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Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net and Encyclopaedia of Arda.

A Pony’s Tale

Chapter 4: The Pride that comes before the Fall

Gimli the Dwarf’s POV

It was a rather confused son of Glóin who awoke half an hour later in his guest chambers at the Last Homely House.

What had happened to him?

His scalp burned as if he had been dipped head first into the fires of Mount Doom.

Wait ... had he? Was the Quest over? Mayhap he had been struck by a flying rock when the mountain exploded as he heroically endeavoured to rescue the Ring-bearer from its foul location? The Fellowship must have carried him to the nearest city of the West upon the success of the quest. He had survived against all odds!

But of course he survived. ’Twould take more than the filth of Sauron to lay this dwarf so low.

Durin’s beard, but his head was smarting!

With his eyes still closed, he raised a hand to it and ran it over his scalp to find …

“Aaagh!” Gimli flew upright, his hand clutched over his head in disbelief.

Nay! Not his hair! It could not be!

Springing from the bed, he ran across the room to the mirror situated on the dressing table (he would never voluntarily keep such an object of vanity in his own quarters - he did not need it; he knew he looked magnificent) and stumbled to a halt in front of it, afraid to remove his hand and see the glaring truth of his dilemma.

What horrors lay beneath his fingers - and was he dwarf enough to face them?

Reluctantly admitting that he was, he took a seat in front of it (like a preening maiden) and gazed at his reflection. His beard was dishevelled, the braids somewhat undone, but otherwise intact: check. The right side of his head sported an abundance of burnished red locks: check. No wounds adorned his face: check. Now for the true test …

Slowly, he peeled his fingers from the left side of his scalp one at a time until only his palm remained: this was it. Lifting his palm away he gasped in horror at the shiny, red skin it proudly revealed.

He had a bald spot! An eye-catching, fist-sized, glowing-like-a-newborn-babe’s-smacked-posterior bald spot! Oh, the shame of it!

Miserably examining his war wound, he saw that it was not entirely bare. Little tufts of wiry growth yet remained, making it look even more ridiculous than it already did. A bald dwarf. He was a bald dwarf!

He growled. Frodo Baggins better have survived his bold rescue from the Dark Lord’s lands after such a sacrifice or he would personally tear him limb from limb! Well, mayhap not. One could not dismember a spirit.

Still, Ring-bearer or nay, where did this leave his valiant rescuer? Gimli the Dwarf could not go marching around the now-free lands of the West with a naked scalp (although when he next entered a dark cave, he need only remove his helm to offer the gloom some light, so brightly it shone). Of course, he could just keep his helm on at all times: but mayhap his current hosts, whoever they were, would find that offensive?

His eyes crawled above the horizon of his head to investigate his surroundings and saw, reflected in the mirror, the richly carved beams and earthy autumnal tones of the chamber. The walls were decorated with elegantly woven hangings depicting various scenes from a bygone Age, and the headboard of his bed was covered in elvish scroll.

Elvish scroll?

He stumbled to his feet. They had not yet left Rivendell? Confused, he scratched his head absently, then yelped in pain as he lacerated the tender flesh of his bald spot.

Curse it all! The quest was not yet underway and already he had sustained a grievous injury. He slumped dejectedly onto his seat again. How, then, had he come by his wound? Turning to face his reflection, he let his eyes travel to the ravaged wasteland of his scalp to study it further. He leaned forward to get a better view of the pathetic tufts and found that they were somewhat frayed. Even more perplexed, his gaze studied the leagues of naked skin around them.

Why, it looked like someone had ripped the hair from his head! Who on Middle Earth would do that? And in the Last Homely House, too! His thoughts flew instantly to the princeling before dismissing the notion. Nay, the elf may look as dainty as a blushing maid, but he could not believe that even the delicate son of Thranduil (curse him!) would fight like one. Mayhap he should speak with his host, the Lord Elrond, to discover …

Wait a minute. Elrond ...

It all came rushing back to him. Elrond’s suggestion that he visit the stables to ’educate himself’; the short walk across the courtyard with Master Gamgee, who had been singing the praises of his fine …

The pony!!!

“I WILL SLAY IT WERE IT STANDS!!” he bellowed as the truth hit him like a ... mad pony. No enemy of dwarves more terrible had ever stalked the lands, than one so brazen as to graze on his hair. Rage coursed through him as he hunted through the room for his axes and, upon finding them, marched to the door and flung it open.

He was less than five paces from his chambers when he ran into an elven maiden. She was a beauty, indeed! Tall, lithe, with chestnut locks flowing from her pretty head. Gimli paused in his anger to politely allow her passage past him and she locked eyes with him ... nay, not with him, with something above him. What on earth was so fascinating?

It was only when the maiden giggled that he realised he had stormed out of his chamber in such a fury that he had forgotten to cover his head.

Mortified, he turned on his heel and fled the few steps back to his sanctuary.

Aaagh! She had seen his bald spot!

This distressing event left him cursing his own short-sightedness.

Was he blind? He had barely been able to wrench his own eyes from it less than a minute before but, oh nay, that was no reason to suspect that anyone else would find it so captivating. Fool!

Several colourful epithets followed this line of reasoning (most of which questioned the validity of his own parentage) as he stomped to the night table next to the bed and retrieved the helm some unknown person had kindly deposited there; but it felt strange in his hand. Curious, he took a closer look to find that it sported a large dent.

The marauding mule had stamped on it!

Blasted creature. He would feast on its flesh!

It would take several hours to repair, too, leaving him trapped in his room until the deed was done. This sufficiently pricked his swelling rage enough to leave him merely very frustrated. Alone in his room with no one for company for hours on end, hiding like a new bride on her wedding night.

Now that he thought about it, where was everyone? He had been attacked by a vicious beast and none were there to offer him comfort - not even his own father.

Then again, Glóin now may be ashamed to have a bare-headed, soon-to-be-pony-slayer for a son. This depressing thought drew him back to the chair in front of the mirror and he regarded his reflection bitterly. What on earth was he to do? He could not leave the room looking like that.

Gimli weighed his options. Mayhap if he pulled the front of his hair straight back over it and clipped it behind his head, it would not be so obvious? He yanked his hair backwards and held it fast behind his head, turning it first right, then left.

Nay, he looked too much like he wished to follow the fashion of the pretty elf princeling. His grip loosened and the locks tumbled back to their natural position, revealing the scarlet expanse near the front of his left side.

What else? Oh, perhaps if he ...

Lifting a fine-boned comb, he created a parting on the right side and threw the abundant remnants over to his left. Dipping his fingers in a jar of water, he moistened the springy locks to calm them down and surveyed his handiwork.

Hmm. Possible. If only he could get the blasted hair to stay in place.

He searched for a clip of some description, ripping a fastening from his tunic and trying in vain to attach it to the side of his head, but it had nothing secure to cling to (he would not pierce his skull with it merely to get some traction), so he discarded it in disgust.

One more option left. With a piece of leather cord, he grabbed the end of the ‘transplant’ and gathered it with the remaining hair underneath his shiny patch, tying them together. This successfully covered his bald spot, but had the misfortune of rendering him as girlish as a child of men less than five winters old - but with a beard.

“Bah!”

Furiously, he yanked the cord from his head and returned the transplant to its natural territory.

Mayhap it was a good thing he had no company. The very idea of others seeing him like this was not to be borne!

No sooner had this thought flashed through his mind, when a light rapping was heard at the door and, before he could tell his unknown visitor to go away, his host entered.

“Ah, I see you are awake, Master Gimli. Good. I have returned to check on your ... erm ... wound.”

The dwarf had initially been alarmed at the entry of a spectator to his misery, but when his esteemed host stumbled over his choice of words, he flushed with embarrassment. Clamping his palm over the barren site on his scalp, he tried to think of a way to get rid of the (suddenly annoying) elf as expediently as possible.

“Er ... ’tis of little consequence Master Elrond ... erm ... you need not trouble yourself over it.”

Leave that to me.

Elrond gazed at him in understanding, and though the dwarf was grateful (sort of), he really did not wish to feel the pity of his visitor.

“Allow me to be the judge of that, son of Glóin.” The Lord of Imladris approached the flustered dwarf. “If you would kindly remove your hand, I may better inspect the damage.”

He would remove his hand when the elf started hacking at trees! “Nay, Master Elrond, all is perfectly in order, I assure you. You have other duties that need tending to which are far more important than a mere scratch.”

“A mere scratch? From what I saw when you were carried senseless to your chambers, it was a little more than that.”

Senseless?

“I can assure you, my Lord, that I was most certainly not senseless!” Gimli protested loudly. “I was merely ... erm … that is, I ...”

Elrond cocked his eyebrow (which made the dwarf seethe - what was it with elves and eyebrows?) before suggesting: “Unconscious?”

Gimli could feel his temper rising again. Him? Unconscious?

“Sleeping!” he barked.

Was the elf concealing a smile?

“Tell me, do dwarves generally sleep in the abode of their enemies, or is that a habit particular only to yourself?”

Blasted elves! Mayhap it would be better to show him the hairless waste of his head than dance around words all day. Reluctantly, he removed his palm from his scalp and used it to firmly grip the other that lay in his lap (lest it forget itself and take a happy swing at the smug creature in front of him).

Cool fingers gently skimmed the surface of his bald spot. “It does not appear to have suffered much damage …”

What? He was bald!

“… nor need you fear that the hair will not grow back ...”

Gimli gulped. That thought had not occurred to him.

“... although it remains slightly reddened from the affront to the skin ...”

Slightly reddened? It sparkled like the Arkenstone!

“... I think a little balm should take the worst of the sting from it and provide you some relief ...”

Hah! The only thing that could possibly provide him relief was if that cursed beast walked into the kitchens and offered itself up as the evening meal’s main course.

“... and then you may feel free to join us in the dining room for lunch.”

Not in a million years of men would he be joining anyone for lunch!

“I thank you kindly for your concern, Master Elrond, but I do not require sustenance.”

The elf cocked his eyebrow again and Gimli wondered if it would be considered impolite to rip it off his forehead.

“The fine morning meal you so graciously provided still sits heavily in my stomach and I would have more time to digest it properly.”

A blatant lie. He was starving.

“Master Dwarf,” countered his opponent, rubbing ointment over the wound. “Your friends are eager to see you again. It would be most inconsiderate of you not to provide them with the pleasure of your company.”

Was the elf trying to make him the laughing stock of Rivendell?

“They cannot be that eager to see me when even my own father has not provided me with the pleasure of his company,” he fumed.

Placing the balm next to the mirror, Elrond turned away to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Master Glóin and the rest of your company took a stroll with Glorfindel but a few moments after you left for the stables and they have not yet returned. I am certain that your father would not have deserted his son in his hour of need, had he been aware of it.”

The delicate reprimand made him flush. Of course his father would have come to him had he known - what had he been thinking? The tragedy of his misfortune was obviously wreaking havoc with his sense of reason.

“Master Gamgee accompanied you when you were brought back to your chambers and was most disappointed to have to leave, but I thought perhaps you may prefer solitude when you awoke; to contemplate your ... erm ... encounter, and recover from it peaceably.”

He had paused again! The blasted elf had paused again! If the lord of the land himself was not able to control his speech at the sight of his blushing bald spot, then other (less diplomatic) people would scarcely be able to conceal their fascination. He would be a laughing stock!

Take heart, son of Glóin, he thought. If he did not remain in full possession of his hair, at least he still had possession of his axes - and he would be happy to wield them freely at the first person who commented on his suddenly receding hairline.

“That was most thoughtful of you, Master Elrond,” he said through gritted teeth. “No doubt the lad is distressed enough by ... events. I would not wish to have alarmed him further by my own ... reaction on this discovery.”

“How kind of you to think of his comfort in the midst of your own misfortune.” The elven lord rose and walked to the door. “May we then expect your company in the dining hall for the noon meal?”

“If I had something to cover my head with, I would say ’aye’ to you instantly,” he replied, flushing once more at the shame of such an admission.

“Nay, Mater Dwarf. It would be better if you allowed your wound some air: we do not want to trap the tender skin under a helm, cause it to overheat and then become infected with stale moisture from surrounding hair. There are yet two hours before the meal will be served. Perhaps a walk in the gardens until then will aid in your recovery? I believe the hobbits will be convening there shortly for elevenses.”

With that, he departed, leaving a very unhappy dwarf in his wake.

A walk in the gardens? Without sufficient covering for his head? Gimli blanched at the thought.

*~*~*~*

He did not go in to the gardens after all, nor appear for lunch. Glóin returned from his walk half an hour before the midday meal was served and, upon hearing of his son’s plight, came to visit him.

His father was very sympathetic, too (after he stopped laughing), and offered to bring his lunch to his room until he could muster the ’strength’ to leave it. Gimli did not like hiding himself, but really, sometimes, such actions were necessary! He could almost imagine the look of glee on the elfling’s face when he entered the dining hall sporting the biggest bald spot this side of Gondor, so it was necessary to plan his attack when the enemy struck.

It was not because he was a coward …

The hobbits came to see him during his meal and a very guilty looking Sam apologised profusely for the incident before presenting him with a generous serving of his own salted pork in an attempt to make amends (the dwarf nearly threw Pippin out when the youngling commented that he should perhaps rub it on the wound: the fat would apparently encourage hair growth). The foursome remained for a goodly while and raised his spirits considerably (after Merry clouted his cousin for the indelicate remark).

When they departed, Gimli contemplated the remaining meat on his platter.

Oh, why not? Perhaps it would work ...

*~*~*~*

Gimli finally left the guest chambers to attend the evening meal (with his hair pulled over the top of his head and tied behind it, covering his shame - Elrond could glower all he wished!). Fortunately for him, Sam had made a bold request of their host that none other than those present at the time of his friend's encounter with Bill discover what had occurred, so the dwarf’s blushes were spared.

For the most part.

Many of the guests were rather flummoxed at seeing him appear in such a fashion, though none dared question it when he set his axe on the table and growled at them menacingly.

When he finished his meal, he quickly exited the dining hall, intent on returning to his chambers and repairing his helm. To his great dismay, though, he met his enemy in the corridor on his departure. The elf was obviously making his own way in for dinner. Legolas almost passed him by, not recognising him at first; but before the dwarf could rejoice at his lucky escape, the elf paused.

“Why, Master Gimli! Is that you?” he asked in astonishment.

“And here I thought that elves boasted heightened senses. Have your eyes failed you, elf? Obviously, it is I."

If the princeling had somehow found out ...

Legolas smirked at him and Gimli considered leaving the bratling for a more pleasant view - like the pony‘s teeth.

“Forgive me,” said the elf in a deceptively sweet manner. “It is merely that I have never before seen so much of a dwarven face. I begin to appreciate the fortune of my earlier ignorance.”

Did the spawn of a mad king just call him ugly??

“You tread on dangerous ground when you insult a dwarf, elf," he spat, longing to lunge for the axes strapped to his back and relieve the princeling of his eternal existence. Elrond would understand.

“We elves are very nimble, dwarf. No ground is too dangerous for our clever feet,” answered his nemesis smugly. “But I must say that I am very flattered."

Flattered?

Gimli knew he was not going to like the response, but he was unable to stop the demand: “Explain yourself!”

His foe smiled and the dwarf clenched his fists.

“You obviously so admired the style of my hair earlier today, that you have fashioned your own in a similar art! I had not expected such flattery from one of your kind."

He felt his face flushing and wished the smug elf an eternity of baldness of his own, but before he could retort, Legolas delivered the final blow.

“And may I say that, although such a style is … ahem ... unusual ... on your kind, you look almost ... pretty.”

That was it! Gracious host or not, the elfling would not live to see the sun set in the west that very night. Fuming with affront, he made a wild grab at the axes as the elf sprang back and drew his twin knives; but in the dwarf’s haste to remove them, he inadvertently ripped the not-so-secure cord from his head - causing the liberated locks to spill back to their natural position - and giving the princeling a very clear view of his scalp.

Nay! Oh, the shame of it! He clapped a hand over his bald spot and, confrontation forgotten in his greater need, fled.

*~*~*~*

He knew! The son of a mad king knew!

Gimli sat on his bed, cursing the day Thranduil had met the bratling’s mother. How on earth was he to endure the remaining time in Rivendell and a quest of unknown duration with the elf gloating at his misfortune?

Mayhap he should shear the creature’s own hair off with his trusty axe? The princeling would be unlikely to comment on his shining badge of dishonour if he was too busy lamenting the loss of his own tresses.

Durin’s shaggy beard! Anger and embarrassment both fought for control of his body: he would get no rest this night. Curse the elfling!

Deciding that the sooner his hair grew back the better, he grabbed the concealed platter of pork remnants from under his bed and lifted the remaining slice. Placing it on his head, he ripped a soft washcloth lengthways and placed it over the meat, looping the ragged lengths behind his ears and tying it under his chin.

He wasn’t entirely convinced about Pippin’s claim of fat stimulating his follicles, but he was desperate enough to try anything.

Satisfied that he was at least taking some positive action in his battle against baldness, Gimli retrieved his helm and tools before settling himself comfortably on the bed, and began to repair his other casualty of the day.

*~*~*~*

A knock at the door awoke him from his slumber the next morning and Gimli heard his father’s voice calling him to breakfast before retreating into the distance.

He must have been more tired than he thought after the previous day’s drama, for his helm lay discarded on the floor with much of its damage still evident. Mayhap he should not have made himself so comfortable on the bed.

Yawning deeply, the dwarf flung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself up, stretching luxuriantly. Suddenly, the huge lungful of air he was pulling in brought something most unpleasant to his attention.

What in the name of Mordor was that smell?

An awful stench filled the air and, confused, the son of Glóin looked around for its source. Did the Last Homely House boast a battalion of unwashed orcs?

There was no apparent culprit in sight, but every breath he took warned of a decaying beast somewhere nearby.

He walked around the room, frantic to discover the odour ’s cause (lest Elrond blame him for polluting the air of Rivendell) and, passing the mirror, came to a grinding halt …

Aaagh! The pork! He had fallen asleep with his lunch on his head. Fool!

Yanking it off, he rushed to the water jar and hurriedly filled the bowl, scrubbing at his head like a manic mother. But no amount of scrubbing would relieve the stench. He was almost gagging!

What on earth was he to do now? Not only did he have a bald spot, he had a smelly bald spot!

And he had no one to blame for the latest development but himself; Pippin had not suggested he use his lunch as a sleeping cap, merely rub it on his head - and who knew whether the lad had been entirely serious, or if it were no more than an attempt to cheer the miserable dwarf? Bah!

There was nothing else for it: he would have to forego breakfast for a walk instead. He needed to let air circulate around his bald ...

Nay! He would not call it that anymore.

His wound.

Decision made, Gimli lathered his scalp with Elrond’s balm and hoped the flowery scent would a least do something to disguise the ghastly odour emanating from it (as smoke emanated from Mount Doom). He tied it behind his head (more securely this time) until he could find a solitary area in the woods outside to let it loose to breathe. Gathering his helm and tools, he decided to finish the job he had unwittingly abandoned the evening before whilst he cavorted amidst the trees (like a short, hairy elf) waiting for the stench of his head to dissipate.

