#gimli gloinson

[greenlaut]

the four hunters 🗡🌿

extras + rambles below cut

yipeee i finally finished this illustration 🎉🎉

this is my personal take on the hunters gang (we will ignore that boromir died). honestly, i had a lot of fun thinking of the designs.

had to bring back my aragorn with his silly braid and blue hair ribbon. he's a ranger for most of his life, so he'd definitely go for practicality and what he's already familiar with—so no armour nor gambeson. he probably had a small fight with elrond before they left for the quest; where elrond tried to make him swap his gear for better, newer ones and aragorn just adamantly refusing because he's a lot more familiar (and more comfortable) with his own. which is why he's wearing tattered and worn rags. his red tunic is the only new thing he allowed elrond to swap to a new one. boromir definitely got exhasperated and somewhere down the line, he loaned aragorn his pair of arm bracers.

boromir (and faramir's (not featured here)) design changed a lot since the past years. it's a mash-up of both movie!boromir and lore accurate book!boromir. his hair is a lot darker and he has more of a storm blue-grey eyes as a nod towards his elendil ancestry. his clothing is heavily based off the movie. as for his cloak; since he's The son of gondor and denethor's favourite, i think he'd definitely get the fortune of wearing a fur cloak. the clasp has the white tree engraved on it.

gimli is by far my favourite. i always wanted to draw my take of gimli in his regalia. as a dwarven royalty, i think he'd groom his hair and beard really well, and he would've put on a lot of accessories to show his status. but since he's on a quest, he's not fully decked out in jewelries—wearing very practical clothing: gambeson with chainmail underneath. also, i like the dwarven fighting style they did in the hobbit movie where they go around and knock people off with melee. so gimli got hefty arm bracers and knuckle weights to really punch the shit out of some orcs.

for legolas; i think despite being an elf, he has the factors of being (1) mirkwood elf and (2) lowkey autistic coded. so he doesn't dress "like an elf"—not that the company would've known, with how limited their interactions with elves in general already. this meant that he dressed too casually despite going on a life-or-death quest. very light leather armour to support his speed and agility. he's not even wearing boots; just a pair of tree-climbing canvas shoes that he wrapped tightly. god knows how he survived this far. he's mostly a right handed archer—but since he lived for quite a long while, he taught himself to shoot with left hand too for emergencies. since his left hand isn't as stable as his right hand, he has a left-shoulder-pad.

THEY ALL HAVE SCARS because who doesn't get scars when you're literal warriors be fr. legolas' are more faded out though, because he's old as fuck.

close-ups:

fin.

[rikebe]

these guys again

[ben-phantomhive-trash]

"I do not doubt it," said Legolas. "But you are a dwarf, and dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe."

"I dare say you could," snorted Gimli. "You are a Wood-elf, anyway, though Elves of any kind are strange folk. Yet you comfort me. Where you go, I will go."

You can commission me here!

[your-fave-is-forklift-certified]

Gimli Gloinson from the Lord of the Rings Trilogy is Forklift Certified!

[philtstone]

Eowyn, 1

1 - in lonely beds ive finally scraped together a functional first scene for my accidentally-a-psych 3 hunters detective agency au. if you guys like this mess i'll turn it into a real fic. with chapters and a plot and everything!!!!! the prompt is ... interpreted but loneliness and my girl eowyn are well acquainted

It is four o'clock on a Tuesday and Eowyn Eomundsdottir has three significant problems. 

Arrest, rapid-onset dementia, and laundry.

Each of her issues is easily explainable if considered separately. Eowyn is the first to admit that her brother Eomer’s always had a bit of a temper, and if she puts aside the necessary development of maturity and commitment to familial responsibilities that happened after their parents died, it was always a matter of time before some poor idiot pressed his buttons in just the wrong-enough way in front of another just the wrong-enough idiot to get him jailed overnight for knocking in an unwitting nose. 

Plenty of people’s uncles develop rapid-onset dementia, she is freely ready to acknowledge. 

And – if Eowyn may be so self-aware – she has certainly fallen behind on her laundry many times before. 

But no matter how short her brother’s temper, he wouldn’t be arrested for trying to embezzle family funds. Rapid-onset dementia is far less likely when there is next to nil history of it in your family tree, and even less so when the Uncle in question is a scant fifty-three and doing perfectly fine not two months ago. And, most importantly: Eowyn has fallen behind on laundry before, but never because of the above-mentioned two issues, and never such that the only thing she’s got left to wear is a thin white sundress from when she was fourteen that is too short at the knees and not at all suited for the early spring cold spell they are currently experiencing, nor the creepy wandering eyes of Uncle Theoden’s new business manager, who routinely looks like he’s been doused in oil. 

It’s fucking miserable, is what it is. Her knees have goosepimpled, she’s so cold. And to make matters worse, her cousin Theodred, whom she would usually text for help in a crisis, seems to have blocked her phone number.

That, Eowyn simply can’t believe.

It’s because of all these things that she finds herself standing at the dingy brick building by the docks, eyeing the circling seagulls warily, and clutching her backpack in one hand and her bike helmet — which has left her long blonde hair looking like a birds nest — in the other. It’s a small place, with a glass window in place of a front wall that’s got the blinds drawn on the inside. There’s no official sign, but someone has taped a small piece of cardstock to the back of the windowpane, facing out. It reads, in surprisingly elegant black Sharpie penmanship:

Telcontar, Gloinson & Thranduilion Private Investigators for Hire 

Beneath this, there is an additionally taped series of brightly coloured post-it notes, which are scrawled over with the following in various hands:

Got a phone! +1591-334-9920 (If no one answers the door, call the number! We DO NOT have a website.) That’s because Gimli thinks the government is spying on us. SO DO YOU! All inquiries welcome :-) 

Eowyn takes a moment to read through it all. Then she pauses, listening. There is the distinct sound of voices from within, muffled. So someone must be home, then – better just to open the door, rather than knock, in case no one hears her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, tugs at the too-short hem of her dress, and twists the doorknob.

Inside there is what can only be described as carefully organized chaos.

Within the small office space there is a cluttered desk housing a laptop and overlarge monitor. Boxes cover everything, as though someone has only just moved in, and a lopsided whiteboard rests against the far wall, covered in a far less elegant version than the hand that wrote the outside sign. Everything smells a little bit like camphor, and also cookies, and a very faint touch of gym socks. A man sits on a rolly chair in the corner; he is on his cellphone. Eowyn wouldn’t have even seen him if he wasn’t talking, so well does he somehow blend into the taupe walls and cluttered box decor, but as she does: he is tall (too tall for the chair), dark haired, and wearing an old grey hoodie, running shoes, and an abominably ratty pair of jeans. He’s talking on the phone in a low gentle voice that is nonetheless a touch put-upon, but nowhere near snippy or even frustrated. Eowyn (in a fit of fancy) doesn’t think a voice like that could be capable of snippiness, and then promptly feels very embarrassed by her own foolishness. At his feet, by the bottom of the whiteboard, a pile of dirty blankets rests. From within them sounds a plaintive meowing. Opera music plays from a speaker system Eowyn can’t see; a hammer (maybe?) is banging somewhere in the distant back room, the door to which hangs open on squeaky hinges; and two other voices can be heard arguing loudly from the same general direction.

Also, there is a young man, around Eowyn’s own age, standing very awkwardly with his green jumper and moppish brown hair to the immediate left of the door and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. At Eowyn’s bewildered look, he offers her a pained smile and a weird little wave hullo. Eowyn waves weirdly back.

“Yeah – yeah, just a second. We’ve got a client –” The man in the rolly chair looks up at Eowyn and smiles. It is such a very nice, genuinely kind smile that Eowyn cannot help but smile back immediately and then feel her whole face go red; she’d be thoroughly soothed if she wasn’t also feeling so completely out of her depth. Bang bang bang, comes the hammer from the back room, along with a swelling of the arguing voices. “Someone will be with you in a second,” whisper-mouths the man. Then he reaches down, takes off one of his running shoes, and flings it very expertly through the open door. There is a small noise, like a crash, and the other two voices stop. He returns to his phone call.

“... what I was saying. No. No, I don’t want you to be halfway across the world. That’s not the point, the point is your dad stopped practicing ten years ago and now owns a bed and breakfast. He’s not the one who’d be navigating a corrupt healthcare system. Do you know how much lobby money lines the pockets of mega corporations? Remember the whole Nestle baby formula thing? The media definitely doesn’t …” 

“Good afternoon!” declares a second, much louder voice, minutes before its owner materializes behind the cluttered desk. He is more beard than man, wears a very formal and very 1990s plum coloured suit and one single gold earring, and comes up to about Eowyn’s shoulder. He claps his hands together. “Now, which of you was here first? No – don’t tell me, I will guess!”

But his imminent guessing is interrupted by the third voice, floating in: 

“I still can’t find it!”

Desk man deflates by a margin. Without turning his head, he calls, 

“I told you to look in the third box!” 

“I looked there. It’s not there, Gimli. I’ll try going through the books.”

“Why would a thing like that fit in a book?”

“Try the kitchen,” mouths the man on the rolly chair. A muffled woman’s voice comes through his mobile. He has one hand covering his face now, and his head tipped back to face the ceiling. “Well, yes – I do know that. You’re really telling me you don’t want to go to Paris for a year.” While Eowyn watches the meowing blanket pile moves and from within it a truly horrible looking little cat emerges. It shoots one paw out as if intending specifically to scratch its phone-occupied companion; the speed at which he moves his foot to pin the blankets hem and thwart the little paw is bordering on superhuman. Cat hisses pathetically from under its blanket prison. On the speakers, the opera singer has reached a uniquely high pitch in her stanza. “No, obviously I don’t want to do long-distance, I just think — uh huh. Yes. I’d tell anyone to go to Paris. I’d tell Gimli to go, if Gimli’s university was offering to send him to Paris.”

“He’s already tried the kitchen,” says the man at the desk – presumably Gimli. Still, he yells out, “Try the kitchen, would you?”

“I’ve already tried the kitchen!” calls the disembodied voice. “I can’t find it!”

“You can’t find it because of your terrible organizational system.”

“It is not my terrible organizational system, which you know, and besides which I have never had problems with it before.”

“No,” from the rolling chair, “Legolas is maligning my organizational skills. I know you think they’re fine, so you can tell your cousin that on Sunday …”

“Try the kitchen.”

“I’ve tried the kitchen twice.”

Bang bang bang, continues the sound from the back room. Eowyn wonders if there isn’t an ongoing construction project. The young guy on her left, with the moppish hair and jumper, gives her a look as if to say, Filing cabinet, maybe?

“As you can see, gentle lady,” explains Gimli the desk man, very politely to Eowyn, while the second voice declares somewhat redundantly that he is, in fact, going to check the kitchen, “we are a tad busy this afternoon. Someone will be with you momentarily.” He turns, presumably in the kitchen’s direction, and calls out, “if you ask my opinion on the subject again, I’ll wallop you with Aragorn’s dratted guitar!”

Eowyn looks. There indeed is a battered old guitar, perched merrily on a pile of papers behind the front desk, ready to be used for walloping.

“I could come back later,” says Eowyn. She looks over at jumper guy, who’s staring at the still-hissing pile of blankets with some concern. “Can’t really speak for him, though.”

Jumper guy looks aggrieved. “Er – no, I’d rather not come back later. Gandalf said you’d be free to help.”

“And help –” begins Gimli, while there is another crash from the back room (they all wince, though Gimli does it with serenity) “-- we shall! If you give my colleague Legolas a moment to get his head on straight –” (the disembodied voice says something very rude in response to this pointed inflection), “-- then the two of us will be at your disposal.”

“Three of us,” interjects the first, almost forgotten voice. 

Eowyn and her jumper-clad companion turn startled to look: cellphone put away, rolly chair man has stood up to his quite considerable height and is looking at them consideringly. Despite his mildness of expression Eowyn experiences the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at by someone who could in a more fantastical setting have, like, laser vision or something – how is he doing it? And she is sure he isn’t really seeing right through her but she does get the sense he is understanding a lot more than she’d like to let on. Almost defiantly she tugs at her dress and clutches her bike helmet closer to herself. Jumper guy clears his throat. Then from the back room comes – presumably – Legolas, who is fair, thin, and for reasons unexplained wearing sunglasses indoors. He is also covered in what Eowyn hopes are pillow feathers and holding, in one hand, a very large glittering silver sword, and in the other a dingy looking VHS tape. It has cartoon vegetables in cloaks on the front.

“Did anyone know we still had this?” he asks pleasantly, and it is not clear to which find he is referring, “Arwen and I used to stare at it for hours as kids.” He spots Eowyn and her jumper-clad counterpart. “Oh – hello!”

Eowyn gapes. The three of them make a fascinating picture, standing there alongside each other.

“Now then,” says the man called Gimli. “Faramir, we know of already –” he nods at the boy beside Eowyn, who looks a bit bewildered by this, “as Gandalf sent him here! But this young lady we do not. How can we help?”

