Title: Darkness, Lies and Betrayal

Author: CheyenneDancer (cheyenedgr@aol.com)

Websites: http://www.slashcity.org/~cheyene/

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Darkness, Lies and Betrayal 6 - Beneath the Shadows of Trees

By CheyenneDancer

 

His mouth felt as if he had tried to grind stone with his teeth--unsuccessfully. Light seared past his tight-squeezed eyelids. A groan long and low reverberated in his ears disturbing the incessant hum of insects and it took Gimli some few moments to realize that the pained sound had come from him. Gimli rolled onto his side, not yet opening his eyes, his fingers flexed automatically feeling the smooth haft of his axe.

A grim grin twisted his lips as he realized even unconscious he had not loosed his tenacious grip upon his weapon. He was alive--and armed, comforting thoughts, as he lay prone upon the uncaring ground. He could hear Gloin's voice echoing with approval, joining the thump---thump---thump ratcheting through his aching head. Aulë's hammer was nothing compared to the ceaseless pounding that thudded through him.

When Gimli could take a single breath without fear of spewing forth what little remained in his stomach, he opened his eyes in narrow slits--light tearing through him like a spear jabbing directly into his brain. It took some few moments for him to catch his breath, longer still for his bleary eyes to focus. Finally, he pried his eyes open only to be greeted by a visage from a child's nightmare. Just inches from his nose, a dark face loomed its glassy-eyed stare foreboding; its gape-jawed mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Wha--?" Gimli scrabbled backward, surging too suddenly to his feet. A loud roaring assailed his ears and the dwarf wavered unsteadily on his feet as he fought a rising wave of nausea. The pounding in his head joined the roar vibrating through his body. Black spots danced before his vision until the dwarf thought he would pass into unconsciousness, once again.

Though it felt forever with his heart beating heavily behind his breastplate, it was but a few pent breaths later that Gimli realized the Orc that had so alarmed him lay twisted in the rictus of death. Insects crawled through the congealed blood that had dribbled from a deep gash that clove the monster's helmet clean in two.

Glaring ferociously about small campsite, Gimli took in the chaotic disarray at a glance, searching for any remaining threat. Packs lay shredded and scattered, bits of food smashed into the muddied ground. Blankets lay thick with blood. Piles of bodies littered the ground and whimpers could be heard. Not all were dead. Stomping heavily through the debris, Gimli strode toward the sound.

An Orc, its clawed hand scrabbling at entrails leaking from its belly crawled along the ground, away towards the rushing waters of the Nimrodel. A small snarl of rage twisted Gimli's face and the Orc rolled onto its back leaving the oozing trail slick with its black blood. It bared its fangs and scrabbled for the knife upon its belt. "I should leave you to suffer, stinking beast of shadow! Tell me news of my companions, whither are they, and I might grant you mercy."

Whether the Orc spoke Westron or not, Gimli could not tell. The creature spat at him, vomiting up its foul blood mixed with bile. And though Gimli raised his axe, it did not cower but stared defiantly back. Angrily, the dwarf let the axe fall. It was not in him to let any suffer, not even this twisted parody of Sauron's.

Where was the fellowship? That thought hammered at Gimli like a well placed blow. Memories were dragged reluctantly from his befuddled mind. They had stumbled from the back way of Khazad-dûm, falling upon the rocky summit in their grief. Tharkûn had fallen, him the Men and hobbits named Gandalf. Deep into shadow had Gandalf been taken, victim to Durin's Bane. Moving as if wakened from a nightmare by the Men, the small company had stumbled down the steep mountain-side, Aragorn's words ringing in their ears--'these hills will be covered with Orcs by nightfall!'

Grief shadowed their steps and even the bright light that had been Legolas had seemed dimmed. The hobbits' laughter had died and Frodo had been wrapped tight and alone staring into the depths of his choice with hopeless eyes. Sam followed Frodo, as the sturdy hobbit seemed to do in all things, touching his shoulder and giving him silent consolation.

Pippin's sorrow was a much more living thing and Gimli heard him lay the blame for Gandalf's death upon his small head. Before Gimli had been able to reassure the halfling, Merry had given him a swift hug and spoke soft words against the ruddy curls covering one small pointed ear.

To Gimli's eye, Legolas seemed aloof, quieter even than was his wont. The dwarf dreadfully wanted to go to the young Elf and offer comfort, for though older than Gimli himself by far, the Elf was indeed young by the standards of his people. It had been a bone of playful contention between them and Gimli missed the light teasing remarks of his companion. Though what comfort a surly old dwarf could offer one of the firstborn, Gimli had not been sure.

