Disclaimer: This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized places and characters belong to Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  It is assumed you have some knowledge of The Hobbit storyline.  The use of  ' ' coupled with italics denotes character thought. 


~ Chapter 1:  Disagreeable Characters ~


Glóin shifted against the trees whose boughs he sat beneath, feeling the rough bark rub against his back.  Sunlight played upon his face as the tree's leaves rustled in the soft afternoon breeze.  Closing his eyes momentarily, the Dwarf inhaled deeply on his wooden pipe and absent-mindedly stroked his beard.  To the casual observer, it would appear that the Dwarf was merely enjoying the serenity of the day.  That was, however, far from the truth.  In reality, the stout hearted descendent of Durin was quite oblivious to the beauty surrounding him.

In fact, the Dwarf was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not even notice the rather blatant glances of disgust he received from the occasionally passing Elf.  Normally, Glóin returned such looks with a glare that could crumble the very caverns above Kheled-zâram itself, but today far more pressing matters weighed upon his mind.

'It is not that I do not wish him to go,' mused Glóin as he tapped the pipe against his chin, 'it is just that… Mahal forbid, I am concerned for him.  There.  I've admitted it.'

With a slightly embarrassed chuckle, the Dwarf crossed his arms over his chest and shifted against the tree yet again.  'You know, I do believe he gets that adventurous side from me.  Certainly not from Dila—she never even felt the urge to walk above ground.  If anything,' thought Glóin ruefully, 'it was her temper he inherited.'

The elder Dwarf paused midway between lifting the pipe to his lips and winced.  Dwarves were, as a whole, notorious for their temper.  Gimli's mother Dila was no exception.  More than once had Glóin been upon the receiving end of the "lady's" colorful side.  Absentmindedly he reached up and touched the small scar that ran down his left temple, just above the hairline.  Recalling a rather vicious incident involving a swiped apple, a chair, and a cold stone floor, Glóin winced yet again.  'Who knows,' he thought, 'perhaps that temper may work to his advantage should he meet any disagreeable characters.'

At the thought of "disagreeable characters," Glóin furrowed his brow, for it was such a "disagreeable character" that had lead him to seek solace beneath the trees and contemplate his son's upcoming departure.  Taking in another draw of his pipe, Glóin allowed his mind to wander back to the previous days' happenings.

*          *            *

As he sat at the council gathering, his eyes flickered to and fro among the other attendees.  To his right, past Gimli and Barin, sat a stocky dark-haired Man.  The man (Boromir was his name?) looked as though he felt very out of place.  To this Glóin and the rest of the Dwarves could sympathize with, for they felt equally uncomfortable.  At Glóin's left sat the knowledgeable wizard Gandalf, and next to him there was a hobbit.  'Frodo Baggins, if I am correct,' he thought. 'I wonder how much of Bilbo has rubbed off on the boy.'

Glóin's eyes grazed beyond the hobbit to what appeared to be another Man.  This man was not, however, quite as stocky as the other.  Worn and rugged he seemed, yet with a slightly Elvish air about him.  He had an aura which bespoke knowledge and nobility, and his grey eyes surveyed the gathering Council with an attentive ease.  Beyond the man sat Lord Elrond himself and many other Elves. 

'Let me see,' thought Glóin, 'That would be Glorfindel to Lord Elrond's left.  And the one to his right is…?  Bah, they're all Elves—what do I care?  Probably named after some star or tree.  Valar help me to ever remember which is called "Blue Star," "Moon Star," "Star Dawn," "Tree," "Plant," or whatever ridiculous names they come up with.  At least I know which one is Elrond.'

He quickly scanned the rest of the council—which consisted entirely of Elves.  It was going to be a long meeting.  Glóin sighed and settled back into his chair as he glanced around the circle one last time.  He suddenly found his eyes resting upon one of the Elves who sat across from him.  Unease stole across the descendent of Durin and rose in the pit of his stomach.  Why did that Elf look so familiar?

Glóin stared at the Elf.  Fair of face and tall he was—as all Elves are apt to be.  Yet there was something unsettlingly. . . familiar about this one.  'I know I have not seen him before!' thought the Dwarf furiously. 'And he is far too young to have fought in any of the great wars.  Yet, I swear I have seen him somewhere!'

The object of Glóin's scrutiny, sensing the other's rather intense stare, suddenly stopped conversing with his companions and lifted his eyes to meet those of the Dwarf.  Much to his dismay, Glóin suddenly found himself locked in an unnerving Elven gaze.  The Elf's eyes quickly flashed from curiosity to that of wary irritation and the embarrassment of being stared at by a Dwarf.  Glóin finally managed to tear his eyes away from the Elf's bright, piercing ones and sat, dumbfounded.  Try as he might, the Dwarf simply could not recall where he had seen the face before.

When all those who had been called to Council (and, in the case of one Samwise Gamgee, those who had not) were present, formal introductions were made.

"Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil of the Woodland realm of Mirkwood."

So great was the shock of poor Glóin that his would-be bellow of rage at the words "son of King Thranduil" was instead reduced to a strangled, high-pitched scream.

Oh yes, it was going to be a very long meeting indeed.


This is my first fic, so if I receive enough positive feedback I'll be more than happy to continue it.  If not, then I'll stop right here and continue to enjoy reading everyone else's stories.  No harm done.  :)