Grace. Hah.
I glare at you as you hold out your hand, ignoring it entirely as I scramble to my feet on my own. What need have I of such a foolish quality? The mountains are not graceful. The stones are not graceful. Yet both have survived the ages, their solid strength and power bulwarks for the land before even you deigned to walk it, little elf, and they will remain long after you cease to do so.
My heart weighs on me oddly with the last thought, and I shake my head to brush it aside. You, who can hear the whisper of every leaf but become lost when we stones start to speak, take my motion for something else. "Horses can be quite fickle in their choice of companions, Master Dwarf," you say softly, pitched too low for the rest of the companions to hear. "It is no shame to you."
"Of course it isn't." My voice is brusque, but it speaks no more than the truth. You flighty elves are more than welcome to this grace, this smoothness and delicacy of motion that you seem to value so highly. It is your people that need it – all song and starlight, there must be some compensation for the very real possibility that you will one day simply blow away. Sometimes, when I find my gaze lingering too long in your direction, I wonder if there is anything at all to keep you on the earth.
If that it what grace requires, then you may keep it. I am content with the jewels I can reach.
I can feel your eyes follow me as we make our way back to the others. Here, perhaps, I am not so comical for you to look upon. Closer to the earth, my feet once again find some hope of surety, of solidity. I understand these stones, the beauty and riches that lay beneath them, the strength they hold that is enough to support all the kingdoms in the world.
For you, perhaps, it would not be enough. But I am stone. Why should I not be happier here, with others of my kind? They have no need of me to be pretty and light.
"Perhaps I should be rolled along behind the rest of you like a boulder." My voice is gruff, as I wish to pretend lightness in words where there are none. "It would be far easier on everyone, and your horse would certainly be far more pleased."
And then I feel your hand upon my shoulder, all long slender fingers but somehow as firm as the earth beneath me. "But then I would miss your company, Gimli. And that is surely worth risking the poor horse's wrath."
Then you smile, as bright as the sun above us, and though I say nothing I feel the warmth of it seep through me to the very ends of my boots. It stays with me as we continue, and with each step we take I am left with the strangest sensation that my footsteps are growing lighter. Smoother. More free.
It is a ridiculous notion, surely – the sight of a dwarf being blown away on the breezes would make a strange and comical enough story to be spread around a thousand campfires, and I chide myself for even considering it. Stones have no grace, and they are foolish to even want such a thing.
But, for a moment at least, perhaps it can be given to them anyway.
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Grace by Gatekeeper
Story notes: I am a neophyte to both the universe and the pairing. Forgive any missteps made as such.
