I Could Never Love A Man In Tights

*This is something I wrote a little while ago...I WILL finish my LOTR story, but life has swallowed my time....*

“I’m saving this kiss for the Prince of my heart!”

How many times have we ladies sung that? Even if you weren’t a part of PKSS or The Battle for the Heart, your thoughts have sung that line. My guess is that at the word prince, a picture of a handsome, romantic, richly dressed figure pops into your mind. For me, the idea of a prince makes my mind instantly jump to the bumbling Edward in Enchanted. You know the type: always smiling, hair set perfectly in place, completely rich and yet somehow never spoiled, pining away for the girl of his dreams. In short, I see a fairytale prince this way: Prince Plastic the
Loaded, the helpless romantic in tights.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about the ‘Saving this Kiss’ song. I think that song portrays perfectly what a girl should be thinking when it comes to relationships. But personally, I just never loved the whole Prince Charming idea. Perhaps a certain maiden with hair so long it could be used as a ladder ruined that for me. Sword Fighter ≠ Damsel in Distress…the thought of leaning out of some window in a high tower, waving a hanky and wailing “SAVE ME!” at the top of my lungs, hoping that Prince Plastic would come to my rescue never appealed to me. But that’s just me.

I prefer the idea of the Knight in Shining Armor. Sure, he’s sweaty. He’s dirty. He probably smells like horse, and he can’t sing “I’ve been dreaming of a true love’s kiss” like an actor in a Broadway musical. But that’s the man for me, and I’ll tell you why.
When you think of a knight, what first comes to mind? Probably a guy sitting atop a white charger in full armor, with a sword that never leaves his side. He’s most likely not the richest man in the village or township. In fact, he’s probably a farm-boy who’s been given a chance to make something of himself through a lifetime of service to King and Country. His years will be spent in and out of fighting. He will often come back wounded and beaten. But to me, he trumps the Prince ten to one.

Think about the characteristics of a knight.

First off, ponder the horse. It would be a shabby knight indeed if he rode up on an old sway-backed thing, its mane and tail all matted, mud and dirt caking it’s sides to such an extent that you couldn’t tell what color it originally was. That would be laughable! The strong, beautiful charger our minds picture displays a high level of responsibility. The Knight in Shining Armor is used to caring for other things. He makes sure that his steed is fed and cleaned and groomed.

Horse = Responsible, Caring.

Next comes the armor. When we think of the classic knight, we’re thinking full body armor. This guy is not going down in a battle because of exposure. The Knight in ‘Shining Armor’ has guarded himself from everything the world dishes out: arrows of impurity, spears of temptation, etc. Having said that, even the best suits of armor have weak points. That’s why the true Knight will be vigilant in the fray and flee the ‘spears and arrows’, not out of cowardice, but out of the knowledge of his weaknesses. The foolish knight will say, “I am strong enough to face these!” and rush headlong into the barrage. By the time he has realized his folly, it is too late and he limps away, riddled with the darts of the enemy. Sir Foolish is then scarred for life, and because of this, his personal effectiveness in future battles is limited…although through passing on his knowledge to other knights, he may save them from harm. The Knight in Shining Armor will have guarded himself so well that his scars are small or non-existent.

Armor = Pure, Regretless, Unsoiled Testimony.

Now comes my favorite part: the sword! No knight is a knight without a sword. Also, you never see a true Knight without his sword. He is constantly swinging it, keeping himself in practice so that if ever attacked, he won’t be caught off guard. The Knight in Shining Armor is the same, only his sword is not made of steel. He wields The Sword. He knows It up and down, and uses It so much that It becomes an extension of him. He carries the knowledge of his Sword with him always, and is not afraid to use It.

Sword = Devotion to God’s Word.

What is a knight’s duty? To serve the King and people. It is to be the strong example of stability and chivalry to the ones around him. ‘Nuff said.

Duty = Serve God, Serve Others, Be an Example of Righteousness

The life of a true Knight is constant battle. He knows and has accepted this fate with a heart full of trust in the King, and defiance for the enemy. When he rides into battle, the enemy ranks are filled with both hate and fear. His name is known to them, and because of his great deeds and his renown, they wish to strike him down. The Knight in Shining Armor is well trained, well armed, and well protected. But sometimes, even the best of fighters are overpowered. A true Knight will call to his fellow Knights for aid when the odds turn against him.

Fellow Knights = Humility, Accountability

So, to me, a Knight in Shining Armor is a man of character, of principle, and of God…one who is willing to devote his life to his King, one who will stand and fight when necessary and one who is not afraid to do the right thing by fleeing as well. To me, the grimy, sweaty Knight that may or may not rise to fame and fortune is MUCH more worthy than a Prince who sits on his backside all day, devoted to himself and his pleasures. Now, granted, not all Princes are like that. Some have the luxury of a God-fearing King and Queen that have guided him in the ways of chivalry. But for me, I want a Knight in Shining Armor, one who will be responsible, caring, pure, and will have no regret from a soiled testimony. I want a Knight who is devoted to God’s Word, one who willingly serves God and others, and is an example of righteousness. I want a Knight who is humble and who accepts and desires accountability. That’s the man for me. That is my Knight in Shining Armor. And that is why I could never love a man in tights. ;D

Ai, Valar it has been so long! Well, I rewrote this chapter because I found it horrid, so here is the new version.


Chapter 8

A day had come and gone since Gimli’s news had reached the Elf’s less than enthusiastic ears. Anxiety, but also frustration had doused his already low spirits. But after a night alone to his thoughts, accompanied only by the trickling of spring water and the gentle glow of starlight, he had resolved to keep his irritation to himself. At least, he thought, to the best of his ability. After all, Gimli wanted to give his friend a good experience among his Dwarven kindred. Legolas did not wish to disappoint his sturdy companion, either by his fouled mood or by his fear of being trapped beneath the earth. As the night waned, he had readied himself for the coming day, resolved and accepting of whatever this forced time with the Dwarves would bring.

