The taking of the Ring was no large matter. I have hewed orc-necks in my day: a few hobbit-necks were hardly a barrier between myself and the One. We dwarves have never been for the dramatic as opposed to the pragmatic: if my father could arrive at Laketown in a barrel, then by the roots of Baranzibar, his son was not above seizing for his people the greatest power in Middle-earth with a few unexpected swings of the axe.
I reflect on this as I stride through the foundations of Khazad-dûm. Everywhere about me, smiths and masons swing their hammers, each stroke bringing nearer the renewed glory of Moria. They do not part ways, or even look up, to acknowledge the power of the Ring: their passion must be for the honor of Dwarrowdelf, not that which restores it. The One is mine alone to exult. Besides which, we have little time for ceremony: there are duties to attend to.
Past the Endless Stair, its every step sharp and precise; past the Chamber of Mazarbul, where Balin's Tomb is repaired and the old records refurbished; past the chasm where my engineers construct a second Bridge; past all these my business carries me. My heart sings to see the Ring at work, and it rejoices in tune with its master. We have not been so productive since avenging the Ages of ills wrought against us by the Elves.
The harmony between myself and the One pleases me on still another level. I have felt its call ever since it defied me, and defied my axe, the work of my fathers. By my innermost name, since that day at the Council of Elrond, I swore to tame it. And see what reining it in has brought me!
The walls of Moria are risen again; they circle the mountain entirely: my chest swells whenever I surface to see them. As I admire the handiwork of my people, a guard bearing the crest of Dwarrowdelf approaches me and kneels. "Uzbadgimli, Khazad-dûmu."
I squint at him through the pale light. "He has arrived?"
The guard nods. "The escort found him at our gates this morning."
"Bring him to me."
"At your service, Lord Gimli."
And not ten minutes later he is standing before me: the last remaining member of our Fellowship, unless you counted Tharkûn, away over the sea. He bows before me, silky blond hair cascading over his shoulders. He seems naked without his bow and his knives: I grunt to myself in approval. He addresses me in the Common Tongue; his voice still rolls smoothly past his teeth. "Hello, Gimli."
I jerk a nod in his direction. "Legolas." With a terse gesture I bid him rise up and follow me. I can sense him hesitating, cringing before the gates: even though he has returned many times since our journey in the dark, he resists enjoying the work of the Dwarves. "There are no Balrogs in Moria these days, Master Elf: I have quite taken care of that." He flinches at the comment, and I am a bit sorry my beard hides my smile. Ah, the luxury of speaking of them like vermin, that I with the power of the Ring have scattered and destroyed like rats!
I continue into the east entrance: he has no choice but to follow. I am very generous with my gifts, as Dwarves are wont to be with their friends and allies. Legolas too has a Ring. They say Sauron of old gave the Witch-king one because he was the lord among men the Dark Lord valued most. So too with Thranduil's son -- he comes when I call him from the depths of Lorien, though I have let him retain his thoughts. Nine Wraiths under my control are quite enough. I have no need for another.
We retrace our flight through the Great Hall, although this time it crawls not with foul orcs but with workers. The sound of my step is strong and decisive, while his footfalls are so silent I'd have readily believed a ghost was tracking me. "Are not the Dwarves masters of their craft?" I say aloud, not looking at my companion. "Surely none have ever sculpted the bones of Middle-earth as we do here and now."
Legolas replies quietly, with an earnest calm. "It is a great feat, Gimli. You have much to be proud of below ground." I note what he leaves unsaid -- indeed, I can see what he is remembering: a flash of pain, a spark of sorrow rekindled. It shines with the precision of a cut jewel through the single-minded work ethic of my builders. I had sensed it even from afar, through the muddling influence of the Elf-witch's old domain.
"But above the weight of my hand is not taken so kindly," I finish, caring not a whit.
"You know as well as I that I cannot speak with candor--"
"And why is that?" I stop and face him, drawing myself up to my full height. Admittedly, he quails under my gaze.
He murmurs. "Because, old friend, you hold sway over the life and death of the whole of Middle-earth. The truth will make me no favorite of yours, and the messenger will be punished."
He means to snare me, to unleash my temper and give himself to an end. Everything he had to lose I have taken from him. His only desire now is to this one thing more...
