Hey all. Have some funny. (i hope???)

“Tell me what you have discovered.”

Thranduil was apparently lounging indolently in his chair,
his hands long and graceful where they fell over the carved stone arms.

“Very little, Adar,” Laindawar said with a scowl. “They will
not answer my questions. The sister, Gimris, has nothing positive to say of her
brother at all. And if she who is his sister has naught but scorn to share,
what more can we expect of others? What has our Legolas tied himself to?”

Thranduil’s eyes did not flicker, but his jaw rippled. “I
see.”

“The King has mentioned this Gimli’s skill at arms,”
Thranduil continued, his voice smooth. “That is not small praise in a kingdom
of warriors.”

“His sister tells me he is nothing but muscle-bound idiocy,”
Laindawar said. His fists bunched at his side. “She will not answer any of my very
reasonable questions, and I fear their answers may be terrible. A Dwarf that
will not comb his hair! And a Dwarf of the Line of Durin besides: you know
their curse as well as I. I dread to think what has become of our brother, what
this Gimli will do to him. You know how they are about their treasures…”

Beside him, Laerophen let out a soft snort.

Thranduil tipped his head. “Something to add, ionneg?”

Laerophen started under the sudden attention, and drew
himself up to his full towering, gawky height, shifting between his feet. “Well,
yes… may I speak frankly?”

“I will have nothing less from you, my son,” said Thranduil,
but his gaze softened as he looked upon his secondborn.

“Are you senseless?”

Thranduil’s face, once again, did not change. Laindawar’s
head snapped to his brother, and he glared like a thunderstorm.

“Perhaps you have been manipulated by your long captivity,”
Laindawar began, stiffly.

“I am not captive,
and never was!” Laerophen pinched his nose, and took a deep breath. “I have
lived amongst them. I know them! By
the stars, honeg nin, you attack Gimris with question after question while she works? As though
it is her role in life to answer you? And you wonder why she snaps and growls
and stalks away!”

“Then by all means, enlighten us as to their ways,”
Thranduil said, before Laindwar could explode into furious debate.

“The Lady Gimris is the worst one to ask about her brother,”
Laerophen said, and he launched into motion, stalking across the room and
moving his hands in agitation. “These folk, they mock and tease easily: you
must learn to find the laughter and care under the words. And do not talk of the curse
of the line of Durin in their very halls! You know as well as I do that it has
faded to naught with the stench of dragon and the loss of the Dwarf-ring. Yet
still you would name a Dwarf greedy without ever having met him? I despair that
I thought as you did, once.”

“Who would you suggest we speak to?” Thranduil said, cutting
over the spluttering coming from Laindawar’s direction.

“You would do better to speak to her son, or to Gloin.”
Laerophen then winced. “Well, when you can bear to be in the same room as him,
and he you. Dwalin son of Fundin was his teacher, and the singer Baris
Crystaltongue was his sister’s dearest friend. He has called the Princess Dis ‘aunt’
since his young childhood, I understand. He is dear to her. And most importantly, Mizim, his
mother – she is a calmer soul than her husband, and a wise one. She has spoken
to me of her son, and I deem that Gimli is a fit match for our brother.”

“A mother’s love may distort many a vice into a virtue,” Laindawar
retorted.

“You in your wisdom just told me that his own sister thought him a covetous thug: I would not trust my insight,
if I were you,” Laerophen snapped.

“Peace, my sons,” Thranduil said, and he leaned forward.
“Tell me what his mother said.”

Laerophen gave Laindawar a last cross glare, before he
turned back to his father. “He is honest to a fault – often honest beyond the
bounds of politeness,” he said. “He is brave, foolhardily so. He has a poet’s tongue,
and loves to sing. He is gracious in both victory and defeat, though he is not
overfond of losing – I understand he is fiercely competitive. His sense of
humour tends to wordplay and jesting. And lastly, he is loyal beyond all sense.”

“Is he a fair warrior?” Laindawar demanded. His face was
still mottled, his eyes flashing with resentment.

“He’s only the best warrior
since Dwalin, dumbface,” came a small mutter from the door. It would have been
inaudible to any but Elven ears.

Laerophen froze, his mouth hanging ajar.

“Who spies upon us?” Laindawar said, and he reached for his
sword hanging at his side.

“Oh, Elbereth.” Laerophen closed his eyes for a moment. “Gimizh?”

There was a tiny squeak, and some shuffling from beyond the
heavy door.

Thranduil stood in a flowing movement, crossing to the door
with his robes sweeping behind him. He flung it open, and stared down with icy
eyes. “Who is this?”

“Gimizh, what are you doing here?” Laerophen said wearily.

“Cleaning the doorknob,” Gimizh said, his small face
defiant.

“An untruth,” Thranduil said, his voice low and silky.

“Your small shadow reappears,” Laindawar remarked to
Laerophen, who shook his head.

“Were you looking for me?”

“I was cleaning the doorknob, and if a fellow overhears
fings when he’s cleaning doorknobs, that’s not his fault,” Gimizh said to
Thranduil, crossing his chubby little arms and tipping up his head. “You were
takin’ too long,” he added to Laerophen. “There’s cake tonight: Barur’s started
the pastry ovens again at last!”

“That sounds like a fine adventure, but you should not
eavesdrop on private conversations,” Laerophen said, crossing to Gimizh and
dropping to his haunches to put a gentle hand upon the Dwarfling’s shoulder. “Your
mother shall be cross.”

“When is his mother not
cross,” muttered Laindawar.

“You shouldn’t say nasty stuff about people either, but he does it lots,” Gimizh snapped back,
jerking his head towards Laindawar. “First my uncle Gimli, and then my mum!”

“That is true,” Thranduil said. His eyebrow was ever so
slightly lifted, giving him a faintly quizzical air. “Then you should apologise
for eavesdropping, and my son shall apologise for his rudeness.”

“Fine,” Gimizh grumbled. “Sorry for accident’ly listening to
things.”

Laindawar opened and shut his mouth, and then he inclined
his head. “I am sorry for speaking ill of your family.”

“Pfft, you don’t know anything anyway,” Gimizh said, tossing
his head. His curved braids bounced. “S’not your fault you’re so ignant.”

Laerophen frowned, and hazarded a guess. “Ignorant?”

“Means that he doesn’t know anything,” said Gimizh. Innocent
helpfulness oozed from every pore.

“I…” Laindawar began, and then subsided with a sniff.

“Gimli is your uncle,” Thranduil said, the words slow and
measured. “Child, are you close to him?”

Gimizh glanced at Laerophen, who squeezed his arm. “We seek
to learn more of him,” he said. “My brother has become attached to him, you
see, and we would know what manner of person he is.”

Gimizh looked horrified. “Your brother!?”

“No, my other brother,”
Laerophen rushed to say, and Gimizh blew out a massive breath, his shoulders
slumping dramatically.

Laindawar growled. Wordlessly, Thranduil passed him a goblet
of wine.

“Din’t know you had another brother,” Gimizh said. “Can I
come in? The doorknob’s really clean now.”

“I am sure it is,” Thranduil murmured. “In you come, child.”

Gimizh scurried in and clung to Laerophen’s side. As the
Elvenking turned and re-took his seat, the Dwarfling poked a small pink tongue
out at Laindawar.

“Now that is rude,”
Laerophen said, and prodded him gently.

“Then we’re even,” said Gimizh, with lofty dismissal.

Laindawar gripped his wine tightly, and tipped back half the
glass.

Thranduil arranged his robe around his feet, and then
studied Gimizh for a silent second. Then he said once more, “are you close to
your uncle?”

“Yep,” said Gimizh. “Oooh, you’ve got grapes! Can I have
some?”

“Would you please,” Laindawar said, stressing the ‘please’
with biting sarcasm, “tell us of him?”

“He’s big an’ strong and has a fluffy red beard,” Gimizh
said, his eyes darting over to the bowl of grapes upon the table. “I got a doll
of him.”

“Then you love him,” Thranduil said, his head tipping
forward to eye the child intently.

Gimizh only rolled his eyes. His mouth was full as he spoke
next. “He’s my uncle Gimli. He’s the best fighter in the whole mountain, and I’m
not allowed to touch his things while he’s away. He tells good stories.
Sometimes he chases me an’ Wee Thorin an’ Balinith through the Mountain, or
plays hidey with us. I cut my shin on his axe that I accident’ly borrowed one
time, an’ he was a bit mad, but he really wasn’t because Uncle Gimli dun get
mad at me ever. He was only
pretending because he was afraid. Mum does that too. I like his axes, an’ they
were Grandpa’s. Uncle Gimli told me he would give them to me one day. But he also said that I shouldn’t take things
that weren’t mine, an’ that I shouldn’t do everything that pops into my head
without telling anyone. But since he went on a big important Quest without
telling anyone, I think that’s a bit unfair. Adults are like that though.”

“I see,” Thranduil said, and his mouth twitched.

“He still calls me ‘pebble’ sometimes, which isn’t fair
either since I’m a big dwarrow now,” Gimizh said, and shrugged a little.  Another grape disappeared with the swipe of a
small slightly-grubby hand. “If he catches you when you’re playing hidey, he blows
raspberries on your tummy to make you laugh. He knows lots of songs, and
sometimes he makes them up on the spot! I’m gonna make up songs too. But Mum
barks at us when I sing any of Uncle Gimli’s mining songs, because they have naughty
things in them sometimes. Da only laughs until he chokes, but then, Da’s a
miner too.”

“You… do? I mean, he is?”

Gimizh nodded importantly – and snatched up a grape. “S’what
Uncle Gimli said to me once. He was a miner back in Ered Luin. I never been to
Ered Luin, and Grandpa says it was hard there. Uncle Gimli doesn’t say much
about it. I reckon it’s good we’re not there anymore, an’ Da can be a
shopkeeper and Uncle Gimli can be a warrior now. I bet he’s killed a billionty
orcs. Is your brother on the quest too??”

“Yes, that is where they met,” Laindawar said.

“Oh.” Gimizh screwed up his face as he chewed, and then
swallowed. “Is he rude?”

“Ah…when it is warranted,” said Thranduil. His eyes were
glassy.

“Mum’s rude to Uncle Gimli all the time, and he’s rude right
back at her,” Gimizh said with a wicked little grin. His hand darted from the
bowl to his pocket. “She calls Uncle Gimli a fathead and a troll, and he calls
her a goblin and a prissy Elf! She’d blister my ears if I ever said that! They’re
brother an’ sister, but I don’t got a brother or sister or sibling. I got Wee
Thorin, but he can knock me on my backside so I don’t call him a fathead. But I
seen Uncle Gimli punch another fellow right in the teeth – wham! Just like
that! – for calling my Mum names. So I don’t think they’re really meaning those
words at all: I think they mean something else. Something nicer.”

“You asked for this,” Laerophen murmured to Thranduil, who
was starting to look a little fixed.

“You’re out of grapes,” added Gimizh.