Chapter 146

Men to the Rescue

To everyone's relief, further encounters with orcs utterly failed to materialise, which allowed the little company to make good time in the following days. They travelled over a land that had been traversed by hordes of orcs in the not so distant past and unsurprisingly, this had not improved the landscape any. It was a miracle that there were any trees left at all. The wildlife, if the orcs had not eaten it, had made a quick escape and had yet to return.

Elvaethor planned to make for Lothlórien and there obtain boats so that they could travel down the Anduin until the Falls of Rauros, as the Fellowship had done. Or planned to do at least. By his estimation this would shave weeks off their journey and indeed it did.

Side note: if anyone is interested to know, no one managed to ferret the truth about Nori's presumed trip to Mordor out of him, although this constant game of question and horribly vague answer kept them all occupied for many days. All things told, the further away from Erebor they got, the brighter their moods became.

This was in stark contrast to Erebor, where good spirits were about to take a nosedive…

Duria

'This isn't possible.'

'It's very well possible,' Cathy snapped. 'Because I have checked.'

Duria blinked, but the numbers on the document in front of her refused to change into something more acceptable. 'But how?'

The response was not encouraging: 'Have you paid the slightest bit of attention to anything other than your personal troubles of late, Duria? Perhaps you'll recall that trouble we had with the traitors, who set fire to our food stores?'

Yes, she did recall. Or rather, she recalled that now that Cathy reminded her of it. Lately her mind had been on other matters. It now became apparent that Cathy's had not been. I have dwelled with the dead, while she has spent time with the living. Duria felt the shame wash over her all again. I have been neglecting my duties.

'So much was lost?' Keeping the dismay out of her voice was an effort that was somewhat beyond her at present. She knew that not all was well, but that the situation was so dire, she never dared to think.

Cathy bestowed a look of contempt on her. 'Yes, so much was lost.' Duria heard the accusation, even though the words remained unspoken. 'It's why the Iron Hills dwarves have gone. Stonehelm has offered to send supplies as soon as he may. The men of the Lake have gone fishing to supplement our diet, but so far they haven't brought in much.'

'Can we send out hunting parties?'

The question rubbed her sister the wrong way. 'If the orcs had left any wildlife at all, do you not think I would have directed some effort to that end already, Duria?'

I know little of such matters. She could criticise the decisions and policies of long-dead kings with razor-sharp wit, but all her books and documents had failed to prepare her for being the one who made such policies in the first place. Nor for the first time she realised that she was singularly ill-prepared for anything to do with life beyond her books. It occurred to her that Cathy was blessed with clearer sight.

She reminds me of amad so much. And it wasn't just in the way she looked either. Their mother had possessed a rare talent for organisation. She also knew what to do to get people to do things her way. It took her time and effort and no small amount of frustration, but she always got it done in the end.

Would that I could lay claims to similar talents.

As it was, Cathy had to talk her through what had already been done. This restored a measure of calm to her at least, because at least she had done something. Not only that, she had done it well. Fishermen had been sent out in droves or herds or whatever the collective noun for multiple fishermen was. She ought to look that up when she had a moment. Then there was Thorin Stonehelm's promise to send supplies. Yes, she did feel easier for that.

'Does Thoren know?' she asked at last.

'Some of it.' Cathy failed to meet her eyes. 'I can't tell him the extent of it. He'd only try and do it himself and set his recovery back by weeks.'

'But surely he must suspect?'

Her sister's reply was swift. 'I reckon he does, but his mind's not on it, because he trusts us to not let the Mountain come down while he's off recovering.' In fact, it came so swiftly that Duria suspected that it had been rehearsed.

'I don't disapprove,' Duria pre-empted the sentiment she felt Cathy was only moments away from putting into words. She didn't. Not entirely anyway. 'I understand,' she amended. 'Yet should he not be told? As King it is his right.'

'Well, if it's up to him he won't be King for much longer, so I am sure that this will not be a problem.'

Oh.

Oh.

'You don't approve of that, don't you?'

'No, I don't.' Cathy slammed several documents on the desk with more force than necessary. 'I don't think it's fair on him, to be honest.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Do you?'

Truth be told, she did not know. Some time had passed since Thoren had revealed what he had been told, but for Duria the dust had yet to settle. Her first response had been to laugh it off as some elvish fancy that could have no basis in truth. Elves could be misguided with the best of them and surely the Lady Galadriel must have been, because Durin was a legend. She was sure he'd rise someday, but if the greatest crisis of their age had not caused his arrival, it was sure to be in another time of even greater upheaval.

Yet several things had argued against that initial reasoning. Lady Galadriel was not often wrong. She had looked on Thráin and seen the truth. Thráin himself had seen Durin's Crown when no one else had. And, now that she really begun to think about it, he had been revealed during the greatest struggle of this age, where he had performed the most impossible task, a task that freed their people from an evil words could barely describe.

Even then it refused to sink in properly. It was Thráin, for Durin's… Mahal's sake! He hadn't a responsible bone in his body. He was forever running off, avoiding duty as though it could kill him if he ventured too near it. He was the one who offended most folk he met within minutes. She recalled that once it had led him to a lengthy imprisonment in Gondor.

It's Thráin. He can't be Durin.

But he was. And once she had sat down and thought about it without the disbelief clouding het judgement, it even made a little bit of sense. Durin the Deathless was a wanderer, as Thráin was. Yet Khazad-dûm and Kibil-nâla drew them both in, enough to put an end to Durin's wandering days and perhaps now to Thráin's as well.

'My approval or disapproval won't matter much,' she said, to mask the fact that she had no answer yet. She'd barely got started on Thráin, never mind on the implications of this revelation. There'd be time for that before he came home. 'Nor will yours. Besides, I reckon that it's Khazad-dûm that Thráin's destined for, not Erebor.' She regarded her sister calmly. 'I don't think it's a question of one or the other. I don't see why not both of them could rule.' When Cathy opened her mouth to utter more protests, she added: 'Either way, if this is what Thoren wishes, who are we to tell him nay?'

Of course Cathy took this as the challenge this was never intended to be. 'We are his sisters, to begin with. He's clearly not thinking straight. He's… war weary perhaps, but he's a good King and we both know it even if he's forgotten it.'

War weary. Huh.

He might be at that, but she didn't have time to think it over, for a knock on the door put an end to the whole discussion. Somewhat guiltily she realised that they had wandered a long way from the topic of their depleted food stores.

'Come in,' Cathy called.

The door opened. Five men walked in. Bard, arm fresh out of its sling led them in. He was, of this group, the most confident. The other four shuffled in after him, appearing as though they would rather be anywhere but here.

'Good morning,' Duria bid them. Let it not be said that she had misplaced her manners during the war. 'How may we help you?'

This was not met with any verbal response. Although she had addressed Bard, she suspected that these men were the ones with something to say. The fact that Bard did gesture for them to speak testified to that. Yet they were clearly ill at ease and not a one of them could meet her eyes.

It was Bard in the end who put them out of their misery. 'These men have a proposition for you to consider,' he said. 'One that will require the approval of either the King under the Mountain or one of his representatives. It was my belief that it was best that we came to you.'

Since Thoren was still recovering – slowly – this seemed like the sensible thing to do.

'Quite right,' Cathy nodded. 'May we hear it, then?'

If Duria had been a betting sort of dwarf, her money would have been on the tall brown-haired man to speak first. It took a few moments' hesitation, but then he stepped forward and addressed them: 'My name is Iwar, my ladies, and I used to be a farmer before the war.'

During the war he'd been a soldier. Duria did not need telling. He bore numerous scars and had apparently left behind his left arm on the battlefield. Yet now that he had plucked up the courage to speak, he stood straight and looked them in the eye.

'I reckon there's not much left of it now,' Cathy remarked wryly.

'As you say, my lady,' Iwar nodded. 'And the ground's no good there now either, mightn't be for another few years. So then I had a thought to take a look at the land north of the Mountain. From the looks of it, no orcs have gone there and the soil's quite good for farming, near as I can tell.'

Could it be?

'That is good news indeed.' Cathy's tone was calm and measured, though Duria didn't think she was as calm inside.

Iwar nodded along with her. 'Indeed, my lady. Only it's on the land that belongs to the King under the Mountain. I couldn't work there without permission.'

He asked for permission as though they would not beg him to work there if they'd known it was possible before this moment. Duria might take to walking behind a plough herself if someone would only tell her how to do such a thing.

'Is it only you who would be prepared to undertake the work?' Cathy asked. She took in the other three, all of them in some way hurt by the war. They were a motley bunch, but so were so many who had fought.

We must make do with what we have.

'No, my lady.' The one who spoke now did not introduce himself. 'There's a fair few of us who would be happy to do our bit. It's only…' He looked at the floor in what appeared to be embarrassment, but then mustered his courage and looked back up again. 'Many of us know what to do, but no longer possess the tools or the strength to perform the work.'

Or the limbs, Duria thought wryly.

The current speaker was short half a leg. The third had come off worst, missing both half a leg and his right arm. The fourth missed half his left arm and his head was still swathed in bandages. And yet they had undertaken research unbidden. They had come up with a plan and were willing to do what must be done.

There is strength in men, she knew. How glad she was that Jack too had known that at the end.

'My people can supply the tools if you can tell them what you need,' Cathy said decisively. Clearly she was already thinking solutions while Duria was still wrapped up in relief and elation. 'And while we dwarves are no farmers, we can be taught. I shall find people to aid you. Do you have… seeds and the like?' Here her farming knowledge was clearly faltering. She was a dwarf, after all.

'Some,' Iwar said.

There was never enough these days and they all knew it.

Cathy took a few moments to consider this. She frowned and grimaced, but then reached a decision: 'Take what you need from our stores. It shan't be long before we will receive supplies from the Iron Hills and those shall see us through to harvest.'

Iwar blinked.

Duria gasped.

'My lady, are you certain?'

'Yes, I am. Take what you need, with the permission and the blessing of the King under the Mountain.' She turned to Bard. 'Find my cousin Fíli and tell him what transpired here. Then have him sort out the practicalities. Do it as soon as you can.'

Duria waited only long enough for the door to fall closed behind them before she turned on her sister: 'Have you taken leave of your sense?' she demanded. 'Out of our stores? What will we feed people on?'

'The Iron Hills stores.' Cathy sank down in Thoren's chair again. 'And then we'll have a harvest come autumn.'

'What if the harvest fails?'

She could see it now, the resulting famine: hollow-faced children and dying people in the streets, the final victory Sauron could not achieve through strength of arms. And now here her sister was, looking for all the world as though she was mightily pleased with herself. If Duria did not know better, she'd have said that Cathy was convinced that she had single-handedly solved all of their troubles in one fell swoop.

If only.

'It's a risk,' Cathy admitted. 'But one that's worth the taking. We need to become self-supportive again. There's too many people under this Mountain to not do that. If we succeed, we won't need to rely on Iron Hills support for too long.' She gave Duria a shrewd look. 'I know it was Stonehelm who made the offer, but Dáin is still Lord of the Iron Hills.' She let that sink in.

'You don't trust him,' Duria concluded.

'I don't trust the dwarf who denied our father and who, I strongly suspect, denied Thoren just the same.' When this did not prompt enlightenment on Duria's part, she clarified: 'He was escorting the wounded home when I found him on my way to Elvaethor. He was hale and whole, nary a scratch on him. He could have fought. Why didn't he?'

'He brought Thoren home,' Duria pointed out, although now that the question had been asked, she couldn't suppress the unease either. She hadn't questioned it before – she was too grateful that he had brought Thoren home to think much of how that situation had come about – but, like Cathy, she questioned it now. Could it really be. And still, even if it was true, it wouldn't do to forget what he had done afterwards.

'That's twice that we couldn't trust him when it mattered,' Cathy insisted. 'I am loath to put my faith in such a one for any longer than I have to.'

