Now, I may not be the most observant person in all of Arda, but I see more than people think.

It's the beard. Tends to make 'em think my brain is squished, or something.

And I can certainly see something when it's right in front of my face.

Like the fact that my dearest friend, Elf or no Elf, is in love. Madly, deeply in love, and too blasted stubborn to admit it. Why?

Because she's mortal.

Elves. Thinkin' love's so common you can pass it up when you happen across it. It's not like picking a tunic, or what you're gonna have for lunch. You can't pick who you love any more than you can pick your parents.

By the stones, look at me and the bloody Elf! Ain't the same kind of love, granted, and thank the Valar. But I do love him like a brother, and I didn't choose it, believe me. My father's going to have a fit, and probably disown me. It's all right; I'll find my own way.

And there's nothin' wrong with the lass! She's a smart girl -- well, obviously not that smart, to have fallen in with this company, not to mention in love with a certain stone-brained Elf prince -- and good with her blades. A truer friend is rare to find, and she's unwaveringly loyal to us all. And she listens, even to the rambling tales of a Dwarf. Besides, it's not like she's hard to look at. A beard would do her some good, but those are my own tastes.

"Gimli," the Elf snarls, "stop grunting. And must you smoke that foul thing in here?"

I grin and take another puff of my pipe. I'm really not that fond of the stuff, but it drives the Elf insane. I like to keep him on his toes. "You wouldn't deny me my pipe, would you, lad? 'Sides, I gotta do something while I'm watchin' you sulk."

Those pretty blue eyes of his narrow to little slits, and I can practically hear him grinding his teeth. If he wasn't so well-bred, and the blasted bow hadn't been a gift from the fair lady Galadriel, I think he'd brain me with it. "I. Do. Not. Sulk."

"Really?" asks a new voice from the doorway. "What an interesting thing, since that's how I'd describe your mood as well."

Legolas whirls around, and glares at his father. King Thranduil is standing in the doorway, still dressed in his formal robes -- some dark shade of green, though either Elf could probably tell you the exact name of it -- wearing a faintly amused expression. His other two brats are not to be seen, and good riddance. They make my skin crawl. The House of Oropher is meant to be taken in small doses.

Legolas's breath hisses out through his teeth. "I am not sulking, Father. I'm...thinking."

One brow lifts. "About the girl."

Legolas suddenly looks shifty. "What girl?"

"The one with the strange manner of speaking and the scarred face." His Majesty -- and I use the title reluctantly -- sweeps -- nay, not walks, damn Elves never just walk like normal people -- over to the cabinet and pours himself some of that nancy wine. "The one who watches you constantly."

Ah, now, this is entertainment. I lean back in my chair and puff contentedly, ignoring when his Regalness wrinkles his nose and opens a window.

"Oh, she does not," Legolas snaps, and drops into her chair. "And her name is Kayli," he mutters, returning his attention to those blasted arrows.

Thranduil raises his eyebrows. "I suppose if I told you I saw love on her face you would scoff."

Legolas snorts. "Damn right," he mutters.

I look at his father. "Boy's daft."

His Majesty toasts me with his wine. "Touched in the head, I fear. Can't even see what's right in front of him."

"I am not in love with her!" the Elf snaps.

Thranduil's voice goes low and a touch dangerous. "I don't like being lied to, my son. Not even about matters such as this."

"She's mortal!" he snaps. "She's going to die!"

"Your mother was Elvenkind," Thranduil points out. "And she died."

The Elf flinches. I hate to touch a raw wound, but...Well, no I don't. He deserves it, for being so bloody daft. "Would ye let your fear get in the way of a little happiness with her?" I pause, then shoot him in the foot before he can run away. "Or of hers?"

"It's a sad day when the Dwarf sees sense before you," Thranduil says mildly.

I make a rude noise. "Most see sense before this one," I mutter, and kick up my feet to watch the Elf stew.

TBC...