For dearest FallingMoon, a warm hug and a sniff-kiss and a belated "happy birthday".

A/N: Okay, the general gist of this fiction is very strange and all, but this is also one of my (most likely failed) attempts at writing an average LOTR fiction. It's a bit of a humorous crack pairing drabble insane-rambling, not meant to be really "romance" ish. Not my idea, (it was FallingMoon's, a bit of a challenge). Enjoy!



I, Gimli, Son of Gloin, am not ugly.

I come from a long line of pure blooded dwarves with a lineage that is something to take pride in. We dwarves are stout men, both in waistline and in matters of the heart. We take pride in our own pride. It is the type of people that we are and have always been.

Our men are valiant and honest, (perhaps a tad more blunt than necessary, but all races have their faults, and we are, sadly, no exception), and our women are handsomely adorned with beards on the outside, and perfectly, ethereally lovely on the inside.

We exceed the virtues of man, and care not for the graceful manner and finery of those fair-haired elves, (Legolas, you heard me).

Alas, I was gifted to be born as a rather handsome dwarfish lad: I was properly stout and round shaped, had a pleasantly gruff voice as I grew, and a rich mane of curly red hair atop my head and growing healthily around my chin. I stood a proud figure, a tad taller than my Da, two inches short of my Ma, (Ma was a rather intimidating personage, I didn't dare outgrow her, and even if I did manage it, I would have lied in every retelling of my past and put dearest Momma in as tallest).

Although our heights might be doubled in the frames of Men and Elves, and alas, the Orcs and all other creatures of evil manner that dwelled in the land of Mordor…

Yes, we dwarves are a handsome people, and I, Gimli, am not an exception.



Arwen Undomiel had always been a lovely woman.

Of course, she was Elven, which pretty much spelled out that she had snowy pale skin, bright, all-knowing and clear blue eyes, and perfectly curved, pale pink lips. Her hair was as black as ebony, if not darker, and framed her delicate features with a sort of grace that made even the Elves regard her as beautiful, (Ahh, such grace, such poise, such beauty; such a waste that they should be given to a woman with such saddened, lonely eyes, they would murmur behind her back).

I, as a dwarf, did not revel in her beauty as most other men would. Dwarves' sense of beauty differs greatly from that of the elves. She was too willowy, much too tall, her skin too fragile and too pale to be considered as true beauty. And besides, all of the Fellowship could see that she belonged to Aragorn, and him only: even that bumbling idiot Pipkin or Puppin or whatever his name was could probably see that.

Besides, the real men are the ones who don't get puppy-love crushes, (I assumed this was what the King of Gondor and the Elven Princess had)…but I was soon proven wrong. The two were so deeply in love, I thought I might just meet my breakfast again.

Albaster skin, ebony hair, and eyes as clear as the dawn.


Vertical Challenge

"Onward!" Legolas sprung from the peak of a small cliff, landing nevertheless with a grace unrivaled on the grassy plain below. Aragorn, also, took a running start and leapt. If he landed with a bit more of a clatter, he still retained his dignity.

I dragged my feet as I made my way over to the ledge. To a grown Man, it was no large height to jump…from my own modest Dwarfish height, it was another matter altogether, (a vision of snapped bones and a concussion; these injuries belonging to a red-bearded dwarf, lying sprawled on the grass).

"Gimli, surely you are not afraid?" Legolas's voice drifted tauntingly upward towards me like some sort of sweetmeat's tantalizing scent. I growled in frustration.

"Of course not, ye Elven pretty-boy!" I protested gruffly. "It's just that…er…"

"Come now, Gimli, you shall make us late," Aragorn reminded me, meaning it to sound good-natured, I'm sure, but it came out like he was trying to ruffle my feathers, (though perhaps 'hair' would be more fitting; I am not a bird).

"I am a dwarf! Dwarves don't run, they certainly are not made for climbing, and we most certainly of all do not jump!" I protested unhappily. "You have forced me to go through all three in the past hour! Why must we attend Lady Arwen's celebration?"

Legolas raised his eyes to stare at me, his thin, pencil-like eyebrows raised in laughter. "Ah, my good dwarf, but I am a prince of the Elven court, and my presence would be missed."

"And I am her husband, and would be even more sorely missed," Aragorn pointed out the obvious. I snorted.

"Alright, alright, stand back, ye sons of a twelve-headed demon, I'm going to jump."

And so I did, because Heaven forbid that we would miss Princess Arwen's party because of a humble dwarf as myself.

Arwen Undomiel was unchanged by time, as it is with those darned Elves. When the three of us arrived, panting, at the court of Elrond, I was panting like a rabid hound. Aragorn, having spent many a year as a Ranger, was unruffled. Legolas, (blast that annoying smirk on his face, I wasn't that scared to jump), as always, looked as if he had spent the last hour sitting calmly and not running.

"Ah, welcome, friends," she smiled serenely and nodded at Legolas, having to look down to smile at me. Legolas and I pointedly turned away when she allowed Aragorn to pull her into his embrace and kiss her.

"Shall we proceed?" she laughed at my nauseated expression and Legolas's roll of eyes at their display of affection.

"Please," Aragorn said formally, putting on what I liked to call his "King-face".

And so, I walked into a crowd of Elven courtiers, all of whom were double my size, and all of whom made snide remarks about my blasted beard, (I swear, it be a fine beard!)

The afternoon passed quickly enough, I making it my goal to avoid speaking to as many of Legolas's kind as possible, and mainly staying close to Aragorn, who spoke little and prevented the elves from trying to speak to me, for they found him more interesting to speak to.

When it came time to part, Arwen escorted us to the main gateway, as she would be leaving for Gondor later than we. Legolas bent to kiss her hand, and Aragorn stroked her cheekbone and she touched his rough fingers, and I wanted to give her some sort of goodbye, also, and a kiss on the cheek might have been adequate had I been tall enough.

So, in the end, Arwen knelt so that I could give her a peck on the cheek, and Legolas's amused laughter wouldn't let me hear the end of it.


Time Signature

There is something about the good, free lands of Middle Earth that make them different from the dark grounds of Mordor where Sauron the Deceiver once lurked.

It is the purity of the trees standing timeless in the ground, it is the way the stars shine with a brilliancy unrivaled anywhere else in a nighttime sky. But most of all, it is the way the heart's the people beat as one to a rhythm of freedom.

Sauron has never had that.

In our mines, our hammers will ring to the time signature of liberty and independence, and the blessing of free choice. Our hearts are stout and uncorrupt by the evil hands of the Dark one.

Arwen Undomiel of the elves, and Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, and perhaps, perhaps even Legolas has it: the silent, unheard, (but ever present, you cannot be unsure that it is there) beating of our hearts resonating in our ribcages, quivering with an exhilarating sense of being our own person, of being able to make our own choices, and of waking up every morning to a world untainted by rings or orcs or the deadly clash of metal on metal when our men marched to war.

Perhaps the dwarves and the elves will never quite settle their differences.

Perhaps Rivendell will always be more lovely to the Elves, and the mines will be forever dearest to my kinfolk: to each his own.

But in one way, the free people of Middle Earth are alike: we all relish the taste of innocence on our tongues, (it drifts in on the air, light and buoyant as floating lilies in spring).

And so, if Hobbits and Dwarves and Men and Elves and Ents and Wizards and the like can all get along…if we can share one core of being that is the same in every living creature of this land…

Then Arwen Undomiel and I cannot be all that different.



Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman.

Hm, I wonder where that line came from…it doesn't remotely sound like something I've ever read. It is not in the style of the Elves to write verse of things such as the above mentioned. And if they do, then they smother it with honey. Even their songs about goring men with knives would sound lovely even to the purest maiden.

Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Mayhap I've always had a soft spot for Arwen. If this were some sort of children's fairytale, I suppose you could say she would be princess, and Aragorn would be prince…and I'd probably be something like the little fluttery fairy with the tutu who was pining after Prince Charming all along but never quite got there.

That's taking into account that I am not a small fluttering fairy, I am not in love with the King of Gondor, and also, I would not sink so low as to actually admit that I've got a childish crush on the Princess of Rivendell.


Heh. Well.

Now that the little tidbit of information is out of the bag…I suppose we should get on with our lives, right? Well, off with ye. What're you dawdling around for?

I've got the perfect right to grumble right now. I'm telling my story and you won't leave when you're supposed to and you hang around when I'm telling all of the boring parts that only make sense to myself. Go away, would you, you scoundrel? Let me wallow in the self-pitiful woes of love in solitutde.

I see you're not leaving. Ah, stubborn children.

In any case, Arwen was one woman you didn't want to scorn. She was an Elf, which meant she had the finest swords, (tipped in finely crafted, shimmering filigree; none but the best for Elves), and more than a few smart words of magic on her tongue ready to use if you got too feisty. Dwarves don't meddle with magic. Dangerous, it is. We keep our heads straight about matters such as the Rings of Power: and how right we were in the end, eh? (But of course, that's another story for the telling, a much longer one by that, and…ah, you've already heard it, have you? Don't you go getting smart with me. How could you possibly have heard of it?)

And I, of course…scorned her.

"Gimli, I am quite sure that you have had plenty," she said, her pale face perfectly calm as it is with those darned elves. I glanced at my empty, (third), plate of heaping Elven delicacies, and turned back to her.

"Just a tad more, if you please, m'lady," I coughed.

Her black eyebrows raised high into her forehead, and her clear eyes flashed. "Gimli…" she said in warning.

"Pllleease?" I tried again, the sound coming out odd with my gruff voice.

She sighed. "No. You're always complaining about not being able to keep up with Aragorn and Legolas. I think this is to blame," she said, poking my ample stomach. I winced.

"That wounded my pride, missus."

"I'm surprised that you'd have any," she retorted playfully.

I sighed in relief. At least she hadn't decided to pick up that rather dangerous looking table knife over there and…

And then Aragorn came over to embrace his wife.

And so…

In conclusion,

Dwarves are exceedingly handsome.

But we can't get women,

Especially if they're elves,

And especially, especially if they are married to the King of Gondor.

Well. That's not actually the moral of the story: I don't think there is one, really. Why are you listening to me anyways?

So, poor and humble Gimli the Dwarf was in love with the fair Arwen Undomiel of Rivendell, who sadly, was already happily content in the arms of her Prince Charming.

Who said that fairy tales always have happy endings?

Ever after.

Okay. That was really odd. Probably not my best work ever, it was a bit rushed lol.