Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

A Short Rest with Elvish Nonsense

Well, it wasn't his father's axe, but it was a perfectly balanced great axe, and a fair sight better than his training weapon. Gimli sat on a large stone next to Fíli, cleaning the years of dust and cobwebs from the blade and handle. It was remarkably free of rust, and inscribed with a delicate knotwork pattern that marked it as a product of the Ironfists to the East. Gimli didn't know much of their history, having focused most of his studies on the Firebeards of his grandmother, but he recognized skilled craftwork, nonetheless. The weapon was light but steady, more curved than the axes of the Longbeards, and razor sharp, which meant he could achieve more damage with less brute force—better for him, as he wouldn't come into his true strength for years. There was a line of Cirith runes etched along the handle, giving the axe a name: Peacemaker. Gimli did not know whose craft went into this axe, but he certainly liked their sense of humor.

Bilbo perked up, still as a rabbit sensing a fox, and said hurriedly, "Someone is coming!"

They froze and Gimli quietly tucked his cloth away, gripping his new weapon with both hands. Sure enough, they heard it then: a rustling like a charging Oliphaunt, and then a cry, "Flee! Fire! Foes! Flee!" Gandalf lowered his sword with a resigned air. Gimli didn't have time to wonder why, as a giant sled pulled by the largest rabbits Gimli had ever seen burst from the underbrush, carrying with it an old man dressed in tattered brown robes. He pulled the sled to a halt, and stood, blinking at them from underneath a wild hat to rival Bofur's.

"Radagast," Gandalf breathed. "Radagast the Brown." A wizard. A wizard like Gandalf. One by one, the dwarves lowered their weapons. Gimli took out his rag once more, though he didn't bother to sit again. "What are you doing here?" Gandalf asked, drawing Radagast away down the hill to speak in privacy.

"Another wizard," Balin said to Thorin. "What do you think that means?"

Dori sniffed loudly, radiating his affront. After the way Gandalf has spoken to him, Dori wasn't to keen on other wizards. Thorin barely spared him a glance, however. He had, in fact, hardly looked away from Orcrist since he had claimed the blade.

"I think," he said slowly, "that it means our wizard has divided loyalties." He slid Orcrist back into its sheath and slung it over his back. "From now on, we plan as if he is not there," he said, quietly. Balin looked at him for a long moment and nodded.

"Aye," he said, and stepped back as Gandalf came back, face grim and Radagast trailing behind, worrying the brim of his hat nervously. Was—Gimli squinted, looking closer. Was that a bird's nest in his hair?

"Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf said. "Do not mistake me, you are a strong leader, and your devotion to your people does you credit, but we must make for Rivendell; this blind hatred of the elves cannot continue."

Thorin crossed his arms. "So, you are dictating how I am to feel, now? And how I am to best serve my people?"

"I do when your feelings endanger your people," Gandalf snapped. "Lord Elrond is a dear friend, who bears you and yours no ill will. We will find there food, shelter, and a reader of that map. More, there are those in Rivendell with whom I must consult. The winds of change are blowing in Middle Earth, and I fear they do not carry good news."

Gimli nearly threw his hands up in despair. This was how Gandalf planned to get Thorin to Rivendell? Gandalf, whom Gimli had seen talk Sauroman out of Theoden? Who talked Denethor into war, and then out of madness? He was as bad as Pippin!

And yet, it worked. Thorin unfolded his arms and nodded. "Very well. We shall make for Rivendell. We will let these elves supply us and we will move on; it is the very least of what they can do to right the wrongs they have done us." He turned and called to Ori, "Get the ponies!"