Gimli (lockbearer) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2015-02-05 10:22:00 |
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Gimli held his axe to his chest so tightly that the ornamental knot-design ironwork on the side of his mighty weapon practically left an indent on his broad and equally mighty chest. He was by no means afraid of the brilliant blue light that had brought him here, or the strangely dressed children of Man who seemed to act as though this break in space and time which had brought him from one realm to the next was somehow mundane to them; something ordinary. This did not put Gimli at ease, but instead it rather frustrated him. He did not like being put out by things he didn’t understand. He was a smart dwarf, wisened by years of great battles and greater leadership, and being made to feel ordinary or insignificant did not sit well on his war-worn heart. It was not pride or self-interest to blame for his being on edge, but a refusal to be considered insignificant or dismissed because of his size, his race or his temper. And so he sat, on the floor of the SWORD arrival facility, knuckles whitening from the force with which he held the axe, and his face reddening in colour by the second. Unknown to him, word was sent to Potts Tower for a soul to come and collect him. A certain elf that, over the years, had managed to round all the rough edges of Gimli’s heart. It would be better, really, hearing about the new world and all that lay in it from someone he trusted and respected as much as Legolas. He would be much less likely to proclaim that explanations of his predicament were nothing but short-sighted hogswallop. Or, if not less likely to proclaim it, at least less likely to mean it. As with Aragorn not long ago, Legolas knew before he was summoned precisely when Gimli had made his arrival. Since his own entrance, he’d won the favor of a rather chatty clan of pigeons who, as it happened, enjoyed sharing news while they took refuge from the weather inside the tower. They didn’t speak the language of nature in Arda, but their behavior and tone was similar enough to decipher. Gimli had come, and he was late. He knew the path to the arrival’s hall by now, and even recognized a few faces in the guardspeople, who were appropriately attentive when Legolas spoke to them this time in a grave tone. There were matters to be cleared up before he retrieved his dearest companion. “He is Gimli, son of Glóin, Lockbearer and Elf-friend, descendant of the noble Durin’s House, and war hero of the Third Age. You will address him as ‘Your Lordship,’ or by his given name if he wishes—but only by his leave may you do this.” When he was satisfied they all knew the appropriate way to conduct themselves in Gimli’s presence, Legolas breezed past them with a lighter step than before. “Did you sprint all the way here, Master Dwarf?” While he fully expected the tower’s staff to all but bend their knee, Legolas was the picture of casual, leaning against the doorframe like he was entirely at ease in the new world. Truthfully, seeing Gimli hale and hearty not a few feet from him was grounding in a way that nothing else had been in the past month. Aragorn gave him purpose and Tauriel reminded him of home, but Gimli was the missing piece. Legolas was whole again. Of course, he’d still tease his friend in the meanwhile. “You are the last of the Hunters to join the party. I wonder if you stopped to admire the foliage on your way.” Gimli's features, and by extension his emotions. were often disguised by the mountain of ginger beard which hid them. But, at the mere sight of Legolas, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, and the beard twitched at the sheer force of the smile beneath it. Dwarves were like fires, the kind that burned beneath kilns, forging weapons, raging against what opposed them, unceasing and unyielding. But all fires needed a spark, and at some point during their quest, perhaps because of their competitions or perhaps something deeper, Legolas had become that spark for this dwarf. He made him feel alive. And when Legolas walked into the room now, Gimli got to his feet and threw his shoulders back with pride as he swung his axe around to affix it to the panel at his back. "Bah -- well you've kept me waiting here for you for an age, and no less." He approached Legolas and reached out to give the elf a pat on the forearm that held all the warmth that his tired, aggravated-sounding words did not. "And I heard you coming from a mile. Practically dragging your feet." Elves weren’t a tactile race. Touching was uncommon even among immediate family members, though Legolas had made more exceptions to this rule in the past few years than he’d ever been called upon to do in the whole of his life. He’d led Gandalf by the arm to the throne of Rohan’s former king, was manhandled into Aragorn’s embraces more times than he could count, and now this, the touch that Gimli afforded him, though it was not the first of this nature. Each time, Legolas was robbed of the choice to initiate, but he found there was something about visiting a different world that spoke of renewal. Perhaps it was time to learn new customs. “You dare to call me slow? And loud!” His hand grasped Gimli’s own forearm warmly before he could think twice about the matter, a laugh in his eyes. It was obvious he meant no harm, despite his words. "These are mighty offenses indeed, and for