Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5309 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Gimli son of Glóin, lately of the Blue Mountains and briefly of Erebor, gazed at the eaves of Mirkwood with loathing. Though he was still young, only 62 years of age, the braids of his beard short, this was the ending of his life-- at least as he knew it.

The dwarves at his side shifted, uneasy. He could feel his father’s presence keenly, the older dwarf hovering helpless at his shoulder. Glóin’s eyes were red. He had spent his days in anguish, torn between stone-crushing rage and silent weeping, refusing to sleep since Gimli made his pledge. None of Gimli’s family rested well. Thranduil had guessed exactly how best to hurt the dwarves who had escaped his halls, showing them the corruption of their own king while at the same time stealing away one of their kin.

Gimli suspected he would take his elders’ place in the dungeons so Thranduil need feel no sting of defeat in the memory of their escape.

As for Thorin, the less said the better. The dwarves who had remained in Erebor rather than follow Dáin back to the Iron Hills endured a bitter split among their ranks, torn between those who honored Gimli’s choice and those who followed the king, regarding Gimli as a traitor, deserving of his exile.

No matter which side any dwarf took, Gimli was as lost to his kin now as they were to him. Stripped of his lineage and reduced to a chattel for the time of his bargain, he could not return to Erebor even if Thorin repented.

It might be noble to sacrifice oneself for the well-being of kin and kind, he knew, but that made it no easier to see elves appear amidst the trees, ready to collect him. They advanced into the grass with caution, pushing back their green hoods. The elves wore well-made brown leather mail and carried long, bright knives and swords. Most were dark, long black hair following them like gossamer shadows, but their leader was blond, and he stepped past the others, waiting to greet the dwarves when they drew near.

Archers stood aside, their bows already strung, with arrows nocked and trained upon the dwarves in case the meeting went awry.

Gimli swallowed hard, his mouth dry with tension. His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Gimli,” he rasped, sounding as if he would begin to weep despite the watching elves. This business was particularly cruel for his father.

By the terms of dwarvish law, as soon as the elves claimed him, Gimli would cease to exist. He would be lost to the dwarves until he completed his voluntary servitude. It would be as if Glóin had no son, or as if his son were dead. Not only was he banished from Erebor, but Gimli would not be able to wear jewelry or arms bearing the sign of his house, he would not be regarded by any dwarf except if he spoke or acted in the name of his master, and he could not court or be wed, not even should he meet his One. He would have no right to give his surname or to claim his father, and he could not even offer his service to another out of courtesy.

He had chosen this path because someone must. It was right for him to offer himself for the sake of his kin.

“Courage, my father.” Gimli lifted his chin, wanting to be strong, though he felt anything but brave. “I shall send word to our family as soon as the bargain is fulfilled.”

“See that you do. If he will let you send letters before then, please--” Glóin fell silent, choked with anguish.

“I will if I may, but do not look for them.” There were many among the dwarves who would not deliver a letter from Gimli even if he contrived to send it.

Gimli spread his feet apart, his hands clenching on the haft of his axe. He glared at the elves as if setting himself for battle, and they tensed. But Gimli did not move to strike; instead, he tossed aside his weapon. His cousin Balin caught it.

“I remember you.” The lead elf stared daggers at Glóin. “And this must be the… goblin… whose picture you carried within your locket.” His voice was arch, crisp with distaste.

Glóin did not answer the elf; instead, he cleared his throat and spat at him. His target stepped deftly aside so as not to be struck, jaw clenching. “That haughty arse is the king’s spawn,” Glóin muttered in Khuzdul, warning Gimli.

Gimli sighed. No benefit was to be won from such defiance. If this encounter came to blows, his kinsmen might be hurt or slain. Best to finish swiftly.

The covenant had begun, and it could not be stopped. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Gimli spoke. “I, Gimli, have come to fulfill the bargain struck between Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and Thranduil, king of Greenwood the Great.” He stepped forward and offered his wrists for binding.

The blond elf who led the party looked down at him, his long, elegant face as haughty and severe as that of Thranduil himself. “Are you of the lineage of Durin?”

“I am, and I am just come of age.” Gimli lifted his chin to stare at the blond elf, defiant, as Balin handed one of the elf’s lieutenants a scroll detailing his birth and ancestry. “I offer myself willingly to pay the price that is demanded. I will serve the king of Eryn Lasgalen for seventy years and seven in exchange for food and medicine, supplies to be given to my people as they need for one year from this day.”

“You will be bound so you may not flee or fight.” Rude, the elf ignored his pledge of submission, as if Gimli's word had no value.

Gimli made no acknowledgment, remaining still as the elf arranged his hands behind his back bound his wrists rapidly with thin gray rope. He flexed his muscles to test the knots when it was done, but the rope did not yield.

The elf made a sign and wagons began to emerge from the wood. Drawn by sleek-coated ponies and laden with the promised goods, they trundled slowly toward Erebor.

“Farewell. I will do you credit,” Gimli promised his father in parting. He let the elves lead him under the eaves of the wood, the leafy branches closing around him like the walls of a trap.

He did not look back to see Glóin weep.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay