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The Elvenking looked at Gimli as though it would have been a pleasure to spit him like one of the deer served at the new year’s feast.
“My son will marry as he wills, with or without my blessing. But I grant it,” he bit out, “for Legolas’s sake, and for your great service in casting the Shadow from my home. Yet have a care, son of Glóin. Our kind do not wed lightly. You have uprooted my most precious sapling to transplant into your mines. There is little love lost between our races. I would not have him shunned by your folk, or his heart rent in two for love of you.”
Gimli’s instinct was to snap that most Dwarves’ loyalty, once given, was as unbreakable as mithril, and that whatever indignities Legolas might suffer in the Glittering Caves, he would certainly not be imprisoned there.
But that would cause offence, not least because it would sound as if he wished Legolas mistreated.
With a bow, he said, “It is true that some hold fast to prejudice and faster to grudges, or listen too freely to gossip. I cannot still all tongues. But since half our time will be spent here, the Wood-Elves will have ample opportunity to avenge any insults — if any should be offered.
But pray let us not speak of uprooting and rending, as though we were orcs. Say rather, King of Lasgalen, that I have grafted one tree onto another, so that the rift between our peoples might begin to be mended.”
Thranduil did not quite soften, but his thunderous expression gentled a trifle. “You argue fluently. And my son’s feelings are obvious,” he said, crinkling his nose the way Legolas did when deep in thought. “But silver tongues count for nothing, from a dwarf. You have not assured me that my son’s heart will remain intact. That he will not perish of grief upon your death.” The tartness in his voice might have seasoned a stew.
For long moments, indignation struck Gimli silent. How dare Thranduil extract such a promise from him! Then with an effort he swallowed down his first curt, wounded retort. He did not intend for history to repeat itself: being stranded in these woods, locked out of the festivities by magic, would be an inauspicious start indeed.
Finally he said, just managing to keep the bite out of his tone, “We do not die as Men do. We believe that we are set apart in the Halls of Mandos by Mahal, whom you call Aulë, and reunited with the Elves after the End of Days. Yet I know you do not share this belief. As for the other, I doubt even a Vala would have the foresight, or foolishness, to make such a promise. I can only swear not to harm him. Believe me, King Thranduil, I wish it were otherwise.”
“I do, also,” said Thranduil heavily. At the knock on the door, he rose and nodded to Gimli. “But I have kept you long enough, son of Glóin.”
On the heels of that dismissal, Gimli traipsed back towards his own chambers, intending to send for a jug of ale and supper. He had never had so little heart for revelry. Legolas was still deep in the woods, carousing with his kinfolk. It was certainly not where Gimli belonged — nor would ever, if Thranduil had his way.