a guest in a new place. I could easily lead you astray. Do you not fear my retribution?” There would be much to tell Gimli before their meeting was done, but for now, Legolas relished in their easy banter. It was familiar and comforting like the sun’s rays through the trees, and he wanted to cherish the moment before more was spoken on somber subjects. Besides, he could tell Gimli was smiling, which brought him a joy he couldn’t describe. “Aye, does an axe fear a twig, Elf?” Gimli looked passed the elf for a moment, as if to make sure that there was no one looking at the two of them, before giving Legolas a sly little wink and nodding his head. While he wasn’t afraid of his new surroundings, they still put him on edge enough that he wasn’t quite quick to relax his hold on the elf’s arm. Here, he did not feel as though he was in any danger, but the sensory input of new technology, people and practices nearly made him dizzy. He thought he’d feel much better if he could go somewhere quiet and alone to work out the circumstances that had brought him to his place and the meaning behind it all. Of course, for Gimli, the state of being ‘alone’ meant being by oneself and with Legolas. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and lowered his voice, speaking so that no one else would hear their conversation. “I’ve heard tell of this Pot’s Tower. Is that where they’ve put you?” Gimli, the much revered and somewhat eccentric Lord of the Glittering Caves had always walked a fine line at home in Aglarond between promoting friendship between the dwarves in his caves behind Helm’s Deep and acting entirely nonchalant about Legolas and the elves frequent visits from nearby Ithilien. But the way his mood shifted when Legolas could never go completely unnoticed, and while he always acted and spoke as though he was ready to send the elf out the door at the first given moment, whenever it was time for them to part, he found himself biting his tongue to keep from asking Legolas to stay. Legolas’ smile lingered even after their customary quips to one another, too overcome with emotion to hide it. They had traveled together for what felt like several lifetimes. To be brought to this place for even one month without Gimli had been a harrowing experience at best. Legolas felt like his bow had been taken from him, as if he were forced to loose an arrow with nothing but his own two hands. It was so joyous an occasion to be reunited with his other half that Legolas merely laughed in the face of being referred to as a ‘twig.’ Later, perhaps, he would seek revenge. Now he was too pleased to consider it. “Aye,” he said, returning Gimli’s favored phrase in kind. “It is where the weary take refuge, and where Aragorn and I have resided for some weeks. Samwise lately joined our gathering not long before you.” Legolas hesitated, but didn’t make any effort to turn his face away from Gimli. His expression was pinched, for a moment, as if he were holding back more news. He knew that would be enough to stay any further questions about their fellow arrivals here—at least until they were alone. Sensing that perhaps Gimli might need something more grounding than words, he twisted his wrist to better hold his friend’s arm, using his free hand to gesture toward the door. “Come. I shall lead you true, my dearest friend. There is even ale here! Though I cannot speak to its taste.” The implied promise that he would explain their situation wouldn’t be lost on the dwarf, he knew. Gimli had always been exceptionally clever, and it was always thrilling to watch him easily sort through and strategize their situation. * * * Seldom was there a dwarf who remained unmotivated after the promise of ale, and he went with Legolas gladly, from the SWORD facilities into the streets of the New city of York and to Pot's Tower, the Inn which had offered the lost travellers who had come to this place a safe refuge. He appreciated the kindness. Dwarves, like himself, always held to a strong code of community and looking out for the needs of each other, but he had lived through many an age where kindness was not always offered to a dwarf. The hospitality and selflessness of the Lord and Lady of Pot's Tower would never be underappreciated by him. Even if he wasn't sure he approved of their taste in building towers. But he soon forgot his desire to sneer at the architecture when Legolas brought him down into the darkly lit, comfortable pub operated by one of the tower residents. It was a bit of a struggle, but he managed to climb into one of the booths by using the handle of his axe as added leverage. Once seated, once he finished cursing under his breath about the height of chairs and stopped squinting at the assortment of beers written in chalk on a board beside the bar; once he'd made his selection and adjusted his position in the booth to sit an inch or two closer to Legolas, he settled into the manner at hand. He'd noticed Legolas's hesitations earlier, and he knew his friend far too well to take any cues from him lightly. They had fought alongside each in perfect synchronicity, they'd learned to anticipate the other's actions before they made him and that kind of harmony was never lost when the blades were sheathed and the arrows given rest. The barkeep placed a frosted glass of golden IPA down in front for the dwarf, and he tapped the side of it cautiously as though he was afraid of its frailty before grasping it and pulling