roselightfairy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
roselightfairy) wrote2020-08-24 09:32 pm
roselightfairy) wrote2020-08-24 09:32 pm
Entry tags:
A fic
I've been revisiting the LOTR books lately, and getting to the Paths of the Dead scene reminded me that I have not used Gimli's canon trauma to its full potential.
So...a little mostly-hurt nightmare fic. Some Legolas/Gimli because I can't help myself, but unfortunately Legolas is not actually there. :(
The Dead are following.
He can feel them, the icy grasping presence that steals the warmth from the air and from his soul – the feel rather than the sound of a host in pursuit, like thousands of booted feet stamping the air just above the ground; murmurs like hissing whispers swirling up from their midst to twine with the air – a cloud rather than an army that can be counted, pressing against his back, and then further forward still –
The Dead are following.
He knows they press still on, overtaking him, but he dares not look back; he cannot even stand – he is pressed to the ground with the choking terror of it, clawing himself forward one hand at a time, not even his shame strong enough to force him to his feet again –
The Dead are following.
Aye, following closer and closer behind every moment; the ice begins in the tips of his toes, travels up his ankles until his feet are frozen to the ground – climbs higher up his calves, his thighs, until he can move his legs no longer; he is submerged to his waist in the icy terror of it and still it is swirling in him, in his belly, his chest – it will seize him here, now; it will stop his heart and his lungs and he will never breathe again; he will never be free of this cavern; he will be pressed to the stone and he will join these shades; he has never feared death like this before but now it is near him, upon him, all around him, inside him –
“The Dead are following.”
The voice is Legolas’s, but not – it is an echo of the elf’s voice just as the shades are the echoes of men fallen long ago, sound without substance, empty of heart, of meaning. There is no warmth in it; the cold crawls sluggishly up Gimli’s throat but still he raises his head to look at the elf – but he is not Legolas; his skin has faded to the grey of smoke, his bones flickering in and out of view; his eyes dark, sunken pits of nothingness – and indeed, Gimli gazes into them and sees nothing; Legolas is gone from the body before him – and he feels the cold seeping into his face, his head, closing over his eyes until he can see nothing more, and he knows that he will never move from this spot again; he will fade into a shade of his own, into just one more among the icy host of the Dead; he is Gimli no more, and nothing is left to him – nothing more! –
Gimli jerked out of sleep with a strangled cry, sitting upright in one motion and flailing at the bedcovers that had wrapped around his legs, seeking to trap him where he lay. The room around him was dark and unfamiliar but he could give no thought to that now; he clutched at his chest with both hands, struggling to breathe, to shake off the cold, strangling terror. His whole body felt wrapped in ice, and yet as he came slowly back to himself, he realized that he was drenched in sweat.
A dream. Only a dream. His breath slowed gradually and he looked around him, trying to remind himself of his surroundings. He was in a room, yes – his own room, in Erebor, the chambers he had slept in for most of his life. He was home, and he was safe – and yet still he could feel the Dead behind him, gaining on him –
Shivering madly, he gathered up the blankets he had kicked away and wrapped them around his shoulders, then scrambled up in bed to press his back against the wall, hoping that the solid surface behind him would remind him that he was safe, that no one pursued him.
Only a dream – but what a dream. Gimli dragged a hand across his face, wiping away sweat and tears, still shivering violently. He had not felt so cold since those long days they rode with the Dead at their backs in truth, and even then he had not felt so alone.
Perhaps it was because of the newness of it – he had dreamed of the Dead since, but only in snatches, memories that faded quickly upon the waking. He had thought himself free of this terror; never since had his dreams been so stark, so gripping – and he would not have expected it now, not when he was safe at home once more.
Unless . . .
