Gimli

"Well, I didn't win," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."

"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

The matter was pretty much settled after that.


1. Sharpness

"My axe is sharper," said a gruff voice from behind her. The voice was deep and booming, like rocks tumbling about in an underground cavern, and rumbled just enough to sound good. The words, however, were overtly to-the-point and decidedly unpleasant. Or at least so she thought.

"It's not," she said, sharply. "Mine is a masterpiece – and you know it."

"Prove it," he challenged again. Insufferably stoic. She knew that were she to turn around, she would come face to face with those unreadable dark eyes, deep-set under bushy eyebrows the colour of muted flames. Still, she turned around, because she was much too irked not to do so.

"Will you be satisfied if it chops your head clean off this very moment?" She growled, hefting her axe.

He was a son of a revered dwarven lord, the illustrious Gloin who had been part of that legendary adventure any dwarf-child knew by heart. He was also a great warrior in his own right, strong and stout, a skilled miner and smith : everything, in short, a dwarf could aspire to be.

So why, in the name of Aule, was he participating in this harebrained scheme of her parents?

Winner takes it all, indeed. Or mayhap winner takes the marriage.

Bah. Load of nonsense, all of it.

2. Strength

"See. In strength – mine wins."

Again, so stoic, so closemouthed. Again, those unfathomable dark eyes of his. Was he laughing at her? Or was he bored? Was he here because Gloin wanted him wed, too? Or was he really interested in her?

He was never one for chatter, and most of the time she liked it fine enough. For she had no patience for fools, but blathering fools were the very worst. But now – it infuriated her to no ends.

"That's not by strength of the axe," she argued. "But by strength of the wielder."

Her eyes scanned, almost against her own will, over the firm, taut muscles of his upper arms, still slightly tensed from the previous exertion. A master smith's arms, able to forge anything from a beautiful, jewelled ring from a deadly war-axe at a moment's notice.

Arms so much like hers, but so different as well – stronger, broader, and so... reliable.

She shook her head as hard as she could, grimacing. Reliable, my eye. All this nonsense was getting to her head.

3. Beauty

"Oh, this one I yield," he said.

She was getting used to his presence at her forges. She normally guarded her forges jealously, never letting anyone but the most trusted colleagues and close family in, but he – well, he was a different matter.

Now who had said that he was a well-mannered dwarf? He must have flung all his manners into Mount Doom one of these days, because disregarding all rules of dwarven protocol, he has made a veritable home right in the middle of her forges.

And the most curious thing of all was that she really didn't mind too much. Maybe because she knew his skills at smithing was on par with hers. Masters like him really didn't have need for thieving business secrets.

"Yield?" She asked. "On beauty? But then my axe wins."

"I am never one to lie," he clarified, before sketching a deep bow, hood off and sweeping the ground, and leaving.

Was it just her, or did he really mean something more by that?

Oh, that dwarf was going to be the death of her.

The Verdict

"Has anyone won yet?"

"No," she answered, without meeting his eyes. It was getting very hard to look him in the eye these days, and it annoyed her to no end. Why, on Arda? She was no blushing child to act like this.

"You are a master indeed," he said, taking off his hood and bowing – again.

"You are, too, and you know it." There was a tinge of annoyance in her voice, this time. She knew her words to be true. The mettle of their axes were well-matched, be it in strength or sharpness or... or beauty.

An image of Gimli, that flitting note of laughter in his voice - 'I am never one to lie.' He was acting like an elf, by Aule, with all this confounded mystery.

"But I yielded." A laugh curled his lips, that impressive, bushy russet beard of his shifting ever so slightly, and she threw up her hands in exasperation.

"Ah, yes! All that yielding business! Absurd!"

"Yours was the greater beauty – that is all."

"What!"

She was blushing again. Ah, what was her problem? Or was he the problem indeed? Perhaps that was the case. She only ever acted this strange around him.

He was leaning against one of the forge walls, now. Looking damnably comfortable and – and dashing. A dashing epitome of dwarven charm, all stoic silence and stout strength and proud chin and long, well-kept beard and handsome, dark eyes.

"Well, I didn't win," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."

Saying so, he smiled, and she couldn't really resist him after that.

"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

The matter was pretty much settled after that.


Coming Next : Legolas

'Tell me. Would you fall in love with a firefly?' He asks. I shake my head.

'Then you shall never understand,' he says.


A/N : To all those who have taken their time to read this piece : Thank you. I can never thank all of you enough, but still - I must try, yes? :D

Again, as always - review and you have my extra thanks. (Which is, by the way, a lot. :) )