FIC: "A Peace Well-Earned" 1/1 (Glóin)
Title: "A Peace Well-Earned" 1/1
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Featuring: Glóin
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Never happened. All rights belong to JRR Tolkien, not me.
Summary: Glóin's life is just the way he likes it. (Pre-events of The Hobbit.)
Notes: Written for the eleventh day of the The Lazy Hazy Summer Daze Writing Challenge for lobelia321, who asked for any dwarf during peacetime.
It wasn't a perfect life, not by any stretch, but Glóin, son of Gróin, had lived long enough and seen enough that he knew well enough to appreciate what he had. There was no shame in having a bit of rock over his head, and fresh meat roasting over a hot fire at the end of a long day, and a fine wife with an equally fine beard - one that rivaled his own, no less - to come home to every night. No shame at all in working the mines, even if they weren't his own, or in settling down to raise a son, trading in his battles axes for a pick, trading in bathing in the enemy's blood for glittering caves filled with mithril.
Nay, his life was no longer full of the excitement and folly of youth, when he'd been a true warrior with a warrior's cause; when he'd stood proudly beside Thráin and Thorin Oakenshield at the Battle of Azanulbizar and wielded his axes with the power of one who knew he was on the right side of a worthy war. So many Orcs had felt the deadly kiss of his blade, so many had fallen beneath his superior skill and those of his kin. And perhaps he wasn't as sprightly these days or as nimble on his feet, but there was no dishonor in a quiet life well-earned. He'd paid for every moment of peace during the long, arduous journey from Erebor to Moria, fighting too many skirmishes to name, a landless dwarf exiled far from his home and everything he'd held dear.
And he'd made certain to teach his son his proper heritage, had done his best to ensure Gimli knew how to wield an axe and bow, could defend himself and his comrades if and when it was asked of him. His son knew all the old stories and songs, and would grow up hale and strong, knowing who he was and where he'd come from, secure in the knowledge that he was a proud son of a proud people. But it was Gimli's time now to make a name for himself, Gimli's time to have songs sung in his honor, to reap the riches and spoils of war. Glóin's quest for glory and fame was at an end, and his small part in the larger tale of Middle Earth was done, and that was fine with him. He'd take up arms if Thorin asked it of him, but he had no illusions of that day ever coming to pass.
A fine cave, a fine woman, and enough mead to fill his cup was all he asked these days. It may not be perfect, but it was his, and he'd earned every bit of it.
***
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Featuring: Glóin
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Never happened. All rights belong to JRR Tolkien, not me.
Summary: Glóin's life is just the way he likes it. (Pre-events of The Hobbit.)
Notes: Written for the eleventh day of the The Lazy Hazy Summer Daze Writing Challenge for lobelia321, who asked for any dwarf during peacetime.
It wasn't a perfect life, not by any stretch, but Glóin, son of Gróin, had lived long enough and seen enough that he knew well enough to appreciate what he had. There was no shame in having a bit of rock over his head, and fresh meat roasting over a hot fire at the end of a long day, and a fine wife with an equally fine beard - one that rivaled his own, no less - to come home to every night. No shame at all in working the mines, even if they weren't his own, or in settling down to raise a son, trading in his battles axes for a pick, trading in bathing in the enemy's blood for glittering caves filled with mithril.
Nay, his life was no longer full of the excitement and folly of youth, when he'd been a true warrior with a warrior's cause; when he'd stood proudly beside Thráin and Thorin Oakenshield at the Battle of Azanulbizar and wielded his axes with the power of one who knew he was on the right side of a worthy war. So many Orcs had felt the deadly kiss of his blade, so many had fallen beneath his superior skill and those of his kin. And perhaps he wasn't as sprightly these days or as nimble on his feet, but there was no dishonor in a quiet life well-earned. He'd paid for every moment of peace during the long, arduous journey from Erebor to Moria, fighting too many skirmishes to name, a landless dwarf exiled far from his home and everything he'd held dear.
And he'd made certain to teach his son his proper heritage, had done his best to ensure Gimli knew how to wield an axe and bow, could defend himself and his comrades if and when it was asked of him. His son knew all the old stories and songs, and would grow up hale and strong, knowing who he was and where he'd come from, secure in the knowledge that he was a proud son of a proud people. But it was Gimli's time now to make a name for himself, Gimli's time to have songs sung in his honor, to reap the riches and spoils of war. Glóin's quest for glory and fame was at an end, and his small part in the larger tale of Middle Earth was done, and that was fine with him. He'd take up arms if Thorin asked it of him, but he had no illusions of that day ever coming to pass.
A fine cave, a fine woman, and enough mead to fill his cup was all he asked these days. It may not be perfect, but it was his, and he'd earned every bit of it.
***