it near. But he did not drink, instead he turned to Legolas. "Speak, elf, before whatever you're holding under your tongue springs from your ears." Then he tried the ale, whiting his whiskers with the foam that gathered near the rim of the glass. The drink was bitter, it tasted of harvests and wheat. It wasn't quite the ashy, sweet brew he was accustomed too, but he supposed he this was one of the minor adjustments he'd be making, while attempting to grow accustomed to this new world. As they walked together, Legolas made sure to lead Gimli through the winding paths of snow, ice, and debris he’d rather not identify. He spoke at length of all he had come to learn in the modern world, though none of it touched on the greater matter at hand. There was the fact that the people here knew their names well, but from legends retold in the form of moving pictures. It was harder to describe the internet, which he said was like a book you could find answers to any question, except there were some things not worth knowing. Ever. (He would elaborate no further than ‘Do not ask anyone here about ships.’) When they were finally situated and bestowed with their drinks (he had opted for the wine, though it could never compare to the Greenwood’s stock), Legolas released the sigh he’d been holding. For all he felt great joy in their reunion, he also felt great sorrow for bearing such difficult news. All the same, Legolas' eyes had not lost their warmth, and he leaned slightly toward Gimli without noticing the change, like a flower tilting toward the sun. “I will speak in time, Mellonamin, but first, I must ask: from whence did you come?” He watched his friend carefully, weighing his next words. "Some arrive here with no memory of what has come to pass, while still others return with the memory of an hour much later. Aragorn and I were lucky, and Samwise as well, for we were ferried here before the great coronation. But you—I would know what memory of our world you carry with you before I speak further.” “This is strange and powerful sorcery.” He murmured. While the dwarf had nothing but the utmost respect for Gandalf, magic was never something he piled much faith in. He believe in hard work and a steady hand as a solution to problems, and the thought of melding with the mystic sent a short chill up his spine. He smoothed his beard down against his chest and thought about how best to answer Legolas’ inquiry. “I returned to the Glittering Caves behind Helm’s Deep. There was much that needing doing after the war’s destruction, and I was so fond of them.” He had, on more than one occasion, waxed poetic about the beauty of the veins of gemstones which lined the cave walls, “to aid those that needed it and to bring back life to where there was only so much much death. I thrived there.” He hesitated for a moment, as he realised that he was speaking of things that Legolas might not entirely remember, before bringing his glass closer and taking another pull of ale. “Could never be rid of you, as such. You stayed frequently and visited often. Quite a sight to see you stuck behind stone walls.” Gimli didn’t like speaking of the wars often. He told his tales to educate, to remind his kin of the folly of greed and power, but his focus was on rebuilding, on the tomorrow and the light that had returned to the lands he mined. “But it is good news indeed that our companion have those dark times behind them.” Legolas found himself smiling throughout Gimli’s detailed description of his beloved caves, warmed by the thought. While this was a memory he didn’t share for all it was in his future, he was pleased such a well-deserved title and position could bring his friend this level of happiness. The war had taken so much from them all—that Gimli could find pleasure and purpose after everything was proof enough that he was as invariably resourceful and skilled as ever. He couldn’t admire him more if he tried, which he never needed to. “Of course I stayed with you!” Legolas was frowning for the first time since their meeting, though his eyes were full of mirth. “Surely you do not think you could be rid of me so easily, Master Dwarf. To observe you in your native element is an honor not to be missed. That I might have leave to pester you more often is an added benefit.” The act of a frown had long since been ruined, for he was smiling again, relieved to hear nothing sought to part them when the ash of Sauron’s fires had settled. Still, some of Legolas’ amusement softened to concern, and he didn’t resist the instinct to reach for Gimli’s hand when it came upon him. This was an altogether strange place, and few of their friends had come with them. It was only right that his heart remain open to his friend should he be in need of it. “Forgive me, Gimli. What I must tell you now will not be easy to hear. Your kin—the princes, Fíli and Kíli, and their uncle, Thorin Oakenshield—are here. I have met them as they live and breathe. I know they would dearly wish to see you.” When the elf touched Gimli’s hand, were it not of the rust of his beard and the hearty pink glow that was always present in his dwarven cheeks, a very slight blush might have been detectable. But as Legolas went on to explain about his family, Fili and Kili who’d been lost in the battles in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, and the great Thorin Oakenshield who had led the company of Dwarves with such valor and splendor, bringing his kin back to their rightful home. He sat back in the booth slightly, he looked at his and Legolas’ hands on the table and then added his free one atop the elves, brushing the back of Legolas’ flawless smooth skin with his calloused fingertips absently as he processed the news. Above all things, he was glad that Legolas was the one to tell him this news. It was good to be prepared for something so he could gain his footing before faced with the shock. “I knew them so well.” He told Legolas, knowing full-well that the elf was aware of his years with cousins before their quest to rid their mountain of its thieving dragon. But it was all he could think to say, when faced with the possibility of seeing his family again after all this time had passed. What might they think of him now? Did they know of his own journeys and the battles he had one for the freedom of the dwarves and harmony of all? Was it right for him to tell them. “As a matter of fact, I nearly went with them to Erebor, but I was believed too young -- they are here? Truly they are?” The dwarf smiled, a gentle wistful type grin which was immediately rounded his normally rough features. This was delightful news, and it somehow made all the oddities and alarming nature of this place a little easier to shoulder. Of course, it was Legolas who left him capable of carrying the burden in the first place. The elf was as reliable, trusted and needed at his side as any axe. He would reach out to them, speak to them all in time, as difficult as it might be to see and speak to the men he’d only known as a child, now after all this time and all of his trials, but he didn’t want Legolas to witness too much of his hesitation or how tight his chest was beginning to feel. So, Gimli cleared his throat, shovelling away his nostalgia and good memories for a moment and nudging towards Legolas with his elbow. “I hope they were pleasant to you, elf, when they saw you. They’re not always known for their fondness towards your lot.” Legolas gazed at their joined hands and wondered at how his heart beat so wildly in his chest. “All three yet draw breath in this world,” he replied, gently, and would speak no more while Gimli visited fonder memories of his family. Something protective surged in him to see Gimli so wistful, and Legolas threaded his fingers through the dwarf’s, clasping his hand more firmly. Did this custom mean more or less to children of Aulë? It was a mighty gift to touch another, particularly to seek that touch, but that was the way of elves. All the same, it felt … right. Though at the mention of their conduct and the nudge that brought Legolas back to himself, he felt his ears grow warm. “I deserve far worse than the suspicion I was met with. They are wary still, I imagine, but less so than before. Kíli is free with his forgiveness, and Fíli follows where his brother leads. As for their uncle …” He didn’t fidget, but even in stillness, his discomfort would be obvious to anyone who knew how to read the subtle tells of an elf. Gimli’s hand gave him the strength to continue. “We met not a fortnight ago, where I returned his sword. Did I not tell you he saved my life once by impaling an orc as if his blade were a spear? I have carried it since he fell on Ravenhill. There stands a truce between us now, which is more than I could have hoped for both our people.” Legolas smiled again, but this time it has gentler, something meant only for Gimli. “This is a good omen, belegohtar. They speak so fondly of you—I hope you do not lament that I have shared with them your great deeds. I could not hold my tongue when they deserved to know their kin stands a champion of their people in the eyes of all Arda." At this, the dwarf looked up at Legolas. And while he meant it to only be a brief glance, the smile on the elf’s face kept his gaze and he lingered on the elf’s refined features. He did not dare move his hands, even the cold ale lay temporarily forgotten in favour of the intimacy of their companionship. His heart felt light, as though it might float unchained from his chest as he listened to Legolas call him a champion. “Better you say it than me.” Gimli said. “It’s unlikely a elf would lie in a dwarf’s favour, you see. They’d be hard pressed not to believe you.” It pleased him to know that Fili and Kili had taken to Legolas well enough, it meant a great deal to him that he’d found some friendship with his beloved cousins, and while he understood Thorin’s strong nature and unyielding ways, he knew all too well how skilled Legolas was when it came to changing the minds and hearts of dwarves turned against him. Indeed, when he had first joined the Fellowship, he’d done so out of some suspicion for the elf’s intentions, following the ring of power. And now here he was, their fingers tight together and the warmth of Legolas’ touch; Gimli’s greatest comfort. He would give himself a day or two to adjust and learn of this place, learn what his friend knew already and was willing to share with him and approach his family with the good news of his arrival. It was difficult not to be nervous, which was why he was putting off the reunion a little. But there was Aragorn too, and Samwise, and seeing them again would bring back such memories. of their travels and of the happy times which followed. But there would be time for all of this and more to come. Now, there was time for him and Legolas, which he always considered time well spent. |