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I was prompted on Tumblr to write something about Legolas and Gimli comforting one another after losing Boromir and the hobbits, and I wanted to share the thing I wrote elsewhere as well. Especially since this platform is so text-based, I'm putting it in here!
Gimli woke abruptly, though he knew not immediately why. It was almost as though he had woken from a nightmare he could not remember – but he had never been one to dream vividly, or be disturbed into waking by nighttime images. He lay blinking for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and wondering what had woken him so suddenly.
Then all the horrible details of the day before came rushing back: the emptiness in Boromir’s eyes; the haunting song Aragorn and Legolas had sung over his body – the abrupt blow that had shattered their Fellowship into too many tiny pieces. The chase that lay ahead.
He was to have been roused earlier, he remembered, for a watch – and suddenly he was no longer wondering why he had woken in the middle of the night, but rather why he had not been woken already.
He blinked against the fog of sleep and sat up. Aragorn lay still on the ground, fast asleep, and Legolas stood with his back to both of them, a silhouette against the dark sky, his head tilting just slightly in one direction, then the other. His back was rigid with tension, but Gimli knew he would be aware that he was not the only one awake.
"You did not wake me for a watch," Gimli whispered.
“No.”
Legolas said nothing else, and Gimli rubbed sleep out of his eyes, too groggy still for delicate prying. “Why?”
“You were tired.” Still Legolas did not turn, his shoulders stiff and straight. “It seemed foolish to rouse you, when I knew I would find no rest myself. You said it yourself: you must sleep now, so you may run the better when the sun shows her face again.”
Gimli struggled free of his bedroll and rose, coming to stand beside his friend. “You still wish we had not stopped.” Indeed, not even to being blindfolded in Lothlorien had Legolas protested so strongly as to the thought of stopping for a rest.
Legolas gave a twitch of one shoulder that might have been a shrug. “I do not know mortal abilities as the two of you do; I must heed your counsel.”
“But you like it not.” Gimli laid a cautious hand on Legolas’s upper arm, felt the muscles beneath hard with tension.
At last Legolas turned to look at him, and his dark eyes seemed to glitter. “Something is amiss with this night,” he whispered. “The wind whispers of evil thoughts and fell deeds, and every moment that passes raises my certainty that we will not catch up in time. If you and Aragorn are well-rested tonight, perhaps we might run with more speed tomorrow."
Gimli squeezed his arm. Rarely had he heard Legolas speak so grimly – or with such certainty in his dark pronouncements – but his own thoughts could offer no comfort. In the end, all he could say was, “Forgive me for the limits of my mortal body, my friend.”
“If you will forgive me in turn for my urgency.” Legolas sighed, reaching up to lay his free hand over Gimli’s own just for a moment. “Do not apologize for your need for rest, Master Gimli; rather, take it while you may, and despise me not when I rouse you to run once more.”
The time had been short, maybe, but it seemed years had passed since Gimli had thought he despised Legolas. “I could never,” he promised. “It is selfish to think it, maybe, but even as I fear for our friends, the little comfort I find is in your continued presence at my side.”
For the ghost of an instant, a tiny smile flickered across Legolas’s face. “In that, we are of an accord,” he said. “Sleep, then, and I will stand guard over your rest.”
Indeed, the heavy fog of exhaustion was descending upon Gimli once more; lacking the strength to resist, he nodded and yawned. He went back to his bedroll, and for the first time, Legolas turned fully around to watch him until he was nestled among his blankets once more.
The last thing Gimli saw before drifting off again was the outline of Legolas against the night sky.
Gimli woke abruptly, though he knew not immediately why. It was almost as though he had woken from a nightmare he could not remember – but he had never been one to dream vividly, or be disturbed into waking by nighttime images. He lay blinking for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and wondering what had woken him so suddenly.
Then all the horrible details of the day before came rushing back: the emptiness in Boromir’s eyes; the haunting song Aragorn and Legolas had sung over his body – the abrupt blow that had shattered their Fellowship into too many tiny pieces. The chase that lay ahead.