************

The halls and passages were alive with sounds and scuttling as the Dwarves made their separate ways to wherever each began the day. Legolas walked without pause, ignoring some of the more curious looks cast his direction. It seemed the news of his ‘illness’ was a source of bewilderment and gossip for the more talkative of the inhabitants. Hushed whispers and sideways glances clung to him like his own shadow. But the Elf strode on purposefully, acting as if he had seen or heard nothing.

“Master Legolas! You’re up and about again, I see!”

Legolas’ pace slowed as the voice registered in his mind. Mistrust flared up inside him, but when he turned, his face was as unreadable as ever.

“Greetings, Master Kori,” said the Elf. “Indeed, I am. I was just on my way to find Gimli and ask if there was anything I could do to make myself useful.”

Without missing a beat, Kori took a step forward.

“I’m sure there is something for you here. It is unfortunate for you, being forced to stay with us for such a length of time. But there is much to be done in Aglarond. In fact….” He paused a moment as if thinking. “There is one thing that needs doing. It would be a bit of a stretch for one of our kind, but you look to be the perfect height.”

“What is it?” Legolas asked. His emotions battled beneath his ‘mask’ of calm. No matter what this Dwarf had said previously, no matter the apologetic appearance, Legolas had lived too long to be blind to a double motive in even the most seemingly innocent of souls. Kori seemed a mite too eager to help too often. And that was a rare trait in any Dwarf. Aside from this, the overseer had sent the Elf into the deepest bout of Sea Longing he had endured in a long time. Legolas swallowed hard, as if the taste of salt had not yet left his mouth.

“Well, you see,” Kori began, “about a month ago, we carved our way into a large cave deep within the mountain. To our immediate dismay, there were no jewels to be found, but soon after we stumbled on something we did not expect. Upon further investigation, we discovered that a stream of some sort runs above the stone of the cave’s ceiling. The stream would be an excellent reserve source in the event of an emergency shortage. The only trouble is it’s a good way above our heads. Even you would need a ladder, but being one of…um…advanced stature, you should be able to access the stream nicely and far more speedily than we could. Already there are channels dug into the cave floor to route the water.”

Kori paused, his gaze suddenly sweeping the Elf’s face. His dark, bristly brows rose a little in what appeared to be an almost sarcastic display of an apology.

“Of course, I realize my request does not come naturally for one of your kind. A hammer and pick never quite sit well in the hands of an Elf. But you’re definitely tall enough that it wouldn’t take long for you finish the job. Dwarves are not very gifted in the way of balance, as you know. The stream is small and should be easily accessible. Are you up for the task?”

Legolas hesitated. He wanted to do something to keep him active and to hinder his mind from dwelling on his frustrating situation. But the thought of venturing deep into the bowls of the mountain caused a bolt of unease to pierce his chest. Elves and dark holes beneath the earth simply did not go together. And what was more, his faith in Kori had all but disappeared the moment Legolas had tasted of the sea in his mug. The Elf leveled his powerful gaze over the Dwarf before him, searching for some sign of treachery hidden there. Something like mischief danced beneath the friendliness of Kori’s dark eyes.

“If you still feel unwell, I am sure that I can find something less strenuous for you to do,” said the Dwarf. The look that accompanied the suggestion was innocent enough, but beneath the concern, something other than pity lurked. Legolas had seen it as surely as if a banner had passed between Kori’s eyes.

A challenge.

“No, Master Kori,” began the Elf, returning the same message. “I am recovered. Lead the way.” His response had betrayed nothing, but in his deep, blue eyes, it had been spoken.

I accept.

****************

Stifling. That was the word that came to Legolas’ mind as Kori led him by torchlight deeper and deeper into the earth. The cavern’s smoothed walls had grown slowly wilder and untouched the farther they went. Without the light of the torch’s fire to guide them, the darkness would have been total. A sort of heaviness weighed on the Elf’s heart with each step. His ingrown aversion to the depths of the earth was making every breath a struggle. The ground began sloping downward, and the floor became slick with sediment. A small voice inside him whispered urgently for him to turn back, to escape this dank pit and the horrid Dwarf leading him ever deeper into the darkness. But he did not heed its pleading. Instead, he lifted his chin a little higher, and strode on.

Suddenly, the ground leveled off and Legolas found himself in the cave. The floor was muddied, and water dripped from the ceiling, creating an empty, echoing melody. Just as Kori had said, small channels leading to vacant pools had been dug into the ground to contain the flow once freed. Kori waved the torch slowly this way and that, as if inspecting the job his workers had left behind. Then he turned and faced the Elf.

“Listen,” he said.

Legolas did so. There was a low gurgling sound coming from above him.

“That’s what we need you to reach,” said the Dwarf, lifting his torch high, and shedding light on the rocky roof. The ceiling was about 3 feet above Legolas’ head. He would need something like a ladder to stand on, or perhaps he could find a large box….A grin hidden in the darkness stole over his face at the sudden memory.

“Now, I know it is a bit high, even for you,” Kori stated. “My workers used a ladder in the far corner over there. Some of them attempted to break through already as you can see by the smattering of stone chips round about. But, as I’ve said, the height was simply too much of a strain for them. They left their picks and a hammer down here as well.”

The Dwarf made his way to one side of the cave and sure enough, the harsh orange light of the torch revealed the needed equipment exactly where he had said. Moving over to the wall, Kori waved the flame back and forth, searching. Finally, he found what he was seeking. Another unlit torch was placed in a small iron ring protruding from the wall. It was a good foot above his head.

Standing on the end of his toes, Kori lit the torch and faced the Elf once more.

“Well, I believe that’s it,” he said, grinning. “It is all yours, my friend! Now, if you need any assistance, I shall be overseeing the clearing of a new branch of caverns to the east side. As soon as the water is freed, the rest will take care of itself. Any questions?”

“I cannot think of any.”

“Very well, then! I shall leave you to your work.” With a bow, Kori turned and began marching back up the path. Legolas watched him go, with a mixture of relief and apprehension. He was now left alone, with nothing but a pick, a hammer, and the sound of gurgling water. The Elf couldn’t help but wonder if this would turn out to be another one of Kori’s ‘accidents’.

He stood there in the semi-darkness for a long moment, listening, feeling. But this only caused his heart to beat faster and his breath to quicken. Blasted mountain.

Enough of this, he told himself mentally. Move.

Legolas made his way over to the tools. He knelt down, hefting the hammer in his hands as if testing the weight of a weapon. His eyes followed the ladder all the way up to its top, judging the length and sturdiness of the object. The ladder was solid and the rungs were wide; obviously they were made for Dwarven hands and feet. The Elf knew he would have little problem scaling it. He chose a pick that looked the least used. A feeling of satisfaction washed some of his foreboding away. No matter what the Dwarf had said, Elves did indeed use picks and hammers, although perhaps not in the same way. Some of his kindred were sculptors, fashioning beautiful images out of a mound of shapeless stone or wood. Dwarven hands formed chiseled walls and hefty columns. Impressive as they were, they were not beautiful to his Elven eyes.
To see my kindred in Imladris once more, Legolas thought as he mounted the ladder and began to climb. Their craftsmanship is truly something to behold. But…they are almost all across the sea by now.

As he had surmised, within moments the ladder was scaled. The sound of the burbling water above him eased the tension within his heart still more. In his mind’s eye, Legolas could see the Nimrodel, could hear the songs the Elves sung of her and the stream that bore her name. This brook had a different voice: one of stone and earth. Yet the unmistakable voice of the water soothed him.

He set the pick, lifted the hammer up for the first strike, and began.

***********

Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. Legolas ran a hand over his face, but perspiration was soon trailing down again. His neck was beginning to stiffen from its prolonged position, and his hands were growing numb from the repetition of the strikes. But this was not what was causing the beads of liquid to pool on his forehead.

The cave had grown steadily hotter. Elf as he was, the heat had not bothered him for a long time. But the intensity had increased to such an extent that even he felt its force.

Legolas stopped working abruptly, rubbing a wet strand of hair from his eyes. Something was not right. He leapt off the ladder, landing lightly on his feet. Quickly, he dropped the tools and swiped the lone torch from its ring. He then made his way to the far side of the cave.
Legolas blinked furiously, the amount of heat growing more staggering the closer he got to the stone wall. Never in all his days had the world felt so hot! By the time the Elf reached the wall, the temperature was nearly unbearable. Hesitantly, Legolas placed a hand on the rocky surface. He instantly regretted it. The Elf jerked his hand away, swearing aloud. It was almost as if a fire had been lit within the stone. Legolas swore once more as he looked down at the blisters now forming on his hand from the burn.

A noise suddenly drew his attention from his stinging fingers. He paused, still glancing at his hand, listening intently. It was coming from beyond the stone. It was distant, but approaching fast. A hissing. The light around him turned from a shadowy orange to a deep red. Legolas looked up. The cave wall was glowing, casting everything in an angry crimson. The floor began to tremble and a rending groan sounded, muffled only a little behind the rock. The Elf took a step back in alarm. Some evil was at work here. This was not something of rock or stone. This was of malice.

Legolas dropped his torch and began backing away, gaining speed as he went. He made for the entrance passage just as an explosion ripped through the cave wall.

The blast seemed to rip the earth out from beneath his feet. The Elf was thrown headlong into the passage. He landed hard, rock and debris raining down on him. Dust and smoke hung heavy in the air, and sweat stung his eyes. He attempted to stand, but the ground was rocking too violently. Stone crashed around him, and Legolas realized with sickening certainty that the cave was going to collapse.

Suddenly, a new noise joined the already tumultuous chorus of sounds. Shrill cries and shrieking voices began shouting in the cave, echoing off the remaining walls. The Elf knew that sound only too well from his hated trek through Moria.

Goblins.

Struggling to his feet, Legolas turned and looked back into the cave. Through the fog and rain of debris he could clearly make out the Goblins scrambling into the newly blown entrance like ants from a disturbed ant-hill. Their voices combined with the groaning earth were almost deafening. Dirty steel weapons were held in their hands, and their small bodies and bowed legs were protected by random pieces of armor. They filled the cave, screaming, scurrying about, completely frenzied. One caught sight of the Elf and gave a loud cry, pointing his sword in his direction. At least 20 pairs of Goblin eyes turned and fixed on him.

Legolas’ hands went to his back, but the familiar feel of knife handles was not there. Cursing himself beneath his breath, he turned and stumbled back up the passage. The tremors were becoming fiercer. He looked around for something, anything resembling a weapon. Seeing no alternative, the Elf stopped and scooped up a stone.

The Goblins were now in pursuit. They seemed to feel nothing as stones and dirt poured down on their heads. The lust for blood and the light of killing was in every slanted eye as they clambered over large rocks and scrambled towards their prey.

Legolas took aim at a particularly ugly creature and threw, scoring a direct hit full in the ghoulish face. The Goblin fell where he stood. The rest of the filthy horde kept coming, shrieking in rage over their fallen comrade. Legolas ran a few paces back, grabbed another rock, aimed, and tossed. A small, sniveling Goblin yelped in surprise as he fell from the blow.

The game of stop and go went on. Legolas would dispatch one of the foul creatures and then hastily retreat several paces, only to repeat the process once more. This went on for some time, until the rocks grew less and less and he was forced to begin pulling torches from the walls and launching them into the midst of the Goblins. A blast of cool breeze at his back told him he was coming out of tunnel. Relief flooded through him. Weaponless, he stood precious little chance against the frenzied horde at his heels. Hoping that someone would hear him, he began shouting out an alarm.

“Goblins! Goblins have breached the cave! Arm yourselves!”

A hissing noise was all the warning Legolas had as a Goblin arrow shot past him, barely grazing his shoulder as it passed. The shaft clattered against the wall, falling harmlessly to the ground.
The end of the path was in sight now, and already a few curious Dwarven faces were peering through the entrance. Immediately they began bellowing out an alarm, and by the time Legolas had raced into the open cavern half a dozen fully armed Dwarves had arrived, with more running down the halls towards them.

Legolas turned to face the coming storm.



*There you go! I hope to right more soon, but my sister is very...firm when it comes to keeping me from Lord of the Rings.*

Chapter 8....not edited....

Please tell me if this is just terrible. It's not the whole thing, but a bit. Comments are welcome.


Chapter 8

A day had come and gone since Gimli’s news had reached the Elf’s less than enthusiastic ears. Anxiety, but also frustration had doused his already low spirits. But after a night alone to his thoughts, accompanied only by the trickling of spring water and the gentle glow of starlight, he had resolved to keep his irritation to himself. At least, he thought, to the best of his ability. After all, Gimli wanted to give his friend a good experience among his Dwarven kindred. Legolas did not wish to disappoint his sturdy companion, either by his fouled mood or by his fear of being trapped beneath the earth. As the night waned, he had readied himself for the coming day, resolved and accepting of whatever this forced time with the Dwarves would bring.

************

The halls and passages were alive with sounds and scuttling as the Dwarves made their separate ways to wherever each began the day. Legolas walked without pause, ignoring some of the more curious looks cast his direction. It seemed the news of his ‘illness’ was a source of bewilderment and gossip for the more talkative of the inhabitants. Hushed whispers and sideways glances clung to him like his own shadow. But the Elf strode on purposefully, acting as if he had seen or heard nothing.

“Master Legolas! You’re up and about again, I see!”

Legolas’ pace slowed as the voice registered in his mind. Mistrust flared up inside him, but when he turned, his face was as passive as ever.

“Greetings, Master Kori,” said the Elf. “Yes, I am indeed. I was just on my way to find Gimli and ask if there was anything I could do to make myself useful.”

Without missing a beat, Kori took a step forward.

“I’m sure there is something for you here. It is unfortunate for you, being forced to stay with us for such a length of time. But there is much to be done in Aglarond. In fact….” He paused a moment as if thinking. “There is one thing that needs doing. It would be a bit of a stretch for one of our kind, but you look to be the perfect height.”

“What is it?” Legolas asked. He fought for control of his ‘mask’ of calm. No matter what this Dwarf had said previously, no matter the apologetic appearance, Legolas had lived long enough to spot a double motive in even the most innocent of souls. Kori seemed a mite too eager to help too often. And that was a rare trait in any Dwarf. Aside from this, the overseer had sent the Elf into the deepest bout of Sea Longing he had endured in a long time. Legolas swallowed hard, as if the taste of salt had not yet left his mouth.

“Well, you see,” Kori began, “about a month ago, we carved our way into a large cave deep within the mountain. To our immediate dismay, there were no jewels to be found, but after a moment we heard water rushing overhead. Upon further investigation, we discovered that a stream of some sort runs along the cavern floor above us. The stream would be excellent backup in the event of an emergency shortage of water. The only trouble is, it’s a good way above our heads. Even you would need a ladder, but being one of…um…advanced stature, you should be able to access the stream nicely and far more quickly than we could. Already there are channels dug into the cave floor to route the water.”

“In short, you want me to chisel a crack in the cave ceiling in order to re-route some of the stream’s water to this level.” Legolas summed up.

“Exactly!” Kori replied. “Of course, I realize my request does not come naturally for one of your kind. A hammer and pick never quite sit well in the hands of an Elf. But you’re definitely tall enough that it wouldn’t take long for you finish the job. Dwarves are not very gifted in the way of balance, as you know. The stream is small and should be easily accessible. Are you up for it?”
Legolas hesitated, battling within himself. He wanted to do something, anything to keep him active and to hinder his mind from dwelling on frustration that bordered on despair. But the thought of venturing deep into the mountain caused a bolt of fear to pierce his chest. Elves and dark holes beneath the earth simply did not go together. And what was more, his faith in Kori had dwindled the moment Legolas had tasted the sea in his mug. The Elf swept his powerful gaze over the Dwarf before him, searching for some sign of treachery hidden there. Something like mischief danced beneath the friendliness of Kori’s dark eyes.

“If you still feel unwell, I am sure that I can find something less strenuous for you to do,” said the Dwarf. The look that accompanied the suggestion was innocent enough, but beneath the concern, something other than pity lurked. Legolas had seen it as surely as if a banner had passed between Kori’s eyes.

A challenge.

“No, Master Kori,” began the Elf, returning the same message. “I am recovered. Lead the way.” His response had betrayed nothing, but in his deep, blue eyes, it had been spoken.

I accept.

