Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Concerning Gimli

Gimli had told him not to weep; they would find each other in the second song. Legolas had smiled at him, but it was a weak and paltry thing. When Gimli could no longer keep his eyes open, Legolas could no longer keep his tears and wept openly. So passed Gimli, son of Glóin, lulled by the waves of the shores of Aman, drifting away with the gulls' cry and the near-silent tears of his One.

~*~

The knock hammered on the door, BAM BAM BAM, and Gimli jolted awake.

"Come on, slug-a-bed," his mother called. "Time to rise."

Gimli blinked at the ceiling. Was he in the Halls of Mahal? He didn't expect them to look quite so much like his room in Ered Luin. He pushed himself up to look.

The room was exactly as he remembered: dark, lit by lamps shining blue green with the glowing plants that lived in the deep, dark places, and with grime caked in corners that he could never scrub clean. There was the crack in his wall, more an eyesore than a danger. The tapestry he had hung to hide it, his first and last attempt at loom-work, had fallen again. The stone face was too brittle. His chest of drawers, also a product of his hands, stood straight and even, if modestly decorated. His mirror, tinted green with age and spotted black, had been a relic found when they had come to these mountains when he was a lad. Between his drawers and his trunk lay his things: his training axe, his 'prentice tools, a pile of clothing that would quickly become far too small for his growing frame.

Growing frame. Gimli looked down at his hands. They were strong, broad still, but unscarred by years of battle and toil. He had grown used to seeing gnarled knuckles and thick calluses, and instead his fingers were straight and his skin smooth. These were hands of youth.

The door opened and his mother stuck in her head—still dark and fair, elaborately beaded and braided, wrapped with silver wire as was her custom—and clucked her tongue at the sight of him. "That'll teach you to go drinking with your rascal cousins when you have places to be the next morning," she said. Her voice was rich and lovely, full of the same Thorobad accent of his father and himself, though hers was tinged with the strange vowels and clicking consonants of her parents, Blacklacks from the south. "Now get dressed! It's quarter past already, and your father will be back soon." She ducked back out and Gimli blinked after her.

"Mum," he mouthed, and then said aloud, "Quarter past?" He froze. His voice hadn't been that high in centuries, not since before... He raised his hand to his throat—

—his bare throat—

—and stumbled from bed to stand before his mirror.

"No," he whispered, eyes wide and feeling faint.

His hair had returned to its early brilliance, true, but there was so much less of it. Unbraided, it tumbled and curled and stopped just below his shoulders, and his beard—his full, thick, long beard—was nothing more than copper fuzz hovering around his cheekbones. His chin and lip were as bald as an elf's; he felt like crying.

Surely no Maker would be so cruel to make him live out eternity thus—there had to be another explanation.

Oh, how he wished Legolas was here. Gandalf, or The Lady, would know more, yes, but over the years, his husband had grown quite adept at talking Gimli through problems and it was his voice that Gimli missed now.

Gimli could still feel Legolas through their bond, forged on their wedding night, and knew in his bones that Legolas was alive and well—as much as he ever felt (the resonance always was stronger for Legolas), but no more information was forthcoming.

"Gimli!" his mother cried, exasperated, and Gimli reacted as he always had: he hopped to. He grabbed what he hoped were clean clothes and tried to tame his sleep-crazed hair as quickly as possible.