My sincere apologies for the lateness of this chapter, but December has been quite busy with all the Christmas preparations. This was further hampered by little technical difficulties such as my misspelling Gwynnynd's e-mail and having the draft bounce back to me every day for a week, and Nivoreka having an uncooperative computer *pokes* Thus, I'm very grateful that they still managed to give good feedback! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

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Chapter VII: A Pleasant Conversation

‘A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!’ said Legolas
- Lothlórien

For Gimli, there was always a delay between the initial return to consciousness and opening his eyes to see where the world had landed him this time. He usually used these moments to assess whether or not it was wise to return to the waking world at that point, or if it might be more conducive to his continued existence to pretend inertness for a little while longer.

This time, he felt quite warm and secure, and insofar as his mortal senses could detect he was not in any immediate danger, unless it came from what had sent him into the darkness in the first place. Considering that, he did register a strange subdued ache in his middle regions, and having experienced this in the past he recognized it as pain being numbed by medicine.

He tentatively opened one eye and was met with stark whiteness. This worried him for a moment, until his eyes refocused and he could see the little threads of linen neatly interwoven to make a sheet. He opened the other eye and was met with a far more welcome sight sitting with an amused smile by the side of his bed.

“It seems that Middle-Earth’s most charming Dwarf has deigned to grace us with his presence once more,” said the familiar voice of Nasseryn. “How do you feel?”

“I think my mattress is trying to eat me alive,” he said, wincing as the effort of speaking grated his dry throat and his voice came out sounding like he had been swallowing sand.

Nasseryn’s smile grew broader. “I have always thought that they were too soft. You would think that, since most of the people who come to the healing wing are warriors, they would take into consideration that we are not used to surfaces softer than the ground. On the other hand, if you would forgive me saying so, you are somewhat heavier than us.”

“Aye, and proud of it,” grumbled Gimli as he tried to shift position. But the sheets kept slipping from his grip, and no matter what he did, the shifting softness always returned him to being flat on his back. His efforts seemed to amuse Nasseryn even further, who could hear his movements all too well in the quiet room, and she gave an ill-disguised chuckle when he fell back with a frustrated growl.

“I do not know if it is just by clever design or if the healers have cast some device on the beds, but it keeps you to the position the healers believe to benefit you most.” Thranduil’s eldest daughter slowly reached out, and carefully felt around the bedside table until her hand encountered a goblet. She handed it to him, and helped him prop himself up as he gratefully drank the cool water. “It also prevents a patient from leaving before the healers wish them to, but my brothers and I take pride in having managed to do so on numerous occasions.”

“Is there any chance you would divulge the secret to a humble Dwarf?” Feeling considerably better, Gimli settled back and turned his attention to the thick bandage around his lower torso.

“My apologies, but it is something that a patient must learn for himself, if he is determined enough,” replied Nasseryn with a wry smile.

“If you could hand me my axe, I believe I can demonstrate my determination.” Gimli gingerly lifted the edge of the bandage, and caught the glimpse the wound. It had been stitched close, and didn’t look quite as large or threatening now as he remembered it to be. “Speaking of your brothers, where is Legolas?” He kept his tone casual, despite a slight irrepressible feeling of concern that his friend hadn’t been the one to greet him when he awoke.

I think it was at this point that I began to suspect the true depth of my dependence on my Elven friend. Because of that mysterious Sea-longing that he had yet to inform his family about, I knew that he needed me; if not my assistance in keeping it from said family until he had mustered his courage, then at the very least the comfort in having someone nearby who had already seen him in the helpless state the affliction could leave him in.

I will write anything I wish to, thank you very much. Who is holding the quill here?

Don’t wave that knife at me, or I shall write of that time you poured ice-cold water onto Gandalf.

One dark winter night as we passed through the deserted country of Hollin, a certain keen-sighted Elf made the assumption that the bearded person smoking his pipe in the shadow of a boulder was his Dwarven nemesis…

That’s better, see what you can achieve if you ask politely? As I was saying- I mean writing, I was aware of how Legolas benefited from our friendship. But when I realized that the first thing I look for upon opening my eyes is my Elven companion, I was forced to admit that I would miss the pale-haired princeling when the time of my stay at Eryn Lasgalen came to an end.

Nasseryn seemed to guess his thoughts, however, and smiled gently. “He has gone to make sure that Dúathfel receives sufficient punishment for his dishonourable actions. I am sure that he will return once the hearing before the King is over.” Gimli tensed involuntarily, his face darkening. She couldn’t see him, but she seemed to sense it nonetheless. “Is aught the matter?”

After a few moments, Gimli forced himself to relax. “Nay,” he answered, though she didn’t look convinced. Some remnant of her time as Captain must have risen on her marred face, for Gimli found himself explaining, “It is just… amongst my people, a Dwarf who has been wronged is required to face the one who wronged him, especially if the honour of either one is at stake.”

The Elf frowned. “But what of times when one or the other is killed, or injured, as is in your case?”

“In the case of death, a member of the immediate family takes the Dwarf’s place. As for injury, the trial before the ruler is postponed until the Dwarf is healed, or at least capable of being present. “

Nasseryn nodded. “For Elves, all that is required is a representative of either party, though the accused has the right to demand the presence of the accuser. But even Dúathfel does not refute the charges against him, and Legolas did not wish to trouble you with something he sees as a crime towards him.” Her face grew troubled. “I am sorry if we insulted you, but we did not think of what your own customs…”

Gimli sighed, and was about to wave his hand dismissively when he remembered that the Elf wouldn’t see it. “It is no large matter; in any case, these are Elven lands, so Elven custom should prevail.” It still irked him, if only a little, that they had not bothered to at least consider Dwarven custom. He was sure he had told Legolas about such matters in Minas Tirith, but he couldn’t blame his friend for forgetting small details in the current circumstances. And, as Nasseryn said, Legolas saw it as a crime towards himself rather than Gimli.

And what am I, a helpless bystander?

The object of his thoughts chose that moment to make his appearance. Legolas’ expression was stormy, but his eyes held a satisfied look. His first glance was towards Gimli, and he smiled with relief, presumably at seeing Gimli conscious once more. The Dwarf returned his smile, and- not wanting to his friend to see the worried expression still worn by his sister- said, “Good timing, my friend. Your sister has hinted that there is a way to escape the clutches of this accursed mattress without outside help, but refuses to reveal the secret. Typical, and here I was thinking her to be a sensible Elf! Perhaps your stony heart is easier to chisel?”

Legolas laughed. “You, who claim that my neck is stiffer than yours? If it is any comfort, it took me nigh three hundred years to work it out.” His face turned more sober, though a merry twinkle remained in his eyes. “You will be pleased to know that Dúathfel will be doing cellar duty for quite a long time. Mayhap there he will be reminded that even the mighty Elves could not prevent twelve Dwarves and one Hobbit from escaping our power. And the healers tell me that the wound is long but relatively shallow, and does not affect anything important, and you should be able to attend the feast if you promise not to exert yourself.”

Gimli blinked. “Feast? What feast?”

Thranduil’s youngest son raised an elegant eyebrow meaningfully, a gesture he surely must have acquired from the King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. Or maybe said King’s wife, who had probably absorbed it from her father, the champion of the resulting expression. “The welcome feast, of course.”