Gimli was fighting orcs. They were surrounding him, but as he swung his axe left and right they shattered to bits and screamed in agony.
"Baruk khazad ai-menu!" he yelled and dealt another death-blow, "Die, you filthy-slime."
The "battle" was nearly over, and just as the "orcs" in Gimli's imagination were retreating madly and screaming as he finished off their kin, screaming of... of... the mighty "flame-haired orc slayer, Gimli Axewielder", Gimli awoke from his revelry.
Gimli had just seen a messenger pigeon in the sky as he practiced with his axe in the courtyard, smashing "orcs" (upright logs of wood) he was meant to chop evenly into firewood but had instead rendered into an assortment of oddly shaped pieces chunks of wood, wood chips and sawdust. One even had runes swiftly carved into his "forehead" in the heat of "battle".
His mother had watched Gimli's antics, but held her peace. It was normal for Gimli to be restless - it had been a couple of months already since his father Gloin and some of Gimli's friends - Ori, Fili and Kili - had left on the quest to reclaim Erebor, leaving him behind. In those moments, she almost saw Gloin, wielding his axe and yelling in the manner his son had taken after. She also wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether her beloved, crusty, flame-haired axe-wielder would ever return home. Her eyes would fill with tears.
Gimli had fumed in disappointment at being left behind, but he was proud and ornery and didn't let it show. She had been relieved, but he had grumbled and muttered to himself at odd times, though, when he thought his mother was not looking. She had gotten her way over Gloin, and this was one time she really put her foot down.
"Ori! And he doesn't even yield a REAL weapon!" had been one of Gimli's utterances.
It was a serious blow to Gimli that he, of all people, was left behind and that Ori, of all people, had gone.
In the Blue Mountains, he had fer companions now that the Company had gone. Gimli would take to wandering by himself. His training (by Gloin) had been cut short by the quest.
Gimli was a stout dwarf, a true dwarf with the heart of a dwarf. He excelled in the weapons of dwarves. And he was the striking image of his father. His rough, untamable red hair grew long and thick, and it was Gloin's pride that his son had a glorious beard, that which he secrely gloated to himself in pride was better than anything the heirs of Durin had yet to produce. The glory of a dwarf is in his beard - the thicker and longer and bushier, the better.
Gimli had never seen his father more shocked and furious than the day his wife had suggested Gimli train to be a healer with Gloin's brother Oin.
"He is to be a WARRIOR!" thundered Gloin, "Not one who potters around the kitchen with herbs and delivers babies."
And that was settled.
Now Gimli tugged his beared anxiously and ran into the house.
"A pigeon, mother! A pigeon!"
She lifted her soapy hands from the basin in which she was scrubbing clothes, and quickly, rubbing them dry on her apron, she ran to the window.
Her heart fluttered in fear and worry, her hands trembled, but then, as the pigeon landed on the windowsill, her heart sank. Gimli crowded near her, putting his arm around his mother.
It was tied with a black ribbon. That meant death.
SHe turned away and gasped in horror.
"It can't be! It can't be!" she said, breathing heavily.
"I'll untie it then, mother." Gimli said as bravely as he could.
"I can't bear to!" she hid her face in her hands, fingering the braids in her face and wailing, "Gloin! Gloin!"
Gimli's fingers nervously undid the letter, the black ribbon falling gracefully (and thus unfeelingly) onto the ledge. He tore it open.
It was in Gloin's writing.
"He's alive, mother!" Gimli cried out in relief and joy, "Father is alive. Uncle is alive, but very busy tending to the wounded. They have reclaimed Erebor. The dragon is dead..."
He stopped in disbelief, afraid to read on.
"They buried the King and his nephews. They perished in battle... Dain is King under the Mountain."
She was aghast. The color on her face, which had returned briefly, faded away.
"Cousin Dis.." she moaned, "Poor cousin Dis... Let me see the letter..."
"My dear wife and son, " the letter read, "I write to tell you that I am alive and well, though I cannot saw unscathed. The dragon has been killed and Erebor is reclaimed, but at a great cost. The losses amongst both our friends and enemies have been equally great. Oin is very busy tending to wounds, and most of the company had scraped through except for three. The folk of Durin have suffered an irreparable loss in that the King, Thorin, and his nephews, Fili and Kili, died in battle despite our best and valiant efforts. I swear, I would have given my life if I could, if only that the heirs of Durin should remain and not be buried in the rock. As it stands, Dain of the Iron Mountains is now King. I ask you, my dear wife, to convey this news to our in in the Blue Mountains and to the sister of the King. Attached to this missive is another,the final report of Balin addressed to the Princess Dis..."
