Bearded

Chapter 28

The mood in the chamber was unlike anything Thorin had ever experienced. Ordinarily, when Dwarrow were roused to great anger there would be an enemy in plain view. That anger would be channelled to motion easily, channelled to fist and axe and mattock. It would blaze in fury, in vengeance, in defence and then flare out, to remain banked, until once again summoned to the aid of Dwarfkind.

Indeed, when Dwarrow felt fear, that sentiment was mastered, then harnessed to the same purpose as anger.

Here, in several blows, their notion of the world was threatened. Gimli was not a known liar, he was not one delirious after consuming strange mushrooms or babbling after one tankard too many of ale. He was one who was respected. Gimli was a Dwarf who was known to have selflessly risked his life in the protection of Middle Earth. He was a Hero of Erebor himself now, and growing up, he had been in full public view as a son of a Hero of Erebor. He was known to be steadfast and honest by all those in the chamber. It was true that everyone had seen his wild days, but they had not caused lasting damage to any other or to his reputation. Many Dwarrow, before their own beards had grown in fully, would probably have similar tales to tell. No. Gimli was not known as a teller of untruths. He was known as a steady, right-thinking, honourable, reliable and honest Dwarf.

Before them lay the possibility, laid out bare, that he was not bewitched. Before them lay the possibility that they were wrong; that their friends, parents, loved ones were wrong. Before them lay the possibility that what they knew about Elves was not true. That some, at least, of their history may be twisted. That Elves may have some genuine grievances against their people. That Elves were not a monolith to be hated, but individuals, all with their own stories. And that possibility terrified them.

To what, then, would they cling, if not to their knowledge of their hatred? They would be left falling, as if an outcrop of bad rock suddenly gave way beneath them without warning. On what would they rebuild? What would be a true foundation and what would be more shifting sand?

After the assembly had roared their collective anger, they were left disorientated, with nowhere to channel it. A restless and uneasy silence fell again.

Thorin raised his arm then spoke into the heavy silence.

"My lords, my people," he said. "Listen to the words of Gimli, son of Gloin, one of the Nine Walkers and saviours of Middle Earth: We triumphed over Mordor on the fields of battle and the blood of Men, Elves, Hobbits and Dwarves was shed in that just cause. But against the darkness in all our hearts let us also now take the victory. I bid you to ponder the truth in these words and to cast aside hatred. The work of the Enemy was in such sundering. The Enemy's power was in drawing friend into war with friend. The enemy gloried in doubt and suspicion and mistrust. We are Dwarrow. We are strong enough to set hatred aside."

The people clung to these words. They clung to the new certainty offered. To the hope that in this dark mine at least one had a torch, that at least one knew the way out to air and that they should follow him.

There was no sound of protest when, at a gesture from the king. The guards came to unchain Legolas.

Thorin's voice carried as he spoke. "Be it known that Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, now called Eryn Lasgalen is now free in this realm. None shall hinder his coming and going. Let your suspicion and folly run off and be burned away, as we were burned by Smaug the Terrible in days gone by."

The pain and fog were creeping up around him again. Gimli noticed that Legolas' boots still had blood all over them. It had dried dark brown, not black like orcish blood. As it had not been cleaned off while still fresh, the boots would be ruined. It was as if his mind could only grasp hold of the small details, the roiling mass of this day having overwhelmed him.