hey all! In the wake of CHAPTER FIVE OF THE PODFIC (omFGGGGGG) BEING RELEASED (pause for rapturous shrieking) I thought i’d celebrate by giving everybody a taste of Chapter 43!

Before you read this, though, you should absolutely listen to ch5 of the @sansukhpodfic OKAY. okay.

Current wordcount update for ch43: 5.5K

SNEAKYPEEKINESS UNDER THE CUT 🙂

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First of all – 
WASN’T THE PODFIC AMAZING??????????

I KNOW RIGHT!!! HOLY SHIT!!! EVERYONE MADE ME LAUGH SO MUCH – RIGHT BEFORE THEY DESTROYED ME SO MUCHAAAAAAH

…

SANSUKH CH43 excerpt
(DRAFT 2)

The hours began to turn slower, and slower, then the days. Time had become so precious during the last weeks of the Ring War that every second had been filled to capacity, squeezed until it squeaked. Now, there was such a thing as leisure. There were moments purely for pleasure and interest.

Thorin played cards with Frerin and Vili, fought a practice-duel or two with Dáin, played his harp with Frís, and spent time in the smithy with Thráin. His steps became calmer, his posture more relaxed. The dark thoughts drifted through his mind on occasion, and yet they did not take root and grow as they once had. He made new dies for drawing wire, helped Bifur make a toy clockwork Oliphaunt, and gifted his mother with the completed oil-lamp. His eyes grew clearer, his hands rough and burn-scarred as they had once been. His sleep was dreamless. His days began to stretch out before him.

Once, Thorin would have thought them empty. Dead and dismal, hopeless and pointless. Now, they seemed full of potential, of possibilities. His workshop was covered in plans and sketches and pictures.

He watched his beard lengthen in the mirror by the day, and wondered what would happen next.

…

“Here.”

Bani looked up through bleary eyes from the charts beneath her hands. A cup was before her, sitting on a tray. Steam rose from its lip. She blinked, and a plate with breadrolls and eggs and a slice of cold venison came into focus beside the cup. “Eh?”

“You haven’t eaten in seven hours,” said the voice, amused and worried all at once. Bani took off her glasses with sluggish movements. Her back ached, reminding her that she had barely shifted position all that time. Her eyes stung and ached as she looked up into the face of Baris. “Do me a favour and get this into you?”

“How’s that a favour to you?” she mumbled, her hand fumbling the cup. A gulp later, and warmth flooded her insides, unwinding the tension and the slight nausea that had settled there without her notice. “Oh Mahal, that is good. Thank you, Songbird.”

Baris sat on the edge of her drafting-table, her brows drawn together. “What are you working on that’s so important? Things have calmed down considerably, after all.”

“Designing new storehouses,” Bani said, and yawned. “Everyone seems to have forgotten, but that damn woman is still out there. Scheming, probably.”

Baris’ frown deepened. “There’s no danger of starvation now. Perhaps she’ll leave us alone.”

“No, we’re not going to starve, and all chance of power has been put out of her reach. But who knows what she’ll do for revenge?” Bani yawned again. “She’s the type to want to be ‘proved’ right, even when she’s horribly, horribly wrong. I’m not one to repeat my mistakes. So, we have to design something safer than the old storerooms, and I don’t see anybody else doin’ it. On top of that, the Elves keep wanting things made in wood. I’ve had barely any time to scratch, considering. We need more carpenters in this bloody mountain, frankly: we’ve an embarrassment of stonemasons and bugger-all folk who know what to do with a tree, other than burn it.”

“You need sleep,” Baris said, smiling a little. “You’re ranting.”

“I know.” Bani smiled back at her. Their eyes met, and there was a little pause. “After I’ve eaten. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Baris put the tray down upon the table, and her fingers lingered upon the back of Bani’s hand. “I wanted to,” she said.  Her beautiful voice was hopeful and low. “It’s… it’s an idea I’m trying out.”

Bani laughed, brief and rough in her scratchy throat, remembering the rushed conversation about ideas and success before dousing the fire. “And do you think this one’ll work?”

Baris’ eyes were warm and very, very soft. “I hope so.”

…

The morning air was still chill with the last lingering traces of the night. The early hawkers were beginning to set up in the market squares. Much of the rubble had been cleared, but there were still scars everywhere one looked: shattered buildings and missing walls, blade-marks upon wood and stone.

Alone, Gimli marched through the city with purpose in his stride. Many of the market-folk looked up and watched him pass, and he nodded courteously to their greetings. It appeared that he was still something of a curiosity to the folk of Minas Tirith. Yet their gossip was good-natured and did not seem to bother him any longer. He evidently had other things on his mind.

“…need it to rhyme with fast,” he muttered to himself, and shook his beard in annoyance.

Pushing open the smithy-door, he called out to the owner, a Man called Iorlas, the uncle of Pippin’s young friend Bergil. “T’is Gimli, as arranged!”

“You begin the day early, Master Dwarf!” came the shout in reply. “I’ll be down later, once I’m dry and dressed and fed. Would you care for some tea? I’ve the kettle brewing.”

“None for me, thank you, but the kindness is appreciated!” Gimli yawned a bit and scratched at his neck, mumbling absently as he thought. “Past, cast, last – night gathers fast? Hmm. Night gathers fast – aye, possibly. Possibly.”

“Something on your mind?” Thorin asked, and Gimli nearly shouted in surprise, leaping about and clutching at his own chest in his shock.

“You utter bastard,” he gasped, and Thorin threw back his head and laughed. He had never had that effect before, and it was far more gratifying than he’d imagined.

“I’ll knock next time, shall I?”

Gimli rumbled in irritation, scowling at thin air. “You’re a right sod, Thorin Oakenshield. All right, now that you’ve taken at least a decade off my life, what’s the matter?”

Thorin sat down, and then adjusted his seat. The chairs here were far too tall: impossible, even for a ghost. “Why should something be the matter?”

“Isn’t there always a new problem?” Gimli said, and he rolled up his sleeves and took up the bellows for the forge. He began to pump, slow strong pulls that brought the dying embers back from their nightly slumber.

“Pessimist! This is most unlike you, Gimli.” Thorin frowned a little. “Well, I suppose there is one concern. Your father has received your letter.”

Gimli’s rhythm only faltered the smallest amount, and his eyes flattened in determination. Yet his mouth did not tighten, and nor did he flinch. “Already? That was a swift raven, then.”

“Thranduil has also received his.”

“Hmm. I expect they are sending missives of accusation back and forth between the Mountain and the Wood?”

“Not… precisely,” Thorin sighed. “Thranduil is wintering at Erebor. He has brought food enough to save them from starvation. The war has softened him towards us, it seems. Yet upon this news I half-expected him to withdraw his aid. Still, despite his shock and anger, he stays, though they nearly came to blows…”

“Oh Mahal’s teeth,” Gimli said, his eyes very wide. His voice was weak. “Oh mahumb.”

“The timing was not the best, no,” Thorin agreed. “That, or you have inherited a touch or two of my poor luck.”

“Dad’s all right, isn’t he?” Gimli’s hands gripped the bellows-handle tightly, as though around the haft of an axe. “He’s not as young as he was, and Thranduil might have… He suffered no injury?”

“Neither struck the other, thank Durin.” Gimli’s shoulders sagged in relief. “They bristle and scowl and make comments under their breath. The air is as frosty as the Grinding Ice itself, but thank Mahal that no blood has been shed. They both believe themselves to be viciously betrayed, however, and quite emphatically hate and despise the other.”

“Well, that’s rubbish,” Gimli said, sounding much more like himself. “Dad didn’t do anything rash in his temper, did he?”

“Your sister and mother had sense enough to talk your father down, as did Legolas’ brother Laerophen.”

“Legolas’ brother?” Gimli perked up. “You know him?”

“I’ve watched him, aye.” Thorin cleared his throat, feeling unaccountably annoyed, all of a sudden. “He is… not the worst Elf I’ve met.”

Gimli snorted. “Don’t hurt yourself. What do you make of him?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to ask Legolas?”

“Legolas will answer like an Elf who has known his brother for years beyond words. I would have the answer of a Dwarf, who knows and cares for us both. I would hear my guide’s opinion, if I could.”

“Gimli, you have been my guide in more ways than you can ever understand,” he began, but he was interrupted by Gimli’s quiet snort.

“Thorin, my kinsman and my king. You’ve led me through every challenge and peril on this quest. You’ve given me news and hope and advice, even when I was too foolish to listen to you. If you’re about to disavow your place in my life and my heart, then you can shut it right there.” Gimli’s voice was warm and gruff with affection, and it struck Thorin then: Gimli loved him in return.

How odd; how very unexpected! Thorin had thought for so long that it was Gimli who gave him direction and hope. He had simply assumed… but perhaps it worked both ways. Perhaps he had been more than a bodiless voice upon the wind; perhaps Gimli was as grateful for Thorin as Thorin was for Gimli.

“Then I will count myself fortunate,” Thorin said, softly.

Gimli grinned. “I the pessimist and you the optimist. There’s a change of tune!”

“So what are you doing here?” Thorin looked about the small room, nowhere near as lavishly appointed or spacious as a Dwarven forge.

“Taking your advice.” Gimli pressed the bellows down for a final time, before wiping off his forehead. “Preparations for the coronation are proceeding apace, and both Legolas and I are not of any use to them. So we have made ourselves busy. I have been with the crews, clearing the rubble from the city. Legolas has been working hard with the new white sapling in the upper courtyard – this gardening business is smelly and incomprehensible work, to me – but then, he says much the same of mine. Still, so long as he is mucking about in manure and the like, I’ll treasure my ignorance as long as I have it! Now I have a task of my own, which I would keep a secret, if I can.” He blotted the sweat upon his neck, before dipping a hand into his tunic and drawing forth the little flattened gold disc.

“Ah. You’re making the marriage-bead,” Thorin realised. “Good idea.”

“You’re only saying that because it was your idea,” Gimli said, laughing.

“Naturally!” Thorin chuckled, and leaned back. “So, how do you plan to shape it?”

Gimli suddenly looked rather sheepish. It was odd, to Thorin, to suddenly see this Dwarf, after all he had endured and braved, fidgeting and shuffling like a lad of forty. “Um. Well, I’ve not had much occasion to work in gold…”

“You – you can’t work in gold,” Thorin said, flatly.

“I’m no’ a smith!” Gimli threw up his hands. “I’ve been a miner an’ a warrior, I can write and sew, stone-call and spelunk, dance a jig, brew beer, cook and sing and turn my hand to my fiddle well enough. But I’ve always been a disaster in a smithy! I’ll do my best, but I know it will not be all that Legolas deserves. How can I make anything to fit his beauty? But I must try. I’ve found this place and Iorlas is kind enough to let me spoil good metals in it. Yet I fear I’m about to ruin the reputation of all our people, fumbling about the way I am.”

Thorin threw back his shoulders and pushed himself out of the too-high chair. “Gimli, I was never lucky enough to work in gold too often in my lifetime, but I was and am a damned good smith. I can teach you.”

Gimli looked very dubious. “Are you sure about that? I mean, I can’t even see you demonstrate.”

“I can tell you what to do. You’ve nimble hands and a quick mind: I can teach you,” Thorin repeated, before adding, “for instance, the fire’s too hot. That blaze would melt steel, after all your efforts! And you need a ceramic cup. And tongs. Have you the fire-touch?”

“Aye, for what use I’ve made of it,” Gimli said, bewildered, but there was a dawning hope in his face. “But, Melhekhel – as you say, the bead is gold. Will gold bring you any pain? For I won’t accept a word if what I do here will hurt you.”

Thorin blinked, surprised by the question. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him.

“It does not trouble me,” he said eventually. “If I must leave, I will. But I feel no anger, no pull or guilt.”

Gimli’s face cleared. He appeared both relieved and pleased. “That’s good to hear.”

“I suppose it was a long time ago,” said Thorin haltingly, as though testing whether each word could bear his weight.

Gimli beamed. “It was indeed.”

“Right.” Thorin shook himself. Enough of this indecision and insecurity. The world was breathing anew. “Then let the fire bank down to coals again, while you gather what you need. Do you have water on hand?”

“Water? Oh, for quenching.” Gimli’s face was rueful. “I’m even more lost than I thought.”

“In this, I can most certainly be your guide,” Thorin told him. “Do you have lesser metals, to practice with? Any designs?”

“I’ve some ideas for the design,” Gimli sighed, and he touched the side of his jerkin as though patting it. “I’ve no clue whether they’ll work. I’m trying to combine Elven and Dwarven styles, and I’ve… well, it’s debatable whether or not I’ve succeeded. I have a dab hand for drafting mine-workings and blueprints, but jewellery was Mum’s passion. Gimrís has the fine eye for detail, not me! Damn it all, I don’t even like complicated braids!”

“Nonsense. You play your fiddle with ease, and you have mastered the finest and most intricate forms of war that have ever been invented, and a few that haven’t,” Thorin said briskly. “This is but a different type of detail.”

“You say that now,” Gimli said, a trifle gloomily. “You’ve never seen me. I swing a hammer like it’s an axe. I’ve split metal before.”

“Show me the designs,” Thorin commanded him, ignoring Gimli’s mood. “I can tell you whether they’ll work or not.”

“But–”

“Gimli,” Thorin said, and abruptly he knew where Gimli’s sudden pessimism might hail from, “my star, your father will not disown you, no matter how angry and confused he is. Let us make your marriage-bead, so that he can see how much you love your Elf. When he sees it and hears its tale, he can hold forth no objections on that front.”

Gimli’s eyes were wide, and he swallowed. He twisted his beard in one hand, a nervous action, before blowing out a gusty breath that seemed to come all the way up from his belly. “Right. I know, I know… I just. Ach, there’s nothing to say about it, is there? Let’s have a look then.”

He tugged a few scraps of parchment from his jerkin, smoothing them out upon the anvil. Thorin peered over them, asking Gimli to describe a few details that he could not make out.

“Most of these would work,” he eventually said. “Gimli, I will not hear you disparage your eye again: you have obviously picked up something of your mother’s skills. Gold is too soft to be beaten so thinly as the third design and yet hold its shape, but the rest are feasible indeed. And many are beautiful.”

Gimli harrumphed a little into his beard, shifting between his feet, pleased and a little embarrassed by the praise. “I thank you. You do not dislike the Elven elements?”

“I think them most suitable.” Thorin glanced up, and chuckled at Gimli’s face. “Lad, I carried an Elven sword, remember? I might have held Middle-Earth’s fiercest grudge in life, but that never stopped me from appreciating both skill and beauty where I found it.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You will need sculpting tools for this one here, with the leaves twining around the diamond-patterns,” Thorin continued. “We have no stamps nor moulds, and so casting is out of the question. But sculpting I believe you could master.”

Gimli swallowed again. “Your faith in me is humbling, Lord.”

“If you can use my name when you are irritated with me, surely you can use it when you are not?” Thorin prompted him gently. “It’s not such a difficult one to say.”

Gimli wrinkled up his nose, but shrugged nevertheless and said, “fine. All right then Thorin.”

“Then we will begin. First you will need some gold of lesser quality, for your apprentice-efforts. Gold wire, as we will also attempt some wire-weaving patterns, to see if it suits you. Small rasps and files, as narrow as possible. If you can find any that are pointed, so much the better,” Thorin began, ticking off his fingers as rattled off the things Gimli would need to make his marriage-beads.

“Wait, wait, I’ll need to write this down, I’m no Elf to remember all this in one blow!” Gimli exclaimed, scrambling for pen and flipping over the rejected design. “Files… rasps… ceramic bowl… Iorlas has tongs, but do you suppose they will be too large? And you mentioned gold wire …”

Eventually Gimli had it all written down to Thorin’s satisfaction, and he sat back. “Ah, I feel as though I am stepping foot onto a new quest entirely!” he muttered, rubbing his hands upon his thighs. “I hope I prove equal to this one. Thorin, check my list, would you?”

Thorin peered over Gimli’s shoulder at his (surprisingly graceful) handwriting, letting his eyes skim down the list. “Aye, looks to be correct.” Then a snatch of words down the bottom of the page caught his eye. “And what’s this? Some verses? For you are my guiding star / I will never fear tomorrow…”

Gimli yelped and snatched up the paper as fast as lightning, tucking it against his chest protectively. “That’s not done yet!”

“Gimli, are you writing Legolas a poem?” Thorin said, rather taken-aback. Though he was fully aware of Gimli’s rather lyrical, eloquent soul, it did not seem entirely like him to write love-poetry.

“A song,” Gimli said, wretchedly, still clutching the paper to his breast. “I wanted to do something for his traditions as well, y’ken? He’s to wear my braids and beads, in the way of our people, so I wished to make something that is Elvish at its soul. He said that Wood-elves are more inclined to singing than to any other music, and t’is true enough that songs come easily to him.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Thorin said, and resolutely did not mention the hundreds upon hundreds of flower-embossed gifts that cluttered his apartments: garden tools and mirrors and cooking-pots and even a low pot-bellied stove – all conveniently Hobbit-sized. “I recall that you wrote songs for working in the mines, in your youth. How goes it?”

“Not so easily,” Gimli sighed. “A work-song is one thing: all you need is a good strong rhythm to stamp to, an’ a chorus that’s fun to shout. I feel that our story is much… much larger than the two of us.”

“Have you a tune?”

Gimli hummed a phrase, smooth and curling like the loops of Elvish music, steady and rhythmic as the best Dwarvish songs. It tugged at Thorin’s thoughts insistently. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, against the new ache there.

“Well, we’ll pass ideas back and forth on it as you craft, eh?” Thorin pushed aside the memories of Bilbo that were rising thick and fast. Gimli’s songcrafting was obviously more skillful than his smithwork, if just a snatch of his tune could touch him so deeply.

“I cannae believe I’m about to be an apprentice again,” Gimli groaned. “I’m nigh one hundred and forty! I’ve my journeymanship in mining and stone-calling, my mastery in weaponscraft!”

“Never too old to begin, my lad,” Thorin told him, and ignored the grumbling complaint that followed. “And what you learn here will help with setting that golden elf-hair you treasure so. Come on, the day’s a-wasting! Neither that bead nor that song shall shape themselves!”

…

TBC 🙂