#43 Tears
The dawn had broken to reveal another beautiful day, as was to be expected really and Gimli yawned then stretched, marvelling as he did every morning at the strength of sinew and muscle still contained in his compact frame.
How long had it been now? He was not entirely sure. The days seemed to flow effortlessly from one to another and it was long since he had had to mark the passing of time. He lay still for a moment, relishing the peace and quiet before pushing back the covers and swinging himself out of bed to prepare for another day working in his forge. How strange it was that amongst all these master craftsmen his work should be coveted above all. Strange, but eminently enjoyable, he dared a slightly smug smile as he padded over to the washroom and soon a gruff voice could be heard extolling the virtues of molten metal over the splash of tumbling water.
Seated in his favourite position atop a huge oak tree in the garden the elf heard the dwarf's musical mangling and smiled wryly to himself as he remembered how set against the idea of accompanying him Gimli had been when first he had voiced it. How many long days of argument and wrangling it had been before he would even discuss the possibility and how many tears it had subsequently taken to wear him down. Of course, it would never do to tell him just how easy it was for an elf to cry and he would never admit to anyone else that, in fact, in the end, the tears were actually real, but then they had done the trick and that was all that mattered wasn't it. Leaning back against the rough bark he closed his eyes and let the morning get on with dawning around him.
It was going to be another beautiful day in Valinor.
