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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The dwarf hesitated, anger simmering in its dark eyes, threatening to explode into violence. Legolas remained still, but he was ready. He could have a knife in hand before the creature moved a hand’s breadth.

The dwarf dropped its cloak and began working at the buckle of its belt. Legolas judged it would take the thing until the next leaf-fall to remove all the filthy, reeking layers.

Nevertheless, they were coming off, so Legolas kept his temper and waited. Cloak revealed tabard, which in turn uncovered a tunic. Its removal revealed mail. Mail in turn revealed a travel-stained undershirt, reinforced in leather and padded at the shoulder. Endless belts, buckles, knives, and accouterments clattered on the floor. Then the dwarf’s chest was bare. It was corded with layers of thick muscle though the dwarf was still so young its hair hid little. The coarse strands from its head trailed down its back in a thick auburn braid. Its beard barely reached the base of its throat. Its shoulders were marred where patterns of lines had been drawn upon its skin in dark blue-black ink. They coiled in and out of one another like a nest of snakes.

It might be only sixty, but its chest was covered with a wiry thatch of dark red hair, beginning just below its throat and spreading at its breast, then narrowing to trail down into its breeches. A glint of metal drew Legolas’s eye; the thing wore a small steel bar with round tips, the length of the bar threaded through the flesh of its nipple. He recoiled, blinking. What a barbaric decoration!

The dwarf glowered at him and turned its back. Leather greaves fell away from its calves. It pulled off heavy steel-reinforced boots, hopping awkwardly as it tugged off two layers of socks. Then it unbuckled its cuisses, which covered padded trousers.

It dropped the breeches but hesitated without touching its filthy breechclout, and one of the guards snickered.

“It looks like a troll’s spawn, if only trolls were the size of wild pigs!”

“It is so hairy, perhaps it is a boar,” another answered. They spoke in Westron so the dwarf would understand.

“Stop!” Legolas snapped without thinking, and scowled at his companions. “Stay your tongues.”

The dwarf straightened, leaving its breechclout firmly in place.

“Remove it.”

The dwarf did not move.

“Remove it. It will be washed, and you will have another.”

“Leave me, and I will wash myself.”

“Your kind is treacherous. If we left you, you would make mischief.” Two of his comrades gathered the dwarf’s clothing and armor, vanishing with it. The others quietly began to remove their boots and leathers, preparing to wash the dwarf if it would not wash itself sufficiently.

“What mischief might I make, naked and unarmed?” That simmering wrath was back in the dark eyes again, but the dwarf held it leashed.

“There are jewels set in the fountain. You might think to steal them.” Or cut your own throat, now that the wagons bearing food and medicine are underway. Legolas did not speak his thought. “Wash yourself, or you will be washed,” he said instead.

He held the dwarf’s eyes, and it slowly reached for the breechclout, untucking the end that held it secure. The cloth unwound and fell to the floor. Legolas glimpsed more gleaming metal studs and bars beneath, but he did not drop his eyes to investigate, meeting the dwarf’s scowl full-on.

“Are you satisfied?”

“Not until you are clean.”

“The water is cold.”

Legolas raised a brow, eloquent of indifference.

The dwarf ventured into the pool, complaining in a low growl, the words unintelligible. It moved gingerly, taking a cloth, and scrubbed various bits of its skin with grudging haste.

Legolas studied his new servant, curious. He had never before been able to observe a dwarf without all its concealing layers. This one was young, perhaps not as broad or as tall as some Legolas had seen, but it was covered in a thick, rippling layer of rock-solid muscle. Its torso was short, the waist only a couple of inches separating ribs and hips. Its belly had just a touch of roundness, the only softness anywhere on the powerful body. The thighs together were broader than Legolas’s waist. Its calf was as thick as Legolas’s thigh, its feet large and solid. No wonder it had been so difficult to force the dwarf to kneel!

The dwarf finished its half-hearted ablutions all too quickly, then began to climb out.

Legolas sighed and nodded to his companions. “Wash it properly, including its hair.”

The dwarf was nearly out of its depth in the chest-high center of the pool, so it insisted on remaining near the edge, keeping its face well above the water. Legolas watched, wondering again at the inky markings on its skin. They did not come off or smudge, not even when Andrath scrubbed fiercely at one of them. The dwarf spat a curse and pulled away.

“What do these marks mean?”

“That’s private!” the dwarf snapped, and would not say more. Other than that, it submitted to the scrubbing sullenly, merely sneezing a time or two and shaking its head, spraying water everywhere.

The dwarf allowed the elves to take the metal clasps from its hair and begin to soap the top, but when Giledhel reached for the shaving brush, the dwarf went mad. “No!” It bucked its helpers away almost without effort, and Andrath splashed into the water, emerging moments later in a swirl of wet hair and fury. Giledhel caught the dwarf in a headlock, his teeth bared, but was likewise thrown off before he could spread foam over the dwarf’s braided beard.

Legolas watched as two more elves joined the fray, amazed by the creature’s strength. It had tossed away his finest soldiers as though they were dried leaves! Despite the dwarf’s youth, two elves were needed to restrain each thick-corded arm. When they had the dwarf pinned between them, Andrath advanced, holding the razor ready.

A flood of guttural curses snarled forth from the dwarf as it struggled, whipping its head back and forth. The soaked tip of its plaited hair began to unravel, snapping sharply against the surface of the water as it jerked its head away from the blade. Andrath caught hold of one braided lock and prepared to sever it near the jaw. The dwarf continued thrashing, trying to avoid the blade.

“Do not cut its hair or its beard,” Legolas commanded quietly before Andrath could begin. The elves stilled and turned their gazes up at him, astonished and a little resentful. The dwarf had injured their pride by testing their strength so sorely; they meant to have vengeance.

“I will not have you slit the dwarf’s throat by accident—or by design—while attempting to shave it.” Legolas leveled a forbidding stare on each elf in turn.

The dwarf blinked soap out of its eyes, scowling painfully up at Legolas. Angry red patches marred its skin where the elves had restrained it; Legolas suspected the marks would turn to bruises before morning. He felt a pang of dismay in the failure of his stewardship. He should have stopped the shaving sooner instead of standing transfixed by the spectacle. This might be only a dwarf, but it was a living creature nonetheless, and it had been injured while in his care.

“Wash your beard and your hair thoroughly and rinse them. I will not have them cut from you if you keep them clean and well-combed,” Legolas told the dwarf. “Andrath, give it the soap.”

“My name is Gimli. I am not a boar or goblin.” It fixed Legolas with a dark, narrow stare. “I am a ‘he,’ not an ‘it.’” The dwarf snatched the proffered soap. Clad in nothing but clear water, droplets shimmering like jewels amidst the coarse, wiry curls that covered its chest, its hair bedraggled, half-soaped and coming undone, the dwarf nevertheless kept all the pride of a king, clothing itself-- himself-- in some inner dignity.

It took time to lather and rinse the dwarf’s thick mane of hair. It resisted help except in the rinsing, allowing the elves to pour water over the heavy, sodden strands as it lifted them.

When it was done the dwarf wrung its hair into a tail over his shoulder and climbed out, dripping, to stand scowling at the comb provided for its care. Its skin was ruddy pink and its nipples had crinkled taut, even the one that bore the little steel bar. It looked vibrant and vital, its skin pebbled strangely, standing up around each small hair.

“Elves must be bloodless, to like such cold baths,” the dwarf growled, accepting a towel and swathing its loins in haste. Not quickly enough to prevent Legolas from noticing the difference in its genitals. They had seemed longer and fuller before the dwarf went in the bath. Now Legolas could barely discern the wink of metal surrounded by fierce hair.

The dwarf’s muscles rippled and bunched, impressive cords under the pale skin. Legolas calculated the strength of the dwarf and wondered at its limits, and how much stronger it might become when it matured fully.

“My father ordered new clothing prepared for you.” Legolas handed the dwarf a small pile, which it surveyed with distaste, shaking the garments out of their folds: shirt, tunic, and trousers, all made of light, well-woven fabric combining cotton and silk. It would cover closely without binding and resist soiling or wear. A breechclout was also provided, socks, and low-topped leather boots. They were much like Legolas’s own, but made with the dimensions of dwarven feet in mind. The tunic bore the crest of the royal house of Greenwood on the left breast: a tree of twining branches set between the antlers of a stag.

The dwarf ran its callused thumb over the crest, baring its teeth with dislike. Wearing an enemy’s crest was apparently preferable to remaining naked, though, since the dwarf donned the clothing without giving battle. It surveyed its limbs with dismay when it had finished. “This stuff is made of spider-silk and air. It will not last a week.” The dwarf began trying to tease tangles out of the ends of its unbound hair with the wooden comb.

“You may be surprised.” Legolas felt his hackles rise at the mention of spiders. There was no more despised creature in the woodland realm. “Come now. You will be given food and a place to sleep.” He considered binding the dwarf’s wrists again, but decided against it. It had showed no sign of violence unless it was first threatened. Let it learn it might earn good treatment—or punishment.

“A dungeon cell.”

“Until you have proved yourself trusty enough to wander at will.” Legolas let the doubt show in his voice; surely such a thing would never happen.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay