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It's chilly in the open windowed room. One of the few rooms in all of Erebor with windows, in fact. Thror made it for those races that lived above ground - humans, hobbits, elves, the like - for whom the normal halls and chambers gave a closed in feeling. Silly beings, as if there could be any safer, warmer thing that being surround by solid rock.
Yet, it is this room Gloin choses to meet with Prince Legolas.
Gloin studies the smooth, alabaster profile before him. Hairless cheeks, pale, and void of emotion. Clothes forever neat, face carved...well, he would say it carved from stone, if that did not insult the very rocks around them to compare their vast greatness with such a flimsy waif. Stone is sturdy, trustworthy, and will only betray you if you refuse to respect it. Elves are flighty at best, habitual traitors. Gloin would sooner work with straw than an elf.
And yet your son speaks for this one, his mind sadly reminds him. He grits his teeth to keep from grinding them again. The elf would only hear it and know how his presence irritates Gloin....as if that weren't already obvious! An elf! Of all things for Gimli to get emotionally attached to, an elf! He cannot fathom what made his son choose such a shameful guest.
It would be one thing if the thing were trading with them in lue of his father, King Thranduil (May his crown have thorns in it!). But no, no the elf - one Prince Legolas - brings no such agreement or even a gift with him. Only the annoyance of his presence and seemingly unending stay. Flitting around while honest dwarves work for their right to live here. Speaking of...
"You asked to speak in private?" Gloin rumbles, stuffing his pipe and lighting it. He makes sure to blow the first smoke towards the elf.
The Prince watches it glide past him and out the open window. After a moment, he blinks and turns fully to Gloin. "Yes."
And then nothing.
Gloin bites his pipe harder. Blasted elves. Can they never just give a person the raw meat? Must it always be tiny bits of quail? Gloin takes a slow, deep breathe in, relishes the burn of smoke, and let's it out just as slowly. "And? Today, if possible, some of us work."
"Work. Yes." The elf says, clasping his hands behind his back. "It is of your peoples work that I wish to speak of."
Oh, does he now. Gloin wonders what imaginary slight the dwarves have given this poncy prince. Did he expect them to shine his boots? Make this bed? Was the food not to his exact standards? Well, if this elf thinks he can just demand more, simply because Gimli has spoken for him, he'll find himself outside in the cold right fast. Spoiled brat. "Indeed. And what of our work has your interest?"
Let it not be said Gloin cannot speak with diplomacy when needed, even to an elf.
"All," the prince says. "Specifically, work suited for me."
Gloin chokes on his exhale. "You?!"
A brief smile tweaks up a lip before disappearing. "Yes. Your son has...generously opened your halls to me, but left me with...little to recompense such a gift. As I cannot give monetary compensation, I must seek other, more manual labor."
Gloin takes a moment to parse that. "You want to work for your stay?"
"Yes!"
Again the stoic mask breaks and a youthful enthusiasm shows forth. As quick as a squirrel, it hides itself behind a princely decorum again. Gloin has seen it, though, and it peaks his curiosity. He places his pipe down, smoke still curling up. "Dwarven labor is unlike elven, I should think."
A breathy laugh and the elf sits down. "Yes, indeed. Though, perhaps, not as foreign as one might believe."
"What skills do you offer us then?" For, truth be told, for all his grumbling, Gloin has never considered before now just how the elf - Legolas, would earn his keep, should it be so.
"My bowmenship is yours, of course, should the need arise, but I would work wherever you place me."
"Whenever I place you," Gloin toys with - half for the enjoyment of hoping the elf will squirm and recant, half because this kind of power has never been handed him. A part of him wants to be petty and hand the prince something he knows the elf will fail. To have the chance to laugh as this Legolas struggles and horde that feeling, not many dwarves get that. The better part of him knows not to squander this offer.
He scans the lithe body before him with new eyes. Thin, yes, but with a warrior's muscle no doubt hidden beneath, and everyone knows of the legendary elven endurance. Gloin nods as he pushes up. "We'll start with the billows at the forge. I think your twiggy arms could handle that."
0/0/0/0/0
A few days later finds Gloin standing near the entrance of the forge. The heat makes the air heavy, even from this distance. As close as the elf is...well, it's no wonder he took off his tunic and stands in his breeches only. Still, Gloin shakes his head. He'd never thought to see the day when an elf wasn't pristine. Sweat gleams on his brow and hairless chest. His golden hair is actually tied up in a high warriors braid - yet strands still plaster themselves to his forehead.
Seems he was right about the warrior strength as well. He knew, of course, that the prince would have to have been strong, but this? To work a billow alone? They stand seven feet high and four feet long! It takes five dwarrow to do one such billow. Gloin leans over to the Matron in charge this week. "How long as he been at it?"
She shakes her head. "Since before dawn. Did the same yesterday, and the day before."
Gloin can only blink.
She folds her arms. "We've bets going."
Of course they do! He'd be disappointed if not.
"Most say he'll last one more day. A few, the week."
Gloin humphs. "Put me down for a hundred quid. The week."
Someone snorts at his left. Gloin glances over to find Gimli, smirking. His son rolls his eyes. "He can hear you from here. He's determined to beat your bets now. Aren't yah, elf?"
Gloin whirls back in time to see the elf flash his son a quick grin.
The Matron groans before cheerfully throwing up her hands. "Well, there's that money lost! Back to work it is....will he still work it alone?"
Gimli raises an eyebrow. "Will the bets still be there til he beats them?"
She laughs loud and long in lue of an answer.
0/0/0/0/0
Legolas is nowhere to be found when Gloin looks in. His brow furrows down as he glances over the hardworking dwarven heads. No taller than average, pale face reveals itself. He straightens. He knows the elf was sent here this morning. He should be here still, yet is not.
"He showed up for an hour, then disappeared," he is told.
Of all the pompous, arrogant - any good dwarrow knows not to shirk their duties. To make such a a kingdom as Erebor run smoothly, all must do their jobs, whether they feel like it or no, even the king - Thorin III Stonehelm. Of course, the elf thinks himself above such rules. Gloin suppose an elven princeling isn't called upon for such manual labor all the time.
"Which way did he go?" Gloin growls as his fist clench.
The dwarf fidgets. "He looked ill...for an elf."
That gives Gloin pause. "...ill? How so?"
"He kept stuttering over words. Thought he might faint a few times too. During one of those spells, he just abruptly went to Sidmar and said he had to go. He'd be back soon."
Gloin runs his fingers through the rough curls of his beard. That does sound odd. "I'll see to it."
He stomps out and glanced at the sentry of the hall. "Which way for the elf?"
"Towards the surface, my Lord."
An obvious choice for an Upgrounder. Gloin makes his way up as quick as possible, only giving a brief nod to those dwarrow that hail him. He soon finds himself in the chilled air outside. His breathe fogs as he studies the dirt and foliage before him. Elven trails are harder to find than normal...but, ah, there!
Gloin finds a bit of a toe print by a shrub. Careless of the prince, especially one from Mirkwood. He expected to have to hunt for at least an hour. Well, best get this over with. He can't keep babysitting and checking to make sure the elf keep his end of the deal.
He jerks to a stop as voices reach him. Creeping nearer, he recognizes the deep rumble of Gimli's base, intermingled with the higher notes of Legolas's tenor. As he presses against the grey stone, he strains his ears.
"Do not ask it of me," he hears the elf snap. Gloin stifles the urge to emerge and ream the prince out. The audacity to yell at his son, when it is on Gimli's word alone that Legolas is allowed entrance!
Yet Gimli merely sighs. “It was only a thought.”
“A bad one," Legolas counters, softer this time. Almost sad.
“…aye, perhaps, but it hurts my heart sore to see you so. Is there naught we can do to give you relief? Perhaps, we could write to Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel. Surely one of them will accept you into their fold.”
Gloin's teeth worry the inside of his upper lip. He knew, as did most of those close to Thorin III, that the prince was in disgrace with his kin. Not why, Gimli has told that to Thorin alone, but it was enough for Erebor to be opened to the elf indefinitely. Gloin can admit, some of his anger comes from being kept in the dark.
"forced to do? Nay, it would be a poor show of friendship to ask such a thing.”
Thorin's shield, he's missed something! He pushes his hurt away and refocuses.
“I think they would not think it so.”
“No, mellon nin. Please, I will be all right. Soon.”
“Very well, but no more thoughts of your burdening on us," Gimli admonishes. Gloin knows there is a glare accompanying the words, much like his mother does when she scolds.
“Swalin told you.”
“Of course, he told me! What put these silly thoughts into your head? You do more than your share of work, you obey our customs, honor our hospitality. Why would you be unwelcome?”
Gloin winces at this.
“Do I not sigh for more?” the elf queries. “I am given much and still I pine for…”
For what? Pine for what?
“For home. You’re allowed to call it that. It is your home. It will always be your home. You miss it, just as I would miss Erebor. This is why – ”
“Nay!”
Gloin jumps at the shout.
He hears Gimli sighs. “Very well.”
“You see I am poor company," the elf sighs.
“But welcome nevertheless.”
Gloin shakes his head. Homesickness can rot at one's heart. He, better than most, would know this. Perhaps he ill likes the secret being kept. Mayhap he will one day soon demand it be told him....but not today.
This morning, he will shuffle quietly back down the slope. He will tell Sidmar - the dwarrow in charge of the forge that week - that he will be helping with the elf's shift. Some eyebrows will raise at this, how could they not, but no one will outright question it. And as he pushes the billow down next to another dwarrow, Gloin will remember the times when he had to work in the past when all he wanted to do was cry. He'll think that, perhaps, this time, it might be better if someone does care about what was lost.