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joyfullynervouscreator · 6 years

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Silver and Amethyst pt 4

Final chapter! Full Story Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4

word count ~2k

Being a father was so much more fun than Natfári had ever expected. It was also terrifying on a level he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, how much it mattered that the small pebble was happy and safe – he worked hard to keep her so, her and Arnóra.

Of course, it wasn’t all fear and worry; he thought little Dori – Halldora was far too long a name for his little girl – exploring Erebor might be among the most amazing things he had ever seen, the sheer joy on her face when she mastered a new skill. He cried the first day she called him adad, speaking the word clearly enough to be understood, and privately he thought that if he was enslaved by Arnóra’s smiles he was at least as devoted to Dori’s.

That was the reason he found himself holding a small hand, walking with Dori at a leisurely pace towards the Guardhouse that he officially worked at, when the world exploded and Natfári knew no more.

The air was thick with stone dust; Dís was wailing in her arms, but Frís had no time to soothe, had simply grabbed her daughter and run, Frerin close behind her. Thorin… Thorin had gone hunting this morning, he must still be outside, she wouldn’t think of him being inside the Mountain, couldn’t think of her oldest, her wolf, trapped in their home, fated to be a Dragon’s feast. No. Frís continued on, ignoring the chaos around her with a single-mindedness that would have surprised those who knew her as the most reasonable member of the Royal family.

There was a glint of light on mithril hair, and for a moment Frís thought of her sister, the half-elf she hadn’t seen since the birth of her daughter; who had snuck into the Mountain to be with her at the birth as she had been for the boys. It wasn’t Geira, of course, though the hair was so similar the little one could have been her daughter. Frís barely registered the hand that the little girl was pulling, the body of her parent trapped beneath fallen rock that she had no hope of shifting. With a silent prayer to Mahal for the girl’s departed family, Frís scooped up the Dwarfling – she was a mother, even if she was not the girl’s mother, and she couldn’t bare to ignore the crying child, setting her on her other hip and handing the small bag she had managed to grab to Frerin with a strict admonishment to keep close.

“Adad!” the girl cried, “want Adad!” but she made no move to escape Frís’ arms, burrowing against her shoulder just like Dís, and continued to cry for her father.

When they were out, she kept hold of the children, breathing out a strangled scream when she spotted Thorin, whole and hale, standing with Dwalin and staring at her as though she were a stranger.

“Amad…” he whispered, picking up Frerin in a bear hug when the boy reached him.

“Thorin!” Frís cried, but she did not put the girls down, simply accepted the way he wrapped his arms around all of them, breathing in the smell that was her firstborn, even beneath the acrid smell of smoke and fear.

“Where’s Adad?” he whispered into her ear.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, feeling a renewal of fear at the thought of Thraín being gone – how would she keep them all from falling apart without him? Thorin was in no way old enough to take up his grandfather’s crown, for all that he was a smart boy. In her arms, Dís mumbled something that wasn’t really a word, and when she looked down the small girls were holding hands, smiling at each other as though they were the best of friends.

“Nen’ar!” The hissed whisper woke Frís from her doze in the back of a cart some intrepid baker had manage to escape with; the bread it had held was gone, distributed as fairly as she could manage, and the baker had insisted that she take the cart for her children.

“Gwathel?” Frís mumbled, blinking her eyes open and staring at the hooded figure standing by the end of the cart. Dís turned in her sleep, tangled up with the other little girl who’d refused to give her name. The cloaked figure dropped her hood, revealing the never-aging face of Rhonith to Frís’ eyes. She smiled.

“Finally!” Rhonith cried, reaching out to hug her close. “I was so worried I’d never find you!”

“How… how are you here?” Frís wondered, gripping her hand just to be sure she was really there.

“I’ve been living in Mirkwood for some weeks now, I was planning to sneak in to see you… I saw the dragon, sister, I’m sorry… we were too late.” Rhonith whispered, tears filling her eyes.

“We?” Frís asked, glancing around her, but spotting no Elves.

“Atheg brought the army, but we were too late to kill the wyrm before it had gained the Mountain,” Rhonith replied sadly. “We met with Thrór, but he is… sister, he is crazy!”

“He is… not himself,” Frís agreed carefully, aware that they were not alone; such talk could be considered treason.

“Frís, he demanded we send out warriors to slay the beast inside Erebor, demanded Thranduil swear fealty to him…” Rhonith’s face twisted into something Frís couldn’t decipher, fury mingled with grief so heavy she thought it would break her to hear the next words.

“Tell me.” She said, her voice never wavering.

“He has banished us,” Rhonith whispered, “any Elf spotted in your camp will be executed…” Frís gasped, her grip tightening involuntarily.

“You must leave, then,” she murmured, though the thought made her sad. “You’re not safe here.”

“I want to help!” Rhonith retorted hotly, “Legolas was going crazy when we didn’t see you with Thraín! Atheg was furious, of course, but we would never abandon you to starvation and death!”

“Thraín is alive?” Frís asked, feeling weak with sudden release of tension. “Oh, thank the Maker,” she murmured, squeezing Rhonith’s hand.

“You… you did not know?” The peredhel asked, her Durin-blue eyes wide in the moonlight. “Ai, I am sorry, Frís, I did not think to ask. I have seen Thorin, also, and Fundin with his sons, though the Lady Cantor is presumed dead… I do not know so many by sight alone, though, and Thrór offered no introductions of those around him.”

“Where is my husband? Perhaps… perhaps we can work around my good-father…” Frís mumbled, staring at her knuckles. This was treason, most likely, even though she and Thraín had been skirting the label for years trying to rule around Thrór’s increasingly erratic decisions.

“I will take you to him,” Rhonith swore, hopping down from the end of the cart and pulling her hood back up to cover her shiny hair – even more conspicuous in the moonlight. Frís sighed, jostling Dís and Frerin gently to wake them.

“Wake up, little ones,” she whispered, “we’re going to find out family.”

“Adad?” The little girl with mithril hair asked, staring up at her with eyes that filled with tears when Frís shook her head.

“I’m sorry raklûna,” she murmured, “I don’t know who your adad is, nor where I could find him. This is my sister, however; she will carry you.” Pointing at Rhonith, who lowered her hood to smile at the little girl, Frís waited for the dwarfling to nod before handing her to Rhonith.

“Zars-nana’.” The girl said, pointing at Rhonith’s pointy ears then at her own hair. “Nana’yê?”

“Iraknana’,” Rhonith nodded, lifting the girl onto her hip. Frís stared – that was more talking than the dwarfling had done since they escaped the mountain; she had wondered if she was so young her vocabulary consisted only of adad and amad, though she looked only slightly younger than Dís. “Let’s go, Frís, I’m sure Thraín will want to see you.”

“Dori!” Arnóra cried, trying to fight her way out of Captain Mundi’s strong hold to no avail. “DORI!” She had run to the guardhouse the moment she had felt the disturbance, but though she had found her good-sister with her friend, she had found neither her daughter nor her husband.

“You can’t go back in, Arna,” Nauma whispered, tears making trails in the dust that clung to her face. “Nati will… Nati will find us, he’ll keep Dori safe, you’ll see.” Clinging to Arnóra’s hand, neither of them admitted that the likelihood of seeing father or daughter again were slim to none.

Eventually, Arnóra hung limply in Mundi’s arms, her despair spent, though she kept turning back to look for any sign of survivors following them.

She saw none.

Rhonith’s plan was not without danger, everyone agreed, but the clandestine plot was the only way to foil Thrór’s edict, the only way they might ensure that their people survived.

Currently, that meant sitting in a circle of dwarflings, handing out small pieces of lembas while she told amusing stories in Khuzdul – her accent in Westron, while common among the Eldar, was noticeable to a Dwarf’s ears and it had been agreed that speaking only Khuzdul was the only way to pull off their scheme with any hope of success. On her lap, little sanzigil-karkith sat quietly, playing with the thin end of one of Rhonith’s braids. No one had been able to convince the dwarfling to tell them her name, but she seemed to prefer to stay with Rhonith, claiming her as her sister from the forest, which no one seemed able to deny the small probably-orphaned dwarfling. Frís still held some hope that the dwarfling’s mother might be found, though it was dwindling the closer they got to the southern edge of the forest where Rhonith would have to leave them.

“You are safe?” he asked, as he always asked, when she found them between the trees, handing over her empty sack for a fresh one filled with lembas. Rhonith smiled, reaching up to stroke the tip of his ears softly.

“I am safe, Legolas, I promise.” She said, as she had said on every night since the first one. “Do not worry. I am careful.” When he nodded, returning the touch, she smiled, turning back towards the camp with little more than a wave for a farewell. She might be safe, but she was becoming a recognised figure among those who camped closest to her, and it would not do to be missed for longer than it took to make water.

No one asked how she obtained the food she gave to the dwarflings – no one had the presence of mind to care, most likely; existing in a numbing fog of grief for all they had s suddenly lost – and Rhonith did not tell. Sometimes she sang, songs she remembered her mother and uncle singing in a long-lost Mountain more than an Age before; sometimes she told stories, stories of Dwarven heroes but also stores of Men and Elves, translated in her mind from whatever language she had originally heard them told. She spoke of vast mountain halls, of forests that stretched beyond knowledge, of seas made of sand, where the men had skin as dark as ink. Fantastical tales to catch the attention of young and old alike had soon made her a popular target of an evening, wherever she would find herself sat by a fire, karkith on her lap and a song on her lips.

“Arnóra!” Captain Mundi called, breathless from running. “Arnóra, I found Dori!”

“You… you found Dori?” Arnóra croaked, hardly daring to believe him. Mundi nodded.

She didn’t even realise she was standing when she began to run, Nauma’s hand still clenched tight in her own as they followed Mundi back through the camp, skirting those who had found spots to rest – Arnóra even jumped over a few prone shapes – in their haste to reach the dwarfling.

“Amad!” Karkith cried, interrupting Rhonith’s story and reaching towards a dam who shared her mithril hair. Rhonith smiled, but she did not think the dwarrowdam noticed, walking the last few steps towards them as though she could not believe her eyes. “Amad!” the little girl cried, and then she was plucked from Rhontih’s lap, cradled against a breast heaving with relieved sobs.

“Oh, Dori,” Arnóra cried, pressing kisses everywhere her kisses could reach, feeling the familiar weight of her pebble in her arms. When she finally managed to lift her head, Nauma’s arms were tight around the both of them, the rotund dwarrowdam shaking with sobs of her own while Mundi was patting her back gently, smiling as though he was paid to do so. Arnóra chuckled weakly, turning to stare at the cloaked dam who had been holding her daughter.

“E gêdul tada makhahsi nathithzi,[1]” she smiled, her blue eyes catching the fire, though Arnóra’s attention was caught by the few strands of hair visible beneath the deep hood. Reaching up, she touched one of her own curly locks wonderingly.

“Zars-nana’, amad,” Dori mumbled sleepily in her arms. “Iraknana’yê.[2]”

“Akhminruki astî,” Arnóra whispered, “I can never repay you, cousin, but… thank you.”

“I did not bring her outside,” Rhonith replied gently, “she was placed in my arms by the Princess Frís, who rescued her from the Mountain. Your thanks should go to her.” With that, she stood, bowing her head once in the direction of the small family and disappeared into the shadows outside the light of the small fire, vanishing beyond their sight almost instantly.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Arnóra found the small bracelet around her daughter’s wrist, tied from mithril hair that seemed somehow shinier than her own or Dori’s, the small knots all meaning little sister.

[1] I am happy that you have found your daughter. [2] Tree-sister, mother. My cousin.

tagging @fountainsofsilver so you can find the other chapters more easily ;)

@life-is-righteous @pandepirateprincess @sassytyphoondetective (your tag still won’t work)

A/N: Natfári did survive - he was knocked out by the same rockfall that crushed the Dwarf Frís mistook for Dori's father - but he did not reunite with his wife until days after they had left the borders of Mirkwood behind, having spent some time unconscious, and moving slowly due to a broken ankle.

