Diplomacy. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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   They were the villains in so many of his childhood stories that the truth of elves eluded him. He simply ignored them and their eeriness, making no effort to speak to them. The elves, apart from those like Elrond whose business it was to entertain guests, had in turn left him in peace. Or in corners. 
   But the food was plentiful, and surprisingly tasty, particularly their many and varied pies and pastries. He supposed that if you lived that long, you'd have time to bother with things like cooking.
   His father, who was far easier in company than himself, was approaching with a smile on his face "Gimli! Here lad, come away with me, I've something to show you. Aye, and something to ask you."
   "What is it? I'll do whatever you wish, as always."
   Glóin punched his son's arm "Good lad! Good lad! Aye, you were ever my proudest achievement!" His father beamed at him, redder in the face than usual, even taking into account the considerable amount of wine he had drunk. Gimli did not feel comfortable drinking freely with these elves everywhere. He was almost certain that their singing affected his mood, far more than good dwarvish music would. He was deeply suspicious. 
   His father led him back to where the council had met that day, and into what looked like a library, then up some stairs to where a statue of an elf looked sadly down at a shield in its hands. And on the shield lay the shards of a very famous sword, which Gimli knew at once. "Mahar's beard! Narsil! This is Narsil!"
   Glóin was silent, Gimli reached up and took hold of the hilt, hoping secretly for an eerie tingle, but there was nothing. It was just an exceptionally good sword, even in pieces, even with no way to test the balance, he knew it would be perfect. How not? For Telchar had crafted it, so long ago that the very site of the smithy had been lost to the sea. The tingle came not from the sword, but from within his own heart, a great surge of pride in his people, that one of their works was here, in high honour, at the heart of the House of Elrond. 
   His father put a hand on his shoulder "Do you recognise the settings of the gems, and the hilt?"
   Gimli gasped and stooped down for the spare dagger in his boot. He had never used it, he had never needed it, he had scarcely glanced at it for years. It was a matching piece; though the gems were different colours, it had clearly been forged by the same expert smith "It is true then, Telchar really did make this dagger."
   "Aye lad, your granpa told you so when he gave it to you."
   "Well, yes, but father, every house has 'Durin's shield' or 'Thror's hammer', they cannot all be true!"
   Glóin sighed "I must admit, I was never quite sure I believed the story myself." Gimli gaped in astonishment, Glóin snorted softly "Ah, laddie, always so serious! I hope you may learn to laugh, even in these dark days."
   "Laugh? Now? With this in my hand?"
   "But laddie, what would Telchar say? What would Telchar wish? That a proud dwarf and his fine lad were here, holding the revered remains of his work, and laughing happily?"
   "But how can we be happy, when so much is at stake?"
   "If we cannot be happy then there is nothing at stake."
   Gimli paused and drew back a little, and found he was facing his father holding not one but two blades, wrought by Telchar. "You sound like an elf."
   Glóin nodded "Yes. They are far more interesting than I thought. I fear I simply ignored them the last time I was here, and now I am cursing myself for the wasted chance! Gimli, my lad, there are elves here who knew Telchar!"
   Gimli almost dropped the hilt, but shook his head, and placed it carefully back on the stone shield.
    "They have reminded me of things. Things they said to Balin, and to Thorin, things I ignored... Of what dwarves once were, of how elves and dwarves worked together on so many things, to create such marvels... why that very chainmail you wear, it may be a skill known only to dwarves, but the lessons learned from the elvish smiths... I think I might stay here, and learn a little more.
   Oh Gimli, my lad" he drew himself up to his full height and looked seriously at Gimli "We might have been walking around with our eyes closed. We get so caught up with our things that we forget... well, everything! Who we are, who they are, the wonders of the world, the sweet sound of falling water, the vastness of the glittering sky..."
   "Are you bewitched by them? Has their music clouded your mind?"
   "Perhaps, a little... But I do not feel drowsy or confused, I feel sharp and alert, and aware of things in a new way, of the depths of time, of the long story of our kin, shown forth by this sword, and your dagger."
   "Narsil!" said Gimli, still in disbelief.
   Glóin nodded "Dwarves must take part in the world, lad. Elrond was right, we will unite or we will fall. We can make as much fine jewellery as we please, we can fill our coffers with mountains of gold, but if the growers of hops are burned from their land, then we shall have no beer."
   Gimli nodded "Yes father. But how shall we achieve this? I do not wish to be here with these haughty elves, any more than they wish to have me here!"
   "Well lad, that brings us on to the thing I would ask of you. Well, not just me." He looked up, and Gimli turned sharply. 
   On silent feet Gandalf, and Elrond, had arrived.