Out on the beach to clear his head, post-break up Gimli inadvertently stumbles across an ancient—and rather amorous—creature.
Break ups were hard enough without nosy cousins in the mix. It was bad enough having to crash at Fí and Kí's place like a fucking kid, but not having any of his stuff, having to bum clothes, pipeweed, rides to work...it was the little shit like wearing his cousin's pants or puffing his cousin's pipe that drove him crazy.
And the worst part—the very wort part—was that asshole Ári Aíns'son kept drunk texting him.
miss u
Then maybe next time don't fuck your ex, Gimli glowered sourly out at the Mirrormere bay. He'd come here to clear his head (escape his cousin's awkward conversations and insistence on setting him up with a Mjølnr profile) but even the sight of the waves and starlight couldn't clear his sour mood. He really ought to delete the texts, block his calls—but part of him (a whole fucking lot of him) still loved the son of bitch. He'd made the Mahal-damned beads, for Durin's sake!
we should talk come over
...followed by a rather inviting photograph of Ári and his naked arse in their—his now, his—bed.
He'd been wrong. The worst part—the very worst part—was that so much of him was ready to forget, forgive, and go straight back and fuck him. Ári was a built Blacklock, strong shoulders, sculpted arse, arms like Mahal's himself, skin like obsidian. The damned beautiful fuck could have any Dwarf he wanted, and he'd chosen Gimli, a down-on-his luck Longbeard with no money to his name. He would never—could never—do better than that cocksucking cheat. "You deserve better, Gimmers," Fí had told him flatly. "You deserve better."
...but he didn't, not really. And he'd never get anything better, either.
i'm waiting
Durin's saggy left testicle! Ripped chest and lean hips, one hand caressing his cock.
...heart leaping in his chest, he was half-way through typing his reply before rational thought caught up with him.
"Mahal damnit!" Gimli swore and tossed the phone far from him. It felt good to fling that unfaithful bastard far away, but the not-so-distant splash was far from satisfactory. But then, to his utter surprise, the phone came sailing back to land with a plop! in the shell-strewn sand before his feet.
For several seconds, Gimli only stared at it, that final image of his ex now crusted with coarse sand. What. The Actual. Fuck.
"Fuck you and your fucking—fuck!" he threw the phone with vehemence into the rushing surf. Let the water carry the damn thing away. Wash away the memories. He was done, alright? Done. Mahal only knows he'd probably die single and alone anyways but at least he'd keep his pride.
Gimli grunted at the waves, a curse, perhaps farewell, then turned, resolved to move on with his life, pathetic as it was.
...Something hard, wet, and suspiciously shaped like that Mahal-damned phone slapped him straight in the back of his head.
"FUCK!" he roared, and whipped it right back into the waves.
Too angry, too tearful to question how in Mahal's name how or why, but that fucking phone lapped gently ashore right at his feet. "MAHAL-DAMNIT!"
Five more times he threw it, cursing and crying and pleading and praying. And five more times the damned thing came impossibly, inexplicably back to him.
A dream? Sign from Mahal? Going fucking insane from lack of sleep and crying his eyes dry every night in bed alone? He didn't know. But he was worn. Exhausted. Weary as no Dwarf should be. He sighed. Knelt. Pocketed the damn thing with indifference. He'd come here to Mirrormere for what—answers? Peace? Did he even really know?
They said it was where Durin found his crown, first became King. But that was a long fucking time ago, and the Dwarves hadn't had a damned King in generations. They said it didn't reflect anything but starlight, but sometimes—at the right time, for the right person—the eddying waters would show you what you wanted most.
Answers? Peace? Love? Well, he'd found neither.
Fuck the waves. Fuck the starlight. Fuck this phone and fuck my life, he thought, and turned his back to the ocean once more. Began the long trek home.
"Daro! Daro! I—wait!"
And suddenly on the empty beach there was a man.
...No, Gimli thought, blinking through his tears. Not a Man. Whatever—whoever—this was, it wasn't a Man. Not in the slightest. Naked. Bare. Skin as white as moonlight, iridescent as the inside of a shell. And his hair—his hair!—flowing like the living spray of starlit waves. "You— you don't want me?" It—he—asked.
"I—er," Gimli grunted eloquently.
"You called me." The creature explained.
[You know what it is. You know the name.]
[But you can't say it.]
[It's impossible. They don't exist.]