#dori #parents of Ri's #Silver and Amethyst #erebor #Dwelf-'verse

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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A Kitten in Rivendell

Because I watched that scene in BotFA... and Bifur is not just comic relief.

Bifur was carving a kitten, playfully crouching as its tail swished, frozen in the moment before it pounced on a piece of string and immortalized by his clever fingers in a piece of birch wood. If they had been in Ered Luin, Fjelarun would have been the obvious recipient, fond of all animals as she was, but Fjelarun was far away, much farther than Bifur had travelled since before her birth. Around him, birds were singing to each other, invisible among the branches of trees that seemed older than any others he had seen.

Rivendell had a curious beauty, to Bifur, even if it was comprised of very few straight angles - a mark against any piece of construction to a dwarven mind. Thorin was even more ornery than usual, though that might be due to the Elves themselves, rather than their architecture. Bifur's knife removed another sliver of wood, smoothing the kitten's paw. He did not have any files along, of course, and Mahal wept if he'd begin rooting around this place when he was more than capable of removing any rough edges with his knife alone. One ear folded down, the other raised to a point, and the kitten was coming to life between his scarred hands.

Bifur knew the moment he was no longer unobserved, but he made no motion to alert his little watcher - perched in the three a few yards to the left of him - to his knowledge.

The elfling - ears as pointy as any of the adults Bifur had seen - took a while to gather enough courage to approach, but she did approach him, looking raptly at the small animal in his hands. Bifur hummed, keeping his voice gentle, as he showed her the unfinished toy. The elfling's eyes, almost too large for her face, widened impossibly as she watched. It did not matter that he didn't understand a word of her song-like tongue, lilting like the babbling of a brook. It did not matter that she had no way of knowing what he was saying back, all that mattered was the quiet snick as the knife cut off ever tinier slivers, Bifur's thumb feeling for any leftover roughness before making another move with the blade. The girl, who reminded him almost painfully of a young Blidarún, kept up a constant stream of words, requiring little from Bifur but a hum here and there, agreeing with whatever she said.

He also knew the moment someone else arrived among the trees, but the unknown observer did not reveal themselves. Bifur kept shaping the wood he held.

When the kitten was finished, he held it out for the little girl to take, soaking up the brightness of the smile she gave him. He was surprised when she hugged him, clambering onto the bench to reach his shoulders, but he patted her small back fondly. Sitting beside him, the small girl proceeded to tell him a story starring her new toy, and Bifur felt a pang of bittersweet longing for his nieces and nephews. The scene was familiar, even if the story told was not one he could understand the words for, and Bifur simply enjoyed the cloud of happiness that seemed to surround his little friend. Whoever was watching from the trees remained silent.

At the sound of the dinner gong, Bifur's companion vanished amid a torrent of incomprehensible words, waving at Bifur with a happy smile as she darted off. Her disappearance was followed swiftly by the appearance of an adult elf, whose face expressed such heartache that Bifur's own heart gave a lurch in his chest.

"Thank you," the elf gasped, falling to his knees a few yards away from Bifur's bench. Tears were running down his cheeks but his smile was so radiant Bifur had to return it. "She has spoken to no one since her mother...passed," the elf continued, choked with emotion. Bifur nodded. He hummed a few notes, but the elf seemed to have realised that he was unable to answer with understandable words. Rising to his feet, he bowed deeply to Bifur before disappearing among the greenery once more.

When the Company left Rivendell, Bifur left behind a small carved figure; a tiny, pointy-eared girl in a pretty dress. He had borrowed a pair of scissors and a needle from Dori, and the dress was made from the fabric of the curtains, but it was the same colour as the small elfling's on that day in the garden, and Bifur felt confident that her adad would see it reach the right little fingers.

#bifur #bifur appreciation #hobbit #rivendell #hobbit drabble #fluff #Dwelf-'verse #Bifur-Love

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joyfullynervouscreator · 6 years

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Dwelf Snippet

@cycas suggested I post a snippet of my upcoming longfic chapter in order to spot the errors, so here you go ;)

wordcount: 1125

She found the small Hobbit staring west across the snow from the ramparts. Geira stepped forwards, taking up position next to him. It had not yet begun to melt, but it wouldn’t be more than a few months till spring began reawakening the world; Atheg’s people would see to the Desolation, make it green again. The thought made her smile, remembering the same view from centuries before.

“One day,” she murmured, startling Bilbo, who hadn’t noticed her silent appearance, “this will be filled with wildflowers and grass, the landscape dotted with farmsteads and small woods.” It had been – once upon a time – and Atheg’s best plant-tenders had sworn that they could restore the land, could plough down the ashes of the dead and revitalize the soil, could plant saplings that were growing in the forest at this very moment; birch and beech and oak, firs and other conifers could be transplanted without much trouble. The Forest wouldn’t notice; new saplings sprouted every spring.

“Sounds nice,” he replied, though he didn’t turn away his gaze. Geira smiled. Fields would be planted with seed grain purchased from the Iron Hills or imported from further south in the lands of Men, and her people would be able to feed themselves soon enough. There were still mushroom caves inside the mountain, and once they received fertilizer and adequate soil, the spores that had lain dormant so long would begin to grow again, leaving them able to harvest the food staple within a year. Even a Hobbit might find value in those – she was reminded of Peony’s fierce love of wood ears – the variety of mushrooms that could be grown inside a Mountain with the advances made in light control were nearly endless. For a moment, she allowed herself to dream of meadow wax caps and saffron milk caps, imagined the subtle rich flavour of chanterelles. Bilbo’s wistful sigh startled her out of her musings.

“But you don’t want to stay in Erebor, do you, Master Hobbit?” she asked. Bilbo sighed, turning to face her.

“No.” The admission was quiet, but her keen ears heard it nonetheless. “I miss my books and my armchair,” he admitted, a wry smile playing on his face, “and my garden and my pantry. The Shire seems to be very far away… and I miss it more than I thought I would. Even Lobelia.”

“Your…?”

“Cousin. She likes to steal my silver.” He laughed, though Geira didn’t see the jest.

“You should stay for the coronation, at least, and the wedding,” she murmured, giving him a small smile. “It wouldn’t do to miss it after all the work you did to ensure it would happen.”

“I gave away the Arkenstone!” Bilbo protested. Geira laughed brightly.

“So you did, Master Burglar,” she teased, “but you also helped reclaim the Lonely Mountain; do not forget that. You are one of the Lords Companion, Bilbo, but more than that… you are their friend. Our friend.”

“I’m not sure I’d fit in during a Dwarven wedding,” Bilbo mumbled, his ears reddening.

“Probably not,” Geira admitted, “but I am an Elf, and – aside from the Khuzdul ceremony – the wedding will be attended by both Elves and Men.” Thorin hadn’t much liked that, but he had to admit that it’d be rude to invite their neighbours for the coronation and then have them leave on the second day of feasting because of the Wedding. “You will fit in better than them, at the very least,” Geira pointed out, smirking. Bilbo chuckled. “And you will get to see things that my people hold sacred above all others. It has been a very long time since a non-Dwarf was a guest of honour at a Dwarven ceremony of this magnitude.”

“I suppose it would be rude to leave beforehand,” he mumbled, making her smile at him. “I’d need a guide, either way; Gandalf was supposed to take me back to the Shire, but he left when the Elves did.” Geira nodded; though she had not been awake to see the army leave, Thranduil had told her that the Wizard was gone. Bilbo shivered in the chill breeze. The hardiness of Elves – they were nearly impervious to temperature changes once fully grown – meant she did not really need the fur cloak she wore, but it was nice to huddle in it anyway. Legolas had left it behind, like a silent apology for all her things having been hauled back to Mirkwood along with the army. Flicking open a fold of the heavy fur-lined fabric, she wrapped it around the small Hobbit with ease.

“Mithrandir could not stay. He wished to confer with the White Council,” Geira said, feeling a stab of guilt for the way she had screamed at him when she did not know better; she owed him an apology at some point, she knew. “As for a guide home, Master Baggins, I remember promising to take you back myself when everything was sorted. Seems, to me, that soon it will be.” She gave him a calm smile.

“You… you will?” Bilbo asked in a small voice that didn’t hide his relief, “but you’re meant to be Thorin’s advisor! You can’t leave either!”

“In matters concerning Elves, yes,” she replied, shrugging lightly, “but there are no matters to be discussed that cannot wait for my return.” Atheg would see to that, most likely; Geira had no illusions that he was keen to meet with Thorin again before the scheduled Midsummer meeting – he was showing up for the Coronation, but intended to leave shortly after, returning to the Forest and the people who would spend years in mourning for those who had been lost in the Battle of Five Armies. Shaking off her sudden melancholy, Geira continued outlining her plan, gesturing towards the horizon that hid Mirkwood from view. “We shall borrow some of Atheg’s elks to reach the mountains, and I’d be surprised if we couldn’t find a horse or pony in Rivendell… the journey would not be so long; I have done it before.” Often, in truth, considering how much she enjoyed being in Imladris, feeling at home in the beautiful gardens that reminded her of her first centuries in Eregion.

“If… if you’re sure,” Bilbo said, feeling overwhelmed. “I… could we visit Beorn on the way? And Thranduil’s Halls. I’m thinking of writing a book, you see, and I’d like to take some notes, maybe draw some sketches.” Geira chuckled, her eyes sparkling down at the small hobbit.

“If you wish it, I will even take you far beneath the Misty Mountains and show you the ancient roadworks of my people; it is the route I was walking when we met,” she promised, laughing at the speed with which he accepted.

#Dwelf-'verse #tbd

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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The Lost Pebble

Thraín was not the first among Thorin’s family to get lost in Mirkwood; Long before Thorin's Company entered the Forest, another dwarf shared that fate.

She was treated better than the Company, however, and this is the story that explains why Thorin did not get the reception he expected when he stood before the Elvenking.

Catching sight of the Forest Gate, Rhonith drew in a sigh of relief, feeling slightly unsteady. Her side was soaked in blood, making the guards cry out when she was spotted.

“My Lady!” one of them exclaimed, reaching her in a few steps and taking the small pack she carried. “Were you attacked in the forest?”

“Magoldir…” Rhonith replied sluggishly, recognising the younger ellon. “Spider… very big.” Swaying gently, she let him prop her up, hardly protesting when he swung her into his arms, setting off towards the Healing Halls while barking orders that someone inform the King and the Prince of her condition.

Putting the injured elleth down on a cot, Magoldir stepped back, watching as Nestor swiftly cut off her tunic, revealing the bloody tear in her flesh. He winced.

“It’s not too deep,” Nestor murmured, shaking back his green sleeves as he examined the wound, tracing the jagged edges with a finger. “You’ll need to limit use of the arm until it heals, however.” Washing it out with a herbal solution made Rhonith wince, but she did not cry out. Singing a slow tune, Nestor halted the bleeding, gathering up a wad of bandage material and a roll of linen, securing it tightly around Rhonith’s upper arm. “I’ve never seen such a cut before,” he mused, “what made it?”

“A spider, she said,” Magoldir replied, “but sure that was the blood loss talking?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Rhonith replied dreamily, “I said a spider… about as tall as your waist. Quick, too.” The guardsman gasped. With a swift bow, he left the Healing Halls, seeking out the Captain of the Guard to report.

“A spider?” Nestor asked, tying off the bandage. He frowned. Rhonith just nodded, yawning. Removing her undershirt carefully, she frowned at the bloodied state of her breast-band.

Her consideration – Nestor had politely turned away, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her in varying states of undress before – was interrupted when the corridor outside the Healing Halls suddenly resounded with loud wailing.

“Healer!” A frantic patrol-guard cried out, bursting through the door holding what Rhonith slowly recognised as a small… dwarfling? Trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, she missed most of the elleth’s explanation. “… we don’t know what to do, the babe won’t take milk; we even tried bringing her to Seregiel for nursing!” The name distantly rung a bell, but it took Rhonith several minutes to remember the name of Dúmon’s wife.

“It’s a dwarfling,” Nestor replied wonderingly, but the wailing only increased when he reached out to touch a cheek.

“Give her to me,” Rhonith murmured, having to repeat herself when the two elves simply stared at her.

“Hiril vuin[1]?” the elleth asked, looking between Rhonith’s half-naked and bandaged form and the stern visage of Nestor.

“My Lady, you need rest,” Nestor objected, but Rhonith just scowled, reaching for the small dwarf with her good arm.

“Give her to me, Alacthel,” Rhonith repeated.

“My Lady, you are injured. We don’t know what the spider’s bite may have done,” Nestor cautioned, but Rhonith waved away his concerns.

“It’s a dwarfling; can you think of anyone more knowledgeable in that area in these Halls?” she asked, reaching for the small pebble. Nestor bowed slightly, accepting the argument, but he still looked wary when Alacthel handed the little girl over, happily fleeing. “Shosh, kafnith, astû nusus[2],” she crooned, bringing the small body close to her chest and holding her securely. Fingering one of her longer braids, she flipped it over her shoulder until it brushed against the dwarfling’s hand. The small hand instantly wrapped tightly around the braid as the pebble turned her face against Rhonith’s chest, mouthing at the bindings covering her breasts. The wail that had lessened with the soft khuzdul words began once more. “Nestor, remove my bindings, please.” Rhonith’s voice brooked no argument.

A breathless runner from the Front Gate had interrupted Legolas’ meeting with Captain Bronwe, and the Prince had quickly made his way towards the Healing Halls, speeding his steps at the sound of wailing. Entering the Halls of Healing, he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the display that met his eyes. Rhonith’s breasts were bared, a small golden head nosing against her, still issuing loud cries. He gasped. “Shosh, abadith[3],” she murmured, stroking the pebble’s hair. “Aslâtul[4]?” The tiny dwarfling unerringly sought her nipple, one hand still wrapped firmly around the braid of hair, the other kneading Rhonith’s breast wilfully. Behind her, Nestor was stacking pillows, until Rhonith could lean back in a half-sitting position. The child continued crying when her efforts did not yield milk. “Ai, Legolas.” Rhonith looked up with a smile, when she noticed the intruder. “Go fetch a small pail of goat’s milk and a spoon, please,” Rhonith said. Her attention was focused on the small dwarfling in her arms; otherwise she might have paid more attention to Legolas’ dumbfounded expression.

“What did you want this for?” the prince asked, when he walked back through the door, looking at the things he’d been sent to fetch. When he lifted his head, he was struck once more by the sight of her completely uncovered breasts; too late did he remember to avert his eyes, knowing it was a sight that would haunt his dreams for years to come. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. He wondered if he had entered a realm of fantasies brought to life; would her next command be ‘touch me’? A fierce blush stained his ears cherry red and made his cheeks glow at the idea. Part of him felt ashamed for his lustful thoughts, but another – much larger – part felt nearly crippling jealousy staring at the small golden head of the Dwarf-child.

“You’ll have to help me feed her, I’m not...well,” Rhonith admitted, her eyes half closed, and suddenly Legolas remembered that he’d come running because he had been told she was wounded. “Get one of Nestor’s linen squares and put it on my shoulder,” she yawned, “a corner should reach her mouth and my nipple. Then dribble the milk down the cloth slowly so she can suckle.” Rhonith finally lifted her head from her wailing bundle, only to see the princeling standing in the middle of the room looking lost. “Sit behind me,” she barked. With a slight jolt, Legolas did as he was told, taking position with his back against the mound of pillows and pulling her into his arms, praying she wouldn’t notice his physical reaction to her closeness. With a small sigh, Rhonith settled between his legs and leaned back against his chest.

Lifting the spoon, Legolas felt entirely uncomfortable with his new task, but began steadily dribbling milk onto her chest. When the first drops reached the hungry child, she began suckling happily, snuffling slightly until her tears abated. Rhonith’s left hand was busy holding the corner of the milk-sodden cloth to her nipple and cradling the dwarfling with her right. She closed her eyes, her head falling back to rest on Legolas’ shoulder. Murmured Khuzdul kept falling from her lips, and though Legolas didn’t understand a word he thought it might be a lullaby. Rhonith’s breasts lay uncovered, a sight he had fantasised often, yet reality was far superior to his paltry imaginations. Spread out in front of his eyes was delectable pale flesh, soft rounded breasts with small pink nipples. The sheen covering one from the dwarfling’s mouth and a few stray drops of milk made him convinced he was dreaming. How else would he explain that he had been granted – if not permission for, then at least implicit consent to – this mesmerizing view? Legolas swallowed hard, focusing his shaky hands on their task, not on how much he wanted to touch her bared flesh. The elleth resting against his chest – and this was the part that made him accept that this was reality – did not notice. Nor did she notice his rather obvious interest pressing against her. Legolas tried to block the images stumbling through his head but it was an exercise in futility, he had to admit. As time passed, she relaxed more and more against his chest, her words slurring with fatigue, but Legolas hardly noticed, lost in a daydream of recurring fantasies; Rhonith spread across his bed, hair in disarray and breasts caressed by his own lips, flushed in pleasure; sitting just like he was, but the child being a small elfling with his hair and Rhonith’s eyes. The last image stole his breath in a sharp exhalation of surprise, but Rhonith ignored it in favour of continuing to croon Khuzdul phrases at the dwarfling.

When Thranduil entered the Halls of Healing, it was to the sight of his son sleepily cradling a dozing Rhonith, whose arms were carefully holding a small child to her breast.

“Legolas… what are you doing?” Thranduil’s bemused voice cut through Legolas’ fantasy like a knife through butter. The younger elf winced, automatically tightening his arms around Rhonith, moving a hand up to shield her bare breast. The possessive gesture was almost mindless in its swiftness, as though the sight of her naked was his alone already. Legolas blushed. Thranduil’s smirk widened.

“Saving… pebble…” Rhonith said, sleepily, nuzzling against Legolas’ neck with a sigh. “Pebble was hungry.” With that, she went limp and boneless in Legolas’ embrace. Nestor cursed, bending swiftly to take her pulse. The two royals stiffened in worry, though Legolas kept careful hold of both elleth and Dwarf child – apparently they were called pebbles?

“She came in because a spider bit her…” he gestured to the bandage, “perhaps it carries a sleeping toxin? She claimed it was far larger than a spider should be able to grow.”

“A spider?” Thranduil asked with a frown. “I did not think a spider could take my daughter by surprise, Nestor.”

“This one was apparently the size of a large wolf, Aran-nîn,” Nestor demurred. Both sets of royal eyes widened, staring at the sleeping elleth. The pebble smacked her lips, her small pink tongue making an appearance as she yawned, burrowing against Rhonith’s chest and falling asleep easily, one hand still tightly clenched around a mithril braid. “Magoldir went to report to Captain Bronwe.”

“And the dwarfling?” Thranduil asked. “This does not explain why there is a tiny dwarf in my Realm, Nestor. Where are the parents?” the King barked. Nestor could only shrug. The answer came swiftly, however:

“Thranduil Aran, I have received a raven from Erebor.” Thranduil’s Seneschal Galion interrupted, coming through the door. “The king asks that we keep an eye out for a small child, lost from a Dwarven caravan due to an ambush by what the Naugrim claim were giant spiders.” He frowned at that, seemingly in disbelief, but Thranduil just nodded. Galion continued, “King Thrór asks only that we keep an eye out, and if any small bones are found, to send them to the mountain for proper burial.”

“Well, then,” Thranduil replied, staring at his son. “That explains how…”

“Send a messenger to Erebor at once.” Legolas interrupted, one hand unconsciously supporting the small sleeping pebble. “Tell King Thrór that we have found the child and that we will care for her until her parents can fetch her,” he demanded. His arms remained firmly around their precious burdens. Galion nodded, throwing a glance at his King, though Legolas did not raise his head to see it. Thranduil simply smiled, saying nothing. “When Rhonith is better, I’m sure she will want to meet the parents of Lothig[5].”

“Lothig, ionneg?” Thranduil asked mildly, making Legolas look up sharply. At the questioning looks from his Ada, he blushed deeply.

“Well, we can’t just call her ‘the dwarfling’, can we?” Legolas replied mulishly. “Lothig is a fine name for a small girl.”

Galion frowned, “You’re sure it’s a girl? I can’t tell.” The Prince ground his teeth, but Thranduil interrupted before he could vent his sudden anger.

“You can hardly tell the difference between the genders of elflings, Galion,” the Elvenking mused, mirth glittering in his aged eyes, “if Legolas says the babe is a girl, the babe is a girl.” He stepped forwards, running his finger across the sleeping dwarfling’s ear. “Welcome to Greenwood, Lothig.” Legolas nodded, throwing a glare in Galion’s direction for good measure. The Elvenking turned to the Master Healer, who was only a few millennia younger than him and had been one of Nínimeth’s students so long ago. “Nestor, do make sure my daughter recovers quickly,” he smiled, “the pebble seems quite attached to her temporary ‘parents’.” Thranduil made to leave the Healing Halls, but turned back once to look at his son, “I expect you to take responsibility for Lothig’s welfare, Legolas,” he said, and though his voice was mild it was a clear order. The King did not laugh at the look on his son’s face, but only because long years of experience had taught him better self-control. Legolas had the same panicked look on his face he had seen on many of his subjects when told they were to be a father. Oh, ionneg, this will be good for you… and most amusing for me, he thought, chuckling under his breath.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I can probably find someone else to help feed her,” Rhonith said, when Legolas once more took up position behind her, certain that his ears were giving away every lustful and embarrassing moment of pining he suffered during the course of feeding the pebble, “but it is the only way to feed a pebble this young.” Leaning back against his chest when he didn’t reply, Rhonith spoke softly, her eyes focussed on the tiny red mouth seeking sustenance her body could not provide but latch on nonetheless. “Dwarflings are very attuned to sound and feel, as their eyes are very poor until they reach about three years of age. They orient mostly by hearing, and the sound of a heart beating is very soothing. I’ve never known a dwarfling who would feed in a different manner than what we are doing if separated from their mother, and I can only try to provide her with the comfort she seeks.” Rhonith continued crooning soft Khuzdul words he didn’t understand, but she made the gravelly syllables sound like the softest lullaby. Legolas smiled, stopping himself just before he pressed a kiss against the tip of her ear and ruthlessly returning his focus to his task, providing a steady stream of milk for the pebble to suckle.

“I don’t mind helping with Lothig,” he blurted, delighted by Rhonith’s happy smile and soft laughter.

“Lothig?” she smiled, turning to look at him as his hand crept close enough to caress the tiny ears of the dwarfling. She was much smaller than the elflings he had seen, but her gently waving limbs were perfectly proportional. He had already fallen just a little bit in love with her.

“She needed a name. And her mouth looks like a tiny red flower,” he explained, blushing slightly. Rhonith’s soft smile eased his fears and he returned to rubbing Lothig’s back carefully. “Ada said she was my responsibility until her parents arrive.” Legolas didn’t think it was a hardship – beyond the constant haze of lust he found himself in whenever he thought about Rhonith – but he was determined not to let her see how much she affected him. “I am supposed to keep her safe, and look after you while you heal from the spider’s poison,” he murmured, shuddering at the thought of the massive beast that had attacked her. Magoldir’s patrol-group had gone out to find the carcass, and though it had been mostly scavenged by the time they found it, there had been some very large pieces of exoskeleton left that had convinced the inhabitants of Thranduil’s Halls that they had been invaded by descendants of Ungolianth of legend.

“Thank you, mellon,” Rhonith murmured; she felt weak, still, though Nestor had promised that it would pass within a week or so.

Ten days later, Legolas was still trying to convince himself that his extended exposure to Rhonith’s gently sloping bosom rendered him immune from obsessing over the allure of the pale skin. It was a lie, but he tried to convince himself otherwise. The first day had been the most awkward, until Rhonith had taken pity on him and told him not to feel embarrassed for having been caught looking. Legolas had simply nodded and praised any Valar he could think of that his deeper desires, spurred on by such lovely visions as had been plaguing his dreams, had gone unnoticed by the oblivious object of his affections. It was better that way, he knew, reminding himself of the vow he had made several centuries earlier regarding the elleth who held his heart in her flighty hands.

Currently, they were in his chambers, resting on a reclining divan as Lothig suckled down another meal. Legolas had been astounded to realise how much and how often Lothig would need feeding, but considering the countless benefits, he didn’t really mind; among these he did not count his almost perpetual erection that resurged every time he thought of or glanced at Rhonith’s naked bosom, though he did count the way he was allowed to hold her against his chest. Breathing softly, he inhaled the sweet, flowery scent of Rhonith’s hair, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across her side as she dozed off. Lothig had finished her suckling for now and was resting peacefully in the arms of her surrogate mother. Legolas dared not think of himself in the role of surrogate father except in his most private thoughts and dreams, but the images of his Rhonith, rounded with his child, nourishing his elfling… those images were hard to keep at bay.

When the door burst open, interrupting his pleasant daydreaming, pure instinct had him instantly up off the divan, crouched in front of Rhonith and Lothig, and armed with his two short swords, hissing menacingly at the intruders. The Dwarf who had thrown the door open gasped, an axe springing to his own hands until he caught sight of the half unclothed elleth behind the angry elf. With a curse, he turned his back to them, holstering his weapon with a fluid motion.

“My apologies, fair maiden, for seeing what is not for mine eyes,” he rumbled. Rhonith rose, making her way to Legolas’ side and placing her hand on his arm in a calming gesture.

“No dishonour intended, Master Dwarf, and none done me or mine,” she replied. She had wrapped a small blanket loosely around her chest, but kept Lothig cradled in one arm. Lothig cried softly, the sound Legolas had realised meant she needed reassurance. He sheathed his swords, taking the dwarfling from Rhonith and letting her resettle her impromptu covering. Another dwarf peered anxiously around the doorway, giving a small happy cry when she caught sight of the child.

“Frís! My pebble!” the anxious dwarf cried, reaching for the small dwarfling, whose cries suddenly increased in volume, unsettled by the commotion. Legolas hummed softly.

“You are Lothig’s naneth[6]?” he asked, holding the small dwarfling towards the crying dwarf, who pulled her close to her – his? – chest. Legolas personally could not see the difference between Dwarven sexes, but he had been told, by a patient but bemused Rhonith, that Dwarrow tended to play up the similarities around strangers and outsiders for their own protection.

“Her Amad,” Rhonith explained kindly, when the dwarf looked puzzled. She smiled, “And you must be the worried Adad.” She directed her words toward the tense dwarf whose back was still turned. Legolas moved behind her, retying the laces of her gown which had been undone while they had been feeding Lothig. “You may turn around, Master Dwarf.” The ghost of a laugh played across her face. “I am decently attired once more.”

“I offer my apologies, my Lady…” he trailed off, though he didn’t cower under Legolas’ strong glare.

“I am Rhonith, daughter of Narví, at your service,” Rhonith bowed, one hand fisted over her heart – the gesture must mean something different among Dwarrow, Legolas realised – and placed her soft fingers on his forearm again. “This is Prince Legolas – the son of King Thranduil – who has been helping me care for Lothig,” she introduced.

“Again, my sincerest apologies, Lady Rhonith, Prince Legolas. We were told only that our pebble was in this room,” he ran his hand through his dark blond hair sheepishly, while his wife – Legolas recognised the look on her face as that of exasperated wives everywhere – glared at him. “I am afraid I was a little… eager… in my haste to see my child safe.”

Legolas bristled, his eyes glaring daggers at the rude Dwarf, “I assure you, Master Dwarf, no elf would mistreat a child!” Rhonith’s hand on his arm once more stilled his simmering temper and he limited himself to a slight snarl at the Dwarf.

“Hanar!” the wife hissed. “Apologies, my Lord Prince. We have been out of our minds with grief until your messenger arrived and with worry ever since then. Your messenger did not mention that our daughter was being cared for by someone who knew dwarrow… we feared her half-starved.” She swallowed back tears, clutching Lothig a little tighter. Legolas winced, reaching out to pat her shoulder compassionately. The Dwarf called Hanar tensed slightly, but seemed to realise that the motion was not a threat. The wife smiled slightly, “I am Vrís, daughter of Rekkr, and this is my husband, Hanar, son of Hadar, Master Blacksmith of Erebor.” Hanar bowed, earning him a smile from Vrís, who continued, “This is our daughter, Frís.”

“Frís…” Rhonith murmured. Legolas silently preferred Lothig. “Legolas took to calling her Lothig,” she chuckled, breaking the tension in the room.

“I’m sure Ada would like to meet Lothig’s parents,” he found himself saying, remembering his manners. “Why don’t you join us for the evening meal? I will take you to our guest chambers where you may refresh yourselves and we will see you later.” Legolas offered. Hanar nodded, while Vrís – was it common to give pebbles names that rhymed with their parent’s? – smiled. “I insist you stay for a few days, to recover fully from your ordeal and what I’m sure was a hasty journey here.” Legolas said, well aware that he was offering mostly because he didn’t want to leave the small bubble fantasy he had constructed for himself while Lothig was theirs. “I sent Horthonion to speak to your King when we received his raven, and he is aptly named.” Rhonith kept her hand lightly resting on his arm as the way out of his rooms and down the corridors towards the Guest Wing. Galion would have readied rooms for them even if Legolas had not asked him; the Seneschal was never caught off guard, which was a good quality in a Steward, Legolas admitted, even if Galion lacked imagination.

“Horthonion means son of speed,” she explained, when the two dwarrow looked confused. “He is the fastest messenger in King Thranduil’s Halls, but he is not known for compassion with travelling companions who cannot keep up.”

“Truthfully, Lady Rhonith,” Hanar replied, “once we knew our pebble had not been eaten by those horrible spiders,” both dwarrow shuddered at the thought, and Legolas could sympathise with their revulsion. He had had several nightmares about Rhonith facing one of them alone, and he had only seen pieces of a corpse, not the actual creature, “we were ready to leave within five minutes. Your messenger did not push us harder than we pushed ourselves.”

“If I may, my Lady, how did you know how to care for Frís? I did not think the Eldar much experienced with children of other races,” Vrís asked, lifting her head from the once-more sleeping face of her daughter with marked reluctance. Legolas thought it would be a long time before she relinquished the pebble from her arms, feeling oddly bereft at the thought; he had grown used to holding her small warm body while Rhonith dozed, humming gentle lullabies into her tiny ears.

“Amadê Khazdûna[7],” Rhonith said, turning back to her guests with a smile. A fingernail pinged softly at the bead woven into her hair. Hanar gasped.

“M’imnu Durin![8]” he exclaimed. Vrís smacked his arm, while Hanar turned dark red with embarrassment. Rhonith’s clear silver laugh filled the small corridor. Legolas chuckled.

“E nâthu Narví kafanâlu ‘abban, Zarakâl Niddînabanu Khazad-dûmu. E iraknâtha Durin.[9]” Rhonith’s expression gentled at the almost reverent look on their faces. She switched back to Westron, “My father was an elf, Celebrimbor, Smith-Lord of Eregion, but I spent a lot of my formative years in the great Dwarrowdelf, and I was taught how to care for pebbles… same as any other Dwarf.”

“We thank you, Lady Durin.” Hanar’s voice was hoarse, and beside him, Vrís nodded heartily. Legolas felt slightly amused by their awed expressions, but he knew better than to mention it. He had never truly considered Rhonith’s status among her Dwarven kin, but the mere mention of the Durin name – he remembered her speaking of the name as that of the last of the Kings in what was now called Moria – had made them almost reverent. Opening the door in front of him, he waved the two Dwarrow through.

“Your guest rooms, for as long as you stay here,” Legolas smiled gently. “You will remain undisturbed here and I will send someone to fetch you for dinner.”

“Lothig should not be hungry again for a few hours at least,” Rhonith added with a calm smile. Hanar bowed politely, gratitude still shining brightly in his deep hazelnut eyes.

“If you need anything, speak to one of the elves in the corridors,” Legolas added. “If they do not speak Westron, they will know to find someone who does. Welcome to the Woodland Realm.” With a bow, he closed the door, turning to Rhonith, to offer her a small smile. “How do you wish to pass the time until dinner?” he asked, not quite ready to give up the monopoly on her attention he had enjoyed during this visit. Rhonith opened her mouth to answer, but instead she collapsed against the wall, shaking with laughter she tried to contain by biting her fist. Legolas cocked his head, realising suddenly that their new guests were oblivious to the keen hearing of Elven ears. Behind the door, Hanar and Vrís were whispering furiously.

“How did Narví’s daughter end up in Mirkwood?” Hanar began, “I did not think their King was overly fond of our folk-”

“Oh, simple,” Vrís chuckled, interrupting him breezily. “You saw them together, it was obvious how much love they have for each other,” she laughed. “You fool of a Longbeard.”

Outside the door, Legolas could feel his ears burning. Rhonith was still leaning against the wall, laughing softly. He revelled in the sound. In the back of his mind, however, he wondered how, if a Dwarf, who had known both of them for less than an hour, could see how he felt about her, he had managed to hide his heart from her. Another thought followed swiftly on the heels of that one, however: perhaps Rhonith did know… and she had chosen to ignore his love for her? Suddenly, her laughter stabbed at him, like shards of ice in his heart. He spun swiftly, walking off with a half-hearted goodbye curtly tossed over his shoulder, needing to think, needing to carefully rebuild the shields around his heart he had let slip over the past two lefneir. He might be aware that his love would never be returned; she was too free a spirit to chain her to him, to keep her beside him always, he knew, the words hollow comfort after so long, but no less firm in resolve.

He did not see the way she winced as she watched him leave before she, too, whirled, hurrying back to her own rooms with a soft Khuzdul curse.

When his adopted daughter and his son joined the Elvenking for dinner, Thranduil sighed, tempted to pinch his brow in exasperation with the stubbornness of them both. He had hoped, based on the sight he had walked in on and how protective his son had acted towards both Rhonith and the dwarfling, that either one of them would have found the courage to speak of their obvious love for each other. Instead, he was greeted by his son, looking as close to sulking as he would permit himself in public, and his daughter, looking as though she had raided her wardrobe and jewellery boxes for the most Dwarven outfit she could find, glaring challengingly at Legolas when he happened to look her way and sending him sad, almost hurt glances when he didn’t.

Once again Thranduil cursed the decision he had long ago made not to push either of them, feeling tempted to do something drastic to break the tense atmosphere. It was obvious that Legolas had done something to upset Rhonith, though he couldn’t work out what it might have been. The King’s musings were interrupted by Galion showing in the three dwarrow, little Lothig still held tightly in her mother’s arms. Thranduil knew that she would not soon let go, recognizing in her face the lingering fear of a parent’s worst nightmare, remembering the times he had felt the same when one of his sons were hurt or lost – he still shuddered when he thought of the time Legolas had run off into the Forest alone and lost his way as a small elfling. Thranduil had briefly seen the two Dwarrow running through the corridors, but he had not had the heart to stop them, and he’d warned the guards on duty to tell them where to find their daughter as soon as Horthonion returned with them.

“Thranduil Aran,” Galion began, solemn as always. Thranduil had to hide a smile. Even after nearly three millennia in his post, Galion still felt he needed to be seen as worthy of it, coming off haughty and arrogant to most people who didn’t know him. “These are the parents of Lothig, Hanar, son of Hadar, the Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild of Erebor, and Lady Vrís, daughter of Rekkr.” The steward bowed, leaving the room silently.

“Welcome to the Woodland Realm of Greenwood, Master Hanar, Lady Vrís.” Thranduil nodded at the two dwarrow, gesturing grandly to the empty seats around the table. As they sat, the servants began carrying in steaming platters of food. Roast venison joined golden dishes of baked tubers covered in cheese and the fluffy rolls that had long-ago earned Maeassel the spot as his head cook. “Of course, you have already met my son, Prince Legolas, and my ward, Lady Rhonith, who have been caring for Lothig during her stay here,” Thranduil said, gesturing to the two younger elves on either side of him. “It gladdens my heart to see you reunited once more.” His words were a little stilted, but Thranduil meant every one. As he finished, the one who had been called Vrís seemed to want to say something, but then think better of it. Instead his greeting was answered by Master Hanar.

“Thank you my Lord Thranduil,” he said, standing once more to bow towards Thranduil, who returned the respectful gesture with a polite nod. “How can we ever repay you for the service you have done to my family?” the dwarf continued. At first, Thranduil waved off the words as simply an expression of gratitude, not missing the flash of hurt in the Dwarf’s eyes, but misunderstanding the meaning. Rhonith’s sharp elbow in his ribs made him turn to face her.

“You have to name a service, Atheg. Otherwise, you are saying that the life of his child has no value, a grave insult, and worse for her being a girl,” she hissed in soft Sindarin. “As patriarch of the clan who took in the child, you have to claim something of Hanar, something you hold in equal value to the life of his child.” Thranduil could only boggle at her, but her insistent expression convinced him that she was quite serious about this. No matter how many years he had had interactions with Dwarrow, he thought, he would still never understand their ways completely.

“My apologies Master Hanar, I did not mean to offer you insult,” Thranduil said softly, catching the dwarf’s brown eyes. Beside him, Rhonith relaxed slightly. “Dwarven culture is unlike ours, and at times concepts will be misunderstood. Believe me when I say that we consider your daughter a precious joy to be treasured by all who meet her,” Thranduil bowed his head to the flustered dwarf, who seemed a little lost for words.

“Even so, King Thranduil, you must allow us to repay your generosity,” Vrís spoke softly, but authoritatively. Beside her, Hanar nodded. “My husband is a Master of his craft; perhaps we could make something for your house.”

A flash of an idea popped into Thranduil’s head, and he nodded solemnly. “Indeed, my Lady, I shall think on that. Perhaps you might – during your stay in my Realm – see if you have ideas? I am afraid I have never much cared to learn the ways of smith-craft, and I doubt I would be able to assess Master Hanar’s work adequately. My daughter is a jewel-smith herself, she would know better than I what your kin can do.” He paused, pleased that the Dwarf had not taken his words as an insult to his race. “If you truly wish to repay my family for your daughter’s care, I will ask one thing of you, however, Master Dwarf.” Hanar perked up, swallowing his bite of succulent venison quickly.

“What is it you require, King Thranduil?” he asked, doing his best not to seem wary. Thranduil had lived for many centuries, however, and though Dwarven faces were harder to read than those of Men, they were still not so stoic as Elves. He smiled gently, trying to set the dwarf at ease.

“Elves have a saying, Master Dwarf,” he explained – feeling no need to tell him that it was a Noldorin custom, and not one of his own people’s. Rhonith was part Noldo anyway, he reasoned, it was only fitting. “When an elf saves a child from death, he is bound as its family evermore. I wish for you to follow our custom as you wish me to follow yours, and let the Lady Rhonith be welcome in your home as a sister to your daughter.” Thranduil paused, studying the dwarf opposite him keenly. Master Hanar seemed lost for words, but Lady Vrís smiled gently.

“I accept your demand, King Thranduil,” she said, solemn as a vow. “Lady Rhonith will be welcomed as our honoured sister in Erebor whenever she wishes.” Thranduil bowed, while beside him Rhonith beamed happily.

“I accept your pledge, Lady Vrís, Master Hanar.”

With that, business seemed to be concluded to the satisfaction of all parties and Thranduil breathed a silent sigh of relief, raising his goblet of Dorwinion in Hanar’s direction; a silent toast. He knew that the Master of any Guild would be a considerable power in Erebor; it wouldn’t do to snub the dwarrow too badly and harm the trade his people enjoyed.

“What of your son, King Thranduil? You tell me your family shared responsibility for my daughter; what boon would Prince Legolas ask of me for his kindness?” Hanar asked. Thranduil groaned internally. He had celebrated the end of this awkward business of rewards for kindnesses he felt should be expected of any decent being in Middle-Earth too soon, it seemed. They weren’t Orcs, for Eru’s sake!

“You claim to be a Master smith, Master Hanar,” Legolas said, and Thranduil breathed a slight sigh of relief that Legolas seemed to have an idea; he was coming up blank. “Do you craft weapons? I would feel better not using the blades I almost attacked Lady Rhonith’s new kinsmen with. It seems fitting to me that you replace the blades with which I would have defended your child.” A glance to his side made Thranduil feel exasperated with the two younger elves all over again. Legolas’ eyes were firmly on Master Hanar, but Rhonith and Vrís both looked at his son with expressions he could only call soppy. Sometimes, he wondered how he had raised such a wilfully blind ellon. He hadn’t been nearly as incompetent at winning his own Lady, and he had been burned by a dragon and half-dead at the time! Legolas had no such excuse! Nor, for that matter, was Rhonith blameless, but he at least understood her reasons for keeping silent on the topic even if they had never discussed it openly.

“A fitting tribute, Prince Legolas. Consider it done.” Hanar said, smiling, “I shall make you the finest blades Erebor has ever seen.” Vrís had now turned her soppy look on her husband, who seemed to be blushing slightly under his thick blonde beard. Thranduil drained his goblet, while Rhonith seemed to remember that she was mad at Legolas and changed her soft expression to an angry scowl. Thranduil felt a distinct need for more wine.

A year later, Rhonith returned from a visit to Erebor in the company of Master Hanar, who presented the two short swords he had crafted to Legolas with a solemn face. The grin he hid in his beard at the expression on the Prince’s face went unnoticed by all but Rhonith, who chuckled, admiring the exquisite details of the two swords. Thranduil had to admit that he had rarely seen finer blades wrought by elves, and he was quite pleased with Hanar’s gift for his son. He was even more pleased when the dwarf managed to lay out pipes of plumbing throughout the caves, letting the heated water from their underground pools run freely into several bathing chambers on the upper levels, a remarkable feat of engineering. Most of the Woodland Elves still used the pools, but the Royal Quarters now sported a bathing pool of Thranduil’s very own, which he enjoyed immensely.

Over the formative years of Frís’ life, she would spend time in Thranduil’s Court or Rhonith would stop by Erebor on her travels, building the kinship between the two. Thranduil often praised her for increasing the frequency of Rhonith’s visits, which had tapered off during the last few centuries as Legolas continued to deny his own heart – and hers. He even managed to build a fond friendship with Hanar, whose brand of quirky and inventive craziness continued to surprise the Elf – something rarely found after such a long life. Not all his ideas were equally practical, of course, but even the ones that proved intrinsically flawed were amusing to the Elvenking, who continued to allow the Blacksmith entry into his Realm even after relations with Thrór were strained beyond repair.

Before she married Thraín, Frís could often be found assisting in the meetings of trade delegations between the neighbouring peoples, becoming a valued member of the court, and after she wed the Crown Prince, Princess Frís still maintained the most cordial relations with the Elven delegations and emissaries. Thrór’s advancing goldsickness hampered her efforts at cordial and peaceful relations between the two people, but Frís did the best she could to keep feuds and grudges to a minimum.

When the Dragon came, Frís – as well as the genuine friendship he had built with her father over the years – was the true reason Thranduil went along with Rhonith’s hare-brained scheme to help the Dwarrow behind Thrór’s back. His mischievous side revelled in spiting the Dwarf-King’s edicts; despite his anger at Thrór’s carelessness and calumny, he had no wish to see his neighbours starving and homeless.

[1] My Lady? [2] Hush, little carving, you are safe. [3] Hush, pebble [4] Hungry? [5] Little flower [6] mother [7] My mother was a Dwarf-lady [8] In the name of Durin [9] I am the daughter of Narví, she who is a carver of stones, Master of the Brotherhood of Stone in Khazad-dûm (exclusive guild of engineers). I am the niece of Durin.

#rhonith #fris #Dwelf-'verse #parent thranduil #thranduil is not an arse #legolas #baby dwarf #interspecies friendships

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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The Guard, the Axe, and the Song

Bifur’s story! I have a serious soft spot for Bifur as a character and he deserves so much better than he was given in the movies :(

At only ten years of age, Bifur, son of Bilbur, was old enough to understand what ‘going to war’ meant. When his father and uncle left to fight in the War against Orcs, however, Bifur did not understand that it would eventually mean the destruction of his small family. His uncle Bjartur came back – sans one leg – but his Adad did not follow. Bombur, who had lived with him and Amad while his own Amad went off to fight in the war too, got a wartime baby brother. Aunt Moda had been sent home when her superiors discovered her pregnancy; little cousin Bofur was born about a year before the terrible battle that claimed Bilbur’s life and his Adad’s leg.

After the war, their small mining settlement swelled with the refugees of Erebor; where before, the settlement had only been the home of the miners who worked in the coal and copper mines that still yielded ore, it now grew to ten times the size, as more and more displaced Longbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams trickled in. Life under the King was very different to life under the old Lord Overseer, though that was mostly because of the sudden influx of people. The mines yielded as little as usual, and many Dwarrow found themselves needing new – basic – crafts; goldsmiths became blacksmiths, wire weavers produced cloth instead of finely woven mesh, and potters no longer made china so thin it was almost transparent, painted with delicate motives, instead turning their hands to the shaping of everyday cups and plates.

Six years later, Amad died. When he grew up, Bifur would realise that the loss of her One had caused his Amad to die of a broken heart, even more than the pneumonia that eventually claimed her life, but at the age of 25, all he knew was that he was suddenly an orphan.

Living with Aunt Moda and Uncle Bjartur wasn’t too bad, in Bifur’s opinion; they were always a close family, and treated him well. He liked playing with his little cousins – Bombur was only two years younger than him, and they usually felt more like brothers than cousins – and even though Bjartur’s battle scars were not limited to the leg that the Orcs had hacked off, life in the Ur-household was usually peaceful. Bifur did not blame Bjartur for the nights when his Uncle woke screaming, or the days when he saw Orcs lurking around every corner. When he joined training for a position in the Guards, Bjartur had cried like a proud Adad, and Moda had brought him a treat every week like clockwork while he lived in the barracks, just like any of the others’ Amads.

In Guard-training, Bifur had made new friends; while he wasn’t the most popular recruit around, he was generally well-liked. He was especially fond of Dwalin – an Azanulbizar veteran and a cousin to the new King! – who had recommended him as a caravan guard when he finished his training. Eager to see some of the world, Bifur had accepted, a few years later even finding work for his younger cousin Bombur as a cook for one of Master Gróin’s trading caravans. He did not get to travel with Dwalin on every job, but often enough to keep their friendship solid; deep enough for Bifur to be the one Dwalin unloaded his worries unto when his unsettled relationship with Thorin grew too thorny in his head. Slowly, Bifur built himself a reputation as a reliable and brave guard, trustworthy and capable of ensuring the safe arrival of any type of cargo. As they travelled, Bifur would often find himself whittling to pass the night, he preferred listening to the songs and stories told around the campfire rather than participating, but his companions usually left him be when he stared pensively into the fire; between his hands, fantastic animals took shape, eagles, rabbits, horses or whatever else took his fancy. Selling the small toys in the towns they passed brought Bifur a nice little bonus, as well as the joy of putting a smile on the faces of the children who often did not have many toys to play with. Bifur had often wondered if he would ever find someone with whom to have children, but he had never felt even a hint of the Longing, so he counted himself among those who did not have a One waiting somewhere in the world. He watched his cousin fall in love with the beautiful smith/bard, counselled the cook when his shyness got in the way of his honest heart, and he felt a small twinge of jealousy, but it was only a sense of wistful longing. Bifur had – though he had tumbled with his fair share of lads and lasses over the years – never felt in love with anyone.

