Glimra was frozen stiff with horror. The warmth of the bed chamber not withstanding, her stout and short body was racked with shivers, her skin undulating like that of a fly bitten horse. Her nightgown, of the finest silk from the Farthest of Far Harads, was melanic as to set off her leucocratic skin to best advantage. Her skin was like polished marble smooth and unblemished by warts. And no stretchmarks either – to which breasts and hips blooming with puberty were prone to - due to diligent use of special creams, patted and rubbed in every morn and evening. Her skin was marred with an odd freckle here and there, however, she remembered with terror!
Before her knees turned to jelly with worry and made her seek the bed to recline she had examined herself – all two thirds of a ranga in Mannish units of it - in the floor length mirror to check for any imperfections of makeup and hair, to reassure herself that she did have a chance to entice a certain azure orbed Prince to her. The gauzelike material – with some strategically placed splashes of lace – gave a good hint at her sleek, strong figure, not fat yet with all the necessary feminine curves.
She had set her gamboge hair loose, after fifty strokes of her silver brush inlaid with mother of pearl. Man lore whispered among the maidens hinted at men liking the hair of the woman unbound. Also, fidgeting with the natural waves of the hip length cascade of miniaceous tresses gave her fingers something to do though she did her best not to fizz the tips while she angsted, full of trepidation and uncertainty;
"Will he find me fair, beautiful, alluring even? Or at least ... comely, not ... not repulsive?"
FINALLY!
Her round, large and meaty ear caught the barely discernable steps of a certain blond archer. She snapped up her hand mirror for a last gasp scrutiny of her appearance. Eye shadow still there – check. Black lines around eyes still there – check. Eyebrows plucked, no longer thick like a bullock-proof hedgerow running from one end of her forehead to another – check . Following advice from the Wise Among the Eldar these were now two delicate arcs over her almond shaped eyes, carefully dyed to be within two shades of hair colour. Sable arcs would had made her look cheap, or so they said, so she went with umber instead. She slipped the mirror under the pillow and pinched her cheeks, to bring more natural colour to her round face, with strong chin and good jaws, capable of chewing a leg o' mutton clean in five minutes, a highly desirable quality amongst her folk.
Her heart beat as if it wished to rip itself from her shapely bosom when she saw the gaze of his caesious globes rest upon her figure. Steeling herself for what she knew she had to do, Glimra drew strength from her pride in her lineage. A princess she might not be, but she still was a Daughter of the Eldest line of Kings of her folk! She had to do this!
She had been briefed that among the elves it was the union of bodies which made marriage, not the speaking of Vows or signing of contracts. She had to let the elf know what she was like. Her honour did not allow her to make him buy a pig in a poke. And it was better to be rejected now than to suffer his disgust to her dying day!
With trembling, slim (for her race) fingers she shimmied the gown off her now goosebumps covered body. She could not bear to look into his eyes, as not to see the revulsion there. Glimra knew that as a dwarf she was more hairy than females of other races ...
Oh, Mahal! Damn Gimli to Mordor! How drunk must had he been to give her hand to his elf friend? Yavanna have mercy on me!
TBC