The next day found them back in the forge, if only to drown in noise the thought of the night before. Gimli had been reluctant to bring Legolas back there after seeing how much it seemed to demand of him, but the Elf had spent the night at the terrace watching the steady downpour of cold rain and insisted that he would be all right.

Gimli was himself busy with Frár, planning so far as he could what would be needed to begin work on the commission Thranduil had given them. Legolas was not far, making himself useful. If he was uncomfortable he hid it well as he and Flói designed still more additions to Emeldir’s dowry. They sat together at the cluttered worktable, Legolas drawing to his creative heart’s content while Flói chose the designs he favored and expanded upon them with scrawled notation in the margins, plans of precious metal and gems. The Elf wore the casual attire Gimli had provided the day before and his hair was held back in clasps of Dwarvish gold, but still there festered an unmistakable atmosphere of discontent among the army of smiths, held at bay only by the indifference of many others.

Sparks had flown in his own home last night. As often happens in Dwarvish quarrels the violence had escalated beyond the measure of the passions involved, and the most lasting damage was that done to the chair bereft now of a back. His parents had bickered before, indeed he had never known a pair of Dwarves who had not. It would be forgiven in due time as a matter of course, but the fact of it remained.

"Gimli," Frár asked at last in a low voice, following his line of sight, "what is he really like?"

"Legolas?" He watched as the Elf gently but firmly confiscated a charcoal pencil from Scatha’s eager little paws, fraternizing easily with Flói as they both critiqued a design Gimli could not see. "Like that, I suppose," he said. "Even now I’m not sure what to make of him."

"Neither is anyone else," Frár said wryly. "It seems his Elvish charm failed to impress your father."

Gimli gave a snort that was half disgust and half frustration. "Nor will it ever," he admitted at last. "He has shut his eyes and closed his ears against it."

"I care not one way or the other," Frár went on easily, turning an iron rod in his hands. "But I know cousin Náin will hate him for many a year. Nor will he ever love your mother."

"So it was Náin," Gimli mused thoughtfully, wondering what kind of repercussions would come of that.

"It certainly was," Frár laughed. "But I hear he deserved it. His has never been a delicate tongue, and Káli seemingly did not care for his insinuations. He is all boast and no brawn. Look at him there, throwing sparks at your Elf."

Gimli saw him. Náin was not far at his own station, pounding away on a glowing brand. But he seemed to hardly care what he was doing so long has he hurled showers of hot sparks as near to Legolas as he could.

Meanwhile, Legolas shooed Scatha away from his drawing again lest he smear it. Undiscouraged, the endearing menace bounded from the table to alight on his shoulder.  Legolas paid him no mind, for the companionship of another arboreal prisoner here in the Mountain was one of the few things that helped him to relax. He was by no means unaware of the inimical glances cast his way, but endeavored to ignore them, wearisome though it became.

"One can only endure so many flowers, Legolas," Flói said in a mild complaint that amounted to a new challenge, making himself heard over the din. "Conjure something worthy of Bard the Bowman’s house."

"Very well," he consented. "How is this?" What began as a few vague strokes gradually took form over the page as another great eagle, reminiscent of Gwaihir and Landroval as he had seen them at the Battle of Morannon and the fall of Mordor. Sweeping from the sky in a hunter’s dive with talons outstretched, it was as though lightning had taken wing, swift motion that would be captured wonderfully in faceted silver.

"Marvelous!" Flói decided as he snatched the paper, though Legolas was certain the Dwarf loved more the image of the finished work that he saw in his mind’s eye. "Just wait and see what I will make of it!"

"And what has so excited you?" Lóni asked as he passed, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag that perhaps had once been white. "Carving a niche for yourself, Legolas?"

"As well as I might," he managed before yielding to Flói’s interruption.

"Look!" the Dwarf insisted, dazzled by the visions he conjured for himself. "We could make this much like that the Elvenking sent to His Majesty. Or we could mount it on a crag of crystal and set it with sapphire. What say you?"

"Perhaps," Lóni said, his interest piqued as well. "But you could angle that wing up a bit, and spread the tail. You could do that much, Legolas? I like sapphire; we could do that."

