milliways_bar | (no subject)

Not that a Dwarf who has only just acquired the evening meal would recognise this, of course. Though he might recognise the Captain, at the very least, and turn his way.

"Captain Reynolds! There you are! I've been looking for you."

"Gimli! How've things been?" Mal ushers the dwarf to his table and closes the inconspicuous black notebook quickly.

"You been searching for me? Duibuqi, Gimli - been out o' the bar for a spell."

Gimli smiles. "Well indeed, good Captain Reynolds, well indeed. And have no fear, sir, I had assumed you were away on some business or other. Not everyone can be pinned down to the grounds of the Bar and his master's forges, after all."

He scrambles into one of the seats, again reminding himself to construct a chair of some height he himself can use. "I had to ask the Bar for a single example of such a bullet as you might use, as the mithril came to hand while you were away. From there it was a simple thing to make the mold from which your bullets might be cast, though it was some time before I could persuade the metal itself to melt. It succeeded in the end, though."

"Shiny!" Mal seems almost exuberant to hear of Gimli's efforts. "That is very dang bien hua...Hope the project provided some entertainment for ya, sir Gimli?"

"That, sir, would be putting it mildly," says the dwarf. "It's not any sort of work I've ever had to do before, though at a distance it bears some small resemblance to the making of arrowheads. I only wish I had some way of testing the work before delivering it to you, as I doubted somehow that the Bar would provide such a means."

He drops his voice a bit as he notes, "Though she did provide an interesting enough book on the subject- for one who can read rather more of the English hand than I."

"I'm sure the products'll work perfect, for such a skilled man as y'self."

Mal cocks his head at the second announcement of Gimli's, adding, "Y'don't read English? What's your written word then, if not that?"

"Thank you, Captain," says the dwarf. "'Tis a habit of mine, though, to test my work before it goes out the door."

"As for that- well-" He gets to his feet and heads to the Bar, then to the notice board. He has a stump of charcoal pencil and the notice he'd tacked up for Mal with him when he returns. Turning the paper over, he says, "My folk have our own language, of course, though we seldom if ever speak it among outsiders. For the most part our speech is the Westron common, quite the same as the Men of the lands among whom we dwell. The letters we use, for preference, are called the Cirth- the Runes devised long ago in the First Age by Daeron of Doriath, and they look like this."

Painstakingly, he marks out a series of runic letters (http://www.omniglot.com/writing/cirth.htm) with the charcoal stump.

"That," he says, "would be how I would render my own name- indeed, the first part is how it's rendered on the sign that hangs in front of my forge." He runs along the words with one finger as he reads them off. "Gimli, son of Glóin, called Elf-friend- it's that last bit that wasn't set down on the sign."

"You should add it though, if you think it to be somethin' important to share with other folk," is Mal's response as he admires the geometric writing.

"What's it mean? Y'know, besides the obvious."

Gimli sighs. "Hereabouts it means little, I'm afraid," he says. "I've yet to see a single one of the Eldar here- I've seen three Men of my own world, and one of the Hobbits, or Halflings as some called them, but none of the Elves. There was long ill-will between my people and theirs, many thousands of years deep; not enough for open war or battles, but enough to sour what had been fine partnerships in the days when Khazad-dûm was inhabited. It happened in the end that the great Quest of the Ring in which I had a part brought about some healing of that, ere the Elves left the hither shores entirely."

Peace. And healing my wounds.

Mal's voice goes quieter. "'S good. Always good to try and make relations better."

Gimli nods. "Wasn't the idea at first, to be honest," he says, "but it grew out of the journey of our Fellowship. We'd two Men, a Wizard, four Hobbits, myself, and an elf of the realm of Mirkwood- Legolas by name, son of a king who'd held my father prisoner for a time. Necessity made our number so, but it was sheerest luck that friendship grew of it, I think."

"That's always the way of it, I 'magine. For one, me 'n Inara - my...lady, back on my ship - never thought we'd end up admittin' to ourselves that we were attracted. Took a fair number o' fights to get us to come around to friends even."

That draws an appreciative chuckle. "Many Men I know take themselves and their women-folk too seriously," Gimli says, "but I think there are more than a few who found they had to marry a particular woman if only to give themselves enough leisure to argue with her properly. But yes, it was just such a chance as that. Given my druthers at the beginning I'd as soon have left the Elves out of the business, but by the end of it- well, it was his friendship and the grace of a great lady of his folk that won me that last voyage into the West, before the end."