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Chapter 28 –– Unexpected Dowry
Hemery had dinner alone with Hanah and Híli that night. 'Too busy' was the reply given when she asked Hanah about the others' mealtimes. She was quite happy with that. The calm was only interrupted by Híli and her questions about Esgaroth which were welcome distractions. And Hem preferred to not have anyone witness how Hanah helped cut her meat. Hem was free of the sling but her bad arm would still not cooperate. She could not lift it and hold onto anything without a severe ache in her shoulder.
After dinner, Híli was sent to bed, and Hemery sat in Hanah's parlour.
"Thanks for everythin'," Hem said when Hanah filled her cup with hot water from the kettle.
"It's just tea," Hanah dismissed, pouring her own.
"No, I mean, I'm grateful for all your support. I really appreciate you steppin' in and helpin' with the preparations while I've been gone."
"Oh, no." Hanah shook her head and her spoon from side to side. "I haven't touched a thing. Dìs is doin' all of it."
"Then what was all that about?" Hem asked pointedly, motioning to the door and the corridor beyond where Dwalin had stormed off earlier.
"Well, after the practical details of livin' arrangements and extended privileges, security and what not, there was the matter of your uhm . . . allowance."
Hem's eyebrows rose. "My what?"
"Aye. Apparently, I'm supposed to discuss it with Thorin, as your only livin' family member. Somethin' about . . . protectin' your interests or somethin'. Now, you know I'd rather not have any part in this deal, so I thought it best to ask Dwalin's opinion––though that might have been a mistake," she added, looking down at her cup. "But accordin' to Dìs and Dwalin, you'll have your own annual income when you're married. It's not like you should be forced to go ask the king for pocket money every time you want to go to the market."
"But I earn my own coin," Hem argued, bemused. "Why would I need––"
"It's not even close to what you're due." Hanah stilled and placed a hand on her arm, gripping tightly to halt her train of thought. When she spoke, her voice was grave to the point of almost alarming Hem. "Dwalin claims you should not receive less that one thousand five hundred gold pieces per annum."
"Peh––" Hem choked on her tea.
Hanah nodded. "Per annum."
Hemery could never dream of making that much as a leather smith even if she lived as long as a dwarf. She could never even dream of asking that kind of amount. No wonder there had been words exchanged.
"And . . . " Hem managed to find something resembling her voice. "I take it Thorin refused since . . ." She motioned again to the door and the corridor beyond.
Hanah let her go, shrugged, and stirred her tea. "We never got that far. Dwalin made his proposal a bit too blunt, you could say. Thorin made a snide remark, and Dwalin took it . . . badly, as if the king was mockin' him and therefore also you and me. After that, there was no goin' back."
"But that's ridiculous," Hem said automatically. "Why would I ask for that much? I don't need even a tenth of that sum."
Hanah nodded thoughtfully. "I admit I was shocked when I first heard it, too, but then I talked to Sethie about it. It makes sense when you think about it."
"One thousand five hundred gold pieces?" Hem repeated.
"With that you can hire your own people, not dependin' on the king or the council to provide you with guards or servants. You can keep your own horses. You can buy land, if you want," Hanah offered with a most uncommon exuberance. "You could buy the tanner's place in Esgaroth, you remember, where the workers are so poorly treated. You could get involved in the charities with Sigrid. You could help people, like you always talked about."
It sounded nice when spoken like that, but it was overwhelming.
"You know, when I said that, I mostly meant just you and Híli," Hem amended.
"What about all your work for the school?"
"That was so that Híli could have a good education without havin' to be sent off. Not just for her to learn readin' and writin' but for her to be good at it and see that there are other values to life than diggin' and buildin' in stone. So she could see that everythin' is part of a cultural system through which she can learn about people, their motivations and their weaknesses. So she could become the best queen she can be when it's her time."
"And you're still helpin' her do all that," Hanah emphasised. "You'd set an example for her. How welcome do you think she actually feels when all she sees in that council room are old, moldy dwarrows? But to see you as queen while she's growin' up––I could think of no one better to guide her."
Hemery was not so sure about that. She had always seen Hanah as the most admirable person she had ever met. True, Hanah did not have ambition or high ideals, but she also did not cause as much trouble for herself as Hem did. Not only had Hanah taken responsibility for her own life when Father died, she had also raised Hemery, comforted her and kept her safe. And Hanah had survived more perils alone at eighteen than Hem would have known what to do with.
Hem had been present when Hanah dropped Maaret's body in the river, but Hem never learned exactly what had happened that night. She suspected there were many things about their early years at Erebor that Hanah never spoke of in order to not frighten Hem. She could only pray to be blessed with half of Hanah's strength.
"You sell yourself short," Hem said.
"No, you are if you're marryin' a king for less than a thousand gold pieces a year," Hanah said, smiling. "Or so I'm told."
"Alright, I trust you and Dwalin." Hemery thought a moment. "But will you finish this business with Thorin? I'm not comfortable askin' him for gold."
Hanah smiled. "Lucky for us, Dwalin is very comfortable with it."
The next morning, Bror followed Hemery dutifully to Balin's study. She had to admit that all her troubles with guards in the last month had proved to her that Bror was one of the better ones––in temper as well as vigilance. He never argued with her, though he sometimes refused to oblige her. He never gave her a reason to doubt his loyalty, though she knew he foremost answered to Thorin. And he rarely voiced his opinion, though she sometimes wished he would. He just followed her, a silent companion in every venture everywhere.
And he had not had a day off in over a week. This suspension nonsense with Raín and Vannur had to stop.
"You received my report?" Hemery asked Balin when he invited her in.
"Aye, I did." He motioned for her to sit in front of his desk, but she was too restless. When she did not sit, neither did he. "But I would like to hear it in your own voice," he asked patiently.
"Do our accounts differ in terms of action or consequences?"
"Well, not as such. Ye see, there are a number of aspects to take into consideration when undertaking an inquiry such as this––"
"But if we all say the same thing, then surely you should be able to ascertain whether misdeeds have occurred? I do not intend to accuse anyone of harm against me or demand recompense, so why drag this out more than it already has been?"
"As I said, Miss Hemery, there are always foundations upon which circumstances are built. Misfortune and accidents are rarely isolated events. Experience has taught me to investigate more thorough than simply asking what happened and when." He produced a stack of parchment––much thicker than she would have expected from the testimonies and reports of six people––from a nearby shelf and placed it heavily on his desk. "Ye'd be surprised by the results."
Lord Balin's calm was strangely assuring and frustrating all at once. Hemery sat finally, and he followed suit.
"Why don't ye start at the beginning?"
Hem cast her mind back to the night of the incident. "Uhm, I was awakened by Raín at my door, at my room in The Galley."
Balin surprised her by interrupting immediately. "I beg yer pardon," he said with a small smile. "I meant, when ye first met Lieutenant Raín and Captain Vannur."
"Oh." Hem paused, bewildered. "Raín was assigned to me last summer, when I came home from Tirith, but I didn't speak to her until half a year later."
"Do ye get along? Any disputes or dislikes in any way?"
"We get along fine. She doesn't speak much at all. Except . . ."
"Yes?"
Hem cursed herself for allowing her trust in Balin let her tongue loosen thoughtlessly. He was, after all, the one to decide Raín's and Vannur's fates. She could not let him believe she was unhappy with either of them or give him reason to think they were disloyal to Erebor. However, she did not want to tell him of intimate conversations meant for only four ears, either.
She sighed before speaking. "Last week, she was worried about my work and about Beren. She encouraged me to not give up and to stay true to the path I have chosen for myself. That was the first and only time we've ever talked alone. That and when she carried me to The Galley after . . . the blast."
Balin nodded then, clearly understanding that Hem was paraphrasing Raín, and he did not press for more details. He did, however, make a note in a document before him.
"And Vannur?" he prodded.
Hem told him how Vannur had been assigned to her during their stay in Blackwater. When Balin asked about the reason for the sudden shift in responsibilities, Hem found she had trouble with her recollection––she felt only a pit of uncertainty and fear where concrete memory should have been.
"You'll have to ask King Thorin," she answered coolly. "I think he got worried when we got there. Things were perhaps worse than he anticipated and tried to compensate for the lack of safety. I don't know," she said honesty. "He didn't want me there in the first place."
Then she talked about the night when Vannur saved her from the orcs and how she took charge of every situation they were placed in, how she aided and advised Hem, whether asked for it or not, and how safe Hem felt in Vannur's, Raín's, and Bror's presence after the incident.
She went on to tell him specifically about the night when Raín came knocking at her door, only to be interrupted again.
"How long had you been sleeping?"
"Well, not long." She had already been awake, forced to insomnia by her nightmares. "An hour, perhaps. What does that have to do with anythin?"
"Sleeplessness causes the mind to function at a lesser rate. It may cause irritability and deficient reasoning, even madness if allowed to spread over days or weeks. Have ye had difficulty sleeping before this instance?"
Hemery hesitated in her reply. "I wake sometimes at night, but nothin' to disturb my days."
Balin made a small note. Hem could not see what. "Please, continue."
"Raín knocked on the door," she went on, more careful now of what she said––mindful of his scrutiny. "She said Lida was there to speak to me. That it was important."
"Was the door open when she said this?"
Hem thought about it a moment. "No, I had not told her to come in."
"I see."
"See what?" Hem asked, curious.
He did not reply but instead asked, "Had Raín met Lida before?"
"I don't think so. I mean, I'm not with her every hour of the day."
"How do ye think Raín recognised Lida?"
"The day guard probably told her of the uthrab," Hem said, bitterly.
Balin watched her, as if waiting for her to go on.
"The other guards are very distrustful of Lida, as you may have guessed, and would not have neglected to pass on any information about possible threats to my person." She sat back, crossing her legs. "I can imagine as much," she added, admitting that this was merely her own speculation.
Thus, the morning crept on slowly. Balin would ask her to expand on assumptions and theories of her own, as well as question every generalisation and shortcut she made in her story. By noon, they had discussed the events so many times over that Hem hardly knew what was real anymore.
"How many ways can I say it?" Hem groaned, rubbing at her face. "It was my fault people got hurt. I decided to go to the storehouse without Kíli or Bain's soldiers. I let Lida roam free on the docks. It was my fault––no one else's. Can you please tell me Raín and Vannur won't be held accountable for the incident, nor any of the Wolves?" She leaned forward, resting her good elbow on the edge of Balin's desk.
He watched her patiently as ever, his hands folded but tapping his quill softly on the parchment, as if in thought.
"We can stop now, if ye wish," he said. "I have enough to conclude my own report. I will also write up a recommendation for measures to be made. Their commander in chief will decide on the matter."
"King Thorin." Hem shook her head dejectedly, worn and weary. "But he said you would decide."
Balin smiled carefully. "He is king. He may overrule any decision of mine. Have been known to do so frequently, in fact."
Hem sat back. She needed to eat something soon; hunger was probably the reason she felt so tired.
"When?" she asked.
"Well, I will finish this afternoon. There'll be some paperwork to sign, seal, and archive . . . And then the notifications and notary . . . processing and . . ." Balin listed, a half-mumble more to himself than to her.
"Just give me a day," she snapped. "Any day."
"Oh, aye, three days at most," he settled, unfazed. "Whatever the decision, it will be put into practice within three days."
"Good," she said, rising.
"Miss Hemery," he voiced, halting her before she reached the door. He peered at her over his spectacles. "I'll make sure it's placed at the top of his pile."
"Gratitude, m'lord," she said, feeling a smile make its way to her face.
"After all, it's in his best interest that the matter be dealt with swiftly. If I were him, I wouldn't provoke a lady just days before I was to wed her," he added with a warm chuckle.
Hem's smile turned into a laugh. "You are very wise, m'lord."
That very same night, upon leaving the dining room, Hemery noticed Raín had relieved Bror for the night shift during her dinner. Hem halted outside the door.
"You're back." Balin had indeed made quick work of that report, she mused.
"Aye, Miss."
"Good."
Nonplussed, Hem simply began the walk to her chambers with Raín following as usual. But what was not usual was Hem's feeling that she was rudely ignoring Raín by keeping her back to her. Hem had not felt that in a long time. She did not like the idea that she had become so accustomed to servants and guards following her.
"May I walk beside you?" Hem asked after a moment.
Raín hesitated––in her flittering gaze, never in her stance––before answering. "If you wish."
Hem matched her pace with Raín's, walking on.
"I apologise for any harm this . . . suspension of your duties may have caused," Hem said.
Silenced stretched.
"It happens," Raín replied tersely.
"Oh?" Hem genuinely had no idea. Perhaps it was a small comfort. Unless Raín was belittling the event, which dwarves were prone to do when dealing with embarrassment. "Well, in any case. Apologies. And I can't tell you the gratitude I feel for all you did for me."
Raín's eyes cut to her at that but merely nodded in reply.
"Have there been any measures taken?" Hem asked, curious about the hasty decision. "If I may ask?"
Raín was silent so long that Hem began thinking the worst. What if Raín and Vannur were being punished after all, despite that Raín had seemingly been returned to regular duty? What if she was being sent away shortly? Or worse, what if she were to be stuck as Hemery's guard for the rest of her life, never advancing, never changing, ever walking the night shift up and down those cold corridors?
"They offered me a position with the Iron Wolves," Raín said.
"Really?" Hem said slowly, confused but nodding. "Uhm . . . Congratulations."
"I refused."
Hem was stunned. "What? Why? I understand it's a great honour to join their ranks."
Raín was again silent a moment before replying, "Aye, Miss. It is a great honour."
"Then why would you turn it down?" Hem thought most dwarves would jump at the opportunity to raise themselves.
"As I said before, Miss––I like it here."
"But––"
"I like the quiet," Raín dared to interrupt, glancing at Hem again.
Right, Raín's choice of work was her business. Hem only nodded and refrained from asking anymore questions. And if she was gleeful that Raín preferred to work with her rather than the prestigeous Wolves, she did not let it show. They continued on their way through the halls together in grateful silence––one more grateful, the other more silent.
The next day, Vannur was also present at the guard change. Like Raín, she did not divulge any details about the suspension other than that she was cleared along with Raín and the Wolves who had been with them on that night. But when Hemery thanked her, she protested.
"Don't thank me, m'lady," Vannur said. "Just let me preform my duty." As she had asked once before in Esgaroth.
Hem caught the hint and felt her cheeks grow hotter. It was a strange thing to feel berated and at the same time flattered that these excellent guards wished to work with her still. Sure, they had initially been assigned to her, but Hem was confident that at least Vannur could easily have requested another post, especially after the humiliation that Hemery had put them all through with the suspension.
"Your testimony was thanks enough," Vannur added. "You took blame that should have been on me, though you didn't have to. Would have been easy to let the lords believe the casualties and the injuries had been our fault."
The incident had been more complicated than that, but when it came to identifying scapegoats, Balin would have had no problem with targeting single individuals if he thought it necessary.
"We all know it was my idea. Even Balin, who was not there, could have had a bloody guess at it."
"Aye, Miss. But you are still a civilian. Security is not your responsibility."
"Well, it'll have to be from now on, won't it?" Hem argued.
Vannur tilted her head in reluctant agreement. But no more was spoken on the subject, so Hem was glad to put it at the back of her mind. Not that she had a choice. With the upcoming wedding, she had no time or capacity to think much of anything.
The days passed quickly for Hemery by helping Dis with planning inconsequential details like food and seating arrangements for the ceremony, and then suddenly, it was the eve before she was to wed King Thorin. As Hanah had assured her, the practical matters of living arrangements and livelihoods had been taken care of, and her rooms had been stripped of her belongings, most packed away to be moved in the morning, as if she was being banished from her home. Her chambers would be given to Híli now, still close to the girl's parents but with a clear line of independence. Híli had been torn about the anticipation of her new rooms, bigger and all to herself, and the sad parting with her aunt. Hem had to remind herself that she was only moving down the hall.
Everything was changing. By that small shift in location from one end of the south wing to the other, she would turn her whole existence upside down. But then again, that had already happened several times over. She had survived those shifts. She would survive this too. This was what she wanted––to marry Thorin.
And it was what he wanted too, was it not?
Dis looked up from her desk as the door opened.
"She won't wear the gold," Sethie informed without even a greeting.
It was late, and Dis still had work to do since she had put aside her regular duties for the sake of planning the most rushed wedding she had ever had the misfortune to witness. Aside from her own, of course, but that thought was best left alone.
"She . . . will not wear it?" Dis questioned to clarify that she had heard Sethie correctly. Dis really hoped she had not.
Sethie smiled thinly in sympathy.
"I think it's just nerves getting in the way. She's starting to get cold feet, so outwardly she'll doubt every practical detail 'cause it's easier than dealing with the source."
"I knew this would happen," Dis said in irritation. "If only he'd taken more time to––" She stopped herself, sighing. No use banging the I told you so-drum at this point. "But, of course, I don't have to agree with my brother at every turn––I just have to make it work. He knows what he's doing."
"Except when he doesn't," Sethie countered mildly, tilting her head.
Dis cracked a smile.
"What does Hanah say?" she asked.
"She made it clear from the start that she wasn't going to meddle in the practical aspects of the ceremony. She neither knows nor cares particularly about traditions and rituals. That being said, she'll side with her sister, no matter what. If Hemery doesn't want to wear the gold, Hanah won't persuade her."
"And let me guess," Dis said, pushing her hair back and rubbing her scalp tiredly, "you will be no help in this matter, either?"
Sethie shrugged. "I'm the last person to advice her on proper appearances and conventions, as you well know." She gave Dis a meaningful look. "Besides, I've never been married."
Wiping her quill of excess ink, Dis returned the look. She understood Sethie's meaning perfectly.
"Does Thorin know of her protests?"
"Not yet." Sethie's eyebrow rose as if to say it was only a matter of time.
Dis closed the lid of the ink well with a flick of her finger. Then she stood. "Very well. I'll speak with her." Her work would have to wait.
On Dis's knock, Hemery opened her door quickly considering the late hour. Not unusual for someone who were most certainly wide awake and worrying a hole in the floor with restless anticipation for the next day. Dis was not surprised. Hem, however, was very much so.
"Lady Dis," she greeted respectfully when she opened the door. "Please, come in."
"How are you?" Dis asked, taking in Hem's jittery hands and jerky, stressed movements. "Everything in order?"
"Oh, aye. It's fine. All's settled. No complications, really. I mean, it'll be over within an hour, right? No need to turn oneself into knots."
Hem's rambling suggested nerves, just like Sethie warned.
"Just memorise a few lines and recite them at the correct moment," Hem tried to trivialise. "What could go wrong?"
It seemed uncertain whether she believed that herself.
"I have personally overseen all the preparations," Dis said. "I assure you, everything will run smoothly as long as you do your part."
Hem's face fell. Obviously, she knew what Dis alluded to.
"Why will you not wear what's been made for you?" Dis asked patiently.
Hemery suddenly looked miserable, her brow crumbling into sad creases.
"There are at least a thousand gold pieces on that thing," she hissed in a whisper and pointed to the small chest on the table, as if not saying it out loud would make the refused gold less of an insult to the Durins. "Not to mention the bracelets and the anklets, the rings, and the belt. I'll look ridiculous, and I'll sound even worse when I move. It's too much. I can barely lift that box with my bare hands."
Dis tried to keep her smile kind and understanding.
"It's simply . . ." She drew a breath, searching for the right words. "A symbol of prosperity."
"Erebor's prosperity, perhaps," Hem protested. "The king's wealth, certainly. And the end of my life as I know it, most decidedly."
Dis frowned. "I know this is a big step, and I know you know that. You're no fool––you have known it all along."
"I know," Hem admitted, tossing her hands up, helplessly. "But if I put on that . . . costume, it will be that much more real. I'll be posin' as the king's property, as somethin' to be decorated for someone's else's viewin' pleasure. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's not me."
Dis shook her head, raising her hands to soothe Hem's tense shoulders.
"No, no, no, dearest lass. It's not like that. It is you. It is yours."
"What?" Hem frowned.
"The gold is yours," Dis explained. "It's your wedding gift. It's your prosperity––your property––to show the world that only one person is worthy of your hand. The one you allowed to gift you this treasure, the one from whom you accepted this token of respect, loyalty, and trust. Common law dictates that you may keep this gold no matter what happens, whether you complete the marriage ceremony or not, whether you choose to stay with your partner or not. This is to ensure that the woman may break with her husband in case of an abusive or otherwise destructive relationship.
"However, if he would leave you, he must pay twice this sum in order to be separated and financially relieved from his commitment. This is naturally to ensure you of your husband's loyalty and devotion, since the woman may be indisposed with childcare for many years and therefore deprived of her ability to earn a wage. The greater the gift, the greater his pledge of faithfulness."
Hem listened raptly. "But . . . what if the man is poor? Should the capacity of one's heart be determined by one's pocket book?" She clearly did not like this marital theory.
"Have you ever seen a poor man under our rule?" Dis challenged.
Hem thought a moment. "Not in Erebor, no," she admitted. "Can't say that I have. But to be fair, I spend most of my time with royalty," she added cynically.
"There are naturally those who have fallen ill or have been hurt or otherwise incapable of making a living, but they are relatively few. Of those, even fewer are married, since the majority of dwarves do not pursue matrimonial interests. In Erebor, everyone has a function. Poverty indicates material obstacles or idleness. The first is more easily remedied than the second. And an idle dwarf ought not to exist, much less be married."
Dis could tell that Hem still was not convinced.
"I grant you," Dis went on, "it is an old tradition, rarely enforced. But when a king marries, once in a hundred years or so, it is a valuable ceremony that sets the standard for all others. A symbol that the union is an honour––for both parties––to enter into. And not one to enter lightly."
Hemery remained thoughtful but did not challenge it further.
"Why the anklets, though?" she asked instead, focusing perhaps on a point of discomfort rather than morality. "They won't be visible beneath the dress, anyway."
"You'll know they're there. And judging by their weight, your gait will testify to their presence." Dis paused. "And . . . it's supposed to be pleasurable to wear them––and for your husband to see them––when you undress on the wedding night." Dis laughed, amused by Hem's nonplussed, blushing face. "Personally, I think it's just a stigma––anticipation toward a specific moment built up over time that can never live up to expectations."
It looked like Hem wanted to ask more, but she did not.
"Will you try it on, at least?" Dis requested, letting hope colour her tone.
Hem smiled tensely. "Alright."
Dis helped her with all the fastenings and made sure all the fabric and metal fell as they were supposed to. The basic dress was dark red, covered in part by a sheer open tunic that traced the floor, a bit too long in the back for Hem's liking. This was accentuated by a wide silk fabric tying it all together at the waist, from below the bust to the hip, in several layers and different shades and patterns of brighter red.
A lace fabric covered Hem's head from her forehead, over the top of her head, and down her back to skim the floor. The dress was comfortable in its generous cut. Hem had not even needed a fitting, which was why she had not been faced with this particular wardrobe request sooner. It would have been better to present it to her earlier, but given the brief preparation––the gold pieces had to be custom made, after all––it could not be done.
A circle of small gold discs fused together, like a crown, kept the lace in place on her head. Gold bracelets were clasped at her wrists, wide as her palms, weighing at least two pounds each. Over the waist, a belt made of gold plates the shape and size of goose eggs rested heavily, made heavier by the chains of smaller pieces which hung like dripping, melted gold drops from the belt down to her feet on all sides.
She had a gold necklace, as well, if one could call it that, made up of flat triangles which side by side formed a larger triangle covering her chest from shoulder to shoulder and tapering down with its tip attached to the belt. Another triangle mirrored it on her back, balancing out the weight and kept the front in place with a few rings over her shoulders.
Most of her hair would be free with only a few braids with interwoven pearls and gold beads. If Hemery could be persuaded to wear it, that is, Dis thought.
"Hm," Dis hummed in displeasure.
"What?" Hemery asked, wary.
"I've never noticed before that your ears aren't pierced. You won't be able to wear the earrings."
"Oh, calamity," Hem said sarcastically. She held up a hand, making the chains chink softly as she moved. "I refuse to mutilate myself for my weddin' day. No bloody way." Then she blanched as she realised to whom she was speaking. "Apologies, m'lady," she amended, sheepish.
Dis smiled in amusement. "That's quite alright."
Hem adjusted the necklace––or chainmail, rather––on her chest. "Bloody Mahal, this is heavy," she breathed out. "It's just––I already look like a theatrical impersonation of Yavannah or something."
Dis put her hands on Hem's shoulders from behind, making sure they locked eyes in the mirror.
"You look like a queen," she stated with no room for argument. Hem would become what Dis never would. Dis might have become queen mother some day but never supreme sovereign. However, she could not say it was a particular cause for lament on her part.
Hemery grew serious at that, straightening significantly as she regarded herself.
Dis let go of any lingering worries about Hem's cold feet. She may not have been born to it, but Hemery would take what strength she had gathered in her young years and build it into the stuff of regents, Dis was certain. Hem had proved she could handle Thorin; she could handle this.
"Did you wear this when you married?" Hem asked.
Memories flashed in Dis's mind before she answered, bitter in their distance and laced with old regrets. "Something like it," was all she offered. Not until she saw her own frozen countenance in the mirror did Dis let Hem go and moved to face her.
"I'm sure you know this––if not by your own sensibilities then by Hanah's advice, no doubt––but I'd like to voice it nonetheless," she began carefully. "This will be a genuine, legitimate union, but be aware that you need not obey Thorin as your husband, only as your king, which are two very different duties."
Hemery had once more fallen silent, listening attentively and perhaps a bit worried.
"You need not give him an heir," Dis went on. "You need not represent him in any capacity or please him in ways you are uncomfortable with."
Dis tugged at the veil, pulling it forward over Hem's shoulders as if closing it like a sheltering cloak, aimlessly adjusting the dress.
"This marriage may be merely a harmless spectacle with the people as an audience, but always put your own wellbeing first, because in the king's shadow, you will always come second in everyone's priorities."
Hem put her hands on top of Dis's where they fidgeted with the lace, holding them still.
"Dis?" Hem said to catch her attention. "Are you worried about . . . me and the king?"
"No," she quickly replied. Dis knew Thorin cared for Hemery; she did not believe he would abuse her in any way. "Not at all. I'm reminding you of your place, that's all. You and your sister are orphans, my family the only patrons you have."
It could be debated that Dwalin also was her guardian, but Dis focused on her son being the reason for Hemery and Hanah's move to Erebor and all they had been subjected to since––good as well as bad. Hanah's financial success, Hemery's influence at court, the persecution and the danger they had faced were all consequences of actions by the Durins. Dwalin had been merely social support, while Thorin had put Hem on the spot and forced her to make all kinds of sacrifices for the good of Erebor as if she was their kin. Dis too had devoted her life to the safekeeping of their people––as Thorin himself had done on many occasions, as well as Dis's sons. Though it was the way of the world, Dis acknowledged her part in Hem's fate, if only as a complacent spectator.
"And even we who were supposed to protect you have exposed you to the vulgar business of politics. For that I can only apologise. But it could be worse, child. A lot worse."
She almost regretted this last part of her sermon; she had meant to assure Hemery, but it seemed Dis had mostly confused or even scared her. She decided to change the subject.
"You don't have to wear the anklets if you don't wish to," she said, attempting a smile.
Hem cracked a smile in return, almost rolling her eyes. "Thankin' you ever so kindly, m'lady," she jested. "Now that there's only five hundred pounds left, I'll be positively flyin' down the stairs tomorrow––probably face first, mind you."
Dis genuinely laughed at Hem's exaggeration. "So you'll wear the dress?" she asked.
"You do know that my shoulder isn't fully healed yet?" Hem pushed. "I shouldn't be carryin' heavy objects."
Dis raised expectant eyebrows at her, very similar to her brother's, only warmer.
Hem sighed in resignation. "I'll have Sethie help me into it. And not here––I'll find somewhere closer to the great hall to change so I don't strain somethin' on the way to the ceremony. Don't want my first impression as queen to be a limpin' carnival clown."
Sleep would not come. Hemery lay in bed, eyes closed, willing herself to slip away into oblivion. But she was both terrified of the day to come and unwilling to enter the dreams she was now assaulted by every night. They were getting worse, but she hoped with all her being that it was only nerves before the morrow. After the wedding, they would surely go away.
Therefore, when the knock sounded through her empty rooms, Hem sprung from her bed, eager to distract herself from her own thoughts and to see he whom she was certain had come to see her. She had not allowed herself to anticipate a visit tonight, but secretly, she hoped he would come.
With a long, knitted sweater over her night dress, she opened her door.
"Am I disturbing you?" Thorin asked politely.
"I couldn't sleep," she answered, opening the door further to let him in. He did not move, but he did not speak either. This worried Hem. "Is somethin' wrong?"
"I . . ." he began. "I merely wished to make sure you were still here."
"Of course I'm still here." She frowned. Did he think she would run away? Just leave without notice?
"And tomorrow . . ."
"I'll still be here tomorrow." Her fatigue bled into her tone, making it impatient.
"Good." He nodded once. "No change then."
"We made an agreement," Hem reminded him and crossed her arms in annoyance though her shoulder still ached. She ignored the pain. "I'll not be the one to break it," she said stubbornly.
His mouth softened into almost a smile. "I did not mean to insinuate any violation of our contract."
"Then why are you here?"
He did not reply. He did not seem sure of the answer himself.
"Thorin," she said softly, but firmly. He met her eyes steadily. "Are you sure you want me as your wife?" She tried to say it devoid of judgement, offering him a chance to speak frankly. "So much has happened since we last spoke of it. You don't really need to protect me anymore. I'd understand if––"
"As you said," he interrupted calmly, fixing her with his steel gaze. "We have an agreement. I have no wish to break it more than you."
"Good," she said, though frowning again in vexation at his vague reply. "You should go to bed now, Sire. You have big day ahead of you," she dismissed teasingly. But when she moved to close the door, he caught her hand.
Without breaking eye contact, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing it. It was a small kiss that warmed her belly much more than it should.
"Till tomorrow," he said before releasing her.
