Gimli heard it, the deep rumble of the earth, long before he felt the ground move. It was over in less than a minute, but seemed to take for ever as the whole mountainside slid downward, carrying him with it. A scream rent the air, and he did not recognise it as his own.

Gimli woke to find himself face down in the mud, his head shot up before he could take it in any further than his mouth, spitting it out on the ground. A second later he realised that he was pinned down by the legs.

Gimli turned his head, groaning at the intensifying headache, to find out what was holding him. He could see nothing but boulders and mud through the still driving rain.

Gimli wriggled a bit, and found that there was some give in the pile. He pulled a little more until he managed to free one leg. Pushing with his foot, the other leg came free only to see the boulder roll towards his head. He rolled to the side and began to fall.

The landing knocked the wind out of him and gasping he looked up . . .in time to see the boulder rapidly making its descent. Gimli forced himself into a roll and the boulder smacked into his landing place, throwing up clods of sludge and grit, hitting him in the face.

Gimli got to his feet, feeling something hot trickle down his leg. He looked down to see a large gash in his leg, and an even larger tear in his trousers exposing the wound to his inquiring gaze. He tested the leg, putting his weight on it. Blood oozed out at each press of his foot into the squelching mud.

“Not good,” he noted. He lifted his eyes to the mountain they had been crossing the flank of. Now, all he could see of what had been a grassy slope just minutes before was a huge black scar of a landslide. Nothing moved.

“Aragorn?” he called out, the pelting rain filling his mouth as quickly as he opened it. He spat water and cried out again. “Gandalf? Legolas? Boro . . .”

He stopped with the futility of it. There was only silence save for the steady thump of heavy rain and the clap of thunder overhead. In the dark beneath the storm, only the lightening illuminated the devastation.

Gimli emptied his mouth and lowered his head. “This is not good at all,” the dwarf told himself. He stood for some time, not caring if the rain drowned him, not caring if he bled to death, not knowing what other course of action was open to him. Everyone was gone, and he was alone.

A sound made him gasp, turning to scour the boulders and shale for its source, his eyes piercing the inky dimness. Gimli whipped out an axe, even injured he was a formidable opponent. “Who’s there?”

The sickly groan came a little louder. Gimli recognised it at once as Sam’s voice and instantly scrambled up the slope, loose shale and small rocks skating from beneath his feet as he went. Sam was buried waist-deep in the thick mulch of mud and rock. Gimli swung his axe and began to dig.

“Hold still, hobbit. I’ll get ye out.”

Sam returning to full consciousness to see an axe swinging towards him, and froze. “Mr. Gimli. It’s me, Sam!” he cried, thinking himself on the verge of being dwarf fodder.

The axe dropped at once and hands began to dig him from the living grave. Finally he was free. “Samwise,” Gimli spoke softly. “You have fair brought joy to my heart. I thought everyone had perished, save for me.” The dwarf touched his head and felt wetness there that was not the rain. Sam groaned in pain. “Where else are you hurt, lad?”

“All over, Mr. Gimli, sir. I think I can get up, but my arm is twisted funny and hurts so much it catches my breath. And my head hurts so much I can't see straight.”

“Sit down and rest, Sam,” Gimli told him. “I need to find the others.”

Sam sank onto a large rock and watched him, wincing in pain. In the semi-darkness, Gimli criss-crossed the destroyed hillside but found nothing, save a boot and a broken axe.

Finally his groping hands touched a body, still soft and warm. The curly hair told him that it was a hobbit. His fingers reached for the collar and instantly identified a chain around his throat. “Frodo,” he murmured.

Almost as he said it his fingertips felt a pulse. “Oh! He’s alive!” Gimli carefully checked him over for broken bones. Something felt a little unsteady across the right side of his chest, and Frodo’s right leg was definitely broken. He could not tell if there was any damage inside, but he knew he could not wait. The ground beneath him was still shifting and Gimli had no choice but to carry Frodo to a safer place.

As gently as he could, Gimli lifted Frodo up out of the rivulets of water running down the ruined mountain and into his arms. Walking back down to where Sam sat was more treacherous than going up. The rain was still showing no sign or stopping and that meant further slides were possible. Gimli knew about these things. Rocks were second nature to him.

“Sam,” he called. “We have to move away,” he said when the hobbit looked up. The poor creature was dazed and didn’t register who had spoken, or who Gimli was carrying.

Cradling his arm, Sam blinked and rose reluctantly. Gimli kept walking, stumbling and sliding until he reached and passed the edge of the debris field. There were trees clustered together there and they afforded some shelter from the storm.

Laying the hobbit down on a bed of dry pine needles, Gimli took off his pack and opened it, taking out a tent cloth. He thanked his lucky stars he had not done what the others had and hung his belongings on the pommel of Bill's saddle. The thought of the poor animal’s last moments came to his mind and he shook it away. He got busy, busy was better than thinking, and right now he had urgent things to attend to. He set up the tent cloth in more time than it usually took him. He was beginning to feel the effects of blood loss, and he knew it. Soon he would be of little or no use to any of them.

Taking one of Sam’s pans, the inert hobbit staring glazed at his movements, he set it out in the rain just beyond the trees and it was filled in less than a minute. He watched the sky, the storm had drifted northwards, but the clouds still gave up their deluge.

He returned to the meagre camp to light a fire and heat some of the water in a second pan.

“You’re hurt, Mr. Gimli,” Sam noticed.

Gimli looked down at his leg and almost fell into a swoon. His trouser leg was soaked in blood. It was clear to him that to help his friends, he would have to deal with his own injury first, or he would die and leave them alone and undefended.

Sam blinked a few times, and gradually the double vision righted itself, and in the light of the fire he could see that Gimli’s leg was far worse than he had thought. The wound began half way up the dwarf’s thigh and almost reached his ankle. Sam watched him unbind his wild red mane and comb his fingers through it, capturing several strands measuring two feet in length. He set them all dangling across his thigh while he rebound his hair again. That done he placed all the hairs in the now gently bubbling water.

Sam wondered if he had knocked his head, not understanding what he was up to, but said nothing and continued to watch.

Gimli all but ignored the hobbit for now. Taking a clean cloth from his pack he cleaned the blood from the wound and eyed it calmly.

“What are you going to do?” Sam asked suddenly, making the dwarf jump.

“Sew it up,” Gimli replied bluntly and with that he unpacked a small folded buckskin pouch with various items inside it, one of which was a fine fishbone needle. He fished out the hairs with a stick, now that they were clean of mud and slightly softened, and left them hanging from the saucepan handle.

Taking the needle, he plucked a single hair from the pile and threaded it through the eye. Sam paled as the dwarf began to sew along the huge hole in the muscle of his leg with his own hand using his own hair. Without apology, Sam passed out.

Gimli knew the blood vessels would heal themselves, but the muscle would need a little help. He had never done this on himself before, but when the need arose . . . He kept going. Rethreading the needle with a fresh strand of hair, he began passing the needle through, over and under the skin, drawing the sides together with a series of little knots. He hissed a little as he worked. Finally it was done and he covered the wound with an ointment of beeswax and athelas paste. He then wrapped a bandage around the entire leg.

Gimli took a drink of the cold rain water and sat for a moment, breathing deeply. Sam came to, to find the dwarf rested and recovered from his own brush with a faint, though the dwarf did not admit such a thing to the hobbit.

“Let’s deal with Frodo first,” the dwarf said. As the clouds parted at last and the sunlight returned he found a large purplish bruise on the side of Frodo’s head, which would account for his unconsciousness. He explained this to the mildly concerned servant, who was still nursing a pounding headache of his own.

Gimli took a firm hold of Frodo’s leg and quickly snapped it back into the correct position. Sam looked like he was about to throw up with the sickening crunch that came from Frodo’s leg, but he managed to hold it together somehow. A couple of gasps of air did the trick, though the blood hissed in his ears for a moment more. Taking two metal rods from his pouch, Gimli strapped them to either side of the limb with strips of cloth.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I’m making sure that the bones don’t move out of place again,” Gimli replied. “Frodo won’t be able to walk on this leg for a while . . .unless hobbits have healing abilities I don’t know about.”

“Are you a healer, Mr. Gimli?” Sam asked, in awe of him.

“No,” Gimli thrummed low. “I bring what I need, do what I need, nothing more. I am a dwarf. A dwarf prides himself in being prepared for anything that he might come across, though I had not expected to be setting hobbit bones,” he admitted. He set a cold compress on the older halfling’s head and turned to Sam. “Let’s have a look at that arm.”

Sam looked sceptical, looking more like a pig who had just been informed of what his fate would be after his demise, but allowed him to touch his arm. He groaned through gritted teeth. Suddenly the boned cracked and Sam cried out loudly.

Two more of the metal sticks and more bandaging and Gimli turned his attention to Sam’s head wound. It was small and already drying, and the bone beneath it was unbroken. Gimli sighed with relief.

“The wound is clean,” he assured the hobbit. “Your headache will ease in an hour or two.” Sam tried a grateful smile.

Gimli offered him some water, and set the pan down within his reach. “Don’t wander off,” he said. “Stay by the fire. If Frodo wakes, give him some water, only a sip or two mind, and don’t let him leave the camp. He might wake strangely. That head wound might affect him some.”

Sam nodded, absorbing the instructions. “Where will you be?”

Gimli slipped the boot from his pocket and gazed at it for a long moment and lifted his eyes to the black mass of rock. “I need to keep searching. If you need me, blow on this whistle.” Gimli took out a silver whistle from his pocket and gave it to him, and with that he was gone.

Gimli scrambled over rocks and small streams searching every inch of the devastation. He found nothing living. The encroaching darkness of night called an end to his search, and he resolved to continue looking in the morning. He would have missed the camp all together had it not been for the fire, now much larger than it had been when he left. Two pairs of eyes stared at him upon his return. Gimli sat by the fire to warm himself.

“Anything?” Sam asked dejectedly.

“Not a thing,” Gimli replied, still clutching the boot in his hand.

“Then, why are you here and not continuing the search?” Frodo demanded. “What use is a fellowship with just us?”

Gimli lifted his eyes and saw Sam’s apologetic gaze. Frodo’s head wound had indeed affected him, making him irrational. “The night has fallen, hobbit. I can no more see in the dark than a blind man can in the day.”

“You are more concerned about keeping warm than searching for the others,” Frodo snapped.

Gimli said nothing. He had seen this before. Head injuries did strange things to a person, changing their character and playing with their perceptions. On the other hand, he doubted the Ring was helping any, but at least the hobbit was staying off the leg.

His leg ached fiercely, and tiredness was cloaking him. He needed to sleep, but he also knew that if anyone lay injured upon the mountain, they would not last the night. A silent injured man was more in grave need than a complaining one, his father’s words came to him. Gimli picked up a length of branch and stuck one end in the fire and stood up. Without a word, he left the clump of trees and did not return.

The grey light of dawn graced the eastern horizon long before Gimli had finished scouring the black earth, and the sun had risen before he had given up calling for the friends he knew had to be buried somewhere beneath his feet. He was exhausted, cold, hungry and thirsty, but kept going. One final pass cross the dead shale and he crawled into the camp, collapsing where he stopped and fell asleep.

An hour passed before the hobbits woke to find him sprawled there beside the fire that had burned out.

Sam poked at the embers and set pine needles on it to set it going again. He got up to find some dry wood to add to it, and perhaps cook something for breakfast, not that his pack contained any food. His eyes lifted seeing something yellowish-white growing on the trunks of several trees. “Mushrooms,” he whispered. “Chicken of the woods.”

Sam reached up and plucked several of them and return to the fire, adding the wood he had found. He put the mushrooms in the pan with a little water and agitated them a little.

He gave some to Frodo first, who eyed their injuries in confusion.

“What happened to us?” he asked. “Why is my leg strapped up like your arm?”

“What is the last thing you remember, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

“I remember . . .we were walking in the rain. I don’t remember anything after that.”

Sam watched him long enough to make sure he was going to eat, and took some for himself. “There was a landslide. The whole mountainside gave way from under us and we fell. Gimli’s been searching all night, but it looks like he didn’t find no one but us.”

“No one?” Frodo asked in a small voice. “We should keep looking,” he resolved and made to rise.

Sam reached out. “No, Mr. Frodo. You’re to rest that leg. It’s broken, see, and so’s my arm. You have a nasty knock to your head too. Gimli fixed us up so we’ll heal alright, but we’ve got to stay here until we do.”

“Our friends are out there, Sam. They need help,” Frodo insisted.

Sam shook his head. “If Mr. Gimli hasn’t found them, then they aren’t going to be found, Mr Frodo,” Sam replied sadly. “You need to eat and recover your strength. We still have a journey to make.”

Frodo glared at him. “How can you think of going on when they might all be dead?” His outburst woke the dwarf. Sam said nothing as he passed the rest of the breakfast to the dwarf.

“Thank you, Sam,” Gimli said and ate with his fingers. “How are you both feeling?”

Sam tried to smile. “The headache’s gone, right enough, Mr. Gimli, just as you said it would.”

“My head hurts, and my leg is painful,” Frodo grumbled. “Where are the others?” he asked.

Gimli set the empty plate pan down and licked his lips. “We have to accept that we cannot find them, that we may never find them,” Gimli said quietly.

“Have you looked everywhere?” Frodo asked strongly. “They may have climbed higher up the slope. Or walked a little further away. You should not give up so easily.”

Gimli put the empty plate down and sighed. “Frodo, Sam was holding Bill’s tether at the time, and I have not found the horse. All I found was two hobbits, my broken axe and one elven boot. There was no sign of hoof or footprints, and nothing of body or belongings.”

“Then, they’re all dead?” Sam voiced softly.

Gimli did not look at them, cradling the shoe in his hands for a long time, feeling the loss keenly as he caressed the soft buckskin. The brushed leather tickled against his skin, as he savoured the aroma of elf that emanated from it. It was a Legolas smell, the last vestige of a friend he had never hoped to make, let alone lose so soon and so harshly. They were all gone, snatched from life by something so futile and unworthy as rainwater. No more singing around the campfire, no friendly jibes, no more conversations about homes they all expected never to see again, all expecting to die gloriously in battle. Gone.

“I didn’t think elves could die,” Sam said softly.

“They can, but only in battle or of a broken heart,” Frodo said. “Which is why we should keep searching.”

“Not even an elf could survive under that rubble,” Gimli mumbled in grief. “Even an elf’s body can only take so much . . .we should face the possibility that they are all dead . . .including Legolas.”

Frodo suddenly became annoyed, seeing his fingers caress the elf’s boot. “What do you care?” he snapped, grabbing the shoe and throwing it away angrily. “You’re a dwarf. Everyone knows dwarves hate elves. You have never trusted nor even liked Legolas from the moment you set eyes on him!”

Gimli rose and snatched up the boot before it could sink into a puddle and be lost forever. “Show’s how much you know, Ring-Bearer!” Gimli growled. “If you weren’t smaller than me, and concussed, I’d kill you for your insults.” He limped away to cradle the shoe once more, carefully cleaning off the mud as best he could.

Frodo slept through most of the day, which with a head injury he knew would not necessarily be a good thing. When he woke, he felt much better, except for his conscience. He turned his head to find Gimli gone. Sam looked up the instant he moved.

“How are you feelings, Mr. Frodo?”

“A little better, thank you, Sam. Where is Gimli?”

“He went off to catch us a brace of conies,” Sam replied. “We’ll have rabbit stew when he gets back.”

“If he comes back,” Frodo muttered.

Sam frowned. “Now, why would you be thinking like that?”

“I was particularly rude to him, Sam. I didn’t mean to make it sound so harsh, but it was and now I would not blame him for leaving me behind.”

“You knocked your head, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Gimli said it would make you out of sorts for a while,” Sam soothed.

“He did?”

“It wasn’t your fault, so don’t go beating yourself up over it.”

“Even so, I was nasty about . . .the others . . .do you think they died instantly, Sam?”

“I hope so, Mr. Frodo. I don’t want to think on them under all that and suffering horribly, if you get me.” Sam poked the fire a little. “Mr. Gimli has been very quiet since, he goes off on his own most days.”

Frodo looked at him. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“Since you grabbed the elven shoe? Or since the last time you asked me?”

Frodo’s face fell, suddenly shocked. “What?”

“It’s been a week almost since the storm, and you’ve drifted in and out of consciousness, and from one foul mood to another, since then. Your sleeping in between has been a relief, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Frodo swallowed. “I don’t remember anything after I snatched Legolas’ shoe, and even that is blurred.” He gulped. “Oh, Sam, what have I said and have no memory of?”

Sam pinked slightly. “Well, if it’s all the same, I shan’t go into detail, begging your pardon, but I’ll say this for you, Mr. Frodo. You being unmarried and all . . .well, I had no idea you were knowledgeable of such things.”

Frodo paled. “What things?”

Sam’s face turned even redder. “Well . . .certain things you suggested Gimli had done to Legolas to gain favours, and such.” Frodo’s face drained of all its colour. “Say nothing of the cursing words I never heard out of no one’s mouth afore, save old Lobelia Sackville-Baggins herself. Not gentlemanly words, if you ask me.”

Frodo looked away. He lifted his eyes as a movement through the trees caught his attention. Gimli was returning, shoulders laden with several rabbits.

“I hope you two are hungry,” he said by way of greeting, dropping three rabbits and a squirrel by the fire. “It seems I caught more than I thought I would. I also found some kind of root that I saw a badger digging up and some wild carrots and cabbages.”

Sam eyed the array with wide gleeful eyes. “Look, Mr. Frodo. Taters!” he cried. “Although this smaller one is actually burdock. Good for medicinal purposes in very small doses, but not for the lasses when expecting. Brings ‘em on early. If you mash it into a paste and mix it with dandelion sap you get a fine summer drink that stops you getting all stuffed up . . .the other end . . .if you get my meaning.”

Gimli regarded him in surprise. “And you were asking me if I was a healer?”

Sam met his gaze. “Everyone knows how to deal with . . .minor digestive . . .inconveniences.”

Frodo’s lips curled upward at the corners. “How long will the stew take?” he asked.

“About an hour, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied. “I’ll need to find some water to clean these vegetables.”

“Back that way,” Gimli indicated. “There’s a small spring.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gimli.” Sam rushed off and the dwarf sat down to work on skinning the rabbits in silence. He set the squirrel aside for smoking and drying later.

“Gimli?” Frodo called softly. There was no response, although Frodo knew he had been heard. “I’m sorry for what I said. I don’t remember much, if anything, but Sam tells me that I was cruel, and very rude. You did not deserve that, and your relationship with Legolas is none of my business.”

Gimli glanced up. “It was hardly a conscious thing on your part, nonetheless, apology accepted.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I have searched again and again in the hope that I could find a trace of them, but the rain would have washed their footprints away within a minute, if there were any there to begin with.”

There was another long silence. Gimli looked up at the hobbit, seeing the huge doleful eyes staring at him. A single tear rolled down the hobbit's face and Gimli sighed. Frodo was always so reserved, always so alone.

Gimli set the knife aside and stood up, stepped around the fire and knelt beside him. No words were needed as Gimli wrapped his arms around him and held him. The halfling sobbed against his jerkin and the tears he had so stoically held within fell then, and he did nothing to hide them.

“I know, lad,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Sam returned with the vegetables and saw them. At once, he was angered, but his heart softened. He observed their tears without interruption. Frodo had lost his kin and the wizard, whom he had known all his life. Gimli had also known Gandalf for many years, but in his hand was cradled the shoe of a being he had known for barely two months, or at least he thought so. Sam said not a word, they had lost more than he, the rest of the fellowship were just friends to him, but he suspected that Legolas meant far more to Gimli than just a friend.

Dinner was eaten in silence and with only one blanket they had to share. Snuggled together to keep warm, the night drew in bleak and bitter.

“Pippin was a bright little lad, not the fool Gandalf said he was,” Gimli noted in the dark, accompanied by the crackle of the fire.

“He was just a boy, raised a gentleman like Merry,” Frodo replied.

“Like you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam added.

Frodo, sandwiched between them, smiled a little. “The fellowship was made up of princes,” he said, still shivering despite the warmth.

“I’m no prince, Mr. Frodo,” Sam corrected, blushing to his roots.

Frodo smiled wider still. “A prince among gardeners, Sam.”

Gimli smiled at that, and reached over Frodo to gently pat Sam’s arm. Frodo shifted slightly, his face against Gimli’s beard, closing his eyes hoping that sleep would come. Sam’s chest rested against his back, the warmth of his well-fed body radiating through him.

Sam peered up at the stars through the trees. “You loved Legolas very much, didn’t you, Mr. Gimli?”

Gimli did not answer right away, not a hesitation, but a moment to gather the best voice he could to speak. “I will always do so, ‘til the end of my days.”

“Did he know?” Frodo asked.

