Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5311 -:- 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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Two elves blindfolded Gimli and led him swiftly through the woods, one holding each arm. They moved at great speed and Gimli could not use his arms for balance, so he stumbled often over roots and stones that lay in his path. Whenever it happened, his captors jerked him upright and pressed forward again.

Accustomed though Gimli was to the darkness of cave and stone, the elves turned so often he could not get his bearings. He was relieved when the way grew smooth and broadened. Soon the party stopped and his eyes were uncovered, revealing a moss-lined track that led to tall gates of iron wrought in the form of tangled boughs. Lanterns hung from the lowermost branches, illuminating helmet-clad door wardens who pulled back their spears to admit the party.

Though the hall was set into the side of a hill, it seemed the forest flowed inside with them as they entered. Support posts were carved like trunks of great trees. Where he would have expected to find ribs supporting vaulted ceilings, the supports were fashioned in the form of branches. Bricks had been molded in elaborate patterns of frescoed leaves, and paintings of stags and carvings of flowering vines could be seen almost everywhere Gimli looked. Delicate glass lamps hung hither and yon in patterns so artful they would have seemed random if not for their efficiency. They illuminated the corridors brightly, flickering like stars in the frosty heavens of midwinter.

It might have seemed quite beautiful, if Gimli were a guest.

The elves steered him into a broad, deep chamber. There the lamps were not enough, and the ceiling faded into shadows. The hall was a veritable honeycomb of small levels attached to pillars and connected by stairs, extremely ill-planned in Gimli’s view. The light focused on a single dais at the far end of the floor, raised well above the heads of any who stood before it, approachable only by climbing several staggered staircases. The throne itself appeared to be carved from a single magnificent pillar of stone-drip, but there the majesty ended. Gimli judged the carver had not been able to decide whether to make the thing resemble a tree or a stag, so he had compromised between the two, settling on an unpleasant mixture of branch and antler.

Thranduil of Mirkwood lounged upon his throne. His long, elegant limbs and his slouched, splayed posture would have seemed ungainly on any other being, but he wore it as the epitome of studied and indifferent grace. His crown was no more prepossessing than his throne, and Gimli judged it had been designed by a nesting crow.

“We have dispatched our supplies to Erebor in return for their portion of the bargain.” The lead elf, who Glóin had named Thranduil’s son, stepped before the throne. He seemed untroubled by its elevation. Other elves jostled Gimli forward, then shoved him, attempting to propel him to his knees.

He had agreed to serve, not to grovel before a haughty elvish bastard who ransomed food and medicine with servitude. Gimli locked his knees.

It took six of the elves to force him down, but finally they managed it, one of them rapping him sharply behind the knees with a spear’s shaft while the others pushed, crumpling him.

He stayed where he was put, panting, glaring defiance at the king of the woodland elves.

Thranduil roused himself at length, gazing down at Gimli with distaste. “So they have truly sent their kin in exchange for goods. It is no more than I would have expected from the naugrim.”

For Thranduil to have demanded such a terrible price for supplies the dwarves needed to survive was no more than Gimli expected from the beardless ones, but he kept his peace, staring defiant pride at the king who now owned him.

“Let this creature’s care and training be entrusted to my son,” Thranduil shifted his gaze to the blond elf without changing his expression of dislike. “And may the taming of this one serve to tame him, as well.” He leveled his stare upon his son, cold as the north wind. Gimli’s heart sank. Could Thranduil not simply imprison him and have done--? Must Gimli serve the rudest elf it had ever been his or his father’s displeasure to meet?

The son of Thranduil did not flinch or protest, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. “As the king commands.” He made a graceful leg and gathered his companions with a nod. They hauled Gimli from his knees and pushed him through the hall with them, departing in a different direction than they had come. The narrow arch through which they passed led downward.

To the dungeons? Gimli gritted his teeth, vowing not to protest.

“Prepare a bath for the dwarf,” the elf told his comrades flatly. “It smells.”

“Yes, Legolas.” One darted ahead.

Shortly the group entered a chamber where water flowed from a carved stone fountain shaped like a woman with long waving hair, her hands cupped and overflowing. A sparkling pool lay beneath the drip, but there was no steam or warmth in the air. Of course the water would be cold. Gimli grimaced.

The elf who had preceded them waited, placing several items on the rim of the tub. Gimli inhaled, seeking the sharp tang of lye, but a variety of cloying perfumes overwhelmed the clean scent of soap. There was a bath-brush, rough-woven cotton cloths both small and large, a vessel for rinsing, and a fine-toothed wooden comb. He winced. That comb would jerk snarls in coarse hair and would not release them. Next the elf laid out a small tray, whose contents made Gimli’s jaw clench: a straight razor, shaving bowl, and brush.

“Remove your garments.” The blond elf, Legolas, commanded Gimli, taking the ropes from his wrists.

Slowly Gimli lifted his hands to his cloak, releasing the clasp. He did not like to strip under the sneering eyes of these haughty, slender, pale-skinned elves, with their elongated, near-hairless bodies. It was not done, that a dwarf should display his body before the eyes of strangers. They would see his clan marks, his badges of mastery, honor, and grief, even his genitals.

“Remove your clothes, or they will be removed for you.” The elf folded his arms, glowering down at Gimli with impatience.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay