Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Fifteen

They slept that night upon a flat high in the branches of a mallorn-tree, and the Elves that accompanied Haldir all hid superior smiles at the sight of Gimli struggling to climb it.

"You could try helping, rather than standin' there an' sniggering!" Gimli burst out eventually, and the Elves laughed aloud.

"Here," Legolas said in a neutral voice, and passed Gimli a rope. Then the wood-elf sent a flat look to the Galadhrim and turned away.

Only Frís' warning hand on Thorin's arm prevented a furious tirade from descending upon the heads of the Lórien Elves.

"Thorin," she said quietly. "You must sleep. Twenty hours is too long. Come back when they rise again: you do not help Gimli or yourself by witnessing this."

"He'd be furious if he knew I'd seen it," Lóni agreed ruefully. "Come on, Frár. Náli, we'll come back in a little while. They will be safe in this wood."

"I doubt that," Thorin snarled, but he allowed his mother to lead him from the deep blue night of Arda into the drowned stars of Gimlîn-zâram.

~*~

"Eat!" Hrera barked, putting a bowl in front of Thorin the next morning. "Ah, Thorin darling, your face is being swallowed up by the black rings beneath your eyes! Soon there will be no face left and only black rings and everyone will wonder where you have gone."

"That was not amusing the first time I heard it, Grandmother," Thorin grumbled, but he sat at the table and picked up the spoon. The bowl was full of Hrera's traditional Broadbeam dumpling stew, and he brightened. It had been centuries since he'd tasted it.

"Thought that might get your attention." She snorted and turned to rap Frerin's knuckles with a spoon. "No touching! That is for your brother."

"That is entirely unfair," Frerin complained. "How come Thorin gets Grandmother's stew and I don't?"

"Because Thorin has been working himself to the very bedrock," Hrera snapped back. "Keep your sticky fingers out of it, and there might be some left for you."

Frerin's hand shot back so fast it might have been spring-loaded.

"This is somewhat familiar," Thrór said humorously. "I am having flashbacks to Erebor before the Dragon came."

Thorin looked up with a cautious expression. His grandfather did not normally speak so calmly of that time. "I can remember very little of those early years," he said. "I can remember the pageantry, and the stew of course..."

"Thank you," Hrera said with dignity, and then rapped Fíli and Kíli over the heads with her spoon. "Don't you start as well! That belongs to your uncle."

"But it smells so good!" Kíli whined.

Thorin, prompted by some long-dormant imp of mischief, took a large spoonful of his stew and made a satisfied noise.

"I cannot believe you," Kíli said and he slid down in his chair and began to work on a very impressive sulk.

"All right, maybe Frerin's stories of your pranks aren't complete hogwash," Fíli said, and he folded his arms and gave Thorin a long and level look.

"Uncle Frerin?" Frerin prompted hopefully, and Fíli and Kíli gave identical snorts of derision.

"Keep dreaming, youngster," Fíli said, and grinned.

Hrera waved her spoon at them. "Stay out of trouble today, great-grandsons, and I will make you a potful of your own," she said sweetly.

"All day?" Kíli said.