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 found himself relaxing quite without expecting to after Nardan led him into the room where weavers and spinners labored. It smelled familiar and comforting. He could identify wet wool and lanolin, the tannic acid of oak leaves, vinegar, onions, and some unfamiliar tang, possibly a mordant used to set the dyes.

“I am to give you what you wish to use,” the elf-woman who had spoken earlier rose, setting aside her needlework. “What is your desire?”

To be free. To return to Erebor.

Gimli set the cry of his heart aside and turned to skeins of wool that hung spun and dyed upon drying racks. There were none of the bold colors his own folk achieved using caustic metallic salts and chemicals; all were natural dyes, but some might suit.

“Two colors very different that nevertheless look well together,” he spoke gruffly. “Such as this and this, spun the same thickness, with needles sized to work them.” He reached to touch a rusty brown, then a subdued golden-green. From what he had seen within the room, colorwork was not practiced among the elves. They seemed rather to delight in fine laces, letting intricate stitches do all the work of patterning.

“That is easily arranged.” She showed no hostility as she guided his choice, and soon he had four skeins, which he held over his hands as the lady wound them in balls, her nimble fingers moving swiftly. “You may sit here,” she directed, and Nardan followed closely as she settled Gimli to work, putting his wool in a small basket and handing him wooden needles. They were straight and rather longer than he liked, and the wool was so soft it was almost slippery, but he could make them serve.

“Also, if I may, I need parchment, a quill, and ink.” It would be far easier to knit a pattern with it drawn before him.

She had the items brought, and a table upon which he could work, then left him. Gimli folded one bit of parchment and used it as an edge, constructing a grid upon the paper, then made his plan, drawing swiftly. He kept his work simple, constructing a border and a twined geometric knot, then setting up a repeat. Soon he had begun constructing a cap, for which he needed no further guidance. It would keep his ears warm in the chilly corridors of Thranduil’s realm.

The repetitive work soothed him, relaxing his anger, and his fingers soon remembered their old skill, flying nearly as fast as those of the elves nearby.

When he had finished the border and begun the pattern, the elves began to show curiosity. “That is neat work,” the maid who had helped him came near, looking with interest at his work. “I had not thought to try such a thing.”

“It takes a little time to master, but it is not too hard.” Gimli stretched his back. It was odd to realize he was at peace, a thing he had not ever imagined feeling within the woodland realm.

“Will you help us lift the steaming vat and drain it?” She asked. “The strength of the naugrim is spoken of in legend, and we would welcome your aid.”

“I will.” He ignored the unflattering term, leaving his work and helping to wrestle the heavy vat over on its side. The basin was deep and very wide, and the water inside was steaming hot. He wished he had its like to bathe in rather than an icy pool fed by a mountain spring.

The water flowed down its drain and Gimli eased the vat back down upon its table, accepting murmured thanks as he returned to his stitching.

The soft speech of the others lulled him, but eventually he different voices began speaking.

“The dwarf has caused no trouble,” Nardan reported quietly. “It has worked steadily the day through, and was civil to those who spoke with it. It assisted readily with the steaming vats when asked.”

“Good.” That was the haughty elven prince, and Gimli felt his hard-won contentment evaporating like rime frost in bright sunlight. “Let us return him to his cell for the night. You can stand guard while I bring him meat.”

“The creatures are eager to eat flesh,” Nardan agreed, his voice rueful, the two of them drawing near.

Gimli set aside his work in haste, but it was too late. “What are you making?” The elven prince reached out to pick up his stitchery.

“A cap,” he muttered, sullen. It was a homely thing. He had not the proper tools to make it round without seaming, and it was simple compared to the lace of the elves.

“It has its own odd beauty.” The prince sounded astonished as he turned the work in his hands.

“Do not let it slip off the needles,” Gimli scowled. “I did not spend the day in making that only to see it unraveled by a careless hand.”

“You may leave it here and return to work in the morning.” The elf-maid who had helped Gimli stepped near. “None will tamper with it while you are away.” She gave Legolas a warning look, and the prince returned the hat to Gimli in haste, taking care not to lose stitches from the needles.

“I thank you, my lady.” Gimli bowed deeply to her. So much for the prince, who thought dwarves had no manners!

So Gimli’s days passed, with a guard fetching him out every morning to take him to join the weavers or to have him perform a variety of services for which he was well suited.

He made every effort to keep himself tidy enough the elves would not be moved to wash him again, and it seemed he succeeded, though he often worked up a sweat moving heavy vats or casks as a favor to Dineth the weaver. It turned out she was also responsible for the care of clothing; even elves had to launder garments and bedding from time to time. Gimli obliged her, glad to carry wood or water and help dump the tubs. He even lent a hand washing, turning clothes with a long wooden paddle. Usually, though, he spent more time wringing and trimming new fleeces for rovings or knitting on his own.