Even Boromir seemed not unaffected. The Son of Gondor grew distant and sullen, the kindly light in his eyes darkening as he watched the hobbits. The glances he shot Legolas when the Man thought no one was looking were shadowed by some emotion Gimli could not quite read and the looks he shot Aragorn were definitely unfriendly. What darkness loomed in Boromir's heart, Gimli could only guess, but he hoped that the Dunédan would not ignore it overlong.

Aragorn spoke not of their loss, but his demeanor was grim and his lips thinned. The blue eyes burned with an inner fire and the man seemed to search everywhere at once, as if fearing that Orcs would come pouring out of the trees before he could get their small troupe to safety. He chivvied the hobbits along, promising safety and rest if they could just reach the forest. Gimli's heart clenched with dread at hearing the name of Lothlórien uttered. He had heard no good tales of the Golden Wood and new little else of the mysterious Elf Witch that was said to rule there.

When Gimli had protested, Aragorn had brushed off his concerns. Face carved of stone, Aragorn had replied that there was no other path this close to Moria and the hobbits needed rest and safety. Safety. Gimli snorted shaking his head. They had never reached safety.

Near the base of the mountain, Frodo had near collapsed, with Sam not far behind him. Loathe though he was to stop, Gimli had agreed with Aragorn. Whilst in their haste to flee the terror that loomed large deep in the shadowed caverns of Moria, they had forgotten that both hobbits had been wounded in their flight from the Orcs that filled the Chamber of Mazarbul where Balin lay interred. It was then that Sam's wound treated and Bilbo's marvelous gift of the Mithril coat was discovered.

It had been all Aragorn could do to get the tired hobbits to move forward afterward. With a promise of rest and safety if they could just make the line of trees, the hobbits had finally obliged, though not without a helping hand from the Men. Although Aragorn had wanted to cross the stream, there was nothing he could say or do to get the little hobbits back upon their feet as they collapsed exhausted just inside the cool gloom of the trees. Anor had long disappeared beneath the mountains and shadows reached their long misshapen fingers towards the wood.

When Aragorn would have carried the hobbits further, Boromir had spoken in favor of making camp. Though Aragorn warned that danger lay just upon the mountainside, the Man of Gondor insisted that they had traveled far enough that with a proper watch they should be far enough to be safe. Grudgingly, the Dunédan had accepted Boromir's reasoning. It had been agreed that they could go little further that night.

Grimly the ranger had assigned camp duties, Legolas to scout about their camp and gather water, Frodo and Sam to gather wood. Merry, Pippin and the dwarf were to have set up the camp. It had been Pippin's turn to cook. Boromir had disappeared shortly after Aragorn had left to speak privately with the Elf.

Images danced before Gimli's eyes sharp and grim. Flickering firelight. Shadows growing longer. A sense of unease creeping darkly into the camp. Merry and Pippin somberly preparing the night's meal. And superimposed upon it all--orcs, orcs pouring into camp, plunging through the flames of the small fire, sending the small kettle of stew tumbling over and over, flowing around the two hobbits like an evil black tide. They had come from the wrong direction. Had the Orcs of Khazad-dûm circled around? It had made little sense.

All Gimli could remember was the swing of his axe, the feel as strong metal sliced helm and bone, the taste of foul blood as it spattered against beard and lips. Orcs had fallen about him, his trusty axe had swept through the throng leaving a trail of dead bodies. Like a dwarf possessed, Gimli had fought, crying out Aragorn's name. Turning to see the hobbits being overrun, he had given voice to a battle cry and begun to wade through the melee. Before he had gone two steps, pain burst star bright behind his eyes and he had known no more 'til he had wakened to the gruesome visage of the dead orc staring at him with glazed eyes.

Did the orcs have the ring? Did they have the hobbits? Or had the little halflings been the first to succumb to that black wave of twisted bodies? And where were the Men? And Legolas? Dread squeezed Gimli's heart with cold fingers. Dragging in a labored breath, the dwarf stumbled about the clearing, searching desperately for some sign of his friends. For friends they were, though 'strewth such a motley assortment to be befriended by a dwarf had not been seen since Thorin's time.

There was no sign--not of Man, Elf or Hobbit. The camp had been so trampled that not one footprint could be singled above another. No weapon lay casually discarded upon the ground save only for the few orc-ish blades that lay untended by their dead.

Gimli shook his shaggy head and regretted it almost immediately as it felt as if it would roll from his shoulders to lay abandoned in the mud. Kicking at a partially shattered helm, Gimli muttered curses beneath his breath. He dared not shout. It could alert whatever passed for a sentry among the orcs or whatever spies Sauron had sent out. Turning in a wide circle, Gimli made for the sounds of the Nimrodel. That had been the last place Aragorn and Legolas would have been just before the attack.