He remembered those days riding with the Dead, but he remembered the nights as well – remembered Legolas’s bedroll laid out near his, Legolas sitting beside him and humming peaceful melodies until Gimli drifted off at last to sleep. He remembered even those nights in Minas Tirith after the war – remembered only now, though he had not noticed it before, that somehow every time he woke up from such a dark dream, he would hear snatches of elf-song drifting into his bedroom from the balcony he shared with Legolas. And he had not felt even the whisper of a nightmare since their days in Fangorn, when he had slept every night nestled peacefully in Legolas’s arms.
But Legolas had departed yesterday, to return to his home from Erebor – and this, Gimli realized, was the first night they had been apart since those days with the Dead.
“Oh, my friend,” he murmured to himself, and he would have laughed had he not still felt so dangerously near to weeping. “All those nights I heard you singing – were you watching over my rest even then?”
He shivered again and pulled the blankets tighter around himself, wishing fervently that Legolas were here beside him now.
But he was not, and it was no good dwelling on his absence – even if that pang in Gimli’s heart did distract him from the chill of the nightmare. He huddled in his blankets casting desperately about for something that might make him feel less forlorn – but the only thing he could feel was yearning for Legolas’s strong arm about his shoulders, his voice lifted in soothing song.
Soothing song . . .
Elf-song was different by far than any music Gimli had heard before, but he had traveled with Legolas for months by now, and he had learned something of it, at least. It did not sound the same in his voice, but he remembered a song Legolas had taught him in Fangorn – a simple melody meant to be repeated and filled in with new words as needed. Legolas had taught him a few verses in rough translation, one in praise of the dappled sunlight on fallen leaves; another on the gossamer wings of a butterfly. Then they had made up their own about the sound of a stream rushing over smooth rocks; one about the taste of ripe blackberries under the warm sun.
Gimli felt some of the chill fall away, driven by the memory of those warm, languid days with Legolas beneath the sun. He began to hum now, his voice too stiff for words, but he sang them in his mind, wrapping the memory around him along with the blankets. Slowly, the coldness at his back began to drain away, the fear pushed back until he could lower himself back down onto his bed, could draw the covers back over himself instead of clutching them desperately to him. He hummed, repeating the verses again and again, remembering those sunlit days and feeling his muscles slowly begin to relax.
And when he at last sank back into sleep, he dreamed only of Legolas.
So...a little mostly-hurt nightmare fic. Some Legolas/Gimli because I can't help myself, but unfortunately Legolas is not actually there. :(
The Dead are following.
He can feel them, the icy grasping presence that steals the warmth from the air and from his soul – the feel rather than the sound of a host in pursuit, like thousands of booted feet stamping the air just above the ground; murmurs like hissing whispers swirling up from their midst to twine with the air – a cloud rather than an army that can be counted, pressing against his back, and then further forward still –
The Dead are following.
He knows they press still on, overtaking him, but he dares not look back; he cannot even stand – he is pressed to the ground with the choking terror of it, clawing himself forward one hand at a time, not even his shame strong enough to force him to his feet again –
The Dead are following.
Aye, following closer and closer behind every moment; the ice begins in the tips of his toes, travels up his ankles until his feet are frozen to the ground – climbs higher up his calves, his thighs, until he can move his legs no longer; he is submerged to his waist in the icy terror of it and still it is swirling in him, in his belly, his chest – it will seize him here, now; it will stop his heart and his lungs and he will never breathe again; he will never be free of this cavern; he will be pressed to the stone and he will join these shades; he has never feared death like this before but now it is near him, upon him, all around him, inside him –
“The Dead are following.”