Mission accomplished, he made his way to the door of the chambers and opened it slightly, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear before slipping outside and making his way to the courtyard staircase.

So far, so good. He had not encountered another living soul as of yet.

His stomach rumbled. Oh, but he was hungry! Still, no point in lamenting that fact now; had he not been fool enough to sleep with a pork slice on his head, he could happily have joined the others to break his morning fast. Blasted idiot! It would serve him right to spend the morning isolated and half-starved after his ridiculous actions. Mayhap he should try to fill his belly with the lingering taste of the meat by attempting to run his tongue over his head ... a fitting punishment!

The unhappy dwarf neared the stables - the root of all his current woes - and briefly pondered the idea of entering them to secure himself a leg of pony for the most important meal of the day (so his sweet mother said), but quickly dismissed it. He was not willing to chance another attack: what if the beast took a fancy for his beard this time? Loomed over him again, flashing his teeth in anticipation of the next bite, like a four-legged Mouth of Sauron? Finding the idea distinctly unappealing, he passed them quickly, stomping instead into the woods of Rivendell in search of an isolated clearing to air his bald spot.

Nay, wound!

*~*~*~*

Gimli returned to the main dwellings of Elrond’s house several hours later, having repaired his helm (and smelling a good deal less like a dead pig) to find Frodo and Sam hovering outside his chambers.

“Master Frodo, young Samwise, good day to you lads. What may I do for you?"

“Hullo, Gimli,“ said Frodo, smiling, while Sam nodded shyly. “We didn’t see you at breakfast this morning and were quite worried. Are you well?"

Bless them! They were concerned for him! His heart swelled at the sight of their big eyes and furrowed brows. ”Do not worry, young hobbits. I partook of an early morning stroll to ... eh ... discover more of our charming surroundings and repair my helm in solitude - I find I am better able to work without distraction and my hunger was not so great this morning that I required feeding.”

A blatant lie.

Frodo looked relieved.

Sam however, was sniffing the air suspiciously. “What’s that smell Mr Gimli, sir?” he asked, with a look of slight revulsion marring his features.

Smell? His head did not still reek, surely? He took a deep sniff and, sure enough, the whiff of spoiling meat floated up his nostrils.

Aaagh! He had left the blasted pork lying next to the water bowl. Why had he not disposed of it?

Gimli stormed past his startled visitors and rushed into his chambers - the stench was almost overwhelming. The heat from his head last night had softened the meat considerably and encouraged its degradation further. He wrapped it in a soft cloth and hurriedly left the room, dashing passed the confused (and gagging) hobbits before making a mad run for the woods again to bury the evidence of his embarrassment.

Frodo and Sam were awaiting him in the courtyard when he returned half an hour later. “Are you sure everything’s all right, Mr Gimli?” asked the stout gardener. “Only, you ran off like you were being chased by a giant wereworm.”

Wereworm? Was that a predator of his kind?

“Nay, lad. All is well. Just some remnants of yesterday’s fine lunch you brought - I had forgotten to dispose of the leftovers sufficiently ... no doubt a side effect of my unhappy encounter with your pet.” He hated to cause the lad guilt, but it was necessary to stop any further enquiries into the matter.

Sam blushed. His master, however, spoke:

“We were going to have elevenses in the gardens with Bilbo and thought you might care to join us, Gimli. It would normally be a little cool for a picnic at this time of year, but Rivendell seems to be somewhat immune from the harsher elements outside. What do you think - will you join us?”

They looked at him hopefully and he could not refuse. How very considerate of the lads! “Aye, Master Baggins, I believe that would be a splendid idea.”

A horrible thought occurred to him: everyone liked the hobbits. What if the elf joined them, too? After having fled the spawn of Thranduil (curse him!) the eve before, Gimli was not looking forward to another encounter - especially as the pretty princeling had now had plenty of time to digest what he had seen.

“Eh, who else will be there?” he asked as casually as he could.

Sam spoke. “Oh, only you, us, and Mr Frodo’s kin.”

Well, then, that would be acceptable. An hour or two away from the stench of his room would give it some time to air properly, if he left the door open.

He smiled broadly at their little faces. Good food (hobbits always ate well), good company (such a cheery little folk) and no danger of verbal duels with the son of a mad king! The three of them left to meet with their companions and spend a pleasant hour enjoying elevenses in the garden.

*~*~*~*

Much to Gimli’s dismay, Elrond was present when the three found Bilbo, Merry and Pippin on a large blanket spread before the pretty little fountain at the rear of the garden.

“Ah, Master Gimli, I have been searching for you all morning. I wish to take a look at your wound.”

The dark elf was frowning at him in disapproval. “And I believe I said that you should not cover it,” he said, indicating the hair pulled across his head and tied at the back of it.

Blasted elf! Mayhap he should be grateful, though. At least his host had not referred to it as his ‘bald spot’.

“You said that I should not cover it with my helm,” he answered truculently. Really, was it completely necessary to chide him before company?

Elrond approached and held out his hand. “Do you have the balm with you?”

Gimli reached into his tunic and produced the pot, miserably untying his hair so his host could minister to his wound. The dark-haired elf frowned even more at the sight of the raw, red skin.

“Is that pork I smell?” he asked in disbelief. Pippin looked up happily from his place on the blanket next to Bilbo, an apple in one hand and a slice of cake in the other.

“Oh, good! You took my advice. See Merry? I do know what I’m talking about!”

Sam and Frodo were watching Glóin’s son in astonishment.

Oh, dear ...

“What advice would that be, Peregrin Took?” enquired the firm voice of the elf.

Nay! Do not tell him, lad.

But a very pleased Pippin was thrilled to share his wisdom with the stately healer.

“Well, you see, some of the cooks at the Great Smials have rather hairy shoulders. It’s the result of constantly hauling joints of meat into the kitchen. If it encourages such growth on their shoulders, it should have the same effect on Gimli’s head, you know,” he announced expertly.

The tweenager took a bite of his apple, “That might be something you could use in the future, too, if you ever meet a bald elf,” he sagely announced between crunches.

Merry spat his berry juice all over the blanket and Bilbo snorted with laughter. “A Took to the core!” he declared between gasps.

