Okay, I am feeling a bit guilty that I haven’t got this damned chapter finished yet when I promised that I had most of it nutted out and only had to write it. gdi, everything happens all at once hnnngh this is the most difficult goddamned chapter I stg

Current word count progress: 8.9K 

So, I haven’t done a sneaky peek of the draft/WIP in freakin’ ages. But because you’re all being awesome and patient (and sending me cute headcanony ideas to keep me bopping as I wrestle with this danged thing), as a thank-you I thought I’d give you all some flirty Gigolas. 

Enjoy!

Hrera looked up from her silver wire-twisting as they approached. She was seated comfortably in a large high-backed chair that had been dragged into the Chamber
of Sansukhul because: ‘if you think I am sitting for hour after hour on cold stone all alone, then next you will find that I am sitting on you.’

The
chair had been produced in record time. There was even a cushion.

“Back again?” Hrera looked disapproving – more so than usual.

“I
must,” Thorin said wearily. “The battles still continue, and I have not yet found my star.”

“Oh, I’m not in the least bit worried for him,” she sniffed, and smoothed back his hair. “Don’t push yourself too far again, Thorin darling.”

He ducked his head obediently, allowing her to arrange his hair to her satisfaction. “I will not,” he said, and yawned.

She tweaked his ear. “I’m sure. Off you go then. If you must.”

Thorin gave his grandmother a tight smile of apology and fell upon his bench. He heard Frerin whispering a few words to Hrera as the stars began their mesmerising dance. Then all was drowned by the ringing in his ears as he was hurtled through the star-pool towards Middle-Earth once more.

The shrieking was the first sound. Thorin opened his eyes and then winced as the cold, cutting light of day stabbed into them. There was no sign of the sun. The sky billowed with black clouds, roiling and evil-looking.

“Where…” said Frerin, squinting and shading his eyes.

“Give chase! Give chase!” came the cry, and
Thorin turned to see Aragorn with his sword drawn, urging the Grey Company onwards. “We near the port of Pelargir! Drive these allies of darkness onwards, drive them into the sea!”

“Ai-oi, come and take a bite of my axe, you servants of Sauron!” came the familiar rumbling laugh, and Thorin’s heart leaped as he turned to behold his star. Gimli was standing planted firmly upon a small rise, his axe dealing blow after
blow. Behind him, the Elf stood like a spear of pale fire, his bow picking off more distant targets.

“These aren’t Orcs, these are Umbari,” said Thorin, frowning. “Corsairs.”

“I see you’ve finally made it, then,” said Óin, and he jerked his head towards Gimli. “Pleasure to watch him work, ain’t it?”

“Aye.” Thorin watched for a moment as Gimli cut down a corsair, his axe glinting in the dim daylight. His star spun on one foot to sink the blade into another, unstoppable as a charging bull. He pulled his axe free with a jerk, and then whirled it over his head for a moment, the blood spattering in an arc upon the
faces of his foes. His hair was caught in an unfamiliar braid, and Thorin
frowned at it for a moment.

“Twenty-one!” Legolas called, and Gimli laughed again in delight.

“I’m ahead o’ you again, laddie, better catch up! I make my count out at twenty-three!”

Legolas
drew his bow, fast as thought, and the corsair that was rushing behind Gimli fell to the ground with an arrow in his throat. “Better watch your back, meleth nin,” Legolas panted, grinning hard.

“Why,
when I have you to do that for me?” Gimli returned the fierce grin, his eyes bright.

Aragorn glanced back at them, and rolled his eyes. “To the ships!” he cried, and then sprang forward. Andúril gleamed like a tongue of white fire.

“Boats again,” Gimli groaned, and Legolas’ laugh pealed out over the fighting, a clear bell of silver.

“I
shall hold your hand, shall I?”

“Oh fer cryin’ out loud,” Óin muttered, and tugged at his beard. “Sickening, the pair of them.”

“Have they been like this the whole time?” Thorin said. Beside him, Frerin snorted.

“They’re flirting with axe an’ bow, is what they’re doing,” Óin grumbled. “Gimli’s putting as much flair and polish on those swings as he possibly can without taking his own eye out, and the Elf’s more damn flamboyant than a peacock. How do they twist and leap like that? Are they part cat?”

Legolas twirled and turned, his hair flying out in a fan behind him as he drew his knives. He moved like liquid music, almost too graceful to be thought of as fighting if it were not for the trail of fallen bodies he left in his wake.

Gimli paused for a moment, his axe raised halfway, to watch the Elf move for a second.

“Keep your mind on what you are doing,” Thorin told him.

“Ah,
my king,” Gimli said, and smiled broadly. “You cannot blame me for admiring such skill.”

“I do not think it is exactly his skill that you admire so,” Thorin grunted.

Gimli’s smile turned arch. “Ah, well, you cannot blame me for that, either. Weren’t you the one who urged us on?”

Thorin folded his arms and harrumphed.

“Bloody sickening,” Óin muttered again, and then he waved a hand down towards the river some small distance below, glittering like a silver snake. “There’s the mouth of Anduin. These bastards are sailing up the river.”

“They mean to fall upon Gondor unforeseen,” Thorin said, and then an unearthly reek
filled the air. The wind rose with a sudden howl, blowing back the hair of the
fighters, clawing at them with chilly fingers.

Then
the greenish sickly glow of the restless dead began to rise like marsh-mist
from the earth. Aragorn paused, and then lifted Andúril high. It gleamed against the murky sky. “Take their ships!”

The
corsairs aboard the ships below laughed and jeered. “Who’s gonna stop us then!”
one shouted, his rough voice raucous from bellowing over sea-winds. “Your
ragged bunch? Who are you to deny us passage to Gondor, eh?”

“Legolas,
fire a warning shot past the bo’sun’s ear,” Aragorn said, and Legolas drew his
bow once more.

“Mind
your aim,” Gimli murmured, close by Legolas’ side.

The
shot flew wide, and hit a sailor in the throat. He pulled an extraordinary
face, and keeled over dead.

“Whoops,”
said Gimli innocently. “Treacherous winds, aren’t they?”

Legolas
glared down at Gimli for a moment, but could not maintain it for long. His
laugh pealed out, even as the corsairs gaped at their dead comrade. “Ah, meleth
nin, not the dread of death nor the sharing of heart’s secrets can daunt the
spirit of a Dwarf!”

Gimli’s
nose wrinkled. “Sea-sickness might do it. Boats. Eurgh.” Then he shook his head
and raised his voice to a carrying roar, addressing the corsairs once more.
“Well, we warned you! Prepare to be boarded!”

“Sounds
exciting,” Legolas murmured. Gimli choked and the apples of his cheeks flushed
almost as bright as his beard.

“Elves,”
he muttered with a scandalised huff, and raised his axe. There was a glitter in his dark eyes, however,
that told Thorin that this particular taunting arrow had found its mark.

TBC!