Yet I am craftier than that. I glance off to the side and cross my arms behind my back. "We will discuss this in my throne room," I reply. Legolas stares straight ahead, mustering his dignity.
I built much of the throne room with my own two hands. It is by far the most magnificent space in Khazad-dûm, its walls and towering columns inscribed every inch with runes. I keep the axe with which I claimed the Ring resting across the arms of my high-backed chair: a scepter would be a wan symbol of power, in comparison. I climb the dais, grab the axe handle, and bounce it lightly in my palms: still strong and lightweight, still responsive to its master. I take my seat; I am now eye-level with the Elf, who remains standing. He regards my symbol with concealed heartsickness. I tighten my grasp around the handle at the memory.
Frodo I caught unawares, in a glade by the banks of Anduin. Samwise burst in a few moments later, as I knelt to slip the Ring from Frodo's limp finger. He stood at the edge of the clearing for an instant, his face shattering into small pieces. Then he charged me, ill-armed as he was.
When I cut him down, his body covered Frodo's. It seemed fitting to me, in a way.
I refocus on the present world. Legolas maintains his control. Good Elf: his stoicism remains intact. I wave one gloved hand. "Well. Speak your piece."
He meets my gaze steadily. "Middle-earth suffers under your rule."
This amuses me. Am I supposed to be touched? "Is it now?" I finger the axe handle distractedly.
The two other halflings, Meriadoc and Peregrin, heard Sam's short-lived cries. Always so close together: I took them out in one swipe.
He nodded. "It withers, and is collapsing in on itself." I know he thinks he tightens his own noose. But no such fate will be for my Greenleaf, he need not fear -- or hope. He pauses. I set down my axe.
Boromir found me just as I again bent to claim the One. He was the only one who spoke to me. "You?" he said, astounded. "I'd never have thought it would be you. She said..."
I never let him finish. He put up an honorable fight, but he fell all the same.
"Continue."
He takes a deep breath. "I have met refugees in Lorien -- women and children from Rohan and Gondor. They fear the Golden Wood, even with no Elves to threaten them, yet they fear the strife in their homelands still more. They are scattered, divided, leaderless: everything that once stabilized them in gone."
My brow dips low in disapproval. "You know this is not of concern to myself and the Dwarves, Master Elf. Men had their chance."
Aragorn, son of Arathorn: witness to my claiming of the Ring, as I stood triumphant in the circle of those who'd opposed me. He and Legolas were last to arrive. Horror cowered in their faces as they watched. I pointed my axe at them, the power of the One heady and intoxicating from the first.
"I do not care whence you go, but the fate of the Ring is no longer your concern. It belongs to the Dwarves now: it is we who will inherit the power denied us too long." They did not move, though I believe Aragorn spoke my name, astonished.
"And when they seized it, you crushed them," Legolas insists dully. This argument is stale: I feel no remorse for what had to be done.
"Aragorn revolted. He could have been King among Men -- his destiny was not yet closed to him." I raise my eyebrows, explaining the self-evident. "But he betrayed me, and further invoked my ire by enlisting the help of your kind." I toy with the axe-blade itself now. "Before, I was content to let the Elves leave as they already had been. But you openly defied me: I could not let it stand."
This very axe performed the execution. No man nor Elf, not even Isildur's heir, ever withstood a blow to the sternum: they all of them split open, for all the world to see.
"And now the First-born are forever gone from Middle-earth," he murmurs.
I smile. "Except two."
Legolas sighs. "Except two."
"Perhaps you do not see, Master Elf: you are too short-sighted." I rise from my throne and step off the dais, walking past him toward another room. "I have not imprisoned you here. I let you wander through the woods you love, free of assault or disturbance--"
"Aye, for the few I encounter dare not touch me while I bear this," he interrupts bitterly. He holds aloft his right hand: a Ring with my mark; the ruby set in its band flickers by the light of the torches. "And Lorien was never my home," he adds more softly. "Though Mirkwood has since fallen to your people in the Lonely Mountain."