Elrond shook his head. “There is no such thing as a bald elf, Master Took,” he said, torn between amusement and disbelief, before returning his gaze to the dwarf. The dwarf, however, was rapidly losing his fondness for the lad. Could not Merry control the rambling child?

“So, Master Gimli, have you been ‘hauling’ joints of meat on your head? On a fresh wound, still raw from its earlier insult, no less?”

Gimli glared at Pippin. “I did no such thing!” he declared, while debating if Bilbo was still fit enough to replace the youngest hobbit on the quest.

It was not a lie, really. He had not hauled it. Foolishly strapped it to his head before falling asleep with his pretty new hat still in place, perhaps, but not hauled.

“Then explain to me, please, the unfavourable odour emanating from it,” demanded Elrond, glowering down at him.

Oh dear. He could not answer that without incriminating himself (and appearing completely foolish before the others), so he remained quiet. His healer lathered more balm on it and - just as Gimli was gathering his hair to pull it back over his head - snatched the leather cord from his fingers.

“You will not be needing this any more, Master Dwarf. If I see so much as a finger covering that wound, I will personally tie your hands behind your back and relieve your scalp of the rest of its covering with a kitchen knife!”

Gimli’s eyes almost popped out his head. He would not dare!

As if reading his mind, the elf added: “Do not underestimate me, Master Dwarf. I shall. And I will seek the full authority of your father to do so. And further more,” he took a threatening step towards the dwarf, “you will attend all your meals in the dining hall with the rest of my guests. If I find out that you have been handling meats anywhere outside of it to perch on your head, and thus ruin all my efforts at treatment, the Valar themselves will not be able to help you!”

With a final warning look at his patient, the Lord of Imladris departed, leaving his patient gaping like a fish at his back.

*~*~*~*

The rest of the morning and afternoon dragged on like a slow torture. Elevenses had not been as pleasant as he had first anticipated due to his paranoia. Could anyone notice? Was it glowing still? Would the others think it rude if he left them to their treats after he had so readily agreed to their company? But if he did that, he would still have to run the gauntlet of the passage back to his room. What if he ran into the other guests? What if he ran into his nemesis? He gulped.

Pippin had tried (futilely) to cheer him. “Don’t worry, Gimli, you can hardly notice it. You’d have to be a lot taller to get a really good view.”

That was not very comforting: everyone in Rivendell was ‘a lot taller’ than him, present company excepted. And what did the tweenager mean by ‘a really good view’? Mayhap he should retire to his (stinking) chamber (and remain there until the quest commenced).

But when he did arrive at it after elevenses, he found two elven maidens already inside: they had been ordered to clean out and perfume his room after several complaints of a horrific stench by passing guests; knowledge which left him flushed with embarrassment. His father would kill him for bringing shame to dwarves everywhere if he thought his son was not even capable of maintaining basic levels of cleanliness in their hosts‘ home.

And when he finally left his much improved quarters later that afternoon, things only got worse.

Much worse.

*~*~*~*

Dinner was one of the worst ordeals the unhappy son of Glóin had ever lived through. His father insisted on sitting him as near the dais as possible (three seats down on the left), which meant that not only Elrond could keep his beady eyes on Gimli (and his bald spot), but he suffered the shame of showing it off to yet another lovely maiden, for Arwen had joined her father and sat under the canopy at the top table.

Boromir (who was sitting directly opposite him) had not been able to take his eyes off Gimli‘s wound! He chewed his bread and cheese mechanically while simultaneously staring at the left side of the dwarf‘s head in morbid fascination before Aragorn finally elbowed him in the stomach and forced him to look away.

Gah! The Steward had another son, did he not? Mayhap he would not object to losing the elder one, if the ignorant man gawked at him like that again. The furious dwarf tore at his meat (venison, thankfully) and glowered at the impudent southern lord.

He could not enjoy the meal or the company, though, convinced that every whisper concerned the naked expanse of skin on his head, that every bellow of laughter was at his expense, and he was all for taking a jaunt to the stables to hack the blasted pony into smithereens that very minute. But his wrath quickly found a new target when the legless one pranced into the hall and took a seat to Boromir‘s right. Nay! Not that close, blasted elf!

‘Legless’ appeared to ignore him for a few moments, but it was only a matter of time ...

“I was sorry to hear of your misfortune in the stables yesterday morning, Master Gimli,” he announced, looking at him in wide-eyed innocence.

How in the name of hungry hobbits had he heard about that? Gloin choked on his ale and Gimli glared at him in disbelief. His father had told him?

“Legolas was most alarmed on your behalf yesterday at dinner time after he met you in the hall, son, so I felt it necessary to inform him of the attack to belay his concern. There is no need for shame - we are all friends here,” he said, trying not to look guilty.

Friends?? His father was jesting, surely! And if the pretty princeling had been genuinely concerned, he would swallow his own axe! Furthermore, he was almost certain the elf had omitted to mention that he had waved his knives at him before appearing for his meal. Curse him!

His father realised he would not be so easily forgiven and muttered some excuse about a meeting with Master Erestor, before quickly rising and departing the hall. Gimli was about to follow him, but Frodo appeared with the other hobbits and they all clambered up on the bench at each side of him, smiling brightly in his direction. He was trapped!

The legless one addressed him again and Gimli swore he caught a slight smirk dancing around his lips. “Does your head pain you, Master Gimli?”

Growling, he answered: “Only when the sound of your voice resonates through it - a situation easily remedied with you absence.”

Legolas laughed. “But I have only just arrived. You are a natural wit, son of Glóin. How delightful! I was afraid that perhaps the pony had swallowed your humour as well as your hair. However, it appears that I had no reason to fear, after all.”

Gimli ground his teeth together; he would be happy to supply the elf with a reason to fear!

But Aragorn interceded, speaking elvish words to the spawn of a mad king which ceased any further antagonistic remarks on his part (for the moment). Gimli continued to clear his plate that he may leave the elf’s company as quickly as possible.

Five minutes later though, he could feel his enemy’s eyes on him again. “What is it now, elf?” he barked, making the hobbits jump.

“I find myself somewhat confused, Master Gimli,” retorted the princeling, not in the least intimidated by his gruff manner.

Confused? Not possible. Gimli had not struck him on the head yet.

“Then I suggest you spend less of your never-ending existence gazing at your own reflection and more of it learning about matters of import,” he huffed.

“That clever wit again! But nay, my confusion lies in this: I smell pork from your general direction, but see venison on your plate. Is that not strange? Do you have a hog concealed under your tunic ... or elsewhere?”

