“Still it might be well for all,” said Glóin
the Dwarf, “if all these strengths were joined, and the powers
of each were used in league.”
‘The Council of Elrond,’ The Fellowship of the Ring
The sculpture of Lady Estë was lovely enough, Gimli reflected as he approached it, but he had not seen the Elf maiden yet who made his heart soar like the females of his own race. He missed hearing their low, gentle voices. He missed hearing his own language, although Gandalf would speak with him in Khuzdûl when they could not be overheard. Most of all, he missed the company of other Dwarves. He felt like a stone uprooted and tumbled far from its familiar mountain.
Legolas is also far from his Woodland kin, he mused, and must long for the forests of his home. Never did I imagine that I would feel empathy with an Elf. Never. From him I have learned that, should I be chosen to accompany the Ring-bearer, and should there be Elves in the Company -- well… it will be tolerable. They are perhaps not all as unendurably arrogant as I had first believed.
He paused in the doorway of what Pippin had called the “healing room”, and looked around. Shelves, cupboards and tables held a variety of flasks, instruments, bandages, books, basins, and innumerable other objects. Harps of different sizes were lined up against one wall, and a pleasantly fragrant smoke was coming from a bowl set over a small hearth. There were several pallets raised high off the floor, on which he assumed patients were assessed and tended, and also a row of beds – only one of which was occupied. He was thinking that the room seemed rather spare in its furnishings and embellishments, until he remembered that Elves were reputed to be insufferably healthy, and this room must lie vacant much of the time. He guessed correctly that the Ring-bearer had been the first injured person brought here in many years.
Glorfindel was sitting next to the occupied bed, singing softly. He looked up, and called for Gimli to enter.
“Legolas is near to waking,” the golden-haired Elf spoke in his musical voice.
“How do you know that?” Gimli asked, coming to stand next to him.
“I sense fëa and body coming into alignment,” Glorfindel replied. “It is difficult to describe, but in essence--”
“There is no need to explain,” Gimli interrupted, but not unkindly. “The children of Mahal are not unacquainted with spirit travel.”
Glorfindel raised an eyebrow in surprise. Not long before, this Dwarf would have bristled with anger at such a perceived slight to his education and knowledge. Much had changed, and in a very short time.
Gimli looked at Legolas in full sunlight for the first time since he had been injured. His face was flushed. The bare, muscular chest and arms were covered in bruises, and Gimli assumed that his back was also bruised from where the fall of rock had hit him. The Elf's chest was fully supported by wide strips of cloth. The right calf was properly splinted and bandaged, but the surrounding skin did not seem as inflamed and damaged as Gimli assumed would result from such a recent break.
“How many ribs broken?” he asked.
“Two.”
“As I thought,” Gimli nodded. “He is still fevered?”
“Yes,” Glorfindel said, his voice still quiet and calm. “The fever is higher than we would like, but no longer dangerously so. Someone has been with him constantly, as there are melodies and tones which hasten healing. I have only recently come to take my turn with him.” He frowned at Gimli, who was looking distractedly about the room. “Is something amiss?”
“Something is missing,” Gimli said. “You can sing to him from now until Durin’s Day, but what he will need is…” He abruptly turned and left the room.
Glorfindel shook his head at the inexplicable ways of Dwarves, and resumed singing. After a short time, he once again heard the heavy clomping of footsteps behind him.
“I found just the thing!” Gimli announced triumphantly. To Glorfindel’s astonishment, the Dwarf was holding an exquisite pot, centuries old and one of the treasures of Imladris, which contained a miniature and painstakingly groomed fir tree.
“I do not know what you are planning,” Glorfindel said firmly, “but that is one of Lord Elrond’s most prized--” He broke off his scolding at a soft groan from the bed.
Legolas slowly opened his eyes. Gimli and Glorfindel were silent while he oriented himself. After a few moments, his eyes focused on Gimli.
“You have slept through something called ‘second breakfast,’ laddie,” Gimli said.
“I trust you will convey my apologies to the hobbits,” Legolas whispered harshly. His throat was parched. “How long--”
“We were rescued last night,” Gimli said. He set the pot on the bed next to Legolas, and guided the Elf’s hand to the diminutive tree. “I know you can’t get along without one of these foolish, leafy things.”
Legolas smiled at Glorfindel’s sputter of dismay.
“There was a tree root in the cavern,” he explained. “I felt… I sensed the tree’s good will, and messages of hope and light.”
“It is I who sent those messages,” Glorfindel told him. “The venerable oak was most receptive. I am impressed with your skill in receiving its song in full, young one.” He took a cup from a nearby table and raised Legolas’s head very gently. Legolas swallowed the cool water gratefully, then answered Glorfindel’s questions about the level of pain he was experiencing.
After another sip of water, Legolas slid his hand down the bark and onto the cool soil in the pot.
“Tree and earth,” he said softly, meeting Gimli’s eyes. “A good team.”
Glorfindel looked from one to the other. It was obvious that these two had bonded during their confinement and near death underground. Lord Elrond would wish to know of this.
Legolas closed his eyes briefly; each shallow breath obviously pained him.
“Can you not do something to ease him?” Gimli asked.
“I was about to seek out Eriniel and tell her that Legolas has awakened.” Glorfindel got to his feet, then motioned to the now-vacant chair. “Would you do me the favor of remaining, friend Dwarf?”
“I suppose I can do that,” Gimli grumbled, clambering up. As Glorfindel left the room, he sighed loudly. “Why is all the furniture in this place so high off the ground?”
“Perhaps a small invasion of hobbits and Dwarves is a rare occurrence,” Legolas said.
“Hmmph.” Gimli eyed the expert bandaging. “They did a passable job.”
“I am glad you approve,” Legolas said. “I do not know what has become of your belt.”
Gimli chuckled. “I have enough girth not to have missed it! As for the knife you loaned me, I will sharpen it at my first opportunity. It was greatly dulled in the digging.”
“Under the circumstances, you need not hurry.” Legolas touched the bark gently once again, and felt the tree welcome his touch. “How is Sam?”
“Well looked after, as is Frodo,” Gimli assured him. “Neither is as annoyingly talkative as you are.” He gazed down at Legolas, his gaze intense. “I have heard that Elves heal quickly. However, you will probably be abed for some days, if not weeks.” He leaned closer. “You must be well healed before the Ring-bearer departs.”
Legolas looked at him, and nodded slowly.
“I see that we are of like mind,” he said softly. “However will we keep those insatiable hobbits fed on the long journey south?”
“We will be hard pressed indeed,” Gimli said with a grin. “But it will be even more difficult to travel in stealth. Why do Elves sing so much?”
“Why do Dwarves delve so much?” Legolas countered.
Gimli bristled. “It would be disrespectful to he who created us, if we failed to bring out the beauty and potential in stone.”
“And we sing in praise of those who created the stars and trees, air and waters,” Legolas said heatedly, for a moment forgetting about the pain. “Why, even this small tree can sense the…” He stared at Gimli, and sighed. “Do you suppose we will be able to keep our arguing to a minimum in front of the Ring-bearer?”
“How very dull!” Gimli roared with laughter. “You underestimate hobbits, Master Elf.”
“Perhaps I have underestimated many things, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said with a smile. “But no longer.”
~*~
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam sat straight up in bed and looked around wildly.
“I’m here, Sam,” Frodo said. He took Sam’s face in his hands and looked into his friend’s frantic eyes. “I’m right here.”
“Oh,” Sam sighed with relief. “I thought you were lost in a dark place.” He sagged weakly back onto the pillow. “I feel awful, sir. All dizzy and aching. Were we celebrating something?”
“Not exactly,” Merry piped up from where he was sitting. “Don't you remember the cave?”
“The cave?” Sam asked blankly.
“It’s you who were lost in a dark place,” Frodo said gently, “with Legolas and Gimli. There was a cave-in. That’s where you were hurt.”
Sam frowned in thought. “I do remember Mr. Legolas singing, and Mr. Gimli digging…” His stomach suddenly grumbled loudly.
“Pip, would you hand me that tray?” Frodo asked. “If there’s anything left on it, that is.”
“Of course there’s something left!” Pippin declared. “We carried all this up here for you and Sam, after all.” He brought a tray full of covered dishes over to the bed, and waited while Merry and Frodo sat Sam up and propped pillows behind him.
“Why’re you all waiting on me?” Sam asked nervously. “That’s not right.” He looked around the room, wide-eyed. “Mr. Frodo,” he sputtered, “I shouldn’t be in your room!”
“You thought the idea was just ‘splendid’ last night,” Pippin pointed out.
“Splendid,” Sam murmured. “Isn’t that a splendid word?”
“Not again,” Pippin groaned. “Why is he only drunk when he’s talking to me?”
Frodo piled several sweet rolls into Sam’s hands to distract him, then turned to Merry.
“Would you find Eriniel or Lindir, or maybe Aragorn, and ask one of them to come in here?” he asked softly. Merry nodded, then scurried away.
“Is that baked ham I smell, Mr. Frodo, and bacon?” Sam asked eagerly, his aches temporarily forgotten. “And those potatoes they fry up with onions? And eggs?”
