Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Arrivals and Departures

In the deep, shadowed corners of this world, the horns began to sound. The sound of tramping feet, hundreds of thousands of feet, echoed between them as they were pulled into step. Teeth gnashed. Weapons waved. Claws flashed out to dig into tender flesh, and all nearby were caught in the fray.

The horn sounded again, and the orcs doubled their speed, all but running across the distance. The armies of Mordor were on the march and all fled before them.

~*~

Gimli sat in comfortable silence between Fíli and Kíli. To his left, Fíli examined his knives, one by one, whetting them against a stone. To his right, Kíli was repairing the fletching on some of his arrows. If the arrows looked far more woodland than dwarven, Gimli wasn't going to comment—but it would make Kíli's near-inaudible swearing at the maker's 'ridiculous fussiness' more appropriate. Gimli has his new axe in his lap, and was struggling to make the handle better fit his hands. It was slow work, and he didn't have the proper tools, and he missed Peacemaker with a passion.

"Ach! It's no use!" Gimli grumbled, and tossed the axe from his lap. It clattered to the stone in front of him, and all around him the others paused to look. None looked long, however, and Kíli never looked at all.

"What's wrong?" Fíli asked, mild.

"Everything," Gimli muttered, and resisted the urge to kick the axe. He knew better than to take his boot to a weapon thus, and it wasn't like he was actually sixty-four. He did not need to act like it.

"The men should be here soon," Kíli added, the words slightly muffled around the wire he held in his mouth. "That will help, I think."

Just then, Thorin thundered past, Dwalin right behind him, and Bilbo running after, out of breath. "Come!" Thorn ordered. "To the gates!"

Gimli exchanged looks with his cousins; Kíli waggled his eyebrows, and jumped up after Thorin. "Kíli, no!" Fíli hissed, "Wait!" and ran after him. Gimli looked at his axe, looked at the wall of stone, the narrow stair that had been built into the side of it, and climbed after the others.

It was windy, atop the wall, and Gimli's hair whipped about his head like a candle flame in the breeze. Hastily, he pushed it back out of his face and looked around.

Across the plain, the ruins of Esgaroth were slowly filling with the displaced people of Laketown. Small fires were already lit, and more were joining them against the coming chill of night. There were many of them—and still, Gimli knew, few compared to what their number had been before.

On the road between Dale and Erebor, walked a small company, all carrying bows. Their leader was a dark and familiar man—Bard. I guess he is the Dragonslayer now, Gimli thought. His company must be those remaining of his guard, and another—blond of hair and moving with the effortless grace of a woodland hart. Legolas. He saw no sign of Tauriel, however, and neither did Kíli from the way he slumped.

Thorin had seen Legolas, however, and he was tense with anger. He waited until the small company had crested the last hill to call out to them. "Who are you that come armed to the gates of Thorin son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain?"

The company stopped, and Bard looked up to them, shielding his eyes with his hand.

"Hail Thorin!" Bard called back, with guarded familiarity. Legolas stood next to him, impassive, yet Gimli knew him well enough to read his nervousness. "Why do you fence yourself like a robber in his hold? We are not yet foes, and we rejoice that you are alive beyond our hope. We came expecting to find none living here;" he said, and paused, looking them over as if counting their number. "And we are glad that you all yet live, though now that we are met there is matter for a parlay and a council."