****************

Stifling. That was the word that came to Legolas’ mind as Kori led him by torchlight deeper and deeper into the earth. The cavern’s smoothed walls had grown slowly wilder and untouched the farther they went. Without the light of the torch’s fire to guide them, the darkness would have been total. A sort of heaviness weighed on the Elf’s heart with each step. His ingrown aversion to the depths of the earth was making every breath harder to breathe. The ground began sloping downward, and the floor became slick with sediment. A small voice inside him screamed for him to turn back, to escape this dank pit and the horrid Dwarf leading him ever deeper into his worst nightmare. But he did not heed its pleading. Instead, he lifted his chin a little higher, and strode on.

Suddenly, the ground leveled off and Legolas found himself in the cave aforementioned. The floor was muddied, and water dripped from the ceiling. As had been said, ditches had been etched into the ground to contain the flow once freed. Kori waved the torch slowly this way and that, as if inspecting the stone. Then he turned and faced the Elf.

“Listen,” he said.

Legolas did so. There was a low gurgling sound coming from above him.

“That’s what we need you to reach,” said the Dwarf, lifting his torch high, and shedding light on the rocky roof. The ceiling was about 3 feet above Legolas’ head. He would need something like a ladder to stand on, or perhaps he could find a large box….A grin hidden in the darkness stole over his face at the sudden memory.

“Now, I know it is a bit high, even for you,” Kori began, “so there is a ladder in the far corner over there. Some of my kinsman attempted to break through already, but the height was simply too much of a strain for them. They left their picks and a hammer down here as well.”
The Dwarf made his way to one side of the cave and sure enough, the needed equipment was exactly where he had said. An unlit torch was placed in a small iron ring protruding from the wall. Standing on the end of his toes, Kori lit the torch and faced the Elf once more.

“Well, I believe that’s it,” he said, grinning. “It is all yours, my friend! Now, if you need any assistance, I shall be overseeing the clearing of a new branch of caverns to the east side. As soon as the water is freed, the rest will take care of itself. Any questions?”

“I cannot think of any.”

“Very well, then! I shall leave you to your work.” With a bow, Kori turned and began marching back up the path. Legolas watched him go, with a mixture of relief and apprehension. He was now left alone, with nothing but a pick, a hammer, and the sound of gurgling water to combat the fear and aloneness that only the heart of a mountain could bring.

He stood there in the semi-darkness for a long moment, listening, feeling. But this only caused his heart to beat faster and his breath to quicken.

Enough of this, he told himself mentally. Move.

Legolas made his way over to the tools. He knelt down, hefting the hammer in his hands as if testing the weight of a weapon. His eyes followed the ladder all the way up to its top, judging the length and sturdiness of the object. The ladder was solid and the rungs were wide; obviously they were made for Dwarven hands and feet. The Elf knew he would have little problem scaling it. He chose a pick that looked the least used. A feeling of satisfaction washed some of his foreboding away. No matter what the Dwarf had said, Elves did indeed use picks and hammers, although perhaps not in the same way. Some of his kindred were sculptors, fashioning beautiful images out of a mound of shapeless stone. Dwarven hands formed chiseled walls and hefty columns. Impressive as they were, they were not beautiful.

Ah, to see my kindred in Imladris once more, Legolas thought as he mounted the ladder and began to climb. Their craftsmanship is truly something to behold.

As he had surmised, within moments the ladder was scaled. The sound of the burbling water above him eased the tension within his heart still more. In his mind’s eye, Legolas could see the Nimrodel, could hear the songs the Elves sung of her and the stream that bore her name. This brook had a different voice: one of stone and earth. Yet the unmistakable voice of the water soothed him.

He set the pick, lifted the hammer up for the first strike, and began.

***********

Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. Legolas ran a hand over his face, but perspiration was soon trailing down again. His neck ached from its prolonged position, and his hands were beginning to grow numb from the repetition of the strikes. But this was not what was causing the beads of liquid to pool on his forehead.

The cave had grown steadily hotter. Elf as he was, the heat had not bothered him for a long time. But the intensity had increased to such an extent that even he felt its force.

Legolas stopped working abruptly, letting the tools fall from his grip. Something was not right. He took a moment to allow his body to relax, and then leapt off the ladder, landing lightly on his feet. Quickly, he swiped the lone torch from its ring and went to the far side of the cave.
The heat grew the closer he got to the stone wall. By the time he reached it, the temperature was nearly unbearable. Hesitantly, Legolas placed a hand on the rocky surface. Instantly, he jerked it away, swearing aloud. It was almost as if a fire had been lit within the stone. Legolas began rubbing his hand feverishly up and down his tunic to ease the pain, but stopped short.
A noise was coming from beyond the stone. It was distant, but approaching fast. A hissing. Legolas’ brow furrowed in confusion. What was that? The ground began vibrating beneath him, and the Elf took a step backwards. What was happening? But suddenly a memory gripped him, so fully that he almost thought he heard the words.

Legolas! Dago han! Dago han! And then the world had seemed to be torn asunder. Helm’s Deep’s great wall had been breached. And what had defeated the stone? Fire….

Legolas turned and ran. He made for the entrance passage and leapt into it, just as an explosion ripped through the cave wall. The blast of heat nearly overwhelmed the Elf altogether, and his senses were skewed. Rock and debris rained down on him as he lay in the passage, his arms shielding his head. Dust and smoke hung heavy in the air, and Legolas began coughing lest he choke. The world spun, and the earth trembled.

Suddenly, a new noise split through the fog in Legolas’ head. Shrill cries and shrieking voices pierced the cave. The Elf knew that sound only too well from his hated trek through Moria.
Goblins.

