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Upon the high and windy ramparts of Helm's Deep, at the dark gathering of
Saruman's orc armies, men spoke of how they bid their loved ones farewell.
Few had hope of seeing the dawn. To pass the bleak time before the first
advance of the enemy, Gimli asked Legolas what his father the King of
Mirkwood thought about his son joining the Fellowship.
Legolas replied in a soft voice. "My father and I said our parting words
at Imladris. In the closing days of the Council, Thranduil made the
journey and he was not pleased with what he discovered. We were ready to
depart and I spoke with my father at the last bridge."
"Farewell, My Father," I said.
"It goes against my will, Legolas, to see you in the company of men and
dwarves."
"I know, Father. Yet, some things must be done."
"By others then."
"I was chosen by Mithrandir to attend the Council of Elrond in your stead,
and your hand rested upon my head on our day of parting. Do you regret
sending me?"
"I regret many things."
My father paused then. I watched him closely. Old as the oldest forest of
Middle Earth, he is. And hard as iron wood. Yet, there is a yielding
suppleness beneath the bark. Like the bow he taught me to bend and shoot.
"I thank you," I said. "For your protection and for your love, Father."
"May starlight brighten your path that you may never lose your way."
"They await, Father. A last embrace?"
"Not the last, Child. Do not presage a bleak future to one of my years."
"Then I promise to return, and Mirkwood will be Greenwood again."
Then my father and I embraced. His iron spine yielded and his lips were
warm on my forehead. I kissed his cheek and spring flowers bloomed under
the pale skin. His heart thawed like winter's thick ice. His eyes ran like
steams of snowmelt mixing with my own tears.
Then I broke away, and he returned to his kingly stature that men and
dwarves might not see the bending of Thranduil.
CHAPTER 2
So, my friend Gimli, how was it with your father, the dour dwarf, Master
Gloin?
"Hah! Are you seeking to feel my axe at your throat, Friend? You speak
carelessly about my kin."
"I've met him, Gimli."
"He's a serious listener and has little need to speak. That does not make
him morose."
"Your defense of him is commendable. Did you and he bid farewell or not? I
sense you may not have parted on good terms."
"Hardly the case, Master Elf. He bid me kill many orcs. He gifted me with
a whetstone weighing nearly a pound. He said, 'Use it all up, Gimli. More
where that one came from.' Then he slapped my back and sent me on my way,
waving with one hand, a tankard of ale in the other."
"His parting gift to you was a rock?"
"A whetstone is no mere rock. More precious than gems it is, before a
battle."
The Elf smiled. He ran a small piece of stone along the edge of his long
white knife. The sound whispered of slicing and swift death. The eyes of
the Elf glittered in the dim starlight. The distant approach of numberless
hordes met the subtle curve of Legolas's ear. He heard the tramp of feet
and the bellow of orcs stirring up their fierce hatred of men, Dwarves and
Elves. A long sigh escaped his mouth. Then he looked at Gimli.
"Hone your axe well, my friend. We'll have work soon."
"No farewells between us then?"
"No," Legolas said. "You and I will travel together, wherever this dark
road may lead."
-End-
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