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Title: The Doors are Shut
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen/Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mithrandir believes that Legolas and Gimli, working together, can open the Doors of Moria. Reality is somewhat different.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Poor Communication Skills' for my Trope Bingo table.
Legolas looks down at the Dwarf and tries not to sigh. Mithrandir thinks that they, together, will be able to puzzle out the riddle that is above the Doors of Moria. The howling of the wolves at the edge of his hearing tells him they are running out of time, and Legolas – truly – has no idea.
The doors, so runs the logic of Mithrandir, were crafted by an Elf and a Dwarf together as a sign of great friendship between their two kingdoms. But Legolas is an Elf of Mirkwood – Sindar by blood and Silvan by nature – and he is not in a position to decipher the thoughts of a Dwarf-loving Noldo from an Age ago. Likewise, Gimli is not a Dwarf of Moria but of Erebor, and an alliance between their peoples was lost between the combined stubbornness of Kings Thranduil and Thorin. It is doubtful he knows how this hopeful Narvi must have felt as he inscribed his name in Elvish above an Elvish gate.
The doors remain emphatically shut.
Not for the first time, Legolas wishes he was less awkward. He doesn’t know how to speak with others well. Perhaps, if he did, a personal alliance could have been formed and Mithrandir’s request could have been fulfilled. In another life, he thinks, the password could have been spoken – his own fair voice floating above Gimli’s strong baritone – but that life is only a passing fantasy to take his mind off the growing awkward silence between them and the howling of approaching wolves.
Mithrandir’s request is not fair.
A part of Legolas – a large part, he is not afraid to admit – balks at the idea of speaking to a Dwarf with any degree of intimacy. It is the part of him that still fears his father’s mercurial temper; who remembers the stories of Doriath brought to ruin through betrayal; who saw a dragon seek the treasures of Thror and blight a once vibrant landscape. Gimli, to a degree, frightens him more than any of the others. They are surrounded by Orcs and wolves and spies of Saruman, Mithrandir’s tricks and tempers he has heard much of, the Ring hangs gaudy and tempting about the neck of a Hobbit – these are the things he should fear, but instead it is a fiery look from the Dwarf of their Fellowship that quails his heart.
He doesn’t know how to speak of this. If he should speak of it. He speaks, on the rare occasion that he can find the words, of songs and birds to Aragorn or in the slights and insults learned at his father’s knee. He has the impression that Mithrandir is unimpressed, but knows not how to change it. Even if he opens his mouth to give a compliment, he somehow manages to offend.
The doors still remain shut.
Gimli looks up at him, expression fierce, and Legolas wonders which of them shall curse and throw the first stone this time. A thousand insults spill their bitter poison over his tongue, flooding his mouth in preparation. There will be no peace between them tonight – no amnesty – and the doors will remain shut.
He doesn’t know how to change it.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen/Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mithrandir believes that Legolas and Gimli, working together, can open the Doors of Moria. Reality is somewhat different.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Poor Communication Skills' for my Trope Bingo table.
Legolas looks down at the Dwarf and tries not to sigh. Mithrandir thinks that they, together, will be able to puzzle out the riddle that is above the Doors of Moria. The howling of the wolves at the edge of his hearing tells him they are running out of time, and Legolas – truly – has no idea.
The doors, so runs the logic of Mithrandir, were crafted by an Elf and a Dwarf together as a sign of great friendship between their two kingdoms. But Legolas is an Elf of Mirkwood – Sindar by blood and Silvan by nature – and he is not in a position to decipher the thoughts of a Dwarf-loving Noldo from an Age ago. Likewise, Gimli is not a Dwarf of Moria but of Erebor, and an alliance between their peoples was lost between the combined stubbornness of Kings Thranduil and Thorin. It is doubtful he knows how this hopeful Narvi must have felt as he inscribed his name in Elvish above an Elvish gate.
The doors remain emphatically shut.
Not for the first time, Legolas wishes he was less awkward. He doesn’t know how to speak with others well. Perhaps, if he did, a personal alliance could have been formed and Mithrandir’s request could have been fulfilled. In another life, he thinks, the password could have been spoken – his own fair voice floating above Gimli’s strong baritone – but that life is only a passing fantasy to take his mind off the growing awkward silence between them and the howling of approaching wolves.
Mithrandir’s request is not fair.
A part of Legolas – a large part, he is not afraid to admit – balks at the idea of speaking to a Dwarf with any degree of intimacy. It is the part of him that still fears his father’s mercurial temper; who remembers the stories of Doriath brought to ruin through betrayal; who saw a dragon seek the treasures of Thror and blight a once vibrant landscape. Gimli, to a degree, frightens him more than any of the others. They are surrounded by Orcs and wolves and spies of Saruman, Mithrandir’s tricks and tempers he has heard much of, the Ring hangs gaudy and tempting about the neck of a Hobbit – these are the things he should fear, but instead it is a fiery look from the Dwarf of their Fellowship that quails his heart.
He doesn’t know how to speak of this. If he should speak of it. He speaks, on the rare occasion that he can find the words, of songs and birds to Aragorn or in the slights and insults learned at his father’s knee. He has the impression that Mithrandir is unimpressed, but knows not how to change it. Even if he opens his mouth to give a compliment, he somehow manages to offend.
The doors still remain shut.
Gimli looks up at him, expression fierce, and Legolas wonders which of them shall curse and throw the first stone this time. A thousand insults spill their bitter poison over his tongue, flooding his mouth in preparation. There will be no peace between them tonight – no amnesty – and the doors will remain shut.
He doesn’t know how to change it.