Perhaps it is the blinding reflection of the hopefully-a-prop sword, but Eowyn is suddenly overtaken by an awful affliction of watery eyes, which has nothing at all to do with her general feelings of overwhelm — until now expertly repressed — she is sure. She feels at once full of despair and yet shaking with eagerness, and everything she’d been desperate to explain to a listening ear gets stuck in her throat in the face of three, admittedly sort of weird (somewhat stern, verging on intense, dipping into outright comical), thoroughly kind faces looking right at her. It suddenly occurs to her how horribly, horribly alone she’s felt for the past six weeks.  

She remains rooted to the spot and tragically mute while Faramir, from beside her, begins all at once,

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I didn’t want it getting back to dad, so Gandalf seemed like the best option — and he said you were very trustworthy, and I do trust Gandalf of course – but it's my brother, you see, he’s disappeared,” vaguely Eowyn is aware of a grim look of surprise rippling through the collective at this reveal, “and it’ll sound crazy but I had this awful dream two weeks ago …”

While Eowyn attempts to wrangle her misbehaving emotions like one would a wobbly-legged yet stubbornly misbehaving colt, an impromptu consultation begins.

“Gone missing?”

“I bet he went hiking or something and lost his phone. It’s happened before.”

“Boromir hates hiking, though. Remember when Aragorn tried to bring him camping with us?”

“No wonder Gandalf sent you here.”

“I have odd dreams too sometimes; they are usually because of indigestion. I’m sure old Boromir’s just fine.”

“No,” insists Faramir, who seems – in Eowyn’s half-attentive estimation – to be doing an admirable job at hiding his surprise at this existing knowledge of his brother. “He’s not answering my texts – it’s like he’s blocked my number, which doesn’t make any sense!”

Eowyn’s head jerks around to stare at him. 

Could it be a coincidence? That is exactly the thought she herself had, not an hour ago, about her own cousin. Is it possible that she isn’t crazy, and her awful yearning for Eomer to be here and not in overnight jail, so someone who is not Eowyn could deal with things, is not childish? She opens her mouth, but her words are stuck again. All she can do is inhale like a small bird puffing up its chest and make a very very faint squeaking noise, which she is mostly sure no one can hear.

“Legolas,” interjects rolly chair man. His sharp grey eyes, which had flitted around briefly and shrewdly throughout the hubbub, are now fixed again on Eowyn, and thoughtful. The commotion dies down. In a mild voice he says, “Maybe you could fetch a clean pair of gym shorts and a blanket to lend our new friend, so she’ll be a bit more comfortable.” 

Eowyn, swaying a bit on the spot, hadn't even realized she was tugging at her dress again. 

“Oh,” she manages.

“Aye, I’d say you’re about the same size,” agrees Gimli, to Legolas, after a beat. “Aragorn has a good eye for these things,” he adds, as if needing their prospective clients in crisis to know this.

“I’ll bring her a comb, too,” says Legolas, not at all meanly, and goes to fetch these things.

“And I’ll put on some tea,” says Aragorn, so named, and for a second time his face softens with that warm, open smile. “I’m Aragorn,” he continues. “Let’s all sit down, and you can both start from the beginning; everything will be alright.”

In the moment after this offer Eowyn locks eyes with Faramir. He is standing next to her. His jumper looks particularly sad now that she is paying attention. He isn’t looking at Aragorn or the sword or the pillow feathers Legolas left behind, but at her. Right at her. There’s a solidarity there. It would be a touching exchange, Eowyn thinks, if not for the fact that the feral cat in its blanket pile has started talking to itself in oddly pitched meows.

A large crash sounds from the back room, accompanied by the sound of a child swearing.

“Yeah, okay,” Eowyn says. 

For the rest of today, at least, she has decided that she refuses to feel alone.

[kanalaure]

okay so im at the stage of packing where i'm packing books up, so naturally i got distracted and started reading instead. and the funniest part of fellowship is when they're about to leave rivendell and then you get elrond 'raised by oath-bound and doomed feanorians in late stage apocalyptic beleriand' peredhel and gimli 'raised by a member of the dwarvish company who persevered despite everything thrown in their path and achieved their goal to retake the lonely mountain' gloinson having a conversation

[lucigoo]

In the Darkness, You are My Shining Star

A Gigolas love story set in the Deep Rock Galctic universe, witha few tweaks ofc. This fic was written for the @tolkienrsb 2024 evet and I was blessed to be paired with @babybat98 as a partner. Their amazing "Dwarves in space" is pheominal, so please give them some love too.

Summary: The Trope of Thorin Oakeshield are excavation miners in the depths of space working hard to feed and support their fledgling colony.

The newest recruits have been allowed into space. Gimli Gloinson is one of those recruits. he is oging to learn how scary space can be, but also how very rewarding it can be too. And as always and excerpt:

Gimli wasn’t sure how long he had laid there, dazed, but as soon as he could clear the black spots from his vision, he jumped up and rushed back to where his family had been moments before. "Adad! adad! Oin! Thorin!" he called frantically, terrified. He rushed through the still falling rocks and stood there, staring at the sheer amount of rock that was where his family had been. Gimli let out a guttural roar as he launched himself at the stones, screaming for his adad. He wasn’t sure how long he had been digging before he managed to form the smallest hole. From it, a hand suddenly poked through. Gimli felt his legs give way beneath him as his chest heaved with his exertion. His fear mingling with his adrenaline caused him to bow his head and give thanks to Mahal. At least one of his family was still alive. He heard his name being called and he rushed to the hole. He realized it was Kili’s hand sticking out and he grabbed it gently, almost reverently. "Kili," he said with a choked-off sob.

And if dwarves in space are not for you, well TSRB has all sorts of fics and art to enjoy <3

[mynameisjessejk]

Trunk or Treat

Happy Halloween from the GangAU!

"I'm not entirely certain what I bring to the table here," Legolas said slowly, leaning on the dolly which held the bucket of candy.

Elrohir said dryly, "You're here to limit Elladan's sugar intake."

The twins were done up in painstakingly identical wound makeup, and the back of Elrohir's ambulance was done up as an abattoir. Elrohir's partner and driver, Gimli Gloinson, was weilding a cleaver which he apparently forged himself in his free time, splattered with the red dye they were using as fake blood (because, in Elrohir's words, "It was so obviously the wrong color!"). Estel Dunedain, the young rookie Elrohir and Gimli were training, was holding a meat hook sort of uncertainly.

Paenvellon, dressed like Legolas as a delivery man for the local supermarket, popped the trunk of their car, which was apparently now a meat freezer. "In you go," he said cheerfully to Elladan.

Elladan flopped happily into the trunk. Next to them, Elrohir flopped across the gurney-turned-processing-table. Gimli raised the cleaver mockingly over him.

"Oh, very nice!" Este, Elrohir's boss, said brightly, looking between the cars. "Elrohir, so good of you to rope your partner into this!"

"Hi Este," Paenvellon said obligingly. She thought he was a dock-worker, which he found hilariously funny.

"Hi Este!" Elladan said, popping out of the trunk.

"Oh!" she startled, and then she laughed. "Oh, perfect! Hello Elladan," she added. "And you must be Elladan's Legolas!" she added to Las.

Legolas waved, bewildered.

"Thank you for joining us! The kids will be thrilled we had such a good turnout!"

Legolas admitted to himself that this was the real reason he'd allowed Elladan to drag him out on All Hallow's Eve in a costume. Cirdan's Home was not in a neighborhood where kids could go trick or treating. Lindon Fire and EMS had put on a Trunk or Treat in this lat for as long as Legolas could remember.

He had only learned about the unspoken competition between the firehouses and ambulance crews once Elrohir had joined LFEMS, though.

A Fire Resccue truck backed in beside them and four zombies piled out. "Ooh, brains!" one of the men said brightly, waving at Elrohir, who'd moved forward to help them back, and Gimli. "Peredhel, Gloinson!"

"Girionson," Gimli replied, apparently recognizing the zombies. "Zombies again Ironfoot?"

"Fuck you, Gloinson, they're a classic," another zombie replied tartly.

"Better than Station Six's vampires," Girionson said.

"So true," Elrohir agreed. "Who's your friend?"

The fourth zombie, lingering a little back, waved.

"My brother," the woman in the group said. "He's a cop, but we'll forgive him for it this once."

"I mean, maybe," Elladan said, leaning his chin on his elbow on the lip of the trunk.

"Holy shit," Ironfoot said.

Elladan waved, showing teeth.

"My brother," Elrohir said. "Not a cop, but an asshole. I'll leave forgiveness up to you."

The cop-zombie looked between them, and Legolas was pretty sure Elladan, at least, had been recognized. Paen was blocked by the car, and he was pretty sure there were no photos of him floating around. This should be very interesting.

"Candy?" Elladan offered, waving at the dolly Legolas was still propping his elbows on. "Hi Tillion."

