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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Honored Glóin,

Well after dark on the day we parted I arrived at the hall of Thranduil, where I was given into possession of the king’s get, Legolas Thranduilion, the very elf who was so rude to us at the edge of the forest.

I have not yet learned whether he will turn out to be a cruel taskmaster or a fair, but thus far I am unharmed. I have been well-fed and given meat. I have a warm cell and may leave it under guard. I am not to be worked to death yet, it seems. I spend my days with weavers and spinners, and am let to practice that pleasant craft. Though I was forced to strip bare before many mocking elves upon our arrival and scrubbed as though I were a beast, none have yet beaten me or used me truly ill.

There were those who wished to cut off my beard, but the prince stopped them. He is shrewd. I think he wishes to use the threat of its loss to control me. He has taken my armor and clothed me after the fashion of his kind. You will not need to be told it is not to my liking, yet I am glad to be covered.

Elves do not love Dwarves any more than we love them, yet my lot is easier than I had hoped. I will keep my part of the bargain, and I pray the elves keep theirs. Perhaps this indenture will not be so terrible as I feared, yet it seems a long age indeed must pass before I may see you again. Would that I were in the mountain, learning the forge, making armor! I am not let to continue in that craft, for the elves fear me and will not allow me near weapons or aught I might use as such.

My candle is all but gone. I know not whether this letter will reach you, or whether any you send may reach me, but I crave word of all that happens within the mountain, and I will write to you when I may.

May your beard grow ever longer,

Gimli

In the morning Legolas accepted Gimli’s letter, which was not folded or sealed. The angular Cirth made no words he could read, save the signature and the direction upon the back.

He sighed, folding it over and creasing it, then tucking it away in a hidden pocket without comment. He would have it read before delivery, if he could, but he doubted he might find any who could—or would—translate the Khuzdul tongue.

Gimli sat down to break his fast. Legolas could observe no visible improvement to his manners. He waited, studying the dwarf. Sipping from his goblet, he otherwise remained perfectly still.

“My father suggested I take you on patrol when I return to the southern march. That date is now fixed; it is two days hence.” He spoke as soon as Gimli had finished, handing him a napkin with a faintly pained look upon his face. “We go to battle spiders, but I will not be able to permit you arms or armor. If you disobey my slightest order or attempt to flee, you will almost surely die.” He shifted in his chair, fixing Gimli with an intent stare. “You may choose to remain here, but if you do, my father decrees you will be placed under the care of Andrath, who has been removed from the patrol rotation for a time. He is the elf who desired to cut your beard. I think you would not enjoy his stewardship.”

Gimli raised his gaze to look upon the prince of the woodland realm. He drummed his fingers on the table, considering. “Escaping the goblins to be caught by wargs?” He asked, voice dry. He reached for his cup of wine, examining the blood-red fluid. He could smell the strong alcohol in it, heady and overpowering.

“You are my responsibility, and I will defend you as we journey unless you disobey my commands. If you do, you will be on your own.” Legolas tilted his head, studying Gimli’s expression.

Gimli reached to stroke his braided beard, remembering the anger in Andrath’s eyes. “Better the worm you know.” He took a gulp of wine, savoring its tartness on his tongue. It was not ale, but it would suffice. “I will go.”

“If you do, I will require your pledge to obey me as we travel, even if you do not see the sense in my orders.” The prince leaned forward, earnest. "You do not know the ways of the wood or of spiders. I may tell you to fling yourself backward from a height or to stand still while I shoot close around you. For my part, I vow I will not command you thus except to keep you from harm, neither in jest nor in wrath.”

Gimli swallowed the mouthful he held. “You ask for trust, yet you do not trust me.”

“I will be trusting you not to flee into the wood or to make any other foolish choice that might cost your life.” Legolas set aside his goblet and folded his arms. “You may have two days to reconsider your decision and decide whether you will undertake this pledge.”

Gimli met his gaze, wishing he had the power to read the elf’s mind. The elf had told him Thranduil would not care if he died on such an errand. How, then, could Legolas expect Gimli to give him such trust? The elf’s stern visage told him nothing.

Nardan broke the growing tension by rapping sharply on the cell door.

“King Thranduil has sent a messenger. He would have you attend him immediately, my prince.”

“I shall return for your answer at dawn on the second day.” Legolas bowed slightly from the waist and went out.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay