It is a long journey back to waking, but now my dreams are just that: only dreams.

I sleep but it is sleep that I understand; it is safe and it is comforting. I do not burn with fever, I do not thirst. I do not feel fear as shadows chase me through my own mind… I am safe again.

I awaken slowly and I take my time to examine every sense and feeling about me. I test my limbs, my muscles: every nerve and sinew is tested before I deem myself well enough to return to the world and I am surprised by what I find. When my eyes last saw, the world was black and hopeless. Now it is flooded with light.

I lie upon thick grasses, and although my body is a singing harmony of pain it is tolerable. Pains that were sharp and immediate before are now dull aches, previous aches are now distant throbs. It is extremely unpleasant, but I am well. I am clean, I am bound… I believe I have been given something herbal as there is an interesting blurriness and colour to the edges of my consciousness.

I open my eyes and they are flooded with stinging tears at the brightness of the sky, but I do not close them. The sky is blue: a pure, breathtaking blue and the sun shines warm upon my face. It is afternoon, or so I believe, and I take a while to feel the overwhelming joy of an unfettered, gleaming summer's day. I feel warmth upon my skin, a breeze that brings sharp and clear scents of blossom and wood. I breathe deeply and I still my shaking. I live.

I can hear voices, but the loudest of them I recognise. I recognise it because I have heard it through all of my dreams and nightmares; it has been there for what feels like an eternity of darkness and has brought me back to myself. It has stood watch over me and kept me here… kept me rooted to the world.

Legolas is thoroughly reprimanding someone, and I turn my gaze to seek him out.

He sits, all but swaddled in bandages. He is tolerating the attentions of those who fancy themselves healers but although they work to staunch his bleeding and bind his wounds it takes nothing away from his ire. He is making his dissatisfaction quite known to those before him: the six archers that were sent home and who are very much here. They stand as naughty children before their schoolmaster, pretending that they are chastised but there is fire in their eyes. They hear him, but I do not believe that any single one of them is sorry for their actions. I know it is they to whom I should give thanks for our rescue.

I stay where I lie, staring up at the sky and listening to my friend shouting at his men. I feel wetness upon my cheek, it soaks into my hair but I do not wipe it away. We are both alive, we are well; we have survived when I never thought we might and it is an overwhelming feeling. So much has passed; so much we have seen and fought and now it is over.

It is over.

I drift. I feel a sense of peace and the comfort of safety, and so it is easy to sleep again. My dreams this time are formless and brief and I know I do not sleep for long, but when I wake next the sun is setting. The light is a rich golden hue, there are birds singing farewell to the day and the wind hushes in the long grass. I can smell the earth beneath me and I hear a low murmur of voices, but although I listen for it there is one voice I do not hear.

I struggle upright, and one of the first things I notice draws a long suffering sigh from deep in my gut. Legolas is an exceptional shot, all know this. He is best amongst the archers and I know that my beard being full of grass darts is down to him. I brush them free and pick out those too deeply embedded, and I look up to see the elf finally asleep.

I spend a moment watching him, before I even set myself to examining my hurts I watch him and I do not take another breath until I see his chest rise and fall in sleep. He is pale… so very pale. His face is clean, his hair braided and he wears clean clothes but it does little to hide the state that he is in. Livid bruises mark his face, deep circles bracket his eyes and he has become thinner… he seems unbearably fragile for it. So young does he seem to me right now; there is not a trace of the tireless force of nature that he has been these last weeks: he is but a sleeping, hurt elfling.

"Tell me the truth," I speak, and my voice is hoarse. There has been no sound but I know I am not alone. "How does he fare?"

"He will heal," Lord Ionwë tells me. He is abrupt as ever, but there is tenderness to his tone. I would not have heard it before; it is buried deep where he keeps all of his emotions in check.

"That is not my question," I huff. "He could have said that to me himself, although I would believe him less than I believe you."

Ionwë makes a sound: a grunt that could almost be a laugh, and he sits in the grass at my side. He is also clean and his injuries are bound, but his bruises also stand brightly against his skin. He looks weary. I realise now that he always looks that way.

"He has lost much blood," he tells me honestly. "He is cut and bruised and his ribs are broken, but these are things that will heal. You were in the ravine for a day and a night and you have slept through another day here, but our prince only sleeps now. Even then he only does so because I drugged his water – he would likely still be watching over you now had I not. He is exhausted beyond measure, but should he rest a while he will be himself in time. Faster than you will I would imagine, Master Dwarf."

"That is heartening indeed, but it is not my true concern," I sigh. I stretch my arm tentatively, releasing it from the bindings that hold it still. I grimace and return it back to where I should have left it well alone – Legolas has done a good job in setting my shoulder, but it will hurt a while.

A day and a night… he spoke to me for a day and a night. He was alone all of that time, deep in the dark of stone where he is most afraid. I tuck the thought away… I do not want to think on it yet. We are alive and whole and finally free, for a moment I wish to just be happy for that. It is selfish, but I am a selfish dwarf.

"No, it is not our true concern," Ionwë confirms. "His fëa is grievously damaged… it is beyond our healing."

I value Lord Ionwë's honesty. It is something that I never thought to appreciate in him – he is blunt and cruel with it at times but I understand him far better now. I can hear the pain in his voice, although it is much buried. I know that he cares for Legolas and in this we have reached a common ground. His words sicken me but it is nothing I had not already guessed at, nothing I had not prepared myself for as best I can. Nevertheless his words make my chest tighten and my heart aches painfully. We have won, we are victorious! Why then do I feel so defeated?

"Will he sail?" I ask. I must know, but I fear the answer… oh, how I fear it. Ionwë snorts again and this time I know that it is a laugh.

"I sometimes wonder whether our prince will be the last elf to walk the lands of Middle Earth," he tells me, standing with some difficulty. "If he can bear the sea longing, then I do not doubt that he is stubborn enough to bear this. He will need his friends though, that I can tell you truthfully. It is good that you are with him, Master Dwarf."

I look up to where he is silhouetted against the setting sun. Before it would have galled me to lie so low before this elf, but no longer do I feel the need to prove myself to him. I am weary and I ache, and Lord Ionwë gives me a smile that is quite unsettling although I believe it is meant to be kind.

"I will tell your friends that you are awake, although I can pretend that you sleep still if you wish it. They have been anxious for you indeed, they have grieved painfully. For a day and a night we truly thought you lost. It has been a trying time, and all the more joyous to find you both living, if not entirely well."

I cannot help but smile, although I am horrified that we have been mourned. I cannot imagine facing anyone who has contemplated my passing; things are thought when someone is grieved for, I do not know if I can meet their eye again but I cannot deny it – it will be good to see my friends.

I ask a question that has haunted me since my awakening and I choke it free now, but I do not look to him. I do not wish to see it on his face if the news is ill.

"Almárean?" I ask.

He is silent for a while and I cannot bear it. I look to him and he is watching me with an odd look upon his face. He does not understand our friendship… he is fascinated by it, and this time when he smiles it is a more natural thing. He looks younger, the years drop from him for a moment.

"He must sleep, he will be a long time healing but we are hopeful. Rest, friend Gimli," he bids, and then he is gone.

It is the first time that he has simply called me by my name.

~{O}~

It is late when Legolas finally wakes. I am still sitting watch, but any longer then I would be given in to sleep. I have been kept alert by a constant stream of joyous well wishers all through the evening and have even taken a short walk about the camp, although not so far as I thought to. My knee is simply wrenched, but it is only painless when it is being left well alone and together with my ribs it is irksome indeed. The elves seem quite content to bring me all that I need: my friends come to visit, although Almárean must not be moved and I must make do with word of him only. I will go to him when I am able. Until then I am happy enough to sit as I am, to rest and to doze in the warmth of a fire. I believe I have earned it.

When my friend wakes I know that he rouses from poor dreams… his eyes are straight to his stars.

He does not know that I watch, his mind is not yet fully where it should be and I see honesty upon his countenance as he never shows any of us. He is afraid, he is so very deeply weary and there is darkness in his eyes that I have not seen there before. It is raw, and it is painful to see. The years sit so heavily upon him right now… I do not know how he bears it.

I clear my throat to alert him to my presence, and turn away to grant him privacy so that he may do whatever he must to rid his eyes of that look. When I turn again he is himself. He is not the Legolas that left his father's palace just a few short weeks ago, but then I do not believe that I am the same Gimli. Ever are we changing… more so than most people.

I meet his eyes and there are no words, for there are far too many. There are too many thanks, one to the other. Too much gratitude, too much to say and so we will never get to speak what we truly mean. I do not think he can put it into words, and I know I cannot. I cannot think for a moment how to speak of the value his presence by my side holds, how in awe I am of the strength he has shown, how thankful I am that he sat by me in the darkness for that whole time. How thankful I am that he is my friend, and that we are both still here.

He smiles, but for a moment his resolve wavers and he scrubs the heel of one hand against his eye angrily. He looks away.

There is food there for him and he shoves it to one side.

"You will eat that, Legolas," I inform him, clearing my throat until my voice sounds right again. It is not a suggestion. "You will eat that, or I will call your men and they will help me to feed it to you."

The look that I am given now is colder even than the touch of the Shadow, but I do not blink beneath his glare and he reads the truth in me. I will do it, by Eru I will, and so he retrieves the food and begins to pick at it. He is unenthusiastic at first, but he has not eaten in many days and finally he finds his appetite again. I watch him like a hawk and do not speak until he has finished every morsel. I hand him water when he casts about looking for it.

Sated, he shuffles and grimaces about until he lies propped up against a pack next to me. Side by side we lie, looking up at the starlight. Bracketed by a frame of shadowy trees the sky spreads above us, huge and endless, and all about does the story of the elves sing to those who can hear it. It is thing of wonder and I wish, not for the first time, that I could hear the Song of Elbereth. There is the faintest chill in the air, and although we are not alone it feels as though it is just he and I here, upon these damp grasses watching the stars.

"You told me an untruth, Gimli," he accuses, although there is no heat to it. "You did not tell me that Almárean was so hurt."

"I did no such thing," I deny. "You asked of Idhren, who was quite well. You needed no further elaboration. In any case, I do not expect to hear a word from you about untruths."

"I am nothing but honesty itself!" he splutters.

"Then tell me how you fare, in honesty."

"I am perfectly well," is the arch reply, but I turn my head slightly to one side and I see a grin upon his face. I snort. I believe that my point is made.

Legolas holds his hands up and they are dark shadows against the light of the stars. They are heavily bound, but if I know my elf then I know that the bandages will be gone by the time that the sun is risen. He cannot abide being trussed this way.

"How do they feel?" I ask him, and it is not his words but his tone that heartens me when he responds. He is full of amazement… of wonder.

"They hurt," he tells me, "but it is the hurt that I should feel. I have spent so long with them poisoned as they were that it is a strange feeling indeed now, to be free of it. It is well, for I am more worn than I have ever felt in all of my days. I do not think I could have borne it if I had woken and felt any trace of the Shadow still within me; I have not the strength for it."

"How did you manage it, Legolas?" I ask him. I must know! "From where did you find such resolve? I thought you might fade days before we battled the Shadow, yet always you managed just one more day, one more night… just one more dawn."

He shrugs one shoulder, the barest of movements, and I try not to let it bother me. It is a mystery, something I cannot make sense of in my mind or my heart, but to him it is nothing.

"I imagine that you are stronger of will now than you were as a child," he tells me. "Then stronger again since your beard grew in, stronger more since even this time last summer. It is the same with the Firstborn… we have had many years in which we have grown within – although there is little to show for it without – and I am fortunate for I had my friends with me. All the strength of will in the world is worth not a thing if there is naught to fight for. It is easier when others fight beside you."

He turns his head and smiles, and I cannot help but match the warmth of it. These smiles, these moments – they are how he has learned to tell me of my worth in a way that does not embarrass me. I had not noticed before.

"I had never thought to put myself through such pains to rescue an elf," I tell him truthfully. "And that is twice now, both within the same season. I know not how your father managed to keep you alive for so long; I am exhausted after so short a time!"

"You told me that I am worth the fight," he teases, but I do not join him in jest.

"You are, my friend." I tell him. I give him honesty, and for once it is I that has embarrassed him. He looks away, but when we are both looking again at the stars I see a pleased smile from the corner of my eye.

~{O}~

By the morning the elf is up and staggering about unaided, although if I am any different at all it is because I feel worse than I did yesterday. My mind is clear and I am well in myself, but my body disagrees quite strongly and every bruise thrills with my own heartbeat. Nevertheless I rise as well, because curse the elf... I will not be made to look a weakling beside him any longer.

We eat a hearty breakfast and whilst I sit eating I cannot help but consider the change in the weather. It has rained almost without cease during this ordeal, and now it is glorious. I am too hot already despite the early hour and I watch with envy as the elf has no compunction at all in wandering about bootless, in breeches and a light undershirt that makes him look even younger than he did already. He is pale and gaunt, and I can see even clearer now the weight that he has lost from his already spare frame: the bruises, the bandages that wrap about each of his hurts, but his smile… he has not yet stopped. It is as though he has been freed from something, as though his heart sings and it does me the world of good.

Even the archers – who rescued us, I know the truth of it now – have stopped giving him such a wide berth. His anger is swift and often forgotten quickly enough: he cannot truly feel anger at those who saved our lives, whether they disobeyed orders or not. They are also bandaged and limping but they are laegrim, and they hear only the Song of the wood and know only joy.

We are a field of wounded, some still have yet to wake, but we all live. I cannot imagine how we have been so fortunate.

"The stars have smiled upon us, Gimli," Legolas beams at me, returning to my side. How he reads my thoughts upon my face I have never been able to learn. "This could have gone badly indeed, yet all who set out will return again. I could never have hoped for such a thing."

"Perhaps Eru tires of losing those born first," I offer, only half in jest. "Immortality is something precious, and not to be wasted. Not now… not when all that is left is for you to sail home."

"No life is worth more or less than another," he shakes his head, but I can see the moment in which he pushes such thoughts aside. Now is not the time for gloominess, there will be many nights ahead of us in which to examine such things. "Will you walk with me?"

"I will attempt it," I take a deep breath, "although I know not how successful I might be."

He helps me upright and my breath catches in my throat as my knee, my ribs and every bruise upon me cries out and calls me the foolish dwarf that I am, but after a while the movement helps. I have stiffened almost to stone, but as I limp around the clearing that has become our camp I feel much more myself.

We visit each elf, we take time to spare a few words of gratitude and strength to every one of them. They are deferent to their prince but there is also respect toward me. I do not know what to do with it, and so I nod curtly and hide my embarrassment with gruffness as I ever do.

We come to where Almárean is, but he sleeps. He looks in poor condition indeed to my eyes but Idhren is there to reassure me that he heals – slowly, aye but his injury is grave and he will need time. I do not know whether Almárean will ever return to his duties, but if I know this elf as I believe I do then I know there is a hearty fight ahead of any who tells him he cannot.

We come now to where we had been destined all along, and although I drag my heels we come to the edge of the ruins as we were always going to come eventually. I stop and I gasp, and my mind cannot resolve what I see.

We stand upon a precipice, and all around me is burned to ash.

The flames caught this side of the ridge, Legolas tells me. We lay below whilst all above burned, and I could almost laugh that such a close brush with my own mortality was in fact the thing that saved us both. The elves could not hear us, they could not approach, but after a day and a night the fires had burned themselves out and the returning archers heard us, we were found. Legolas' tireless hope saved us both.

Beyond the ridge before me and past the new ravine stretches a land ravaged as if by the fury of the Valar themselves. As far as my own sight reaches there is nothing but ruin: a deep crater within the land, with it all crushed and broken into pieces within. I can see the snapped and burned trees, like twigs now within the rubble. I can see huge slabs of land twisted and sunken, reaching up to the sky like broken bones. It is huge and devastating, and I cannot think of a single thing to say about it. I can still smell the smoke, I can hear the roar of the fire and the screaming of the land calling from my memory and I shudder to think what nearly befell us. How have we escaped this?

"This will be a lake one day, I imagine," Legolas speaks, and I can believe that he is correct. He is wistful, and I wonder if he feels sadness that he will not be here to see it. "The Shadow will not burn forever, but it does my heart well to know that the stone in which it now dwells will be covered by deep waters. There is much mischief to be made by curious men; this should keep them safe for a long while."

"And when they ask themselves: 'what caused such a place?' I cannot imagine they will ever think of a thing close to what happened here."

"It is best that it is forgotten," he tells me, and despite the charred ground and thick ash, he sits with a grimace. His legs dangle into the crevice that was nearly our tomb, but he is careful that he does not look down. I do not wish to think on what memories he will take from his time in the ravine.

"If men are good at anything," I tell him, groaning mightily as I also inch my way to the blackened ground beside him. "Then it is forgetting things. Are you well though Legolas, in truth? Do not lie to me this time; I must know."

He looks out at the devastation before us, but it is not the ugliness that he sees. I know him well enough to know that. I try to see it as he does; the perfect blue of the sky, the verdant life beyond this ruin, the birds that dance and trill upon the air. I try to see it through his eyes, and I feel hope rising within me.

"You will laugh at me, I fear," he speaks, "but I may need much distraction for a while my friend."

I manage not to laugh but my eyebrows vanish into my hairline. His face twists with a self deprecating smile and he waves one hand, he knows well how strange that sounds.

"I know," he sighs. "One who knows only distraction asking to be distracted; I realise how it must sound to you, but I hear the Shadow still and I see things differently than I did. It sleeps now: I see its dreams and foul things they are… I cannot block them out. I cannot always free my mind from what is real and what are the thoughts of the Shadow. I will find peace in Valinor, I know it, but until then I must seek distraction in good things."

"Then never again will I mock you for it," I tell him. "You may gape at the sky and walk as one brainless as much as you need."

"I would thank you if I believed it for even a moment," he glances at me from the corner of his eye, and I cannot argue. He is correct. I will continue to mock him just as I always have. Perhaps he needs that as well.

We are quiet for a while, and I find myself captivated by the sight before us. It is a thing of wonder: that we have wrought such devastation upon the land. It feels like we have broken something sacred… that we had no right to bring down such destruction, but I truly believe that it was worth it.

"When we were in the ravine," I speak, unsure of my words but speaking in any case. "When I was dreaming, I heard you talking to me. I heard you speak of the thoughts and memories of the Shadow: that it shared a history with my people."

He shifts uncomfortably. I do not believe that he imagined I was listening. He thinks awhile, clears his throat and brings his arms about him as though he is cold… as though he feels a need to protect himself.

"Aye," he says eventually. "I know little about it: the Shadow had forgotten much of its own tale, but I saw enough. It is a remnant, a castoff. Aulë made the dwarves and then set them to slumber beneath the earth where they were believed safe, but they were not safe from Morgoth just as the first elves were not safe. Even Gollum was once one of the River Folk – many things of the dark were first born to light."

I shudder. I heard him right, it seems. My mind is swiftly becoming cluttered with thoughts and knowledge that I do not wish to have, and this is another thing I push away. I cannot feel pity for the Shadow – I cannot feel pity after what has been done. I feel the knowledge fighting to be considered, struggling to push to the fore of my mind but I will allow it no quarter. Again, this is not something to be thought of here and now. For just a while longer I wish to feel only relief and joy… I am tired of having such a heavy heart.

"Come," he says, getting to his feet. "I have something to show you."

"You could not have thought to show me before I sat down?" I mutter beneath my breath, struggling back to my feet. His hand is there to help, and I take it.

He leads me back, away from black thoughts and ash to the camp, past our friends and comrades. We walk slowly, taking in the air and the sunlight, and I still am not yet used to this feeling. It is not the sense of being a part of something, for I have felt that before amongst the elves. Neither is it the simplicity of their lives, as difficult as they are. I have become well used to the knowledge that I need not be anything other than I am, no more than Gimli, to be welcomed here. It is none of these things that I must overcome: it is the sense that we are in no hurry, nor are we in any danger. It has been such a short space of time, a blink of the eye next to the time that we spent on the quest for the ring but never did it feel so personal. This battle with the Shadow has been different – a very different thing indeed, and now we are done with it.

"I wish I could feel relief," Legolas speaks. Again! Again he sees my thoughts and it is disconcerting, but nothing I am not used to. "It is difficult to imagine that we are free of it when it is like a moth, stirring in the back of my mind whenever I believe that we are rid of it."

"Time will heal all, Legolas. Even the Eldar feel the benefit of its passing, and although the horror of these last weeks will not fade for you as they will for me, I am certain that as all wounds scar and lessen, so too will this."

He nods. He can only hope for it, and I hope just as he does. I do not wish my friend to suffer at the hand of this creature for a moment longer than he has, but there are some things upon which we hold no sway or control. He grips my good shoulder and I pat softly at his hand – as I imagined, they are unbound already – and we walk on toward where the horses are tethered behind the trees.

"I asked to be the one to tell you," he grins at me as we approach and I look to him for an answer as to where we go. He says little more, for there is a squeal and a great hue and cry from the elves that tend to the beasts, and then I am quite overcome by the joy of what I see.

There is a small red horse there, rearing and fighting her way free. A small red horse who is suddenly loose from her tethers and bearing down toward me with a cavort and a squeal of pleasure, and I am weeping. Weeping… over this!

Naurwen is torn and hurt indeed, but she has been well looked after. When she reaches me I am barrelled to the ground and I sit there on my behind, weeping for joy as she bites at my hair and then prances off a few paces. She runs a full circle around me, props and then bounds heavily in the other direction but then she is back and nudging me, and away again. She dances like a filly, and when she comes to me again I hold onto her head and she allows it. I breathe in sweet grass scented air and she huffs and snorts at me, and when I press my own forehead to her much wider brow she stills and whickers softly. It is more than I can bear, and it is this last reunion that breaks my resolve. All of the tension and fear from the last weeks drains from me like an exhale, and I laugh like a child… like an elf.

I look up to see Legolas smiling at me, and he understands. As always, he understands.

"The archers found her; it was she that turned their course back to us. She will never know it, but in a way she saved our lives for a second time."

"What of Roch, and of Veren?"

His eyes are sad then, and he shakes his head.

"Of Veren there was no trace, and Roch did not survive her injuries. She was a good horse – I shall miss her very much."

They are our only casualties, and I should be joyful that it is only two horses that have been lost in this ordeal but I understand better now the bonds that can be formed between horse and rider. I am saddened – deeply so. Legolas knew his mare far longer than I have known Naurwen.

"It is well," he shakes his head. "I have lost many horses over the years, and will lose many more. It is unhappy indeed, but I treasure the time we had… she has a brother here who I believe I should like to ride home."

I spend a while then fussing over Naurwen. My injuries will not allow rough play and she understands in the way that some animals do, but by the time my stomach begins to complain in hunger I turn to find that Legolas has gone.

I find him back with Almárean and Idhren, and now Almárean is awake. His eyes are dull and pained and he cannot rise, but it is good to see him so and I settle myself down with my friends as though we simply camp out and have no cares at all. There is a hearty stew prepared and Legolas looks to where I glare at him, sighs greatly as though being done some injustice and eats all that he is given. I share a glance then with Almárean whose eyes are full of that look I have come to know so well – it is exasperation, and it is love. I have known this frustration for so little time and he has known it for unfathomable years. I say it again to myself – I do not know how he has not set to sail over this elfling.

We stay as we are for the rest of the day, talking of inconsequential things and delving only briefly into the darkness that we have known. Almárean sleeps often, and even Legolas dozes at times which gladdens me. I tell Idhren a tale, nothing of great note but we draw a small number of visitors during the telling and I am praised anew for my skill. I tell another one when I am done, because we are all in need of distraction in some way or another.

I find that I am surplus to requirements when it is time to change bandages. I have my own changed, and then must sit by quite uselessly as my friends go through the same treatment. I cannot help but stifle a gasp when I see Legolas' bindings removed – he is a riot of vicious bruising and I know that some of it came by my hand. There is a rend down his back from shoulder to hip, and what I can only assume is a bite from one of the giant spiders upon his shoulder as well as other lesser slashes and scrapes. I did not know that he has borne such horrible injuries: his back is ugly and bloody, and when he meets my eyes I find that I must turn away. He does not wish me to see, he implores that I stay my tongue and so I must leave. I cannot remain here and also remain wordless, and so I leave to help some other elves in washing bandages.

When I return, Legolas has gone to the trees. I do not see him again this night.

~{O}~

We stay in the clearing another day, but by the time the sun rises again on the third such morning I see that the elves are all becoming restless. We will leave before the sun is much higher, I know it. They are greatly healed, even in such a short time, and even I am mostly myself again although I am still all over bruises and aches.

They begin to pack up camp without a decision ever being spoken and I help where I can. They are tidy and are anything but wasteful, and by the time we are in readiness the clearing does not look as though so many stayed here for so long.

Legolas alone is of the opinion that he is well enough to travel through the trees. He and Lord Ionwë have a heated discussion indeed, and although the elven General would never be disrespectful enough as to rebuke him in front of his men I am close enough to hear the argument, and my ears turn red from what I overhear. Legolas returns truculent and angry, but when he is handed the reins of a horse he says nothing on it. I know he wishes to, he has the look of one chewing upon a wasp but he holds his tongue and it is all I can do to stop myself from laughing.

It is quite apparent that the horse that Legolas has been handed is indeed of the same line as Roch. The stallion is larger than even she was, but shares her sweet temperament and is just as fine. He is a gleaming sable although all four legs have white stockings, and he regards Legolas with soulful and kind eyes. Legolas strokes at his nose with a sad look about him and I am told by one of the other elves that he is named 'Neleth'. I sigh.

"Legolas did you name this horse?" I demand, and there is a chorus of laughter. "'Three' is not a name, it is a number!"

"He was the third from his sire; the first is always named Roch. And I would ask you to spare me your opinions on how I name my horses."

He is in a poor mood now and swings himself up onto Neleth's back. I choke back a laugh as I similarly mount my horse, but Naurwen is only fit to ride providing I do so without a saddle and I am not as comfortable in this. It is Legolas' turn to smirk as I struggle upon her back with my knee, shoulder and ribs in the condition they are. I glance at him and am displeased with how much higher he is than I am, but we have little time left in which to upset one another. We take the rear, Lord Ionwë rides point and those archers fit enough to do so travel ahead as scouts.

The manner in which we journey away from this place is as dissimilar to the one in which we arrived as it is possible to be. We walk the horses, and we talk and laugh as we go.

Only Legolas and I spare a glance behind us as we leave, taking one last glance at the final resting place of our Shadow. It is strange: it feels as though we leave a part of us behind, and we share a look before we turn to put this place at our backs. It is sombre and silent, and full of meaning. We say nothing, for there is nothing to be said.

~{O}~

We walk the horses the whole day, and I would be a liar if I said that the pace does not frustrate me. I do not believe for a moment that I am well enough to handle a fast run, especially not the way the elves ride, but I have spent long indeed riding at breakneck pace with them. It feels unnatural now to be travelling so slowly.

It is made bearable by the constant stream of visitors that we have. Mostly it is Almárean and Idhren, who ride together and argue incessantly about the older elf's position as a passenger aboard their mount. He does not feel that he should have to ride thus, Legolas and Idhren disagree, and it is hours of wearisome sniping as they harangue their old protector and mentor. They bother and fuss over him, and it is like watching two old fish wives berating a tired old patriarch. In the end he falls silent and lets them speak amongst themselves as though he is not there: they discuss his faults and flaws as though there is no better entertainment and I catch his glance at one point. He has the long suffering look of one who has borne this before, but finds it no more bearable each time.

Faelwen rides with us for a while, and I find her company amusing and interesting as I ever do. She is sharp, this elf, and she notices things I had never thought to. She rides with Sidhion who I believed to be shy and retiring but I am proven wrong: he is merely watchful, and now that he sees me as a stranger no longer he is quick and light hearted. I find that I like him very much.

When Legolas first begins to sing I am taken aback for a moment – it has been a while since he has sung any song so light hearted – but the others join in and I am content merely to listen. It is a song I have heard before – a waysong – and I know enough of their tongue to know the words. It feels good to be a part of their journey as a friend and not an outsider.

When Lord Ionwë joins us the conversation becomes far more subdued and respectful, but I find that where I am careful of this elf and I mind my words, I do not fear him as I did. I understand him better than I ever thought to and where once I saw rudeness and cruelty, now I see that he is too old and too tired to dress his words. He speaks plainly: he is aloof because this separates himself from his men, and so he can be what they need him to be. He does not do this with Legolas – not in the same way – and although I appreciate how frank they are with one another I cringe at times at how guileless their words can be. They are forthright indeed, but it is softened and I did not see it before. I hear now something else behind their words: it is history, and it is trust.

We do not speak a single word when we pass the clearing in which I lost my friend. There are no words; each of us feels differently toward it but none of us feel well. To us it is where we watched our friend die – to our friend it is where he lost his own personal battle. Here we found Idhren again, here he was returned to us but much else was destroyed and so we say nothing at all. What we feel is too tangled to make sense of just yet.

When we settle for the night it is in a place that holds no deeper meaning for any of us. We first passed this way at a run, and so it is just a clearing… just a wood. A few of the more injured elves drop into sleep almost straight away, although there is the ever present battle to change their bandages. I help to cook and Legolas joins a few of his laegrim friends in a foray about the trees. I can hear their laughter from where I am and it does me well indeed to hear them.

I take much time in grooming Naurwen. One of the elves has brought brushes and combs and I borrow them with thanks, and then set to make my lady gleam and shine. I am careful about her injuries but she takes great delight in the attention, and I feel the tension in me drain and fade as I put my mind at rest. I brush and I brush, because it feels good to me to do so.

I take a walk in the twilight when the moths are about and the treetops are black against an indigo velvet sky. The stars are showing and the day cools, although not a breath of air stirs to shift the heat. It will be a warm night, but I take pleasure in the scent and sound of nightfall in the forest.

The elf has not returned with his friends and I do not walk to seek him out, but I find him in any case. I find him practising at blade beneath the trees, and so I make myself at ease against the bole of a tree where the grass is deep and cool. This is not combat, he does not practise to hone his skill or to test his abilities. This is slow… it is a graceful movement of limb and sinew with his blades a shining extension of him. He reflects the light of Elbereth: he is lit by a faint pale nimbus and so he is like a wraith of silver and shadow. He is thinking. I have only ever seen him do this when he is deepest in thought.

I clear my throat loudly breaking the moment of peace, but I am ignored. I fidget and I tut and eventually he drops his hands to his side, bowing his head and seeking his patience.

"Is there something I might help you with, Gimli?" he asks me. His words are polite, but his tone is not.

I wish to point out to him that he has managed mere days before allowing himself to sink into his thoughts. I wish to say that he must do much better than this if he is to remain years yet on these shores. I would say that he must take some responsibility for keeping his own mind from falling in upon itself so easily, for I will not always be around to seek him out in this way. All of this I wish to say, but none of it comes from my mouth.

"Are we to return to the palace?" I ask, and then huff: "come closer, I cannot see you."

It is with a great sigh that he approaches, and he sounds like a put upon child but he does as I ask. He does not sit beside me but rather climbs lightly and gracefully up onto a low hanging branch. I could tug at his trouser leg if I were but to reach up, and so I do.

"You said we might go to Minas Tirith, and that I might drink ale and smoke pipe weed along the way."

"I did not say that I particularly wished to."

"Aye, but neither did you refuse it."

"I thought we were to die, Gimli. I would have objected more strongly had I known that it may actually be expected of me."

"Very well," I huff and fold my arms about me. "Let us return to your father so that I might watch you shoot arrows until the winter. We should hurry; I am missing vital moments of it!"

"Peace, Gimli!" he laughs at my rising ire, and his laughter is an instant balm. "I meant no seriousness, I swear it. If it is your wish then we will go to Minas Tirith to see that filthy Ranger, and if I must choke and wheeze through pipe smoke the whole road there then that is how it shall be."

Abashed, I unfold my arms and play with the grass at my sides. I pull at it and let it drift back to the ground, not a breath of wind stirs it.

"Of course," he adds wryly. "We must first escape our guards."

