The night was chilly, if nothing else, and not just with the promise of snow in the air. Seven days out from Rivendell and two of the fellowship had yet to exchange words and two others did nothing but glare at each other.

Aragorn sighed. It would be the most difficult task yet of his eighty-seven years; how to bring together a disparate group of travellers and make them gel. He had to ensure that they could trust each other, even feel like family. All they had shared to far was food, water, fire and glares.

Aragorn sat up. That was it. Share. If he could get them to talk . . .the hobbits were already good at talking, but he wanted this fellowship to really talk, share their lives, their history, their thoughts. Would it be enough to break the ice?

His eyes lifted to Gandalf, who was regarding him gently through his pipe smoke, probably thinking along the same lines as he was. The hobbits were talking, too entrenched in their own little lives, and Boromir was just too arrogant. The dwarf was again drawing anger from a certain wood elf with his unceasing insults. This was not going well, and it was the best time to put and end to it.

Aragorn took a deep breath. “Gimli,” he called. “Would it not be wiser if you could explain to us all why you harbour such ill will towards this gentle-natured elf?”

Gimli growled. “My father was imprisoned by his father, in Mirkwood,” he sneered, voice rising. “But my anger goes back several generations, to when they invaded our lands and drove us out to begin with. Oh, yes, Rhovanion was ours!”

Aragorn remained unmoved. “So, your anger and hatred is not actually your own,” he noted. “But has accumulated over previous generations? Legolas, himself, did not do something to you at Rivendell, did he?”

Gimli hesitated. “Well . . .er . . .no. Actually, he hasn't been anything short of a pleasant being to be around . . .for a pointy-ear," he admitted. "Except for the looks he give me."

"In response to your own," Legolas blurted out. A hand to his shoulder silenced everything else he had in mind to say.

"Gimli," Aragorn pressed on, determined to bring it all out into the open preferably before someone was knifed and their fellowship whittled away to nothing in the wilds before they even reached Mordor. "Let us hear it, so that we may understand better this slight that burns your memory. That way we can clear the air."

Gandalf was content to sit back and allow the heir-apparent his hour. This dispute would require all his skills.

Gimli began to explain what the elves did when they Walked from the east. “They waltzed in from whatever hell spat them out and invaded Rhovanion, as if they owned the place. Well, we let them know exactly what we thought of this intrusion . . .and the elves retaliated, seven fold . . .was a shock to find them so strong, being so fragile to look upon. They were vicious fighters, passionate killers.” Gimli nodded thinking about it.

“Aye, it was a bitter battle. Since then, there has been no peace to be had. Durin the Deathless got his name from the fact that when he died, his body did not decay. It still lies as if in sleep. Every other generation a dwarf is born who is an exact likeness of him that we name him Durin. His hair was most unusual, too, black as the soot of coal fires. Only those who inherit his looks and hair colour is permitted to bare his name, and a high honour it is too. Durin’s folk inhabited Moria for a good many years. I am not of Durin’s folk, in exile or not, although I am descended from him. I was born in Erebor, north of Mirkwood. Durin the Deathless’ son, Durin VI was born in 1731 and the throne was passed down from father to son until Dain the first. His brother Borin is my great, great grandfather. I shall have to write it all out for you, Aragorn,” he promised, to which Aragorn nodded.

“The Oakenshield family tree is quite impressive, all of them fine men born of fine men . . .except Fili and Kili, who’s mother, Dís, is the only dwarf woman ever to be recounted in song. Most of them named in those tales gained the respect and praise of their peers by killing more elves and orcs than mining mithril and gold . . .” Gimli paused suddenly.

“Actually, er, if truth be known, we actually took possession of Rhovanion from a different direction than the elves took,” he admitted quietly. “We just didn’t want no pointy-eared magic-wielding tall folk coming in and telling us what to do with a bunch of trees . . .no offence, Gandalf,” he put in quickly and continued. Gandalf was trying not to laugh as he waved his free hand dismissively. “A stupid pride-filled old dwarf turned a surprise chance meeting into a bloodbath over a tree we wanted for firewood. They wanted it for a roof to shelter their children. I admit, they were none to gentle with the defenceless elflings, treating them no differently than noisy piglets.” Gimli shuddered. “That was no way to treat whelps, whatever their race,” he finished, and left it at that.

Legolas regarded him in silence. He had known this tale, but not the dwarves’ side of it. And yes, his kin had exaggerated it as well. His forefathers had not even been aware of the dwarves moving through the trees up ahead, until it was almost too late. His grandfather had been too stubborn to tell him the full story, descending instead into a standard vitriol of hatred, half truths and outright lies. Now it made more sense.

Aragorn said, for want of something better to say, “That is an impressive bloodline.”

“I dare anyone here to have a better one,” Gimli said, feeling puffed up with pride.

Aragorn regarded him. “That sounds like a challenge,” he started to say, but Frodo’s servant, Samwise, broke in first.

“Hold hard, Mr. Dwarf, sir, but Frodo’s family tree is more impressive than that, ain't it, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo grinned, though he tried not to.

Aragorn said, “What about your family tree, Mr. Gamgee? I am sure yours is just as impressive.”

Sam blushed. “Well . . .my great, great, great, great grandfather was a guv’nor,” he began hesitantly.

Frodo was looking into his plate as he whispered, “King,” between bites of spit-roasted chicken.

Sam cast him a sideward glance and pretended not to have noticed. “A simple hobbit, he was,” he went on. “Eleventeen-sixty he was born, one of the first hobbits to arrive in Gamwich. He divided the land, so to speak, gave all them families a bit so they could build on and grow their own food. They made him Guv’nor, see, for all the good he’d done. Then his children were born, Wiseman Gammidge being one, he was born in twelve hundred. But he moved to Tighfields, over the way. His son, Hob Gammidge, everyone used to call him, Old Gammidgy, he was born in twelve forty-six. Hob married Rowan, daughter of Holman, the green handed, of Hobbiton. It’s him I get my skills with flowers from, if you get me.”

He took a breath, and carried on, not realising how much he had squeezed into one lungful of air. “They only had one child, from her dying young, see, and his name was Hobson, most just called him Roper Gamgee, short for Gammidgy, seeing as few folks could say it, I ’spects. Anyhow, he was born in twelve eighty-five and lived for ninety-nine years, a good age for a Gamwich. He was a rope maker by trade, traded skills and designs with them elves over at Grey Havens. Me grandma called him a lucky old sod, but we won’t go into that.”

Another breath, much to the relief of his listeners, and Sam continued. “My father, Hamfast was born, son of Hobson. The Gaffer, as we all call him, moved the family to Hobbiton after his father died, so he could be nearer his cousin Holman Cotton. They’d been inseparable all their lives, by all accounts. I was four at the time, I was born in thirteen-eighty. We moved into the cottages at Bagshot Row and have been there ever since. That’s how I got to know Mr Frodo, here.” Finally he was finished.

For a second, they continued to stare at him, expecting more, and his eyes twinkled mischievously. “There’s no more,” he said. “I’m not married yet.”

Aragorn wiped a grin from his bearded mouth and looked at Gandalf.

“Not much to be impressed by, really,” Sam said.

“That is where you are wrong,” Aragorn insisted. “There is much history there, much to sing about and pass on to future generations.”

Boromir was still frowning regardless. “I am curious though. I do not understand your dates.”

“Shire Reckoning,” Aragorn put in helpfully. “Their calendars date back to the first hobbits’ arrival in the Shire.” Aragorn turned his deep, slate-grey eyes to Frodo. “Let us make this a quest of a smaller sort,” he said. “Tell us, Frodo, wherein whose eye your birth twinkled.”

Frodo smiled gently. “I am descended from an honourable line of Bagginses, of noble birth, but, like Sam, I can only go back five generations to Balbo Baggins, he was born in eleventeen sixty-seven. He beget Largo in 1220, who beget Fosco, my grandfather, in 1264. My father, Drogo, was born in 1308 and married Primula Brandybuck. I was born in 1368. Both my father and mother were killed in 1380. I do not know more than that,” he admitted sadly.

“You know nothing of them?” Aragorn asked.

“My grandfather died before I was born and my grandmother was not the most welcoming of hobbits,” he admitted. “Until Bilbo adopted me, I was more or less ignored. If it hadn’t been for Merry and Pippin I would have died of boredom . . .”

“Instead, he nearly died of Farmer Maggot’s pitch fork . . .oof!”

Merry retracted his elbow from Pippin’s ribs. “Boromir’s turn, I think,” he announced, glaring at Pippin. Pippin turned his little-lost-boy look to his hairy feet and sank into silence.

“Yes,” Frodo agreed. “Will you share with us your line, Boromir of Gondor?”

“Gladly,” he said. “Although, it must be said that it is a bloody history, and not all of it spilt in fair deeds of battle,” he added, gazing at Aragorn. Aragorn tipped his head in recognition and acceptance of his apology, even though it was not his to make.

Legolas remained silent. He eyed the others around the campfire and turned cold. This did not look good. Everyone was taking their turn. And when it reached him . . .what would he say?

Gimli’s eyes shifted to the elf who sat beside him. He had noted the slump of his shoulders and wondered about it. He tried to recall all he knew, or perhaps more accurately what he thought he knew of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. But for all he had read, there was no mention anywhere in the Book of Ages of anyone called anything remotely like Thranduil. Sauron had changed his name, and Elrond had hinted at changing his during his stay at Imladris, in a conversation Gimli knew he should not have overheard. Elves did change their names when certain event’s necessitated it. Had Thranduil changed his?

Aragorn took a swig of water and regarded the man of Gondor as he took a deep breath to begin.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor the second. He is the son of Ecthelion, who died in 2984, his father was Turgon who died 2953. He was the son of Turin the second, 2914, son of Thorondir who died in 2883. Before him reigned his father, Belecthor II who died in 2872, son of . . .”

Gimli rolled his eyes, yada yada yada . . .his thoughts drifted off on another road. As he noticed Legolas cringing yet again, although the elf made it look more like a shiver of cold. Gimli shook his head inwardly. Not fooling this dwarf, elves do not feel the cold.

I don’t understand it, Gimli thought, remembering the Book of Ages in perfect detail. All it has is an arrow from Oropher to Thranduil to Legolas . . .hmm, I would interpret that as being a cover up. No mother’s name, no date of birth. And I remember my uncle’s description of the king of Mirkwood; raven-haired. And yet, when Bilbo met Thranduil he was blonde, hmmm, he must have dyed it. And Leggy, here, is blonde . . .either way, an interesting subject, right enough, but then that whole house is shrouded in mystery.

Of course, if Thranduil is king, surely he would have been of the royal house somewhere along the line? But which royal house? There were 3. The whole thing is confusing . . .oh thought . . .

Gimli glanced up at a silent elf. Nope, definitely not dark haired.

“ . . .the son of Herion, the son of Eradan, the son of Mardil. Voronwë, the steadfast, they called him. His father was Vorondil, who was the son of . . .” Boromir took a deep breath. “With respect to Aragorn, I will not go further. My forefathers were less than honourable men in their dealings with the kings of old.”

Finally, the man is finished, Gimli thought and sighed softly. Elven eyes darted to his face, having heard it. Gimli did not dare meet them.

“To grieve you not,” Aragorn replied. “It was not your doing. I commend you for remembering so well your entire line right back to the fall of Ondoher in the time Arvedui, last king of Gondor. You must have been quite a scholar as a child,” Aragorn praised.

Boromir gave him a tight smile. “It comes not from eagerness to learn, but the eagerness of a father’s switch,” he replied.

Aragorn nodded in understanding. “That which was learned under duress is here given freely, and received with gratitude.”

Boromir stuffed a piece of chicken into his mouth to negate the possibility of answering. He simply nodded and left it at that. Chewing and swallowing he turned to the hobbit on his left. “Pippin?”

Pippin lit up like a lantern at dusk. “My turn.” He took a swig of water and took on an air of grandeur.

Gimli sank in his seat. The cheeks of his ass were already numb, and yet they were only half way around the fire.

“I am the only son, of the only son, of the oldest surviving son, of the oldest surviving son, which means upon my father’s death I will inherit the throne,” Pippin announced regally.

“This ought to be good,” Gimli thought aloud. Only when eyes turned to him did he realise how loudly. “My apologies, my mind had wandered to other matters. What were you saying?” Gimli recovered smoothly. Pippin continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“My great, great, great, great, great, great, grandfather, Isengrim the second was the tenth Thain of the Took Line. He had only one son. After his son Isumbras the third died Ferumbras the second sat on the throne. And after him . . .”

Gimli groaned inwardly, but not with boredom. Beside him sat a morbidly unhappy elf, and the more Gimli thought of it, the worse the picture looked, the more he understood why this conversation did not set well with Legolas.

“I was born in 2990, the only son of Thain Paladin Took the second and Eglantine Banks-Took. My father farms the lands around Whitwell, and has accumulated considerable wealth. He is also master of the Shire-moot and captain of the Shire-muster and the Hobbitry-in-arms. They are superfluous titles, really, but they do accord the barer a special respect among Hobbits,” he added, more puffed up than a dwarf on a royal roll. “As my father’s heir, I was raised a gentle-hobbit of some standing.”

Merry was scowling. “Oh, shut up! Even the proud cock ends up on the table for Sunday dinner!”

Pippin’s grin fell off his face as he looked at his cousin.

Boromir burst into irreverent laughter, but quickly quashed it. Aragorn tried to master a grin, with difficulty. Gandalf was choking on his pipe smoke, and Gimli regarded the young Merry with something akin to respect. A masterful rebuff, if ever there was one. He vowed to store that one away for future use.

Merry stuffed his pipe into his mouth, all growed up and important like, drew on it and plucked it out again. “Now, my father, Saradoc, always says, speak if you have something to say. And on the subject of my family, I have a lot to say.”

Gimli descended again into his thoughts.

Gimli gazed at Legolas and he could see it. The crown of light shone on his brow, not a physical light, but something far deeper, the light of the Eldar . . .

Gimli fell out of his musings with a cough on his swallowed pipe smoke, blinking in Gandalf’s direction. “What did you say?” He had missed Merry’s family tree completely and had almost missed the beginning of the wizard’s.

“I said, I have no children,” Gandalf replied.

“I heard that bit, I’m on about the other bit.”

“My sister married Elwë?”

“Aye, that bit,” Gimli replied, still smarting from smoke gone down the wrong way.

“You mean Thingol was your brother-in-law?” Aragorn breathed in astonishment, just as flabbergasted.

“Is,” Gandalf corrected. “Melian is her name. She had a penchant for elvish passion . . .which I will not go into here. Their daughter Luthien married Beren, but Thingol’s heir was Dior. Dior married Nimloth, and their daughter Elwing married Eärendil . . .father of Elrond and Elros, the twins found abandoned during the kin slayings.”

Aragorn was shocked into silence for a moment. Finally he found his voice. “That would make us kin,” he said. Hobbit, human, dwarf and elf eyes passed from one to the other, in wordless wonder.

“Kin?” Boromir managed to squeak.

Gandalf nodded softly. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Which means it is your turn, Aragorn, for I sense a growing barrage of questions levelled at you. First and foremost on their minds is how can you be of the same line as Elrond?”

Aragorn smiled a little. “It is a very long line,” he warned gently.

“The night is young,” Boromir noted by way of eager expectation. He wasn’t about to let this nugget of information slip away.