The morning of what would later be considered the last day of his life before, Bifur woke like usual, ate his breakfast like usual, saw Bofur off to the mines like usual, and went to work his shift on the guard-rota – also as usual. When he was not out with the caravans, he worked for the City Guard, which did not pay as much, but was generally less risky than protecting shipments of silver while travelling across Arda. In truth, most of the day went as it usually did, patrolling Shale Street and Granite Row, going up through Carnelian Street and back down Quartz Corner back towards Shale Street. As he walked the beat, he greeted those who greeted him, enjoying the peace of winter-time in Thorinuldûm.

The first sign that this day would change his life was a shout.

“Thief!” someone cried up ahead, “Stop him!”

Bofur set off running along with Boril, his patrol-partner for the day, and joined by a couple of the newer recruits who had been patrolling nearby streets. The thieves – no one Bifur recognised, blonde braids flashing around a corner and a black-haired Dwarf behind the blonde – were slowly losing their advantage; swiftly pursued by the axe-wielding spice merchant they had robbed. Later, he’d realise how inexperienced they were, and curse his luck, but in the middle of the hot pursuit he did not care that they were so easily cornered. The merchant got there first, but it would have been a straightforward arrest if the temperamental Blacklock had not decided to exact his vengeance rather than let the guard mete out justice.

“Please, Master merchant, your goods’ll be returned to you and the thieves will face the King’s justice,” Bifur said, trying to calm down the irate merchant, who was attempting to get past him with the axe that he wanted to use to cut the raids off the two youths who were cowering in the corner of the alley, already expertly tied up by Boril and under the watchful eyes of the two recruits.

“What’d you steal,” Boril asked.

Eyeing the merchant warily, the blonde thief – obviously fairly young, the dark-haired being the older of the pair – said, “Cardamom and cinnamon, milord,” Bifur sighed. Spices were expensive of course, he had been a part of more than one caravan bringing them up from the south, Gondor and even Harad, but the theft was hardly worth the merchant’s unbridled fury.

“I will have to ask you to calm down, merchant…” Bifur trailed off, realising that he did not have a name for the Blacklock Dwarf. Turning his head to look at the two hapless thieves, Bifur kept his arms stretched out to stop the enraged merchant passing him. The sight of the young recruit beside the blonde thief who was gaping incredulously was the last sight he saw before everything went black.

When Boril had subdued the Blacklock merchant, he sent one of the recruits as a runner to fetch a healer for Bifur, before turning to the two young would-be thieves.

“If you help me get him,” he gestured to the bound and gagged merchant, “back to the guardhouse immediately, I think the Shumrozbid could be convinced to let you off with a warning for the stealing. Deal?” the dark-haired one nodded, elbowing his blonde compatriot, who had taken one look at Bifur’s gory wound and was then violently ill in the corner. Boril nodded. With quick moves, he untied the two thieves, letting them take position at either side of the murderous merchant while the last recruit – who gave his name as Bragni – took the rear guard, his short sword aimed at the merchant’s kidneys in case the Dwarf got any ideas about running. Boril himself picked up Bifur, getting the shock of his life. “He’s still alive!” he gasped, before taking up running down the short street towards the intersection with Shale Street where a Healer had his residence. “Tell Dwalin I’ve gone to Healer Dufa!” was the last words he tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared around a corner. Grim-faced, recruit Bragni and his temporary deputies began the task of herding the arrested merchant back to the guardhouse on Granite Way.

Dwalin, upon hearing the breathless report from the first recruit, whose name he didn’t catch, wasted no time in getting to his feet and running towards the practise of his cousin, Óin. As he moved swiftly through the streets, he sent off a small dwarfling to fetch Bofur from the mines, with the message that his cousin was dying.

Bofur was at work, when the Foreman – his Grandfather’s brother – came running. He’d been teamed up with Víli, who was a good friend of his, even if he’d gone and become a nob by marrying the Princess, and they both dropped their tools at once.

Dufa considered herself a decent healer, familiar with all the various crush injuries related to the dangerous work of mining for coal and copper in unstable mountains. When she opened the door to the frantic knocking of the Guardsdwarf, however, she saw something she would never have believed possible if the proof wasn’t breathing in front of her. The Guardsdwarf’s friend had an axe lodged in his head… but he was still alive!

Bursting into Óin’s surgery without so much as a knock, Dwalin simply grabbed his cousin – who had been examining a swollen ankle, it seemed and was hardly busy – and ran back out the door.

“He’s as good as dead. There’s nothing I can do.” Dufa did not want to extinguish the hope in the eyes of the two grimy miners who had joined the Guardsdwarf while she examined the injury carefully, but she did not want to offer them false hope. “I can’t remove the axe without killing him, and, if I’m honest, I don’t understand how it didn’t kill him already.”

After his examination, Óin said pretty much the same. “However,” he said, when his cousin opened his mouth to protest, and not wanting to be the reason for Dwalin losing his closest friend. “We can remove parts of the axe… make it lighter. As long as Bifur keeps holding on to life, there is hope. I agree with Healer Dufa that we cannot pull it out, it is lodged too deeply. We would do more damage pulling it out than it has already done.” Pulling out his toolkit, which Dwalin had apparently managed to grab in his mad dash through the surgery, Óin carefully began removing all visible splinters of bone from the wound.

“King’s Court in emergency session on this day, the 15th of ‘Afdush, in the year 286 of the Third Age of the Sun is now called to order.” Thorin bellowed, his voice carrying loudly over the heads of the enraged Dwarrow milling about the King’s Hall. “Voice for the Accusation, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Dwalin Fundinul, Shumrozbid-ugjaj[1] of Thorinuldûm, do speak for the Accusation.”

“The Crown recognises Dwalin Fundinul as the Voice of Accusation.” Thorin waved to the Dwarf on the other side of the room, while Balin made note of the Acceptance at his scrivener’s post. “Voice of the Accused, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Varna, daughter of Yngva, was assigned to be the Voice of the Accused, but he refused my services,” an elderly dwarrowdam said, bowing once in Thorin’s direction before returning to her seat.

“Who, then, will speak for the Accused?” Thorin asked.

“I will speak for myself, King Thorin,” the Dwarf in chains sneered. “I am Harval, son of Humli, of the line of Hrodulf Snake-eye, nephew and Heir to Lord Roaldi of the Blacklocks of Orocarni.” Sharing a look with Balin, Thorin managed to contain his sigh; this case had just gotten complicated. He did not let the possible ramifications stop him from going forwards with the trial.

“Voice of the Accusation, you may approach and state your case.” He said, knowing that his obvious refusal to act like Harval had probably expected and throw the whole trial away, would be considered a slight. He’d have to send a raven to Lord Roaldi later. Dwalin easily commanded the floor.

“The Accused is facing trial on the charges of attempted vigilante justice, interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties, brawling in the streets, as well as the attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur, while Guardsman Bifur was in pursuit of his duty, viz a viz recovering Master Harval’s stolen property.” The loud uproar in the room as the final charge was stated almost deafened Thorin.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted vigilante justice?” Thorin asked, looking straight at the arrogant Blacklock, who seemed to think his name alone should guarantee his release.

“Not guilty. It’s not a crime to hack off a few braids. That thief should be glad I didn’t get to take his hand!” Harval shouted.

“How do you plead to the charge of interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties?” Thorin asked calmly. He was not surprised by another answer of ‘Not guilty’. “How do you plead to the charge of brawling in the street?”

“Guilty, I did fight, but only because your Guards were doing such a pitiful job!” Thorin wanted to pinch his nose, beyond certain that Harval would – at the very least – give him a massive headache by the end of this trial, not to mention the diplomatic mess his actions had caused.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur?”

“Not guilty. If I’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead!” Harval sneered. Thorin blanched. How could any Dwarf sound happy about having nearly killed another Dwarf – only by the grace of Mahal and Yavannah did Bifur still draw breath, and none of the Healers who had examined the Dwarf with Master Harval’s axe embedded in his skull could say if he’d ever wake up. The uproar this time was even louder.

“Dûm takt!” Thorin shouted, and eventually the crowd fell silent again.

“Voice of the Accusation, present your witnesses.”

The trial continued.

Elsewhere, Bifur was existing in the darkness. He did not know how he knew he was awake, considering that no part of his body seemed to respond to his commands. He did not know why the lack of movement did not frighten him, but he felt overall quite calm. Somehow, the darkness was amused.

“Anyone here?” he tried to ask, though no sound passed his lips.

I am here, Child, a Voice answered.

“Am I…dead?” Bifur did not quite know whether he wanted to hear the answer to the question, but it made him no less confused to hear it.

Not yet… not quite dead, but not quite living. Bifur would have sworn the Voice was laughing. That choice is yet before you, Child Beloved by Stone.

“Choice?” Bifur had never heard that the dead could choose whether they died or not, and for a brief moment, he felt a stab of pure rage against his Amad for choosing to leave him so many years ago.

For you, there is a Choice, Child Beloved by the Mother. The Voice remained on the cusp of laughter, but Bifur could hear His absolute solemnity in every syllable.

“Why?” Bifur wondered if asking the question was a mistake when the Voice did not reply. Just as he began cursing himself for a fool, loud laughter sounded in the darkness.

I can see why She liked you, Child.

“Who is this ‘She?’” the Voice had not punished him for his earlier question, so Bifur dared ask his Maker another. He was absolutely certain he was in face speaking to the Father of all Dwarrow, the Voice of Mahal echoing in his bones.

The Mother of Stone. Her warmth shelters my Children when they are cold, Her beauty brings my Children joy when they are sad, and Her Voice soothes my Children when they are afraid.

“But why does that mean I am not quite dead nor alive?”

I love all my Children, Ugrurûbdag, but some of them are special to the Stone, and some your adopted Mother takes to Her heart so strongly that She cannot bear to see them wilt before their time. And some… some are blessed with the love of both their Mothers, and they are the most loved of all my Children.

“Yavannah loves me?” Bifur felt confused. Even with all the sagas and legends he had heard about the Wife of Mahal, the Queen of the Earth, the Bringer of Life, he had never heard that she held any particular fondness for her husband’s Children.

I do, a different Voice said, sweeter and gentler than the Maker’s, with a certain musicality to it. You are one I have touched as you lay in my husband’s forge. Bifur felt inexplicably warmed by the strength of Her smile as he could almost see Her beautiful face before his eyes. My gift is the Choice.

It was not your time to join my Guard, Bifur, son of Bilbur, but the Choice is yours. Remember, Child, that every Choice carries a consequence.

The last thing he heard, before he woke to a world of white-hot agony, was a gentle Voice, different from the others, and much fainter, saying, wake up, my Child, listen to my Voice, and wake up.

That Voice, he would slowly come to realise, was the Voice of the Stone Mother, who sang in his dreams.

When the pain of the axe was simply a memory, and Bifur felt truly awake for the first time in a very long time, he found that his tongue would no longer shape the once-familiar syllables of Khuzdul. Instead, his mouth would only speak in words that his family did not understand. In a final act of desperation, Bofur brought his gibberish-speaking cousin to the Singers of the Way, wanting them to try to commune with Mahal to find the answer to Bifur’s problem. Instead, Bifur finally found people who could speak to him – there were only Master Singer Melka and her apprentice Oluva – and discovered the full consequences of his Choice.

All Gifts have a Price, Child, sang the Voice of the Mountain, you will never speak the words of the Children of Mahal again, but you will Sing.

The first Cantor Ered Luin had heard since the Breaking was born.

[1] Leadership-follower (basically assistant commander)

#bifur #the axe #Dwelf-'verse #life in ered luin

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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When Itdendûm beckons

Dwalin looked old. What was worse, he thought, coming home from the training grounds where he’d spent the morning yelling at young soldiers, he was beginning to feel old. Fíli’s daughter’s pebble was already walking, and Bombur’s brood had multiplied so much he almost couldn’t keep track of their names anymore.