These pointless laments do not interest me. "--or harm." I place myself before him and make him meet my eye. "None will touch you, and none shall hurt you, including yourself. And as an immortal, the only way you may perish is through injury or a broken heart. And yet..." I began pacing again, gesturing. "And yet you cannot die of heartbreak because you cannot let go of hope. You hope still for a rebellion, or for me to renounce the power of the Ring. And because you still hope, you deny yourself release." My own cleverness never fails to please me. The Ring begins hissing in my head: Uzbadgimli, Khazad-dûmu...
Though his back is broken, Legolas strives to maintain his pride. "You betrayed your Fellowship--" he whispers, his voice echoing harshly in the dim and against the stone.
This again. He dares insinuate--! "I betrayed no one!" I snap, whirling on my heel. "I held true to loyalties greater than any motley band assembled by the Half-elven! I was within reach of the glory Durin's folk have long deserved -- and I took it! I took it," I repeat, growling, "and I will never look back." For a moment, my temper gets the better of me, and the Ring eggs me on: destroy him, destroy him.
But no. That would defeat the purpose. I compose myself. "I believe you remain ungrateful, Master Elf, even after all these years together. I allow you to remain in the lands you love, and you complain to me of things which needed not have been a problem." I stride through a doorway: wordlessly, Legolas follows, like iron drawn to a lodestone, without choice or verbal objection. "The world of Men is on its own: they should be grateful I have unburdened them of the Ring's so-called 'threat'." I glance down the hallways we pass, taking care to time my speech just so. "The Age of Elves was a relic long ago: they had to vanish in some manner or another. We Dwarves had many grievances: it was long past due for a reckoning of foes."
I halt before a great wooden door, words which only I dare speak carved deep into its flesh. I turn to face him: he is unreadable. "I am merciful towards you only because I bear you a great love of old, Thranduil's son. You must learn to appreciate how fortunate you are."
Legolas says nothing, though he eyes the entrance with unease. Pressing my palm into the lock, I mutter the Black Speech which commands the hinges. The doors swing inward; a great gaping lake of darkness hovers mere inches from where we stand. "There are some exits from Moria which I have only now discovered -- without the guidance of the Ring, they would have remained secret forever. A few of them lie through that door.
"Now, you have a choice, Master Elf. You can follow the call of the One and let it lead you through the pitch into the woods I have given you. Or..." I let my words dangle. "You may remove your Ring, and rely on the gifts the Valar gave you to get you out. Though you are only mine as long you bear my symbol, and the five Nazgûl who wander below would not recognize a fellow servant until you were perhaps beyond my aid." I lean close. "Either way, you still belong to me. I would chose wisely, my friend."
He is definitely pale, and his lip trembles. He takes a step forward, and lays a hand on the door. He pauses, and bows his head. "Gandalf will come back," he insists quietly.
He is the perfect mouse today, and my smile is utterly feline. "He will not. He has long since left the Grey Havens. Our shores have seen the last of Tharkûn." Legolas pauses a moment longer, still avoiding my gaze. He then straightens, and walks forward. The darkness engulfs him instantly. "Your hope is your greatest foe, not me, Legolas!" I call. My only reply is an echo, and the distant shrieking of fallen kings.
I do not stand idle, contemplating, for long. Legolas has reminded me of a treasure I have not set eyes on for many months. A jewel becomes dull if handled too often, but goes wasted if allowed to languish in a horde. Never one to squander what is precious, I set off for a deeper, hidden enclave of Moria.
The springs of Kibil-nâla gush forth from fissures in the rock. Its water is cold and pure, and plentiful enough to sustain all the Dwarves in Dwarrowdelf and more. There do I keep her, my second-most prized possession, and guard her jealously: none have looked upon her but me since her capture. As I near her chamber, a pale luminescence begins seeping from the stone. Even six years later, her magic diminishes but slowly.
A fine gate of mithril filigrée retreats beneath my touch. The sound of running water caresses my ear.
"Greetings, Gimli, Lord of Moria, Ring-seizer and Ring-bearer."
Ah, but the sound of her voice is so much sweeter... She stands before me in the center of the room, erect, lovely, still shining as when we first met. Altariel, Lady of the Galadrim.
"Galadriel."
She does not move. "Longs months have passed since last you paid me visit."
I clear my throat. "I have been very busy."
She does not answer; she betrays nothing of herself, even now, when there is no point to secrecy. "And are you well, my Lady?"
