It wasn’t because he was worried, of course. He wasn’t itching at his heels as he watched friends and family and his Father strike out into danger. It was because he was a Dwarf, obviously, because he was a bold and strong warrior! He was past Sixty! Surely old enough for such a venture, surely he could be of some help, if the Princes were both leaving as well?

Surely they shouldn’t leave him behind?

Because what else was a young and boisterous Dwarf supposed to do when left behind from dangerous noble endeavours? 

Could he really be blamed for breaking into the royal halls, just to brawl with some of the younger Guardsmen? The dwarva had given him insult first! What kind of man would let such a thing go? Intact honour and a will of Iron made a man, after all!

All of these arguments sounded very good in Gimli’s head until he was discovered sprawled at the bottom of some stairs, dishevelled and bruised... by the Lady Dis herself.

Thought and speech rather escaped him at that point.

Fangorn held a kind of thickness to it. And abrasive and heavy silence that wasn’t right at all considering how underground Gimli felt. But stone had an echo and a clean cold to it. This forest felt ready to choke him. Then again, that might be more to do with the bright axe that glinted eagerly at his hand.

In any case, Gimli was well aware he wasn’t welcome, so he looked around for something to take his mind off it. And by Mahal’s brightest hammer, he found one. 

The grin he sent up to his lithe friend, whom towered above him like so many trees enjoyed doing, was as delighted as a child with honey.