"Where's the missive?" Gimli looked around in vain.
It was lost. It had fallen off the pigeon - that could be the only explanation. Only this letter remained. There would be no report from Balin to hand to Dis, only the words of Gloin.
"Gimli, " his mother began, "We are to travel to Erebor in haste. You begin to pack your things. I will go and see the Princess right away, my poor cousin. Mahal help me..."
Gimli was left alone in the house as his mother put on a cloak and left their quarters after seeing to the pigeon. She moved swiftly, deeper in the mountain where Dis's quarters were not far away.
Gimli sank down on a stool.
His father was alive. Gimli's eyes filled with tears, thinking for a moment of the awful possibility that had he not survived. That this house would never again ring with his deep, bellowing voice, that his father would never again train his with the axe and...
The house was eerily quiet. Gimli closed his eyes and open them again. He saw the empty dining table and chairs where Gloin, Balin, Dori, and all the rest would huddle around and drink great tumblerfulls of ale, singing, laughing and making plans.
Fili. Kili. They were just here, laughing and talking to Gloin and Ori. They had boasted at each other and dared each other to do wild and reckless things. Fili had grown more serious and thoughtful, though, in recent times, taking to sitting by when the grown-ups talked; but Kili had always been about fun and mischief and jokes.
And now they were gone, forever.
Gimli tried to think of something else. His thoughts fell on Ori in the battlefield, Ori becoming a man, a warrior. Ori coming out alive... instead of... Gimli's thoughts wandered back to Fili and Kili, defending the company to their last breath, DYING. He had seen them fight and train in excitement and antipation and youthful vigour. Training and training and training... for this. For death.
For once, Gimli was a teeny bit glad he hadn't gone. His poor, poor, friends.
Gimli's fist pounded the table - they were the heirs of Durin. Perhaps if he had been there, perhaps if he had protected them, they would still be alive today. Fili and Kili would go on living their lives. They were far too young to die! They were too full of life, of happiness! How could such things happened to the young, the brave? How could the ones who had yet to live their lives die alongside the grey and aged?
Life is unfair.
Gimli mourned his friends. He kicked the table. He went and picked up his training axe - strong and heavy but plain and unadorned and he fingered it. Tossing the axe around, he imagined severing the head of an orc, the orc who dared to hut his friends. But the action pained him - the vigour of his activity earlier this afternoon lost, and replaced with a deep sadness and sense of loss
Gimli pulled the head of the axe nearly and held it in his hands - he stopped himself from imagining the foul, dark, blood of orcs runnig down it.
"I swear," he said in a hoarse and broken voice, "I will never let this happen to any of my kin. I swear I will be a warrior. I will fight to my last breath if that is needed. By Mahal..."
"Mahal! What are you doing, Gimli?"
His mother had returned. She was weary and did not wait for reply.
"How is the Princess?" Gimli asked, hiding his axe behind him. His voice was full of concern.
"I do not wish to speak of it."
Her voice was heavy with pain, and hoarse. And sharp. And burdened.
Gimli looked away and kept his mouth shut. He could scarcely imagine...
"It will take time..." she finally said after some silence, "Mahal, give her the strength to live on."
But this strong woman lifted her shoulders, and said sternly,
"You have not begun packing, Gimli. We are to go to Erebor where your father is a Lord, soon. When Dis is ready. You go to bed, and I will spend the night with her, but I doubt either of us will find sleep..."
Gimli did not go to bed that night. He sat by the fire, staring deep into it. The phantom voices of Fili, Kili, even Thorin (whom he had regarded with dread, respect, adoration, honor and allegience) played around his ears. He could almost smell their pipes, hear them scuffing their boots on one of the chairs.
Dawn came. The fire had died away, and only ashes remained. Gimli's face was resting in his hands as he bend over in weariness and despair. He was not thinking of the journey to Erebor, of the great wealth and riches reclaimed. He could not bear to think of his friends any longer. His head was heavy, his mind dull. Tears turned into chokes, chokes into heavy breaths, and slowly into the breath of restless sleep. For once, Gimli did not score. He was wandering into the world of dreams of faded memories of the days they had spent together as dwarflings.
The end.