Chapter 53

"She is not herself today," Daena nuzzle her horse gently, handing the reigns to the groom. Young Tarja nodded, half in awe and half in sympathy, for she admired the great dwarf-lady and shared her affection for the noble, raven-black thoroughbreed, by far the finest, gentlest and strongest of horses in the Ereborean stables.

"Her grain was not finished this morning, my lady," Tarja referred to the expensive feed, something Daena spared no expense on.

"Why was I not told of this?" Daena demanded, not harshly but quite sternly indeed, which made the young groomswoman tremble.

"It was not much, milady, but unusual, that is all. She devours her feed very quickly most mornings," Tarja explained.

"I should have ridden quite so far today," Daena sighed, "Or perhaps I could have ridden the other one."

Onyx was an equally beautiful and fine pony, and would have been the pride of any stable. Unfortunately, she simply had the misfortune of having an unconquerable rival in her mistress's affections.

"Forgive me, milady," Tarja began, quite crushed by her supposed negligence.

"Please, inform me next time," Daena concluded impatiently and left further instructions for Raven's care.

She heard the door to the stable open, and a flustered and floured Madghie stumble in, covering her nose against the odor of horses.

"My lady!" Madghie heaved, her breath hot and heavy as she struggled to catch it.

"Madghie!" Daena spun again in disapproval. She had envisioned her cook in the midst of her pristine kitchen, ready to serve a hot evening meal, not stumbling about amongst hay, grain and manure and without any pastry ready on hand. The idea of a cook seemed incongruous with that of horse stables. Besides, Daena was concerned all the day that Madghie would her way about the mountains and tumble into one of the deserted mines, to be forgotten and discovered only fifty years hence (it had happened to a household servant before).

"You are required... to come..." Madghie tried to straighten her cap and apron.

"None may require me to do anything," Daena reminded her imperiously and impatiently, thinking of how difficult it will be to arranged for Madghie to have a hot bath, have her fingers scrubbed beneath the nails and her cap, apron and dress completely scoured, boiled and starched, before which she would not dare to touch a crumb of food.

"Malin azbad," Madghie stumbled over the Khuzdul title, "She calls for aid..."

Daena's heart quickened and she already begin trudging past the befuddled servant, her heavy boots imprinting the straw underfoot with muffled thuds.


Two hours earlier...

"Well, I never fancied myself immortalized in stone," Dis mused, handing the sketch to Malin,"What do you think? Do I look too much like Thorin?"

"But don't you?" Malin frowned dumbly, "Resemble..."

"The last thing I want is a hundred years from now, a young dwarf walks by and points out my statue as being that of Thorin Oakenshield. That's what they did to our aunt Fris down by the Hall of Silver," Dis sighed, "People always called her Nain. That should not happen to me. I shall rise from my grave and my stone turn to dust if..."

"Daena is like Dain is many ways, but no one would dare to confuse them, accidentally or not," Malin commented, "But where will you be placed?"

"I shall keep watch over the entrance to the infirmary and have my say in the proceedings even after I am gone. They will look to my image and remember the traditions of their forebears."

"Perhaps it is rather early on," Malin pointed out doubtfully, "In your... lifespan... for such a monument."

"Do you not think I have suffered enough?" Dis gave her a queer sideways glance, "Given enough? Are not my sons the heirs?"

"It is not that," Malin hastened to correct, "Tradition..."

"Hang tradition," Dis said, thinking that she had better be preserved for posterity in glorious her middle-years rather than wait until she was old and grey-bearded.

Malin shrugged, "It is your prerogative."

"Your concern for the infirm will be a great comfort to them, I am sure," Dori put in delicately.

"The smith had better live up to his ambitious sketching," Dis harrumphed, shaking her head as if the dwarf's recommendations could not be trusted. Truth to be told, Dori was a considerable expert on statues and other great interior monuments in the mountain. It was he, often times, who would have the final say in the reconstructive where a statue would be placed, with what metalwork would a balustrade would be replaced, and so forth. Of course, Dori's attention to detail and artistry often conflicted with the more utilitarian priorities of the King's Council, Gloin in particular.

