gimli's brow furrowed in heavy thought. "Then it was not…you really…I did not dream that you…" His eyes flickered over Legolas's bowed head, taking in the sight of the Men lying in or walking between the beds beyond; the Men whose hushed whispers and sidelong looks meant nothing to Legolas, now that Gimli was alive before him again; the darting, fearful mutters that Gimli seemed to be noticing for the first time himself. He licked his lips and looked at Legolas again, continuing softly, "That you fought all those orcs yourself? That you slayed so many, unarmed and alone?"
Legolas shook his head.
"And…" Gimli's voice shook. Legolas longed to lift his head and look at Gimli's face, but he did not dare; he was afraid of what expression he would find there waiting for him. He was afraid that he would see revulsion on his noble dwarf's sweet face; revulsion of the feral, gnashing thing of fear and hate that lurked within the deepest parts of Legolas's soul. He had earned such a reaction fairly, he knew, with the blood that he had spilled so wantonly; and yet to see that thought writ large in Gimli's bright brown eyes would break his heart worse than any blow that orcs could ever deal. An Elf of Mirkwood would understand, of course; but would a dwarf? One as good and true and faithful as Gimli son of Glóin? Legolas was desperately afraid that he would not, and he did not know how he would face that truth when its words fell upon his trembling head.
Gimli swallowed, a fearful gulp loud enough for Legolas to hear, and whispered, "You did all that for me?"
Legolas forced himself to nod, though he could not bring himself to speak.
"Legolas…" Gimli's hand shook as he brushed back the curtain of Legolas's hair and hooked the pale locks behind one slender bandaged ear. "For me?"
"I love you," Legolas said. "I wish that I had known it sooner; I do not know how I did not. I can offer only the excuse of the distraction of our Quest to explain the slowness of my understanding; though it seems a paltry one, for such a thing as the truth of my own heart. I do not think I even realized what I knew until these long lonely hours waiting to learn if you would live; my spirit was in too much turmoil for me to understand the nature of my own feelings with any clarity. All I knew was terror at the thought of losing you, Gimli; terror and grief at the fear that death would sunder us forever. I could not bear the thought of losing you…"
"Oh Legolas," said Gimli, and Legolas finally looked up to see the dwarf weeping over a warm smile. "My dear, impossible Legolas…you will not lose me, love. I do not know how your Mandos does things, but I know the heart of my Maker, and Mahal would not be so cruel to his dwarves as to permit them to be sundered from the other half of their heart forever. I know he wouldn't."
Gimli reached up and caught Legolas's face and drew him down to him. "You will not lose me, love," he murmured again, and pressed their lips together.
The first kiss they shared tasted like tears. It was still sweeter than any springtime.