"Stubborn elves and their need to bathe. Should have stayed where I could keep an eye on him." Gimli harrumphed as he trudged along the path made by many animals, small and large as they sought water, much as had the Elf.

Boromir had been missing, too. Gimli dimly remembered Aragorn returning just before the battle had begun. He did not remember Legolas. The shining light that was his friend would have drawn his eye and he would have heard the singing of that deadly bow. Frodo and Sam, Boromir and Legolas--none had returned before they had been attacked. Had Sauron's minions overcome them before the fell creatures had swarmed into the clearing? Were they nothing but corpses now?

Stumbling over a root half-covered with mosses, Gimli grumbled and muttered and swore. Birdcalls did little to cheer him, especially with no Elf to tease about the too cheerful sounds. Soon, he came upon a small glade warmed by the rays of the setting sun. Soft green grasses dotted with a few hardy wildflowers danced in a light breeze, a branch of the Nimrodel broke off here to tumble and dance and sing over fallen rocks. Narrowing his eyes, Gimli stumbled over to a large, flat boulder that lay half in the stream as if tossed by the frost giants of Caradhras.

Unsure his eyes were not playing tricks on him, Gimli paused half-way across the small open area. At the foot of the boulder lay Legolas' bow in two pieces, the jagged edges of the break like broken bone shoved through skin in garish contrast to the finely polished wood. Mouth dry, Gimli stooped over the shattered weapon, his eyes stung. One evening during the long dark of Moria, Gimli had taken the Elf's mind off the closeness of stone and the stillness of life. They had traded jokes and stories and anecdotes. Their had been boasts of prowess, physical and handicraft. Legolas had shared the story of the making of his bow. It had been one of the tests of his passing into adulthood, the crafting of a weapon that shot true. The dwarf touched the smooth wood with a craftsman's fine eye for detail, sliding his fingers over the well-worn surface, investigating the jagged edges where the fine wood had been snapped. Legolas would not have left the bow behind. His throat tight, Gimli searched the surrounding area.

Eyes alighting on the quiver tossed carelessly to one side, Gimli stood slowly as if a great age weighed him down. With careful hands, the dwarf gathered up Legolas' weapons, placing what arrows remained unbroken back inside the intricately tooled leather. Gimli shouldered the quiver and dusting his breeches, he stared unseeingly at the broken bow. "Cursed Elf is more trouble than he's worth, leaving good arrows behind. Elven warrior should know better." Gimli picked up the broken pieces of the bow shoving them through his belt, somehow feeling as if Legolas was closer.

Standing slowly to ward off a wave of dizziness, Gimli wiped his brow with the back of his hand, dirt smearing across his face. He removed his dented helm, running his hand through his matted hair. Bright lights wove in and out of his vision and he took a shaky breath when his questing fingers scrabbled across a still oozing wound near his temple. Replacing his helmet, Gimli stroked his beard, ignoring the snarls that snatched at his hand. In an attempt to collect his scattered thoughts, the dwarf glared about the wood as if the trees themselves were responsible for his missing friends. "If I could hear, would you tell me what happened? They've an Elf prisoner among them. Will you help them?" Feeling stupid, the dwarf mumbled an obscenity.

How long had he been unconscious? Gimli stared dimly up through the circle of trees into the blue circle of sky visible through their lacy branches. Looking about, the dwarf noted the slant of the shade, the angle of light that crept through the towering wood. It was earlier than it had been when they made camp. And the carcasses were not yet more than riddled with noisome flies. The stench of the dead was near overpowering, yet not unbearable, and he had found one that had yet lived. So, all this had taken no more than a day--maybe two at most.

He did not think he dare call out and suspected it would do no good anyway. "Won't do any good lollygaging about here, Gimli-my-lad. Stupid Elf won't come crawling out from any rocks." Gimli kicked a hapless stone, watching it fly into the laughing waters. With a heavy sigh, he mumbled to himself, as he staggered doggedly toward the trees. "Only thing for it, then, is to follow that cursed spoor of the orcs and see if any good will come of it."

Circling back around the camp, Gimli came soon across the trail left by Sauron's creatures. It took no great woods craft, the orcs had hacked a wide swath through the wood maiming tree and branch with as little care as the darkness spawned beasts had for any life.

Refusing to listen to the relentless voice in his head that kept repeating over and over, like some tragic refrain in a skald's lament, that orcs did not take prisoners, Gimli trudged along the rutted trail. He would find those beasts and if any harm had come to his friends, Gimli would take great delight in extracting his revenge. He did not want to think on why the orcs had taken his friends, but he would rather think of them alive and hurt than dead.

As the day grew long and the night beckoned, a sense of urgency throbbed through Gimli in time with the pounding in his head. It was as if someone played a marching song in his head, and he found himself fighting off increasing bouts of dizziness. How long he moved through the complete dark with little to light his way but a sliver of light from Ithil's waning face, Gimli never knew. He did not recall crossing the Nimrodel, but supposed he must have, at some point. His breeches were wet clear above his belt and the cold wind filling the night gave lie to the promise of spring that had heralded the day.

He knew he was still upon the orc's path. Foul debris littered the trail and broken and dying bushes and shrubs marked their way. Shuffling slowly, feeling as if each belabored step was endangering his companions, Gimli forced himself to cross a wide-open space. "Silly place to put a glade--in the middle of a forest. Who will ever see it?" Gimli wavered on unsteady legs as he glared blearily about the area.

A great many creatures had passed this way. No blade of grass was left untrammeled. There was a rotting log almost to the other side. Gimli staggered over to it, but before he could slump down upon it to rest, his gaze was caught by a pale blue blur. Bending, he lifted up the soft material, a puzzled frown creasing his face. Leggings. Legolas', he was sure. Apprehension skittered through him, making his skin crawl. And Gimli began to search the area for more traces. Breathless, sweat rolling down his face in spite of the chill night, Gimli finally gave up. The only other thing--things--he had found had been the bracers Legolas wore. They were beautifully worked leather bearing the emblem of Greenwood the Great, the symbol of Legolas' house. Why had the Elf left them behind?

He could make no sense of the signs, if there were any, left in the clearing. The dwarf found himself wishing again for Legolas' skilled eye, or Aragorn's tracking ability. Little good chipping rocks would do him here. The dwarf snorted, if only Legolas was here to say 'I told you so.' "Where are you?" He asked out loud, staring up and up at the faceless night sky.

When his query went unanswered, Gimli's shoulders slumped, though in truth who could have answered him, he could not have said. He ignored his growling stomach and forced himself to move. His companions needed him. He needed to stay focussed. Entering the wood again, it seemed to Gimli as if the trees drew close, hemming him in. The shadows were so dark beneath the thick canopy of leaves that Gimli could not see his hand in front of his face.

The dwarf stumbled and fell repeatedly, muttering curses into his beard almost continually. At some point in the night, he lost the trail. How long he blundered about in the dark wood, the pale silver trunks gleaming at him like specters of a long-gone race, Gimli would never know. Gimli fell one more time, and one more time he stubbornly climbed to his shaky feet. "I'm sorry Aragorn. I'm sorry Master Elf. I must rest. Though your situation may be dire, I do not have eyes that see in the dark." Gimli spoke as if he expected to hear an answer from his friends.

The wind picked up, howling about him. Dead leaves danced a skeletal jig and far off the eerie baying call of a wolf could be heard. The dwarf shivered as his wet clothing slapped against his flesh and he wondered drearily if he dared to light a fire. Scraping together bits of twigs and small dried leaves, Gimli hunkered down. With numb fingers he tried to coax a flame from the bit of flint that he had in his belt pouch. Over and over he struck the small stone with the steel of his blade.

"Daro."

Gimli started nearly falling over in his surprise at hearing the cold voice. He had heard no one approach, but surrounding him with arrows drawn were three elves pale as Ithil herself. "Best speak plainly, Elf. I don't know the tongue of the firstborn." Gimli rose and stood swaying unsteadily on his feet, his hand curled reflexively around the haft of his axe.

"You are careless in your ways, Dwarf. You could set the entire wood on fire. I do not think the Lady would be pleased." The tallest Elf spoke to Gimli, his voice laced with suspicion and contempt.

When no answer was forthcoming from the dwarf, the shortest of the three Elves stepped forward, speaking coolly, "You have entered Lothlórien, the Golden Wood of the Lady. I am Haldir, and these are my brothers--Rúmil and Orophin. You are our captive."

The Elves spoke among themselves for a few moments while Gimli grew furious at being ignored and held at arrow point. Before Gimli could reply, though, another Haldir said something that drew general laughter from the entire group. "I'd heard the firstborn were insufferable, but did not believe Thorin's tales that they were also rude."

Arching an arrogant brow, Haldir held himself with a regal pride, his gaze directed down at the dwarf, he spoke condescendingly, "I said that 'the dwarf breathes so loud, I could have shot him in the dark.'" He arched a challenging brow at Gimli.

Grimacing, Gimli felt as if he would get a crick in his neck if he had to keep staring up at these Elves. A dull flush stained his cheeks and he harrumphed into his beard. It was a measure of his confused exhaustion that he could find no anger to hand, only the overwhelming desire to close his eyes and shut out the spinning world. When all else fails, take them by surprise. That had always been Gloin's advice and Gimli blessed his father now and sent a fervent entreaty to Aulë to help him.

Force would be of no avail. He was outnumbered, dizzy and nauseous. All the small pains and injuries he had received over the last two days were clamoring for attention simultaneously. He kept his feet merely by the most tenuous grasp upon his will. Muddled as he felt, Gimli could think of nothing more surprising than to offer apology. After all, a dwarf apologizing to an Elf was unheard of.

Leaning back as far as he dared and still keep his feet, Gimli stared at the slender Elf confronting him. His voice sounded gruff; "I apologize. I meant no harm. I am lost in your wood, my friends have been taken by orcs and I would ask your help. Or that of your Lady."

Haldir lowered his bow, pointing his arrow groundward. The pale blue eyes widened in surprise and though he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Gimli would have smirked if the situation had not been so dire.

"You come into our wood with a host of fell creatures, blustering about, killing tree and beast, tainting the very air and threatening to set fire to our home."

The tallest Elf, Orophin, spoke again in a halting mix of Westron and Elvish, but Gimli translated his meaning well enough. "Never trust courtesy to an Elf." The dwarf muttered staring at the group sullenly.

Haldir spoke again. His Westron was much more fluid, as if he had wandered beyond the borders of these woods from time to time. "Our wood is perilous to strangers. And Durin's folk have not been welcomed in these borders since the Dark Days when dwarves woke the evil in the mountains."

"But dwarves did not make the evil!" Gimli protested.

Inclining his chin, the Elf stared at him from the fathomless depths of his eyes, his face unreadable, "I said not so, yet evil came." [1]

"I would happily leave this accursed wood, if I could. But I cannot abandon my friends--"

"You must go back. You have come thus far, any further and the penalty is death. Only the Lord or Lady could grant you safe passage through the Golden Wood and they will not see you."

"There are orcs in your precious wood. They are more dangerous than one lone dwarf! Did they get your Lady's permission?"

The other Elf, Rúmil, spoke in the liquid language of the Elves. Haldir turned back to Gimli, "We are aware of the black horde, but the three of us stand little chance against their numbers. You say they have your friends among them?"

"Yes. And if you cannot help me, do not hinder me. I cannot afford to waste more time. They grow farther away every second that we stand here."

Orophin and Rúmil both spoke at once, gaining Haldir's attention. Haldir frowned and answered back. The discussion seemed to grow quite heated and Gimli wished he understood their language. And again, the lack of Legolas by his side was driven home. "I must go! I cannot tarry. While you are standing here bumping your gums, there is no knowing what horrors my companions must face!"

"You cannot go on." Haldir stared at him as if seeing a particularly loathsome insect. "From here you must be blindfolded. We will return you to our borders that you may go around."

"Time grows short! I cannot linger while my friends suffer hardship and toil. What you ask is folly!" Frustrated Gimli looked from one Elf to the other, "Will you not at least take me to this Lord and Lady that I might plead my cause?"

Haldir looked doubtful. "There is little love lost between the Elves of Laurelindórinan and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. Little does Lord Celeborn trust your race."

"Love or trust. It is no dwarf that may be at the mercy of orcs! An Elf of Mirkwood traveled with our company. He, too, is lost. I ask you this, what do orcs want with an Elf?"

Haldir and his brothers exchanged grim looks. Gimli shouted over the growing din in his head, "Sauron's tits! Does it matter nothing to you that it is one of you--an Elf--being held by such filth? Will your King refuse to aid his cousin?"

Before Haldir could reply, Gimli solved the argument by turning abruptly. His body finally betrayed him, pushed way past any normal endurance, the dwarf's eyes rolled up and his legs promptly folded under him.

Only the quickness of Haldir prevented Gimli from crumpling upon the ground. The Elf stared up at his brothers in surprise, the dwarf a dead weight in his arms.

 

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Glossary:

Daro - stop

[1]This conversation actually takes place between Legolas and Gimli in the chapter "Lothlórien" located in "Fellowship of the Rings". These lines are taken directly from the text:

"...the Dark Days when dwarves woke the evil in the mountains."

"But dwarves did not make the evil!"

"I said not so, yet evil came."