Three sets of accusing hobbit eyes and one set of angry dwarf ones turned to the youngest member present.

“What?” asked Pippin stupidly. “I told Aragorn and Boromir - they‘re men and might need the knowledge one day, you know. Legolas just happened to be there too when I said that Gimli had already tried it out. Where‘s the harm in that?”

The company rolled their eyes, but Gimli was seething. That cheeky young rascal had unwittingly aided his enemy - at his expense! Bilbo, as a member of the Fellowship, was becoming more and more attractive to him: he would be happy to carry the ancient one all the way to Mordor on his back if it would spare him the company of the reckless tweenager!

And the elfling was beaming with delight! He had to fight the urge to leap over the table and knock all his teeth out before it consumed him. A polite cough behind him made Gimli tear his eyes from his foe; Elrond was standing behind him. What? His superior elven vision could not see his glowing head from a mere ten feet away? He had to come and stand directly over it?

“Master Gimli, I would be honoured if you would accompany me to the Hall of Fire where we are to be entertained this eve by Lindir,” said his host.

Hah, he would not be spending the rest of the evening flashing his shame to all and sundry!

“I thank you most kindly for the invitation, Lord Elrond, but it has been a long day and I wish to retire for the night.”

“But Master Gimli, you cannot retire without hearing the wondrous voice of Imladris’ resident nightingale,” offered Legolas’ (much to Elrond’s surprise). “He would be most distressed to be robbed of an audience as auspicious as yourself.”

The dwarf regarded him with narrow eyes. What was the elfling up to?

“Well said, Thranduillion.” Elrond appeared to be very pleased at his guest’s felicitation. “Gimli?”

“Oh, please, Gimli - we’d love to have your company, too. We’ll follow you after we’ve finished eating and maybe have Sam sing you one of his own songs - they‘re very clever!”

Sam blushed furiously at Merry’s praise and Gimli was hard pressed to refuse the eager little faces shining up at him hopefully.

“Very well, then.”

He stood and followed his host from the dining hall, resigned to his fate. The others may have accepted the elfling’s flowery comments at face value, but he would be keeping an eye out for any mischief on the part of the son of Thranduil (curse him!).

*~*~*~*

Ninety minutes (and several glasses of wine) later found a slightly more mellowed Gimli seated on the floor, resting against one of the pillars opposite the great fire. Its blaze burned brightly, reflecting light off his glass rather prettily and he found his gaze caught by the sparkle as Lindir trilled comfortingly in the background. Mayhap elven song could be rendered appealing, if one had imbibed enough. The hobbits had thrown cushions on the ground next to him to soften their seats and they were enjoying the music and overall atmosphere of the ethereal Hall.

Applause broke out as Lindir’s ballad came to an end. Thank goodness, he had been warbling the same tune for the better part of an hour, and Gimli was beginning to suspect he would run out of air.

Movement caught his eye as the elfling replaced him on the raised platform. Mahal’s beard, not him too! If he had to listen to a rendition of the glories of trees from the pretty princeling for the next sixty minutes, he would tear the rest of his hair out!

The hobbits were delighted to see that their elven friend was about to perform for them, and all leaned forward in anticipation of this special treat.

“Tell me, Master Baggins, does the bratl ... eh ... the princeling often perform?” he queried, anxious to know how long the upcoming torture would have to be endured.

Frodo’s brown curls swung merrily as he shook his head. “No. In fact, this is the first time he has done so. I’m very keen to hear some songs from Mirkwood.”

Hmm. The first time? He had a feeling he was not going to enjoy this ...

And his feeling was justified as Legolas opened his mouth and began to sing:

*

“A sorry tale of woe and ail his history did tell

A form maligned by hands unkind in misery did dwell

Until one day when came his way a master brave and hale

Warm words he spoke and shackles broke he freed him from his gaol

*

Our hero knew, though fell winds blew, a new life lay ahead

He need not fear the horrors near when master soothed his head

Though Riders Black bayed at his back, their screams they filled the night

He did not shake, he need not quake, his new life was in sight

*

Then suddenly, oh joyfully! He entered elven land

His hurts were healed, his wounds were sealed by gentle elven hand

A homely stall, with oats and all and lots of golden hay!

His master new, a hobbit true, would visit every day

*

Was this a dream? It would thus seem, such happiness he knew

A large field near, pure water clear, more food than he could chew!

Until the day there came his way a sight of great appeal

In heavy mail, a walking bale, a locomotive meal!

*

Just when he thought there could be naught more tasty than his feed

This mobile meal did thus reveal a very urgent need

To taste a bite of red delight and chew and munch away

To relish bliss that looked like this delicious, fiery hay!

*

Alas, Alack! The hay fought back, unwilling so to part

With glory red, from dwarven head, the pride of dwarven heart

With pony eyes, still on their prize, he would not be denied

His wont was such, he cared not much for foolish dwarven pride

*

With head down low, Bill charged his foe and pressed him to the fence

So stunned was he, could barely see, the dwarf had no defence

And as the sight of pony might came rushing to his head

The scourge of equines everywhere, he fainted as if dead!”

*

Gimli was livid! Never before in his life had he so dearly wished to crush the existence from someone - not even the blasted pony! It was only defending itself, but this ... this ... elf ... had deliberately humiliated him in front of half the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

Now, fully alert and ready to kill, he stormed towards the raised platform, murder fairly screaming from his pores. He hoped the bratling had a sibling, otherwise his mad father would be left heirless before the moon rose!

But Elrond had anticipated his reaction.

“Master Gimli! Stay where you are, I will deal with this.”

“I think not! The elfling has insulted my honour and I will have my vengeance, Master Elrond,” he bellowed as all activity in the Hall ceased.

Legolas, who had been enjoying the smattering of applause his ditty elicited, looked startled. “Beg pardon, my Lord ... ‘deal with this’?”

“Aye, son of an avaricious king, ‘deal with this‘!” Gimli spat in fury. “But I shall be the one doing the dealing, while you will be the one accepting it gratefully! Show me your neck and I will show you the mercy of a swift death!”

Elrond sighed heavily. Not again ...

“Son of an avaricious ... how dare you. How dare you accuse my noble father of avarice when the greed of the dwarves is legend among my people! You burrow into places best left undisturbed in the lust to fill your overflowing coffers; hoard your tawdry treasures at the expense of the hand of friendship - and you call my father avaricious? Indeed the pot has called the kettle black! Mayhap your feared enemy - a pony - ripped what little brains you have out of your head and swallowed them with your coarse hair!”

