Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Fourteen

Kíli watched in bemusement. Certainly, he'd been a little... impulsive at times. But this took the cake. In fact, it took the whole bakery.

"Oh, come on! We could take him!" said Gimizh, his dark red hair falling into his eyes.

Wee Thorin (who at thirty-seven wasn't so wee anymore) rolled his eyes. "Gimizh, he's a messenger of Mordor. Who knows what he's capable of?"

"I thought you were gonna be a great warrior an' that?" challenged Gimizh. Wee Thorin folded his arms and gave the younger Dwarfling a long stare.

"I am a great warrior," he said gruffly. "My Pa's Dwalin Fundinul."

"Pfft, my 'adad's a miner and he could sing your Pa under the table," Gimizh retorted, and the two Dwarflings scuffled for a moment before Gimizh yelped.

"Let that be a lesson t' you," Wee Thorin said, sticking his scruffy chin out. "Nobody beats my Pa."

"My uncle could," sulked Gimizh, holding his head.

Wee Thorin's lips pursed. Kíli took that to mean that Thorin knew very well that Gimli had outstripped his famous father, but didn't want to admit it.

"Well, if we're not going to fight him, can't we go up and see?" Gimizh said sullenly, still rubbing at his head. His cheeks were still bare as an egg, but he had a great shaggy mop of hair on his head that reminded Kíli of Glóin, though Bofur habitually braided it into pigtails like his own.

"We're not goin' to fight him," said Wee Thorin firmly. "Come on, pick up your chalk."

"Don't want to."

"You have to do your lessons, Gimizh. I heard your uncle knew these histories by the time he was twenty!"

Gimizh's head snapped up. "Did he really?"

"Aye, an' you're twenty-five already." Wee Thorin's eyes twinkled with youthful cunning. His hair still stood up in a fierce shock not unlike Dwalin's old Mohawk, though he had gained the dark eyes and skin of Orla. Of his three brothers, he was the tallest, though his middle brother Balin had the most strength, and the youngest, the toddling Frerin, had Dwalin's massive hands and arms. "Can you interpret this bit?"

Gimizh glanced over it, and then he folded his arms and tossed his chin into the air. "S' cirth."

"They're all cirth, dimwit," Wee Thorin growled. "What does it say?"

"I want to fight the stupid messenger!"

"Wrong. It says, 'At the Battle of Dagorlad, Drór smashed the Chief Orc's head in with a battle-axe'."

"Drór's got some good ideas." Gimizh glowered. He had quite a fine Durin glower. "Why can't we go see? I want to see."

Wee Thorin sighed. "You're not going to concentrate on your lessons until we go and gawk, are you?"

Gimizh shook his head stubbornly, his curved and protruding plaits swinging.

Wee Thorin rubbed his eyes, and then sighed again. "All right."

Gimizh jerked, and then he whooped loudly.

"But!" Wee Thorin held up a finger. "You have to promise to do your lessons afterwards, or your mother will yell at me."

Gimizh nodded quickly. "Promise. Mithril-true promise, may I be shaved like a Man if I break it. Come on, let's go!"

"Ooooh, not good," Kíli murmured, and bit down on his lip as the two Dwarflings scurried from the room to the upper levels overlooking the battlements. He followed with a sinking feeling, and absently wondered if Thorin had ever felt like this, watching over Fíli and himself.