DWALIN

You thrust in what you feel is a very smart move, but Dwalin blocks and binds your sword, gaining immediate advantage due to his greater physical strength. You step back and disengage, but then cunningly pounce and your precise volte leads the point of your sword to his chest. You jab him lightly, and he roars with laughter. He lifts his arms in defeat, and you step back, exhausted and highly pleased with yourself.

"You are getting slower, Master Dwarf," he is chuckling and graciously hands your outergarment over to you. You wrap yourself and wipe the grip of the sword with a cloth. Mudikh, your short, wide blade, made for your King when he was but a youngling, is gleaming in the soft evening light. You gently stroke the forte with the tips of your fingers. When you are looking at the weapon, warm affection as to an old friend and gratitude flood you, for all those times when it saved your life and those of your kin. "You do not seem to, Barazninh," the low voice of the Dwarf shakes you out of your reverence. You sheathe the sword and pass Dwalin a mug. You recognize that the Dwarf is hiding an inquiry under his compliment. "I am feeling exceptionally well, all things considered," you smirk and rub your small round stomach.

"Is that why I'm beating every single of your attacks today, Master Dwarf? You are coddling me, aren't you?" "Your victories are yours, and yours only, my Queen," the Dwarf shakes his head and you feel even more gratified, as the fearsome warrior in not one to avoid speaking his mind. "The blood of Durin inside has made you even more fierce," he sounds reverent. You both sit on a wooden bench, you rub the stomach again and smirk, "This one is a defiant one," you sigh. "I am certain, once the young prince is born, Thror will seem as mild as an Elven maiden." Dwalin lifts a sceptical brow. "The other day this mild heir of the throne threw one of his comrades into a river for some presumed ungraceful remark." You laugh, "He is such a son of his father." "Thorin was the same in his age. Short temper, full of importance. You could see the great King in him since he was a child," Dwalin's staunch loyalty and resolute devotion to his King are lacing his voice.

"What was Frerin like?" "Too young, too brash," Dwalin frowns, painful memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar clouding his spirit, "He would never listen." "Sounds familiar," you regret bringing up the grievings of the past and try to distract the Dwarf, "Was not the princess found yesterday hiding in the forges again?" Dwalin guffaws. "She said I was not her guchir to disallow her to stay and see the "fire towers". I believe there was some stomping." You imagine your middle daughter's outraged scowl, the dark eyes, so alike your mother's, scrunched, nostrils flaring haughtily. She is Dwalin's appendage, finding and following him as soon as she can escape the exasperated chaperones. It happens surprisingly often, her hiding and scouting skills exceptional. The King has eventually given up on assigning new guardians to her, having realized that the curly head of Unna, daughter of Thorin will continue popping up all over the castle halls, no matter the skills of her attendants.

The other day in the middle of a council in the Throne Hall, a tedious speech of one of the councillors was interrupted by a cacophony of chalices and goblets tumbling from a low table in an alcove. Startled out of their drowsiness, and some out of plain snoring, everyone stared at the princess crawling from under the table, guilty but still slightly mutinous grimace adorning her face. The King was rather unsucessfully hiding his chuckles under coughs, biting his lower lip and covering his mouth with his fist. But the mirth sparkling in his eyes betrayed him, and with a victorious squeal the princess ran to him and climbed on his lap. You had to get up and carry her away, listening to her petulant grumbling. Let us be honest, when you were taking her from the King's arms, you saw pride in his eyes and a slight disappointment when you pulled away her squirming sturdy little body. Obviously, he would prefer to bob the giggling youngster on his knee and terrify her with stories of fire-breathing dragons and revolting trolls, as opposed to listening to endless muttering trade reports of cantankerous old Dwarves.

You are both silent, enjoying the warm rays of the setting sun, Dwalin with his mead, you sipping mint tea. You screw your eyes at him and start, "So, Master Dwalin, when will we see little grandsons of Fundin?" He schools his face into a cold expression, you being probably the only person whom he allows to tease him. "When comes a woman mad enough to have me?" "Many would be happy to." He squints and glances at you askance. "A renowned warrior, with one fourteenth of the Erebor treasure, of the noble family, tall, an opulent beard," he puffs scornfully, "I heard Arna complimenting you the other day." You feign innocence and patiently wait for his response. He is quietly mumbling under his nose, but then cannot help it anymore, "Which one is Arna?" He sounds peevish but you got his interest. "The redhead, daughter of Dorin." He momentarily looks pleased, but then furrows his brows into an uninterested frown. "I am too old for trifle dawdlings." "I heard one of the woman assuming you would be too zealous in your courtship, so I do not think your age is an obstacle." He stares at you looking for signs of mockery but your return stare is frank and open. "Too zealous? What does that even mean?" You imitate a growling noise and grab you rolled up cloak from your lap. You squash it in your hands and slightly shake in pretense throes of passion. Dwalin's eye are the size of a plate, he had hardly expected such a demonstration from his Queen. You instantly school your face and bearing in a picture of regal dignity and add innocently, "But I think most women found the thought of it your merit. Some looked rather dazed." The Dwarf ungracefully jumps up and with an hurried bow rushes back inside. You rub your stomach and pleased to no end you say, "And my work here is done."