“I will slay you were you stand, Legless!” roared the infuriated son of Glóin and rushed forward, only to be restrained by Lindir and Boromir. Elrond and Aragorn had the seething prince by the arms as he struggled to free his knives.

“ENOUGH!”

Everyone jumped at the almighty roar and several dozen eyes swivelled to the entrance as the snowy white beard of Glóin reverberated from the volume of his cry. The elder dwarf stomped to the front of the Hall until he stood between the infuriated pair.

“I have heard enough foolishness!” he declared, glaring first at his own son, then Thranduil’s. “You are neither of you fit for the company of this Hall, let alone the company of a Fellowship. If this is how you continue to act amongst yourselves, better that we all set off for the Black Lands right this very minute and beg the Dark Lord for the mercy of his domination!”

All eyes widened at his wrath (and several hardened warriors - elves included - fervently thanked the Valar for the gifts of their own, suddenly-not-so-bad fathers).

Glóin rounded on Legolas. “Master Elf, you know well that your father and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain parted as friends and allies at our last encounter. And since then, we have remained on such terms. We may not visit often for tea and gossip, but we are most definitely not enemies.” He held the infinitely older being’s grey gaze locked in his own and Legolas flushed liked a recalcitrant child. “If your father heard the words you have just uttered about his friends, he would be ashamed of you! However, he is not here, so it remains for me to be ashamed of you on his behalf.”

At this, Legolas lost all desire to fight and dropped his eyes to the ground in submission.

Gimli was about to crow at his father’s victory when Glóin turned on him.

“Your father, on the other hand, is here, and so I tell you this ...” he walked slowly towards his speechless child.

“If your behaviour does not alter this very minute, I will see to it that you face the wrath of one who will make Sauron’s rage appear like a childish tantrum!”

Oh, nay ...

“Oh, yes!” declared his father, accurately reading the crestfallen look Gimli now sported. “And well know you what that means ...”

He would not dare!

But his father knew his features too well and read every thought that passed through his mind.

“Apologise to Master Legolas for your words this instant or I will see that she hears of this outrage,” he threatened.

Swallowing the well-founded fear that had created a lump in his throat, he faced his enemy. Durin’s shaggy beard, but this was difficult! But the thought of his mother and her well-honed swinging-arm was worse.

“I apologise for my hasty words, Master Elf,” he sputtered.

His father hissed at him. “Use the lad’s name, child, or I will pull down your breeches myself and see to it you cannot sit for a week!”

The horrific image of an amused crowd guffawing heartily as Glóin smacked his hairy rump was sufficient to make him obey - indeed, he could barely get the words out fast enough: “Master Legolas, I ask for your forgiveness at my uncouth remarks. Mayhap I have imbibed on a little to much fine elvish wine and took leave of my senses.”

Elrond and Aragorn were deeply impressed by his father’s handling of the situation and threw him admiring glances, which only increased when Glóin turned back to Legolas.

“Now, lad, it is your turn.” At the blond elf’s last half-hearted look of defiance, he approached him and Gimli almost sympathised with the princeling.

“Do not think I would let my advanced age and surroundings stop me from throwing you over my lap too. Mayhap your father would thank me for it!”

He probably would, Gimli mused. The elfling must be a living nightmare to control at home.

And the threat worked, for Thranduil’s son met his gaze. “Master Gimli, I too apologise for my hasty words. They were completely unfounded: I hold only the deepest respect for your people.”

Bah! What nonsense! “Then show it and apologise for the song, Master El ... Legolas,” he retorted, voice dripping with scorn.

His father shot him a heated look of warning and he bit his tongue to prevent further catastrophe.

“I apologise for the song ... I suppose.”

“That will do well enough!” declared Glóin as Gimli began to simmer at the latter remark. “Now, you will each of you go your separate ways and, in the morning, Master Legolas will kindly accompany you to the stables to personally familiarise you with the steeds there. I will not have any son of mine running in fright from a mere pony!”

What? He stared at his father in disbelief.

But before he could protest, the princeling made his feelings on the matter clear first.

“With all due respect, Master Glóin, I do not think it necessary for me to personally oversee your son’s ... tuition. There are many elves at work in the stables already who would be glad to share their knowledge.”

“That may be, Master Legolas ...” His father faced the elf with that look again. “But none of them were spiteful enough to compose a tawdry song about a distressing encounter for my son. If you object, I would be happy to introduce you to his mother too.”

Legolas paled. He had heard of the infamous ire of dwarven females and, from the look on Gimli’s face earlier as his father threatened him with her, he knew it was not to be taken lightly. “As you wish, Master Glóin.”

With promises of good behaviour and team work secured, Gimli’s father smiled broadly. “Well, then. What say you all to another song?” he declared happily as the elf and dwarf were released from their bonds and stalked to opposite sides of the room.

Gimli only remained another half hour (to leave too soon after such a public dressing down would be to admit his shame at it). He watched from amidst the gaggle of hobbits as Elrond, Aragorn and, well, just about everyone else, treated his father like some sort of conquering hero, before he could take no more. Bidding the four little ones farewell, he retired for the night to contemplate his fate.

*~*~*~*

The next morning, Aragorn rapped on his door to inform him that he would accompany Gimli and Legolas to the stables.

“We leave after the morning meal, so do not be late Master Dwarf.”

Do not be late, indeed! Did the man imagine he would spend the whole morning in bed, when his father was eager to use any excuse to send for his mother?

He dressed and appeared in the dining hall promptly, loading his plate with tomatoes (nicely grilled), eggs (beautifully scrambled, like the elfling’s wits) and several fat sausages (Merry and Pippin had attempted to coerce the cooks into making them the first week of their stay and the kitchen staff refused, but when Sam came along and said they were the Ring-bearer’s favourite, they relented). Might as well furnish his stomach with the energy it needed if he was to be faced with both two- and four-legged enemies at the same time.

He ripped at the sausages with his teeth while glowering at the pretty princeling. A whole morning in his company - and under the watchful gaze of a sharp-eyed ranger, too! He would rather shear his beard off.

The sharp-eyed ranger chose that moment to cast his gaze in Gimli’s direction, so the dwarf lowered his own eyes and finished his breakfast in stony silence. Once the meal was over, the moment he was dreading arrived.

“If you have both partaken of sufficient sustenance, let us make our way to the stables,” he said pleasantly, causing both elf and dwarf to glare at him. Apparently, Aragorn was not in the elf’s good books either.

