Night Is Falling Chapter Two
Title: Night Is Falling - Chapter Two - Quiet Harmony
Author: Piratelf
Type: Fictional Person Fic - Mixed Bookverse and Movieverse
Summary: Preparation for the Procession.
Disclaimer: Legolas and Gimli belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit will be made from this work.
Warnings: Angst
Beta: CaptainoGondor
Chapter 1 - Troubled Sleep
Chapter 2
Quiet Harmony
Legolas was wakened the next morning by birdsong and sunshine. The day was beautiful. He looked over at Gimli who still slept. He’d always been a bit of a snorer, and it used to be somewhat irritating to Legolas. In the last few years, however, the Dwarf moved less in his sleep, and the dull roar was a reassuring testament that he still drew breath.
Legolas got up, walked into the adjoining chamber and checked the temperature of the bath water. He’d filled the wooden tub the night before with clean water from the spring, and let the water sit overnight. Extreme temperatures didn’t bother the Elf, but Gimli couldn’t abide cold water.
‘Still a bit cool,’ he thought. He took a copper pot and filled it from the tub. Walking back into the bed chamber to set the pot over the fire, Gimli spoke.
“The page boys have brought in all of your frills and frippery, lad.” He indicted Legolas’ princely circlet and robes.
The Elf looked at the smooth fabric and fingered the freshly polished mithril. A frown wrinkled his brow. “Arwen must have had them come and get these yesterday. I wouldn’t have bothered them over it. I intended to take care of it myself.”
“More likely Eldarion, taking care of his old uncles.” Gimli held up the large gold beads that adorned his hair and beard for formal occasions. They too had been polished.
Legolas offered a small smile, “Yes, I suppose so. He would remember such a thing.”
“Aye, He’s always been a considerate child. He’ll be a good king.” The Dwarf stretched, his bones popped in their joints.
“A nice soak will do you good,” Legolas said, adding rose petals and lavender to the simmering water.
“That’s enough of that,” Gimli directed him. “I don’t need to spend the day smelling like an Elf’s garden!”
Legolas sighed, but left the rest of the flowers whole and returned them to their vase. He unbraided his hair while he waited for the water to boil.
Gimli looked out the window. “Terrible day for a funeral.”
“You’d rather have the procession in the wet and cold?” Legolas enquired.
Gimli wasn’t much in the mood either to explain, or to be baited. “The water’s gone to boil, Elf.”
Legolas nodded, “Only just, though.” He moved behind Gimli to take out the long braid in his hair, while the Dwarf dealt with his beard.
“Have you given thought to returning to Ithilien?” Gimli asked him.
“I haven’t. I’ll go if you wish, but I think we should stay for a few more days.” Legolas finished with Gimli’s hair and went to get the boiling water.
“It makes me no difference,” Gimli shrugged out of his night shirt and followed the Elf.
Legolas poured the boiling water into the tub and stirred it with his hand. “It’s an even temperature, Master Dwarf.”
Gimli grunted and approached the tub, after testing the water himself he nodded his approval. Legolas put one hand at Gimli’s waist and offered the Dwarf his other arm, which Gimli used to push himself over the side of the tub. They both knew of course that the largest share of the work was done by Legolas, lifting the Dwarf up at the hip, but the motion was choreographed to let Gimli keep his pride. Too many battles and too many winters had long ago stolen much of the flexibility from Gimli’s muscles and joints, and they had discovered three years before that his sturdy Dwarven bones were far more prone to break and longer to mend than in his youth. Worse, they now kept the memory of every ache and pain and gave Gimli many unwanted reminders.
“Aaaaahhh,” Gimli sighed contentedly as he sank beneath the water.
Legolas grinned from behind him. As Gimli relaxed, Legolas scrubbed his friend’s back and washed his hair, two chores that had become increasingly difficult for Gimli. Axe wielding took its toll on the shoulders, and Gimli’s had decided their days of raising the arms above the head had come to an end.
After he had rinsed Gimli’s hair, Legolas stepped into the other end of the tub and performed his own ablutions, hoping he could somehow wash away the memory of his nightmare as well. Once finished, he exited the tub and rubbed himself dry with one of the many towels which had been so thoughtfully piled in the room, undoubtedly also at Eldarion’s request.
Gimli watched as Legolas sat to brush and braid his golden hair. He was, at times, envious of the Elf’s enduring youth, jealous of his still flexible body and unfailing senses, not to mention his eternal Elven beauty. Certainly there were days that Gimli would give anything to be the Dwarf he was sixty years ago. But mostly he took comfort in his body’s signs that his work was almost finished, his mine nearly tapped out, his war soon won. He knew that the time would come for him to leave this realm and join his ancestors to live as the beloved of Mahal in eternal bliss. There was no reason to fear this new stage of existence, and, had he never met Legolas, it would never have been an occasion for much sadness either, for every Dwarf he knew or ever had known would surely be there, if not to greet him when he entered, then he would greet them as they entered.
But now, he regretted that he would be leaving Legolas alone, to an unknown fate. Though Thranduil was Sindarin, Legolas had lived as a Wood Elf, and had never been to the Undying Lands. Most wood Elves simply stayed in Middle-earth, but Legolas had heard the gull’s cry and so he was stricken with the sea longing, and staying indefinitely wasn’t an option for him. Even staying this long had pained him. Gimli had seen it in his face when he would sit for long periods, staring out toward the sea. Would Legolas spend a lonely eternity in the West among strange Elves who regarded the place as home? But certainly the Elves would take him in, befriend him and comfort him and make him one of their own - wouldn’t they? Ah, but Galadriel would be there, and surely the Lady of Light would not allow Legolas to wander alone and be sad.
“Gimli, what thought has your brow so furrowed?” Legolas roused him from his reverie.
“I was just wondering, why it is you braid your hair so differently for funerals than you usually do. Is it a mourning braid?” Gimli answered, not wishing to reveal his true thought, and to be honest, he had been curious.
Legolas laughed softly. “No, we Elves have too little experience with death to devise a mourning braid. The truth is,” Legolas lowered his voice, “ it keeps the circlet from falling off.”
Gimli laughed as well. “I see, the secrets of royalty, eh?”
“Shhh!” Legolas admonished him. “Never tell!”
“Upon my word,” Gimli promised. “But now I feel I am becoming well and truly waterlogged.” He stood and Legolas was instantly at his side, helping him from the tub and wrapping him in a towel to ward off chill.
Gimli was then bustled to a rug before the fire, where Legolas had placed the remaining stack of towels while the Dwarf was deep in thought. Gimli took one up and rubbed at his beard, while Legolas briskly dried his hair. That done, Legolas brought Gimli’s clothing to him. As Gimli worked his way into his leggings, Legolas took up his own and dressed. He sat then before a polished mirror and set his circlet upon his brow, then finished the braiding he had started earlier. That finished, he went back to the fire to help Gimli with his boots. Then it was the Dwarf’s turn before the mirror.
He passed one comb back to Legolas, who stood behind him, and took up the other for himself. He tamed the snarls of his moustache and beard while his friend did the same with his hair.
“Legolas, do you remember the first time you braided my hair?” Gimli asked, and the Elf laughed in answer. “I wondered what was taking so long.”
“Well I knew what it was supposed to look like, but I’d never made such a thick braid before! It was unnatural to my fingers!”
“It looked like I had some huge fishbone hanging down my back!” Gimli roared at the memory.
“It did not!” Legolas cuffed the Dwarven ear. He remembered well that day. Gimli had broken his hand when their horse, Arod, stopped abruptly to avoid a low tree branch and threw them. The Dwarf had refused all help at mealtimes and with any other chores, but the Elf knew, when the morning came it would be a different story. Despite all stubbornness and determination, one simply cannot braid with one hand. Finally Gimli had asked, in a typically impolite fashion.
“I suppose it would be beneath an Elf, and a prince at that,
to braid the hair of a mere Dwarf?!” he’d demanded.
“You need only ask,” Legolas had replied.
“Well, I’ve asked. What are you standing there for!”
Legolas remembered the hair he’d braided that first time had been the same rich russet brown as when they’d first met. Over the years he’d watched it fade to a sandy strawberry, then a pale gold, finally turning to the silver white beneath his fingers now. He hated it.
“OUCH!” Gimli shouted. “What are you pulling at, pointy ear?!”
“I’m sorry, Gimli,” Legolas hastily apologized, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Gimli harrumphed his acceptance of the apology. Legolas finished combing and came around to Gimli’s side, where he began braiding one side of the moustache into the four tiny plaits that would eventually flow into the thick braid of the beard.
“I’ve been thinking. We should stay. We should see Eldarion crowned,” Gimli said.
“I felt we should as well. Especially as he’ll have no other family elders there.”
Gimli stared at Legolas in the mirror. “You’re forgetting his mother.”
Legolas looked up and sadly met the reflection of Gimli’s eyes, held the gaze for a long moment, then returned to his work.
“Will she die soon?” Gimli asked, quietly.
“It is her decision when to lie down, but the light left her eyes as soon as he left her arms.” Legolas slipped a gold bead into the moustache, then went to the other side to repeat the process.
Gimli began where Legolas had stopped, weaving the moustache into the beard in a thick braid. “She’ll leave her children?”
“Her ‘children’ are full grown, and many Elves have died from heartsickness. There isn’t a question of it being a choice, any more than it would be a choice for a Dwarf to die from a bodysickness.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. “Enter,” Legolas called.
A page boy opened the door and bowed. “I was sent to ask if you needed anything, my lords.”
“Nothing, thank you,” Gimli answered absently, still pondering the fatal effects of heartsickness on an Elf.
“His Majesty’s procession will be leaving directly.” The page bowed again and left.
Legolas placed the second bead, and then donned his ornate outer tunic. When Gimli had finished his beard, they left the chamber and went to take their places.
Chapter 3 - Doleful Duty
Author: Piratelf
Type: Fictional Person Fic - Mixed Bookverse and Movieverse
Summary: Preparation for the Procession.
Disclaimer: Legolas and Gimli belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit will be made from this work.
Warnings: Angst
Beta: CaptainoGondor
Chapter 1 - Troubled Sleep
Chapter 2
Quiet Harmony
Legolas was wakened the next morning by birdsong and sunshine. The day was beautiful. He looked over at Gimli who still slept. He’d always been a bit of a snorer, and it used to be somewhat irritating to Legolas. In the last few years, however, the Dwarf moved less in his sleep, and the dull roar was a reassuring testament that he still drew breath.
Legolas got up, walked into the adjoining chamber and checked the temperature of the bath water. He’d filled the wooden tub the night before with clean water from the spring, and let the water sit overnight. Extreme temperatures didn’t bother the Elf, but Gimli couldn’t abide cold water.
‘Still a bit cool,’ he thought. He took a copper pot and filled it from the tub. Walking back into the bed chamber to set the pot over the fire, Gimli spoke.
“The page boys have brought in all of your frills and frippery, lad.” He indicted Legolas’ princely circlet and robes.
The Elf looked at the smooth fabric and fingered the freshly polished mithril. A frown wrinkled his brow. “Arwen must have had them come and get these yesterday. I wouldn’t have bothered them over it. I intended to take care of it myself.”
“More likely Eldarion, taking care of his old uncles.” Gimli held up the large gold beads that adorned his hair and beard for formal occasions. They too had been polished.
Legolas offered a small smile, “Yes, I suppose so. He would remember such a thing.”
“Aye, He’s always been a considerate child. He’ll be a good king.” The Dwarf stretched, his bones popped in their joints.
“A nice soak will do you good,” Legolas said, adding rose petals and lavender to the simmering water.
“That’s enough of that,” Gimli directed him. “I don’t need to spend the day smelling like an Elf’s garden!”
Legolas sighed, but left the rest of the flowers whole and returned them to their vase. He unbraided his hair while he waited for the water to boil.
Gimli looked out the window. “Terrible day for a funeral.”
“You’d rather have the procession in the wet and cold?” Legolas enquired.
Gimli wasn’t much in the mood either to explain, or to be baited. “The water’s gone to boil, Elf.”
Legolas nodded, “Only just, though.” He moved behind Gimli to take out the long braid in his hair, while the Dwarf dealt with his beard.
“Have you given thought to returning to Ithilien?” Gimli asked him.
“I haven’t. I’ll go if you wish, but I think we should stay for a few more days.” Legolas finished with Gimli’s hair and went to get the boiling water.
“It makes me no difference,” Gimli shrugged out of his night shirt and followed the Elf.
Legolas poured the boiling water into the tub and stirred it with his hand. “It’s an even temperature, Master Dwarf.”
Gimli grunted and approached the tub, after testing the water himself he nodded his approval. Legolas put one hand at Gimli’s waist and offered the Dwarf his other arm, which Gimli used to push himself over the side of the tub. They both knew of course that the largest share of the work was done by Legolas, lifting the Dwarf up at the hip, but the motion was choreographed to let Gimli keep his pride. Too many battles and too many winters had long ago stolen much of the flexibility from Gimli’s muscles and joints, and they had discovered three years before that his sturdy Dwarven bones were far more prone to break and longer to mend than in his youth. Worse, they now kept the memory of every ache and pain and gave Gimli many unwanted reminders.
“Aaaaahhh,” Gimli sighed contentedly as he sank beneath the water.
Legolas grinned from behind him. As Gimli relaxed, Legolas scrubbed his friend’s back and washed his hair, two chores that had become increasingly difficult for Gimli. Axe wielding took its toll on the shoulders, and Gimli’s had decided their days of raising the arms above the head had come to an end.
After he had rinsed Gimli’s hair, Legolas stepped into the other end of the tub and performed his own ablutions, hoping he could somehow wash away the memory of his nightmare as well. Once finished, he exited the tub and rubbed himself dry with one of the many towels which had been so thoughtfully piled in the room, undoubtedly also at Eldarion’s request.
Gimli watched as Legolas sat to brush and braid his golden hair. He was, at times, envious of the Elf’s enduring youth, jealous of his still flexible body and unfailing senses, not to mention his eternal Elven beauty. Certainly there were days that Gimli would give anything to be the Dwarf he was sixty years ago. But mostly he took comfort in his body’s signs that his work was almost finished, his mine nearly tapped out, his war soon won. He knew that the time would come for him to leave this realm and join his ancestors to live as the beloved of Mahal in eternal bliss. There was no reason to fear this new stage of existence, and, had he never met Legolas, it would never have been an occasion for much sadness either, for every Dwarf he knew or ever had known would surely be there, if not to greet him when he entered, then he would greet them as they entered.
But now, he regretted that he would be leaving Legolas alone, to an unknown fate. Though Thranduil was Sindarin, Legolas had lived as a Wood Elf, and had never been to the Undying Lands. Most wood Elves simply stayed in Middle-earth, but Legolas had heard the gull’s cry and so he was stricken with the sea longing, and staying indefinitely wasn’t an option for him. Even staying this long had pained him. Gimli had seen it in his face when he would sit for long periods, staring out toward the sea. Would Legolas spend a lonely eternity in the West among strange Elves who regarded the place as home? But certainly the Elves would take him in, befriend him and comfort him and make him one of their own - wouldn’t they? Ah, but Galadriel would be there, and surely the Lady of Light would not allow Legolas to wander alone and be sad.
“Gimli, what thought has your brow so furrowed?” Legolas roused him from his reverie.
“I was just wondering, why it is you braid your hair so differently for funerals than you usually do. Is it a mourning braid?” Gimli answered, not wishing to reveal his true thought, and to be honest, he had been curious.
Legolas laughed softly. “No, we Elves have too little experience with death to devise a mourning braid. The truth is,” Legolas lowered his voice, “ it keeps the circlet from falling off.”
Gimli laughed as well. “I see, the secrets of royalty, eh?”
“Shhh!” Legolas admonished him. “Never tell!”
“Upon my word,” Gimli promised. “But now I feel I am becoming well and truly waterlogged.” He stood and Legolas was instantly at his side, helping him from the tub and wrapping him in a towel to ward off chill.
Gimli was then bustled to a rug before the fire, where Legolas had placed the remaining stack of towels while the Dwarf was deep in thought. Gimli took one up and rubbed at his beard, while Legolas briskly dried his hair. That done, Legolas brought Gimli’s clothing to him. As Gimli worked his way into his leggings, Legolas took up his own and dressed. He sat then before a polished mirror and set his circlet upon his brow, then finished the braiding he had started earlier. That finished, he went back to the fire to help Gimli with his boots. Then it was the Dwarf’s turn before the mirror.
He passed one comb back to Legolas, who stood behind him, and took up the other for himself. He tamed the snarls of his moustache and beard while his friend did the same with his hair.
“Legolas, do you remember the first time you braided my hair?” Gimli asked, and the Elf laughed in answer. “I wondered what was taking so long.”
“Well I knew what it was supposed to look like, but I’d never made such a thick braid before! It was unnatural to my fingers!”
“It looked like I had some huge fishbone hanging down my back!” Gimli roared at the memory.
“It did not!” Legolas cuffed the Dwarven ear. He remembered well that day. Gimli had broken his hand when their horse, Arod, stopped abruptly to avoid a low tree branch and threw them. The Dwarf had refused all help at mealtimes and with any other chores, but the Elf knew, when the morning came it would be a different story. Despite all stubbornness and determination, one simply cannot braid with one hand. Finally Gimli had asked, in a typically impolite fashion.
“I suppose it would be beneath an Elf, and a prince at that,
to braid the hair of a mere Dwarf?!” he’d demanded.
“You need only ask,” Legolas had replied.
“Well, I’ve asked. What are you standing there for!”
Legolas remembered the hair he’d braided that first time had been the same rich russet brown as when they’d first met. Over the years he’d watched it fade to a sandy strawberry, then a pale gold, finally turning to the silver white beneath his fingers now. He hated it.
“OUCH!” Gimli shouted. “What are you pulling at, pointy ear?!”
“I’m sorry, Gimli,” Legolas hastily apologized, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Gimli harrumphed his acceptance of the apology. Legolas finished combing and came around to Gimli’s side, where he began braiding one side of the moustache into the four tiny plaits that would eventually flow into the thick braid of the beard.
“I’ve been thinking. We should stay. We should see Eldarion crowned,” Gimli said.
“I felt we should as well. Especially as he’ll have no other family elders there.”
Gimli stared at Legolas in the mirror. “You’re forgetting his mother.”
Legolas looked up and sadly met the reflection of Gimli’s eyes, held the gaze for a long moment, then returned to his work.
“Will she die soon?” Gimli asked, quietly.
“It is her decision when to lie down, but the light left her eyes as soon as he left her arms.” Legolas slipped a gold bead into the moustache, then went to the other side to repeat the process.
Gimli began where Legolas had stopped, weaving the moustache into the beard in a thick braid. “She’ll leave her children?”
“Her ‘children’ are full grown, and many Elves have died from heartsickness. There isn’t a question of it being a choice, any more than it would be a choice for a Dwarf to die from a bodysickness.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. “Enter,” Legolas called.
A page boy opened the door and bowed. “I was sent to ask if you needed anything, my lords.”
“Nothing, thank you,” Gimli answered absently, still pondering the fatal effects of heartsickness on an Elf.
“His Majesty’s procession will be leaving directly.” The page bowed again and left.
Legolas placed the second bead, and then donned his ornate outer tunic. When Gimli had finished his beard, they left the chamber and went to take their places.
Chapter 3 - Doleful Duty