Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Councils and Councilors

There were few tales that either his cousin or his husband could tell that Gimli could not counter with one of his own, and where he lacked stories, Tauriel proved to be a surprisingly bountiful source. No one escaped that room unscathed.

So, it was with his pride bruised, but still intact, that Gimli found himself helping Kíli once more bring Fíli to the council chambers. Fíli, somewhere between laughing at their shared tales and being helped onto his litter, had fallen into a rather dark mood, and was churlish and snappish. He did not say much, perhaps realizing the sudden onset of his distemper, but his mood would not have been more obvious if there had been a black stormcloud over his head.

"Cheer up, brother," Kíli said. "Cousin Óin said you'd be back on your feet before the end of winter."

"I wouldn't be so cross if you would hold be a bit higher," Fíli said. "It has been decades since I was so low to the ground."

"Has it?" Kíli asked. "I hadn't noticed. To be honest, everyone below a certain height looks the same to me."

"You're only eight centimeters taller!"

"Yes," Kíli said, grinning. "eight whole centimeters."

Fíli sighed. "Gimli, please tell me you'll grow taller than my dear brother, so you can put him in his proper place."

"Afraid not," Gimli said. "I'm not going to grow more than a centimeter or two, excepting in the shoulders." Legolas's face scrunched as he bit down on whatever comment he was going to make, and Gimli winked at him.

"It must be very strange," Tauriel said. "To know just how you will grow."

Gimli smiled at her as they passed through into the council chamber. "There is so much strange in my life now, lass, that knowing just how long my beard will grow ranks very low."

"And just how long will it grow?" Dain called out gleefully from across the chamber. Thorin stood behind him and cuffed him about the back of the head in the familiar way of old families. The line was a clear allusion to one of the bawdier drinking songs that Dain had liked to hum in council when the slow machinations of court proved too tedious even for him. It was a song, however, that Gimli, at sixty-four, should have been too young to know. Of course Gimli, even at sixty-four, had two older cousins and therefore knew the entire song by heart.

"Lower than my stones do dangle," Gimli called back, quick as a wink, to Dain's uproarious laughter. Several of the dwarves laughed, though looked appalled that Gimli would know that song, and more that he would use their secret tongue before others when not on the battlefield. Gimli ignored the lot of 'em. There were bigger issues than pointless secrecy at stake.

The room where the council was to be held was, in fact, King Thror's stateroom, where he would meet with his councilors, ambassadors, and other dignitaries and diplomats. As such it was suitably grand, the ceilings high and the pillars elaborately carved to display the strength and cunning of the dwarven craftsmen. The King's Seat, a lesser version of his throne, once stood at the eastern edge of a large stone table. Now, however, the seat was gone, replaced by one of many salvaged from the wreckage, and the table lay cracked and broken. It seemed like a portent to decide the future of middle earth around a broken table, but Gimli could not for the life of him tell if it was for good or ill.

Thorin was already present, as were Dís, Bilbo, and the sons of Fundin. Dís was already seated at the table, next to Dain, who had his iron foot propped up against a piece of stone, and the others stood behind them, speaking softly. Dain, in his half-reclined position, occasionally offered a comment to their conversation, while Dís seemed lost in thought as she ran a hand over her mustache in a move so reminiscent of her son that Gimli had to look twice.