Galadriel is the only one left whom I would fear were she out of my control. With one smooth, melancholy twist of her neck she shifts her gaze onto the bare walls containing her. "The water brings me tales of what it has rained down upon. The stones weep beneath the feet that tread them. My woods are fading: all the mallorn leaves are gone."
The Ring constricts slightly on my hand. Altaaaaariel, it whispers. In a sapphire flash, her eyes flick back onto my face. Instinctively, I clench my fist. She is a treasure, but one nearly as dangerous as the band on my finger. "Hmph," I grunt, eying her. "A pity you could not make it bloom again."
I have struck the proper spot: her brow wrinkles, if lightly, and imperceptibly she leans backward. "I could have," she whispers. "It could have been mine."
My confidence restored, I grin. "But it was not meant to be." For a moment I wish I had brought my axe to lean upon, but no matter. "Your prophesy did not go unfulfilled, however! Lothlorien lies east of Khazad-dûm, and--" (oh how I relish pointing this out) "--you have diminished, elf-witch." I stroke the One with my thumb, silent thanks for the power to taunt the Lady of Lorien. I had forgotten what pleasure these visits gave me.
Galadriel's arm sways, and Nenya twinkles on her hand. Though only this of the Three remain in Middle-earth, it is a powerful conduit into the Lady's innermost thoughts. I step closer, pulling the glove off my left hand. "You are lonely, Galadriel. I can give you comfort, if you will come to me." I reach up and cup her chin in my hand, run my fingers over her cheek. Her swift exhalation rushes over my skin, softer than the ivory warmth beneath my palm. For an instant, my heart leaps with victory: she will finally bend to me.
But she shudders, and is still, and then she opens her eyes and smiles, beguiling and mocking at once. "I have felt no touch besides my own in many months..." She has raised one hand without my knowing, and pushes my own away. "You should know better, Gimli. To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone."
I gape for a moment, and then close my jaw and snort.
Uzbadgimli, Khazad-dûmu...
She has refused me; but I am patient. One day she will fall, and I will have earned her. "If you will not share your company, Lady, then perhaps you would care to service me in other ways." Her expression changes subtly, to one of resentment, and disdain.
"You wish to know of your future."
"Among other things, yes."
Her eyes cloud over briefly. "You hold my gaze hostage, Lord Gimli. My Mirror lies dormant in your horde-rooms; fallen leaves bury my pedestal in Lorien; and though the waters of Celebrant are good to me, they cannot replace what was mine, and lost." She folds her hands before her. "There is little I can tell you of the future, Gimli, though I and the whole of Middle-earth does know this: A world ruled by Dwarves is a cold and gleaming thing."
Indignation bubbles to the surface. "Wrong again, my Lady," I huff. "A world ruled by Dwarves is a craft forged by those of the utmost skill. We shape into perfection: we begin with mere rock and transform it into majesty. We chance upon stones and surround them with silver. There is no imprecision; there is no wasted space. We bring everything we touch to its fullest state."
Still she bestows silence, giving no reply. Her light flows away from her, radiating into the dim shadow of her keep. I am adamant: I will not depart from her presence so unsatisfied. "Then tell me of the One, and the power it has brought me. Tell me of my potential, and of the glorious heights I might bring my people to."
And only when her eyes bore into mine do I remember why I do not pass more hours in her presence. The Ring is a conduit: it works in both directions. Galadriel closes her eyes, and sinks onto a stool in the center of the room.
"I amar prestar aen."
The long-banished Sindarin twists my heartstrings, though I cannot help but listen. Again she turns her head and gazes into the dark. Her voice echoes. "Han mathon ne nen." She raises her chin. "Han mathon ne chae." The sound of her lungs filling trembles in the air. "A han noston ne 'wilith..."
I feel rather than see her gaze returning to me. The Ring awakens fully, and begins surging with life. Altaaaariel...
I clasp the Ring to my breast. She is only an Elf, the last of her kind in my domain. The One came to me, and none shall ever come between what it can do for me. I am Gimli, Lord of Moria: I do not look back, I do not regret. By the blood of Mahal the Smith, by the beard of my fathers, by the Ring that is mine, Durin's folk will not again be denied.
