Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Following With Eager Feet

Gimli needed to think things through, and he always thought best with an axe in his hand. His axe was in his room, but there would be weapons at the training grounds and that would work just fine. He headed there, focus already turning inward and not noticing when eyes began to follow him.

The grounds were empty, which was good. No one to ask questions. He stripped his outer tunic and shirt, laying them next to the weapons rack, and took a moment to look at himself. No marks of courage or achievement. No warrior's ink. No mourning marks. No adornments. (Legolas had always been fascinated by his normally hidden jewelry). His chest was fully furred, however, so that was something.

He grabbed a pair of hand axes and swung them in gentle circles to warm up. He started with loose figure eights, growing tighter.

On an upbeat he stepped forward, flowing through a basic form, one he had long since conquered. From there he spun into another, then another. His arms burned and he nearly tripped into his mastery form -- sweat beaded on his brow, dripping into his eyes and he spun, using his momentum to throw himself into the air. He twisted, rolling through the air, and yelled as he came down to land the final strike. He paused, panting -- axe embedded in the compact dirt. He was on fire, every inch of him trembled and burned, but he had done it. This body, long since grown strange to him, remembered what it did not yet know. The rest, the ease, would come with time and practice.

His mind felt light, clear as it hadn't since he'd woken in this time. He stood on aching feet and lifted his head proudly.

Someone began to stomp.

Gimli whirled, axes raised, only to see Bifur on the sidelines, stomping his feet.

"Bifur?" Gimli blurted.

Bifur cocked his head, then nodded, pointing at Gimli and slapping his arm, growling in ancient Khuzdul, You are a mighty fighter.

"Thank you," Gimli said with a short bow. "That means much. I know of your skill."

Bifur shook his head sharply once, cutting a hand across the air to dismiss Gimli's words. He signed, "whittling," as he said, I make toys.

"So, you do," Gimli said. "And yet. I thank you." He bowed again, lower, and this time Bifur returned the gesture.

The ache in Gimli's arms and shoulders had waned -- a benefit of youth -- and he jogged over to the chest to grab a long-handled axe. If Bifur wanted to watch, Gimli would give him something to see.

Gimli spun his axe, using the weight and momentum to propel him forward, adding strength and speed to his strikes. His movements seemed random at first, but to any who had seen combat, it would be clear that he was reliving a battle.

In his mind's eye, Gimli swung his axe at wolves at the foothills of Caradhras, at orcs deep in the ruins of Khazad-dum. He fought Uruk-hai behind the wall of Helm's Deep, his steps shifting to accommodate a partner, an archer fleet of foot with longer reach. He paused to spin his axe over his head as he walked through the Paths of the Dead, swinging down at last at Pelinor and the Black Gates, back-to-back with Legolas, moving as a unit.

The Tower of the Eye cracked and fell, the terrors of his memory fleeing before the destruction of their master. His axe spun to a stop, and he planted the handle at his feet. His mind was filled only with the sound of his breathing. The little place in his mind that was Legolas glowed like a warm ember before a fire.

A rhythmic pounding entered his mind, and in a breath, Gimli was back in Ered Luin. Bifur was no longer his only audience, as he had been joined by Bofur, who stomped and clapped and whistled and made a general spectacle of himself.