I don’t write much fanfiction, but when I do, it usually doesn’t make sense.
I, Gimli son of Glóin, the Elf being asleep in the canoe, have gone through his pack and found… shampoo bottles? Ah yes, but not filled with shampoo! They are filled with scrolls covered in his squiggly Elf writing which, unbeknownst to any of the Fellowship, I can read.
Leggy writes poetry.
I shall copy down three which I believe are his best and most poignant attempts, and then I shall throw them in the Anduin.
Oh Moria, whose walls of stone
Gleam with a mithril sheen,
I hate you, for I hear the tone
Of drums, drums in the deep.
On Waiting for Gandalf
I stand nigh Moria near trees
That guard the closèd door.
Mithrandir has the password lost;
I fear we’ll trek no more.
Dear Lórien, I miss you sair;
Once Mirkwood was a part
Of you, and now your Lady fair
Loves you alone, not us.
On second thought, although it would make a satisfying plop, I believe I shall not destroy these. Perhaps I can find a chance to deliver them up to Aragorn.