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 elf-lord, Legolas, took Gimli to the kitchens. The cooks looked at him as though he were some sort of insect, but he was given cured meat, a loaf of bread, and a flagon of wine. Then the elf escorted Gimli to a dungeon cell.

As Glóin had promised, the elves were not cruel to their prisoners. There was a bed with serviceable woolen blankets and a table where he could set his food and sit down in a chair to eat. There were several outfits of clothing and another pair of boots waiting in an alcove by a bricked wall that proved to be a chimney shaft, radiating enough heat to keep the cell snug and warm. There was even a braided rug on the floor. A pitcher of water and basin had also been provided so he might wash. Blasted elves! could they not have brought him here for his bath instead of stripping him to the skin and nearly drowning him?

Gimli let his food wait as he tended his hair. If it was not combed while it was still wet, it would matt into snarls he’d never be able to untangle.

The comb was just as useless as he had feared, but it was made of wood, so he was able to break out every other tooth, leaving a ragged but serviceable instrument for grooming. When he had tamed his mane and braided it once more, he felt more like himself despite the strange clothing, which barely served to warm him, the thin weave far too light for one used to forge and furs. He was glad of the chimney’s heat.

Of his own clothing and armor, there was no sign. Gimli sighed. He had forged and assembled much of his mail with his own hands, but its loss could not be helped.

The cured meat was clearly of Laketown purchase: simple mutton, but it would do far better than roots and twigs such as the elves ate. Gimli devoured it all, discovering he was famished, and finished the loaf. The wine he treated with more care. It was a heady vintage from Dorwinion, strong and insidious, so he watered it well from his pitcher before drinking. He must try to keep his wits about him.

When push came to shove, the elf had not commanded him shorn. That was a surprise. From the moment he had seen the razor, Gimli had expected to lose his precious beard and hair—though he had resolved he would make the elves know they had fought a dwarf before he submitted to the humiliation of being shaved. He would have to satisfy the elf’s expectations for his grooming, lest that mercy be revoked. Of course, the elf might decide to shear him anyway. That would be just like the cursed leaf-eaters.

Gimli brooded, staring into his cup, and tried to decide whether his status as the special possession of Legolas was fortunate or not. Better one master than many, but the elf was mercurial, less predictable than some of his kin, able to shift from mockery to kindness and back again in the blinking of an eye. Gimli feared that boded ill for his future. It would be a hard task indeed to satisfy a master whose whims he could not foresee.

There was little hope, too, that Legolas did not share his father’s cruelty and innate hatred of Dwarven-kind, not after his insults at the wood’s edge. That he had stopped his kinsmen from speaking cruelly must only mean he intended to reserve the privilege for himself.

Gimli’s hair was beginning to dry in the warmth, little wisps frizzing up from his plaits. He had no oils to tend and tame it properly. He could only hope the curls would not annoy his new master so much he ordered Gimli shaved. Gimli ran his blunt finger around the rim of his cup. Seventy years and seven? It might as well be an age.

Draining the cup, he kicked off his unfamiliar boots and threw himself down on his narrow bed. If he could not sleep soon, he would finish the wine and let it send him dreaming.

*****

“The dwarf has been washed, clothed, fed, and placed in its cell.” Legolas made report to his father, who seemed not to have moved since the dwarf was taken from the throne room.

“Yet it was not shorn,” Andrath observed. Thranduil’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to his son.

Legolas sighed to himself. “I saw no need to kill the thing in an attempt to remove its hair. I believe it would have fought us to the death to preserve its beard.”

“It should have been humbled properly, not allowed to have its way.” Andrath spoke without passion, but Legolas knew from long experience that his companion was implacable.

“The creature’s beard may be used as a lever to obtain its cooperation.” Legolas struggled to keep his temper.

“I do not wish its cooperation.” Thranduil raised himself and stood at ease. “It is a nuisance, one that would be better gone.” He laid his slender hand upon his throne, stroking the delicate patterns in the stone.

Then why did you offer food in exchange for its freedom? Legolas stifled the words in his throat.

“You would have had us cut its throat in the shaving. Its death is your will?” Legolas asked slowly. In his mind's eye, he saw his father promise an orc freedom, then strike off its head rather than honor his bargain.

Thranduil shrugged, his raiment rustling. “If it should die in our service, let that death come of the dwarf’s choosing. Should it refuse a command and die resisting the command’s enforcement, that will be choice enough.”

“The dwarves of Erebor may be moved to make war on us if their kinsman dies in our care.”

“Thorin Oakenshield cares not for the life of a dwarf. He cares only for riches. If I am wrong, then the dwarves of Erebor will die.”

“It will not be so easy as that.” In his mind’s eye, Legolas again saw the dwarf heaving Giledhel and Andrath away as if they weighed nothing. “The dwarves are clever and strong. We would lose many of our own kin in such a needless battle.”

Thranduil’s eyes glittered, expressionless. “The dwarves will not make war for long if they cannot eat. Let them offer us violence, and there will be no foodstuffs for them, neither from us nor from the men of Laketown and Dale.”

“They may make war later, when they are well-provisioned.” The words were in vain; Legolas knew he could not dissuade his father from his chosen course. He must wait and hope war did not come. Another more immediate thought troubled him: Andrath’s razor and his desire for vengeance. “In three days, I am scheduled to patrol the southern reaches. I will be away for a moon’s time. Who will oversee the dwarf while I am gone?”

Thranduil considered. “I will temporarily reassign the captaincy of your group to Andrath, so you may train your new possession. After that, you will resume leading the patrols.”

“And after that?” Legolas challenged.

Thranduil’s mouth moved then, stretching into a humorless smile. “Leave it to another caretaker or take it with you.”

“It may flee.”

“Then cut it down or leave it to the spiders, as its kin should have been left.” Thranduil ghosted from the room without a backward glance.

Legolas did not bother to look to Andrath before departing to his own chambers. Let the other elf wonder what he would do, or let him ask. Legolas had a great deal of unpleasant work to do.

Would that Tauriel were here! She understood dwarves better than any elf he had ever known. Perhaps she could have reasoned with the creature, but his father had banished her. The last he knew, she planned to travel to the Grey Havens and depart Middle Earth forever.

How would she advise Legolas if she were here? He could not guess.

If Tauriel could not counsel him, he was left with no other source of guidance but the dwarf itself. “It is not an ‘it,’ it is a ‘he,’” Legolas muttered to himself, rueful. He could almost see Tauriel’s secretive smile approving the thought.

Though it galled him to be saddled with such a grave responsibility, Legolas knew he must not allow the dwarf to come to harm. If he did, too many of his own kin would suffer the consequences. He must win the dwarf’s respect and convince it to behave in such a manner that it-- he-- would not die.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay