Chapter 3: Letters II
Addad/ Addad- neo-Khuzdûl for father as there are no Tolkien original words for this I have used that.
Laersul- Thranduil's oldest son.
Thalos- Thranduil's second son, who came to the aid of the Dwarves towards the end of the Siege of Erebor when the Men of dale had also been forced to retreat into the Mountain. (Follows immediately after the end of The Battle Under the Trees)
Anglach- slain before the War when Gollum was sprung free by an attack on the Wood.
Hallvarðr- the Master Weaponsmaker/Smith who is commissioned to make the axe, Rûk-Shtôl that Thranduil dreamed of.
Thikilkhagal= lit. steel blue.(Neo-Kh) A type of steel with high nickel content suitable for damascening weapons etc.
Damascene- the process/ craft/art of using different metals to create that wonderful patterning you get on very very high class knives, axes, swords.
Ezkhol- the dwarven word for tufa ( a sort of volcanic rock) such as Rome is built upon.
*Cat names are explored extensively in WTSL chapter 60.
** MDLW- chapter 6.
Chapter 3: Letters- Gimli
Hallvarðr bent over the steel flat bars laid out for him on the forge bench and studied them intensely. Behind him the clang of hammers and swoosh of the bellows filled the air and he had to deepen his voice to be heard.
'What's the nickel content in this steel and how much do you have?' he boomed, peering up over his half glasses at Motsógnír, the merchant from the Iron Hills. The Iron Hills did not only produce the higher grade iron ore for steel but was richer in minerals such as the nickel that Hallvarðr needed for his superior weapons. 'I have a special order that requires the very finest damascene.'
'One and half.' Motsógnír's deep set eyes returned Hallvarðr's gaze steadily. He was a Blacklock Dwarf, his beard braided elaborately with jet beads and gold had a few silver hairs in it, Hallvarðr noticed and wondered if his own was similarly peppered. He had traded with Motsógnír for years and the merchant was still muscular and strong though he had not been in a forge for decades and Hallvarðr wondered how he could bear the absence of the furnace with its fire smell of hot metal and the song of the forge.
'Hmm.' Hallvarðr dropped his gaze to peruse the steel ingot. He wondered if it was a fine enough grade for Rûk-Shtôl, and he stared at the flat bar as if he might see through the steel sheen to the structure of the metal.
'It is good Thikilkhagal,' said Motsógnír confidently. He jerked his head towards the forge. 'Try one consignment. You will find it handles well and makes top grade damascene.'
There was a sudden break in the rhythm of the forge, an ominous clatter and bang, and Hallvarðr turned irritably towards his apprentices. Gûthrim was standing at the anvil, lump hammer in one hand and a misshapen and melted ruin of metal before him. Runí looked up from his own welding with a nervous expression and then quickly returning to his own work.
Hallvarðr shut his mouth quickly before he cursed the ham-fisted apprentice and schooled his face to patience. He gave a quick nod to Sigrúnda, his efficient and skilled journeyman, who quickly took hold of the nearby tongs and lifting the cooling metal, began to speak to Gûthrim. 'Just go back to welding it again,' he said more kindly than Hallvarðr himself would have. He lifted the metal and replaced it in the furnace. 'It is not like you are making damascene. You have spoiled nothing here.'
'They are always like clumsy pups at first,' Motsógnír said amiably with a kindly smile. Hallvarðr said nothing; the Iron Hills were known for an overindulgent attitude towards their young. Here in Erebor it was commonly thought that this overindulgence led to so many from the iron Hills going into trade rather than into the forge.
Unaware of his client's disapproval, Motsógnír rolled one of the beads in his beard between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. 'Is it a sword or an axe you want the nickel steel for?' he asked curiously. Then as if he could not help himself, he glanced from side to side as if checking none of the apprentices could hear and then murmured in a low, deep voice that Hallvarðr could just about hear, 'There is a new steel invented by Vindálfr. It is beautiful. Very hard. He calls it fáinn steel: it means shining. Best thing I have ever handled for damascene.' He shrugged and grinned. 'But it's a kind of carbon steel. Very hard but doesn't crack or shatter. It's got very good corrosive resistance too.'
He placed a soft leather pouch upon the forge bench but angled himself so that Sigrúnda and Gûthrim could not see what he did. 'This is the sample.' He threw open the pouch and drew out a flat billet of steel, laying it upon the leather flap of the pouch.
The forgelight gleamed upon the billet softly, reflecting in its glossy surface. Hallvarðr looked at it and could not help but stroke a thick, clever finger over the bar, watching the light shift and change as he did. He felt the deep note his stroke brought forth and imagined it molten and drawn out. It was beautiful, he thought. Like mithril but harder; with the right forging and tempering, it could be shatter-proof. Perfect.
'How much?' he said faintly.
Motsógnír laughed softly. 'Oh, it's not for sale,' he said. 'This is already bought and paid for. A small consignment only. Vindálfr himself made it. Very labour intensive to produce, very fine. High carbon for exceptional edge retention, high corrosive resistance and good. Perfect.'
Hallvarðr stared at him. 'Who has bought this?' he demanded. Who knew about this steel before he did? Who was using it before he even knew it existed?
Motsógnír tapped his impressive nose and winked. 'Mahal's word,' he said knowingly. Then he glanced over his shoulder. 'But if you went down to the Jewellers Quarter, you might find some. I cannot betray a customer's craft of course.'
The Jewellers Quarter? Hallvarðr was incensed. His sense as a weapons maker was enraged that such steel should be used for decoration. 'Name your price,' he declared, bristling all over with energy. He breathed in ready to invoke the Power of Earth and Fire that he had at his fingertips and to force a confession from the merchant.
But Motsógnír laughed again and made a small warding gesture against anything Hallvarðr might throw at him. 'It's not me you have to negotiate with, Master. It's Gilthrûn Sindri.'
All the irritation left Hallvarðr.
Gilthrûn Sindri. Master Jewelsmith. The most beautiful things came from the Master Jeweller's shop; they pleased Hallvarðr's aesthetic. As much as Gilthrûn Sindri's chestnut copper hair pleased him, curled and oiled and gleaming. Skin like burnished bronze. Eyes like Kheled-zâram.
Hallvarðr had never seen Kheled-zâram but he thought about it. He thought about it every time he looked into those deep, dark eyes.
He sighed and stroked his beard. He wanted the fáinn steel, and he thought he knew what Gilthrûn might want too: Laersul Thranduillion had left amber cabochons from Kheled-zâram, and those two emeralds, theBraigtîria, that haunted him, whispering and murmuring their fierce, bright song.
0o0o
Gloín sat in his great armchair in his hall on the second level, the most prestigious level for it was near the Throne Room and he was amongst the closest of Stonehelm's counsellors, trusted confidante, companion of Thorin Oakenshield and one of the Company of Restoration. But not even his status could change the fear and worry in his fatherly heart as he clutched the letter from Gimli that had been delivered yesterday by Laersul Thranduillion.
Gloín smoothed the letter out and wished his wife had been here to read it with him, laying her head against his shoulder. But she lay still and cold in the Ered Luin, in their old home and would never come to Erebor, never know their ancient home was restored. He sighed. Then looked down at their son's writing which was as familiar to him as his own hand, the letters round and well-formed, his prose elegant and properly dwarvish. Something in his chest swelled and he tugged at his beard in a sudden fit of emotion.
Dearest Addad, it read.
I write sitting as I am on the ruins of the walls of Minas Tirith and although the carcasses of Sauron's slain armies are long burned and the bones buried, here in the warm South, the Men of Gondor know what they owe to the Dwarves of Erebor and the King does me much honour. He asks that we build him new Gates for the city and I have begun the designs and foundry work already although there is only salvaged iron and steel which I think will not suffice for the main gate but will provide some temporary cover. Perhaps you would begin a negotiation with my lord King Thorin, may Mahal bless him with a long beard and long life, for some of our people to work on this.
I have sent an order to the Iron Hills on behalf of the King for the steel to build the gates for there is little iron or anything useful in the land that I can see. The rock of this city seems to be some sort of ancient sedentary rock left perhaps by an earlier sea or flooding. Perhaps the Anduin flooded in ancient times? There are volcanic rocks too, probably from the eruptions of the White Mountains and the granite and basalt is of good quality. Some of it might be worth trading but what little steel there is traded and they do not have the foundries to make a high grade. The city itself is built from some sort of travertine and ezkhol stone and this gives it its white colour. They have rather primitive methods for building and so I am showing them how to use quicklime and other materials to make our concrete that will steady their walls and fasten the rocks more strongly one to another. What they use here is rather weak and easily dislodged in a siege as one sees all around us.
He wrote on about the structure of the city, its strange 'prow' built out of the mountain itself and forming a sheer defensive wall to the citadel, and its seven concentric rings that circled upwards to the citadel.
It is rather impractical for trade if good defensively, Gimli wrote, as it is very hard for horses or wagons to pull the necessary loads up such steep roads. And so trade and markets tend to stop at the fifth ring and higher up is residential and then the administrative centre.
Gloín thought that Bombur might be interested in this but in all honesty, Gloín himself was not so he skimmed it lightly and then paused at the next section.
I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin and so I will start where I think my last letter left off.
Aragorn who you will remember as the Ranger, Strider and who declared himself the heir of Isildur, has now been crowned and wed to Arwen Evenstar, who you also met. She is reputed to be one of the fairest maidens to have walked this earth. But she is her grandmother's child. The Lady Galadriel, of whom I have written.
Oh yes, he had certainly written about her. In fact, Gloín had worried that Gimli had completely fallen for her and would challenge her to a khukhmahal and end up wedding her. He suddenly found the end of his beard in his mouth and quickly pulled it out before anyone might discover him.
The next bit did little to soothe him, however.
And our friends, the Hobbits, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin are all very well and have adopted the cat that Legolas found on one of his midnight jaunts and the cat has had kittens. They have taken over my boots as being the best place to sleep, warmest in the cool and cool in the warm. Most sensible beasts. I am making a sort of cat litter to carry them to the Shire where they will have homes when we return. They have invented ridiculous names* that I will not regale you with…
Gimli went on for some time about these cats and Gloín was a little alarmed at how soft he seemed to be getting. He thought he would not share any of this with Dwalin. Gimli wrote a little more about his daily life and Gloín read it fondly, enjoying how much these Men honoured Gimli for his prowess in battle and his forge-skill. It was not his greatest strength, though his father indulgently, but perhaps when he returned, Gimli would discover his Craft.
For then there was this:
Addad, I have seen a greater wonder in this land, more beautiful than any grove or glade that ever grew: my heart is still full of it. Here in the Westfold of the Ered Nimrais, beneath the Thrihyrne and the Hornburg is one of the marvels of the Northern World: the caverns of Aglarond that are vast and beautiful. Immeasurable halls filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight. When the torches are kindled and men walk on the sandy floors under the echoing domes, ah! then, Addad, gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the light glows through folded marbles, shell-like, translucent as the living hands of Queen Galadriel.
Gloín harrumphed again but Gimli continued.
There are columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, fluted and twisted into dreamlike forms; they spring up from many-coloured floors to meet the glistening pendants of the roof: wings, ropes, curtains fine as frozen clouds; spears, banners, pinnacles of suspended palaces! Still lakes mirror them: a glimmering world looks up from dark pools covered with clear glass; cities, such as the mind of Durin could scarce have imagined in his sleep, stretch on through avenues and pillared courts, on into the dark recesses where no light can come. And plink! a silver drop falls, and the round wrinkles in the glass make all the towers bend and waver like weeds and corals in a grotto of the sea. Then evening comes: they fade and twinkle out; the torches pass on into another chamber and another dream. There is chamber after chamber, Addad; hall opening out of hall, dome after dome, stair beyond stair; and still the winding paths lead on into the mountains' heart. The Caverns of Helm's Deep! Happy was the chance that drove me there! It makes me weep to leave them.
Legolas has agreed to explore the caverns with me and I know that he will see and understand for he has come to appreciate what is means to be Khazâd. And I have promised to return the favour and travel with him through Fangorn Forest for he is bound to meet with mishap if I should not. We will stop at Lothlorien of course to pay respect to the Lady and then travel up past the East Bight and part at Esgaroth most likely. It will still be some time therefore before I am home.
Your dutiful and loving son,
Gimli.
Gloín put the letter down and smoothed it over his knees. It seemed that his child had a fancy for travelling with this Legolas. Indeed he wrote as much about Legolas as he did about Galadriel. And that worried him. Had his boy been enchanted by the Elves?
Gloín had met Legolas in Rivendell. An unfortunate initial meeting where they had mistaken the elf for a porter and shoved their wet cloaks upon him**. Gloín winced slightly but not much. And then later at the Council of Elrond when they discovered the Elf was the son of Thranduil and old resentments had resurfaced. But Gloín knew now that had been the Ring's influence because he felt quite benign towards Thranduil since he returned the Arkenstone without ransom.
And of course there had been Orcrist.
He reached for his pipe and stuffed the bowl with pipeweed. It wasn't as good as the stuff they used to get in the Blue Mountains from the Shire but perhaps trade would open up again, he thought, now that Sauron was gone and the Orcs on the run.
It was the description of these caverns of Aglarond that disturbed Gloín the most. The longing in it. It was how Oín had spoken of Moria; the deep halls of their fathers, glittering with quartz, the seams of mithril beneath Barazinbar, Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. Gloín would never forget the look in his brother's eyes when he spoke of Azanulbizar, and the dark water of Kheled-zâram.
Oín had followed Balin to his death.
Gloín leaned back in his carved chair and drew hard on his pipe until fragrant smoke filled his mouth and he breathed out, letting the smoke spiral thinly up towards the thick oak beams of his hall and wished he had never taken his son to Rivendell, and that Gandalf had never asked Gimli to represent he Dwarves on the quest. For he thought that Gimli might return, but home was no longer Erebor.
At his side were the other letters.
Thranduil himself had appeared one day after the Siege, with a letter that he had been given by Celeborn of Lothlorien, for Gimli had left it in that lord's keeping in case he should have a chance to deliver it. Thranduil had clearly known what the letter contained for he had heard news of Moria from his own son and from Celeborn.
Gloín sorted through until he found it. He did not need to look at it for he had read it over and over and wept until he knew every word by heart.
I saw ahead of me those mountains that stand tall in our dreams, Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr. Gandalf's plan was that we should cross Barazinbar, the Redhorn, and cruel Caradhras; and then beyond them, Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. My heart stirred for we would come down into the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar. But much happened before I did indeed come into that valley and gaze upon the dark water of Kheled-zâram, and when I drank at the springs of Kibil-nâla, my heart was heavy with grief.
My journey through Khazad-dûm was not a happy one, Addad. I had hoped that Balin would be there to greet us and Oín at his side but they were not.
It is nearby, Addad, that I found the tomb of Balin. It lies in near the Chamber of Mazarbul. Inscribed upon it are the words: Here lies Balin, son of Fundin. Lord of Moria.
There was no smudge of ink or blot from tears but Gloín knew his son would have paused and sighed in writing this. And then he had taken up his pen once more and written the worst.
We found their Book of Records, dear Addad. In it is recorded that Oín fell.
Gimli did not say how Oín fell and Gloín was grateful for their end had been cruel indeed.
There were many bones were lying, and among them were broken swords and axe-heads, and cloven shields and helms. Some of the swords were crooked: orc-scimitars with blackened blades. It grieved me indeed that I could not gather the bones of our kin and give them the grace of Ikhrâm-Mahal but we were soon noticed and battle ensued. I can promise you that the tomb of Balin was black with goblin blood and by the time I left, more bones of our enemies there were than of our kin.
He stared into the fire. It glowed red and then the coals shifted and sparks flew up, breaking his meditation. He leaned forwards and shoved a poker into them fire, stirred it up so the flames leapt and crackled and he thought about Durin's Bane that had been stirred by Balin's return to Moria. He had not wanted Oín to go but he had not tried to stop him. Now he wished with all his heart that he had.
0o0o
The news that a war axe had been commissioned by Thranduil via an emissary from Eryn Lasgalen, (or as Dwalin still called it emphatically, Mirkwood) had brought the remaining Dwarves of Thorin's company hurrying to Gloín's deep, comfortable halls on the prestigious second level. Of course Bombur's halls were even higher in status and Dwalin, as Thorin Oakenshield's closest companion and much honoured, had the prime position next to the King, but the others were scattered throughout Erebor.
'Is this your best ale? Dwalin demanded suspiciously of Gloín, leaning his meaty arms on the smoothed and polished oak table that took up most of the room in Gloín's hall. He was, in fact, already on his third tankard that held two pints and would have made Merry and Pippin swoon in delight. Gloín looked anxiously at the beer flagons that were already half empty and thought, much as Bilbo had long ago, that he might actually run out and have to get out his reserved stock.
'The best ale in my cellar,' he said, hoping that Dwalin didn't know about his second cellar where the reserved beer was lovingly stored and regularly checked by Gloín.
Next to Dwalin sat Bofur and then Bifur, who had gone a bit deaf and sported an ear trumpet such as Oín had used. Gloín tried not to wonder where that ear trumpet was now. Lying in the dust in Moria amongst the bones of his kin.
He blinked hard and glanced about the table to check that no one had noticed. But they had not.
Bombur had squeezed himself into the wide carver chair at the head of the table and Gloín wondered if it might break under Bombur's significant and impressive girth. Nori and Dori were at the end of the table.
Gloín himself sat in the middle of the table and opposite Dwalin. On the table in front of him was the letter. He wished now that he had not put it out for he did not want them to read it, especially not the bits about the Lady Galadriel. Previous letters were there also, in a separate pile. Beside it were several scrolls of finely milled, thick parchment covered with detailed and rather beautiful designs of the axe. He hoped they were only really interested in the axe. He would of course show it to Bombur for he had a special relationship with Gimli and had taught him Sindarin. He was sensitive enough too, to understand.
'When did it come?' asked Bofur excitedly, his dark eyes fixed upon the designs but too polite to grab them from Gloín.
'Yesterday.'
'Oh yes, I heard there was an Elf here,' said Bombur, who heard everything. 'The son of Thranduil no less.'
'Thalos Sulûn-Baraz?' asked Bofur, eyes alight with interest.
'No. The other one. The oldest one,' Dwalin said caustically. 'The one that looks like his Dad. King of the Treehuggers. Old Skinflint himself.'
'His name is Laersul,' Gloín supplied helpfully. 'He wasn't a bad fellow actually. Knew a lot more Khuzdûl than I expected.'
At the same time, Bifur, who was way behind and frowning at his ear trumpet, said loudly, 'How many has he got?'
'How many has who got?' asked Nori from the end of the table and Bofur was about to answer but Dwalin was outraged by Gloín's last comment.
'He knew Khuzdûl? Who has been giving away our secrets, that's what I want to know?' Dwalin said with a meaningful look at Gloín that had Gloín bristling like a badger.
'I hope you're not suggesting that I have told him anything!' he spluttered. But he thought a little guiltily that he probably had, and from his letters, Gimli had certainly spilled the flux.
Dwalin opened his mouth but Bombur held up a smooth hand, rings tight on his fat ink-stained fingers. 'No one is giving anything away,' he said calmly. 'You will remember that Laersul Thranduillion was associated with Erebor long years before we returned. He was friends with Thraín the Founder. And you can hardly call Thranduil skinflint, Dwalin,' he continued, for he was the only one except Thorin who ever contradicted Dwalin. 'Look at his generosity to the people of Esgaroth after the Five Armies. We were hardly covering ourselves in glory and he stood by them, brought supplies, aid and wanted nothing and took nothing. It all went to Bard if you remember.'
'Those emeralds he had,' bitched Dwalin resentfully.
Bombur gesticulated. 'Those were given him by… was it Bard or Bilbo? Not us certainly.'
'Speak up,' shouted Bifur loudly, holding up his ear trumpet and scowling around at them. He jabbed a thick finger at this ear trumpet as if they might not have noticed but everyone else ignored him.
'You will also remember,' added Bombur pompously, 'that it was Laersul Thranduillion who brought the Arkenstone to Thorin.' Then he said again more loudly, for Bifur. 'THE ONE WHO BROUGHT THE ARKENSTONE.'
'What's he doing with the Arkenstone?' demanded Bifur furiously.
Bofur rolled his eyes upwards as if invoking Mahal to give him the patience of stone with his brother. 'No,' he interjected before Bombur or Dwalin could. 'WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE ELF WHO BROUGHT THE ARKENSTONE TO THORIN. REMEMBER? SO THAT THRANDUIL COULD GIVE IT BACK. HE'S THE ONE WHO CAME HERE YESTERDAY.
Gloín remembered the moment that Thranduil, whom they had thought an enemy, had clasped Thorin's dying hand about the hilt of Orcrist. And when the casket was opened and the glorious light of the Arkenstone shone about the chamber, a hush had fallen. Thorin had gazed upon that bright jewel with fierce pride and then his face had changed to one of utter peace as Thranduil laid it upon his breast.
It seemed he was not the only one for Dwalin rubbed his nose and Dori sniffed. Bombur gave a heavy sigh and spread out his hands upon the edge of the oak table. He looked about to speak but said nothing.
At last, Dwalin stirred and sighed. He lifted his tankard and looked around the table as if daring them to challenge him. 'Let us drink to our Gimli. May his beard grow long and his axe stay sharp.'
There was a quiet murmur of assent. Gloín took a deep draught of ale and wiped his mouth on his hand. Around him the other Dwarves were doing the same.
'Now then,' said Dwalin. 'Let's hear about this axe.' He took out his pipe and looked around for Gloín's pipeweed jar which he found quickly and helped himself.
'Harad Gold,' said Gloín with pardonable pride. 'It arrived with the letter. A gift to Gimli from the King himself.'
'The King is that Man, what's he called, Gloín?' said Nori, who had been in the company that went to Rivendell to tell Elrond's council of the Nazgul's threat. 'That scruffy fellow who was mooching about after Elrond's girl. Stringer? Strider?'
'Aragorn,' Gloín said emphatically.
Dori scratched his head and pulled at his beard. 'I thought he was called Eless-something. Who's Aragon?'
'Elessar,' said Bombur, with a sigh. 'He's also called Aragorn. King Aragorn Elessar.'
'THORIN'S THE KING,' shouted Bifur, leaning forward with his ear trumpet clamped to his ear. 'HAS BEEN SINCE DAÍN FELL.' He looked at them like they were all idiots.
The others groaned and Bofur leaned forward and shouted into Bifur's earpiece, 'NO. GONDOR. WE ARE TALKING ABOUT WHO IS THE KING OF GONDOR. ARAGORN. THE ONE THAT TRAVELLED WITH GIMLI. HE'S THE NEW KING OF GONDOR.'
'WE KNOW THAT,' said Bifur impatiently. 'HE TOLD US THAT LAST TIME. WHAT'S NEW?'
Dwalin banged his fist on the table irritably. 'Mahal's hairy bollocks! Are we done talking? Let's see this fuckin' axe.'
Quickly, Gloín pushed the thick-milled parchment into the middle of the table and they leaned over it with interest.
'Ah, that is a beautiful thing,' said Bifur.
'Aye, that steel needs to be high content nickel though to make that damascene pattern they want there, look,' said Bofur.
'Is that amber?' Bombur leaned forwards to study the haft where the languets were studded with darkly coloured cabochons . 'And what are these?' He pointed to the two beryls that were set in the axe's butt like eyes.
'Emeralds,' said Gloín. ' Hallvarðr says Laersul has given him the gems to be used. And they have a voice.'
There was silence. All Dwarves knew the language of the earth, its rocks and stones. They just hadn't known that the Woodelves did too.
'Well this is a gift worthy of our lad,' said Bofur and all agreed.
'Ironfist, the Rohirrim call him,' Gloín reminded them proudly. 'After what he did at Helm's Deep.'
They nodded to each other, for they had searched for and found maps that showed, vaguely, where Rohan was in relation to the Misty Mountains.
'And Elvellon, Elf-friend,' added Bombur happily, 'for his saving of Legolas Thranduillion.'
''He must be a bit useless to need so much saving,' observed Dori and Dwalin and Bofur nodded and agreed.
'We met him, didn't we,' Nori said instead for he had been part of the company to carry Dain's message to Rivendell and to warn them about the threat from Sauron. 'Do you remember? We arrived in all that rain and thought he was the porter.'
'We shoved all our wet cloaks on him,' smiled Gloín.
'Do we have to give HIM something in return?' Bofur wondered aloud. Bifur leaned right in so his ear trumpet plunged between them like a huge brass orchid.
'Like what? We can't give him an axe. Elves can't use axes. What do they like?' said Nori.
There was a bemused silence.
'Leaves. They like leaves.' Dori leaned back triumphantly.
'And trees,' Bofur added helpfully.
'Are we getting him a tree then?' asked Nori.
Dwalin cuffed Bofur lightly over the ears. 'No. We don't need to do anything. This is not a gift given in order that we return one. This is the Elvenking honouring our boy. To give something that is not heartfelt would be to cheapen it.'
It was agreed that they would not give Legolas anything because Gimli had already given him the gift of his skin many times over and instead they would welcome him if he ever came to Erebor.
'That'll do,' said Dwalin cheerfully. 'Right. Now then Gloín, where's the really good stuff, eh?' He winked roundly at Bofur who grinned back at him.
'Come on, Gloín. We knew you've got better stuff than this!' roared Dwalin in immense good humour and Gloín sighed and resigned himself to having all his reserve ale and his wonderful new pipeweed quite ransacked. But when he looked around at the faces of the remaining company of Thorin Oakenshield, he found he really did not mind at all.
0o0o
Notes:
Sorry- I thought Thorin was going to turn up somehow in this chapter in reminiscences but he hasn't.
Next chapter: The Making of Rûk-Shtôl and the journey of Gimli Gloínsson.