He was to have been roused earlier, he remembered, for a watch – and suddenly he was no longer wondering why he had woken in the middle of the night, but rather why he had not been woken already.
He blinked against the fog of sleep and sat up. Aragorn lay still on the ground, fast asleep, and Legolas stood with his back to both of them, a silhouette against the dark sky, his head tilting just slightly in one direction, then the other. His back was rigid with tension, but Gimli knew he would be aware that he was not the only one awake.
"You did not wake me for a watch," Gimli whispered.
“No.”
Legolas said nothing else, and Gimli rubbed sleep out of his eyes, too groggy still for delicate prying. “Why?”
“You were tired.” Still Legolas did not turn, his shoulders stiff and straight. “It seemed foolish to rouse you, when I knew I would find no rest myself. You said it yourself: you must sleep now, so you may run the better when the sun shows her face again.”
Gimli struggled free of his bedroll and rose, coming to stand beside his friend. “You still wish we had not stopped.” Indeed, not even to being blindfolded in Lothlorien had Legolas protested so strongly as to the thought of stopping for a rest.
Legolas gave a twitch of one shoulder that might have been a shrug. “I do not know mortal abilities as the two of you do; I must heed your counsel.”
“But you like it not.” Gimli laid a cautious hand on Legolas’s upper arm, felt the muscles beneath hard with tension.
At last Legolas turned to look at him, and his dark eyes seemed to glitter. “Something is amiss with this night,” he whispered. “The wind whispers of evil thoughts and fell deeds, and every moment that passes raises my certainty that we will not catch up in time. If you and Aragorn are well-rested tonight, perhaps we might run with more speed tomorrow."
Gimli squeezed his arm. Rarely had he heard Legolas speak so grimly – or with such certainty in his dark pronouncements – but his own thoughts could offer no comfort. In the end, all he could say was, “Forgive me for the limits of my mortal body, my friend.”
“If you will forgive me in turn for my urgency.” Legolas sighed, reaching up to lay his free hand over Gimli’s own just for a moment. “Do not apologize for your need for rest, Master Gimli; rather, take it while you may, and despise me not when I rouse you to run once more.”
The time had been short, maybe, but it seemed years had passed since Gimli had thought he despised Legolas. “I could never,” he promised. “It is selfish to think it, maybe, but even as I fear for our friends, the little comfort I find is in your continued presence at my side.”
For the ghost of an instant, a tiny smile flickered across Legolas’s face. “In that, we are of an accord,” he said. “Sleep, then, and I will stand guard over your rest.”
Indeed, the heavy fog of exhaustion was descending upon Gimli once more; lacking the strength to resist, he nodded and yawned. He went back to his bedroll, and for the first time, Legolas turned fully around to watch him until he was nestled among his blankets once more.
The last thing Gimli saw before drifting off again was the outline of Legolas against the night sky.
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its so Sad and so Soft at the same time . . .
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But this is both so Grim and so Soft - call it angsty fluff?
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And oh man, even though most of what I now write takes place after the books end, I love delving back into book canon precisely because of how grim it is. Like-- my gosh, there are so many things about the books that get lost in fanon. Like how very short the time period of the entire second and first half of the third books are-- they take place in what, two weeks? And also how grim it is. For the entirety of ROTK (well, the Plot part of it), there's not even any sun! These three don't know what we know; they don't know Gandalf's alive; they don't know Merry and Pippin will soon escape; they don't know Frodo and Sam will succeed in their mission. For all they know, everyone is dead.
And yeah, for poor Legolas, who is chomping at the bit to keep going right now but must bow to sense, what an angsty night this must be! It was kind of fun to write this because even though in my mind this still takes place with my standard characterizations, this is Legolas dealing with some good old-fashioned stress that has nothing to do with other people or unfortunate brain chemistry. That, combined with putting them back way before their established relationship and still at a point of newness to each other, was difficult but fun to explore. :)
(GUESS WHO CAN'T STOP RAMBLING EVER? IT'S ME. I'M SORRY.)