I suppose I’m beautiful. Everyone tells me that, anyway. They seem to find my countenance and figure the picture of perfection, but I’m not sure why. So I look in the mirror and puzzle over what they could possibly see. Delicately pointed ears, hair softer than a golden sunset a shimmering, waist-length waterfall, eyes sapphires in a sea of stars. I’m tall, of course, and slender, and it’s the strangest thing that I can slip more smoothly than a moonbeam along the twinkling waters. Frankly, I’m nothing special. If only I could be lovely! Perhaps then he would love me.
I’ve never actually seen a dwarven lady, but I’ve heard tales of them. They spring from stone glistening with darkness of the mines, and they are the most enchanting creatures in Middle Earth. Their long, plaited hair is always a rich color–like the sweet soil itself, and around their stout waists they bear axes that leap into deadly fury whenever an orc chances to come about. The other elves have tried to console me with their light bows and soaring arrows, but how could they compare these flimsy pieces of wood with thick oak and sturdier steel?
Of course, there was a time when I was content to flit around Lothlorien, a wisp of joy among the benevolent trees. I knew no other life. Then he came, Gimli, son of Gloin, with his tales of shining ore and beckoning caverns. He was kind, gruff, but refreshingly so after the flowing, romantic sentences of the males around here. It seems none can go a single minute around me without sending song bubbling from his throat or worse, some terrible comparison to either summer or spring. Yet Gimli . . .how could I not be devoted forever to that voice resounding of rock and endurance, that firm confidence that no foe could stand against him? Would that he had not gone!
I spoke with him once, twice, in the weeks he was here. That was all I had courage for, though I shadowed him like a persistent butterfly, I could not force myself to come forth and talk to this amazing specimen of masculine beauty. What if he had a love back home, one of those astonishing dwarven women? Yes, I’d heard they were rare–perhaps even less than a third of the population–but Gimli was so flawless, so intelligent and fearless, that he was sure to be adored by all the females of his kind. He could have his pick of them, and what was I? An elf, several feet taller than he, with no experience in massacring orcs or even mining. No, I had no chance. His rejection of me shone in his eyes, escaping his blockade of it. He was too chivalrous to want to hurt me, but even the most noble intentions cannot always hinder true emotion. I know my eyes must have nearly burst with the waves of love pouring from them. Oh, Gimli!
Then he and the rest of the Fellowship departed, grim for the treacherous journey before them. So many dangers awaited them then, but now! Rumours of battle at Helm’s Deep, and the menacing cloud of Sauron grows ever closer. His glory will extend forever, of that I am sure . . .but my heart sobs that he may die. To live an immortality without even the dreams and fantasies of lapsing into his muscular arms and rough beard, of being taught patiently how to wield an axe, of the joy of lopping the head off my first orc . . .unbearable.
No. I cannot think like that. He will come back someday. Beauty is not everything, and perhaps . . .perhaps he can find affection for me though my visage is but pale and bland in comparison to the ladies lucky enough to be dwarves. Yes. I must continue to hope. And until that day when he stalks through these woods again, may all that is good in this world protect him.
I hope all of you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. It was sort of an . . .inspiration. Every author should write a romance. It’s tremendously entertaining, even if the love is only one-sided. I would strongly recommend it. All right, well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Have a great day!