Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Laketown

It was a strange camp that night, stranger than any Gimli had yet had with the company. When the Fellowship had lost Gandalf, Gimli had been too lost to grief to pay that night's camp any attention, and it is hard to feel that kind of sorrow in the Land of Lorien. And then, when his own fellowship had splintered, the Three Hunters had given chase to Merry and Pippin with no camp, and Gimli had not had to make camp again until the strangeness of their new party had faded.

Here, however, the second night with nearly a third of their company left behind, and the rest refusing to see how very wrong that was—Gimli sat and tended the fire, staring into the flames as if they held the answers.

Bilbo sat with Thorin, Thorin's cloak wrapped tightly around Bilbo's thin shoulders and tucked around his arms to keep them free as he poured over Thror's map. He muttered to himself as he looked, looking up occasionally and peering into the darkness. Thorin, on the other hand, never looked away from Bilbo.

Someone sat next to Gimli and he started. Bifur. The older dwarf nodded at him, and pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife. Gimli returned the nod and watched as the block of wood swiftly took shape in Bifur's skilled hands. The fire snapped and crackled as Bifur fed to it the small shavings of wood.

The block grew a head and shoulders, and long legs that were braced in graceful boots. Broad shoulders were flexed as the figure drew back a bow and its hair was caught in an unseen wind. Its face, his face, was rendered in exquisite detail, and when Gimli turned back from adding another log to the fire, it was done.

Bifur held it out to him, the delicate image of his husband and One love. *For you, on a lonely night,* Bifur signed.

Gimli took the figure gently, and turned it over in his hands. "Thank you, Bifur," he said, and looked up into eyes that were only mostly there. He wondered, not for the first time, what exactly it was Bifur saw when his eyes didn't see the here and now. It wasn't always war. "How did you know?"

*I lost my Westron,* Bifur signed. *Not my ears. Not deaf like your uncle.*

"Aye," Gimli said with a small laugh. He signed back, *Were we that obvious?*

Bifur shrugged. *Only to those who know to look.*

Gimli nodded, and Bifur clapped Gimli on the shoulders and then patted his own forearm with his hand. Gimli returned the gesture for respect.

"'Stand by the grey stone,'" Bilbo said, musingly like he was reading aloud. Gimli and Bifur turned to look. Bilbo grunted in frustration, speaking quickly to himself. "We are, and it's there, to be sure. But what help does that bring on a night like this? At least there isn't snow." He shook his head. "'When the thrush knocks, and the last light of the setting sun of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.'" Bilbo growled. "That's what we did! What am I missing?!"

*That Durin's Day is tomorrow* Bifur signed. Gimli blinked at him, then, more tired than he'd been an ages, and he began to laugh.

~*~

Kíli groaned, all sense of place lost to fever.

"Please," Fíli said, nearly begged, and Tauriel could only look at him. "Isn't there anything you can do? Elves are supposed to be grand healers."

"I—" Tauriel said, and froze.

The door burst in, startling everyone inside. Tauriel had spun, her knives at the ready, but it was only Bofur, weatherbeaten hat falling over one eye, and holding a fistful of green aloft. "I've got it!" he cried, and shook his hand. The green look wilted, half chewed, but there were still tiny white flowers sticking to the green. "I found it!"