Drunk

 

She loved drinking. The heat sweltering off her cheeks, insulated by her beard, as well as the general fuzziness she experienced. She loved drinking with other people even more, because of the laughter and songs—and the disjointed, nearly unintelligible conversations which followed. It was because of her love of drink that she’d hated Rivendell. 

She knew of the dangerous quest they were about to embark on, it was because of it that they should take this night to celebrate life. But everyone had their own plans, it seemed. So Gimli and her father—and her father’s small retinue—drank alone on one of the balconies. Her laughter wasn’t quite as booming, or as raucous, as she would have liked, but it couldn’t be helped. 

At least, not until the lad running about calling himself the Heir of the Stewardship of Gondor appeared. His smile was nervous, uncomfortable, as he emerged from the shadows to the moonlit balcony. Gimli took a second—only a second—to appreciate the way the torchlight fell on his olive skin and his curls of dark hair. 

Gimli’s father fell silent, and the rest of the group followed. The lad cleared his throat, and stood a little straighter, composing himself.

“I…never embark on a mission without spending time with those I go with. No one else seems inclined to share the last of my Osgiliath Whiskey, but I couldn’t help but wonder if…”

“And what, Laddy, is Osgiliath Whiskey?” Gimli wondered for half a second if this young man knew anything about Dwarves. He was handsome, in his way, and she liked his smile. The race of Men had their quirks, for certain. She wondered if he knew who he was among, that the Dwarves here meant something to their race. That he was seeing what amounted to the send-off party given to a princess, that such parties were meant for loved-ones and lovers.

“The whiskey was hidden in the city of Osgiliath before it was overtaken by Orcs, and when Gondor reclaimed the city, they reclaimed the whiskey too.” He stopped his sentence as though there were more, but after a long pause where he said nothing, her father’s voice growled out:

“I would assume that not every man in Gondor was given such a generous portion.” The man colored a little, not wanting to elaborate. Gimli could see that he was moments from turning around and leaving, feeling rebuffed in his offer of fellowship. His pride would be the death of him, she saw. It was too easily riled and embarrassed. But she did not want to pass judgment, not yet. 

“I would assume that every man in Gondor would be proud to be given a portion at all, it symbolizes much. Remember, Father, how you and your fellows savored the hoard of the Dragon Smaug. I would have a touch of this Osgiliath Whiskey, Laddy,” she said, turning from her father to the young man from Gondor. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth curved into a wide grin before she tossed the rest of her ale back. Pouring a bit of water into the metal goblet washed away the thick alcohol, and it was into a fairly clean cup that the man poured a splash of the stuff for her.

They got him quite drunk, and she enjoyed every moment of it. She and her cousin had plied him with their own ale until she had managed to steal his whiskey from him. Gimli knew that he would miss it come the morning if he managed to drink it all tonight—what better gift of fellowship than to preserve a memento such as this? Other than his bragging rights for having drunk a Dwarf under the table—her cousin was terrible at holding his alcohol, which was Boromir’s only luck. 

The future-Steward-of-Gondor fell asleep on her shoulder and drooled like an infant for several hours before Gimli herself fell asleep.