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Chapter Four: Many Meetings
The dwarves had settled for the evening, camping just off the Great East Road south of the Weather Hills. Moving efficiently, they were quick to set up the fire. Balin found himself seated, his belongings whisked away before he could do ought to stop them. He hid a grin in his beard; apparently his audience was impatient this evening.
Still, he was too much a master of his craft to rush things along. The old watchman took his time with his evening fare, allowing himself a leisurely sip from his flask before pulling out his pipe, polishing the wood so it gleamed in the firelight. As if this was some agreed upon signal, the crowd around the fire quieted.
"Very well then. Where did we leave off?" he asked, puffing air through the Longbottom Leaf, enjoying the pungent smell as it wafted about him.
"Thorin was about the cut the lovely lady," Ori piped up eagerly.
"Blood thirsty scamp," Gandalf muttered from behind his own veil of smoke. A soft chuckle raced through the company at the comment, slowly dying under Balin's gaze.
The dwarf quickly took stock of the situation. Thorin had again removed himself from the party, presumably on watch. The old lookout settled himself, stroking his beard as he dragged on his pipe. "Alright now. So, a sword at her throat and a knife at his belly… a strange beginning," he mused…
"S'op! Stop!" Balin choked, spitting the leather piece into the dirt. The dwarf struggled up, pain searing through to his heart as he dragged his cloak over his back.
"Grandfather, is this dwarf known to you?" the woman asked sharply, green eyes fixed on the dark-haired dwarf before her. She did not lower her blade.
Neither did Thorin. "Balin, has this woman harmed you?" he asked, gaze piercing. Balin dragged in a breath, only to be cut off by his physician.
"I've done nothing that wasn't necessary!" Thilia snapped heatedly.
"You call burning a dwarf's back necessary," Thorin retorted scornfully before either of his kinsmen could get a word in edgewise.
"We had to seal up the wound. Or would you prefer I let him bleed to death awaiting your approval?" she hissed, eyes flashing. "I bow to your knowledge of the healing arts, sir!" she spat.
Thorin's lips were pale, his eyes glittering strangely as a queer tension gripped his frame. The dwarf prince took a deep breath, and Balin seized his chance to intervene before it came to blows.
"Enough!" the old dwarf shouted, pushing the pair – and their blades – apart. "Thorin Oakenshield, I present Mistress Thilia of Dren Glyn, farrier's daughter. Mistress Thilia, I present Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain son of Thror, King under the Mountain." Balin rasped, forcing down the bile that came from rising too quickly.
"No titles, Balin. Not in this place. We don't know who may be listening," Thorin said curtly, lip curling ever so slightly as he took in the woman's ill-fitting clothes and overall appearance. She was barely a head taller than him. "Thilia?" he murmured to himself, elvish name acrid on his tongue. Thilia colored, but she met his gaze squarely.
"Mistress Thilia found me the night before, and I have been in her care ever since," Balin said. As one, the pair sheathed their weapons, an act Balin noted with obvious relief.
The woman straightened her shoulders and dipped a quick, wobbly curtsy. "Welcome Thorin son of Thrain," she said, voice cool and knuckles white.
Thorin watched the exchange, and gave a quick nod to the girl. He made no return comment, and no mention of service.
"Are you finished with your surgery, Mistress Thilia?" Dwalin asked, stomach rolling as he got to his feet. The hound snarled, but subsided when the girl gave a sharp whistle.
"As a matter of fact, I have not. I'm sorry, grandfather dwarf. We do need to finish what we started," she said regretfully. Balin nodded.
"Aye lass, I thought as much," he said, gingerly laying down on the ledge once more as Thilia placed her blade in the fire to heat.
"And you're some great healer, are you?" Thorin asked, voice neutral. The girl didn't flinch.
"I assist the midwife. Here Master Balin, have a sup to steady your nerves," she murmured, passing him the flask. Balin took a deep pull, and passed it back. Thilia poured it over the leather strap before making the trade.
It was over in a moment, Thilia binding up the burn swiftly while Balin nursed the flask. Dwalin observed the exchange appreciatively, eyes drawn toward the flask in his brother's hands.
"Lass seems to have some knowledge of healin' after all," he muttered to Thorin. The girl eyed the enormous bald dwarf, lips twitching in an ill-concealed grin.
"Looks like you could use some healing yourself," she said seriously.
"I was feeling right peaky, but I didn't want to mention it," Dwalin replied gravely. Taking the flask, he bowed low. "Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service."
"Thilia daughter of Balder at yours," the woman said, smiling.
Thorin, impatient, cut in to the conversation. "Very well. We need to get on the road. We need food and water, and we'll pay you for what you can spare, whatever the quality," he said brusquely. "Dwalin, ready the ponies. We can strap Balin to the saddle and make for safer roads." He had turned away when the woman's voice struck him like a lash.
"Keep your coin," Thilia snapped. "He's not out of the woods yet, or haven't you noticed? He'll leave when he's healthy and not a moment before," she said crisply. "I may not know much about midwifery, but I do know that when a body's been stabbed and shot and is in shock, it's best to put his body and his needs before your own ego!" she snarled, tone scathing and eyes ablaze. The pair glared daggers at each other. Dwalin looked down, eyes round, wondering at the steel in the woman to look on calmly when Thorin had a mind to be intimidating.
The girl hauled in a breath, composing herself. "The town isn't fond of outsiders, But you are welcome to my family's hospitality, such as it is, for as long as its needed."
"Shouldn't you speak with your family?" Dwalin asked, curious. Thilia smiled briefly.
"I've already made arrangements. It will be no trouble."
Balin broke the silence with a cough, shaking his frame so violently his hood toppled off. Thilia turned to her patient, back stiff with disapproval. She murmured softly to Balin, hands sure and gentle as she felt his forehead and listened at his chest.
"Willowbark tea for you my lad. You've got a slight fever; it ought to help. But first we need to get you in a proper house," she said softly.
Thorin caught Dwalin's eye, and looked away. He knew the dwarf would obey, whatever his decision. But the girl was right, much as it galled him to admit it. Now was not the time to be playing fast and loose with Balin's health, however objectionable the caregiver.
"In the interest of my kinsman, we accept your offer," he said stiffly.
They went down after sunset, forming a peculiar train indeed: Balin hunched over in the saddle, Dwalin leading the pony, Thorin riding, and a lame girl levering herself down the rocky foothills. They followed the stream, eventually leaving the forest for a wide-open hillside. A village was nestled between the hills, and just beyond it was a lone cabin. Outside, a woman, a midwife by her satchel, was waiting, pacing to and fro.
The woman, Ronna, positively dithered at the sight of three dwarves. Even as she helped Thilia get them into the rough cottage, she moaned to the girl, "What were you thinking? Detlef won't like it! He's back, Thilia, you'll catch it now! He'll not like it, three men, dwarves though they are, beddin' down in your home!"
"Well then that's my lookout, innit?" Thilia hissed.
"But-" the woman protested, but Thilia waved her off.
"Ronna, I don't care a wit for what Detleft will and will not like. I'd do it just to spite him!" At that, Ronna gasped, hand at her breast. Thilia, well aware of the dwarves nearby, eager for gossip about their new host, lowered her voice. "As it happens, it's not for spite. I am bound to do it; I found the old one. I cannot just send them on their way! Now stop your fussing and help me get them settled!"
The cottage was a simple affair, but serviceable. It had two small rooms, a cooking hearth, and loft, all roughly hewn but with the luxury of privacy. Connected was a small forge, a tidy, well-lit thing. The whole place was just uphill of the town, clearly having been built to give the illusion of distance.
Ronna, her dithering done, proved to be a competent midwife. Once past her hysterics, she was an adept in the healing arts, helping to settle the dwarves in the small spare room and restock Thilia with all sorts of medicinal herbs. She was just on her way out when Thilia called her back.
"Ronna, where's da? Have you seen him?" she asked, concern wrinkling her brow.
The midwife met her pupil's eye sadly. "He was headin' down to Hadon's, last I saw him. He'll have his nose well down a pint by now."
Balin saw the girl's jaw clench, nostrils white. After a moment she let loose a shuddering breath and smiled thinly.
"Master dwarves, if you will excuse me, I must go collect my father. Please, make yourselves at home."
Thorin and Dwalin exchanged glances. "Balin, we'll be back," Thorin said, hastily stowing their things in the room
"Where are you going?" the watchman asked with concern.
"To find what manner of girl we've been landed with," Thorin said shortly before shutting the door, Dwalin at his side. Balin harrumphed and settled himself on the cot. In truth, he did feel much better for being on a real bed. Before he knew it, he fell into an light, uneasy sleep.
Thilia made her way through the tavern with the ease of long practice, casually stepping over broken crockery and dodging the wild gesticulations of Hadon's patrons. Those that thought to impede her were quickly dissuaded by a solid thump with her staff. At last, she reached her target.
"Hadon!" she shouted, leaning over the bar. "Where's me da?"
"Over by the fire, lass!" the fat barman called. "Drinkin' me best ale too. Mind you pay up."
"Aye, I'll post the coin," she called, slapping a few coppers on the bar before making her way back into the crowd.
Balder the Farrier made a pathetic sight, Thorin decided, watching as Thilia bent down in front of the man. Thin, his skin had the look of old parchment, his nose red and swollen from a life of hard drinking.
Thorin took a sip of his ale, glancing at his companion. He and Dwalin nursed a tankard each, doing their best to blend in. It was a pointless exercise. For all that they had arrived at night for the expressed purpose of avoiding notice, patrons had already sidled up to their table, sounding out the newest arrivals to Dren Glyn. Their newfound company made it rather difficult to keep an eye on their quarry. After craning his neck to no avail, Thorin discovered that though they had lost sight of the girl, they could still hear her; the husky voice – and its tone – was unmistakable. At the moment, she was speaking with someone, a man from the deep pitch of the second voice.
"Have you given any thought to my offer?" the new voice asked
"It was not an offer, it was an –"her reply was off by the sound of something shattering; the crowd shifted, and the dwarves could see her again. Her companion was a man, tall for a Dunlending. He leaned over her, a proprietary hand on her hip. Thilia was supporting her father on one shoulder, using staff for leverage. She slipped slightly, but gamely held her father up. Balder looked totally oblivious; indeed, he seemed to have passed out and was only standing out of habit.
"Trust you'll not be showin' them anything outside what is necessary" the man said, leaning down towards her ear.
"You'll never know," Thilia replied heatedly, shuffling back. The man moved his grip to her arm, stroking lightly.
"Let's not be forgetting our agreement," he whispered, hand trailing lower and crossing to her skirts. A moment later the man leapt back. Thilia bulled her way passed. As she did, she met Thorin's eyes, dread flooding her features only to be tamped out a moment later.
The man caught the glance and made his way to their table. Dwalin eased back, going to help the girl with her burden.
"Welcome to Dren Glyn, Master dwarf. I am Detlef, son of Domek, miller. I congratulate you on making an acquaintance with our… Thilia," he said with a smirk. Thorin nodded coolly. The man continued. "She's good lass, mind, but headstrong. We've an agreement of sorts, you see," the man continued, winking knowingly at the dwarves. He did not appear to notice the look of revulsion that settled in the dark one's eyes. "Pleasant evening. Hope the farrier doesn't keep you up with his drunken smithing. Feel free to call on me if I can be of any service."
The man waved, and as he walked away, Thorin drank deeply, thinking.
When he arrived at the cottage, Thorin found it dark. Silently he made his way to their room. Dwalin sat waiting, live steel across his lap.
"What'd you learn, laddie?" Dwalin whispered as he eased into his bedroll, axes within easy reach.
"Very little, beyond the fact that we are living in a hutch on the courtesy of a drunkard and the village whore," Thorin said disgustedly. Beyond door, there was a sharp gasp; a moment later, Thilia appeared, a horrible, frozen expression on her face.
"I-I've left some supper on the hearth for you. It's not much, but we'll share all we have, and gladly so." She gave a brittle smile, and dipped an awkward curtsy. "Good night, master dwarves"
"You've offended our host," Balin said quietly. Thorin started; he hadn't known the old lookout was awake. In the dark, Balin's eyes glinted, a heavy frown etched by shadow. "She took me in and saved my life. She offers us all she owns, which isn't much, and shares it freely with out thought of the cost. And you cast all that aside for the word of a stranger over a pint," he said, voice laden with disappointment.
Thorin flushed under his beard, sincerely glad of the darkness. It had been decades since Balin scolded him; he didn't care for it all. "I saw them and heard them, Balin. Her man spoke with me," he said as calmly as he could.
"You don't know what you heard. How could you? We are strangers here. I forget how young you are, lad. I hope it was worth it. Worth forgetting the debt we owe." The cot groaned as the old dwarf settled himself down again, a forlorn little sound that was the last uttered that night.
No sooner had Balin finished the story than he was bombarded with questions. The dwarves, in time-honored fashion, shouted each other down until one was able to get a word in edgewise.
"Why'd the man – Detlef – back away?" Gloin bellowed.
Dwalin chuckled, and the group quieted, eager to hear the answer. It was perhaps not the most relevant question, but anything that made Dwalin chuckle was sure to be entertaining.
"The lass was a terror with her staff. Take my word on it," he said with feeling.
Almost immediately, a thought bloomed in Bofur's mind. Eyes twinkling evilly, he called across the fire, voice carrying over the crackle of embers. "So tell me, how did a wee girl manage to get the jump on our Dwalin?" He paused for effect and continued, "Y'see, I cannot fathom how a lass with a crutch managed to knock you on your arse."
The dwarves roared with laughter, rocking back and clapping their hands, Dwalin laughing right along with them.
"Same way she did for Detlef I expect," he said merrily. "Caught me in the balls, she did." What followed was an explosion of mirth, dwarves muffling the resulting sounds in elbows or beards. "Lass had quite the pair herself," he mused, causing another bought of hilarity that was hastily choked off.
"Ye liked her then?" Nori asked, wiping away tears of glee.
"Oh aye. She was a grand host, and that fierce when roused. It's not every day a woman goes toe to toe with Thorin Oakenshield and walks away the victor."
"She sounds fearless," Gloin rumbled, clearly appreciative.
"Oh no, that she was not," Balin said quietly. Dwalin nodded in agreement, smile fading. "She was not fearless. The girl had enemies, and her own demons. Believe me, she had a great many reasons to be afraid." Balin took one last pull on his pipe, blowing a large smoke ring into the sky.
"But she was… dauntless," he said, nodding decidedly.
Beyond fire, Thorin toyed with scrap of leather, well worn with age. He had been listening attentively, smiling and wincing by turns in remembering their first meeting. She had been fierce from the first; he could see her still, in that ugly little cap and ragged brown wool jumper over her white undergown, green eyes sparking at him. He brought the scrap to his lips, kissing it; once it had been her talisman. Now it was his.
Holy Bloated Chapters/ Lovecraft-ian (esque?) dialogue Batman! Dialogue isn't exactly my strong suit, but there was lots of talking that had to happen. :) Hope you enjoyed it!
~ H. Aegis