The voice is Legolas’s, but not – it is an echo of the elf’s voice just as the shades are the echoes of men fallen long ago, sound without substance, empty of heart, of meaning. There is no warmth in it; the cold crawls sluggishly up Gimli’s throat but still he raises his head to look at the elf – but he is not Legolas; his skin has faded to the grey of smoke, his bones flickering in and out of view; his eyes dark, sunken pits of nothingness – and indeed, Gimli gazes into them and sees nothing; Legolas is gone from the body before him – and he feels the cold seeping into his face, his head, closing over his eyes until he can see nothing more, and he knows that he will never move from this spot again; he will fade into a shade of his own, into just one more among the icy host of the Dead; he is Gimli no more, and nothing is left to him – nothing more! –
Gimli jerked out of sleep with a strangled cry, sitting upright in one motion and flailing at the bedcovers that had wrapped around his legs, seeking to trap him where he lay. The room around him was dark and unfamiliar but he could give no thought to that now; he clutched at his chest with both hands, struggling to breathe, to shake off the cold, strangling terror. His whole body felt wrapped in ice, and yet as he came slowly back to himself, he realized that he was drenched in sweat.
A dream. Only a dream. His breath slowed gradually and he looked around him, trying to remind himself of his surroundings. He was in a room, yes – his own room, in Erebor, the chambers he had slept in for most of his life. He was home, and he was safe – and yet still he could feel the Dead behind him, gaining on him –
Shivering madly, he gathered up the blankets he had kicked away and wrapped them around his shoulders, then scrambled up in bed to press his back against the wall, hoping that the solid surface behind him would remind him that he was safe, that no one pursued him.
Only a dream – but what a dream. Gimli dragged a hand across his face, wiping away sweat and tears, still shivering violently. He had not felt so cold since those long days they rode with the Dead at their backs in truth, and even then he had not felt so alone.
Perhaps it was because of the newness of it – he had dreamed of the Dead since, but only in snatches, memories that faded quickly upon the waking. He had thought himself free of this terror; never since had his dreams been so stark, so gripping – and he would not have expected it now, not when he was safe at home once more.
Unless . . .
He remembered those days riding with the Dead, but he remembered the nights as well – remembered Legolas’s bedroll laid out near his, Legolas sitting beside him and humming peaceful melodies until Gimli drifted off at last to sleep. He remembered even those nights in Minas Tirith after the war – remembered only now, though he had not noticed it before, that somehow every time he woke up from such a dark dream, he would hear snatches of elf-song drifting into his bedroom from the balcony he shared with Legolas. And he had not felt even the whisper of a nightmare since their days in Fangorn, when he had slept every night nestled peacefully in Legolas’s arms.
But Legolas had departed yesterday, to return to his home from Erebor – and this, Gimli realized, was the first night they had been apart since those days with the Dead.
“Oh, my friend,” he murmured to himself, and he would have laughed had he not still felt so dangerously near to weeping. “All those nights I heard you singing – were you watching over my rest even then?”
He shivered again and pulled the blankets tighter around himself, wishing fervently that Legolas were here beside him now.
But he was not, and it was no good dwelling on his absence – even if that pang in Gimli’s heart did distract him from the chill of the nightmare. He huddled in his blankets casting desperately about for something that might make him feel less forlorn – but the only thing he could feel was yearning for Legolas’s strong arm about his shoulders, his voice lifted in soothing song.
Soothing song . . .
Elf-song was different by far than any music Gimli had heard before, but he had traveled with Legolas for months by now, and he had learned something of it, at least. It did not sound the same in his voice, but he remembered a song Legolas had taught him in Fangorn – a simple melody meant to be repeated and filled in with new words as needed. Legolas had taught him a few verses in rough translation, one in praise of the dappled sunlight on fallen leaves; another on the gossamer wings of a butterfly. Then they had made up their own about the sound of a stream rushing over smooth rocks; one about the taste of ripe blackberries under the warm sun.
Gimli felt some of the chill fall away, driven by the memory of those warm, languid days with Legolas beneath the sun. He began to hum now, his voice too stiff for words, but he sang them in his mind, wrapping the memory around him along with the blankets. Slowly, the coldness at his back began to drain away, the fear pushed back until he could lower himself back down onto his bed, could draw the covers back over himself instead of clutching them desperately to him. He hummed, repeating the verses again and again, remembering those sunlit days and feeling his muscles slowly begin to relax.
And when he at last sank back into sleep, he dreamed only of Legolas.