Another random quick-ish short-ish Tolkien-verse ficlet. (The rest can be found here, but beware: one is sad, one is cute and one just plain weird.)
But this is Minas Tirith after the battle. Dark dreams, H/C, and not-quite-there-yet gigolas.
Gimli was on his feet with steel in his hand before he was fully awake. He blinked croggily in the heavy darkness as he considered his surroundings. Surely no sign of impending danger had roused him here, in this good house of solid stone high in the seventh circle of the White City.
There was a dim sliver of light between the closed shutters, but that hardly spoke in favour of either an early hour or late, these being the days under the Shadow. A twilight could easily be full daybreak.
But from the dull aching weariness of his limbs Gimli knew it could not be more than scarce hours since he had at last found his rest the night after the battle.
In the next room, someone cried out.
OH THIS IS LOVELY
SO EVOCATIVE, FULL OF THAT CLOSE, HUSHED ATMOSPHERE OF VERY LATE EVENING, SOFT AND SORROWFUL AND HOPEFUL AND BEAUTIFUL ALL AT ONCE
AND THE DIALOGUE IS BLOODY BRILLIANT
Aw Yiss 