A/N- Hurmul- Honorable

Brynja and Bofur roused and Urdlaug's wagon packed for travel when all the dwarves were fed, they waited for some order from Meisar, half of them dawdling though the morning was half through. The shepherdess groused against the hiccupping, spinning-headed company that had dragged their feet up out of their bedrolls and would have liked to let breakfast settle before they got on the ponies again.

She and Freyda went off with the dogs to ride half a league ahead through the tall, narrow passes of rock that awaited them on the borders of the Lone-Lands. They carried flares, made by Hegi; one flare was highwaymen, and two, orcs. They were to leave the wagons and flee as fast as they could on the ponies in the narrow pass, if they saw two.

Thorin moved stealthily amongst the remaining dwarves, barking orders at Donbur to clear the ashes from their fires, Nori to finish his morning grooming and Bifur to shake off the bellyful of shine that was rendering him immobile. He would have accompanied her himself had Freyda not seemed so strangely insistent. Atop Minty the Second, he watched as Bofur helped his wife onto the pony they shared. Maneuvering delicately to settle herself in the saddle, she winced, as if with soreness, smiling though alas. Once Bofur was mounted, they could be on their way.

A thing of good, of utter good, he reminded himself. He looked for Meisar but she had already gone.

II

"Keep your hand on the flares, Freyda. We are in a land of cold men," Meisar instructed, dead serious. "My lady, men have not inhabited these lands for an Age, since the forests were felled," said Freyda. "There are still small tribes of savages in the old woods, who are not friendly toward travelers. They'll take our provisions and have us on spits." Freyda made a small gulping sound. "Rangers in these parts have told me they have come further south than ever before. But they are not the ones I'm worried about." She sent the hounds ahead into the tight pass.

As the dwarrowdams followed at a few paces behind, Freyda tightened her thighs about her pony's flanks, both hands clasping at the flares.

A small mirror fastened to the end of a spear was held aloft and unsteadily in Meisar's left hand, her head craned at an unnatural angle so that she might glimpse what was above. The road was little more than a weather-beaten path, growing over from lack of maintenance. On either side rose high walls of solid rock. All was awash in silence, except for the low whistle of a mild breeze coming through.

She rode quietly while Freyda eyed her nervously again and again. Finally she sighed loudly with some trepidation. "Meisar, might I speak to you as one lass to another?"

"Of course, Freyda. What is it?" Freyda pulled ahead to ride beside her. Their ponies were nearly touching and irritated with each other, nipping and neighing. Her stomach tightened grievously, remembering the vexed tone Thorin had taken toward her. Freyda had seemed all too eager to leave them alone together. But it was not Freyda that dropped her stomach down deeper into her gut and twisted it with regret. His words, all three of them, had lashed her, and the thought of how his eyes had darkened made her weak with regret. Nothing had ever made her feel so ill of herself inside, or as injured.

"Mister Dwalin!" she answered in an aggrieved voice. "Mister Dwalin?" Meisar repeated, bemused. "What of him? Has he been unkind to you?"

Freyda shook her head in anguish. "He accepts my company at the cook-fire, even laughs at my jokes, and then he ignores me!" In her coat of mail, her gauntlets heavily studded and her beard adorned in silver that gleamed forebodingly like needles, she would have been entirely frightening in countenance had it not been for the look of pure, girlish angst upon her face.

The dwarrowdam pouted her lips sullenly. "I'm having… feelings." The last word came out awkwardly on her tongue, as if she could not get used to the sound or concept of it.

"I'm sure it is not out of any distaste for you, Freyda. I'm sure he feels the same about… feelings," added Meisar, her own awkwardness coloring the word. "And you know that he must keep himself to Thorin more oft than not."

"And what about Thorin?"

"What about him?"

"He was betrothed once you know," Freyda blurted out suddenly. "To a Firebeard lass with red hair. I'm supposing she died, or Erebor was laid to waste before they could marry."

"Oh Freyda, I wouldn't know… much about that," she stumbled. But she did. She knew how her cheek stung with her own regret, as if she had been slapped outright by his own hand.

"Sometimes he looks at you," Freyda said quietly. "Thorin."

"And is that what you and Gyda whisper about when you look at me? Or Siv been flapping her mouth about the lasses? Why that girl, I'll shake her!" She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes trained at the bend in the pass.

"No! That is why I tell ye these things in confidence, my lady."

Meisar lowered her head apologetically. "I am sorry, Freyda. I did not mean to snap."

"Apology accepted my lady. But ye must think sometimes, that there must be a reason we have met them here on the road," said Freyda hopefully. She leaned in toward Meisar with a lighter countenance. "You know, I do find him quite handsome. It makes a wee… thing in my body when I see him. I can't really explain. It's like a wee flutter and it makes me head dizzy," she confessed, her face twisting with mortification. Meisar gave her a mild smile, meant to comfort but she knew from the look in Freyda's eyes it was doing anything but. "I only wish, Freyda, I could be of better use in this quandary."

The hounds returned, assuring there was no imminent danger around the bend. Her own head felt light. No chance meetings in this world. How Emli had smiled, so righteously, so assured, when she said it, and to Meisar rather than Freyda no less, as if she expected it to mean something to her. How unwise she was to the ways of lone folk, Emli, the proud wife and mother.

No, perhaps not. If her sense of time was accurate, she had come out of the wilderness, started on her trek west to Ered Luin from the wilds, a year and several months to the day. One journey to the east taking a caravan of eight, and a solitary return to the west with a few inexplicable delays, and now east, again. In time to have met a king and his company upon the road. A king who had several times taken to her company, forsaking the company of those who had been his faithful brothers in arms, who protected him with such vigor, that she could never match, even if she had shielded him with her life once already…

"Freyda," she advised softly. "The king is burdened with much. Let us not add to them."

III

Over the days Balin kept his attention on Erebor, all the things that had been done in his absence, and everything that awaited him upon their arrival. Already he was giving out directives, which Ori scribbled at breakneck pace in his great book, wobbling side to side and using his pony's cranium as a writing desk. "Our homeland is ours again, my king. Every day it is more renewed, and grows strong and prosperous."

"I owe that to many others, much less than myself. To you, and to Gloin especially, in my… absence."

"Without my father, there would be anarchy under the mountain," Gimli butted in, self-assuredly in the brash way that his father was.

"Gimli, my son, do not boast. It is most unbecoming of a well-born lad," chastised Emli. "Though it is true my husband has made himself quite useful. I don't suppose a seat of high honor at your council is out of the question?"

"Mahal keep you Emli. You are a force to be reckoned with," chuckled Balin nervously.

"Your husband is a shrewd man, and I owe most of our fortunes to the generosity you have shown with yours. He will be granted all that is due him, and then some," assured Thorin.

"Gloin a shrewd man? Indeed, but nothing happens except by our combined efforts I assure you that, even when we are apart. I should think some office might be on the horizon for myself as well."

"Mother!" squawked Gimli.

"Anarchy under the mountain indeed," she continued, waving off Gimli's protest. "Alas, without me, he would be a miserly feckless wretch. Do not think I had no role in opening his purse to your quest. And without him, well," she beamed and reached across her pony to clasp Gimli's chin adoringly between her thumb and forefinger. "I would not have my precious boy. The jewel of his mother's eye."

"'Amad please, the lads will see," begged Gimli. "Be not ashamed of your mother's love, Master Gimli" admonished Thorin with a sad smile. "Look after her always."

"I promise, majesty. Promise with all my honor on the line." The young dwarf's mouth tightened, sadly. He remembered.

Emli nodded, silently. She looked at Gimli and tears welled up in her eyes, but she did not let Thorin see.

IV

After what seemed like an endless day of riding and jostling along the rough, rocky road with their wagons, they made camp.

Thinking of Freyda's dilemma for Dwalin, Meisar put the two of them to last watch, seeing if it would render any of her questions answerable, for better or worse. There was music again that night, on the edge of the camp, a viol, and a harp. The viol was Balin's, but the harp she had not heard. It lulled her to sleep it was so exquisite a sound, as did a deep, rumbling laugh from somewhere else.

In the morning Dwalin and Freyda were roused from watch so that they might rest up before the caravan got underway. They broke their fast together and shared agreeable words over berries, bacon and hot homemade grain cereal. Dwalin sprung to his feet when he saw Thorin at the side of his pony, saddling her, packing half a day's worth of food and utilities. "Time for me to ride," he told Freyda, with some regret in his tone.

"Give me a moment to saddle the nag. I'll be with ye," he entreated. "You had last watch. You ought to rest," Thorin said, firmly. "I will go with the shepherdess."

"Nay, my king. I shall ride with ye. No need for me to sleep. I am not a wee babe." "Dwalin," he interjected. "Rest. My friend."

He returned to what remained of breakfast on his plate, and Freyda remained ever cautiously at Dwalin's side, following the shift of his gaze toward the king and the shepherdess riding away. "You look as if there is something that worries ye, Mister Dwalin." "I fear for him when he goes off with her, the shepherdess, whatever her name is," he grumbled.

"He is a king, a leader, and she is a shepherdess as you may say. What a flock she's got too." Dwalin folded his arms stiffly. "It feels odd to me. I like it not," Dwalin confided, hesitantly.

"Oh it is not so odd, Mister Dwalin. I have heard his sense of direction is… well, more like a broken compass than not. They each have a duty. One fills where the other can't."

Unconvinced, Dwalin let his breakfast settle, begged a tankard of leftover mead from Bofur. "It could be good for him," Freyda suggested over Dwalin's ferocious trio of belches. "Good for him? What's good for him? A strange woman's company? Traipsing off alone with her, what good could come of it?"

Freyda smiled in the cheeky way she did, all the fierceness from her face at once lifted. "One never knows." Dwalin wrinkled his brow in her direction. "That is what I fear most."

"She is an honorable lady. No harm will come to him in her company." "No harm but what good?" Dwalin said skeptically.

Freyda did her little smile again, her two front teeth pressed at her upper lip. "One never knows."

V

They rode ahead to where the hill crested and looked down into the lush valley below. "The Trollshaws," she announced, wearily.

"Aye," he responded flatly. It was the first words that had been spoken between them since they had left camp, and she was nervous for it. Taking her off somewhere where he might rebuke her privately? The dignity of such a thing, she thought, wondering of some other purpose might have been within him, hoping that there might be, which was not for ill. He had taken her off here alone, where today scouting duty alongside her could have just as easily been passed to another.

'Tis is a dangerous path, a fool's game, hope. Remember that, naked-jawed shepherdess, zesulal.

"You tell me there is a strangeness afoot in these lands," he said finally after another long silent stretch. Shallow woods of beech trees and heavy-rooted bushes greeted them just off the rutty path. They tethered the ponies and clamored through the groves in search of troll-prints, hidden caves or the scent of orc. They would smell the former long before they encountered them, and for now there was only a heavy, wet smell of earth after rain.

"Something is different now. I know little of what it is, but I feel it in the earth," she said, pensively.

"How so?"

"I don't think I can answer that so easily. It's difficult to explain."

"Then answer me this. Why did you come back to Ered Luin?"

She stopped; she could feel his gaze burning impatiently at her from behind, and brought up her resolve to look straightly into his eyes. "I willed that should I die, whenever I do, I will be stone again, not orc dung."

He gave her a slight, unamused half-smile. His head cocked at her. "As I have told you before, Meisar, I find you honorable. So I will give you another chance, and I expect a straighter answer than that. Why did you come back?"

"It is an instinct, an urge even, that I cannot explain. All I know is that the world is not as it was. It is darker and more dangerous. I feel it the earth and in the air." He narrowed his eyes at her, unsatisfied. Her heartbeat intensified. "And besides, even the lone souls amongst us wish to become part of the world again, part of one's own kind. That I think perhaps you understand."

"I am a king. It is not a question of want, but duty."

"You too chose exile my king."

"I chose nothing!" he shot back suddenly. She recoiled a bit. "No, I don't suppose you chose many things." Her eyes pointed down again, poignant regret coloring her face. "I am sorry. I should have had better sense than to speak of such things, to presume-"

He let out a long sigh, controlled, but rippled through with pain he could only so much conceal. "To answer your question…" he began pensively. "I asked nothing…" "Khuzd tada bijebî âysîthi mud oshmâkhî dhi zurkur ughvashâhu," Thorin recited quietly.

"A dwarf who takes a wife must guard her as his greatest treasure," Meisar repeated back in the Westron tongue.

"And the dwarf who has no wife must look upon his kin the same. I did not guard with my life the treasure that was the true one. And now it is gone. They are gone. If I am of any purpose now, I will try and uphold that, for the sake of another. You asked me if I had some role to play in Brynja's and Bofur's union. There, it is."

"I am told of their courage, their pure and good natures. Your grief is unthinkable my king."

"And for what?" he lamented as he turned to face her again, for the first time a chasm opening in his burdened, regal countenance that allowed her to see but a shallow portion what lay just beneath that surface. "To lay in their tombs whilst their beards still grew. As good as nothing."

She felt it in her knees again, the sensation of water or some great force rushing around them, pulling her out into a dark, unseen depth. She thought of what Freyda had said about the thing that was done to her when Dwalin was afoot, and it was nearly enough to bring her to her knees. She took a step closer to Thorin out of her better consciousness, remembering other things Freyda had relayed to her earlier. "It is not for nothing," she admonished gently. "And you would know what of it?" he questioned again.

What should have drawn her far away was drawing her inexplicably closer. She came and stood cautiously beside him, less than arm's length apart. "When I returned to Ered Luin from the wilderness, they spoke of nothing except your quest. They told the tale of the dead dragon and the great battle the way they told tales of old. They longed for nothing more than to have their homeland again. And for your efforts, for your daring, we are going home. Do you see these dwarves you lead beside me? They are all returning to their home because you made it so they could."

"A fairy story my lady. One they will tell around fires and under mountains for ages to come. There's another part of all this that songs are not written for. The kind that are not sung in our halls, for they make mead taste of blood in your mouth."

He stood and turned around quickly to face her, took a heavy step toward her. She moved a step backward but she did not flinch, nor did her eyes lower. They were wide and unmoving. "Do you fear for me, Meisar, or do you fear me?"

"I do not fear you."

"You fear for me then?"

Hesitation rested behind the quiet steel of her eyes. "I fear that grief has wounded you ways that will never heal."

"Then you would be right."

Hurmul, she thought, solidly, to herself, against his heavy gaze, which seemed somewhere else entirely, a darker place than this. I will be. I will serve my king. For the Creator has endowed all things with purpose.

"If… if it were something in my power to do, I would lessen that burden for you my king."

"I thank you my lady." He nodded graciously toward her. How that face could have been imbued with such warmth had she deigned to show it. He let out a deep, uncanny grumble but what words he had meant to say caught in his throat and were dry.

"The water… it flows down from the Ettenmoors," she said finally. "Trolls stay close to the waters. The daylight turns them to stone, yet their sight is poor, and made worse by night. They are guided by the flow of the water and never wander far from it. They are hungriest and most active in the evening. But I think we shan't worry so much." "Why not?"

"For awhile there were none. The roads were safe, even the mountains. Slowly they've been coming back, attacking caravans, going after the farmers and wild men and the lone folk of the wild alike."

"And yet you say we should not worry for trolls?" "Not trolls, milord, orcs. The trolls though, the trolls… It is as if they are running from something themselves." She pushed aside a heavy low-hanging branch to a clearing. In its center stood three stone figures, trolls turned to daylight with the shock of it still written plainly in their expressions.

"We were here once," he said. "These trolls nearly had us for supper, if not for the wizard striking them down at the dawn."

He squinted upward at the frozen faces of the three, stupid with surprise. "William on the left, Bert there, and Tom," said Meisar. "I did not know such pitiful creatures had names." Meisar smiled in the serene way that she did sometimes. "There is much the races of Arda do not know, of kinds other than their own. These trolls, for example, are triplets. A rarity, and considered a lucky draw for the mother troll."

"There are females?" Thorin grumbled, disgusted.

"Yes. Like dwarves, a minor population. These lived in a cave nearby with their mother. But they squabbled so violently, she threw them out. Day after day they brought treasures to her, stolen from where I cannot imagine, trying to bribe her to let them come home." Her face morphed from moderately amused to settling into a sad, wistful stare. "After they turned to stone, she came about them and wailed each night, curled up at their feet, trying to coax them back to life in her grief. I suppose all mothers are the same in that way…"

Yes, yes they are. My sweet sister. He bit his lip.

She pushed back the thick undergrowth on the forest floor with her sword. "She died," Meisar concluded flatly. A troll skull was lain across Bert's foot. She poked it tenderly with the sheathed tip of her sword.

"Did you spend all your time in the wilderness watching beasts go about their foul business?" She could feel the dark look he was giving her on the back of her neck. It made the hairs stand up, on edge.

"Yes, and for it, I may keep my charges safe from their mischief. I settled close to here once and came to know the dramatics of these three quite well." When she finally dared look at him, he was seated on a rock, staring emptily into the undergrowth, at the pale dome of the mother-troll's skull. A hitching, hiccupping sound came once from him and then there was a thick, tense silence. "My king? Are you alright?"

He didn't answer. Her hand clasped and unclasped, fingernails digging into her palm. The urge came again, inexplicable, and pure. The kind, protective heart that had raised up the dwarves of Erebor along with his nephews, wherever it lay, was still alive. She felt the aura of it, invisible but weighty, so heavy now she could no longer bear it.

Her shadow moved on the ground just before him, and he felt the uneasy weight of her hand rest against his shoulder. She had such small hands, but the gravity of her touch was iron. Touch was the comfort he craved. A woman's touch, so foreign to him, ever absent the affection for another. How this comforted him so inexplicably and yet… how he wanted to be a dwarfling again, seeking peace, and safety in the arms of another. Innocent and unblemished, a creature death had not touched, not yet. Before the Arkenstone was uncovered, before the madness of Thror, before the dragon, before Fili and Kili. A babe, swaddled in furs, his chubby fists adored in sapphires, never noticing the bad eye of his father's, only the love in the unharmed one. The memories of dwarves were long, so very long. Staggering with Frerin to the top of endless piles of gold, blissfully ignorant the hold they had already taken on his grandfather, waving the toy swords, gifts from the King of Dale, who showered them in presents when he came to Erebor, just like the Masters of Laketown, and the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm. The black-headed Princess Dis, presented in swaddling clothes studded in diamonds, how they had fidgeted at her presentation to the Realm and Balin, his hair only gray in those days, had scolded them but slipped them sweets as he did so.

Had he not remembered the Elvenking scolding Thror on the mezzanine? How the fire-drakes from the north were growing bolder, he said. What they coveted, what the beasts would kill for. Yes, he remembered. His grandfather had taken to his chambers in a huff, and Elvenking left without saying farewell to the royal children. It was the last time he saw him before the dragon's wrath.

Had he not remembered his mother, sick in childbed and dead a week later, far from Princess Dis, fawned upon by all in the Realm? No, not then. Only Thrain weeping at her tomb for weeks.

He remembered Bilbo, the pale terror that turned to despair in his face.

There had never been innocence. There had never been peace. They were pure and good but they were gone. The only pure thing was her hand, rested on his shoulder. A woman, a beardless dwarrowdam lowborn as a coal miner in the Blue Mountains, and queerer still, a lone dwarf, a wildling. The shepherdess squirmed and he gripped her hand harder against his shoulder. His palm was callused, rough against her skin, as were the fingertips that tightened around her.

"Majesty?" Her voice was high and shaking.

Without a sound in response, he peeled her hand crisply back from him.

"Let us be on our way, dunininh," he said brusquely. Her lips moved to say something but no sound came out.