"Sickening," came a candid remark before Legolas could answer.  They all turned to see yet another of the many shirtless craftsmen, this one with his nose turned up at the offensive scene before him. Legolas was ominously reminded of the tactless churl Káli had trounced in the corridor, but they all looked alike to him. Whoever he was, he did not bother to exclude the object of his scorn from the conversation this time.

"And what do you mean by that?" Lóni demanded, planting his feet belligerently as though he expected a brawl.

"I mean that none of the Khazâd who have ever been worth the name would let an Elf pollute their craft." He spat as though the very word was disgusting.

By now the forge had gone unnaturally quiet, as forges go. The lines of battle had materialized in a moment, all eyes watching the progress of the confrontation. Legolas tensed where he sat, but did not look back for Gimli lest it be construed as weakness on his part.  He was painfully aware that today of all days he had willfully neglected to arm himself. Curses, Legolas, you are far too trusting! had been his father’s lament from years past. He would be slow to forgive him this one.

"Down with it, Náin," Lóni growled in return. "Or do you not remember Belegost, and the service the Khazâd rendered the Elves of the Hidden Kingdom? There are precedents. I dare say Legolas is a better hand with a pencil than you will ever be."

Náin spat again on the hot floor, eloquently expressing his own opinion of them. "Suit yourself." he sneered, waving Legolas away in scorn. "All this elfish hobgoblinry has clearly gone to your heads!"

Legolas was on his feet in an instant, all else burned from his mind. He done being insulted.  "Do we still frighten you that much, little Dwarf?" he sneered.  "Be certain you never walk beneath the trees in the dark!"

The forge erupted in a terrific thundering roar of embittered shouting that only grew worse, coming even to blows as the matter of the Elf was sparked to a violent culmination in the madness of the moment. Legolas felt that he saw the future unraveling before his eyes. He was no coward, but he remembered what had become of Thingol! Little would his knife have mattered, for he was still loath to slay a Dwarf in the Mountain unless he was given no choice but between that black deed and death itself. But strangely enough it seemed he had been all but forgotten as Dwarf turned against Dwarf on his account. There was Gimli, entering the fray wielding a rod of iron in a futile attempt to restore order to chaos; another leapt onto the table itself as he sought to bring a hammer down on Glóin’s son, but in one great heave Legolas overturned the whole thing with a resounding crash, sending Gimli’s assailant sprawling in a shower of disordered paraphernalia.  The upended slab of oak then acted as a shield to stem the vehement tide against him. He looked up only to twist away instinctively as a glint of sharp light come spinning toward him through the bedlam. The hatchet blade bit deep into the dry wood with a resounding crack, and a hideous animal shriek rang through the hall with a bright spray of blood.  Legolas recoiled, a searing stab of pain in his hand.

The fury died as quickly as it had begun, all sticken by the peril they had brought on themselves in their blind rage, reminded of their own mortality by the lurid stains of crimson that had suddenly exploded before them. Worse, they feared they had brought real harm to the Elf himself, a heinous transgression that would not be soon forgiven by either the Wood or the Mountain.

Legolas looked at his bloodied hand for a long moment in the breathless silence, the other clasped around his wrist in a vain effort to dull the throbbing pain that he refused to show on his face. The wild spray of blood ran fully the length of his arm, but it was not his own. In that dull moment of lingering shock he had never been so grateful to have still all five fingers, but the enormous jagged splinter lodged deep in his palm was a dreadful thing, sharp and painful even though a minor wound that would heal quickly. At the end of the bloodied trail on the floor was Scatha, from whose small throat had come that piercing scream. He was still crying pitifully as the truncated end of his tail bled unabated, staining his ashen fur.

That was not supposed to have happened, and the implications were lost on no one. Even those most adamantly set against the Elf would never have dared threaten his life, for the honor of the Mountain itself was at stake. Yet in one frenzied moment it had become a frightening possibility. It was a sobering thought, let alone the fact that inviolate blood had indeed been shed against all law and every trust.

Thorin would not be pleased.