He saw Legolas at least once a day, often at mealtimes, when the elf would come to quiz him about what he had done or seen. It was the prince who advised him he might ask for more wash-water, or even for water that had been heated. Usually Gimli stayed with the weavers. On the rare days he and Legolas walked abroad together, he learned much of the woodland realm and of his host, though they would often end their time together arguing over some tedious subject on which their cultures differed. Gimli usually returned to his rooms those days in a foul temper, wishing he could wring the prince’s neck. Yet it was not all bad. Though the elf prince might argue loudly with Gimli, he always listened when it mattered. Gimli was usually given whatever he asked for, including a new comb, one better suited to his coarse hair.

One day Legolas took Gimli to hear Thranduil holding audience with his retainers, trailing Nardan in case an extra guard was needed. Gimli was not sure why he was required there, but he kept silent. He even listened, managing to do no more than jerk his head with impatience every now and again. Perhaps the elf hoped his father would make a better impression when not dealing with dwarves, but Gimli still found Thranduil strange and cold.

“What did you think of your time today?” Legolas asked when they departed the throne room, and Gimli shrugged.

“Your father is strange to me. He runs hot and cold. Mostly cold. I do not see why his people love him so.”

Legolas’s face closed. “I might say the same of Thorin Oakenshield.”

I’m sure retaking Erebor and with it the treasure of Thrór did not hurt,” Gimli answered, tart.

“As my father led elves here who wanted a return to simpler ways, giving them sanctuary and succor in much the same way Thorin has done for your people. Only without the dragon sickness.”

“Thorin is a hero to my people.” Gimli glowered at Legolas, who glared back at him. They hardly paid attention to where they were going, they focused so hard on their words, and Nardan had to guide Legolas when he would have turned wrongly.

“Does a good king ransom his kinsmen?”

“Does a good king demand slaves in exchange for aid?”

They were shouting again, so absorbed in the argument they hardly noticed when they arrived at the cell.

“I will lock the dwarf in while you bring his food, my prince,” Nardan intervened, taking Gimli’s shoulder.

Legolas stalked away in silence, and Nardan turned savagely on Gimli as the prince headed for the kitchen.

“Our prince feeds you with his own hands,” Nardan commented, his voice cold.

Gimli snarled, distrustful. “To make me dependent upon him.”

“To ensure you are well-treated. There are many among us who do not care for dwarves.” His icy tone told Gimli Nardan counted himself among them.

“Assuredly your precious prince and his father are foremost of those.”

“Yet it is not within them to mistreat a living creature.”

“But it is within them to enslave one so our children and elders need not starve and die. You are no better than goblins!”

“The prince had no hand in that, and you are hardly a slave such as goblins keep.” Nardan seized Gimli and shoved him against the door of his cell. “And Thranduil….” His eyes narrowed with fury. “Thranduil has reason. You should know he was in Doriath when your kin first showed their true treachery. Legolas is young, but I too served King Thingol and witnessed the greed and treachery of the dwarves who slew him for his jewel!” Nardan shoved his key into the lock and pushed the door open without warning. Gimli stumbled backward through it, nearly falling. “If dwarves will kill for greed, then should they not die for it? Before the battle Thorin Oakenshield had his chance to trade fairly. He refused, preferring war. That Thranduil should send your folk aid at so small a price is mercy, dwarf.” The door slammed shut between them.

Doriath and Thingol? The words were mere tales of legend to Gimli-- legend in which a haughty elvish king had agreed upon terms of trade and then reneged on the bargain, forcing dwarves to claim fair pay as best they might.

Gimli was in no mood to make conversation when the prince brought his food, though the venison haunch was fresh-roasted. Legolas also brought bread and thick barley soup that smelled delicious.

Unfortunately the prince lingered when Gimli sat down to eat. He poured wine for them both and seated himself in a chair he carried in from the corridor.

Gimli set his cup aside, determined not to drink until after the elf left. “What do you want?” He knew he sounded surly, but could not bring himself to lighten his tone.

Legolas seemed to have forgotten their disagreement. “I am pleased with your progress. Have you everything you require for comfort?” The prince sipped his own wine, his eyes ranging around the small cell. “I had more blankets brought to you for nights when the chimneys are idle.”

“They are sufficient, thank you. I would have my clothing and armor back, and I wish to write to my people,” Gimli muttered. His stomach rumbled with eagerness to taste the soup; he had eaten only a piece of fruit for his noon meal. He tried a spoonful. “Other than that, I am not in need.” The soup tasted as good as it smelled.

“What would you tell him?”

“That I am the servant of Legolas Thranduilion. That he has kept me warm and dry. That I do not go hungry. That I have not been beaten or made to work until I drop.” Gimli lifted the bowl to his mouth and drank, glaring at Legolas above its rim. When it was empty, he set it down again and burped. “That my things were taken and I was stripped and forced to wash in front of staring elves, but my master gave mercy and my beard was not cut.”

“I will have writing materials brought to you, and any such letter you pen will be taken to Dale and delivered to your father.” Legolas regarded him, his gray eyes unreadable.

“Thank you,” Gimli said quietly and returned his attention to his meal. Legolas ordered Nardan to bring the quill and parchment Gimli had requested, then went. When the materials arrived, a stub of candle came with them, and Nardan lit it. Gimli sat up until it had burned to nothing, writing.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay