A Time and Times and Half a Time: Part III
by Honesty
-----
Morgenlicht
The morning arises cold and grey over the ruins of Fangorn Forest,
and the still figures among the few remaining trees greet it with
raised faces, with hesitant, tentative optimism. The Orc-Elf in their
midst has not yet stirred.
"It is better so. He will be weaker if he wakes now," Gandalf mutters.
The glance he gets from the Dwarf is not kind. He pays it no heed,
save to be irritated anew by the Dwarf's contrariness. He has been
tempted many times this night to cast a sleep on the Dwarf, and had
not some warning from his heart forbade him, he might have done so.
He has returned with herbs of healing, of one kind or another, and he
and the Man are even now steeping and shredding them, their gazes
flickering often to the Elf and Dwarf before them.
The Dwarf looks away from them, purposely disregarding their fervid
activity. He watches only the figure before him, his eyes drawn
constantly from the scarred, scaly skin of the ruined body to the
pale, near-perfect Elven face, and back again. The welts and scars
that had marred the face are already almost gone; but if the body's
wounds are sealing themselves he has seen no sign of it. He watches,
memorising the faint motions of the unconscious body - the shallow
breathing, the way the gentle morning breeze stirs the tattered hair -
and does not let himself look away. The Dwarf feels an urge to reach
out and touch the Elf's face, but he does not. He checks his weapons
for the hundredth, or perhaps thousandth time; he waits once more.
His world has narrowed. An Elf. A knife. An axe at his side. Beyond
those things, all is irrelevant. Introspection and anguish have long
since fallen away from him, leaving only wordless waiting. After the
long night, he is ready.
The sky lightens, degree by degree, from charcoal to silver to near-
white. The world lightens also, though it seems as though a grey pall
has been cast over the land around them, and only slowly is it drawn
aside.
The Dwarf watches not the dawn, but only the Elf before him. His
knife is in his hand. His axe is by his side.
He is ready.
* * *
From somewhere almost too far away, the Elf stirs in his darkness,
drifting quickly and slowly towards wakefulness.
It is a painful waking: he can feel too sharply the twisting of his
spine, the stings and itches of his skin. His joints are burning,
sometimes fiercely, sometimes dully. Everything pains him.
Even with his eyes still closed, though, he is already aware that
there is sky above him and wind on his face, and blades of grass
tickling his bare back. He can feel the cold light through his closed
eyes, he can smell life, and air, and green things.
He contemplates waking, wonders vaguely what he will find when he
does. Easier not to, so much easier, to take the other route that
lingers temptingly at the back of his mind. He has never before
contemplated the thought of Mandos, but now that he must, he finds
that it holds no fear for him. It would be so easy, such a small,
simple matter, such a quick end to long pain.
He wonders what happens to Orcs, once they die, and the thought
breaks on him like a sudden shock of pain. He recoils from
contemplating it. He can be certain that it is not a happy fate.
The desire for death wanes, and once again, he is aware of the touch
of cool grass against his back. Resolving at last to face what he
must, he opens his eyes.
The outer world greets him with such a blaze of unaccustomed light,
that he must shut his eyes again against it, leaving him with only a
blurred image of the world above him. Orcs are weakened by sunlight,
he remembers, and supposes this must be how it feels for them. For a
fleeting moment he wonders how badly they have harmed his vision. Or
his hearing, for that matter. He is aware of voices around him, but
they are dim and confused.
"Gimli...?" He has said it out loud, and that is a foolish thing to
do, is it not? But the word is said, and there is no power in the
whole of Middle Earth that can take it back.
* * *
The hand tightens around the hilt of the knife; the Dwarf blinks back
tears. To hear such a voice from an Elf-
* * *
The sound of his voice pains him. Thick, harsh and guttural - an
Orkish voice, and, involuntarily, he recoils from the sound. Once,
his voice was beautiful.
"I'm right here, Sir Elf."
He has not expected a reply, but there it is, the old, half-mocking
title. The familiar voice, deep and rough, and with it the familiar
memory. But which is this? he wonders. The reality or the dream? Was
either ever real?
He opens his eyes and looks up blankly into an expanse of sunburned
face, framed by wiry brown hair and the thick fur of a beard, a face
so much more strong, more vivid than the memory had been. Suddenly he
is aware that he has no idea of what it was that he wanted to say so
urgently. Whatever it was, it is certainly not the words that escape
before he realises what he is saying.
"Am I an Orc?"
And Gimli laughs, unsteadily, and tells him: "Never."
* * *
Why does he laugh? Because the only alternative is a pain too
terrible to endure.
He is conscious suddenly of Aragorn and Gandalf watching him, their
narrowed eyes speaking doubt and suspicion. There is fear in the
Hobbits' eyes, and they draw back a little from him.
Why is he so certain? they are doubtless asking silently; but Gimli
has no answer for them.
He can give no name to his certainty; it is beyond the prosaic
Dwarvish grasp of words, to give shape to concepts so flimsy. He is
sure only of his certainty, but he cannot explain it.
<> is as much as he can offer. <>
And he looks down into the face of his friend, studying again. It is
a sadder face than once it was, older, perhaps, but it is the eyes
that are changed most greatly. They are become younger, older,
brighter, wiser all at once, and some kind Maia puts inspiration
suddenly into his heart.
<>
* * *
"Never," the Dwarf says again. "Never - or I am a troll." And now the
deep, rough voice rings with certainty.
The Elf stares up, oddly reassured. Only a Dwarf would speak so. Only
a Dwarf could be as real as that. Perhaps this truly *is* no phantasm
of the mind. Perhaps he truly is free.
He reaches across, trying to confirm by touch what his mind is
telling him, but his arm is batted away impatiently by some other
person.
"Be still, you fool! Or would you sooner clean your own wounds?"
For some reason it does not surprise him to hear Mithrandir's voice.
He is *almost* certain now that he is not dreaming. He would speak to
them, ask if all is well, ask of his deliverance, but he does not
wish again to hear the sound of his own voice.
* * *
The Dwarf looks up for a moment, to meet Gandalf's gaze. "Leave us.
Please."
Aragorn looks up sharply. Gandalf watches him with furrowed brows for
a moment, and then nods curtly. "You may have five minutes, Gimli,
and not a moment longer."
He nods his agreement, and the others withdraw a small distance. For
a moment he can do nothing but stare down into the Elf's face,
feeling tongue-tied and not a little stupid.
"Gimli..." The word is whispered, as if the Elf fears to speak
aloud. "I saw my hands."
The Dwarf bows his head in acknowledgment.
"Am I much changed?"
"Yes ... and no." The Dwarf grimaces at his answer, which has, to his
ear, an almost Elven unhelpfulness about it. "Your body is much like
your hands, I fear, and much injured. But the blood from the injuries
runs red, not black. Your face is nigh untouched. Your eyes..." For a
moment the words almost fail him again. "I have never before seen
eyes in which the starlight shines so bright - except one." Except
perhaps Galadriel, but she is not one with whom comparisons are
lightly made.
He watches the Elf lift up one hand and scrutinize it closely, an
unmistakable pain in his eyes. "So thus am I become," he
whispers. "Could any endure the touch of such a hand?"
The Dwarf reaches down, and takes the Orkish hand carefully between
his own hands, his eyes not leaving the Elf's as he does so. Then he
looks down at the hand, examining it closely, tentatively, as his
craftsmen kin might examine a damaged instrument, brought for repair.
The hand's skin is black and scaly, marred by cuts and scars. The
fingers are thin, but the knuckles much enlarged, the webbing between
fingers and thumb thin and papery. The Dwarf runs his fingers
thoughtfully over the back of the hand, along the swollen knuckles,
across the palm, and down to the sensitive skin at the base of the
wrist. Then, slowly and deliberately, he raises the hand in his own,
to let the palm rest for a long instant against his cheek. He lays it
down gently, noting that the Elf's eyes are tightly closed, and his
breathing is uneven, hoping that he has not caused the Elf pain.
"I do not find its touch unpleasant," he says, in the manner of one
reporting the result of an experiment. The eyes open once more, and
the hand reaches out again, to seize the Dwarf's so tightly the grip
is almost painful. "Its grasp is also uncommonly strong," he adds
ruefully.
From his place on the ground, the Elf almost smiles. With an unsteady
voice he whispers his thanks, but he does not loosen his grasp.
* * *
The others return before another minute has passed away. The Elf
relinquishes reluctantly his hold on the Dwarf's hand, and waits in
stillness as they resume their ministrations. Weariness is catching
up with him at last, and whatever it is the others are doing is
taking a long while to be accomplished.
He feels the Dwarf's heavy hand come to rest, surprisingly lightly,
on his shoulder, and looks up, meeting the Dwarf's dark eyes with his
pale ones. The broad face above him is solemn and sad, though the
eyes glitter brightly, almost as if with tears. The hand on his
shoulder becomes heavier, and is then removed, as the Dwarf reaches
forward to brush a strand of the dirty blond hair from across his
face. He feels the callused fingertips rest for a moment against his
forehead, in a kind of unspoken benediction.
He gazes up still, never taking his eyes from the face above him, and
the dark brown eyes stare solemnly back. But no more words are spoken
between them ... just a silence which lasts many moments - for a
time, and times and half a time again.
END
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