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Chapter 25

"How do you do it?"

Balin set down his fork. It was, as she had promised, a rather difficult and person question.

"I'm sorry," Malin retracted her statement quickly, "I didn't mean to offend... it's just..."

There was a choke in her voice, and Balin felt a mixture of concern and disease. He wasn't prepared to enjoy this side of brotherhood, despite his appreciation of other aspects of their newfound relationship.

"What do you mean?" Balin asked with his usual smile, "Of course we may be frank..."

"How..." Malin tried to find the right words, "How do you move on so quickly? You're so... unaffected... It think you've been through more than I and yet... it does not weigh upon your spirit..."

"I see..."

"You smile, you carry on your work..." Malin looked confused, "How do you do it? How are you so little changed?"

Balin smiled. It was often difficult to balance being appropriately sensitive and, at the same time, remain functional. With the many demands upon his attention...

How had he done it? He didn't know. He had been doing this for so very long.

"I don't know," Balin admitted, "Perhaps it is the call of duty."

"Oh." Malin said. She thought about herself.

"I'll admit that things that happen to me... change me..." Malin confessed, "I try to stay away from things that hurt me... because they still hurt. And there are herbal remedies..."

"I don't know the answer," was the best he could manage. It was a rather quiet breakfast, just the two of them.

You are the glue that holds everything together, Balin told himself, you cannot afford to indulge in sentiment.

But as he gazed across the table, he realize that Malin, his soft-hearted, sweet sister was someone perhaps in need of some release of sentiment. Recent events had led him to look into herbs that relaxed and relieved the mind, and it shocked but did not surprise him when he awoke to the fact that Malin took much more of the stuff than was, in the general sense, allowable. She practiced drank infusions instead of water. And yet, Balin could not think of what to do.

"Good morning, wife" Dwalin awoke slowly to the wonderful sensation of someone rubbing him down his back, working out all the loose knots and easing his strained nerves.

"Hmph," the podgy matron who shared his quarters replied. She did not cease her work, but poured more hot oil onto her palms to work into Dwalin's back."

Suddenly Dwalin gritted his teeth and seethed in pain. It was not the hot oil; he was used to that. This was a sharp stab in the back.

"Aha!" Pearl pinched the particularly spot on his leathery back, causing Dwalin to double up in pain, "I told you. You are one piece of work, son of Fundin."

"I...do... not... deserve... a wife such as you," Dwalin groaned in pain, bitterly. Some days, he could barely walk and his back did not seem to improve. Silently, they both feared the day when the once mighty warrior would be a crippled, bedridden, invalid. Perhaps it had been the many tons of stone he had lifted, perhaps it was the goblin clubs and orc axes that had hammered upon him in battle after battle. Perhaps the wounds, lacerations and bruises from one too many nights spent captive in his younger days... in any case, the past had begun to catch up with Dwalin,

"My turn," Pearl flipped to her side, tugging Dwalin towards her, "My lower back, thank you. Carrying your squirming troll-sized spawn has not done it any favours, for all my appetite and stamina has improved. No doubt he will outgrow my belly and come crawling out one of these mornings."

Dwalin was no longer sleepy. He was sore and his legs felt like jelly. However, thanks to Pearl's education of his ignorant self, he had learned all about pregnant 'dams and their many aches, swellings and discomforts.

Pearl almost took pleasure in describing to him the horrors of femininity, including and especially including the She relished the ,mixed look of sympathy, shock and distaste on her husband's face, and was fully intent on preparing him well for the exciting, life-changing events ahead.

"The babe first," Dwalin crawled over the warg-pelt quilt and flipping her over gently to examine the baby. He lifted her nightdress and peered tentatively at the swelling mound of "baby". He liked to paw at it with his beastly hands, unaccustomed to they were to gentle, affectionate caresses. It filled him with pride to think that the creature within this swollen belly, the feisty kicking fellow, was actually his. Awkwardly, he put his torn ear down to it, facing the rosy and smiling face of his wife, and blinked as the child moved and responded to his voice. Then Dwalin smiled, and started to say something to Pearl.

"Don't you dare ask me that one more time," Pearl brought her knee up and kicked him, "He will be here by winter, and not any sooner. Now, if you please, my lower back is much in need of your attention."

Balin felt the pressure of multiple deadlines sneaking up on him. Finances were not a problem, but trade was. If they failed to get enough food supplies, dwarves would starve. Yes, they had lived through several winters, but each year felt as if they had only managed to scrape through by the skin of their teeth! Even with the greatest store of gold in Arda, the mountain could not run itself. It was spring, but the impending deadline of Durin's day was enough to drive Balin absolutely mad.

As if keeping several hundred dwarves fed was a problem, keeping them all employed was another. An unemployed dwarf was a walking disaster in the making.

There was alcohol consumption to regulate.

There were disputes to settle.

And then there was diplomacy, which was problem at the problem. Balin had begun the day by gathering evidence and arresting Drayr. Then he had sent word to the king.

However, they still had yet to find a motive for the crime, not for the imploding the unfortunate apothecarist and the apothecary workshop, but for murdering the apothecarist's parents, in their beds. And evidence, yes, that wasn't as clear-cut as it could be. Real life was a sticky, tangled, messy web, unlike the theoretical criminal problems in lawbooks that were easily solved through a little mental gymnastics and some investigation and prosecution. Balin had now forgotten his struggles over Dwarven Law, and now only remembered through rose-coloured eye-glasses their relative simplicity compared to life's unsolvable questions.

Here he was, wandering off the straight and narrow again. There was work to be done! For one thing, Thorin Stonehelm had written for the third time with his ultimatum. Unless the assassin to attempted to take his father's life was transferred back into the custody of the Iron Guard, then he would personally come to demand revenge. This was his right under the Dwarven Code of Honour and Balin could not deny to him, no matter how vital a witness Gru. Unrepentent Gru, the half-mad, conniving, vicious... and very useful convicted poisoner. Aye... he was a spot of bother.

Balin set aside the letter to answer later. It gave him a headache, for Thorin Stonehelm was intelligent and well-versed in dwarven law, for all his bloodlust. Ah, that lad's reputation preceded him. Balin would really have to have a talk with his aunt when she returned from Dale.

"You want them, you can have them and good luck to you," was Iga's motto with regards to her children. Bombur's once-again-pregnant wife was still... working. She worked hard to stay abreast of financial obligation and keep Bofur's tavern afloat. Some nights saw her chasing patrons with rolling pins or iron ladles, demanding shirked payments. What time had she to raise the little ones, after spending hours and hours a day saving to make sure the older ones had enough coin to get good apprenticeships.

Thankfully, some of her daughters like Drof and Grof were already working, out of the house and suitably married.

Enter Floi, the overeager, intelligent and good-natured son-in-law. The dwarf with a perpetual, boyish grin on his face and a irrepressible cheerful temperament. Married, to her slightly grumpy and work-obsessed bookbinder-cum-politician daughter Grof. There were a match made in Valinor - not Grof and Floi, but Floi and the whole family.

Floi, ever enthusiastic, found himself volunteering more and more to have the brood of raven-and-ginger-haired dumplings over. Council duties took up less and less of his time, and he found himself alone for hours in the empty nest thanks to his wife's insistence on conception preventatives and her long hours of tedious work.

Grof would come home to make dinner, and Floi would have already taught six of her fifteen younger siblings to read, cipher, do sums, sing, mine coal or forge nails. He was a born teacher, was Floi. a born learner as well.

Unfortunately, Grof considered marriage to be a way to get away from hr family, and it had not occurred to her that Floi saw it as an opportunity to gai one. This caused an unspoken, tense rift. Grof wanted to live an independent life, Floi wanted children, and in lieu of his own, he had adopted the largely unsupervised and untaught younger children of Bombur.

"Namad!" Bur greeted his adored older sister with a grin, "Look, I made a carving of Durin I".

"That's nice," Grof said unenthusiastically, and she let the door slam a little as she glared at her husband. He hadn't even looked up when she came in, no, he was telling Grur a story about Khazad Dum. Khazad Dum!

There was mud, wood shavings, and half-eaten food all over her beautiful granite floor and wall tapestries. There were books everywhere, and worse, there were children intruding into her sanctuary of peace and quiet.

Dinner was not ready, she would have to make it as Floi was practically as useless in the kitchen as he was... elsewhere. Why did she always have to do all the work?

Life was unfair! Unreasonable!

Grof hated her mother. She couldn't even take care of her own children, she always, always forgot to send them dinner. What Grof failed to appreciate at the moment was that it was her mother's hard-earned money that had paid for her seven-year apprenticeship so that she could go and work in a stuffy workroom all day and end up with dry, red eyes and a hunched back.

Grof suddenly didn't feel like cooking, though she usually loved it. No, tonight she was going straight to bed. Let Floi make dinner! Let him and all her annoying little brothers and sisters starve, for all she cared. She was going to earn some well-needed sleep. Alone. Without someone poking and hugging her all night.

No way, no way would she stop eating powdered-yarrow-worm for a hundred years! Let Floi adopt her siblings. After all, that's all he wanted. That was probably why he married her, because he assumed she would be fertile. Hah! Let him find his own way to make dinner.

Grof sniffed disconsolately, snapping at Floi and slamming the bedroom door.

Meanwhile, Bofur had come to take the children home. He loved them, as much as he would have loved his own. They were soon merrily off in a throng to eat left-over bread and cheese, and Floi found himself in an empty, dirty house.

He had barely seen Grof when she stormed in earlier and marched straight to bed. He had been engrossed, and regretted it now. Poor Grof was wearing herself out thin. He would go and see if she wanted anything. Perhaps her grumpiness was a good sign, after all, she could well be...

Floi stopped himself. It had hurt him deeply and cut him to the heart when months into their marriage he had quite accidentally discovered that Grof was taking powdered-yarrow-worm, the strongest of conception-preventatives. He had wished she had been upfront about it, especially when he had confessed to her his desire for children, and she had said nothing.

More than anything, Floi wanted his wife to be happy and he fully respected her right to choose when would be appropriate time. Dwarves were usually not in a hurry when it came to these things. It would usually take five to ten years to conceive.

Daena bound the last of her bags. The "afternoon" excursion with Oin had lasted over a week and involved the entire royal family descending upon poor Bard at Dale. Still, Daena was pleased. She really, really liked Madghie and hoped the young lass would be able to cook in the same way once inside the dwarf mountain.

"Come on dear," Daena tugged her arm, "I hope you will not miss Dale too much."

"I havena lived here long, milady," Madghie shrugged.

"Aye, aye, so it is," Daena agreed. For one thing, Madghie was of stout frame - tall - and would make just as good a footman as she would a cook or a housekeeper.

Maghie was her project now, someone she could teach all about dwarven culture and have as a companion.

"Come, come," Dis called, "We musn't be late."

The troop of dwarves filed past Bard as they bestowed upon many sincere gifts of thanks, with three notable exceptions. Fili was glad to be returning to the mountain, for Urla was starting to have attacks of anxiety being away from the mountain so long. Ale was the exact opposite. Kili had managed to convince Dis to let him, Ale and Oin to stay a few days longer. Sigrid had insisted, and no one thought it untoward. After all, Ale was grieving. Perhaps she wanted time away.

Of course, the reality was that it had nothing to do with Ale. She was helping Kili, again.

And then there was Oin. Thorin insisted that he extend his stay once more, seeing that the fresh air did much good for the un And it was Oin's reward, for helping Dis when she was ill recently. And, Oin wanted to try and see what he could do for Tilda.

So it was settled.

Elekh straightened her back and felt it squeak. Lately, the lack of sleep and proper eating caused by understaffing in the infirmary had led to her developing bowel discomfort and pains in the oddest places. The plague and Oin's absence was, in combination, soul-crushing.

She felt trapped.

For several months she knew that her brother Brekh's breathing problems were worsening, and she had tried to warn him, but stubborn dwarf as he was, he did not heed her. And things were so bad, but Elekh had not a moment to spare to care for her own brother, her sister-in-law's state of pregnancy, or her nephew and his regular bouts of coughing.

Elekh felt like dying. There was no way out. Healing was as unpopular a profession amongst dwarves as transcribing elvish literature into Khuzdul. Except, however, healing was far more needful. No one wanted to be healers anymore, no one thought the skill important. Elekh felt as if every dwarf took her work for granted, and it was a thankless sacrifice.

Tagh, another one of the healers, stumbled into the storage room and helped Elekh lift the box in which Oin had carefully packed a couple of months' supply of herbs from the markets of Dale.

"Let me do this," Tagh said, "Melu's busy with some colicky baby in the mining quarters, and there's a woman just gone into labour. Nilar, her name is."

"Right," Elekh nodded, "I'll go."

"Thank you," Tagh breathed in relief, "I nearly thought if you were busy, I would have to attend the birth."

"I cannot wait for Oin to return," Elekh groaned as she dashed out for birthing suplies.

"He needed a break," Tagh shook his head, "The joints in his hands swell rather painfully..."

"Aye, aye," Elekh nodded, "We cannot rely on him for too long. I know."

"Melu said it would be a couple of hours yet," Tagh called after his colleague, "So don't hurry. Order some lunch."

Healers were good at running, but they never ran until they had too.

Nilar was a good birther, and Elekh looked forward to a relaxing time attending the birth with other dwarrowdams. It would just be a lot of sitting and waiting. Hopefully, Lady Malin would attend this birth as well.

"Mellon nin," Tauriel breathed.

King Bard's library never seemed so small. Or stuffy.

"Will I never be more than a friend to you?" Kili approached her with a pleading question on his face.

"Much more than a friend," Tauriel choked, "Amarilme. How could you think otherwise?"

Those words made Kili's heart leap and fall at the same time. He felt like laughing and crying.

"You are worth more to me than all the gold of Erebor," Kili vowed.

"But we are doomed, my love, to hide away from the light and love amongst the shadows."

It was enough, really, to be in the same room after such a long separation.

"Is it true what they say of dwarves," Tauriel asked, "That you love once and for life?"

"Aye," Kili nodded, his fingers running through her glorious red hair. He was drinking Mirkwood wine, and he never drank it without thinking of her. She was his Mirkwood wine.

"It is true for many elves as well. We... fade. My father faded. He chose my mother over me."

Kili was silent for a moment, and Tauriel took the opportunity to discover whether Kili's lips, nose, and growing stubble had changed in their taste.

"I wish you would run away with me." Kili mumbled.

"Where could we go? There is nowhere we could go. We would both die."

"At least we would die together."

"I agree. Cursed be immortality. I agree, Kili. If I had lost you in that Battle then you would be lost to me forever. But this road is perhaps much harder, for I can have you, and yet I cannot."

"So near," Kili nibbled the bridge of her nose in-between words, "Yet so far."

"Damn it all!" Tauriel huffed.

"Shh..."

"Oh, leave it. I don't care. Don't you see, I hate the fact we can never be together."

"Beren and Luthien..."

"Are shadows, nothing more. The world has changed. Such love is only for those to whom a great deal of favour is shown.."

"Perhaps we can ask..."

"Who can we ask? No one will aid us. Not your kin, nor mine."

"Have hope, Tauriel."

"You do not lack it. Perhaps you have enough for both of us. I am tired, Kili. Tired, weary, and broken. I want to be comforted, embraced..."

"Dwarves are seldom open with their embraces."

"Surely you jest! My kind are cold... we seldom embrace. Perhaps never..."

A knock sounded on the door.

"That's Ale warning us," Kili sighed, "We have little time. Pray do not lose heart."

"You have my heart. I trust you to keep it."

"And you have mine... forever." he said quickly.