fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2020-06-03 09:27 pm
fredbassett) wrote2020-06-03 09:27 pm
Entry tags:
Fic, The Glittering Caves, Gimli(/Legolas), Éomer
Title : The Glittering Caves
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Lord of the Rings
Rating : 15
Characters : Gimli(/Legolas), Éomer,
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Leofwine), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Gimli has never known such beauty in the midst of the horror of war.
“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”
Gimli’s axe rose and fell, cleaving the orc’s sword arm from its body. A thrust from Éomer’s long blade finished the job he had started.
The dwarf sketched a quick bow. “My thanks. That one was proving troublesome.”
“Does that count towards your contest?” asked Éomer, his conversational tone belying how hard pressed they were.
“I will discount that as a joint effort,” answered Gimli. “The Elf may need the advantage in the game. The fighting is fierce here.”
“I doubt it is easier elsewhere. But we are being pressed back to the cliff. Our only refuge may well be in the caves. If I give the order to retreat, follow me closely.”
“A dwarf does not run from the vermin of Isengard!”
“We run or die, my friend, and I have no intention of dying this night…” Éomer’s sword flashed in the torchlight and another orc fell.
Their enemies were driven onwards by whip and spear, some fuelled by rage and some by fear; fear of their own captains overrode even their fear of the Strawheads, as they called the men of Rohan. No quarter was given and none was asked. The defenders were being pressed inexorably back, step by step, Éomer on his right, a man whose name he did not know on his left. When one orc was cut down, another sprang to take its place. The Rohirrim were stout allies in a fight, but Gimli longed for a hundred of his countrymen and their axes and then they would teach Saruman’s creatures some manners.
As he fended off a spear thrust from a towering orc chieftain, a pained gasp on his left boded ill. He sprang forward to give cover, yelling again the battle cry of his people, “Khazâd! Khazâd!”
An orc swung a curved sword dark with blood and he passed Gimli’s defence. The dwarf’s iron helm turned the blade but it was knocked from his head and he felt the edge of the weapon slice his forehead in a glancing blow.
“For the King of the Mark!” Éomer cried, his sword flashing red again and again.
The orcs fell back a body’s length.
Gimli dashed blood from his eyes. On his left side, his comrade’s thigh now sprouted a black fletched arrow below the man’s mail hauberk.
“Do not pull it!” he cried. “The tips are barbed.”
The man stepped back, sheathed his sword and snapped the shaft.
“Their archers will pick us off one by one. We cannot tarry. To the caves!” Éomer ordered. “Leofwine, lead the way. Gimli and I will cover the retreat.”
Step by tortuous step, they gave ground as around them grey arms of rock closed in, forcing the orcs to come at them in ones and two.
An orc rushed at him and Gimli swung his axe. An iron collar jarred his axe, but his second strike cleaved its skull, despite the notch his axe blade now sported.
“Turn now!” Éomer ordered. “I have your back, Master Dwarf!”
Gimli did as he had been bidden, following torchlight into a narrow cleft.
“Keep moving!” Leofwine said. “When Éomer is inside, we collapse the entrance.”
Once Éomer reached the rock sanctuary, Leofwine took hold of a long wooden pole and swung on it with all his weight, ignoring the arrow in his leg. The rock groaned, then shifted, a huge block falling to crush the orc that had been hard on Éomer’s heels.
As more rocks fell, sealing the entrance, Gimli nodded approving. The blockage would hold, he was sure of that, and if the orcs deployed their blasting fire, they would only bring down more of the cliff.
The defenders had won through to safety. For now, at least.
****
Gimli stared in wonder at the vast cavern as around him the survivors of the desperate battle for Helm’s Deep laid down their weapons as men and women rushed to tend the injured. Their faces told those who looked on them that they had not expected to escape with their lives, cornered as they had been like badgers in a trap.
He ignored the clamour of voices and the stamp of horses’ hooves on the dry, sandy floor echoing from orderly picket lines on the far side of the chamber.
Above him soared a vast vaulted roof adorned by countless frozen white pendants that hung all around in long clusters. Around the sides of the chamber many-coloured pillars climbed high, some white as the fair hand of the Lady Galadriel, others with the rosy blush of dawn and warm soft saffron hues. Translucent curtains draped from the roof and clung to the walls, with the light of lanterns shining through. Everywhere he looked, towering pillars stood as tall as mallorn trees in the groves of Lothlorien, drops of water splashing down onto their flattened tops like rainfall on a spring morning. Some had grown tall enough to form columns joining roof to floor, some as slender as a reed, others as thick and gnarled as old oaks.
His heart sang at the sight of such beauty and he marvelled that the Rohirrim had spoken of these caves as no more than storehouses and a refuge in time of war, yet here they had glories the like of which Gimli had never before seen. Not even the great caverns of the Lonely Mountain or the deep chambers of Iron Hills could rival this display of riches.
Gems glistened in the walls and frozen flowers bloomed from the rock as white as lilies, growing slowly but surely, others were as thin as the finest silken cord, their beauty twisting this way and that into eccentric forms. Gleaming white pearls nestled in beds of marble, as all around crystals glittered in the lamplight like hoar frost on a winter morning. Pausing only to dash the blood from his eyes when it threatened to obscure his sight, he lost himself in a world of delight until the sights, sounds and smells of battle faded from his mind.
His wandering feet led him to a wide lake mirroring the glories above and he admired the illusion of the towers and pinnacles of a city of glass and adamant, strong and glorious beyond even the dreams of Durin. As he watched, a single drop fell and shattered the image.
“Gimli, your wound needs to be tended,” Éomer said softly at his side.
“This is all the healing salve I need, my friend, but I do not want my blood to stain such perfection.”