And Gimli looked down at the salty, sand-spotted phone in his palm, half-expecting there to be a missed call. "You threw it in," the stranger insisted. "Seven times. Seven times exactly. You summoned me."
"Sorry—excuse me—but wha—who exactly, are you?"
"Seven times," he said again, counting on those long, slender fingers. "That's how it's done, yes? So here I am! I am yours!" Bloody breakup. Playing with his mind more than he thought. "Who are you?" the naked stranger prattled on. "Well, I know you you are—you are mine, I am yours— I have seen you, watched you, followed you—"
[...well. Wasn't that terrifying.]
"So I know. But I don't know really who—your—name? Yes. Name. That's it! I have called you many things, of course, melon, gwador, mathron, mathader, hervenn, meleth, melethron—but those aren't your names. Name. Whichever," he laughed. "I don't know. But I am here now! I am yours! And now I will know!"
Gimli's exhausted mind couldn't keep up. And his eyes just couldn't stop fucking staring long enough to form coherent thought. "Um, sorry," he mumbled. "Who are you?"
"I'm yours! Of course you can't call me that—unless you want to—do you want to? I don't mind. You may call me yours. But I suppose you could also call me Legolas. That is my name. Well, one of them. I'm also Laegolas, go-Thranduil, Thranduilion, Halloth, we have many of them. But I am called—well, it's what I call myself? I suppose. Yes. I suppose then it is my name. Or one of them. But you may call me that, or anything else, really," he rushed in one long breath. "I am yours!"
"Losing my bloody mind," Gimli sat in the sand. "Losing my Mahal-damned mind."
"I—you seem, I don't know—sad?" the thing—it—he—plopped abruptly down beside him, sprawled naked and gorgeous. "Why are you so sad? I thought—I supposed, I suppose—that I would cheer you up? But you still seem sad to me. I could cheer you up! Look! I can sing. Or dance. Or both. I can kiss you, if you like. Or other things! Oh—oh! could we do other things?" Those luminescent eyes lit up even more as he laughed. "I have never done the other things. Not before. Not yet. Not with anyone—could I do them with you? Now? I am rather curious. I should think I would like to. I don't mind. Whatever you want. We can try them!"
"Um, sorry. Are you high? Drunk? Lost?"
"Lost? No. No I am not lost. I have come to shore is all—to find you!" he rolled to his stomach, kicking white feet in the moonlight, bare arse peeking through the curtains of his hair. "And now here you are! What fun we shall have!"
He stared.
The creature—the selkie—smiled beautifully back. "You are mine now," he sang, crawling forward on his belly to nuzzle against his leg, kissing bare, hairy skin. "I am yours!"
And it was at this point Gimli decided that he was dreaming. If his unconscious mind had decided the best—perhaps only—way to get over Ári was to screw a gorgeous mythological creature on the beach who'd popped out of the waves begging to be fucked by him shortly after receiving his ex's sexts, so be it.
...Mahal knows he'd seen stranger porn as a young Dwarrow in Ered Luin.
"I, um, for the love of Mahal..." he said thickly, face flushing. "I suppose we could do the 'other things', if you want to."
And that expression of happy, child-like playfulness turned to lust so fast it made his heart stop. "Mine," the selkie purred, slinking up to claim his lips. "Mine. You are my Dwarf now. Mine forever."
Sindarin courtesy of RealElvish dot net and Elfdict dot net. Original constructions/reconstructions marked with *.
melon (n): friend
gwador (n): " sworn brother", used for non-blood relatives
*mathron (n): matha-(v., stem) "to comb" + -ron(suff., masculine)= "[male who] combs"
*mathader (n): matha-(v., stem) "to comb" + daer dêr (Silvanized Sindarin dialectal changes) der (contraction mutation of much-used word or phrase) "bride-groom"= "[male] comb-mate"
hervenn (n): husband
meleth (n): love
melethron (n): meleth+ron(suff., masculine) "[male] lover"
Laegolas (name): Original Sindarin form of Silvanized Sindarin "Legolas", likely a chosen-name or mother-name
go-Thranduil (name): Silvan dialect "Son of/begetted of Thranduil", likely a father-name and/or title
Thranduilion (name): Pure Sindarin dialect "Thranduil's Son", likely a father-name and/or title
Halloth (name): Silvan dialect "Hiding Flower", likely a milk-name given during pregnancy or shortly after birth