Gimli said nothing, and reached inside his shirt and pulled a pendant free, lifting it up to show them. The curled mithril beech leaf glittered in the firelight, it was all the answer Frodo needed. The companionable silence stretched between them as the token was secreted once more.

“I have known Legolas for seventy-eight years. Elrond did not want us wed, because of the past the exists between our two peoples. I had to make a show of hatred in front of my own father and uncle at the counsel, and it was almost enough to fool Legolas, but once we were away from the chamber it was impossible to continue it. I begged Elrond to unite us, lest we died in battle and never got the chance again.”

There was a long silence before Gimli continued. “Our first child would have been born with the coming autumn.”

Nothing more was said.

The following morning they decided that they should prepare as best they could to go on with their journey. Even in discussion they knew they had no choice. They still had a ring to destroy, and a broken leg to heal. Gimli wondered how quickly a hobbit could heal.

Frodo eyed his leg. “Its been a week, you say.”

Sam nodded. “You’ll need another before you can walk with crutches, then another 6 weeks before he can walk unaided.”

“I can make them during that time,” Gimli said.

Frodo sighed despondently. “We’ll never make it.”

“The ring must be destroyed,” Gimli said, repeating the words Legolas said at the counsel “We cannot give up now. What memorial would that be to those who have died?”

“Ring or no ring, without Aragorn there will be no victory,” Frodo said quietly.

“We do not know that, lad,” Gimli said. “All I know is that if we give up now, everyone across Middle Earth will die. I cannot stand idly by when there is something I can do to prevent it. Let not the deaths of our fellows pave the way for countless others, Frodo.”

Reluctantly, Frodo agreed.

They set about gathering what supplies they could; dried meat, water pouches, water, and Gimli carved a crutch for Frodo. A week later, they set off in bright sunlight with high hopes, but Frodo became tired quickly. Then they discovered that they had to cross marshland, which they would have avoided if the road they had been taking had not been lost. They could not climb back up to where the road continued through the mountains. The time for choices had passed them by.

The screeching overhead came upon then with no warning. The crebain flew around them twice before turning back toward the way they had come.

“What were they?” Frodo asked, breathless.

“I don’t know,” Gimli replied. “But it’s my guess that they were not friendly, most likely servants of Saruman.”

“That might not be too bad,” Sam spoke. “He’s looking for Nine, we’re only three.”

Gimli nodded. “We can hope. Either way, we must make for the Gap of Rohan.”

No one knew what had become of them, but in Elvenden a tremor of doubt had begun. Arwen knew something was not right. Her pendant had ceased its glow about her throat. She entreated her father to do something, but she feared it may already be too late.

The bad weather had closed in again. This time the wind had dropped and so did the clouds. Gimli watched the fog bank roll in and did the wisest thing. Instinct told him to stay put and wait for the fog to lift.

“Frodo? Sam? Wait, now,” he called.

“Giml? What is it? What’s happening?”

“It’s fog, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, his words echoing through the murky landscape. “We don’t see nothing like this in the Shire.”

“Sam, stay close,” Frodo spoke, sounding more frightened than he had ever done. “This is like the Barrow Downs.”

“Hobbits! Stop!” Gimli cried, hearing their voices getting further and further away from him.

“Where are you, Gimli?”

A part of him wanted to run after them, but he knew not to. By now, he could not even see his hand in front of his face. It seemed to take forever for the bank to lift, but experience told him that it would. When it did finally shift, he continued in the direction they had taken . . .but there was no sign of them.

The sun reappeared and Gimli found himself alone. There was no sign of Sam or Frodo, but in the mud faint foot prints had been left behind. He followed them until they petered out and his hopes sank.

Travelling on for another day, continuing in the general direction the prints had taken he took a moment to rest, but the marshy ground had turned boggy and he began to sink. Despite laying flat and still, he continued to be sucked down in the morass. Just as he was about to go under, two hands pulled him out.

Chest heaving in both fright and relief, Gimli blinked up at what must have been an angel from the world beyond the grave.

“Praise be,” he whispered. “‘Tis Luthien, herself.”

Giggles surrounded him and Gimli turned to look around him at the friends he thought had departed. “You’re . . .alive!?” Gimli looked back at the vision of loveliness that now knelt before him. “I thought you were all dead.”

Gimli pushed upward and launched himself into Legolas’ arms, but there was nothing there. Gimli’s heart lurched. He tried to breathe, to understand, tearfully it began to sink into place. “How is this. . .?”

“You must live, Gimli,” a voice touched his mind.

“But . . .you’re . . .our child . . .” Gimli sobbed. “I have lost everything.”

Legolas smiled gently, head tipped to one side. “I await you in Valinor, my love. The ring must be destroyed, that is your task . . .”

“I made an oath, Legolas. I will keep it. For all the other children who will be born, I must give them the chance that ours did not.”

Legolas smiled gently. “Our time is untouched, Gimli. Mandos has no hold on me, and will not harm an elven child. Hold to this faith, my beloved. I wait for you.”

“Mr Gimli?” a voice called him. “Mr Gimli!”

Gimli gasped and opened his eyes. Sam peered down at him, worry lines etched into his forehead like seems of coloured salts through marble. “Bless, he’s awake! We thought we’d lost you, Mr Gimli,” Sam said, a grin wreathing his face in sunshine.

Frodo appeared beside him, grim but determined. “Are you hurt, Gimli?”

Gimli shook his head, too shocked for a moment to speak. He sat up shakily, regaining his breath, but said nothing of his vision. “We must press on with the quest,” he decided.

“There are only three of us left,” Frodo reminded him. “We should return to Rivendell for help.”

“No,” Gimli put in quickly. “We must trust the Valar. They know what they’re doing. It is their fate that lies in our hands, now.”

Frodo looked at him with new understanding. Sam was confused. “The Valar? What-what does he mean, Mr. Frodo?”

“It means, Sam, that Sauron grows in strength, and it is up to us to stop him,” he simplified. “Which road should we take, Gimli?”

“If all things had been as they were, I would have suggested Moria,” the dwarf replied. “But, we will not go that way. The road south is watched by Saruman, and Gandalf said he had betrayed the elves. Instead, we shall wind through the mountains to the north of Isengard and cut through Fangorn.”

“Fangorn?” Sam questioned, when the dwarf shuddered at the word.

“It is an ancient forest. Only a madman would go in there, but we have no choice. On the far side is Lórien, an elven city high above the Old Dwarf Road. A witch of terrible power lives in those woods, a very dangerous one, but with a little luck we can avoid her and find a boat or something. The elves have them to travel up and down the river. If we can steal one, we can go down into Gondor to Emyn Muil. That place is not a forgiving mountain. Razor sharp rocks, disorientating canyons with barely a glimpse of the sky for days on end, and after that . . .” He hesitated. “I do not think we should get too far ahead of ourselves,” he decided. “We’ll see what becomes of our quest with each day that comes. You never know. We might get lucky.”

Two weeks later, Gimli was at the point of retracting his words beneath the glare of one very tall, very angry elf. He eyed them carefully, first the Ring-Bearer’s limbs, Sam’s arm, and then Gimli’s leg, sown up crudely but effectively. Unfortunately, despite his attentiveness, it had become infected.

“Where are the others?” the elf asked in an elvish tongue not quite as familiar to Frodo as Sindarin.

“They are all dead,” Frodo replied in the Grey tongue.

The elf glared at him and switched to the common speech. “Dead?”

Frodo nodded sadly. “There was a storm, and the mountainside was washed away. The others are buried under it.”

The elf seemed to falter. “Ârâgorn? Mithrandir . . .!” He steadied himself against the tree. “This is indeed a great loss to us all.” After a moment to collect himself, he straightened. “You will come with me, but leave the dwarf here.”

“We go together, or not at all,” Frodo retorted strongly, although Gimli had expected this reaction and had not given the elf his anger.

The elf glared at him. “I will not take a dwarf into the city.”

“Gimli is with us, and has lost as much if not more than we have.”

“What does a dwarf know of loss?” the elf sneered.

“This is Gimli, son of Glóin, friend of Elrond, son-in-law to King Thranduil, and father of Legolas’ heir. What more loss, tell me, must he suffer for you to recognise him as kin?” Frodo demanded. “Now, pray, take us to someone who will help, or we shall help ourselves!”

The elf eyed the angry hobbit and then the dwarf for a long moment. “We had heard that a dwarf took to him an elf bond, but I must see for myself.” Gimli obliged him by taking out the mithril token for him to see. The elf’s features softened. He turned and spoke in rapid Quenya to another elf behind him. The second elf left at once and the first turned back to the three. Hand to his heart he bowed his head. “Forgive me, I did not know. Strange things have we seen of late. Come, you must be tired and hungry. And your wounds shall need further tending. The Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn await you.”

Gimli returned the token to his chest and remained calm, knowing that any reaction would have spelled a totally different response from the elves of Lórien. These were a proud and untrusting people, completely dissimilar to the elves of Northern Mirkwood, and the wanderers of the mountain passes.

“Why do you not strike at me, Gimli, kin of Thranduil? Is it not the way of dwarves to gain wergild for their honour?”

“It is,” Gimli replied. “But your slight is not upon me, but upon my wife, my child and upon the King of the Woodland Realm. I believe that their request made upon the White Shores will be appeasement enough for me. Besides,” he continued. “Legolas told me how the elves would react, and Elrond has played this out with me before you. It is of no surprise, interest, nor importance to me how you accept, or not, my bond. Neither your words nor your actions can break us apart.”

The elf gazed at him for a long moment. “Where is your child?”

Gimli lifted his eyes proudly. “In the Halls of Waiting, still within the body of my wife.”

The elf swallowed. “Forgive me, Master Gimli, it was not known to us here in Lothlórien. Come, let us seek the Lady’s counsel. She will have athelas for your wounds, and balm for your hearts as well.”

“And for you as well, bow-master,” Gimli offered gently. “Our news grieves you also.”

The elf lowered his eyes for a moment. “I am Haldir, March Warden of Lórien. Legolas has been a friend to me for many hundreds of years. To grieve me now that he must die in such a minor thing as a landslide.” Gimli set his hand upon the elf’s shoulder and held it firmly. Haldir regarded his outwardly composed manner that did not quite fool the elf of the pain within. Haldir clutched the dwarf to him. “Come,” he said softly. “The lady Galadriel wishes to see you.”

She stood ethereal as if ghostlike, or perhaps as an angel, so far above them that she stood among the Valar themselves. And yet she felt for them, their weariness, sorrow and pain were as her own. She was tall, Frodo noted instantly, tipping his head back almost as far as it would go to see her face. He had never seen anyone so tall, and judging by the look on Sam’s face, neither had he. But most of all, she was beautiful, quite the loveliest being that ever walked Middle Earth.