"Aye, he's a good one. Nos, son of Kos. Just finished his apprenticeship, and as I always say, it'll be worth better in the long run with a junior smith of any kind, they cost less and listen more to what you want. Some of the older carvers create statues more like each other than their likenesses, which is precisely what you wish to avoid."

"Yes, this shall be the right choice. Thank you Dori." Dis rubbed her hands together, "And what about the order I made for tomorrow?"

"Dori is not your errand boy," Malin chided her, "Surely you can collect your own orders."

"'Tis not so!" Dis replied, insulted, "It is a delivery of some special importance.."

"For?"

"Tomorrow, have you forgotten?"

No, Malin had not forgotten.

"Of course not," Malin sulked. Dis was always sensitive regarding her late husband, no less on the most romantic of days in dwarven counting.

"It's the second, or was it third, year I am apart from dear Beilli," Dis sniffed, suddenly melancholic, "I always brought the lads to see their father on our days of remembrance."

Malin wondered to herself

The stonemason did a rather good likeness,. You ought to behold it some day."

"I am sure the smith was excellent, but I have no plans to visit the Blue Mountains," Malin shrugged, "Travel does not suit me."

"Does not suit me," mocked Dis.

"I have scarcely been abroad," Malin protested, "It is not the custom."

"Custom or not..." Dis began, but Malin interrupted her quickly,

"I am reminded quite suddenly," she searched about her skirts for the pocket slit and produced a letter with a broken seal, "Dolna Grimhorn, Lady of the Grey Mountains. She has replied my... your letter once again, with a formal invitation. It appears their crafters' faire is to be of particular note this fall. Furthermore, she wishes to introduce us to her yearling heirs, sons of her son. Of course I will write to decline, which is a pity indeed."

Dis held out her hand for Malin to deliver the gracefully written letter, that bore a faint scent of pine fragrance. Such fine paper, such fine ink! Dis's interest in the invitation quite surpassed her earlier declaration of disdain for all correspondence in the King's Council not a month ago, when Balin had demanded (not merely requested) that all her private conversations with the great dwarven ladies and queens east and west be directed by the council's wishes. That had led to Malin assuming the responsibility of carefully drafting the letters under the supervision of the council, with the care and diplomacy of a formal contract.

"I do not see why not," Dis exclaimed suddenly excited, "Why should we miss there faire? There is no reason at all why one dwarven lady should not consort with another.

"The council..." Malin protested, "The king..."

"You leave the king to me," Dis announced, "I do think it will be very good for the both of us, very exciting indeed. I do believe we should be there in a week should we leave tomorrow, in good time for the faire no less."

"There will not be enough time for... for..." Malin began to panic at Dis's demands, thinking suddenly of the hiring of guards, preparing of weapons, consultations with the demanding diplomatic council, not to mention her own wardrobe that was severely diminished.

"Leave this to me," Dis waved the letter confidently, "Ered Mithrin is not as the elf-woods, for goodness's sake."


"To think!"

Daena heard babbling and her ears were picking up strains of animated conversation,

"Two dwarflings in one womb, is such a thing possible?"

Two babes born at once? Daena had to know the details. She reached to pick up her skirts, but of course realized that she need not, for the riding breeches and coat impeded her brisk gait in no way at all.

"I would have died..." Dis could be heard declaring, "Two children in five years was quite enough for me, but two at born at once. I cannot fathom..."

"What is the matter?" Daena stepped into the room regally, bowing at Dis and turning to Malin, who was reading from a letter.

"We are invited to the Faire at Ered Mithrin," Dis gestured excitedly, "Furthermore, it appears that Lady Dolna's grandchildren are to celebrate their Yearling Feast. Two children by her son, a grandson and a grand-daughter... she certainly is to be congratulated."

