Chapter Text
1. It’s a long time since I saw you round here
Gimli awakes with a start, being ripped from his dreams – dreams about war and blood and death, but he can cope with that – by a terrified scream. A scream he would never want to hear drawn from anyone’s mouth who is kin, and least of all from his mother’s.
He has rolled out of the unfamiliar (too soft, too big, too warm) bed within seconds, hands reflexively reaching towards where his ax is laying, always ready to be drawn – because that is what war does to you, it takes away your inner peace and you will never regain it completely, and it is war that he has seen, plenty of it, raw and brutal. However, his axes are not where they are supposed to be and for a second his heart stops (for how is he supposed to protect his mother from whatever terror is making her scream like that?) but then he sees her, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he forgets to breathe. Or to look for his axes.
Because it is clearly he who has made her scream, there is no other threat to be found in the room.
And now that he has time to try and calm down, time to will his iron hard muscles to relax, he takes a closer look at her. And he forgets all about axes and battles again, for this clearly is the woman who has carried and born him. The woman who has given her everything just to make him happy, who would have gone to Mordor and back if only to grant him a happy childhood.
He would know her anywhere, anytime.
Yet it is not the mother he remembers having said goodbye to just a few weeks prior.
Distantly he recalls travelling to Erebor with Legolas, after the coronation, after Aragorn had taken his rightful place at last. Middle-Earth had been in an uproar, so much had been destroyed, so many lives had been lost. They had been at peace, though, a hard won peace, and despite their huge losses everyone had been celebrating the end of the war. Everyone had been hailing the members of the fellowship, and he and his dear friend had fled the excitement and hidden in the comparatively quiet Lonely Mountain. He had finally had the elf who means so much to him meet his family, despite his father’s prejudices – it had gone fairly well, actually, nothing but insults had been exchanged, no fights or declarations of war – and he remembers the happiness in his mother’s eyes very well. Because, in spite of everything (elves, and dwarves, and denial of assistance, and Thorin, and Thranduil, and Erebor), she had simply been happy that he was.
They had left after a few weeks and spent a little more time in the woodelven king’s realm, turning the table – he had entertained both of them bickering with Thranduil and competing with elves, and another couple of weeks later they had left again. Via Rohan they had wandered back towards Minas Tirith, planning to aid Aragorn with whatever he might need, for there would always be problems knocking at the King’s door. After all, while there might be peace now, chaos still reigns; and while the hobbits may have returned to their Shire, the last three of the fellowship just cannot imagine leaving the time they had travelled and fought together behind like it has never happened. Aragorn may be King now, and Sauron may be defeated – but they are still the elf, dwarf and ranger who pledged alliance to a tiny halfling, and who even went to bargain with the dead together. There is nothing that can separate them, not even the end of the war and a silly crown.
Or so Gimli had thought.
He remembers leaving Rohan, with King Eomer’s best wishes and a message for his sister, now wife of Faramir. They had been following the North-South-Road to Gondor and the last he can recall is falling asleep next to his dear friend, underneath a tree and the White Mountains in their back.
How in Mahal’s name can he be in a room and where on Middle-Earth is Legolas?
He looks at his mother again and takes in the differences. Her hair and beard are of a beautiful, fiery red again, the white he had looked upon only weeks ago gone. The deep worry lines on her face have vanished into thin air as well as the weariness in her eyes. She had worried greatly during the war, knowing that her son was off and away, being a hero and risking his life in the process. Although he had come home whole and alive, those lines and the look in her eyes would never leave her face again, not after she had counted and internalized every single new scar. It had pained her to let him go when she had just gotten him back, when she had finally known that he lived, and it had broken Gimli’s heart to start out again, leaving her and her worries with his father. However, he could not have stayed. The elf had no place among dwarves, inside their mountain halls, and being without him is something Gimli has never even dared think about.
Does not even dare think about.
He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. Instead he takes a closer look at his mother and sees that she has gotten her agility back, standing tall and strong, and that she is wearing simple, modest clothes. Hardly befitting for one of the line of Durin!
Growing more nervous and confused by the second he takes a look around and finds himself in a room he is alarmingly familiar with. A room he has not seen in eighty years. How can he be in his old dwarfling’s room in the Ered Luin?
He opens his mouth to say something (not exactly sure what it will be) when the door bursts open and his father rushes into the room, ax drawn.
“What is going on here?”
Then he takes a look at Gimli and is dumbfounded.
Gimli stares at him as well, his hair and beard of as burning a red as his wife’s, the white gone. It is probably the shock that makes him say “Am I that horrible to look at?” and maybe the relief to hear his own voice, deep and rough as it is supposed to be, that adds “This smells like time travel. Even an elf would know.”
Then the last thing he expects happens. His mother, who has stopped screaming and has just been staring at him for the past few moments, calmer, and with a deep relief in her eyes, begins to laugh. Hysterically. His father joins in and soon Gimli cannot resist any longer, his deep baritone ringing through the room along with theirs.
It silences them rather quickly.
His mother looks into his eyes and smiles. “You are still my Gimli,” she says, her voice calm. “Although you are not the Gimli I put to bed and tucked in last night.”
For a second he blushes at the thought of being tucked in – if the elf knew that! – but quickly regains his composure. “Aye, I am Gimli Glóin’s son,” he agrees. “And I have no idea how I got here… into my old room in the Blue Mountains.”
“Your old room,” his father says slowly, squinting his eyes. “Tell me… son… Where were you last?”
“I fell asleep in a small wood along the North-South-Road.”
“-In a wood?”
“-What were you doing on the North-South-Road?”
Gimli snickers, but nods, answers both questions. “Aye, in a wood. I was travelling with a friend, towards Minas Tirith.”
“What would you be doing in Minas Tirith?”
He looks at his father. “I assume you have not the slightest idea who Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is?”
Glóin shakes his head.
“Where I come from he is King of Gondor, and a dear friend of mine.”
For a few minutes they stay quiet.
“Where you come from…” his mother finally says, slowly. “Rather when you come from. Tell me, Gimli, son of Glóin” she darts her husband a loving glance “how old are you?”
“A hundred and forty,” he answers, finally sitting down on the bed. He sees his parents gasp for air.
“Yesterday evening you were only sixty-two,” Glóin whispers when his wife seems unable to do so.
Gimli quickly counts backwards. “We are still in the Ered Luin – thus you have not left for Erebor yet?”
His father’s eyes grow huge when he realizes what this means. “You know the future.”
“It certainly seems so,” he agrees, his thoughts running wild. He knows what will happen – to Thorin, Fíli and Kíli; and later to Balin and Óin and Ori. And he has to keep all this dreadful knowledge to himself, nobody can find out. Oh, this is going to be torture.
“We are to meet with Thorin in the Shire two fortnights from now. Gandalf the Grey promised he would find a burglar for us,” Glóin explains, eyes squinted. “Do… you know whether we will survive? Whether we will be successful?”
Gimli hesitates. “Aye… I do know. However, I cannot tell you.”
His father seems to be about to protest, but his mother nods firmly.
“He is right, Glóin. Until we know more about the situation we cannot risk changing anything.” She smiles at him, then motions at the mirror. “It seems to be a given that you have travelled through time, my dear son. Look.”
He follows her instruction, taking the few steps that are necessary to carry him towards the slightly opaque piece and looks at his reflexion. At first sight he does not even flinch, for this is how he is supposed to be looking, is it not? This is what he had looked like when he had stepped in front of a mirror the last time, in Mirkwood. His beard is magnificent, still adorned by the braids the elf has woven into it, not knowing what that means to dwarves, and the plaits in his hair are still there as well. His skin is tanned and weather-beaten, there are scars where they should be and none where they should not, and his eyes are dark and grim and wary, as always. They are eyes that have seen war. However; there is also that glint of both hope and excitement that has always shone there.
It takes him a few seconds to realize that, while it certainly feels right, this is not at all what he is supposed to look like.
How is this possible?
What kind of wicked magic is able to send someone into the past?
His mother smiles sadly when she sees the look on his face. “You have seen terrible things,” she says, looking into his eyes. “I can tell. What happened? I do not ask for details,” she quickly adds.
His expression darkens as he knots his brows. He knows, he can see it in his reflexion. “War,” he answers, crisply, and it is all he is going to say on the matter.
His mother’s eyes are full of sorrow. “I am sorry,” she says.
Gimli forces a smile. “I am well now,” he tries to reassure her. “However, I would feel far better if I knew what has come to pass. I cannot recall seeing anything unusual happening… as I believe I should have, were any normal magic involved in this.” Magic like Gandalf’s.
His father frowns. “You have come into contact with magic?”
“I have been friends with a wizard, and he has told us quite many a tale in lonely nights.” In order to drive away the nightmares that were waiting for them the second they would close their eyes, especially for the hobbits. “This must be due to a greater power. Actually… I think there are records of time travels, but none of them resembled the situation I seem to have found myself in.”
“Records?” Glóin asks, eyebrows raised.
Gimli knows his face goes blank. “Aye. Elven records.” (This is what happens if you stay in Rivendell and call a terribly nosy woodelf your friend. There are not many topics Legolas did not try to research in Lord Elrond’s vast libraries when they were waiting for Frodo to recover.) His eyes are daring his father to say anything about elves in general and said woodelf in particular.
The older one hesitates. “And you are sure they are accurate?” His mistrust is clearly audible.
“Very sure. From what I have heard a few elves have travelled through time. Some of them willingly – they were sent back in time by the pooled forces of wizards and elves and could only exist once, never next to their younger self, for they would be returned to their own time the second they were born. They could never stay any longer than a few hours, and had they changed anything, they would probably have destroyed our world, if I understood correctly. Obviously they did not ever attempt to find out – it was used to solve crimes long gone that were still affecting them. Others travelled involuntarily and they woke up in their old bodies, as young as they had been at that time but with memories they should not have. They were sent back to change history, and never returned to the timeline they had come from,” Gimli recalls what Gandalf had told them when Frodo had asked whether time travel was possible. Whether they could go back to the point when Isildur had not cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. He also remembers the wizard’s answer to the latter question.
Those who were capable of doing powerful magic like that have long left these shores. Also, we could not risk changing history. Mortals are not meant to temper with time; not even we immortals are. We may be able to alter our own fates, but to alter time is beyond our capability.
Legolas, curious soul that he is, had researched the matter when they had returned to Rivendell after the final battle, finding everything Gandalf had told them to be true.
Glóin nods thoughtfully.
“So how can it be that you have been transported back with your older body? Your young self is no longer here, or he would be in this room. You exist only once, in your true age, but in a time where you already live. Do you think you have been sent here? That you should change something?” His mother looks worried.
He takes a deep breath, smiles at her. “I do not know what has happened,” he tries to soothe the woman who bore him, his voice as calm and reassuring as he can manage “but I am sure that we will find out. We will know what to do in due time. And I am still your Gimli, even if I have lived through much more than the son you know. However, my love for you has never dwindled and I shall never stop being your son.”
There are tears in her eyes and his father’s smile is a little crooked.
“Aye,” he says. “You will always be our son.”
His mother walks towards him, gently knocks her forehead against his. “Our son,” she repeats. “Who has gone through times of great pain and sorrow, and yet you are standing strong – even if I may not know what it is that you have witnessed, I am proud of you. You do seem to be the warrior you always wanted to grow up to be.”
“I am,” Gimli says and he does feel the pride flowing through his veins then. He is a hero in the time he has come from, and while he might curse the war and all the pain it has brought upon him, it has joined him with the elf and he cannot regret that, never. He would march against the armies of Mordor a thousand times over, trying to buy two little hobbits more time, if it was what was necessary. Because the elf would be marching at his side, and that would give him the strength to do anything.
Anything.
Glóin smiles proudly and also knocks his forehead against his son’s.
“What are we going to do now?”
Gimli cocks his head and ponders. Oh, if the elf were here – he would know what to do! The dwarf freezes. What- … if the other has not travelled through time with him? What if they are to meet and Legolas no longer recognizes him, being the age he should be? He feels cold fear creep into his bones and his heart stops beating for a second.
There is no way he is going to make it through this strange, trying situation without the elf. Without someone he knows inside out, without someone who has lived through the same hardships, without someone who has survived against all odds and come out stronger as well.
Without Legolas.
His sudden fear must have shown on his face, for it is his mother’s hand on his arms that tears him from his dark thoughts. “What is it, dear?”
He supresses the shudder that is threatening to shake his muscles and answers, hesitantly: “I… was just thinking… am I the only one who… was sent back?”
“I see.” She nods then, understanding shining in her eyes. “You said you were not travelling alone.” Her eyes are far too knowing. “Have you found your One?”
Gimli wants to shake his head, to lie, because nobody can know what he really feels for the elf, never; however – he is well aware that there is no way of keeping things like this from his mother. She will find out, no matter how hard he might try to keep it from her. Mothers always do. “… Aye,” he admits, reluctantly. “We… were on our way to Gondor after visiting you, and then his family.”
“His. So your partner is male.” Her curiosity is only too clearly visible in her eyes and she seems to be hungry for every bit and piece of information.
He flinches upon hearing the word partner. “He is.”
She pouts when he does not say more and Glóin chuckles softly. “Send him a raven?”
“I will.” Gimli smiles and takes a deep breath. That is a good idea. He is going to find out whether his elf is here as well, and until he knows – there is no use in panicking. Forcibly calming himself down he tries to return to the matter at hand. “I cannot change anything,” he begins, slowly, “not as long as we do not know why I am here, anyway. And no one can know who I am… However, I would follow you onto the quest for Erebor.” He looks at his father, seriously.
Glóin protests.
“I have fought in a war. I am better prepared for this than you are.”
“But it would change the time line!”
“I know what is going to happen. You told me every detail.” His mother visibly sighs with relief when he confirms that his father will survive the quest. “I will know when to stand back and how to let everything happen. Maybe… maybe I will find out why I am here, and that I am allowed to change things, in time.” Before it is too late.
Understanding dawns in his mother’s eyes, then. “Not everyone is going to make it.”
Uh-oh.
He definitely should take up thinking before opening his mouth – the elf would certainly approve of that kind of development. Gimli looks away and answers before any of them can ask for details. “Maybe.” It is as much as a confirmation. “I have already told you too much.” His mother is too mindful, too attentive.
“That you have,” Glóin agrees, nodding. “We should talk about something else then. So… alright. You can come with me, to Erebor. But how do you plan on keeping your identity a secret?”
The time traveller looks at his parents. “Would anyone but you recognize me like this?”
His mother shakes her head. “Fíli and Kíli maybe,” she says. “They know you too well. But none of the others.”
Gimli feels the shock run through his veins.
Fíli and Kíli.
His best friends who had left for a grand adventure and never returned.
With everything that has happened in the last few hours; realizing that he has travelled through time, and fearing that he has lost the elf – he has not thought about them. How in Mahal’s name is he supposed to cope with seeing them, and knowing what is going to happen?
“We… will have to tell them,” he manages to say, somehow. His parents cannot know that the princes will fall. “But Thorin must not know! He will demand answers and I cannot deny my King.”
“… King,” Glóin repeats, slowly, the words heavy in the air. “King under the Mountain.”
Oh no. He has said too much – again. “Aye.” Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. Even if only for a painfully short time. “Do not tell anyone.”
“Of course not.” Glóin’s voice is filled with dreams and possibilities.
“We will let Fíli and Kíli know. They will not tell on you, I am sure. They are good boys,” his mother says. (And Gimli has to agree, they may be rascals, but they are good boys. Just like Merry and Pippin. All four of them tend to run headfirst into battles that are out of their league. The time-traveller manages not to flinch, although he could not say how.) “And we should do it soon. How about that: I bring the two of them here, Glóin organizes weapons and whatever Gimli will need for the quest and Gimli writes his letter.”
The two male dwarves only nod and the lady of the house smiles at her son and husband before she leaves the room. “I will also get you a raven,” she calls, already halfway out of the door. “Oh, and you will have to think of a new name, and a story. After all you cannot just appear out of thin air.” With that she is gone.
Gimli and Glóin share an equally amused and affectionate glance.
“She is right,” his father says, after a short moment of silence. “Tell me what you need. Axes?”
“Axes,” Gimli confirms. “A big one, like the one you are carrying. Actually… I ruined mine shortly before the war began and fought my battles with yours. We worked well together.”
Glóin’s smile is caught somewhere between proud and smug. “A fine ax she is,” he agrees. “I shall make sure you get a proper one. What else?”
“A few daggers maybe?”
Glóin nods and writes the weapons down onto a small piece of parchment. “Go on.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“I was planning on taking a good leather coat with me, but no heavy armour. We are probably going to march a lot.”
“I will take a proper armour none the less,” Gimli decides. “I have been running across Middle-Earth with the finest suit of Erebor’s forges, and it was not exactly light. It should not be a problem. Oh, and a helmet? And spare clothes and underclothes, as well as good boots and a blanket and bedroll.”
“You are the one who has to carry it,” Glóin says. “I will take care of everything. If you think of anything else, tell me. Now, what about your identity?”
“I would suggest waiting for Fíli and Kíli – I am sure they would love to throw in their creativity.”
His father chuckles. “Of course. You know where to find the supplies for your letter?”
Gimli nods (he may not have been here for eighty years, but his memory works fine enough) and then his father is gone as well. He does not take the time to sit down and think since that might give his brain the time to shut down and panic (because what if the elf is not here??). Instead he makes for his old desk and looks for a sheet of parchment, and a quill. It does not take him long to decide on the words he is going to write.
Khathuzh,
After our last count we were at a draw. Want to finally find your master?
Meneg suilaid,
Bâhur Azaghâl it says in straight, sharp Angerthas runes.
He seals up the letter, with the signet of his family.
It is one of the many safety measures to ensure that the other really only understands – and will only answer – if he has shared Gimli’s fate. The elf will not be able to understand the meaning of the text (although Angerthas were invented by the elves, long ago, Mahal’s people had adapted them to their tongue) unless Gimli has already taught him the dwarvish language and script in a distant future, and Khathuzh – the Khuzdul word for Elf – is a name he has always been calling Legolas. For understanding the hint at the ‘game’ they had been playing when battling having been there is as necessary as it is for knowing the meaning of the last words. His true name, which no one knows but his parents and the elf.
A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. His mother has returned, a raven on her shoulder and Kíli and Fíli following her like puppies.
“Gimli,” Kíli says, “your mother told us you wanted to-”
He falls silent when he sees Gimli stand at the desk and both brothers freeze, like statues, in the centre of the room, a letter clutched in his fingers.
TBC