"Honourable Dwarves, I would like to start with telling you that in no way I intend to offend or intrude on the secrecy of your people and the ancient culture of the Khazad," she stared at her hands locked on the table in front of her, "And I understand that the matter I came to you with is of sensitive manner, and could almost be conceived as thoughtless meddling..." She stuttered over her prepared speech, and suddenly the dark haired Dwarf laughed joyously.
"You are quite a wordy lass, aren't you, honourable healer? Why don't you just tell us what you need? We are not the ones to judge," he winked to his companion. "My friend here, Nori, is very fond of sensitive, intrusive matters, as you said," both Dwarves chuckled, "And my name is Bofur. So what worries you, honourable healer?" Wren took a deep breath in and ventured into her inquiry.
"I have heard a phrase in the Dwarven language, Khuzhdul…" She was hoping she was pronouncing it right. "But I cannot tell you where and in what circumstances. And I need to know the meaning of it, if it has any." She looked between two Dwarves, who quickly exchanged surprised glances. She decided she had little to lose, she inhaled and spoke, "Radm khama amnas yud ni Itdendum." The throaty words fell from her lips with ease, she could not believe herself how clearly she remembered them, and judging by the astonished faces of the men at the table it was not gibberish, as she perhaps secretly hoped.
"And do we gather it right, you will not tell us where you heard it?" The red haired Dwarf spoke for the first time, his face serious, and she firmly met his eyes and shook her head.
"It means 'The reward for loyalty is a place in the Hall of Awaiting', it is an old saying." The one called Bofur answered slowly, studying her face, "It is also said at the funeral ceremonies of the Dwarven warriors who fell in battle." Wren felt her heart clench. It was not meaningless. She pressed a hand to her lips and took a few slow breaths in.
"Was this phrase said at the funeral ceremony of King Thorin II?" She asked next, having governed her emotions. She saw the faces of the Dwarves grow even more solemn, and then the one called Nori nodded.
"Mahal, it has been two years already," the other Dwarf suddenly mumbled, "More perhaps. I can still remember it so clearly..."
"You were there?" Wren asked greedily, and because she needed to know and was worried she was losing her sanity, she whispered, "Is he buried in a white tomb, his Elven blade placed on it, and his oaken branch shield carved on its lid?"
"How do you know of that?" The red-haired Dwarf's voice was suddenly sharp, "No one but Khazad were to see it, and none of us would speak."
"Bard was there," the one called Bofur spoke darkly, "And the halfling, rumours were to spread, Nori. To say nothing of the Elves." The Dwarves picked up their mugs and took large gulps of their ale.
"Did you know him? King Thorin? When he lived?" A heavy pause hung above their table, and then Nori suddenly smiled widely.
"Sometimes more than we wished." Wren and Bofur looked at him in astonishment. "Like those nights when he would make us sleep on the cold ground when we would camp on the road. Or when he would not let us start fire and our teeth would chatter at night until we felt we would lose all of them." He chuckled, and the other Dwarf joined him. Wren stared at them in astonishment. They apparently were very much familiar with the King, and what a picture they drew!
"Or when he would always put me on the first look out, and I would miss dinner, and had to eat it cold afterwards," Bofur joined his friend's frolics, his hazel eyes sparkling, and Wren could not understand whether it was laughter or tears twinkling in them, "You see, lass, he had not always been the King Under the Mountain. There was time when he was just… Thorin." And Wren understood that those were indeed tears, as suddenly one shining drop rolled down Bofur's cheek.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the Dwarves drinking, Wren recalling her dreams, and then the one called Nori shook his head and cleared his throat.
"You are quite an oddity, Wren of Enedwaith." She looked at him in surprise. "Making us speak so openly. Pray to Mahal you are not asking it out of trite curiosity." She shook her head and gave him a serious look.
"I am not, honourable Dwarf," she got up and gave them a low bow. "I thank you for your kindness and your openness, kind sirs. And may Maiar shine on your path!" She gave them the formal goodbye of Men, not knowing the appropriate words of the Khazad for such occasion.
"May we meet again with the grace of Mahal," answered the one called Nori, and Bofur gave her a kind smile. She bowed again and left the inn. She had her answer.
The City of Dale had only one library, the collection of books previously having belonged to the former Master of Laketown, and currently the volumes were moved in a small hall adjoined to the house of the King of Dale, Bard the Bowman. Anybody was allowed to use the books, though Wren doubted many did. She found the building empty, with the exception of an old librarian, frail and slightly senile.
Many books were written on the culture and the religion of the Khazad, as the history of the three towns had been so tightly intertwined for many centuries, and Wren spent every free minute she had in the next two weeks flipping through the pages of the dusty volumes.
According to the Khazad, those who had fallen in a battle were to be buried, but not burnt, and their spirits were believed to pass into the Halls of Awaiting, called Itdendum in Khuzdul, just like Men, but in the halls set apart for them by Mahal, the Maker, the Father of Dwarves.
Among other books Wren found several new volumes, describing the events of the Quest of Erebor and the Battle of the Five Armies. In astonishment she realised that she had the honour of speaking with two member of the original company of Thorin Oakenshield that day in the inn. She also found a parchment that described the history of the legendary sword of the Dwarven King, and a large volume describing the War for Moria and the Battle of Azanulbizar, in which King Thorin had lost his grandfather and his brother, and acquired his moniker Oakenshield. Wren found a drawing of the shield, made of a single oaken branch, and recognised it from her very first dream.
She seemingly started understanding more about these dreams, but their meaning was alluding her. She wondered what she was to do with her new knowledge and what was the purpose of what had transpired.
Wren found portraits, he was indeed a handsome man. Wren hardly placed any judgement on the differences between the races, she did not find Dwarven opulent hair and sturdy, wide frame unattractive like most of the women she served with, but she thought that even those denying the allure of the Khazad would agree King Thorin was an enticing man. In one of the volumes she found a sketch made by one of the company members, a young Dwarf named Ori. The King was portrayed sitting on a large boulder, his eyes on the horizon, and Wren spent a long time studying the lines of his profile and that very soft line of lips she had previously thought her imagination had conjured.
And then days flew by, seemingly the same but full of service and hundreds of small matters to attend, and she was starting to doubt whether the dreams had even been real, when one night she found herself in the same halls.
Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê... / And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes...
This time Wren found herself outside the large wooden doors leading into the hall. She felt as if she was being given a choice, whether to come in, and she was certain of whom she would find inside, or walk away. She stood, her small hand on a thick brass ring of the door handle, and she saw her fingers tremble.
And then she remember the lost and terrified expression, betrayal and humiliation splashing in his piercing blue eyes, and she pulled the heavy leaf of the door, and entered.
He stood his back to her, in the same attire, his head dropped back as he was studying the tapestry on the wall, and she looked as well. Dain I was the name embroidered above the simplified depiction of a stern bearded face, the lines went down, to his three sons, and then forked, with Thorin III, son of Dain Ironfoot, being on the lowest of the branches.
"Fili and Kili..." His voice was low and raspy, and she clenched her fists. He stepped to the tapestry and brushed his fingers to the names of his nephews, "There are no names after them..." He was still facing away from her, and she lowered her eyes.
"They fell. In the battle with you."
"I do not remember..." His voice broke, and she assumed by a soft rustle that he turned to her, "I do not remember the battle, just how we charged from the mountain..."
Her throat was clenched, and suddenly she felt his presence near her. She inhaled gathering her courage and lifted her eyes. His jaw was set, and she was shocked to see rage splashing in his eyes.
"Who are you?" His tone was menacing and commanding, and even though overwhelmed she jerked her chin up in defiance.
"Wren of Enedwaith, a healer from the city of Dale."