"The Faire is very soon. Surely the arrangements cannot be made so quickly as to plan a trip to Ered Mithrin," said Daena, thinking of protocol and politics at once.

"Their Faire is a week after ours," Malin pointed out.

"Surely you do not approve of this foolhardy scheme, Malin," Daena frowned, though the thought of visiting Ered Mithrin aroused her interest in way that would be difficult to conceal.

"I should prefer a quieter holiday," Malin admitted, "Not with all the hustle and bustle of the Faire. Perhaps next spring."

"Spring shall be too late," Dis pointed out, resentful of any delay, "I certainly can manage it quite well. Why, we packed up and left the Blue Mountains at a moment's notice."

"Whoever you choose to include in your party," Daena moved towards a seat, "I would be happy to assist in making arrangements. I have experience in these matters. How you think my brother came to the aid of yours within a day? In the capable hands of any dwarrowdame, I assure, an army can be summoned and readied for battle."

"We shall certainly need the strength of an army," Dis agreed, "And of course there is no question. You will be in my party, if you so wish. It would be an honor."

An honor, indeed, that Daena could not resist.


"I don't know," Ale fretted, sitting up from where she had been so serenely reposed with Bifur threading his fingers through her tousled hair. The utter contentment of moments ago had given way to mounting panic.

There was no reply, but Bifur began humming a song and Ale leaned back once again onto the side of the mining cart. They had brought along a meal - thick sandwiches of - to enjoy in the deserted forge. Swinging from where the bemused guard had reeled them to, they were gazing at the ceiling dotted with semi-precious crystals, hanging high above more caverns of gems.

At the risk of ruining their perfect moment, Ale just had to voice her concerns.

"What will happen? I cannot go there. There will be enemies, and debtors, and perhaps I shall cause embarrassment to my lady. "

Bifur shrugged,

"I will go with you," he gestured nonchalantly.

He thought that it was better, sooner than later, to lay the ghosts of the past to rest. It felt instinctively right to him that Ale should visits the Grey Mountains, and that he should go with her. They were are good as courting, if only she could come to terms with herself.

"Could you? Would you?" Ale was relieved, enchanting by his gallant heroicism, "I could face anything, you know. With you."


The kettle began to whistle, and Urla whistled back as she hummed a tune and pulled it off the burner. Next to it, a copper distiller puffed away as precious drops of lavender essence dripped into a tiny jar.

It would be good for burns, Urla noted, and, wiping the steam off her hands onto the crisp linen apron she sat down at her little table and reached for the quill to jot down a quick remark on a patient's progress. All was quiet and still, as it should be. Elekh had recently imposed rules, rules that mandated a quite and less frantic atmosphere in the healing rooms, something impossible during Oin's tenure due to his hardness of hearing. Now, rowdy relatives were silenced and ushered in one at a time, visits were orderly and all conversation kept to a minimum to help invalids recover in peace and stillness. The rooms had been expanded, new apprentices had begun coming in to work as orderlies, and everything ran smoothly. Urla found her place as the quiet researcher who made notes, prepared preparations of herbs, and kept the books. Everything was just as she wanted it.

Banging. Suddenly. Urla looked up, slightly irritated. Perhaps she ought to peek out through the curtain-covered windows to see what was the kerfuffle about.

"Urla!" a young flame-haired dwarrow caught sight of her and made his way quickly.

"Gimli!" Urla opened the door.

"Come at once. There's been a fire. Elekh is already there... and she sends for herbs which I am to help you carry."

"I will come at once," Urla looked around. There already was an emergency-case she had newly replenished, thank goodness.

"Quickly," Gimli urged.

"I just need..." Urla flew about, shoving necessities into Gimli's hands, and then stopped and considered two different bottles, "What kind of burns?"

"Blast, mining blast," Gimli appeared confused, "Quite a few were injured."

"Alright, let's go," Urla had two baskets and Gimli another. She did not know how much to bring, but surely this will do. In all the excitement, she quite forgot herself and her depression, isolationism and unwillingness to leave the healing rooms.