Struggling to his feet, Legolas turned and looked back into the cave. Goblins were scrambling through the newly blown entrance like ants from a disturbed ant-hill. Their voices echoed off the walls until the sound was almost deafening. All of them were armed, and their small bodies and bowed legs were protected by random pieces of armor. They filled the cave, screaming, looking about themselves, completely frenzied. One caught sight of the Elf and gave a loud cry, pointing his sword in his direction. At least 20 pairs of Goblin eyes turned and fixed on him. Legolas’ hands went to his back, but the familiar feel of knife handles was not there.

That was when they charged.

Still disoriented, Legolas stumbled back up the passage. He scooped up a stone, turned and ran a few paces backwards. Then he faced his pursuers. The Goblin horde was gaining fast, even with the uneven terrain. The one who had sounded the alarm was in the front of the line, presumably the leader. He gnashed his teeth as he half ran half climbed his way to the Elf. Legolas took aim at the leader, his eyes locking onto his target. He steadied his arm, and then threw the stone with as much force as he could muster. But even as he released the rock, his vision blurred miserably. The rock struck true, but it was a mere glancing blow.

The Goblin yowled in pain, grabbing his head and shaking it miserably back and forth. The horde stopped short, snarling in surprise and rage.

Legolas took the opportunity to retreat a few paces back, collecting what ammunition he could from the ground. If he was to be killed, it would not be said that he ran from this confrontation.

My Apologies...

Forgive me for the delay. Our beloved computer has passed on into that great mother board in the sky. So we now have a new one, but it has taken me a while to find all of my files. More story should be underway...

Part the Second...a Second Time...

I have a wonderful new template...but it has messed up my settings. I re-posting this so that it will hopefully straighten out.

“Master Gimli.”

Gimli’s glance shifted from the carven walls and settled on the approaching form of Derin behind him. He had not seen the craft-master since the evening of the Feast, for all of the inhabitants kept themselves very busy. The cave echoed with the sounds of picks, hammers, and other assorted tools, not to mention the many voices of the Dwarves that wielded them.

“Ah, Master Derin,” Gimli called. He waved over the other figure. “Come to have a look at the progress?”

“Partially,” replied Derin. His stroked his short chestnut beard as he spoke. His youthful eyes scanned the work in progress. “But I also wished to speak with you.”

“Oh?” Gimli faced the smaller Dwarf. Derin was rather young to have such close standing with Gimli, but the Dwarf had proved himself with hammer and anvil. He had a way with the crafting of metal. His works were bold and sturdy, and his reputation was just as solid.

“Has he been poisoned?” Derin asked bluntly.

“Who? The Elf?” Gimli replied. This was an odd and unexpected topic.

“Yes,” Derin replied frowning. It seemed to Gimli that the young creature was both embarrassed and annoyed at his own question. Derin’s eyes darted away from Gimli’s and settled on the cracks in the floor, and then on the workers nearby.

“Well,” began Gimli, “No. Not really. It isn’t anything deadly; at least, I don’t think so. I suppose you could say he’s been poisoned by the sea. It’s rather confusing to me, lad.”

“Elves are a queer lot,” Derin said, his eyes meeting Gimli’s once more.

“But then, aren’t we all in some way,” Gimli replied. Derin’s bristly brows furrowed deeply.

“What’s changed you, Master Gimli?” he asked. “My father told me before I left for here that he had known you once. He said that he had been good friends with your father, Gloin, and that he thought you were one of the more solid in our ways; at least, from your generation. What made you go off and join the Nine Walkers? Or, at the very least, what drove you to befriend an Elf?”

Gimli stood silently for a moment, his mind running from one memory to another like pages in a book being swiftly flipped through. What had exactly caused this shift in his thinking? He knew the answer to that, of course. The Dwarf lord smiled fondly as he answered.

“Surely you have heard of the Lady Galadriel?” Derin hissed.

“The Elf-witch of Lorien,” he spat. Gimli scowled deeply.

“Nay, she is no witch! But I once thought much as you did. When Aragorn, now Elessar, told me that we were to pass under the leaves of Lorien, I was deeply dissatisfied. I wanted to go nowhere near that place; have nothing to do with whatever secrets lurked within that wood. But it was in Lorien that I began to see things a little differently.”

“How so?” Derin asked.

“After a rather rude introduction into that forest, we were escorted before the Lord and Lady of the wood. It was then, as I stood before Galadriel, that something was awakened inside of me that I had never felt before----and I doubt I shall ever feel again. A witch you call her, but although she possessed strange power she did no evil to me. She spoke words of comfort to my heart, as I was deeply grieved over the loss of those in Moria. Her words were like a gentle, warm breeze on a chilly afternoon. And her beauty…ah…never again shall I call anything fair save the Lady Galadriel. I said it then and I’ll say it now: she is fairer than all the jewels beneath the earth!”

“But she is of the Elves,” Derin stated grimly. “Who is to say that she isn’t a witch—and simply put you under her spell?”

“If I am bewitched, I am glad of it!” Gimli cried. “I would rather be spellbound by that Lady than to be master of my own thoughts. But I am not mad or enchanted. After seeing her, my mind was changed towards the Elven race. Now, true, all Elves are not the same. Some are just as wicked as Orcs and as distorted too. But not all are evil; in fact, many are good people, if their pride will allow others to see it.” Here Gimli chuckled.

Derin studied his Lord for a long moment, seemingly debating something within his mind.

“I suppose I shall get to see for myself,” he said at length. “Your Elven friend isn’t going anywhere soon.”

Part the Second of the 7th Chapter...

Here is the remainder of the chapter...review if you read please! ;)

“Master Gimli.”

Gimli’s glance shifted from the carven walls and settled on the approaching form of Derin behind him. He had not seen the craft-master since the evening of the Feast, for all of the inhabitants kept themselves very busy. The cave echoed with the sounds of picks, hammers, and other assorted tools, not to mention the many voices of the Dwarves that wielded them.

“Ah, Master Derin,” Gimli called. He waved over the other figure. “Come to have a look at the progress?”

“Partially,” replied Derin. His stroked his short chestnut beard as he spoke. His youthful eyes scanned the work in progress. “But I also wished to speak with you.”

“Oh?” Gimli faced the smaller Dwarf. Derin was rather young to have such close standing with Gimli, but the Dwarf had proved himself with hammer and anvil. He had a way with the crafting of metal. His works were bold and sturdy, and his reputation was just as solid.

“Has he been poisoned?” Derin asked bluntly.

“Who? The Elf?” Gimli replied. This was an odd and unexpected topic.

“Yes,” Derin replied frowning. It seemed to Gimli that the young creature was both embarrassed and annoyed at his own question. Derin’s eyes darted away from Gimli’s and settled on the cracks in the floor, and then on the workers nearby.

“Well,” began Gimli, “No. Not really. It isn’t anything deadly; at least, I don’t think so. I suppose you could say he’s been poisoned by the sea. It’s rather confusing to me, lad.”

“Elves are a queer lot,” Derin said, his eyes meeting Gimli’s once more.

“But then, aren’t we all in some way,” Gimli replied. Derin’s bristly brows furrowed deeply.

“What’s changed you, Master Gimli?” he asked. “My father told me before I left for here that he had known you once. He said that he had been good friends with your father, Gloin, and that he thought you were one of the more solid in our ways; at least, from your generation. What made you go off and join the Nine Walkers? Or, at the very least, what drove you to befriend an Elf?”

Gimli stood silently for a moment, his mind running from one memory to another like pages in a book being swiftly flipped through. What had exactly caused this shift in his thinking? He knew the answer to that, of course. The Dwarf lord smiled fondly as he answered.

“Surely you have heard of the Lady Galadriel?” Derin hissed.

“The Elf-witch of Lorien,” he spat. Gimli scowled deeply.

“Nay, she is no witch! But I once thought much as you did. When Aragorn, now Elessar, told me that we were to pass under the leaves of Lorien, I was deeply dissatisfied. I wanted to go nowhere near that place; have nothing to do with whatever secrets lurked within that wood. But it was in Lorien that I began to see things a little differently.”

“How so?” Derin asked.

“After a rather rude introduction into that forest, we were escorted before the Lord and Lady of the wood. It was then, as I stood before Galadriel, that something was awakened inside of me that I had never felt before----and I doubt I shall ever feel again. A witch you call her, but although she possessed strange power she did no evil to me. She spoke words of comfort to my heart, as I was deeply grieved over the loss of those in Moria. Her words were like a gentle, warm breeze on a chilly afternoon. And her beauty…ah…never again shall I call anything fair save the Lady Galadriel. I said it then and I’ll say it now: she is fairer than all the jewels beneath the earth!”

“But she is of the Elves,” Derin stated grimly. “Who is to say that she isn’t a witch—and simply put you under her spell?”

“If I am bewitched, I am glad of it!” Gimli cried. “I would rather be spellbound by that Lady than to be master of my own thoughts. But I am not mad or enchanted. After seeing her, my mind was changed towards the Elven race. Now, true, all Elves are not the same. Some are just as wicked as Orcs and as distorted too. But not all are evil; in fact, many are good people, if their pride will allow others to see it.” Here Gimli chuckled. Derin studied his Lord for a long moment, seemingly debating something within his mind.

“I suppose I shall get to see for myself,” he said at length. “Your Elven friend isn’t going anywhere soon.”

Chapter 7, Part One

Ok, since it is taking me a while to get these chapters down, I shall give you the first bit. Tell me of any corrections you would make. Hannon le!

*************


Gimli stood just outside the ornate doorway that led into Legolas’ chamber, battling with himself. He grumbled and muttered, took one step forward, hesitated, and then took one step back. It had been days since he had last seen his friend, and he wondered if he should disturb the Elf or leave him be.

Several hours after the salt incident, the Dwarf (despite his words) had slipped away from the feast and down the many passages to Legolas’s room in order to confirm that the Elf had made it there. Having seen no sign of his friend out and about, Gimli had decided that it was his duty to peer into the chamber and verify the Elf’s presence within. So, with a quick dolen the Dwarf watched as the door slid open, revealing his companion sitting with knees drawn up to his chest, his head resting on them wearily but comfortably in sleep.

To Gimli, Legolas had looked so strange in that moment, as if in slumber all of the frets and years had fallen away from his countenance. The Dwarf had always seen his friend as fair, for so his people were, but now as he slept, Gimli realized just how young the Elf was. True, the princling was considered fully matured in mind and body as far as the ways of Elves went, but he still had not lived long compared to others of his race such as the Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, Lady Arwen, or even Haldir for that matter. For some reason, Gimli had never really thought of his Elven companion in that light before. Names such as ‘laddie’ he had simply tagged onto Legolas in friendly teasing, and although at least a millennium older than the Dwarf, the Elf was still considered by his own to be just leaving his ‘tweens’, as the Hobbits would call it. An interesting observation, Gimli had thought to himself. But youthfulness would only keep a fool from underestimating him. Or a Dwarf. Chuckling a little villainously to himself at some past encounter, Gimli had stealthily slipped back out and into the hallway. Soon he had returned to the feasting, satisfied that the Elf would be himself by the following morning.

But after nearly a week of patient waiting (which makes any Dwarf look the part of a suffering saint), Gimli had decided that it was time for the Elf to return to the world of the living once more. The Dwarf had generously offered the service of himself—and his fists—to Legolas if ever he had need of them. Now, Gimli surmised, was as good a time as any to see to that promise.