“And peach hotcakes,” Frodo smiled. “There are fruit tarts, and a pitcher of that wonderful cider. Do you really feel up to eating?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Sam asked in astonishment. “I have a headache, but you know how I get after too much ale. Why, remember my Gaffer’s last birthday, sir? I was in a sorry state the next day. I do feel woozy, though. Woooooozy,” he repeated, starting to giggle.
“I’m confused,” Pippin announced. “Samwise Gamgee, do you or do you not remember the cave-in, and getting hurt and stitched up, and that beautiful healer lady, and insulting my foot hair?”
“Sir,” Sam whispered loudly to Frodo, “Mr. Pippin doesn’t look like he’s had much sleep. Are you sure there wasn’t a party?”
“Never mind,” Frodo said, trying to keep from laughing. He started uncovering the dishes. “We’ll sort it out later.”
Sam was working his way through a stack of hotcakes when Merry returned, dragging Aragorn by the hand. Pippin was glad to see that their friend appeared rested, and had at last run a brush or comb through his hair.
“Hullo, Strider!” Sam said cheerfully. He waved a piece of toasted bread at the Ranger.
“You see?” Merry said. “He’s still acting strange, and his memories of yesterday come and go. I thought the healer only gave him a tiny drop of that medicine.”
“Fear not, Merry,” Aragorn said with a smile. “The effect of certain herbal remedies on hobbits is different than for Men or Elves; it might take a full day for the potion to completely leave his system. I am at least glad to see that our patients are still abed, and not roaming about the House.”
“It hasn't been easy,” Pippin told him, yawning suddenly.
“Go get some sleep, Pip,” Merry urged.
“I really can’t stay awake a moment longer,” Pippin admitted. “Sam, try to leave some of those hotcakes for Strider.” He slid off the chair, filched a few pieces of bacon, and left the room.
“You need a break as well, Merry,” Aragorn said. “I will stay with them for awhile.”
Merry sighed and stretched, suddenly realizing how weary he felt.
“I’d appreciate that, Strider.” He paused at the door. “Oh, and try the potatoes, too. They’re marvelous.”
“Really, Aragorn, we’re not children who need minding every second,” Frodo grumbled after his cousins left.
“Of course not,” Aragorn said soothingly. He hoped Frodo was not yet aware of the real guards taking shifts out in the corridor. “Just let us fuss for a few more days, my friend. We believe that the wraith that attacked the valley is gone, but better safe than sorry.”
“I understand,” Frodo said quietly. “How is Lord Elrond?”
“He is resting,” Aragorn said simply. “Do you know what he did?”
Frodo nodded. “Gandalf told me when we first arrived that he set loose the flood against the Black Riders, and yesterday he kept the cavern from flooding long enough to…” He glanced at Sam, who was waving a piece of bacon in the air and humming. “I need to thank him.”
“You will get your chance,” Aragorn assured him. “In a few days everyone should be much improved.”
“Is Legolas all right?”
“He will be. Elves heal fairly quickly.”
“Like hobbits,” Frodo grinned.
“In many ways,” Aragorn smiled back. “You shouldn’t eat too much all at once, Sam,” he continued, gazing disapprovingly at the contents of the tray. “We thought it best that you start with small portions.”
“Those are perfectly respectable portions!” Frodo exclaimed, pointing to the heaping plates of food. “Surely you don’t expect us to starve him!”
“I’m all right, Strider,” Sam said earnestly. “Just achy and woooooozy.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Aragorn said. He sat on the bed and felt Frodo's brow, gratified that there was no fever. He then looked into Sam’s eyes, and Sam looked back so trustingly that Aragorn's heart warmed. How difficult it had been to earn this small one's regard! He examined Sam's head briefly, then checked his vision and reflexes.
“You were most fortunate,” Aragorn said at last. “Hobbits truly do heal quickly.” He turned to Frodo, who was watching him closely. “And how are you feeling, my friend?” Frodo's cheeks lacked their usual rosy glow, but other than his pallor -- understandable, due to the blood loss -- his eyes were bright and his appetite (apparently) robust.
“I'm a bit woozy as well, but much better,” Frodo said. He was glad his legs were covered by the blanket; seeing his injury, while still so confused, might cause Sam great distress. He suddenly thought of something that might distract Aragorn from examining his leg right away, and give Sam enough time to finish the first decent meal he’d had since yesterday.
“Sam,” Aragorn tried again, “perhaps a bit less of the--”
“Do you like riddles?” Frodo asked suddenly.
“Riddles?” Aragorn frowned at the strange question. “I have heard a few, although it is not a skill for which Rangers are known.” His eyes fell on the chamber pot. “Do either of you need to-- ”
“Gandalf and I were playing a game, you see,” Frodo interrupted again, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He unobtrusively nudged a plate of eggs closer to Sam. “I’ll teach it to you.”
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