My heartfelt thanks to my new betas Gwynnynd and Nivoreka, without whom this chapter surely would not have appeared at all. Any remaining errors are mine alone.

Chapter VI: Elven tempers, Dwarven patience

Together the Elf and the Dwarf entered Minas Tirith, and folk that saw them pass marvelled to see such companions, for Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men, and he sang an elven-song in a clear voice as he walked about in the morning; but Gimli stalked beside him, stroking his beard and staring about him.
- The Last Debate

At times I wonder if Elves show unearthly patience when around mortals because we have come to expect that of them, and Dwarves allow their anger free rein because everyone knows that Dwarves are such impulsive beings. It is equally possible that the two Races have chosen their opposing ends along the line of temperamant simply to be contrary to one another. After all, the grandeur that is Khazad-dûm could hardly have been wrought by impatient hands, and anyone who assumes that Elven patience is boundless has not witnessed a travel-stained Elf faced with the prospect of a bath.

~*~

The bed was soft and warm and infinitely more comfortable than the rocks and tree roots he had been lying on for the past several months. He was quite content to be asleep, and felt rather vexed that someone was equally intent on rousing him.

“Legolas, ‘s not even dawn yet,” he grumbled as he buried his head under his pillow and instinctively shuffled away from the finger that was prodding him incessantly on the ribs. “Leave me in peace, or I shall tell Frodo on you.”

“Ah, but not before I give this overlong beard of yours a good trim.”

He swept an arm towards the voice’s general direction, and  heard a merry laugh as he felt Legolas’ weight leave the mattress. “You would not dare. I would-“ he halted his words to entertain a huge yawn. “- do worse than put sap on your hair.” Unfortunately, his efforts to fend off the Elf brought him even closer to full wakefulness, which undoubtedly had been Legolas’ intention.

“You are even poorer at insults in the morning, Master Sluggard.”

Without opening his eyes, Gimli could just see that slender hand reaching over to tug on his beard. Usually he would growl and pull himself to his feet at this point, but a comfortable night’s sleep made returning to wakefulness a lot swifter. So instead he lay quietly, giving off the impression of having sunk back into slumber once more, and waited for the Elf.

When he felt the insolent fist close around a handful of his beard, he quickly jerked back. He winced slightly at the pull on his prized treasure, but Dwarven beards were strong out of necessity, considering the number of things they can get caught on, and the unexpected the movement threw Legolas off-balance. With speed most Elves did not expect of Dwarves, Gimli swung one leg in a wide arc out of the bed, and kicked Legolas’ legs out from under him.

Legolas fell with a surprised cry, but maintained his grip on Gimli’s beard. Not exactly stable himself, the Dwarf attempted for a moment to gain his footing and stand, but Legolas’ momentum carried them both down to land in a tangled heap on the floor.

“Oof!”

“Aaah!

“Gimli, did you swallow a statue in your sleep? I did not think you’d be this heavy without your armour!”

“You should have thought of that before you pulled me down, then!”

“You kicked me!”

“And you’re pulling out my beard!”

“I wasn’t, but I will now!”

“By Durin! Why you-“

“Ai, let go of my hair!”

“Legolas?”

Gimli heard Legolas’ door open, then footsteps heading their way. The steps were so quiet that the Dwarf knew he wouldn’t have heard them if he hadn’t had one ear pressed against the floor. Legolas was still clutching onto his beard even though his arm was at an awkward backwards angle, and one long leg managed to curl around and pin Gimli against Legolas’ back. The Dwarf lay on the other leg, and his hand tightly gripped Legolas’ mane. From his rather uncomfortable position, he could just about see out of the corner of one eye that the adjoining door between his and Legolas’ rooms was half-open. A moment later a pair of light shoes came into view. Gimli attempted to shift his head to get a better view of the newcomer, but found it held fast by Legolas’ uncompromising grip on his beard. 

“Edendor!”

Gimli stared at the hand on his beard, wondering if he could bite it. Such behaviour would have been considered improper and barbaric in a formal Dwarven fight, but Legolas had compromised the code of conduct when he laid a hand on the beard. Though, to be fair, he supposed Legolas could not have known this. Still, the Elf seemed to guess his intentions- though how he did so when he was unable to see Gimli was beyond the Dwarf’s ability to explain- and an ankle pressed down painfully against the bottom of his spine. “Your arrival is quite timely,” Legolas continued, presumably speaking to the newcomer. “For I seem to have been taken hostage by a Dwarf.”

Gimli snorted, and nearly sneezed from the strands of golden hair drawn to his nose. “I would claim that you attacked my innocent beard first.”

“I will release the beard if you let go of my hair.”

Legolas paused for a moment, and said, “Deal.”

When they managed to climb back onto their feet, Legolas grinned sheepishly at the new Elf, who looked a little wide around the eyes. “Edendor, this is Gimli son of Gloin. Gimli, this my brother Edendor.”

Gimli bowed respectfully. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service and your family’s.”

Edendor looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied with, “Edendor son of Thranduil, at yours,” in a voice that hinted of rote and practice. His eyes stayed on Gimli for a while, before travelling back to Legolas. “Word came to the outpost of your return, so I came as quickly as I could.”

A smiling Legolas stepped towards him and drew him into a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you, brother, though I suspect your first sight of me was not what you had envisioned when you rode in this morning.” He glanced fondly at Gimli. “Yet today I will concede that the initial provocation was mine, for I wittingly attempted to wake Master Sluggard by assaulting his beard. But come now, will you break fast with us?”

“I will, for that was the reason I sought you,” Edendor answered with a smile of his own, seeming to be put at ease by his brother’s familiar manner. Now that the initial look of surprise had faded, Gimli could see that this sibling of Legolas’ appeared to be a male version of Nasseryn, though with a little less of Thranduil. In some aspects he seemed more delicate than his sister, for the lines of his face were more like to Legolas, and he was not as solidly built. Not as confident as Nasseryn, either, thought Gimli, or else having had to prove himself far too often of late.

“In such a case,” the Dwarf interjected smoothly, “I shall now take my leave.” How he was supposed to find the kitchens by himself was something he could figure out later. Perhaps he could ask for food to be sent to his room?

Guilt flashed through Edendor’s eyes. “Nay! I did not mean to exclude you, Master Dwarf. Indeed, I must confess to being as curious about you as nearly every other Elf in this palace. I would be honoured to speak with you further. That is, if you did not wish to dine alone this morn?”

“He does not,” Legolas cut in, his eyes twinkling brightly as he regarded Gimli. “He was simply being too courteous for his own good, and would have attempted to find his way to the eating-hall by himself once we departed.”

Despite feeling that Edendor was still not very comfortable around him, the Dwarf knew better than most that there was no gainsaying his friend when Legolas had set his mind on something, and he quickly changed out of his night-clothes and followed the two Elves out.

The realisation that he might not always have his friend to guide him about incited Gimli to take notice of his surroundings and the paths they took. The section with the sleeping-chambers of the King’s family had wide corridors and low ceilings, and was brightly illuminated by torches and fine candles placed at regular intervals. A pair of guards stationed at the entrance to the section smartly saluted Edendor and Legolas as they passed. They entered a narrower passage that wound like a snake and occasionally branched off to other sections.

Seeing Gimli’s wondering expression, Edendor smiled and explained, “Most of the private chambers are located in this part of the Mountain, so it warrants extra protection. Along with irregular guard patrols, King Oropher had this passage-way built. The narrow space and frequent turns will slow an attacking force, giving the people in the chambers time to escape through a separate secret route known only to the King and Heir. If you wish to return to your room without Legolas, I would advise asking one of the guards to escort you through this passage.”

Eventually the passage dipped down slightly, and they emerged into a more spacious, straight corridor that bustled with activity. It seemed that most of the Elves had the morning meal in their minds also, for the general direction of the flow was a large set of double-doors, less ornate but not unlike the ones before the throne room. Though neither Edendor nor Legolas wore anything different from the garb of the other Elves, at the first sight of them the crowd gave way and let them pass with respectful nods. Gimli quickly trailed after them, perhaps walking a little closer to Legolas than normal due to a sudden image of the crowd closing in after his friend and parting them.

It was clear that even the King’s family was not entitled to any different fare than the rest of the inhabitants of the palace, though the servers were distinctly polite. On his plate Gimli found four slices of freshly baked bread with honey and clotted cream, two sausages, a pile of baked beans, a variety of roasted nuts, slices of apple and two boiled eggs. As he shoveled the food into his mouth, his eyes wandered over to Legolas. His friend seemed quite relaxed, the fair face merry and shapely eyes bright. Unusually so.

The Dwarf waited until Edendor was approached by another Elf, then leaned to one side and whispered, “How much sleep did you get last night?”

An elegant eyebrow rose. “Enough, thank you.”

“Ah.” Gimli’s took a noisy mouthful of beans. “None, then,” he said over the chewing. At that point Edendor finished his brief conversation and turned back to face them.

“What think you of Eryn Lasgalen, Master Gimli?” he asked politely, starting on his own meal.

Gimli replied warily around a mouthful of bread. “I am afraid that my Dwarven eyes cannot appreciate fully the beauty of your forest, but I deem it the equal of Rivendell and Lorien.”

Edendor looked surprised at this. “That is grand praise indeed.” He looked at his brother. “You have journeyed into the Golden Wood?”

Legolas nodded. “Aye, though in the bosom of winter and being pursued by a horde of Orcs out of Moria.”

“Moria!” Edendor’s voice rose, and a slight flush came to his light complexion when a number of nearby eyes turned their way. “Ai, forgive me, the King has requested that none question either of you until the welcoming feast tonight, in which you are expected to give a thorough recounting of this Quest. And I see that the tale will be long indeed, and full of many wonders.” It was clear from the eager look in his eyes, however, that he hoped to hear a little more.

Legolas only smiled. “In such a case, I shall not spoil your anticipation. I am sure that you have your own tidings to tell; Nasseryn informed us last night that you are now the Captain of our forces!”

At the prompting, Edendor launched into an excited though rather long-winded account of the battles under the eaves of Mirkwood and the assaults against Lorien. Ever the warrior, Gimli did his best to follow the Elf’s speech, and thought he got a fair idea of the general course of events and the tactics employed by both Elven forces. He got lost a little, though, when Edendor began speaking of individual warriors- probably acquaintances of Legolas. And he was further distracted when he came upon an uneaten sausage on his plate after he could have sworn that he had finished his two. He checked that Edendor was thoroughly engrossed in his story-telling, and cast an eye over the plate next to his. Sure enough, there was only one sausage lying between the bread and the beans. He glared at Legolas, but the Elf appeared to be avidly focused on his brother.

Two spoonfuls of beans and a slice of bread followed ‘ere Edendor finished talking. Gimli found it quite frustrating that, no matter how closely he watched his plate and his friend’s hands, he never caught how the extra food was being transplanted. Still, he had no choice but to eat it, and he had to admit that his stomach was glad for the extra fare. He wondered if he was gaining a Hobbit’s appetite, which was a truly horrifying thought. He had a warrior’s soul, and it cringed at the being reminded of Bombur, who relied on other Dwarves for the simple task of moving around.

This was all trivial, of course, compared to his renewed concern for Legolas, whose appetite had clearly not returned. It was with some satisfaction that he watched his friend finish the remaining food on his plate. Though depleted a little, it was still considerably more than the Dwarf had been able to convince him to eat ever since Rohan, where he had also been watched by the rest of the Fellowship. Strangely enough, Gimli remembered that it was Frodo who proved most effective at getting food into the Elf. As far as the Dwarf was concerned, no one could go against that solemn, wide-eyed Look that a truly resolute Frodo was able to bestow.

Once they were done, Edendor extended an invitation for them to visit the training grounds. “You have been sorely missed, tôr, especially on the archery range. Some are still skeptical about the news of your return, and seeing you alive and whole will put all doubts to rest.”

Gimli was aware of the gazes on them as they departed from the eating-hall, but felt a little less unnerved by being the centre of such age-heavy attention than the day before. I must get used to it, I suppose, he mentally told himself, if I expect to be staying here awhile. Ignoring the urge to glance over his shoulder, he concentrated on the figure of Edendor walking in front of him.

As he had observed earlier, Legolas’ brother did seem quite uncertain of himself. He is definitely flighty, whatever Legolas may say. He could see where Nasseryn’s doubts about Edendor’s capabilities as Captain came from. But experience told him that Edendor might be as confident in a battle as he was unconfident outside of one; for Gimli himself found battle and his axes a great deal simpler than the more obscure bloodless conflicts prevalent through normal life.

They returned to the busy main corridor, and followed a small group of armed Elves down a plain side-passage. They passed large iron-bound doors which Legolas pointed out as the armoury. The scent of metal and leather pervaded the passage, and Gimli felt the easing of a tension he hadn’t been aware of having. Eventually they came out into the open air, though Gimli was tempted to enter the forge situated just before the opening in the rock. Once again he felt a strange stirring for the familiarity of home, though the thought of actually going home made him a strangely uneasy.

The first training area they came upon was a clearing that had a series of circles drawn into the ground. Several contained two or four Elves dueling against each other with long white blades similar to the ones Legolas had borne in the Quest. The current fight in the first circle they came upon must have been in session for a while, for Gimli could see signs of weariness upon the sparring Elves. Several eyes flickered towards them, but to their credit there was scarcely a pause as the slender blades continued to whirl like leaves in a wind-storm and clash against each other with a sharp metallic rap. But when the somber-looking Elf observing that circle noticed the new-comers and cried out, “Legolas!” all activity in the area halted.

Gimli managed to put some distance between himself and Legolas before the Elf was surrounded by a crowd of warriors, some of whom had not bothered to put down their weapons and were waving them about over the heads of their fellows. In any mortal race that would have been an invitation for disaster, but the Dwarf had to acknowledge the high probability that these warriors had been handling their blades far longer than he had been alive.

As far as he could tell, they assaulted their newly-returned prince with questions, but the speech was all in their tongue, and the lilting voices so overlapped each other that he could only pick out his friend’s name every now and then. Gimli felt movement behind him, and saw that Edendor had come to stand by him with an amused expression. “He is very popular amongst our forces,” the Captain said, somewhat unnecessarily. “His skill is legendary amongst our archers, but he is a master with the knives also.”