The cop-zombie waved again. "Hi Elladan," he said wryly. "Nice to see you somewhere other than the station."

"I'm a frequent flier," Elladan confided in the firemen. "Because I keep getting in fights."

"In his defense," Tillion said easily, "He keeps getting in fights stopping crimes so it's kind of hard for us to be mad about it."

"Well someone ought to do your job!" Elladan said.

Tillion laughed and flicked a piece of candy at Elladan. He, apparently, had possession of the firemen's bowl.

Legolas took the candy from Elladan before he could eat it, dropping it in their own bowl.

Elladan pouted up at him, so Legolas gave him a kiss.

"Heads up," Estel called, deftly hooking his meat hook into Elrohir's collar and pulling him back towards the gurney. "Tiny princess!"

Legolas wheeled the dolly forward to offer candy to a very brave small princess in a tiara, while Gimli and Estel wrestled Elrohir to the gurney and started strapping him down.

Elladan popped his head over the lip of the trunk just in time to make a group of tween boys shriek and scatter.

Legolas, getting into the spirit of the game, shoved him back inside, while Paen took possession of the candy-cart. It wasn't quite as fun as breaking into one of Sauron's warehouses or boating out into the harbor to make exchanges, but he supposed it would do for an evening.

[irritablepoe]

someone mention lotr, i will bring up gimli gloinson

[rikebe]

some modern gigolas before i sleep bc i reeeaaaally wanted to draw legolas in a snapback

[fishfingersandscarves]

cruel cruel caradhras

[aro-kai]

This poll is so closed but I feel I must submit one (1) additional vote for Gimli "I just walked thru the ruins of the halls of my forefathers, found the tomb of my relative, and watched our friend die, but Frodo You Absolutely Must Look At This Cool Pond With Me" Gloinson

Incorrect Quote Poll

[fic-rec-time]

Sansûkh: The Appendices (Series) by determamfidd, jeza_red, kailthia, PunsBulletsandPointyThings, Setari, the_dragongirl, TheSansukhEnsemble, voxmyriad

The Hobbit~The Lord of the Rings/Incomplete/Works: 21   Words: 98,420 // All the extras, parts that didn't fit in the main fic, backstories, and etc. from Sansûkh.

[kanellebullar]

Last Year's Christmas Gimleaf " Calendar"

[july-19th-club]

me thinking abt legolas’s adventure leggings again: dude your elf looks gnc af

gimli gloinson himself: your insane

[ravenschmaven]

Guess what I did

Hello hello ummm okay fic ask!! Legolas/Gimli, royalty, idk what the range of allowed/acceptable numbers is, lol, as much as you want to write? preferably longer than shorter!

“So you are to be-”

“Wedded, aye, upon my return to the Lonely Mountain.” Gimli said, tucked in his bedroll. “Having spent so long away from it, I forgot that I am a Lord worth a pretty penny.”

“I would hope your future beloved provide you with more than pennies, though they would match your beard.”

Gimli laughs, loud and boisterous, and Legolas has the awful impulse to kiss the soft folds beside his eyes. But he cannot, should not, he is to be wedding and Legolas, too, to be wedded, in some political farce that will stop the Greenwood from remaining the isolationist kingdom it has become accustomed to being.

“Ah, Legolas, how awful it is that we are doomed to loveless marriages. Me, to an elf who will loathe my tastes in ale and song!”

“And I, to a dwarf who will see my barbs as cruel, and not companionable.” Legolas’ heart ached with missed opportunity. If he had just drawn upon his strength, had Legolas been born a little more courageous, perhaps he would have been able to confess to Gimli that it was he Legolas pined for, that it was the rough feel of a red beard pressed against a bare forearm that he wished to become familiar with, that Legolas longed to know the art and meaning of the braids in his beard, longed to place them there. But Legolas is a coward amongst kings, and the words die like lilies beneath horseshoes.

“I will miss our arguments, though, perhaps, as we will be companions in circumstance again, your company I will be able to keep!” Gimli looks at him, and Legolas shivers. “Legolas, you are awfully quiet.”

Legolas pulls up his own bedroll. “Just tired. You should rest, Gimli. Appearing before your future partner looking like a drowned fox is not the best first impression.” Gimli squawks in disbelief, and Legolas lets himself fall asleep to the sound of Gimli’s protests, pretending, for one final night, that this can last forever. 

Send me a ship, a number and a word and I’ll write you something!!