WARNING: sudden ramp-up in dialogue, which I don't have as much practice with, so sorry ahead of time!
From afar, the dwarven settlement was deceptively small; timber frames of houses-to-be stretched stealthily under a burgeoning layer of spring leaf. A few white tents poked up their heads like sails in the green river tucked between stretches of soaring mountain peaks. The Blue Mountains indeed held a shroud of gray-blue mist beneath the soft morning sun. As she looked upon the vale, a shiver ran up Mirra's back; probably just from the wind. Thorin just frowned before continuing down the rocky path towards his people's new home.
They came across three dwarf guards before the settlement, dressed in full armor, as weathered and hard as their brows. Upon seeing Mirra and Thorin approach, they promptly straightened their backs and snapped their burnished axes upright.
The middle dwarf stepped forward. "My lord Thorin," he said with a reverent bow. "We did not expect you to come so soon. Welcome to Ered Luin." Mirra glanced at Thorin and saw another man entirely; his chin lifted, his jaw set, his bearing nothing less than noble.
"How do the people fare?" Thorin asked, the king-to-be within him uncloaked.
"Well enough. These are the dwarves that were sent ahead from the Dunland. His Majesty has not yet come with the rest. Not to pry, my lord, but I thought you would be arriving with them." All effort to keep suspicion out of his tone was lost when the dwarf guard's eyes darted at Mirra.
"I had business of my own to see to." Thorin's tone was iron and the dwarf guard nodded apologetically, pressing the matter no more.
Meanwhile, the two dwarves standing back threw slit-eyed looks at Mirra. Her mouth opened to ask just what they were looking at, but she stopped herself. then she realized her hand had automatically dropped to her own sword.
First rule, Thorin had said when they first began climbing the Blue Mountains: leave the talking to me. So she grit her teeth and waited silently under the sharp, prickling gaze of the guards.
"…can I find Belbar?"
"The old blacksmith?" The lead guard pointed a thick finger behind him to the left. "To the southeast, about the edge. One of my guard can take you there, my lord."
"That would be most appreciated."
Just as one of the dwarf guards was about to lead Thorin and Mirra on into the settlement, "My lord," called the lead sentry. "The king instructed us to build our homes out of oak."
This confused Mirra greatly. It seemed to mean something to Thorin, however, who seemed very still all of sudden. "And?" he asked quietly.
"Ah, it's just… is that true, my lord? Shall we use oak?"
A slight sigh escaped Thorin's nose. "If that is the king's wish," he answered stiffly.
The lead sentry nodded, bowing before taking up his post again. The guard bidden to lead the pair forth frowned in impatience until Thorin turned around. Then silently they set off to meet whomever this Belbar was.
"What was the guard talking about with building homes out of oak?" whispered Mirra.
A rumble through Thorin's throat. "Oak is a sturdy wood, used to build things that endure, to last a long time." His fists clenched suddenly. "It does not however," he all but spat, "last as long as stone. Stone is eternal. We may be here for a while, but this is not our true home."
And so they set off to meet whomever this Belbar was.
The settlement was nothing so far but an array of thick wooden pillars set in the ground. Nearby each set of four was a white tent, dirty and weathered from years spent on the road.
As Mirra looked around, she couldn't help but feel watched herself. Some turned away when she caught their glances, while others scowled outright at her like they would at a wolf prowling their village. Some glanced at Thorin with brows knitted in confusion. There was no doubt that every single dwarf there marked her, and the antipathy they silently lobbed at her pricked her like thorns and burned her throat like acrid smoke.
By reflex, Mirra's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword. Thorin whipped his head towards her and glared. Second rule, the memory flashed in her mind: never wield your sword before my people. They – we – are suspicious enough as it is. Every instinct battled her, but eventually she made her hand drop stiffly to her side.
"They are staring," Mirra hissed.
"At what?"
"Me."
Thorin glanced around, iron eyes peering at every face he passed. His mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
But thankfully, fewer dwarves stared so openly with the leveling gaze of Thorin upon them.
"Careful, careful, careful I said! That's got my own tools in there, and a year's worth of your salary to replace 'em if they get smashed!"
At the southeast edge of the camp, a squat dwarf tottered to and fro between four wooden pillars embedded in the ground. His hair as red as his cheeks, he bellowed at several sour-faced dwarves lugging wooden crates as big as themselves.
"Oy!" he spluttered. "Drop that crate one more time and I'll be sharpenin' blades on your arm!"
"Belbar."
The red-haired dwarf whirled around in a huff and his anger promptly melted. "Thorin, m'lad, shamukh!" he boomed in happy surprise. "Good to see you!"
Thorin's smile was not nearly so broad, but the warmth was there. "And you, my friend."
Striding over as fast as his short little legs could, he clapped a fat hand on Thorin's shoulder, a gesture that Thorin returned. "Last I saw you, you're but a wee 30-year-old with barely a beard to show for it. How goes it all?" The dwarf had to look up to meet Thorin's eye.
"It goes well. Good to be off the road. Setting up shop, I see."
"Ah yes, yes." Belbar turned round to face the four entrenched pillars. "Not much here yet," he admitted. "Tricky matter, starting anew. But mark me well: when His Majesty and the rest of us come round the mountain pass in a year, we'll be more than ready for 'em." He rocked his hips forward and beamed with pride. Silver hairs lined his flaming red beard. He looked nearly old enough to be Thorin's father.
Then Belbar slyly eyed down at the hilt of Thorin's sword. "How's old Ansgar faring? Any rust or chips? You been oilin' it properly?"
While Thorin reassured him that yes, he had been taking proper care of his sword, one of the dwarves working with the heavy crates sporadically shot sharp glances towards Mirra, and then to Belbar and the prince. His hand slipped something into a leather belt pouch. Then he turned with a frown and began hurriedly walking towards the blithely chatting pair.
"Oy, whatcha-oof!"
"Mahal above, what on-"
Suddenly Mirra found herself pinning the indignant dwarf worker against one of the oaken pillars, clenching his shirt in one shaking fist and hovering her blade gravely close to his throat with the other. Looking around, she saw the other workers had frozen like statues. Belbar's jaw had unabashedly dropped, mouth spluttering in outrage. Thorin simply had his head in his hand.
"What in Durin's name is this?!" Belbar bellowed, brows squirming in befuddlement. His cheeks turned an angry reddish-purple.
"M-Master," stammered the dwarf in Mirra's fist. "I-I found the hammer you were l-looking for earlier." Out of his leather pouch he pulled a distinctive iron mallet with a worn leather grip.
"Put him down, Mirra." Thorin lowered his hand from his face and revealed a thunderously dark brow. Mirra reluctantly released the dwarf, who fell with a squawk and skulked away from her.
"He's with you?" Belbar turned his rage towards Thorin. "You brought a man with you? Into Ered Luin?"
"Her name is Mirra," Thorin said curtly. "I owe her a debt."
"She- you owe- are you out of your mind!"
"Mirra, leave us."
It was Mirra's turn to be confused. "Wha-"
"I won't say it again," Thorin rumbled, tightening his fists. "Leave, before you do more damage that you already have."
'Leave'? What does he mean by 'leave'? But it was no use asking him. So with a nod, off she went into the forest, hanging her head like a whipped dog.
"No. I'm sorry, m'lord, but I refuse."
"I realize she made a bad impression-"
"A bad- she tried to knife one of my workers! And regardless of any impression she has made, I do not serve mannish scoundrels with my smithing and I do not let them into my home!"
Thorin kept cool despite Belbar's outburst. "You know that men impress me less than you. But she is not like them."
He held up a solemn hand when the red-haired dwarf tried to interject. "I would not bring an outsider here unless I was sure of her."
Belbar merely huffed. "But why," he grumbled, "must you bring me into settling this debt? And what makes you think that shedeserves one of my swords?"
"Do you recall the deer-bringer from long ago?"
The dwarf stroked his red beard. "…It rings a few bells. Some quiet woman popped up with a full-grown buck for that one family, if memory serves me."
"And you heard about the troll-wrangler from Azanulbizar?"
"Yes, yes, who hasn't?" He waved his hand impatiently. "Now where are you going with this, lad?"
Thorin jerked his head vaguely towards the woods. "They are one and the same, and they are her."
Belbar's eyes nearly popped out their sockets. He staggered back as if struck. "She…that was…she…"
"Has also saved my life more times than I can count," said Thorin gruffly. The prince waited patiently while the smith took a few moments to collect himself.
At last, Belbar met Thorin's gaze. "I have known you for many winters, m'lord Thorin. You were but a wee lad when your father commissioned me for your first sword." He let out a weary sigh; every year of his age seem to surface in the folds of his face. "It will be a long while before I am able to do any proper smithing."
The prince's mouth softened. "She's willing to earn her keep."
"And there's no telling how Belga will react," added Belbar, giving Thorin a look.
"Understood."
The smith began rubbing his temples in little circles, muttering under his breath something about 'tricky matters'. He looked off into the murky green expanse of trees that lay before the foot of the mountaintops. "I wonder if she left for good, though."
"She'll come back."
"Don't you seem rather sure."
Thorin's lips twitched into a wry smirk. "She has a knack for coming back."
Over the tall majestic peaks, a lazy orange sun peered down upon the valley, its light ebbing and swelling beneath a rhythmic flow of rolling gray clouds.
Notes:
1. Last sentence: how could I not sneak the word majestic into a story about Thorin, puhleeze.
2. I'd imagine Mirra after living several years in the wild would look a bit like Aragorn. But kind of ironic for Belbar to comment that when he's from a culture where the women look quite similar to the men.
3. Shamukh means hail in Khuzdul. Ansgar is an ancient Germanic name that I gave to Thorin's sword since I couldn't find its actual name.
4. For future reference, Ered Luin is the Sindarin name for the Blue Mountains, and Thorin's Halls is the name of the city where the Erebor refugees live. Which is unnecessarily confusing because the royal family probably lives in a hall rather than a manor or a castle. Why Tolkien why...*shakes fists weakly at the heavens*