“It is true, I am descended from the line of Kings, unbroken from Earendil and his son Elros, brother of Elrond, who chose the mortal coil. Elros died in 442 of the Second Age. Eldarion, Elembrinbor, El’Valador, Elfarfin; these are names that I see, but which are lost to history until the great day came when Elendil was born. His mother died in childbirth, but his father rejoiced nonetheless. Elrond could not save her and felt all the more indebted to his brother’s descendents. He has raised almost every one of us in Rivendell since. It began with Elendil, who was born in 3119 of the Second age. Isildur was born in 3209, his only surviving son, Valendil, was born in 3430 and raised in Rivendell by Elrond. In the yea 87 of the Third Age, Valendil’s son, Eldacar, was born in Rivendell, also raised by Elrond. It was shortly after that time that Elrond desired to take him a wife, and wed Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel. It is said that he desired to raise his own heirs as well as his brother’s. His sons Elladan and Elrohir were born in 130. Arantar, son of Eldacar, was born in 185, and his son, Tarcil was born in 280. Tarcil’s heir, Tarondor, was born in 373.” He paused. “This line is very long, are you sure you want to hear it all?”

Everyone spoke at once, except one who simply smiled ethereally, or at least tried, and another who sat watching him, in deep contemplation.

“I would like to hear it all,” Legolas stated sombrely, although it was more to waylay his turn than wanting to hear what he already knew.

Aragorn tipped his head to one side and regarded the eager elf. There was something in his tone, but his eyes did not betray a thing. “Well, if you are sure,” he noted. “Tarondor’s son, Valandur was born in the year 462 . . .”

Gimli suddenly had a terrible thought . . .

He was going around in circles in his mind.

Gimli glanced at the sunken shoulders, the empty gaze and the threat of tears in those depthless grey-green eyes. Ok, perhaps he does. Poor elf, and it’s almost his turn . . .

Gimli halted his musings, almost missing the end of Aragorn’s extensive list.

“ . . .Arador, my grandfather, was born in 2820. He died shortly before I was born. My father, Arathorn the second, was born in 2873. He married Gilraen. I was born in 2931 and my father was killed before I turned four years of age. My mother died when I was very young. I have little memory of them. I was raised in Rivendell as Elrond’s son.”

Legolas knew it was coming, even before Aragorn uttered his invitation. What could he say? Tell them about the kin slayings? Tell them about the bad blood between Mirkwood and Imladris? Tell him about a mother he never knew, who had no mention in the history books even as a footnote? What could he say about his father, or a grandfather he had no memory of? He knew how it looked. It was as if he had simply appeared out of thin air at the end of the Third Age. The thought made him wince.

Legolas shifted uneasily. Only Gimli, his thigh touching the elf’s in the close proximity, felt the shudder roll through the elf. Legolas could feel Gimli’s frown upon him, even their questioning gazes, but he could not open his mouth, could not meet their eyes.

Each member of the fellowship had tried to outdo each other with their impressive bloodlines and it had been fun all round, until it had come to him. Legolas of Mirkwood, strong, noble, brave elf of the Sindar had had his turn . . .silence.

They were all of noble birth, even the servant Sam was the son of a governor. Legolas cringed. What could he say?

“Come, Legolas,” Aragorn invited gently.

Legolas looked into the fire, but could not lift his eyes further. He opened his mouth, but could not make words form. “I . . .I will stand watch. The hour grows late.” With that he rose and climbed to a small rise in the terrain and did not meet their confused gazes.

About an hour later, Legolas still stood atop the knoll and gazed out across the landscape. Nothing moved, he had tried to sleep, but his disquieted mind would not let him rest. He sensed a dwarf beside him, silent for a long moment. He said nothing. Strangely he welcomed the silent companionship. He did not feel like talking anyway.

“I never had a brother,” Gimli suddenly spoke, his tone quiet, his words slow and chosen with deliberate care. “I always wanted one, but my mother was killed.” There was another long silence. “I should like to fill that position, if it is within you to accept. My bloodline is too heavy with just me to carry it.”

After a full minute, the elf finally moved, statue like as he had been before, Gimli flinched, thinking him about to knock him for six for his cheek. Instead, he was knocked for six, but not by a fist. He watched as Legolas brushed away a single tear from his cheek.

Without turning Legolas whispered, “Consider it filled.”

El fin

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