He is right – I had not thought on it. I am quite sure that the elves we are travelling with believe he is going nowhere other than directly to the Healers, there to stay for a long while yet. I do not know how he is going to persuade them otherwise. If he is to be bound across a horse to get him home I know that they will have no compunction in doing so, and I know that I cannot fight off so much as a chill right now. I cannot rescue him from this many warriors.

My silence must speak loudly indeed for he answers my thoughts.

"Pah!" he dismisses, and I hear him shift until he leans back quite comfortably. I have never understood how he does not fall out of trees more often. "I have escaped my watchers enough times to know how: of those that travel with us I must only be wary of Almárean, Idhren and Lord Ionwë. Almárean is too sick, Idhren is too busy fretting about him and Ionwë has his own concerns over his men and the inevitable argument he is to have with my father upon our return."

I have my own thoughts on this but I do not share them. The three that he speaks of are watching him far closer than he realises. This elf is sensitive indeed to his surroundings: he sees much and misses little… and yet he can be so very blind. I do not mention it; I do not wish to make him think for even a moment on why he is watched. He is in a buoyant mood and I have missed this part of him.

"What of me?" I ask instead. "Not all of us can disappear so stealthily, nor flee so swiftly. I can hardly float away upon the breeze whilst they glance elsewhere!"

He snorts. I have not missed that.

"It would be a stiff breeze indeed to carry you anyplace."

I tug on his trouser leg again but this time far harder, and he yelps as he has to right himself suddenly or else fall. His yelp turns into both a complaint of discomfort and a laugh at the same time. He settles back into the tree with a groan that dissolves into a soft huff of amusement. I am not sorry for jarring his injuries – I know well enough that he can handle it – but I am pleased to make him laugh just as I always am. He retrieves his leg away from my reach.

We are silent for a time before the elf begins to hum beneath his breath, but it is no cheerful tune. He harbours dark thoughts I know it, but he hides it as he always does. He is not the only one that can read the hearts of his friends. I take his mind away from whatever darkness the Shadow pulls him toward just as his voice kept me from my own darkness.

"I believe that Aragorn will have much to say to you when we reach Minas Tirith," I tell him, and he snorts again.

"Aragorn only believes himself frightening," Legolas dismisses. "He may be a great ruler of men, but I carried him to bed as a child. It is difficult to feel intimidated by one who has quite heartily emptied his stomach into one of your boots – do not let Estel eat blackberries Gimli, they do not sit well with him."

It is an unexpected image and I cannot help but laugh. I wonder whether Ionwë has similar tales to tell of my friend here, and I resolve to ask him one day. I believe I should like to know more of the child that became this warrior, of the elf that has saved me in so many ways.

There is a breath of wind and the trees shift and whisper. I tilt my face to the air and it feels good upon my skin; cool and green with the scent of the wood. I can imagine an eternity beneath these trees – I believe that the elves thought they would walk here forever, but one day the oak and the elm that we rest beneath will age and fade. Those that replace them will not know the voices of the elves, and they will be as silent as the stone. What use a voice if there are none to hear it?

"What does this tree speak of, Legolas?" I ask him, because the tales of the trees seem important to me now. They are dancing, flighty things and they do not have the heart or the permanence that stone holds for me, but I wish to know. I cannot see the tales told by the stars nor hear the silver-green Song, but I have my friend here to tell me of it. I am lucky indeed.

"It speaks of the dawn," he tells me. "It speaks of the light that comes after the dark: it knows joy, and it knows hope."

I smile although I know the elf cannot see, and I reach behind me to touch the bark that I lean against. I speak to it, although I know it cannot hear me.

I know it too.

THE END.

I can't believe it's finally all posted! I'm actually a bit emotional about this!

Well, I really hoped you enjoyed the story, from beginning to this... the end. I'm going to be taking a bit of a break but there will be a few one shots coming, I'm not vanishing after this. There are a lot of tales of Legolas and Gimli still floating around in my head so keep in touch.

This is being posted much earlier in the day than I usually post as I've been told I have to be ready for 1 o'clock to go and do... something. I'm a bit nervous about this. Last night at the pub I was told it was scuba diving, spelunking, swimming with dolphins (followed up by alligator wrestling) paragliding, abseiling and rock climbing. I don't wish to die on my birthday, and I'm only *mostly* sure that my friends are messing with me. Wish me luck!

I'd love to get a good surge of reviews to this epilogue, just to wave it a fond farewell. It's been quite a labour of love and I've been asked if this now means my friends are going to see a bit more of me. I had no idea I've been so reclusive. Oops!

Thank you all for being there: for your excited reviews and your long reviews, for calling me mean names and putting up with my fondness for a good cliff hanger. Thanks for the PMs and the encouragement - I've enjoyed telling this tale and will see you all really soon.

Have a wonderful day

MyselfOnly