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Title: Stiff Necks
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Lady of the Wood has urged Gimli to set aside his pride. He's not the only one.
Author's Notes: Written for my GenPrompt Bingo table for the prompt 'Pride'.
“You have great pride, son of Gloin,” the voice in his mind whispers. The Lady’s eyes stare into his own, deep blue and lit with stars. “Your pride is warranted, but do not let it blind you. Open your eyes, son of Gloin, and see what is before you.”
She does not mean herself, though she is beautiful beyond all measure – the Arkenstone amongst diamonds – but the Elf. An image of him rises in his mind, pale and wan in the creeping darkness of Khazad-dum; of tears tracking down marble cheeks when Gandalf fell. He bristles at the thought that the Elf should be pitied – son, as he is, of that fiend Thranduil – but he cannot deny that the Elf is beautiful. More so, in a way, than the Lady before him: he is more real.
He feels her amusement at his thoughts before the connection between them is broken and she looks away towards Boromir, who soon finds grief in her penetrating look.
What she said to the Elf, Gimli does not know. Legolas is silent for the rest of the night, bar an explanation of the laments that drift through the trees. A storm rages in his eyes, but he sheds no more tears for what is lost to them – instead he seems lost, if Gimli is reading his ageless face correctly.
He does not find out for days. Legolas vanishes into the trees, seeking solitude or speaking with whatever kin he has here, but he returns to them each night, glowing pale with starlight in the manner of Elves, and sits with them as they sleep.
It is on one such night that Gimli swallows his pride. “Are you well, laddie?” he asks.
Legolas looks to him, and were Gimli’s eyes less accustomed to the dark, he would have missed the faint blush that colours the tips of his pointed ears. But the Elf nods and offers a small smile, and a weight that Gimli had barely noticed lifts from his chest.
“I have never seen this forest before,” Legolas says quietly, “though I have distant kin who live beneath its boughs.”
He’s been exploring, then, to distract himself. Gimli can appreciate that – though he wonders at Legolas not coming to visit with his kin. When he mentions it, the Elf grimaces and looks away.
“Mirkwood is isolated,” he says, as if that is all to be said. There is a pause while they both struggle with words; while thoughts race through Gimli’s head and the memory of the Lady’s eyes upon him urges him to speak, though he knows not what.
“I am sending home a message,” Legolas says eventually. His words come in a rush, as if he does not know how Gimli will receive them. “If it is your wish, a message to Erebor can also be arranged.”
For his kin to know him alive (so far) and well. It’s a greater gift than perhaps Legolas can tell, distant as he is from those who share his blood, but greatly appreciated. And it is then that he realises that the Lady’s urgings to let go of pride were not just for his ears; the Elf received such words as well.
He swallows his pride, and lets the peace of the wood fill him. “Thank you.”
Legolas nods, and Gimli turns away. It is little, but it is a start.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Lady of the Wood has urged Gimli to set aside his pride. He's not the only one.
Author's Notes: Written for my GenPrompt Bingo table for the prompt 'Pride'.
“You have great pride, son of Gloin,” the voice in his mind whispers. The Lady’s eyes stare into his own, deep blue and lit with stars. “Your pride is warranted, but do not let it blind you. Open your eyes, son of Gloin, and see what is before you.”
She does not mean herself, though she is beautiful beyond all measure – the Arkenstone amongst diamonds – but the Elf. An image of him rises in his mind, pale and wan in the creeping darkness of Khazad-dum; of tears tracking down marble cheeks when Gandalf fell. He bristles at the thought that the Elf should be pitied – son, as he is, of that fiend Thranduil – but he cannot deny that the Elf is beautiful. More so, in a way, than the Lady before him: he is more real.
He feels her amusement at his thoughts before the connection between them is broken and she looks away towards Boromir, who soon finds grief in her penetrating look.
What she said to the Elf, Gimli does not know. Legolas is silent for the rest of the night, bar an explanation of the laments that drift through the trees. A storm rages in his eyes, but he sheds no more tears for what is lost to them – instead he seems lost, if Gimli is reading his ageless face correctly.
He does not find out for days. Legolas vanishes into the trees, seeking solitude or speaking with whatever kin he has here, but he returns to them each night, glowing pale with starlight in the manner of Elves, and sits with them as they sleep.
It is on one such night that Gimli swallows his pride. “Are you well, laddie?” he asks.
Legolas looks to him, and were Gimli’s eyes less accustomed to the dark, he would have missed the faint blush that colours the tips of his pointed ears. But the Elf nods and offers a small smile, and a weight that Gimli had barely noticed lifts from his chest.
“I have never seen this forest before,” Legolas says quietly, “though I have distant kin who live beneath its boughs.”
He’s been exploring, then, to distract himself. Gimli can appreciate that – though he wonders at Legolas not coming to visit with his kin. When he mentions it, the Elf grimaces and looks away.
“Mirkwood is isolated,” he says, as if that is all to be said. There is a pause while they both struggle with words; while thoughts race through Gimli’s head and the memory of the Lady’s eyes upon him urges him to speak, though he knows not what.
“I am sending home a message,” Legolas says eventually. His words come in a rush, as if he does not know how Gimli will receive them. “If it is your wish, a message to Erebor can also be arranged.”
For his kin to know him alive (so far) and well. It’s a greater gift than perhaps Legolas can tell, distant as he is from those who share his blood, but greatly appreciated. And it is then that he realises that the Lady’s urgings to let go of pride were not just for his ears; the Elf received such words as well.
He swallows his pride, and lets the peace of the wood fill him. “Thank you.”
Legolas nods, and Gimli turns away. It is little, but it is a start.
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no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 08:05 pm (UTC)From:I think Thranduil might make a drama out of it XD Might be easier for that poor, put-upon messenger to just go himself.
no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 08:31 pm (UTC)From:Heeee. I wonder what they'd make of Erebor/Mirkwood/Dale, since the Lothlorien elves haven't been out in a while~
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Date: 2014-05-27 08:44 pm (UTC)From:They'd be exasperated by local politics in seconds, probably XD