Why he stood in front of the Elf’s wooden door hesitating the day away he wasn’t sure, but Gimli was not one to back down—even from himself. The stubborn side within him stated that Legolas would get up when he wanted to, and it was not up to the Dwarf to decide when that was. Along with that, rather unpleasant news was Gimli’s to relay, and it might be best just to let the Elf sleep to his heart’s content. But the friend side nudged in the opposite direction: Legolas needed to find out sooner or later. He had been lost to slumber quite long enough.

This is my fault, Gimli admonished himself. This whole thing could have been avoided. But you had to go and get yourself mixed up with a Ring and a Council and a Quest and a blasted Elf…

He decided upon sooner.

Clearing his throat so as to will away any final apprehension, Gimli uttered the word dolen and the door opened as commanded. Then, without another pause The Dwarf strode into the room and--after taking a deep breath--was just about to give the Elf a wake-up call to remember when he noticed that his companion was already up.

Legolas sat on the edge of his pallet, his hair not quite as neat as when the Dwarf had last seen it, yawning quietly to himself. He looked up with eyes a bit unfocused, as is want to happen after a long slumber, and offered his Dwarven friend a contented smile. All the air that Gimli had gathered hissed out of his lungs in an exasperated sigh.

“Good morning, Gimli,” said Legolas, as if not a day had passed.

“Good morning, he says,” Gimli replied to no one in particular. “Good morning?!”

“Well, it is a ‘good’ morning, is it not?” Legolas replied. “I certainly feel it is. Or, will be.”

“More like ‘was’,” the Dwarf countered.

“Was?” Legolas inquired, giving his host an apprehensive glance. “Have I slept late?”

“Late, he says,” Gimli replied. “Late?!”

“Must we keep repeating one another?” Legolas remarked.

“I should say you’ve slept late,” Gimli stated. “Have a guess as to how long?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” Legolas replied, “I slept quite soundly, but I do remember getting up and moving to the pallet---”

“5 nights and 4 days,” announced the Dwarf.

“By the Valar,” Legolas hissed as if it pained him to hear it. Hastily he stood to his feet and moved past Gimli to a pack full of his belongings. A comb and a new set of clothes were produced from its folds and placed upon the Elf’s pallet, ready. After this, Legolas quickly made his way to the pool and began washing up, splashing the melted snow water on his face and neck.

“Legolas…” Gimli began.

“I have never slept this late in all my long years,” the Elf admonished himself.

“Laddie,” Gimli started to speak but was once again cut off.

“Ai…you shall have to forgive me, Gimli, but I must prepare to leave---”

“Laddie,” Gimli repeated, growing louder.

“I know…I am truly sorry,” Legolas continued, wringing some stray water out of his hair. “But it is imperative that I return to Ithilien before—”

“Legolas!” Gimli had to nearly shout to get the Elf’s attention. Legolas turned, his eyes locked on the Dwarf. A look of puzzlement settled on his features at the sudden outburst.

Gimli began shifting his weight from one foot to the other. This was it. He had news to deliver, and he wouldn’t leave this spot without sharing it. But the reaction that would follow…now that was a thing to be nervous about. Gimli cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the leafy floor as he began.

“It’s like this, lad. After Kori’s little prank, I came and made certain that you”—here Legolas frowned---“made it back alright. Go ahead! Call me Mother Hen. But if you had seen your face on me you would have done it too.”

“That is quite an unsettling thought,” Legolas replied.

“Oh, keep quiet,” Gimli growled. “Blasted Elf. At any rate, I thought it best to let you rest. So I did. Morning of the next day came and went, followed by the next and the next until I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to die in here.”

“Ah, the ever amusing Dwarf,” Legolas countered.

“So, I decided that when the next day came, I was going to see to it that you were roused. But when I awoke this morning, word got to me that we had received an…unexpected gift.”

Legolas’s features slowly melted from perplexed to the closest thing to horror that Gimli had ever seen cross the Elf’s face.

“It seems that during the night, the Valar decided to grace us with snow.”

Gimli braced himself for…he wasn’t sure what. An outburst, a protest, anything. But to his relief and confusion, Legolas simply sat in silence.

“I see,” he replied.

It was quiet for a long time, the silence thick on the air as it waited for voices to dismiss it.

“The Elves of Ithilien will be expecting my return, and in the absence of this, some word of why I tarry,” Legolas remarked, falling into his emotionless mask. He searched Gimli’s gaze with his own. “Is there...no way to at least send some sort of message?”

“I’m afraid not,” Gimli replied. “Once the doors close, they remain closed until—”

“The thaw,” Legolas finished. Gimli nodded.

“Best get used to caves, lad,” the Dwarf said with an apologetic air. He searched for something that might lighten the news of the Elf’s entrapment. “They’re not all bad, you know. In fact, I find caves to be quite beautiful, especially here in Aglarond. I shall have to show you some of the deeper corners of our settlement here. After excavation, we’ve found that some of our caves are simply glowing with jewels! It’s quite a sight. Oh--and you can’t forget our fine Dwarven cookery! That is a thing that no stomach should ever have the misfortune to go without! Let’s see…”

Gimli’s words trailed off as he saw the despondent expression that his friend was trying desperately to hide. Then Legolas stood, and beneath his masked face several emotions battled for mastery over his features: wrath, sadness, confusion…and fear.

“Thank you, Gimli,” Legolas said, his voice devoid of any one sentiment.

“Yes, well,” Gimli replied, a little defeatedly. He turned to leave but then seemed to remember something and stopped. “Luncheon is in a half-an-hour.”

“Do not expect me,” Legolas replied with a nod. Gimli paused and contemplated the virtues of scolding the Elf for his lack of appetite.

“Very well,” he said finally, slipping back out into the hall as the door shut behind him.