When he looked for those he had called friends and companions during his long, long life, he also felt quite alone. Thorin was gone, and Balin, Óin, Ori, and Kíli, had been gone longer than he could bear to think about, lost in the darkness of Khazad-dûm. Dori had died before they’d learned that, of course, and left Nori a pale shadow of himself for years afterwards, bearing the grief for both his brothers. Bofur had returned to Ered Luin, and Dwalin didn’t actually remember the last time he had laid eyes on one of the ridiculous hats he always wore. Dís was gone, but that was an old wound, long since scabbed over, cauterized by the fires of vengeance. Glóin had retired to Aglarond, playing with his numerous grandchildren, and Dwalin had considered visiting, but been unable to make himself leave Erebor. His limp would have made the long journey arduous, and Dwalin was old enough to know when he needed to listen to his body – as opposed to when he merely should, as stated by one healer or another.

Walking into the house that had belonged first to Fundin, then Balin, and which was now his, since he had moved out of their rooms in the Royal Palace, unable to stand seeing Thorin’s ghost everywhere he looked, Dwalin scowled.

“Bad day?” the dwarf who was insouciantly lounging in Dwalin’s armchair asked. He received a wordless grumble in reply, which made him give Dwalin an unrepentant grin.

“I’m sure you’re here to annoy me into it becoming a better one?” Dwalin asked, pretending that he wasn’t pleased that Nori was home. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up living with Nori, whenever the sneaky dwarf was home – more often than not, these days – but he blamed Fíli. At least, it was Fíli’s idea. Maybe. Nori was good company, at least; kept the place from being all loneliness and silence. He also always had gossip, which Dwalin had to admit he had started to appreciate with his advancing years.

“You know, I just might. I do live to serve, you know, such a compassionate dwarf I am, and all,” Nori replied, long practice letting him keep a straight face as Dwalin shook his head good-naturedly.

“Aye, and what story will you be servin me tonight then?” he grinned.

“Ah, only the finest gossip for you, my friend, direct from the Iron Hills. Your cousin’s had another son, and they’ve gone and named him Skalle.” Nori let that hang in the air, as Dwalin stared at him, trying to determine whether the ‘retired’ Black Owl was fibbing. He broke out laughing.

“Mahal wept, I hope that’s a bleedin lie.” Pouring himself a mug of ale from the flask Nori had brought, Dwalin sank into the other armchair, glad that his companion had started the fire in the hearth.

“Yes… so did I when I overheard it,” Nori admitted, “but no, straight from the mouth of Stonehelm himself,” neither of them ever called the Lord of the Iron Hills Thorin… there was only one Thorin. “The pebble is named Skalle.” Dwalin guffawed.

“Well, you did manage to cheer me up, Nori,” he said, when his laughter had subsided into chuckles. “Got to report to Fíli or will you be staying home for dinner?”

“Neither, O growly one,” Nori replied, getting to his feet with a grace that belied his age and the injuries he had sustained over the years. “You are I are going to take a walk through the Market, because wee Bomba has invited us for dinner.” Dwalin groaned. Bomba’s tendency to invite them to dinner a few times a month was both heart-warming and seriously vexing. She had inherited her Adad’s talent for cooking, but Mahal, the noise. Having eight children should be a crime, Dwalin thought, every time he and Nori walked home from one of her dinners. At least, it made him appreciate the silence his own home offered the possibility of enjoying – when his place wasn’t being invaded by King Fíli’s offspring and their demands for stories.

“Must we?” Dwalin asked, a feeble protest they both knew he didn’t mean, playing out the same way every time Nori told him they’d be going to Bomba’s for supper. The Thief simply grinned, emptying his mug in a large swallow. Dwalin groaned again and slowly got to his feet.

Waking in Itdendûm was far more crowded than Thorin had expected. Seeing his adad, not as worn as he remembered, and looking more like the absentminded but fond Dwarf he remembered from his earliest memories was rather shocking. Thraín, too, did not seem to know what to say, but then Frís was hugging him and the scent of her hair made Thorin want to weep.

“Amad,” he croaked, a greeting or a prayer, he did not know, and wrapped his arms around her like he might float away if he let go.

“Hush, Kundanudê,” she murmured, “give it time.” He just nodded into her shoulder.

“The Prince of Mirkwood taught us to brew tea the right way,” he mumbled, which was the first random thought that popped into his head.

“I am glad you made friends with Legolas, Thorin. I am very proud of you,” Frís replied, and Thorin could hear the smile in her voice. He felt no need to raise his head from her copious hair, a few shades darker than Fíli’s, and so familiar.

“You’re hogging my brother, amad,” someone said, and Thorin was quite sure he forgot how to breathe. Thinking about breathing made him wonder why he really needed to, considering he’d left his mortal body behind, but he decided not to question such a long-held habit in favour of lifting his face to meet the gentle smile of his golden-haired brother. The resemblance to Fíli was still uncanny, but he suddenly realised that he’d seen more of Frerin in the lad over the years than might really be there, with an odd pang of not-quite-pain. Frerin waved, his chuckle loud in the stone room.

Thorin’s fist in his face was equally loud.

“You moron!” Thorin screamed, punching him again for good measure, before hauling his younger brother into a bone-crushing hug. “Frerin,” he moaned. “Why did you- how could- YOU MORON!” he babbled, amid a sea of tears as he clutched Frerin to his wide chest.

“Well, I win that bet,” Thorin vaguely heard Dís say, as Víli chuckled and Frerin patted his back weakly, his nose bleeding onto Thorin shoulder, which was another odd thing to care about.

“Ahh, nadad,” Frerin said, quiet enough that only Thorin heard him, “how could I not?” Thorin squeezed, making Frerin utter a breathless chuckle. “Besides, can you imagine what Dwalin would have had to say to me if I’d let you get your fool head chopped off?” Laughter laced his words, but Thorin knew that Frerin was simply releasing the tension.

He kept hold of Frerin’s hand through greeting Dís, hugging her and whispering pleas of forgiveness into her hair. It wasn’t until she released him with a cuff to the back of his head that he realised that he had two arms once again; the discovery made him feel almost faint. Seeing Kíli and Ori, their smiles wider than their faces made him want to weep. They had known, when word stopped coming from Khazad-dûm, he, Dwalin, and Fíli, but seeing his nephew waiting for him was harder than Thorin had expected. Balin’s smile was small and oddly shy, his hand firmly wrapped around Skaro’s, dark and pale skin adorned with matching rings.

“We never blamed you,” he whispered into his old friend’s ear, and felt Balin shudder once before he wrapped his free arm around Thorin.

“I have missed you, my friend, though I had hoped your arrival would take longer,” Balin said, in that same half-fond, half-annoyed tone Thorin had heard so often. When he was a dwarfling, it had made him angry, but now it made him laugh.

“Aye, well, it was time, I guess.” Thorin replied, resolutely not thinking about the Battle for Erebor.

“Thorin.” Thraín said, and Thorin turned at last to face the dwarf whose approval he had always sought but never felt he received. He stood there, unsure what to expect after 180 years apart. The next thing he knew, Thraín’s arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Oh, my wee lad,” Thraín mumbled, his tone exactly the same as he’d used when Thorin tried to sneak away from bath time as a dwarfling. “You did so well, my son, my Thorin, so well. I am so proud of you.”

“Adad…” Thorin croaked, finally returning the hug. Neither dwarf realised that the small stone room was being efficiently emptied by Frís, silently forcing their kinsmen out.

Neither of them let go for a very long time, and if their eyes were less than dry by the time they did, neither mentioned it.

#dwalin #nori #thorin #durins #Itdendûm #Dwelf-'verse

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Of Dwobbits and Dwarrow

This was written as an extension of a scene from Zahrâr, which involves the birth of a stillborn child(also a living twin born). This is a story being told to distract the mother-to-be, however, and the framework story doesn’t influence it.

The first time Vár met Athalrún, the wife of Bombur, she thought her dull and fretful. The dwarrowdam was quite unlike the brash and self-assured Vár, though she had no reason to be so soft, Vár thought. A blacksmith by trade, Athalrún was well-muscled, even if her bone structure seemed slightly too fine for such a rough craft. Whenever Dís had her visit, Vár would grit her teeth and simply suffer through listening to Athalrún’s soft voice.

Eventually, however, she realized that Athalrún didn’t need to be tough, that her softer ways were not a lack of strength, but simply the way Athalrún made her life function. It only took one dinner at Bombur’s house for Vár to realise that Athalrún’s soft manner was a velvet glove covering a core of steel. Corralling her brood – Vár had no other word for it – Athalrún was a general directing her troops and the dwarflings, even the little Borkur, who was barely more than a pebble, heeded her gentle orders.

Vár did not truly appreciate Athalrún’s soft but steely determination until this moment, however, when she was in more pain than she could remember ever feeling before. Gimli’s birth, while dangerous to her very life, had not hurt this much, she was sure. Dís was there, like she had been for the birth of Gimli, offering whatever reassurances she could muster, while Athalrún’s soft voice became the guide Vár’s mind latched onto, squeezing their hands through the pains. The dark-haired dam’s sweet smile belied the strength of her grip.

“Do you want to hear a story? It took my mind off the pain for a while when I had my twins,” Athalrún said quietly. Vár nodded, at this point desperate for anything that might make her think of something beside the pain coursing through her body and the worry that Vakri could not quite keep off his face. “My story begins many years ago, in the calm and quiet Shire, in the year 2700 of this Third Age of the World.” Athalrún did not let on if Vár’s grip pained her, simply squeezing back in commiseration. “This is the story of Adaldrida, my great-grandmother, who was a Hobbit.” Athalrún began, with the air of one used to telling stories to an audience. The beginning sounded like she had spoken it many times before, and a look at Blidarún, who was speedily following Vakri´s commands, proved that Athalrún’s daughter had indeed heard the story before…

Now, Hobbits are not like us Dwarrow, aside from the fact that they too like to live underground. Not in great mountain halls, but in the soft earth. There they build smials, with curiously round shapes everywhere. Their doors are round, set into the sides of hills. Their walls curve, as the tunnels stretch from room to room. They are not cold places, for there is enough earth around them to make the temperature constant, and even a Dwarf could feel at home like that…

When another contraction hit, Athalrún simply smiled and continued weaving images in her audience’s mind. Vár had to admit that it did help her focus on something else. Glóin’s letter from Rivendell had described Master Baggins’ home to her, though he had called it a burrow, which had made her think of rabbits. Athalrún’s words, however, made these…smials… seem quite nice.

…Hobbits have a love of growing things, for they are close to Yavannah’s creatures, and their fields and orchards bear much food. This shows in the Hobbits themselves, who are small, plump creatures. They do not have much time for other races, and are quite content to keep themselves to themselves, and enjoy their peaceful lands.

Adaldrida was a Hobbit, from the family Proudfoot. She possessed a lovely voice, and could often be found in the local tavern singing. Hobbits like good ale and good music, much like us, which was why Adaldrida caught the eye of Svari, a wandering smith from the Blue Mountains. Svari was a Dwarf, a blacksmith by trade, and he had found that Hobbits were willing to pay him well for making kitchen utensils and gardening tools, but that they were not much fond of any blade larger than a bread knife. He was sometimes paid in coin, though mostly the Hobbits existed in a system of bartering, goods for services. I told you that Hobbits are fond of food, which means they are mostly soft, even those who develop muscles from farm-work. They do not have the strength of a Dwarf, however, and Dwarrow were rare in those parts, for this was before the people of Erebor were driven to wandering by a Dragon. Svari was a good-looking Dwarf, with a rich red beard, decorated with iron and silver beads his sister had made. When he worked in his small forge, the Hobbit girls would stare and titter, though they were often too shy to speak to him.

Svari worked in several Hobbit towns, spending a moon here and there, but his favourite inn was in Hobbiton, and it was called the Green Dragon. I don’t know why, for Dragons had never been seen in the Shire – and there is no such thing as a green Dragon anyhow. The Green Dragon Inn, however, was where Adaldrida sung on Mersdays, earning a few coppers for her voice. Svari liked to listen to her, even if the Hobbit songs were mostly about growing things and enjoying the fruits of the earth. Sometimes, Adaldrida would dance, something Hobbits do differently to us indeed. Where we use dance to show off intricate and difficult footwork, Hobbit dances involve a lot of jumping about, Svari thought, though it did look fun.

Now, after he had been in the Shire for three moons, it came time for the Hobbits’ Mid-Summer Party. This is held on during the summer days and begins on First Litheday, the longest day of the year, in a large field known as the Party Field, where grows the largest tree you may ever see, the Party Tree. This massive ancient has grown in the Shire since before anyone can remember, and the feasting is spectacular. Many weddings happen in those days, for it is said to be good luck to marry under the Party Tree, especially at midsummer. Svari was happy, for he had plenty work in the days leading up to the party, even if none of the giggling Hobbit lasses had the courage to ask him to the Party. The elder Hobbits were quick to hire him to help move benches and other heavy things around, for Dwarrow are far stronger than Hobbits, even if Svari was not much larger than a Hobbit himself.

On the day of the Party, he put on his best clothes, which the tailor had made for him in return for a lovely set of new needles. He had to wear his old boots, however, for Hobbits rarely wear shoes, their soles tough like leather. When he made his way to the Party Field, the feasting was already begun, and Svari was welcomed heartily by the few Hobbits he called friends. The food was more than plentiful, even for the appetite of a hungry smith, and the music lively.

When it came time for dancing, Svari did not join, firstly because he did not know the steps, and secondly because no one asked him. He watched, for over an hour, his gaze once again caught by the energetic pleasingly plump form of Adaldrida Proudfoot. Now, Adaldrida noticed the Dwarf watching her, or at least her friends did and giggled about it, daring her to ask him to dance. She did. Svari, who was feeling a little lost with all the hopping about, declined at first. When she asked him why, he mumbled something she didn’t catch, but Adaldrida simply laughed and told him that she would teach him a simple dance.

They ended up dancing together all of that night and the two nights of celebration that followed.

When summer ended, Svari moved on, but before he left, he promised Adaldrida that he would return to her in a year and bring her back to the mountains – as his bride.”

Vár groaned. At the foot of the bed, Blidarún smiled, nodding at her mother. The story was helping Vár stay calm, which was good for the babies. With another squeeze of her hand, Athalrún continued spinning her tale.

“…Now, Svari, son of Biuri, was an honest Dwarf, he liked to think. Some even called him a noble Dwarf, for he paid his debts on time and worked hard for his family. He spent the whole long winter cooling his heels in Ered Luin, and talking the ears off of his elder sisters about the Queen among Hobbits he loved. When spring finally came, Svari could not wait to leave, but his elder sister, Arnhilda, who was the family matriarch at the time, said that they did not yet have enough money to pay a proper bride-price for this Adaldrida. So Svari had to wait another two moons, which meant ‘afkalm[1] was almost over by the time he made it to the Shire. His sisters, Arnhilda and Solveig, had both decided to accompany him, to aid in negotiations with Adaldrida’s family.

When they reached the Green Dragon inn, where Svari had first seen Adaldrida, ‘afkalm was over. The three Dwarrow did notice that they got a few dark looks from the Hobbits, but nothing could quench Svari’s desire to run to fetch his beloved. His sister, older by about three decades, chuckled in her beard, but she let the young Dwarf run off while they had an ale in the inn.

When Svari made it to the round yellow door of Adaldrida’s smial, wearing his finest clothes and jewellery, he felt nervous, but steeled himself. He knocked. The Hobbit who answered the door, a sour old lady by the looks of her, sneered at him. Svari did not let that diminish his joy.

“I am Svari, son of Biuri, of Clan Broadbeam,” he bowed politely. “I’m here for Adaldrida.” He said, trying to make a good impression on Adaldrida’s relative. The old lady hobbit snorted. She leaned heavily on her walking stick as she looked him over.

“I know what you’re here for alright.” She sneered with poorly veiled hostility, but she stepped aside, to let Svari in the door and into the sitting room, where a fire was lit. The old lady took a seat in a battered arm chair, picking up her knitting and saying nothing. The silence stretched. And stretched. Just before Svari would have said something, perhaps asked why Adaldrida wasn’t coming, another Hobbit burst through the door. Svari could only stare. The Hobbit, a corpulent male with giant feet, was out of breath and sweaty. He thrust a bundle at Svari.

“This is what you’re here for, Dwarf. Take your bastard and leave!” he spat. Svari stared. In his arms, swaddled carefully in soft yellow linen, was a tiny child. Svari fell in love, gobsmacked as he stared into her soft brown eyes, a perfect replica of his own.

“Nathith”, he breathed, awed. The little girl’s arm fought its way free of the blanket, wrapping her tiny fist around the braid in his beard. Svari looked up at the corpulent Hobbit, who was Adaldrida’s father. “Where is my Adaldrida?” he asked. “I have come for my wife.” The old lady Hobbit said nothing, but Adaldrida’s father spluttered with rage.

“I said: take the bastard child and leave. Adaldrida will not see you!” Svari could feel his heart breaking, but beyond that, he also felt that something was wrong. If Adaldrida did not want him any longer, so be it, but surely the pebble was too young to be taken from her mother?

“Can I not speak to her? I want her to meet my sisters.” Svari begged. Adaldrida’s father began trying to shove him out of the door. Now, Hobbits are nowhere near strong enough to overpower a Dwarf, but Svari did not want to fight his beloved’s father.

Elsewhere in the smial, Adaldrida was trapped. She was screaming and fighting, but her two elder cousins held her firmly. Her father had taken her daughter, to do what with she did not know, but she feared that he would drown the pebble as he had told her he would more than once in his drunken rages. No matter how much Adaldrida pleaded with him, told him that Svari had sworn to return and marry her proper, he would not calm down. In his eyes, his beautiful daughter had been defiled beyond cleansing and the best thing to do was get rid of any and all evidence of their terrible shame and then move far away and pretend it never happened.

When her cousins tired of holding her down, they left her in the windowless room her father had built specifically for her when he learned that she was having a half-Dwarf child. She hammered on the door, but the cousins that had wrestled away her baby and locked her in, had left. She cried for her grandmother, but the old lady could not hear her, being more than a little deaf.

Back at the inn, Solveig and Arnhilda were feeling decidedly unwelcome. The Hobbits, who mistook them for males, were grumbling darkly and in low mutters. The innkeeper had deigned to serve them, but he had told them that they’d best leave quickly.

Dejected, Svari made his way back towards the inn. He had not wanted to draw steel against Adaldrida’s father, even if the Hobbit’s rage unnerved him. In his arms, his daughter slept peacefully. Her tiny hand was still wrapped around his beard braid, which Svari accepted as proof that she knew who he was; after all, that is what pebbles do for comfort. When he had made it half way down the street however, someone hailed him from behind. It was the old lady hobbit from before, panting from her run. Svari grabbed her arm, for the old lady was unsteady without her walking stick. “I think he’s going to kill her! Please, please save my granddaughter!” she cried, tears running down her wrinkled face, but Svari was already running back towards the smial, his axe jumping into his hand of its own volition it seemed.

“Go to the inn and fetch my sisters,” he yelled back at her. With one arm cradling the pebble, and the other brandishing his weapon, Svari burst through the open door. In the long hallway from which the rooms branched off, he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. Adaldrida was being towed by the hair by her father, crying and screaming at him to give her back her baby. Svari did not even think before attacking. With a swing of his axe, careful even in his frenzied fear, he put himself between Adaldrida and her father, who was left holding a severed hank of hair. “You will not lay hand on my wife!” he shouted, crowding Adaldrida back against the curved wall. She clung to him, still weeping incoherently about the baby.

This was the scene that met Arnhilda, Daughter of Arnveig, when she opened the door of the smial. Her younger brother Svari, holding a small bundle with an arm sticking out of it, a crying hobbit girl and a red-faced fat hobbit across from her axe-wielding brother. Behind her came her younger sister, Solveig, who was carrying the girl’s grandmother. They had just decided to leave, when the old lady hobbit almost fell into the inn, screaming for Svari’s sisters. At once, they jumped to their feet, and with a low Khuzdul command from Arnhilda set off. Solveig caught the old hobbit round the waist on their way out, for she had obviously spent all her strength on delivering her warning. She still managed to direct them to her son’s smial, though it was largely unnecessary with all the screaming going on inside.

“Svari!” Arnhilda shouted. The three all turned to face her, wearing full battle-armour and wielding a massive broad-axe, and far more menacing than any Dwarf the Hobbits had met before. Adaldrida’s father squeaked in fear and fainted. “What are you doing, nadad, drawing steel against your intended’s family?!” Arnhilda exclaimed, staring aghast at the tableau.

“But Nana, he was going to kill her.” Svari defended himself. Behind him, Adaldrida kept crying incoherently. She stepped forward, pushing past Svari’s guard.

“Where is she?!” She screamed at her father, who was still unconscious and did not answer. “Where is my daughter!” Svari turned back quickly, hooking his axe back onto his belt. Svari awkwardly wrapped the arm still holding his axe around her shoulders.

“Hush, love, hush,” he crooned, handing her the small pebble. Adaldrida burst into renewed tears. “He gave her to me.” Wrapping his arms around both mother and child, Svari simply rocked Adaldrida until she stopped crying. When she calmed down enough to realise what was going on, she copied her daughter’s move, pulling on his beard braid and making him bend to kiss her deeply.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed with a grin.

“Of course, I am, amrâlimê. I swore to you that I would return with money to pay your bride-price, did I not.” Svari smiled, hugging her close. “I want you to meet my sisters, Arnhilda and Solveig, who have come with me to negotiate with your family.” Both female hobbits gaped. Solveig sheepishly set down the elderly lady hobbit, who patted her arm distractedly.

“But they have beards!” Adaldrida said, then blushed hard and apologised for being so rude. Solveig laughed.

“There’ll be no negotiations, Masters Dwarf.” The old Hobbit said sharply. When the three Dwarrow began to protest, she held up her hand. “You will take Adaldrida and your child away from here, today, Master Dwarf. You will treat her better than a Queen, and you will keep her as happy as you may in your mountains. There is no negotiation needed. Keep your money, use it to build my granddaughter a house, and be a good father to the little one. Leave, before my son wakes. He will not challenge you.”

“Thank you, Grandmama!” Adaldrida cried, throwing herself into Svari’s arms.

Vár smiled tiredly. Athalrún’s story was not finished, but the calm blacksmith was interrupted by Vakri’s order to push. With Dís on one side, and Athalrún on the other, Vár bore down against the pressure.

Later, as she lay tiredly with her new-born daughter in her arms, the tears came. The little boy had been born, tiny and pale, with no breath in his body. Dís had held her through the first realisation, while Athalrún had cleaned the little life that never was.

“My second daughter was the same,” she said, almost silently as she handed Vár the lifeless bundle. “I called her Athalrós. So pretty, with her copper hair… but her sister lived. And I am thankful for my Fjelarún every day.”

“His name is Glovarin.” Dis and Athalrún both nodded. Vakri left in sombre silence, Blidarún following. The Singers would come, but for now, Khazdâna anugâlnigi ôra manaddadâna[2] shared the pain of longing for those who were not present. “She will be Várdís.” She will be Kerthâr bunmul[3].

[1] Crown Moon.

[2] Fellowship of the Dwarrowdams (those who are) Left Behind

[3] Graceful runes

Chapter 2 - including family tree

#dwobbit #Dwelf-'verse #the ancestors of Bombur's wife #Athalrún #Vár #Dís #hobbit

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