Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Seven

Thorin had been dead for thirty-eight years.

The preparations for Gimli's hundredth birthday had been lavish. Glóin spared no expense for his beloved star, and the gifts were everything a young warrior could want.

Thorin made a special point of witnessing the lad's celebration. Fíli and Kíli spent all their time gawking at Gimrís, and Frerin did naught but complain that he couldn't drink the very fine spirit Bilbo had sent from the Shire for the occasion. Bifur was entertaining himself by walking through people. It was a very unnerving sight.

Balin gave him a fine new brigandine, the shoulders decorated with golden-plated mail, the links embossed with the ancient patterns for the Line of Durin and for the Longbeards. Gimli's eyes glowed with appreciation at the work, and he put it on immediately. Dwalin gave the lad a helm to match, with fierce cheek-guards and golden knotwork. Dáin gifted him a full hauberk of steel mail, and Gimli exclaimed loudly as he lifted it. It was no new work – the mail was obviously from the treasure of Thrór. He eventually found the maker's mark and sat down sharply. It had been made by none other than Náin II, his royal ancestor. Dís handed it to him, as Dáin could not leave the evening audiences until much later.

"I cannot accept this," he breathed. "It is too much!"

"You can and will, little star," Dís said, shaking her head affectionately. "You would be foolish not to! Now, here is my gift, and Mahal's blessing on your naming day."

"Thank you, Aunt Dís," he said, dazed as he accepted it. The bag fell away to reveal a pair of very familiar throwing axes. He looked up, his eyes wide and white. She smiled.

"Fíli would like you to have them, no doubt," she said.

Behind her, Fíli's shoulders straightened. "Yes, he'll use them," he said to himself. "They'll serve him well, I think."

Gimli looked back down at the axes, and then carefully slipped them into his boots and stood. "Thank you," he said, and swallowed.

"Don't try running with them for too long," Fíli said to his cousin. "You'll scrape all the skin off your ankles!"

The Ri Brothers had banded together and had made him a beautiful warm woolen travelling surcoat with a matching pair of trousers. The stitching around the edges was hardy and strong, and the color was a warm rusty brown that made the red of his beard appear brighter. "Thank you!" Gimli said and held it up to admire the gold thread interwoven through the edges.

"Here now," said Bombur. "This is from all o' us."

His wife Alrís was a tanner, and she had made Gimli a tooled leather belt with crossed straps for the new throwing axes. Gimli made a wordless sound of delight as he pulled it on over his new brigandine and belted it firmly. "You have all been in league with each other, I see! Now I am kitted from head to toe!"

"Not quite, my son," said Glóin with a fond smile. "Here."

Gimli's face lit up with joy and love when his father handed over his axes, with his blessing. "Truly?" the lad – well, he could no longer in any way be called a lad – breathed.

"Wield them well, my son," Glóin said, and bent to press his leonine head against Gimli's. "Proud of you, nidoy."

"Thank you, 'adadel," Gimli said in a voice that was tight with pride and happiness. "Thank you."

Gimrís, ninety-two years old and as stunning as the sun, made a noise in the back of her throat. "Well, here," she said brusquely, handing over a package. "I made it."

Gimli took the package and unwrapped it carefully. Revealed was an exquisite glass goblet with Gimli's name etched on the base in Cirth, and a pattern of stars around the rim encrusted in diamonds as small as the tip of a needle. "Gimrís," he said in awe. "You made this?"