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Special thanks to Distorted Lullabies!
Because I have received so many wonderful words from my readers, here is a small chapter posted ahead of time.
Chapter 21 - Unexpected Drops
The lit fireplace cast an orange glow on the stone floor of the library. From Hemery's point of view, it appeared as if the floor was water reflecting the flickering firelight.
She followed the bookshelves on the left side, slowing her steps when she neared the place where she remembered the dwarf had retrieved the book. She read the bindings of the books.
Iron Hill Iron Wrenching: A Thousand Year Craft. Dwarven industry.
Next shelf. Granite: Lithification. Oryctognosy. Perimorphism. Dwarf stones.
Next. Historiographic Hymns. Khazad Kult. Dwarf lore.
Getting closer.
Next. Angerthas Encryption. Gonnhirrim History.
This shelf would have to do, Hemery thought, pulled the slim volume out of her bag and slid it onto the shelf among the others.
"You're late." The low rumble was almost like a dog's growl.
Hemery spun on the spot. Her bag, which she had slung over her shoulder, pushed up against the nearest shelf, knocking the books down like. . . well, like books on a shelf—each one's weight pushing the next one over the edge and onto the floor.
Hemery recognized the hunched figure sitting in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, and his coat.
"Still making a nuisance of yourself I see," he said.
"You scared me," she accused. She picked up the books, not bothering to see if they were in the right order, much less right side up.
"Your permission expired two days ago."
"We've been busy with work during the festival. I couldn't get away." Hemery borrowed her sisters defense.
"We're all busy. That's no excuse. When we have an agreement, we try our best to honour that agreement, do we not?"
She could not argue with that. It was exactly what Hanah would have said. She would have liked this dwarf, all principles and clear rules of conduct. But she still did not want to give him right.
"It's just a book," she muttered.
"These books are part of the great legacy of my people." He raised his voice. "They are our memories, they will show us our future, and they will be here long after you and I are gone. They deserve our respect."
"Did you write them?"
"No. Though I have been present at a few writings and rewritings of history."
Silence descended in the large room. The fire crackled. Hemery thought she could almost hear the dust swirling through the air.
"You don't look very busy," Hemery observed.
"The first time in days I have been able to breathe," he spoke low, as if to himself. "Should have known it would not last."
He sighed and looked at her a long moment, something like pain in his expression.
"You do not know how lucky you are, girl. Sitting in your workshop making boot laces."
"I don't?" Hemery asked, confused.
"You may think this festival is just feast and fun," he snorted derisively. "It's a theater. We conquered the dragon and the orcs, and now we celebrate our victory on the day we used to honour Durin. It turns my stomach that our ancestors' glory has fallen into the shadow of our enemies."
Listening in awe to the honest voice, Hemery found herself moving closer to the fireplace.
"And I must endure the pollution of their memory. Endure it all. Almost two months of hosting hundreds of strangers in Erebor, feeding them, amusing them, humouring them. Listen to their complaints, requests, advice. All attempting to further their own political aims, whether it's trade, taxes, or military alliances. You'd be surprised by how many people do not recognize the word no."
Ten fingers on ten people was a hundred fingers. And several hundreds were many more. That was a lot of people.
"Do you really have to listen to all of them?" Hemery asked, carefully.
"Such is the custom. All who seek counsel must be heard."
Hemery thought it was unfair of the guests to request favours from the king, especially since the guests were given food and diversions during their stay. Even Hemery understood the dwarves would be taken advantage of. And she remembered Dwalin's words about the safety of the kingdom on this holiday.
There had to be a way to prevent the Lonely Mountain from being swarmed like an ant hill every year.
"What if they didn't want to come?" Hemery asked.
The dwarf was roused from his melancholy, almost as if he had forgotten she was there. A deep frown attempted to disguise the curiosity in his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not sayin' Erebor should be unwelcomin' on purpose, but the festival could be more focused on dwarves and what they like. Adding more ceremonies and plays in honour of Durin, not just the usual 'kill the dragon' story. I'm sure that would bore men pretty soon."
The dwarf did not say anything, so she continued.
"Oh—and serve them that strange meat loaf dwarves love so much. They'd be running home to their privies after one day."
Suddenly, the dwarf startled Hemery with a laugh. It was a rough, hoarse bark which soon faded, but she could see white teeth lingering.
"Any other ideas?" he asked.
She leaned on the other chair, thinking.
"Move the festival to the winter. People don't like to travel in the winter, and it would leave October free for Durin's Day."
"And if people object to the rescheduling?"
"Tell them that the real reclaim of Erebor did not occur when the dragon was killed, but when. . . enough people had settled there for it to be called a city again, or when the king had his first assembly or somethin'. Make somethin' up."
She shrugged.
"Or say the king wishes to move the festival to his birthday or coronation memorial day. That way he'll at least get presents and things in return for puttin' up with the guests. Nobody will say no to the king as long as the dwarves get their festival."
He hummed low, and nodded thoughtfully.
"You should have had a place in the king's council twenty years ago. Perhaps his present outlook would not have been so bleak."
He regarded her a moment.
"Was the literature of aid in your education?"
Hemery frowned in confusion. "The what?"
"The book," he clarified, raising his black eyebrows.
"Oh," Hemery simply said.
Remembering Hanah and Fíli's abrupt farewell this morning, she looked down awkwardly.
"Not really. It told me what I wanted to know, but it didn't help."
He just looked at her.
"I think I made a big mistake," Hemery confessed weakly. "I interfered in my sister's life and now she's hurtin' because of me."
"Did you use violence on your sister?"
"What? No." Hemery curved her lip.
"Did you betray someone's confidence?"
She thought about it. She had not told anyone's secrets which she promised to keep quiet.
She shook her head. "No."
"Then you are not to blame. People have their own will, their own agenda. Everyone is responsible for their own actions."
"I guess."
She was not convinced. That was what she did not like about Hanah's and this dwarf's principles and rules—when it came to real situations they did not apply as clearly and logically as they made it seem.
He sighed. "What's with the doom and gloom? I thought things were good here for you and your sister."
"They were. They are. We have a nice home and business is good."
"But?"
"There's a dwarf who comes to see Hanah." The words tumbled out almost all on their own. "In the day, when she's alone."
"And you assume he's not there for boot laces?"
She shook her head slowly from side to side.
"And how do you know this, if she's alone on these visits?" he asked.
"I know my sister."
He levelled her with his gaze, as if he could tell there was more to the story.
"And I talked to him," she confessed. "I think that was my mistake."
"That depends. What did you say?"
"I demanded he propose marriage to her or leave her alone."
He did not laugh like Kíli or look shocked like Fíli. He just looked at her, blankly.
"And what did he choose?"
"Neither."
He considered this.
"There are worse things you could have done. Under the circumstances, I believe you did all you could. If it was my sister, I would have beaten the dog within an inch of his life."
"Really?" she asked, opening her eyes wide, hopeful. Relief flooded her chest. It was a great comfort to know she had not been overreacting in her own impulse to physically harm Fíli for all he had caused Hanah.
"Really," he grunted in affirmation. "You defended your sister's honour. There is no shame in that. So no more sulking, do you hear me?"
Hemery smiled and stood up straight like Dwalin had taught her. She closed her hands behind her back to stop from fidgeting.
"Yes, sir."
"Who is this unworthy dwarf, anyway, whom your sister would be foolish enough to welcome into her home?"
She hesitated. She had already told him what happened. Would it really make much difference if she gave up the other party?
"I swear, no disrepute will befall your sister at my hand," he said when she did not answer.
He had helped her, Hemery thought, and given her advice. He was nice. Well, not nice––no dwarves were nice––but an individual who seemed to know right from wrong, as she saw them.
She looked him straight in the eye.
"Lord Fíli," she admitted.
His face grew even more grave, if that were possible. His dark brow shadowed his eyes. Then he stood up. His wide frame was taller than Hemery remembered, and she took an unconscious step back.
"I believe my time is up, girl," he muttered tiredly.
She followed him through the doors to the library. He stopped outside.
"Your acquaintance has been. . . interesting. I bid you good day."
He turned and walked away. Four of the guards who were standing in a row along the big corridor fell in step with him as he passed.
Hemery did not have time to stand around wondering exactly who the dwarf was. She was supposed to meet Hanah at the market. So she turned and walked the other way.