He turned away from the pool and was once more in the world of blood and pain.
His count now stood at forty-two but he would willingly cede the game if Legolas still lived.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Lord of the Rings
Rating : 15
Characters : Gimli(/Legolas), Éomer,
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Leofwine), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Gimli has never known such beauty in the midst of the horror of war.
“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”
Gimli’s axe rose and fell, cleaving the orc’s sword arm from its body. A thrust from Éomer’s long blade finished the job he had started.
The dwarf sketched a quick bow. “My thanks. That one was proving troublesome.”
“Does that count towards your contest?” asked Éomer, his conversational tone belying how hard pressed they were.
“I will discount that as a joint effort,” answered Gimli. “The Elf may need the advantage in the game. The fighting is fierce here.”
“I doubt it is easier elsewhere. But we are being pressed back to the cliff. Our only refuge may well be in the caves. If I give the order to retreat, follow me closely.”
“A dwarf does not run from the vermin of Isengard!”
“We run or die, my friend, and I have no intention of dying this night…” Éomer’s sword flashed in the torchlight and another orc fell.
Their enemies were driven onwards by whip and spear, some fuelled by rage and some by fear; fear of their own captains overrode even their fear of the Strawheads, as they called the men of Rohan. No quarter was given and none was asked. The defenders were being pressed inexorably back, step by step, Éomer on his right, a man whose name he did not know on his left. When one orc was cut down, another sprang to take its place. The Rohirrim were stout allies in a fight, but Gimli longed for a hundred of his countrymen and their axes and then they would teach Saruman’s creatures some manners.
As he fended off a spear thrust from a towering orc chieftain, a pained gasp on his left boded ill. He sprang forward to give cover, yelling again the battle cry of his people, “Khazâd! Khazâd!”
An orc swung a curved sword dark with blood and he passed Gimli’s defence. The dwarf’s iron helm turned the blade but it was knocked from his head and he felt the edge of the weapon slice his forehead in a glancing blow.
“For the King of the Mark!” Éomer cried, his sword flashing red again and again.
The orcs fell back a body’s length.
Gimli dashed blood from his eyes. On his left side, his comrade’s thigh now sprouted a black fletched arrow below the man’s mail hauberk.
“Do not pull it!” he cried. “The tips are barbed.”
The man stepped back, sheathed his sword and snapped the shaft.
“Their archers will pick us off one by one. We cannot tarry. To the caves!” Éomer ordered. “Leofwine, lead the way. Gimli and I will cover the retreat.”
Step by tortuous step, they gave ground as around them grey arms of rock closed in, forcing the orcs to come at them in ones and two.
An orc rushed at him and Gimli swung his axe. An iron collar jarred his axe, but his second strike cleaved its skull, despite the notch his axe blade now sported.
“Turn now!” Éomer ordered. “I have your back, Master Dwarf!”
Gimli did as he had been bidden, following torchlight into a narrow cleft.
“Keep moving!” Leofwine said. “When Éomer is inside, we collapse the entrance.”
Once Éomer reached the rock sanctuary, Leofwine took hold of a long wooden pole and swung on it with all his weight, ignoring the arrow in his leg. The rock groaned, then shifted, a huge block falling to crush the orc that had been hard on Éomer’s heels.
As more rocks fell, sealing the entrance, Gimli nodded approving. The blockage would hold, he was sure of that, and if the orcs deployed their blasting fire, they would only bring down more of the cliff.
The defenders had won through to safety. For now, at least.
****
Gimli stared in wonder at the vast cavern as around him the survivors of the desperate battle for Helm’s Deep laid down their weapons as men and women rushed to tend the injured. Their faces told those who looked on them that they had not expected to escape with their lives, cornered as they had been like badgers in a trap.
He ignored the clamour of voices and the stamp of horses’ hooves on the dry, sandy floor echoing from orderly picket lines on the far side of the chamber.
Above him soared a vast vaulted roof adorned by countless frozen white pendants that hung all around in long clusters. Around the sides of the chamber many-coloured pillars climbed high, some white as the fair hand of the Lady Galadriel, others with the rosy blush of dawn and warm soft saffron hues. Translucent curtains draped from the roof and clung to the walls, with the light of lanterns shining through. Everywhere he looked, towering pillars stood as tall as mallorn trees in the groves of Lothlorien, drops of water splashing down onto their flattened tops like rainfall on a spring morning. Some had grown tall enough to form columns joining roof to floor, some as slender as a reed, others as thick and gnarled as old oaks.
His heart sang at the sight of such beauty and he marvelled that the Rohirrim had spoken of these caves as no more than storehouses and a refuge in time of war, yet here they had glories the like of which Gimli had never before seen. Not even the great caverns of the Lonely Mountain or the deep chambers of Iron Hills could rival this display of riches.
Gems glistened in the walls and frozen flowers bloomed from the rock as white as lilies, growing slowly but surely, others were as thin as the finest silken cord, their beauty twisting this way and that into eccentric forms. Gleaming white pearls nestled in beds of marble, as all around crystals glittered in the lamplight like hoar frost on a winter morning. Pausing only to dash the blood from his eyes when it threatened to obscure his sight, he lost himself in a world of delight until the sights, sounds and smells of battle faded from his mind.
His wandering feet led him to a wide lake mirroring the glories above and he admired the illusion of the towers and pinnacles of a city of glass and adamant, strong and glorious beyond even the dreams of Durin. As he watched, a single drop fell and shattered the image.
“Gimli, your wound needs to be tended,” Éomer said softly at his side.
“This is all the healing salve I need, my friend, but I do not want my blood to stain such perfection.”
He turned away from the pool and was once more in the world of blood and pain.
His count now stood at forty-two but he would willingly cede the game if Legolas still lived.