“Come,” she said. “For I know, without words, your suffering. I know in my heart your loss. There is much to show you and so little time. My mirror with explain better than I.”

“You want us to look in there?” Sam asked and immediately wished he could retract the words. He quieted his voice. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it’s just water.”

Galadriel smiled gently.

Frodo stepped more boldly onto the dais, but then hesitated, the light reflecting off the water and onto his pallid skin. “What will I see?” he asked.

“Even the wisest cannot tell, for it can show the things that are, the things that were and the things that are yet to be.”

“If I am to look in, then we should all look together,” the hobbit announced.

“Bold little sprite, isn’t he?” Gimli muttered.

Galadriel’s piecing eyes levelled on Gimli, who quailed inside beneath that gaze though outwardly showed no sign of it. “You shall all see, for there is no time to show one and explain to another, who will then retell the tale to the third. Look and be comforted.”

Satisfied, but wary, all three of them stepped up and looked into the black waters of the mirror. At first they remained stormy and uncooperative. Then, slowly, they began to clear and reveal one image after another.

For a moment the view was of Gimli and Samwise charging into battle, a war cry on their lips, bearing the names of the Nine who had fallen, who would have been there had they lived, but the images they saw were not of one battle but two, hundreds of miles apart, and journey with their lost companions.

The waters shifted as if the surface had been disturbed by a ripple and the image changed. Samwise was taken by orcs to fulfil a destiny of hobbits and ents, growing tall in the waters of the trees. Gimli follows him to Rohan and finds old allies, although none of them could see who the ally was. And Frodo saw himself as he had always known, alone in the wastes of Gorgoroth, overshadowed by tremendous thirst and hunger, and the weight of the ring, but going on determined and undeterred.

There was a relief as the history that should have been and the history that would be forged showed itself to them. They felt so few in number, but emboldened that not all was lost. The breaking of the Fellowship as it would have been, now would not occur. An elf walked with Gimli, though who he was they did not see.

Sam set his jaw, proud that he could carry the names of Pippin and merry into Rohan, even though the thought of being captured by orcs made him sick to his stomach, and trembled to the depths of his soul. And to leave Frodo to go on alone . . .?

Frodo sank into the moss at his feet. He journeyed alone, but met with Rangers of Ithilien, fought with them the fiercest of battles, of words rather than blades. A new king would be found among them, one strong and untouched by the malice of the palantir that had taken his father. He was not of Isildur’s line, but he was of the Steward’s. There is no line left and Frodo claims Faramir as king in Ârâgorn’s his stead, to be announced to the world after the fighting among the forests of Lorien and Mirkwood, and the battles for Gondor and for Middle Earth were fought and won.

Before their eyes they saw the sword of Elendil lifted up and passed from the hand of Elrond to Faramir at the pass of Dunharrow. Faramir, before that moment, had been a simple soldier in the shadow of his brother and oppressed by his father. Suddenly he was whisked from certain death into Rohan to meet with a destiny he had not sought, nor had thoughts as to how he could fulfil it.

They saw also the finding of Ârâgorn and the passing of his sward to Elrond, the token of Arwen passed to Frodo, as it was written from the Beginning. And in Rohan, the abuse of the palantir on the minds of those who touched it, the pain inflicted on Sam that sends him to Gondor for the saving of Faramir. It was all laid out before their eyes; images and voices too terrible to behold.

As Ârâgorn was meant to do, Faramir looked into the palantir, baiting the Dark Lord with the sword and the ring, sitting upon the throne of Gondor. Sauron, misled, believe only what he could see; his nemesis, the heir of Elendil had come forth to meet him at the Black gates . . .only to be greeted with the sigh of Frodo’s mithril shirt.

Suddenly the mirror went dark, and Frodo clutched at his chest, puckering the shirt within his fist. It would not save him, he realised. How would they win it from his body? He did not know.

Frodo looked up from the mirror to gaze at Gimli. “You have the sword?”

Gimli stepped away from the mirror and took off his pack. Opening it, he took out the oilskin cloth usually reserved for his finest axes. Within the cloth lay two others, much smaller, which he opened with much reverence and love. He bowed his head, and offered to the lady the ring of Barahir, and the token of Arwen Úndomiel, the chain of which was missing. “I am sorry, my lady, I could not . . .I could not get him out . . .nor get to the sword.”

Galadriel lifted the ring and token of her grand daughter and ignored the tear that rolled down her cheek. “It is enough that you found these, Gimli Elf-friend. I will send word to Elrond and from there they can recover the bodies. The sword should go to the new heir.”

“All hope is lost,” Frodo said. “What new heir would Faramir of Gondor make? He is not of the line of Elendil.”

“Faramir is of my line, Frodo of the Shire,” Galadriel admonished him gently. “Finduilas was the granddaughter of my brother, who shrugged off the life of the Eldar and became mortal. Faramir is her son and, although unknowing, is heir to all Elvenden, for Úndomiel will now sail for Valinor,” she explained. “As you have seen within the mirror, so shall it be played out. For Middle Earth shall fall if you fail,” Galadriel warned.

“We will need aide, to carry with us the burden. I would not go into battle without an elven bow,” Gimli said.

“Take me,” Haldir suddenly said, not an offer, but a plea, well aware that he had intruded on a private meeting, but defiant.

Galadriel gazed at the March Warden and gauged his intent, nay need. “So I must part with my best soldier?” she queried.

“You have my brothers, and all of Lórien beside you, my lady,” he replied.

Galadriel’s face held no flicker of a response as she turned back to the three. “You shall rest, for your hearts are weary, and full of sorrow. Once healed, your journey may continue into Mordor or to wherever your oath may lead.”

Haldir awoke with the dawn and prepared as best he could. In his heart, he shuddered at such a task he had taken upon himself. He had offered to take Legolas’ place on the quest, but knew he could not replace the prince. In the quiet of the morning, Gimli and he spoke much of things that troubled them both, sharing in a loss of friend and wife. They were given food and drink and there was precious little to do but wait for the weaving of elven cloaks and the baking of lembas bread.

Galadriel came before them on the banks of the Anduin at the waning of the day, bearing gifts. Her warrior she spoke to last of all.

“Haldir, my bravest warrior, bear with you the name of Ârâgorn, wear on your finger the ring of Barahir for a sign of your oath until the heir comes before you to claim it. He will know you, do not seek for him. He will come to you. Each of you will wear the garb of our people. May these shield you from unfriendly eyes. To them you are as smoke from a steaming lake, or a wisp of cloud. Be at one with the trees when in danger, for these cloaks will conceal you as one of them. Each other also carry with you the names of your fallen brothers, lest they be forgotten. Carry them with honour until all is lost or won.”

Celeborn regarded them all gravely, as his companion bade them namarë, as if it was certain that they would not meet again. He alone knew the pain it caused her. Galadriel had always portrayed such strength, but the lost of six of the Nine had cut to her soul.

They watched the two boats drift down stream in their way to meet the mighty Anduin. Nothing was certain . . .something’s are certain.

The four travelled south down the Anduin by boat, Gimli and Frodo in one, Haldir and Sam in the other. They made good time, and the swift current was their ally. Finally they reached the lake above the Ramos Falls and took time to rest. Across the river, beyond the swath of trees, was Emyn Muil, but they had no time to enjoy the view.

The battled began before they had expected it, and not from across the river, but from Isengard. Saruman, in his pride, had sneaked in beneath the very nose of the dark Lord himself and snatched Sam as he walked through the trees.

Just moments before, they had been discussing tactics while Frodo had slipped unnoticed from their camp, perhaps to prepare for his leaving Sam behind. They, in their rush to find Frodo, had separated and been caught unaware. The battle was fierce, bloody and short. The giant orcs had come for one thing, and had succeeded far too easily. Sam, despite their best efforts to reshape what they had seen in the mirror, was taken by the north and not the east.

Breathless they converged again, relieved to find each other alive and unharmed, if splattered with black blood.

“I’m sorry,” Frodo sobbed. “This is all my fault. I should not have left by my self.”

“We are all at fault, lad and should have realised our mistake,” Gimli grumbled. “Galadriel warned us.”

“The mirror can only show what might be, friend Gimli,” Haldir soothed. “It is no one’s fault.”

“We are so few,” Frodo noted, drying his eyes. “I would go after Sam, if I could, but I must get to Mordor.”

“Go,” Gimli urged him. “No doubt, Sauron will be thinking that Saruman has the ring by now, since that seems to be the reason they took Sam. We have the upper hand.”

“The element of surprise is yet with us,” Haldir agreed. “Go, Frodo. We will not leave Sam to his fate.”

They clasped hands and hugged each other. With one last long look of brotherhood, they parted company, unsure if any of them would survive the days ahead. Haldir slid his sword into its scabbard at his hip and clasped the dwarf’s shoulder, the ring on his finger glittering in the sunlight. “Let us hunt some orc.”

Gimli grinned. “Yes,” he crowed and together they launched themselves up the hill and into the unknown.

Alone in the wastes of the foothills of Emyn Muil, Frodo followed his nose. His uncle Bilbo had told him once that it was the best way to find your way. ‘Why,’ he remembered him saying. ‘How else does a pig find a truffle? Or a dog a rabbit? Or a hobbit his pipe weed?’

Frodo smiled at the memory. He breathed in deeply the stagnant stench of decay and took the straight road into the Dead Marshes.

It did not take Frodo long to be captured by the Rangers of Ithilien. He had expected them to have pounced on him earlier, but they had obviously been watching him from the moment he had stepped from the Dead Marshes.

He was bound and blindfolded before so much as a word could be uttered. He was carried like a sack for quite some time, he had no idea where to or how far. When the bounds and blindfold were removed, he found himself in a cave. The sound of water was not very far from where he stood. It seemed to permeate the cave, and gave Frodo the impression that the cave had perhaps been hewn into the cliff face behind the falls. There was ambient light, but he could not tell if that meant it was late the same day, or if it was perhaps early the following morning.

In short, he had no idea where he was, when he was, but he held on to what he did know with a firm grip. He had a two-fold task to fulfil, and no amount of imprisonment would hold him back.

“My men say you are an orc spy,” a man said as he entered the cave.

“I am no spy,” Frodo replied. “I am on an errand of secrecy. Those who claim to be allies would do well not to hinder me.”

“Allies!” the man spat. “The servants of Sauron have no less honour than you, hobbit, save that they were lied to perhaps, blackmailed perhaps, into leaving their homes. Who are you and why do you wander so far from home, and alone no less?” Frodo hesitated. “Speak!”

“Frodo Baggins is my name and I began my journey in Rivendell with Nine companions. One was lost to the orcs at Cair Andros. Another was known in Gondor by the name Mithrandir. Two were my kin and a dwarf there was also, and an elf, and two men. Ârâgorn, son of Ârâthorn, and Boromir of Gondor. During a storm, the mountain we were traversing was washed away, all but three of us were killed. We had to part company north of here to fulfil other tasks.”

“What tasks?” the man asked.

“They had errands in Rohan, to save my fellow from orcs.”

“What task befell you that you invade our territory, armed but alone no less?” the man demanded.

“I am bear a more dangerous task than the others of the Fellowship.” Frodo hesitated. “I cannot speak more of it. I am sworn to secrecy.”

“I have commanded you to speak.”

“You would have me break my oath?” Frodo asked. “And you call yourself a man of honour. I will tell you nothing more than I have already revealed.”

The man jumped up and drew his sword so fast, Frodo jumped back. “If I were of the dark forces, I would torture the information out of you, but I would much rather you tell me . . .nicely.”

Frodo watched the sword tip tease him about the collar and swallowed, but not once did he draw the sword that hung by his side, nor the dagger gifted to him on the Barrow Downs. The man sighed heavily.

“You are supposed to draw, hobbit! I would not kill a man unless he was armed!”

“No,” Frodo replied. “I will not draw against you. We have enemies enough without fighting amongst ourselves. Release me and let me be on my way.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Morgul Vale. There is a path there that leads up into the mountains. I must take it to reach my destination. Do not trouble me for my reasons, I cannot give them.”

“I grow tired of your half-spoken tale, hobbit,” the man warned. “I will have the full truth, or I shall use force. Do not try my patience.” The man suddenly flicked the blade to one side and the sound of metal on metal came to his ears. The man saw a chain dangling on the end of his sword and carefully drew it up and out of the halfling’s shirt. Slowly it came free to reveal a glittering band of gold before him. The man’s eyes widened in recognition. The hobbit’s secret was out. “Is this what I think it is, hobbit?”

“Do not take it, I beg you.”

“So we come to it at last,” the man spoke. “A hobbit and the ring of power within my grasp.”

“Do not touch it,” Frodo warned him again. “I know what it is you would ask of my, but I cannot grant it.”

“What do you know of what I would ask, hobbit?” he retorted thickly, his eyes wide and round as he stared at the ring with growing lust.

“It is treacherous and only has the power to destroy.”

“I will have the ring,” he hissed, reaching out with his free hand.

Frodo swatted the sword aside. “Don’t be fool. Even the elves in there strongholds do not have the power to control it. What hope have you?”

“The ring will go to my father,” the man decided.

“It must be destroyed,” Frodo told him. “Even now it twists your mind. Do not allow it to cloud your judgement.”

“The ring will go to Gondor, whether you live or die defending it, hobbit. I care not,” the man stormed.

“You have to care,” Frodo shouted back. “What else is there if we lack even that for each other? If we stop caring about what happens to our world, we are destined to lose it. If we cease to hope, what future is there?”

“What do you know of hope?” he demanded resignedly. “Your lands are safe in the north, safe away from Sauron . . .while we . . .we lost hope long ago, and lost it again when my brother and captain was sent to Rivendell to fight your war. We have our own troubles to deal with. I do not need you . . .”

“Yes, you do,” Frodo replied quietly. “Kill me and take the ring, but that is what Sauron wants. He wants you to take the ring, because your Steward has already fallen beneath his will. Take the ring, for I shall not stop you. My task is to see it destroyed to save all of Middle Earth. You cannot do that for me, nor to I ask for your aid.”

“What can a hobbit, alone, do that men and elves have tried and failed to achieve?”

“I may be a hobbit, man of Gondor, but I am stronger than you know, and I have information for one of your men. A man by the name of Faramir, son of the Steward. Ârâgorn, son of Ârâthorn, heir of Elendil has died. Faramir must take his place as King.”

“Do not be obsurd!” the man retorted. “My father will never allow a king to return to the throne. He would kill me even for thinking it. I am already a traitor in his eyes for being born!”

“You . . .are the son of the Steward?”

“Yes, I am he,” the man replied. “Faramir is my name and I am no king!” he cried.

His men alerted, one entered, hovering in the entrance just in case the loud voices meant trouble.

“‘Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses as an heir are few’.” Frodo quoted.

Faramir stared at him, the pain in his eyes greater than any Frodo had ever seen before. “How do you know about that?” the man choked. “Those words were spoken to . . .”

“Boromir, before your father sent him to Rivendell,” Frodo replied, his voice quiet. The man fell silent for a long time, their eyes locked as if needing to be wrong, but desperate to be right. “You are Faramir, brother of Boromir?”

The man nodded, numbed by what he had just learned. “How can I be crowned king? There is no royal blood in my veins. It is untrue. Tell me that you are a trick and a stirrer or bad dreams, for I could not stand to hear aught else.”

Frodo gazed at him, at a certain angle, with the light just hitting his face a certain way, he could see his sworn brother in him. It caught in his throat to see it, to recall the last moments of the Fellowship as they had been. Boromir, so proud, stubborn, but so like his brother. He was gone. They were all gone. Now, he was alone. “Do you remember your mother, Faramir?”

Faranir’s gaze grew distant as he slowly sank onto an ale barrel. “I do not remember her very well. She died when I was young. She smiled a lot when I was small, but steadily grew distant. My father always told me that I was to blame for her death, that I cause her pain of the heart. I never believed him, but it was said to me so often that it pains me to this day. I always wondered how a woman of Gondor could fade like that, when I have learned since that it is the custom of elves to yearn for death as she did.”

Frodo tried to smile, but it didn’t come. “That is because your mother was peredhil, Faramir.”

Faramir frowned. “A what?”

“Half-elf, half Númenor. Finduilas’ grandfather was the brother of Galadriel.”

The man’s eyes widened. “The Lady of the Woods . . .?”

“To be king is not just your destiny, it is your birthright.” Frodo said.

The man beside Faramir, having been sworn to silence and sent into battle, in the hopes of being killed and forever silenced, finally began to speak. “I begged her not to marry him, but she had no choice. He loved her in his way, I suppose, but my brother was a hardened creature, hard hearted and hard in life and love.”

Faramir looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

The second man lifted his eyes. “Denethor is my brother. Finduilas was your mother. Finduilas of Dol Amroth, not a name of a maiden of Gondor, to be sure. Finduilas was named as kin of Galadriel, her grandfather shrugged of the immortal cloak and took himself to Gondor to spare his own life. He was a coward, a traitor, by all that is rumoured of him, but of royal descent no less.”

He leaned in and spoke more. “’Tis true, Faramir. Your father bade it never spoken in Minas Tirith, but your mother was indeed a princess of Dol Amroth, her brother Prince Imrahil stayed away, fearing what your father would do if he ever came. It is possible that he is unaware that your mother has died, at least, he would not have heard of it from your father.”

Frodo began to pace unaware that he was doing it, and as he paced, he began to think aloud. “That would better explain why Imrahil only visited after the battle of Pelennor Fields, instead of fighting in the battle along side them, and ruled Minas Tirith instead of going with Ârâgorn to Morannon. Surely, Imrahil had a good reason for staying out of it until the very end, if he was that important that Legolas bowed to him, where the heck was he all this time?” Frodo paced on, without regard for the two men who eyed him with open mouths. “The mirror said he rode with Ârâgorn to Pelennor and then watched the city as the joint armies rode to face Sauron.” Frodo suddenly stopped and looked at them. “Imrahil was indeed peredhil, but Orodreth was no traitor, nor a coward.”

“You speak of a future as if it is the past, hobbit. What is it that you war with?” the second man asked asked.

Frodo looked at him, unsure.

“This is Parn, my second in command. And my uncle as well, it seems,” Faramir added.

Frodo looked up, accepting that he could trust this man. “I foresaw many things while in the company of your great grandmother. Mine is the burden, to see time. Tell him why it was never spoken, Parn.”

Parn looked uncomfortable. “Denethor disowned me, bade me leave and die or else he would kill me, if I ever spoke out. I do not fear him, not as I once did.”

“If not for Orodreth, I would not have been born,” Faramir said, noting the edge to Parn’s voice, a scathing retort at the elf’s cowardice. “If not for your silence, I would have been killed long ago,” he added, clasping the man’s shoulder in comfort and gratitude. He turned to Frodo. “Frodo, I accept that this is so, but surely my uncle Imrahil is before me in succession. If I claim the throne, there will be anarchy and civil war. I would much rather my father retain Stewardship than to risk the lives of my people. He would claim the throne for himself. He has said as much.”

“My gut instinct tells me that it will not happen,” Parn replied. “My father’s line married into Isildur’s line twice. Your claim would be greater than Imrahil’s, and he has never wanted it.”

Frodo smiled, remembering another heir who had said just those words. “The crown is yours, Faramir. You should tell your men, in case Parn is killed and no one can verify that I have spoken to you.”

The men eyed him curiously. “You make it sound like an omen, hobbit,” Parn said. “We are safe here.”

“Osgiliath will be overrun,” Frodo warned. “You are brave men, but the orcs will come in their tens of thousands.”

“So be it, Frodo,” Faramir agreed. “We shall prepare ourselves. Do not give up hope just yet. We are not so broken as to give up without a fight.” He hesitated. “ I would ask of you one more thing before I see to it that my men hear what you have set before my feet, for I have yet to accept wholly to my heart this crown you say is mine.”

“Ask it,” Frodo said.

“How fares Boromir?” he asked. “He is older then I. By rights, the crown should be his.”

Frodo lowered his eyes. “Boromir was among those lost,” he replied slowly.

Faramir felt his heart sink into his boots. The barrel beneath him wobbled slightly as he landed on it. “He was my only brother.”

Frodo swallowed. “He was mine by oath, and my friend.”

Faramir remained motionless for a long time, before he looked up to find Frodo gazing at him. “We have things to do.”

“Yes,” the hobbit said gently. “But the response you get from your men will not be matched by Denethor. I fear that meeting will go ill for you.”

Faramir suddenly smiled. “That is an understatement, little one. I do not expect to leave his presence alive. If I do, where would I go?”

One word, Frodo spoke, with quiet but firm conviction. “Edoras.”

Elrond stepped slowly down the steps until he could order his feet no more. He lifted his eyes to his daughter as the moved towards him. He had to tell her, but could not find the words. “Arwen, my daughter . . .”

Arwen gazed up at him, searching the sadness in his eyes. Something has happened . . .has it not? Ada?”

Elrond continued toward a chair, for fear of loosing face if he were to remain standing.

“Ada . . .something is wrong. I can feel it. I have felt it for several days. Tell me . . .”

“The Fellowship entered Lorien a few days ago, but they numbered only three.” Elrond lifted his eyes to hers. “Ârâgorn was not among them. Arwen, Ârâgorn is dead.”

Arwen gulped, clutching at her throat. At once her eyes filled with tears.

“You must sail. A ship lies waiting in the harbour to take you across the sea,” he told her. He watched her, already the grief was growing, soon she would fade from his sight. He reached for her, holding her. “My child, forgive me. I regret the words I spoke against you. I did not approve of your betrothal . . .but now . . .I was wrong. Please . . .for me, take the ship, bear your love for Ârâgorn into the west. Do not let me watch you die. Do not fade from me. Sail . . . Please.”

Arwen lifted her head, tears upon her cheeks. Unable to speak, she nodded.

Haldir gazed about him drinking in the aroma or memory. The dwarf eyed him most curiously. “Fangorn . . .Legolas would have told you that this was an ancient forest, so old that it made him feel young again, no doubt,” the elf said.

“How old was he?” Gimli asked gently.

“He never told you?”

Gimli shook his head. “Not in any way I could understand. Sometimes he was worse than Gandalf when it came to riddles.”

Haldir smiled at that. “Legolas had seen the rise and fall of an age of oaks,” he said.

“Legolas told me those very same words,” Gimli replied. “But what does it mean?”

“It means that he had seen a forest grow from its first seed and thrive until its sundering,” Haldir explained. “There is only one place in Arda that an elf could have seen that . . .Beleriand.”

Gimli balked at such a thing. “When I was in my youth, I heard Bilbo Baggins talk of that place. Sauron cursed it and terrible things happened there that he used Elvish words for. I did not understand him, but my father and his kin trembled at the tale. It was destroyed, was it not? If Legolas had seen Beleriand he would have had to have been six thousand years old.”

“If not, that and half again,” Haldir agreed.

Gimli hummed to himself. “And here, I thought he was the same age as Arwen,” the dwarf admitted. He slowly smiled. “He looked good for his age, don’t you think?”

Haldir smiled gently. “Evidently, I am not alone in that thought,” he stated. Gimli chuckled softly. “Even Arwen thought them of the same age,” the elf added. Without warning, he looked up.

Gimli was on his feet at once. He knew elves and their mannerisms. Haldir was suddenly frightened and on edge. “What is it? What do you see?”

Haldir sucked in a long slow breath. “The white wizard approaches.”

Sam was curious, knowing that it was supposed to be done, but fearing the result. He looked into the faintly glowing ball, only to be abruptly stared at by the Great Eye.

“Who are you?” a voice slithered across his mind.

Sam shook with the effort of fighting the evil that sucked at his mind, but refused to answer. He did not know him, and he smiled to himself. Sauron grew angrier by the moment and charged white fire through his body. In a soundless scream, Sam collapsed.

As it was foreseen, Gandalf bade Gimli and Haldir to wait for the king’s arrival, while took the hobbit into Gondor and faced the Steward. Denethor, broken as he was by the evil inserted into his mind my the dark lord, rebuked the wisdom of Gandalf, and demanded wergild of Samwise, whom he saw as responsible for his son’s death. Denethor was as lost to Arda as was Théoden had been, but for Denethor there was no release.

“I will not allow the defences of Pelennor to go unfought.”

“My lord, Osgiliath is overrun.”

“Much do we risk in war, Faramir, but you let it go on a whim.”

“That is not true. We defended it as best and for as long as we could. Many good men have died defending it, but our numbers were too few.”

“Always they are too few. Your brother would not had failed me.”

“My brother is . . .not here,” Faramir replied, unable to tell his father the news, but the moment swiftly approached when he would have to.

“Your brother would not have failed me, as you have done. He would have brought me a kingly gift. But you . . .you sent the ring into Mordor in the hands of a witless halfling!”

“If Boromir had taken the ring he would have kept it for himself and you would not have recognised him.”

Denethor’s frame shook with rage as he stood. “Boromir was loyal to me!”

Faramir gasped. He knew? How in the name of all that was holy did he know?

“Is there a captain here who will do my bidding?” the Steward raged.

“How-how did you know?” Faramir stammered.

Denethor stumbled forward, his face twitching and set in a cruel sneer. “My son is dead, and you seek to supplant me with the lies that come from the north? I know what it is that you keep secret from me, but know this . . .you will die by my own hand before I ever let you take my place. You are to return to Osgiliath at once. Or I shall order you hanged from the white tree as the traitor you truly are.”

Faramir, set his jaw. No more would he take this from this madman who had treated him like someone else’s cast-off since the day he was born. “I would rather die here and now than waste more lives in a fruitless battle we can no more win than you can see sense!”

Denethor gaped at him, astonished that suddenly the placid child he had disowned had suddenly turned and bitten him with his own medicine. For one shocked moment, the steward could not find anything to say in response.

Surprised at getting no reply, and emboldened, Faramir continued. “I have a better use for my time than to follow a man who would sell his soul and the all of Gondor to the Dark Lord. I ride to meet my destiny.”

Denethor stood speechless as he watched Faramir walk away. Suddenly his countenance twisted yet again. “What destiny do you think you have, traitor!” he roared. “Nothing will come of your claim of stewardship. No one will follow you.”

Faramir paused and turned, a small smile curved his lips. “Oh, but I think they will,” he returned confidently. “And I do not plan on becoming steward, father,” he said, the word tasting foul in his mouth. “My aims are far higher than that.”

Denethor gasped and took a step forward in horror, but his son had already slipped out the door, untroubled by the guards, despite their steward’s orders.

The hobbit stood alone, but amazed that Faramir had found the strength to do what he had just done. He would be leaving for Rohan, and destiny. Sam took on a look of shock, but inside he was filled with joy, but also the darkness of the Dimholt Road lay before him, and he wondered if Faramir would be accepted by the people of Gondor, or even of Rohan and Arnor. There would be no telling yet. He had but to hold on for a little while longer. He hoped Frodo was safe, was well wherever he was.

For Sam the time had come to do the real work, he had to make Denethor believe he was as loyal as the best of them. “He can’t do that, can he, my lord? I mean, you’re the Steward, your word is law,” the hobbit said. “Besides, he can’t claim the throne of Gondor, my lord. He’s your son. That makes you before him in the line of succession, don’t it?”

Denethor almost smiled. “I wish it were so, young hobbit,” he growled. “Ârâgorn was indeed the last of a ragged House, long bereft of lordship, but my son is of the same strain. In his veins runs the elven influence of Dol Amroth, the blood of elven kings, adding to the line of Númenor that runs in my line from the days of a year I no longer recall.” He turned his hardened gaze on the hobbit. “Yes,” he nodded, noting the surprise on Sam’s face, fooled into thinking it genuine. “I am also of Elendil’s line, though I am a descendent of a lesser brother of the king. In Faramir, there is blood of kings from both sides. Dîrhael’s great grandfather’s sister had married an heir of Gondor, she had died in childbirth. His older sister was the mother of Imrahil, she also had died young. I took to me Imrahil’s sister, in the hopes of usurping any claim by the a direct heir for the throne. Dîhael, not wanting his daughter, Gilraen, to marry one of Elendil’s line and so lose another of his kin to their fate, had blocked her marriage to Ârâthorn. Imrahil and Ârâgorn were distant cousins. All Núenoreans come from Elros.” He slowly smiled, though it held no joy. “You know who Elros was, I presume?”

“No, sir,” Sam replied.

“He was the brother of Elrond, blessed with long life, and gifted with visions and healing powers. I care not for such trickery,” he added, voice hardening again. “Faramir is more my enemy than my heir. For all my meddling, he is now king . . .oh yes, my young hobbit, Faramir is no small threat to me . . .but I still have ways to stop him.” He lifted his head. “Guards! Send for Lorne.”

As it was, Lorne had been waiting outside. He had watched Faramir leaving, alone. He did not know what had been said, but he could guess it had not been pretty. He entered the hall of kings at once, so as not to keep the Steward waiting. He bowed. “You sent for me, my lord?”

“I am appointing you captain of my armies, what say you?”

Lorne was visibly surprised. “I am honoured, my lord.”

“Your first task is to kill a traitor. Do not let him live to see the dawn.”

“I will do as you so command. Who is the traitor, my lord?”

“Faramir,” Denethor replied coldly.

Lorne’s expression froze upon his face. He was to kill his best friend, to refuse was to . . .he would not. “I will do the deed myself, my lord.”

“Send your company on to Osgiliath. I want that city retaken at all costs.”

Lorne shuddered. “At once, my lord.” He bowed and left.

Beyond the doors, the men had gathered at the opening to the causeway to the sixth level. “What are our orders,” came the fist voice.

“Faramir has been ousted from Gondor as a traitor. I have been sent to kill him,” Lorne replied. “I, as your captain, will join you in Osgiliath as soon as I am done. We ride to war!”

Nothing else was said as they returned to their horses, but slow determined smiles spread across their faces as they walked, never wavering once as they mounted and rode for the gates.

“Lorne!” a voice cried. “Lorne! Do not ride. Denethor’s mind is turned to madness.” Gandalf stepped into the rode to stop him.

“Where else does my oath lie, if not upon my lord’s will?” Lorne asked unmoved by the wizard’s plea. “This city was once the pride of Númenor, and I gladly give my life to protect her beauty, and to do that I can no more stay here than watch it fall. I must do as my lord commands.”

Gandalf watched him ride away down the street and secretly smiled. “Things are now in motion that cannot be undone,” he whispered to himself.

Two hundred men rose from the gates and struck out across the fields of Pelennor, but before their forms could be touched by the sun above the peaks of the mountains, they suddenly veered as one to the northeast and made for the gate.

Out beyond the gate, a lone horseman waited, and smiled.

§

Dunharrow was full of men and horses. Théoden was most surprised to see the arrival of two hundred more from Gondor, and many more of Arnor, although the latter had very little in the way of armour.

Faramir dismounted and went straight towards an elf whom he had never seen before. Beside him stood a dwarf, which confused him greatly. Were they not bitter enemies. Faramir stopped in front of the elf and fazed at him, saying nothing. Without a word, the elf removed from his finger a ring and handed it to him.

“My lord,” the elf began. “I give you the ring of Barahir.”

“Thank you,” Faramir replied and slipped it on. “I had expected to meet you at Edoras. I am surprised to find you here, mustered as you are for war.”

“The beacons of Gondor were lit yesterday. Did you not know?” Gimli asked.

Faramir shook his head. “The beacons are not visible from the road, and I doubt my father is in the frame of mind to have ordered them lit.” he frowned. “Sam,” he said. It was enough. A knowing nod passed between the elf and dwarf. “I must meet with the king. It goes ill with Minas Tirith.”

“Who are these men?” Théoden demanded before Faramir had taken so much as a step more.

Haldir turned and smiled gently. “Théoden, King of Rohan. This is Faramir, of Gondor, Ârâgorn’s heir, heir of Gondor and Arnor.”

“Wait!”

They turned at the abrupt cry, to see a ranger from the north dismount and step towards the men of Gondor.

“You are no more my king, than you are my wet nurse, boy!” he sneered.

Haldir stepped forward at once angry, but he was stopped by Faramir’s hand. “And who are you to question my birthright, old man?” Faramir returned.

The man ground his teeth. “See?” he called to the Dunedain. “He does not even known who I am, that I am Dîr, counsel to Ârâthorn himself. He does not even know what it is to be Isildur’s heir. He does not know Arnor, nor indeed Gondor. Go home boy, your mother is calling you in for bedtime.”

“If you had been that good a counsel, Dîr of Arnor, perhaps Ârâthorn could have returned alive to his wife and had a second son, and I would not be standing here to endure the smell of your breath.” Faramir glared at the man before him, who’s hair had silvered in places, and probably matched his father in age. “My father is the Steward of Gondor, and my sworn enemy. My mother was Finduilas of Dol Amroth, grandniece of the Lady of the Woods. My father is nephew to Dîhael. My uncle is Imharil, high prince of Gondor. Ârâgorn, son of Ârâthorn, was not just my cousin. He was uncle, my great uncle, my second cousin, and in here,” he added, tapping the breast plate of his armour. “He was my brother.”

“Denethor will never allow you to claim the throne,” Dîr warned him, still not totally convinced.

“Upon my hand rests the ring of Barahir,” Faramir replied. “The ring that had been handed down from father to son for generations. It once rested upon the finger of my ancestor’s brother. Now it comes to me. I no more looked for this day than Ârâgorn wanted it for fear of it overshadowing him as it did Isilduir, but it is here. And I shall be king, whether my father, Denethor, likes it or not . . .whether you like it or not.”

Dîr did not move for a moment. “We need further proof that you are Isildur’s heir.”

Faramir was unphased by the man’s attempt at a standoff. “Then I shall give you until midnight. At that appointed time, my uncle will bring you proof.”

Lorne looked worried. “Faramir,” he whispered. “We saw Parn fall, and Imrahil is thousands of leagues away. What uncle do you speak of?”

Faramir smiled. “You shall see.”

“I for one, need no more proof,” Théoden said. “I remember the ring of Barahir, and Gandalf told me of your coming. I wish we could draw swords together, you and I, but I know your road takes you into dangers I have seen only in my darkest dreams.”

“I does,” Faramir replied. “I hope we shall meet upon the battle field of Pelennor, for there we shall fight side by side.”

Théoden’s face was grim, but his clasp of shoulders firm and confident. “You have ridden far and hard. Rest.”

As the moon rose to her zenith in the heavens, a lone rider took the road to Théoden’s encampment, taking many of the guards by surprise. Without a word he strode purposefully towards the king’s tent and entered.

Théoden looked up in time to see the hood pushed back against broad strong shoulders to reveal an elf, a fine crafted crown of mithril upon his brow. Without thinking, the king of Rohan bowed his head, and ushered him to a comfortable couch.

“What brings you so far south, my lord. Indeed, I did not think it safe to travel. The war is not yet won.”

“I have come seeking the heir of Gondor,” Elrond replied. “He has arrived, I presume?”

“Wake Lord Faramir at once,” the king ordered a guard, who rushed away to do his bidding. “I have just met him myself,” Théoden told the elf lord. “I accepted him without question, but the men of the north are lusting after proof of his claim.”

“They shall have it,” the elf lord replied. “I will know my nephew, if it is him that has come. He has an errand of great importance to undertake before joining the battle for Minas Tirith.”

Théoden nodded. “The Dimholt road. Gandalf told me.”

“There is more that you cannot know just yet, king of Rohan, though I foresee many grave perils befall your House before the sun rises upon the greatest battle yet to come.”

Théoden blinked, he leaned forward and asked, “Of what perils do you speak?”

Suddenly, Faramir stepped inside the tent and the opportunity had passed him by. He would not hear the answer, he knew, until his fate found him on the field of battle. He had the sinking feeling that the elf lord had foreseen his death. If so he welcomed it, it was a just war, a just cause, and it would be an honour to defend Gondor against the tyranny of the dark lord.

The elf rose to face Faramir and they met for the first time. Faramir bowed at once. “My lord,” he accorded.

“You are but a child, but you become a man by the undertaking of your most greatest challenge yet,” the elf began. “Do you know me?”

“You are Elrond, Lord of Imladris. More than this I know it in my heart.”

“You bear the eyes of your mother. I see her very much in you.”

“My father always told everyone that Boromir looked after our father while I, the younger of his sons, was more my mother in favour. He said I took too much after her and not enough of him. That is why he rejected me.”

“Your task will overshadow all that you brother had and could have ever achieved,” Elrond told him. “You must take the Dimholt Road.”

“I am afraid, and perhaps a coward, also,” Faramir suddenly announced. “I do not know what lies upon that road, or how to command that which waits to greet me.”

“You are no coward, kin of my wife, no more than I,” Elrond rebuked him gently. “Upon that road is the shadow that has haunted you since the moment of your cousin’s death. Open your mind to it, allow it to show itself to you.”

Faramir hesitantly closed his eyes. The shadow that had disturbed his dreams, stalked his every step, had irked him at the very edge of his sight, but had never been in full view. Without warning it stood before him. He gasped, his eyes flew wide. “Murderers, traitors . . .the damned of Gondor. They believe in nothing, they answer to no one.”

“They will answer to the king of Gondor,” Elrond retorted in his ever gentle voice, and revealed the scabbard he had hidden beneath his cloak and held it out to him. “Andruil, Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil.”

Faramir gaped at it, in awe. “Sauron would not have forgotten this sword.” Tentatively he reached out to touch it. It was legendary that all who touched it that were not of Elendil’s line were cursed to endure an agonising death even if they so much as placed a fingertip upon the sword. His fingers curled around the scabbard and he carefully touched the hilt. Nothing happened.

Elrond watched him as he drew the blade from its bed. “The man who has the power to wield this sword has the power to summon an army more powerful than any that walks this earth. My brother’s son, you are that man. Put aside the lowly downtrodden child of the steward, and be who you were born to be, the prince and hair of all elvenden. By Ârâgorn’s death you are also the king of Gondor and the United Kingdoms. Be that king.”

Faramir’s eyes glided along the silver blade and flicked to Elrond’s. “I shall not let you down.” He reheated the sword and bowed. Turning he left the tent to find his horse. Instead he found his men roused and ready and an elf and a dwarf standing beside his mount. “I do not ask you to join me,” Faramir told them.

“I don’t recall anyone saying that you had,” Gimli replied. “Nonetheless, I am going with you.”

“I could not permit it.”

Haldir pulled up beside him. “Do you know nothing about the stubbornness of dwarves?”

Faramir tied the second scabbard beside the sword of Gondor already on his belt, and reached for the reins of his horse. “I see that I am resigned to obey you, on occasion. Far be it for me to argue with sworn brother of Ârâgorn. I know you have no oath to me, Gimli, for I know that is your name, but I would welcome your axe for as long as you desire to stand by my side. Haldir, your bow is better than mine, therefore I shall not turn it aside.”

Haldir beckoned his horse with a mere wave if his hand and he and Gimli mounted. Behind them rode the men of Gondor, before them walked the heir of Elendil. Not more than a few feet had passed beneath their boots than Faramir came to a stop. Barring his path were the men of Arnor. There was silence, and Faramir took out Andruil, drawing her in an arc before their eyes, the sound of her voice filling the air around them. The Dunedain looked on in awe.

“I do not ask you to follow me, I do not beg, but I do ask you to remember who bore this sword before me, and witness who’s hand it is in now. The time for words is over, the time for proof is over. Ride now, or stay behind. It is true, I know not the lay of Arnor, no more than I know the lay of the future, but know this . . .I will not stand by and allow Sauron to take our lands as his own. By now, the forces of the Dark Lord are upon the doorstep of Minas Tirith, and I take now the Dimholt Road, alone if need be, for those who would quail in the sight of war need not follow, but should remain with their babes and suckle their women.” Faramir did not wait for an answer, but simply mounted his steed and left the Dunedain to stew.

Haldir grinned and coughed gently. “A rousing speech, my lord,” he said and turned Arod towards the road.

Faramir looked at him. “Again, I do not ask you to come with me,” he said gently. “You do not know me.”

“Neither do they,” Gimli said, indicating to the Dunedain behind them who were now mounting their horses. “But they follow you regardless.”

Elrond slipped unnoticed from the encampment and turned north. It would take him some time to get home, but not as long as it would have been had he been riding a mere horse of Gondor, strong though they were. The journey on foot was a month in the making, on his horse, Elrond knew he would be home in time for supper on the fifth day. He kicked the horse into a gallop and was gone into the night.

As Faramir emerged from the road of the dead, the sight of burning cities met his eyes. Black ship had already begun their journey towards the ports of Minas Tirith. “Gondor has fallen. We are too late,” Faramir spoke, resignedly.

“No,” Gimli said. “Look.”

A man was walking up the hillside towards them, many more were following. Faramir watched his progress with growing interest. The stranger seemed to know that they were there. How, he did not know. The man stopped and Faramir gazed at him as he stood there breathless from his climb. “Uncle?” Faramir spoke.

“Long have I wished for this moment,” the man replied, and smiled. “You look so much like her, it is uncanny.”

Faramir stepped down to the level ground that he stood on and embraced him. “How is it that you are here to greet us, when no word had been sent of our coming?”

“A little bird told me,” Imrahil replied. “It’s a long story, but trust me, I make no jest.” Imrahil saw the ring on his nephew’s finger and the sword of the west at his hip and he knelt, needing no further word nor gesture. “My lord and king, my army awaits your command.”

The Black Gates rose like a shear wall before them. They recognised the shirt the Mouth of Sauron flaunted before them like a sharpened stake to their hearts. They had not expected the cruel malice with which he grinned at them.

Sam gasped. “No . . .Frodo . . .”

“Silence,” Gandalf snapped.

Faramir frowned. It was a trick, he could smell it. He could not explain it, but he knew. Quickly he drew his horse along side the Mouth and drew Andruil from its slumber. Despite his own promise not to use the sword to draw blood, he swung it in a narrow arc and watched the head roll from the body of the abomination. “Fall back,” he called to those with him and they cantered back to the armies to prepare for the final assault.

“Take comfort, Sam,” Gandalf said quietly. “Even in defeat, Frodo was saved, for he never met with the torment of Gollum. Have hope, Samwise. I no more believe Sauron’s treachery than I am a pig with horns.”

Sam brightened, but then sobered. “Forgive me, Mr Gandalf, but I don’t know what to believe. Either that shirt is Frodo’s . . .or you hide your ‘orns very well, sir.”

Gandalf smiled at that. “Not always, Sam,” he noted quietly. “Not always.”

Gimli rested his back against the solid stone of the wall, gazing up at the spectacle of stars in the night sky. He sighed gently. Beside him stood an elf, but not the elf who should have been enjoying this night with him. Gimli sighed again.

“Haldir, you have become a friend to me, held me up when I would have fallen, comforted me with your wise cracks when all I watched to do was cry.”

Haldir chuckled softly.

Gimli smiled. “You have been a good companion, even though your name will be forgotten now, a mere footnote as the elf who held me at the tip of his arrow in Lorien, and thereafter to vanish as if you had never existed.”

“I was not a member of the Fellowship,” Haldir replied. “Mine is not a name to be remembered. I aided you of my own free will when you left Lorien, I ask for no payment nor recognition.”

“And Éomer still thinks your name is Legolas. You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later.”

Haldir shook his head. “I will not. I will leave tonight, for I must return to Lorien. I hope I have been a good companion to you, Gimli Elf-friend.”

Gimli pushed away from the wall, and clasped his shoulder. “It was an honour to share this time with you,” he said.

Haldir clasped his shoulder. “We will meet again.”

“Who will aid the king?” Gimli wondered.

“Arwen’s brothers are remaining behind to tend to Faramir in Legolas’ stead until his death. I stood in for Legolas for a while, but I could not take his place. I cannot replace him.”

Gimli gazed one last time at the night sky. “The war is over, and we must go our separate ways.”

“For a while,” Haldir reminded him.

“For me, it might as well be a lifetime,” Gimli admitted.

Finally, Gimli wept as they parted company.

They entered the city if Rivendell and dismounted. They had been nine when they had left, now they were three, four with Gandalf’s return. There was trepidation, grief as elves stepped forward to tend to their horses. Lord Elrond descended the steps to greet them, his face grave as he approached the sombre group. Haldir bowed with respect, the three did not, too tired, too broken.

“My friends,” Elrond said, though little else came to mind. The hobbits discarded all protocol and decorum and stepped forward to embrace the Lord of Imladris, as a child would a missed parent, and Elrond allowed it. The ring had been destroyed and the war won, but there had been no victory. For all the enemies stacked against them, nature had proved the most powerful.

Gimli smiled a little and gave the elf’s arm a squeeze, the arm rose to rest the hand on his shoulder. Haldir held back, this was not his time. “I should not have been meeting you again, Lord Elrond,” Gimli began. “Had my wife still been alive, I would have been in Fangorn now, or Aglarond, or perhaps on my way home to Mirkwood or Erebor.”

“I know, friend Gimli, but I am glad you came, in a way. I have something to show you, indeed all of you,” Elrond said, beckoning them to join him. Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff, followed, as did Haldir.

They walked passed the stairs and through an archway, leading down a wide staircase, a mirror of the one above them. Elrond almost floated down into a wide gallery. He passed murals and the statue that had once bourn the shards of Narsil. Around the corner he glanced up at a white marble statue of a woman. Elrond paused there, a light smile graced his lips as he slowly stepped beyond her and into the quiet garden that grew there.

Flowers bloomed and well-tended shrubs and trees flourished. Birds sang in the branches in hushed, almost reverent voices. Here Elrond stopped again, and this time did not move. Gimli looked up and gasped, for there stood Legolas, as proud, hail and beautiful as ever he had been, bow in hand and quiver against his back. Gimli froze as he realised that Legolas was not alone. Beside him stood Aragorn, Boromir, Pippin and Merry. For one terrifying moment, Gimli thought there had been a terrible mistake, but it slow grew apparent that he was looking not upon living flesh, but a memorial, carved with love and tenderness from white marble.

“Aule,” the dwarf whispered. In the elf’s other arm was a small child, more stout than an elf babe, but bearing elf ears and the face of Gimli. The tears came then as Gimli traced his fingertips down the elf’s cheek, pressing a kiss to his fingers and tenderly placing it upon the carved lips.

“It was not easy, removing them here under the ever watchful eyes of Isengard, but we had to. I did not want them desecrated,” Elrond spoke softly.

“You buried them here?” Frodo asked.

“We did,” Elrond replied. “Here they will remain. The statue will be taken to Gondor at the behest of King Faramir, so that their names will not be forgotten.”

Frodo agreed, as did Sam.

Gimli cupped the child’s head lovingly before turning away and not looking back. “I looked for them, hour after hour, night and day. I must know . . .did they suffer?”

Elrond hesitated. “Pippin and Merry most likely died instantly. We found Boromir last, he died within minutes. Ârâgorn was found as if cradling Legolas, shielding him. Both of them had fought to get to the surface, but died in the space of a few heart beats. I doubt you would have found them in time. ”

“Ârâgorn knew?” Gimli wondered.

Elrond delved into a pocket of his robes and brought out a small cloth-wrapped gift. “On the day the Nine left, he bade me keep this safe. It was to have been his and Arwen’s gift for you child’s first anniversary.” He watched as the dwarf lifted it and pulled the ribbon free. The cloth parted like the petals of a flower to reveal a gown of yellow silk and gossamer. “Gilraen made it for her son, Ârâgorn, when he was born. He wanted you and Legolas to have it.”

“It’s . . .it’s beautiful, an honour,” Gimli breathed.

“It will help you remember,” Frodo suggested gently.

Gimli clasped it to him and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he lifted them to his friend, Haldir, who stood nearby. The elf nodded in encouragement. “Aye,” he said softly. “I think I will.” Inside him, a secret gleamed. Could he dare hope that his vision had been real and not just a fanciful dream?

“We would like to rest for a day or two, Lord Elrond,” Frodo spoke as they returned to the wide gallery. “We are anxious to return to the Shire.”

Elrond nodded. I will have rooms made ready, and rouse your uncle. I am sure he would be very pleased to see you safe.”

Several days later, the four of them, Gandalf, Gimli, Frodo and Sam were under arrest upon the road to Hobbiton. Frodo laughed. In quiet courage, he found the pitifully inadequate welcome amusing.

Sam’s eyes clouded with annoyance. It slowly became apparent that not all the wars were over. He lifted his chin and cried out, “Behold the horn of Gondor and the King. In Pippin Took’s place, I blow the horn. Awake hobbits, take up your arms and fight!”

And he blew long and loud, making the air shake and the hobbits tremble.

The cleansing of the Shire was assisted by Gimli and the wizard, bearing with them the actions of Merry and Pippin with pride. The war was lost for Saruman, and the hobbits were free once more. The result was the same as it was foreseen, peace and an unrecognised act of self-sacrifice. Merry and Pippin were forgotten, the war of the ring left unspoken of. Life went on as it had always done, simply and quietly.

“I shall remain here,” Sam decided. “I will visit Gondor when I have time to, but it will not be the same for me. These folk are unforgiving and ungrateful. I tire of them too easily.”

Frodo smiled and patted his hand. “Hold fast, Sam. There is work still to be done here. My body is still broken and pains me even to this day, two years on. I fear soon that I must depart.”

Sam gazed at him in shock. “Mr Frodo?” he whispered. “If you leave, what will become of me? What is to become of us left behind? There is no king of Arnor to protect us.

Frodo smiled gently. “Nothing will harm the Shire, Sam. And even after they lay you to rest beside Faramir in Rath Dinen, the hobbits will be safe.” Frodo lifted the token that hung from his neck and gazed at its quiet beauty. It had dulled that day on the mountainside, its wearer taken from the world while protecting the lives of others. A fitting end to one so noble, he thought. “Tomorrow, I journey to the Grey Haven’s Sam. My wounds exhaust my strength that even sleep is driven from me.”

“You’re leaving forever . . .aren’t you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam realised. It was a rhetorical question and one that Frodo did not reply to. Sam sighed gently, tears in his eyes. “When my time here is over, I will return to Gondor and be buried next to Faramir. The land, this Shire, ceased to be home to me a long time ago. Although I love her people and will serve them diligently all my days, they are not my people any more. I am more than they are, more than they will ever become. My place is not here. It should have been in Valinor, with you. Instead, I shall sleep beside my king, for whom I bear the horn of the House of Stewards.”

Frodo smiled warmly, and hugged him.

The Grey Havens rose up from the sea more than it edged the land, as if some hand had lifted it from the ocean floor to linger on the cliffs as if hovering on the verge of racing back into the water. Stone buildings centuries old clustered around them like a warm embrace, gathering them to the harbour. The city was now deserted, save for a loose huddle upon the wharf.

There stood Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn and one other elf, who stood swathed in a long beard off to one side.

Frodo knew him, he was Círdan, the shipwright. Frodo turned to Sam, solemnly. “Be at peace, Sam. Gandalf was right when he said that this is not the end.

“White shores,” Sam said, breath quivering.

They embraced and parted. Sam watched his dearest friend step onto the silver-sailed boat behind Gandalf. Celeborn kissed his wife and remained standing on the quayside.

“Come, Gimli,” Haldir beckoned.

Sam observed the elf and dwarf board the ship last of all, leaving the hobbit and Celeborn behind as it drifted out into the tidal current. He did not want to say good bye, but had to, for a time. Alone he stood watching the ship pass from sight, but not alone, for a hand rested on his shoulder as if in comfort, but not.

“Why did Gimli have to leave?” Sam asked quietly.

“He has a wife and child waiting for release from the Halls of Waiting. Mandos cannot touch the soul of an unborn elven child, therefore he cannot hold Legolas there forever. Gimli had earned the right to be counted among the Eldar.”

“And you have not?”

Celeborn considered this. “I have work still to finished, my friend. Galadriel will wait for me in Valinor.”

“What is to become of me?”

Celeborn gazed down at the upturned face and smiled gently. “You will join us in due time.”

El fin