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“So what do you think hobbits are?” Gimli asks, as he whets the edge of his axe beside the fire.
Legolas leans back, stretching out his ridiculously long legs and propping himself on his arms. Gimli absently admires the sleek muscles of the elf’s arms, and then mentally kicks himself for doing so. “Apart from being extremely talented at attracting various improbable forms of trouble, you mean?” Legolas asks.
“Aside from that,” Gimli agrees with a chuckle.
“Well, they aren’t dwarves, clearly,” Legolas muses. “They’ve got no beards.”
“Perhaps the beards migrated to their feet,” Gimli offers. “Though I can’t imagine how.”
“Certainly they do seem as proud of their feet as you are of your beard,” Legolas says. “Still, that does seem improbable.”
“They could be really short elves,” Gimli says. “They’ve got pointy ears.”
Legolas laughs, soft and musical. “Elves do not have body hair, aside from eyebrows and eyelashes; I cannot imagine how some group of us might have acquired foot-fur.”
“None at all?” Gimli asks, distracted from his musings by the sheer oddity of the statement. “Don’t you get cold?”
“No, not really,” Legolas says, shrugging.
“Huh. Well, I guess that does mean hobbits are less likely to be elves.” Gimli tests the edge of his axe with a finger and sets it aside, leaning back against a convenient boulder. “And since Men haven’t got hairy feet or pointy ears -”
“Indeed, that does rather rule them out,” Legolas says, and hums. “And certainly they are not orcish.”
“No, not in the slightest.” Gimli grimaces. “The Shadow cannot make, it can only mar, and hobbits are by no means marred.”
“Even so,” Legolas agrees.
“That does leave us out of options, though,” Gimli adds, tugging gently at his beard.
“Maybe they grow in gardens,” Legolas suggests, with a bright and wickedly appealing smile. “Like Samwise’s potatoes.”
Gimli guffaws. “Little hobbits sprouting up ears-first!”
“Surely it would be toes-first!” Legolas replies, and then they’re both laughing, hard enough that Gimli’s chest hurts with it, and the elf is crying with mirth.
It’s a damn good night.