They left the hall, descended the stairs and crossed over the courtyard. Gimli was very unhappy indeed, and his misery must have been plain on his face, for the princeling whispered: “Do not fear, Master Gimli. I will protect you if the vicious beast makes a lunge for the remainder of the springy down on your head.”

He growled. Aragorn was several steps ahead and did not seem to be paying attention to the soft words. Typical! Trust the man to side with his friend.

“I do not require your protection, elf. I am a dwarf, and more than able to protect myself,” he hissed back at the smug princeling.

“Ah, I see. Is that why you sport leagues of naked skin on your scalp?” he enquired smoothly. “Did the pony frighten you so much that you forget your warrior’s arts and immediately offered it your head?”

Curse the son of a mad king! Gimli tried to think about his mother’s ire as a means of keeping his temper in check, but a stoning by her hand was beginning to look more appealing than tolerating any more nonsense from the bratling.

“Do you realise,” continued his enemy, looming over him, "that with all this bright light bouncing off your bald spot, I can see my own reflection in it?”

That was it! He whirled to face the bane of his existence and was just about to make a grab for his axe when Aragorn yelled at them.

“Gimli! Legolas! Desist with your childish behaviour instantly, or I shall fetch Master Glóin!”

Apparently, he had not been as oblivious to the pair’s bickering as the dwarf had originally thought. They glared hot coals at each other for a full minute before Aragorn grabbed each of them by an arm and marched them towards the stables.

“Mae govannen, Aradheth,” the ranger greeted the stable master. “We are here to teach our dwarven friend the art of caring for horses. I would like to start with the pony that accompanied me from Bree, first. They have a relationship to repair…”

Gimli seethed.

“… where is Bill?”

“Estel, mae govannen. He is in the field at the rear of the stables, but, take heed; the pony is suffering from a digestive ailment that has swollen his stomach. He may not be agreeable company this morning.”

Aragorn nodded and led the pair to the rear of the stables. Gimli was most annoyed. Had the stable master not just informed him that the mad beast was not in a fit state for company? A swollen belly on a horse (or pony) was no light matter. The creature had obviously eaten something that did not agree with it and would more than likely be happy to take out the first person foolish enough to approach it - one who could not soothe it as the elves did.

Which immediately ruled out the princeling and the ranger.

Well, that was just perfect! But, wait a minute ...

Something that did not agree with it?

The dwarf felt instantly better. Hah! The beast was suffering from his stolen meal two days since. It would appear that he may be safer than he thought! This pleasant thought was almost enough to make him tolerate the company of the odious elfling, and he grinned widely.

“Does something amuse you, son of Glóin? How odd. I would have sworn that you would be quaking in you boots this near to your enemy.”

But Gimli did not rise to the bait. “I am already this close to my enemy and see how I steady I am?”

He thrust a hand in front of the elf’s face and grinned wider when it did not so much as quiver. “Steady as rock, young one.”

Legolas was not impressed.

“If you would be so kind as to remove your hand,” he said scathingly. Aragorn called out to the dark-haired elf who was leading a very distressed looking Bill from the field. “The stench of rotting pork still clings to your flesh like prey in a spider’s web. Have you been rubbing it on to your skin again? We elves prefer to bathe with soap and water. Have you heard of them?”

The pony was led out through the gate. Gimli clenched his fists at his side, lest he use them to wipe the smirk off the pretty elf’s face.

Brat of a mad king! He stole a look at Aragorn to make sure he was otherwise occupied, and gave the swollen beast a cautious glance too, before returning his gaze to his other opponent.

“Count yourself fortunate, elf, that my father is not here to listen to you slander our kind yet again. He would not take kindly to it after yester eve’s little incident.”

Aragorn’s voice floated towards them in a flow of soothing elvish words. The elf was just about to answer when the pony suddenly swung its frame around, treating the pair to a view of its rear.

“Your claim of steadiness fails you, I see, when the pony so much as moves a hoof. And, for your information, I was referring solely to yourself when I enquired about bathing habits.”

Gimli balked. “You appear to have a rather unnatural interest in my bathing habits, elf! They remain now, as they have always been, none of your business!”

Asfaloth was led past them by another dark-haired elf, looking proud and magnificent: a direct contrast to the pathetic picture portrayed by the miserable pony.

“You flatter yourself if you think that I have any interest in your state of hygiene - or how you achieve it. The only interest I have is in not toppling over from the reek of your unwashed hide!” declared an infuriated Legolas, obviously repulsed by the subtle slur on his character.

Aragorn’s voice continued to wash over them as his hand held Bill’s head gently. But it did little to soothe the bickering pair at the pony’s rear, so immersed in their argument were they.

For the rest of his life, Gimli would always look back and question what made him leap away at exactly the right moment, but he always failed to come up with a plausible answer. Mayhap it was his prolonged stay in the elven lands rubbing off on him, or the sudden piecing together of several facts that led him to the inevitable conclusion; but as the princeling continued to rant and rave over his indelicate remark, a loud gurgling from the pony’s belly made him leap back from his enraged companion ...

... just as an enormous blast of wind bellowed from the pony’s rear, catching the pristine elf’s hair and blowing it in all directions. A rain of slimy brown droplets hit the astonished princeling simultaneously, covering him with the foul by-products of the pony’s former misery.

Gimli collapsed on the ground in heaving mirth, so overcome with wave after wave of raucous laughter that he could not support his own weight.

Mayhap he should call himself ’legless’ now, too!

Aragorn and the dark-haired elf’s heads popped around the side of the pony in curiosity when the elfling yelled in disgust. And the sight of the much happier pony’s face gazing docilely at the infuriated princeling was enough for Gimli to find forgiveness for it in his heart as he continued to roll on the ground in uncontrollable mirth.

Bill the Pony. His new best friend!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s note: Phew! I’ve been working on that all week. But I did promise a good Legolas/Gimli feud, so I hope I’ve delivered it. I am not a conniseur of elvish poetry, and Legolas' effort is probably a bit more hobbity and less elegant than it should be, but if it raises a giggle, I'm well pleased. Also a little bird pointed out to me that dwarves call Aulë 'Mahal', so I've amended it in this chapter (I tried not to refer to the vala at all, but had little choice, in the end). I will amend the metions of him in Chapter 2 at a later date.

One more wrap-up chapter and this story’s ‘vorbei’, as my German friends say…

Auf Wiedersehen, meine Freunde und Freundinnen!

Kara’s Aunty ;)