The idea for this chapter came from an especially funny review I received. Credit is deserved there. I'd say that the idea warranted a chapter of its own.

Couriers with word of success had long since spread the news to every corner of Middle-Earth—goodness finally triumphed over the evils of Mordor. The Glittering Caves had erupted into celebration, work letting out early and dwarves flocking to taverns for rejoicing and drinking. This meant for Gloin, however, that his son would be waiting for him at the new monarchy of Minas Tirith.

The winding, white stone streets and halls of Minas Tirith are not of taste to the dwarf and his couple of traveling companions, as they much prefer hardy, enduring stone mountains. Nonetheless, Gloin brushes his disapproval aside and sets out to the castle in search for his son.

However, in the vast courtyard before the palace doors, the hairstyle of an elf catches his attention. The handiwork is undeniable: his son is somewhere around here, and has clearly spent some time with his hands in an elf's hair. Gloin huffs contemptuously, but can't help marveling at another demonstration of his son's skill. He has missed his presence at home, lamenting the lost mornings spent with Gimli braiding his hair.

Gimli has begun to get creative, if the braids on the blonde head before him are any indication. Indeed, the masses of thick braids bundled at random around his scalp are especially glamorous, with little blue blossoms poked in. The flowers trail a little way past his shoulders, although the previously long, silky strands have been bushed into the braided rolls atop his head. Gloin can't help but shake his head in disappointment, because the thin, delicate hair of elves has put this potential masterpiece to shame.

The blonde elf cocks an offensively neat eyebrow at him.

"Are you possibly a relation of Gimli's?" he asks in a voice that is too smooth and refined. Gloin notices a rather fearful look clouding the treehugger's eyes at the thought of Gimli.

"Aye. Don't happen to know where he got off to, do ye?"

"He should be in the Healer's Den. Just down that hall and around the right-hand corner," he says, gesticulating though the shut entrance of the castle. Gloin starts at the mention of his son being in an infirmary, but wastes no time in asking the lanky forest-dweller for details.

Gloin quickly bounds away and muscles through the colossal palace doors, his duo of dwarf companions at his heels. He dashes around the corner, shoulder scraping the edge in his haste to get to the Healing Den. In his immediate pain, he snarls in irritation at a little human girl that gets in his way. She yelps in fright, jumping out of his path. He's suddenly distracted, though, by the sight of his unmistakable destination. The Infirmary is impossible to miss with its wide, arching doorway.

Stumbling into the spacious, window-heavy hall, Gloin immediately hunts for the vibrant head of red hair belonging to his son, no doubt bearing a most trendy do.

"Gimli!" he hollers in distress, eyes darting about without seeing his son occupying one of the long infirmary beds. "Gimli! Gimli! Gimli!" he barks.

"Father!" The call is returned, and Gloin's head snaps around to locate his son. His search is satisfied, granted the sight of Gimli not in a hospital bed, but rather perched on the edge of an unconscious patient's mattress. He hunches over the young man, looking over his shoulder at the team of dwarves from The Glittering Caves. His hands are currently wound about the lengths of the sleeping human's hair, bulky digits obviously in the middle of twisting a new, complicated fashion. "What a surprise to see you here in the castle, come all the way from the Glittering Caves! I was wonderi—oh, my. I see you've been doing your own hair."

Gloin nods in shame, shuffling over to his son's side. "Hold these," Gimli tells him, shoving a fistful of white blossoms into his clutch. The stalks are moist from his clammy palm, and Gloin suspects that Gimli has been holding them for a while.

"What are ye doing here, son?" Gimli beams proudly, but does not look away from where his hands have resumed their complex patterns.

"Aragorn—King Aragorn, that is—suggested that I bring my skills to the Infirmary! He said I would brighten the lives of these sad, injured folk, and he's quite right!" he gloats mirthfully. Gloin glances at a thoroughly downtrodden soldier in the corner, staring pensively out a window as he sadly fingers the beaded braids in his hair.

"Aye, this gloomy place could use some lightening." Gimli grunts in concurrence, swiping a chunk of pale buds from the older dwarf. "You've been getting creative. I saw what ye did to an elf out there," he mutters lowly. Gimli ignores the chastising tone in his father's voice.

"Legolas fought beside me in many a battle. I am glad to braid his strange hair."

In fact, the elf in question abruptly comes puffing quite gracelessly into the Healing Den, face red and previously lovely hair dragged sloppily from its binds. Disheveled, small blue clots hang in disarray from his head, pulled out of place. He has clearly—and quite unsuccessfully—tried to forcefully take out his braids.

"Gimli!" he thunders, in a tone much unlike an elf. "There are bugs in these flowers!"