Once the initial flurry subsided, Legolas’ voice could be heard in the midst of the throng, and Gimli caught his name. The outermost Elves turned to regard Gimli with a mixture of astonishment and curiosity, and the group reluctantly parted to allow Legolas to walk towards the Dwarf. He placed a familiar hand on Gimli’s shoulder and said in Westron, “My brethren in arms, this is Gimli son of Gloin out of Erebor, who has guarded my back this many months.”

Sensing an unspoken prompt, Gimli bowed low. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service.”

There was a moment of silence, then the one who had been observing the first circle said, “Forgive us our surprise, Master Gimli; we had word of your presence, but the news out of the palace has not always been the most reliable in the past.”

“It is of no matter. You have given us a better reception than… than that we received yester-eve.”

The Elf’s face darkened slightly. “Ah. It is courteous of you to not mention him, but we have all heard of Dinimlad’s cause.” He looked at Legolas. “Know that none of the warriors can believe such accusations, my Lord. Upon their return the ones who escorted you to Imladris told us of what took place there, and all are in agreement that you committed no betrayal in accepting Lord Elrond’s charge. Indeed, many feel honoured that it was one of our own, and not an Elf of Imladris or one of the Galadhrim, that was chosen to represent our race.”

Legolas’ eyes widened, and Gimli could see that his friend felt quite touched by this show of support. “Then you have my heartfelt thanks.”

The Elf nodded, and seemed to realize that the other Elves were still staring curiously at Gimli. “The break is over, everyone back to their training! And Master Gimli is a guest, not something to be gawked at!”

Everyone gradually returned to their circles, or whatever activity they had been engaged in before the interruption, though looks continued to be cast Gimli’s way. As usual, nothing explicit or obvious, yet he could feel their attention weighing down on him. Yet he felt that it was of a different quality than the one he had been subjected to within the palace. Curious. The Elf who had spoken with them seemed to be in no hurry to follow his own directions, however, and stayed with them as they strolled down the yard.

Feeling obliged to comment on the practices that were taking place, Gimli said, “Your warriors are very skilled, Master-“

“Hethunan, a Sergeant of one of the companies. And I am pleased that you think so. It is our week off of regular patrol, so in between guard-duty in the palace we come out into the grounds to practice.”

Silence returned, in which Gimli heard a quiet conversation starting between Legolas and Edendor behind them. “Am I correct in assuming that your preferred weapon would be the axe, after the manner of your people?” the Elf sergeant suddenly inquired.

“Aye, though all of mine are in my pack, which lies in the guest-room your King has kindly granted to my use,” Gimli replied. “Outside of home, I usually do not travel without at least one of the smaller axes on my person, but I did not wish to cause offence in your King’s palace by walking about armed.”

“You will not; times have been so dangerous and uncertain of late that even the courtiers have taken to wearing daggers, though I do not see how they can expect to wield such weapons in those heavy robes.” Gimli was startled at the thinly disguised contempt in the sergeant’s voice. “If you ever feel the need to practice your weapons, the training grounds are at your disposal. The main supervisor is not here today, for his son is expecting a child and required help in making adjustments to his home. But I shall speak to him, and to our smiths in case you need to have your weapons sharpened.”

“Thank you,” Gimli said with genuine gratitude. “I do fear my axe has been collecting dust and rust for the last half-year.”

Just then a voice called out, “Legolas, will you spar with us?” Two Elves waved from a circle at the end of the row.

“I will, if you do not mind Gimli joining us!” answered Legolas, with a cheerfulness that sounded feigned to the Dwarf’s ears. Gimli jumped and cast a bewildered look at him.

The Elf who had made the offer looked very surprised indeed, but his companion guffawed. “A Naugrim? Very well, little leaf, bring your pet. The sport will be a refreshing change.”

He had not spoken loudly, yet it seemed every ear in the grounds had heard his words, and once again all activity stopped. The faces that now openly looked their way held disbelieving shock. Hethunan directed a searing glare at the offensive Elf, who stopped snickering and flushed slightly. Keeping his eyes on the Elf, he said to Gimli, “Please pay him no heed. It seems that war has become such a part of our nature that there are those who seek to prolong it after the true Enemy has been defeated.”

“You were always over-rash, Maluvor,” said Legolas in that emotionless, quiet voice that Gimli had come to identify as the Elf at his most dangerous. “As Master Gimli is my guest, your words have insulted my person also.”

The Elf’s face was flushed. “I have stood against the dark beasts and shadowless terrors of Dol Guldur whilst you were keeping company with a Dwarf! Ú-ostion rûth lín!” He took a step towards Legolas which might have been intended to seem menacing, but reminded Gimli of an impetuous child. He stood by his friend, gazing calmly at the irate Elf. He saw Legolas’ hand curl into a fist, bright eyes narrowing. Most of the other Elves were far wiser, and had backed away from them. A few were glancing with confusion between himself and Legolas, and it occurred to Gimli that his friend had been quicker to lose his temper than he, who was supposed to be the impulsive Dwarf. Perhaps the Elf’s influence was rubbing off on him.

Maluvor ranted on, and it was strange that their ugly meanings could not fully diminish the beauty of the Elves’ lyrical language. At first Gimli simply stared, unbothered- mostly due to not understanding the words, though the Elf’s face and tone were expressive enough- but he eventually became troubled not by Maluvor’s tirade but the darkening of Legolas’ face. There were few things that a Dwarf held dearer than his honour, yet somehow he wasn’t really affected by Maluvor’s insults; indeed, the period of courtesy towards him from the Wood-Elves had lasted far longer than even his optimism had predicted. Out of respect for Thranduil’s kindness and hospitality, he would have been willing to do nothing more than glare at the offensive Elf and walk away. Maybe a few choice insults, mostly in his own native tongue, would be involved at strategic points. But he had a feeling that Maluvor was actually more intent on accosting Legolas’ honour rather than his. And that he could not abide.

“Sergeant Hethunan, have you an axe that I may use?” he asked the Elf, who seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the two Elves. If they didn’t, perhaps he could run to his room and fetch his before Legolas could finish the fight.

“Our people do not really use such heavy weapons,” replied Hethunan with a thoughtful frown, at the same time in which Edendor said, “There are a few in the armoury.” Guessing the reason behind Gimli’s question, the Captain sent an Elf to fetch them.

“My thanks,” said Gimli graciously, though he had forgotten all about Edendor. “But how come you by them, if your people do not use axes?”

To this Edendor answered, “We train our warriors for every eventuality that may occur in a battle, and it is not uncommon for an archer to run out of arrows or a swordsman to lose his blade. In such events, we use what weapons we can lay our hands on, and usually these are the weapons of our fallen enemies. I myself was forced to wield an axe when my sword became caught in an Orc’s ribs during the battle of Dagorlad.” This revelation evoked a raised eyebrow from Hethunan.

A particularly vehement exclamation from Maluvor caused Edendor’s expression to change from thoughtful to bordering on anger so quickly that Gimli was strongly reminded of Thranduil. “You do not need to accept his challenge, Master Gimli. You are a guest of the King, and are not required to defend your honour.” His voice became quieter. “And, if you will forgive me for saying so, Maluvor’s anger is not truly aimed at you. He has been envious of my brother since Legolas proved more skilled than he with the knives.”

“Aye,” Hethunan agreed. “Ever has he found reason to besmirch the young lord’s honour, though for his part Legolas has always treated him with understanding and courtesy. It is a surprise that he is publicly standing up against Maluvor, but I am sure many of the warriors feel that it is about time. It is heartening to see that Legolas’ temper is not boundless, after all.”

Gimli was a bit surprised at this, remembering the rather rocky beginnings of their friendship. Though, looking in hindsight, perhaps he had been a little too aggressive in his campaign against the Elf. And that thought made him wonder if, just as Legolas had imparted some of his calm patience into the fiery Dwarf, Gimli had not bestowed a little of his brashness into the normally sweet-tempered Elf.

Just at that moment a pile of axes arrived, borne by the Elf that Edendor had charged with the task earlier. How any being can walk gracefully whilst carrying a stack of weapons higher than himself must be one of the Valar’s mysteries, thought Gimli with a small measure of resignation. He was surprised to see that they were real combat axes, not the lighter versions his people used for training. But Elves had countless centuries to hone their abilities, and likely had become skilled enough to avoid receiving or inflicting serious injury. Scanning the training ground again, he saw that the few Elves that had decided to continue their training regardless of the commotion did indeed use real knives.

He carefully examined each axe, finally settling on a medium-sized battle-axe with a similar weight to the one that he used the most. Holding the weapon in his hand calmed him immediately. His hands recognized it as of real dwarf-make, and it was almost as if he could feel Arda solidifying beneath his feet. For a moment all the noises around him muted, and he could feel the rock beneath the soil, the bones grown by he the Elves named Aulë, upon which Yavanna had placed the nourishing soil that was the flesh of the world. And looming over them was the Mountain; the stone remembered his people, and their respectful tappings as they brought out the beauty within it.

He heard his name, and found himself gazing at a very familiar pair of eyes.

“Are you sure, Gimli?” Legolas quietly asked, already holding his white knife. For an answer, Gimli reached up with his right arm and gripped the Elf’s left shoulder. Legolas smiled, and did the same towards Gimli. The Dwarf caught a few mystified expressions from the watching crowd, but between members of the Fellowship such gestures had come to signify encouragement in the face of battle and symbolized their very unique brotherhood that spanned the gaps of race and culture.

Maluvor’s intended sparring partner now stood with him, both Elves with knives held at the ready. But apparently the training circle that Maluvor had been ready to use was too small for a two-on-two match, so they removed to a bigger circle at the centre of the grounds. Legolas had quickly changed into grey sparring garments identical to what the other Elves were wearing, and Hethunan quickly altered one to fit Gimli. The Dwarf had insisted he wear it over his clothes. Of the four, he was wearing the most layers, but he still felt as if he was about to walk into battle naked. Which, in a very real sense, he was.

The concept of the sparring circle was not new to Gimli. His people used a variation of it for the same purpose- a circle within a square. But Dwarves wore armour whilst sparring with real weapons. This was mostly due to the heaviness of the axes and the manner with which they were wielded. Furthermore, the Dwarves did not have the centuries that the Elves did to perfect their techniques. For a moment, Gimli was tempted to ask if someone could fetch his armour from his room. But he was sure that Maluvor would only see this as a sign of weakness, and the last thing he wanted to do was undermine Legolas’ position.

By this point the watching crowd had grown; it now included several archers with their quivers still strapped onto their backs, a couple of palace guards, and even a handful of servants.

“Remember, this is a sparring session,” said Edendor with a hint of steel in his voice, though his eyes flickered nervously between the three Elves and lone Dwarf. “The objective is to cause your enemy to leave the circle-“

“We are not first-year trainees, Thranduilion,” Maluvor cut in. “I daresay even the naugrim knows the rules.”

Gimli’s ground his teeth, but was saved from having to reply by Edendor, whose hand seemed to be clutching at his belt with unnecessary force. “The side that draws first blood forfeits the match,” he finished, stepping out of the circle.

The Dwarf belatedly wished that he’d questioned Legolas about these rules earlier. He assured himself that they probably did not differ too greatly from Dwarven sparring rules. He only wished that he could find out those differences before having to go against fully trained warriors. Sighing, he took his customary place next to Legolas, his heart beating faster as he secured his grip on the axe. As the Elves had two knives each, Hethunan had insisted that Gimli carry a second weapon. He had picked a smaller axe, shaped more like a throwing-axe with a stouter handle, and recognized it as Elven-make. Truth be told, it was far too curvy and, well, pretty, for a self-respecting Dwarf to be seen wielding in a proper battle, but both the craftsman and the warrior in him agreed that despite its deceptively light weight it was as effective as any Dwarven axe.

It was a little difficult to focus on their opponents with a crowd of spectators around the circle, but Gimli the warrior acknowledged Maluvor and his partner as hostile, and his training and experience took over. A tiny portion of his mind still wondered that he could fight comfortably alongside an Elf, but having seen how deadly Legolas was in battle, he knew that he would pick the Elf to guard his back over many of his kinsmen.

There was no outward signal, but suddenly all four of them within the circle tensed. Maluvor’s eyes were trained on Legolas, so it was no surprise to Gimli that it was his partner who went after him. For a few seconds, nothing happened, simply both sides weighing and examining the other for any weaknesses. Unfortunately, Gimli’s mind was still quite muddled, making him unable to concentrate. A tendril of fear attempted to nibble the back of Gimli’s consciousness, solemnly informing him that for all the Orc necks that he’d hewn, this was really the first time he’d gone against an Elf. Oh, he and Legolas had sparred on occasion- with him losing more than twice as many matches than he won- but that was no guarantee he could hold his own against an Elf he’d known for only a matter of minutes. To confound matters, he was not supposed to draw blood. In Dwarven sparring matches, all fighters wore armour. He knew how to pull back on his blows, but not against opponents with scarcely any protection.

Suddenly his opponent launched himself across the circle towards Gimli, at the same time as Maluvor flew forwards towards Legolas. Gimli hadn’t even seen him move, and was saved by the sunlight glinting off the naked blade as it descended on him. The Dwarf raised his axe just in time to block the knife with the wooden shaft. The force behind the blow caught him by surprise, though, and he automatically stepped backwards. The second blade missed slicing his stomach open by half the width of his thumb.

A cold fear surged through his belly. He met his opponent’s eyes, and found a burning fire behind the exterior of cold indifference. Was this another Elf with a prejudice? Winning the match by forfeit was all very well, but not if first blood drawn was from a mortal wound. A part of him said, Surely he would not dare to try and kill me in front of all these people? To which another part answered, Prejudice listens not to reason. And if that fire is fueled by vengeance, than I am in greater danger still.

Hiss. After enduring the deathly cold of Caradhras, escaping from Durin's Bane, entering a Wood no Dwarf has ever ventured into before, chasing Orcs continually for three days, braving the Dead out of love for a Man and an Elf, standing before the Black Gates of Mordor... it seemed a bit inappropriate that he would die here. Hiss.

At that point something in Gimli’s mind seemed to decide that his conscious self was quite incapable of keeping him alive, and was in fact preventing him from concentrating. Having always been few in number, the Dwarves had evolved to be quite a hardy race. Their history was rife with conflict. In some tribes, it was said, Dwarves would be trained from childhood to fight. But the lines who held Durin as a Father tended towards the making and shaping of treasures, probably from their shared history with the Elves. Or had that been what had drawn the Elves to them? Most of Gimli’s kin were smiths or miners or builders. Yet he had always been more drawn to the ways of war and the thrill of battle. He had bested most of the elders in the Lonely Mountain, except for a few like Balin, despite his years. And in the face of a foe his mind had accepted as unconquerable, something akin to that desperate hardiness possessed by Hobbits pushed aside his doubt-ridden consciousness and merged with his trained muscles.

Hiss. That nearly took his ear off! Hiss.

At first he barely managed to defend himself, and was aware of being slowly pushed towards the circle’s line. The tip of a blade would pass so close to him that he was sure he could see body hair flying off in its wake. The very air whistled with the passage of the lightning-swift metal. The Elf seemed to be the wind itself, making Gimli feel like a sluggish rock.

Hiss. The blades danced, yet never touching him, though up to the moment of contact he was sure they would. Hiss.

Then, unbelievably, he began anticipating the Elf’s movements. A calm emptiness enveloped him, wherein he noticed that his lack of height put him at an advantage in this particular case. The Elf was light and nimble, seeming to be made more out of air than muscle and sinew, yet Gimli was like an immovable rock. Parries became blows, blocks ended with a strong forward push straight into the Elf. 

It took a while to register, but inch by painful inch his opponent gave way. He even managed to sneak a few glances at Legolas, and saw that his friend was mostly staying on the defensive. Unfortunately this slight break in his concentration brought a knife far too close to his beard, so he resolved to keep his eyes solely on his opponent.

He found that the Elf was quite unused to having to constantly defend his lower body. He realized that there were a number of things he could do with this information, but which involved bodily contact, and he wasn’t sure if that was allowed. And despite his perseverance, even against his own expectations, Gimli knew that he couldn’t keep fighting in this manner for long. His arms had been swinging axes for as long as he could lift them, but it took more energy to control his blows and manipulate the weapon so that the sharp blade didn’t come into contact with flesh than to simply swing the weapon and allow its own weight to deal the damage. Fortunately the Elf’s agility meant that he just had to slow the weapon down enough for his opponent to get out of its path. However, such a strategy would only lock them in stalemate, at best, until even the legendary Dwarven stamina failed him and cause him to make a mistake. He needed to do something unexpected, but he did not dare to unless as a last resort because he didn’t know about the dragon-cursed rules!

Ironically, it was his opponent who resolved the matter by unceremoniously delivering a powerful side-kick at his stomach. It caught him by surprise, but he was already moving to swing his axe in downward anti-clockwise sweep, so his half-turned body only received a glancing blow.

Gasping, he took several steps back. The Elf looked pleased to see him retreat. The Dwarf gulped down air, then came forwards again, feinting a vertical swing of the axe. One knife came up to deflect the blow slightly as the Elf easily danced out of the way. Unfortunately for him, Gimli had been counting on such a move, and one leg promptly swung out to kick the Elf’s moving legs from under him. The startled Elf was on his back for a second, and Gimli’s first instinct was to bring down his axe and eliminate the threat. Fortunately his more rational components swooped in at that point, and reminded him that they were supposed to be sparring. If he injured the Elf, it would be his word against the Elf’s that his opponent had been trying to kill him. And as hospitable as Thranduil had so far been, the Dwarf had no illusions about whom the King would listen to.

To his credit, after that moment of vulnerability the Elf had jumped back up to his feet, and the hatred in his eyes was now plain to see. Gimli the Thinking Dwarf retreated and handed the reins over to Gimli the Warrior. In the face of the Elf’s fiercest onslaught yet, he could only defend himself. He did not have to control the axe as much, but expended the energy into moving the weapon fast enough to block the much lighter knives. His muscles burned with exhaustion, and several times a white blade just missed his fingers as it slid off the wooden shaft.

Before long he found himself once again near the line of the circle. Beyond his opponent, he caught sight of Maluvor circling Legolas in frustration, whilst the latter didn’t look to have a hair out of place, and only gazed patiently at Maluvor. But that match didn’t look likely to end any time soon, and the Dwarf knew that he could only last for a few more minutes.

Without warning, his opponent rushed him, knives flashing. He swung his axe, and parried them… then felt cold steel bite into his flesh. His eyes widened a fraction. Acting purely on an instinct to prevent further damage, his left hand gripped the Elf’s clothing, and threw himself to the ground, a little to one side, putting the Elf off-balance. Carrying on the momentum, Gimli’s left arm and both legs heaved the Elf up and threw him over. The Elf went sprawling outside the circle.

“That was a dishonorable move!” Maluvor’s voice shouted. Gimli unsteadily got to his feet. He saw that Legolas, his back to the line, was looking at him, first in concern, then in horror.

“Dishonorable! You speak of dishonor-” Legolas began.

But movement behind his friend had caught Gimli’s eye, and he shouted, “Legolas!”

Not soon enough. Gimli let out a breathless but heartfelt oath. For Maluvor had taken advantage of the prince’s distraction and dashed forwards with a mighty kick. It should have thrown Legolas from the circle. Gimli tensed, waiting for the Elf to land on the other side of the line. Yet somehow, even with less than a hand span between his body and the line, Legolas managed to change the angle of his body and arched his back. One hand came down on the line itself, and for a moment the Elf seemed to hang suspended in the air, supported by that one arm. Then he made a cartwheel, landing entirely within the circle.

If Gimli had thought his opponent fierce, what Legolas launched next was worthy of a Balrog. All he saw was a blur of limbs and knives, punctuated by the occasional rap of steel. A stunned Maluvor held up for a few seconds, then suddenly found himself on his back outside the circle, looking up at an enraged prince of Mirkwood.

The Dwarf only had a few heartbeats to enjoy the sight, however, for suddenly a roar sounded from behind him. Feeling slightly sluggish, he was only beginning to turn when a flash of gold passed over his field of vision, and he felt himself being pushed down to the ground.

Coughing a little, Gimli rolled his head to one side to see what was happening. Legolas was in a crouching position, one hand gently pressing Gimli down. He stood between the Dwarf and the Elf Gimli had been fighting earlier, who was now holding his knife to Legolas’ throat. Gimli stiffened at seeing his friend in danger, but Legolas’ hand refused to let him up.

“Go on, Dúathfel,” Legolas said quietly. “Commit the sin that you despise our Noldorin brethren for.” Gone was the cool, distant prince that he had been but an hour before. Wisps of hair had escaped his braids, and a flame shone in his eyes to rival that in Dúathfel’s. His voice held that note of power that he had displayed in his father’s throne room. Gimli knew he was not the only one whose gaze was transfixed on the warrior prince. Even though Legolas was crouching protectively over the Dwarf, there was no doubt in Gimli’s mind as to which was of the greater stature.

There was the sound of movement from the spectators, though Gimli’s sight was blocked by Legolas’ body. “Nay, Edendor,” said Legolas, rising slowly to his feet whilst maintaining eye contact with Dúathfel. The knife fell to the ground with a soft clatter. Dúathfel tried to look away, but seemed unable to tear his gaze from Legolas’. “Dúathfel, I would have you explain to Master Gimli why you sought to kill him.”

The Elf’s began to whisper something indiscernible. Legolas said sharply, “In the Common Tongue, and louder, so all may hear you.”

Dúathfel’s eyes flashed with the old fire, but were swiftly dampened by something they saw in Legolas’ eyes. “My father died in the Battle of Five Armies, my Lord.”

It explained everything. Gimli opened his mouth to speak, but released a gasp of pain instead as a wave of pain stabbed through him. He looked down and saw that a large patch of blood had appeared on the sparring garments. He wondered how he had managed to forget his wound. “Legolas,” he quietly called his friend.

Hearing his tone, Legolas quickly turned to look at Gimli, crouching once more to examine the Dwarf. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Hethunan, Dúathfel has assaulted a guest of the King. Please take him to the cellars and set a guard to watch him until the King can address this matter.” With deft fingers Legolas carefully lifted the cloth, and gently probed the wound over Gimli’s hip. After a moment he breathed a sigh of relief. “I do not think anything vital has been damaged. You are fortunate, my friend; a little higher and you would be on a water diet for days. I think the blade went as far as the hipbone. But I am no healer, and this must be properly seen to. Come, I will take you to a healer.”

Gimli sensed his friend bracing to lift him, and the image of being borne like a helpless invalid was enough to spur him into attempting to stand. Legolas sighed, but aided him onto his feet. The pain magnified, making him a little nauseous and light-headed. He ignored the watching Elves, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other, but any weight on his injured side brought on a wave of agony that stole the breath from him. Nevertheless, he made it out of the training grounds more or less on his own power, with Legolas walking on the injured side and taking most of his weight.

But once inside the underground passage they had gone through earlier, the knee of his good leg buckled. Strong slender arms caught him and gently bore him up, and the very last thing he saw before a mixture of exhaustion and pain rolled the cloak of darkness over him was a pair of blue, blue eyes, between which dangled three strands of hair the colour of gold.