Duria opened her mouth to protest some more, but it wouldn't change anything. These things were for Cathy to decide now. She herself had been brought in to help, but it was Cathy who occupied Thoren's position for the time being. Duria had agreed to abide by those rules. Anyway, it was done now.

'Very well,' she said with a distinct lack of grace. 'But don't come crying to me when it falls apart.'

Cathy rolled her eyes at her.

Thráin

'And where are you off to on this fine morning?'

Thráin had only just set foot outside the palace and had been about to congratulate himself on doing so without being waylaid, when he was hailed from across the courtyard by Faramir.

'A fine morning indeed,' he agreed, waiting for Faramir to join him. 'I am, to answer your question, off to do "dwarf things," as I think you once referred to it.'

Faramir laughed at the memory. 'To work then,' he concluded.

'Aye, to work.'

Taking the time to mend was all good and well – his body had certainly needed it – but all the idleness did not suit him and before long the familiar restlessness crept up on him. He could not leave for the time being, so failing that he would turn to his craft. His fingers were itching to do some work, to create rather than to destroy. Work is its own remedy, his father had often said and Thráin had always found it so. He was not quite complete without it.

'It is true what I have read then,' Faramir said interestedly. 'That dwarves work because they enjoy doing so rather than out of necessity?'

'True enough.' Although not quite in this case. 'But today I am working because I have a promise to fulfil.'

'What promise is this?'

'Walk with me and I shall tell you,' Thráin invited me. 'Which will be of some benefit to me, as I reckon you'll be able to point me in the right direction.' Because while he may have been in Minas Tirith before, he had never yet been in the position to see anything of it. 'If you have the time to do so.'

'My time is my own today,' Faramir smiled. 'It will be my pleasure and my honour to accompany you. You are after all one of the great heroes of our time.'

'Then I am in good company, for if I am one such, then so are you.' What he had done had required no great courage and therefore he could not laud his own achievements. What Faramir had done on the other hand required much courage indeed. To draw Sauron's eyes knowingly was not a venture one undertook lightly, yet Faramir had done so without faltering even once. 'I hope your people praise you for it.'

Faramir looked a bit sheepish.

Horror filled him. 'Surely they cannot overlook all that you have done?' Men could be spiteful and forgetful when it suited them.

At this his companion laughed. 'No, they do not. You mistake me, Thráin. I fear they praise me entirely too much. There is a… song in circulation.'

'And you are worthy of it.'

'I feel I should warn you, for songs are sung of you as well.' Faramir gave him a knowing look. 'Men sing of the capture of the Mûmakil and the dwarf who defied the Enemy even with the Enemy's own weapon on his finger.'

Ah.

Best to turn his mind to other matters. 'So, which way are we headed?'

'We have some way to go,' Faramir replied, mercifully dropping the subject. 'There are smithies nearby, but they are in use and I think that you should like to work more alone, where no men look over your shoulder.'

Thráin nodded.

'Then I know a place on the third level that still stands and will suit your needs.' He grinned almost mischievously. 'Perhaps I can show you some of the city's wonders on our way, since I suspect that you have not yet seen much of them.'

'Nothing of them,' Thráin corrected. 'I have travelled through Minas Tirith in chains and hidden under a pile of stinking cloth when my uncle smuggled me out. I have flown over it in the talons of an eagle, but I have not yet walked its streets.'

As they walked, he recalled his first impression of the city, formed thirty years past. It was well-built and elegant. It was not like the one he had grown up in, because it was not underground, but it was truly well-made and he enjoyed taking the time to look at it.

'You have noy yet told me of this errand of yours,' Faramir observed as they entered the fifth level. 'Is it a great secret?'

'It is no secret at all. I am on my way to craft a pan, a frying pan to be precise.'

Faramir's eyebrows made a little involuntary jump. 'I did not expect that.'

'You thought of something grander?'

'I admit that I did, though I confess myself intrigued now. I recall that you spoke of a promise too?'

'To Sam,' Thráin clarified. 'You'll remember that in Minas Tirith we encountered the Nazgûl and, with your help, drove them off. Sam stood his ground admirably and is perhaps the only person in living memory who can claim that he has concussed a Nazgûl. He did so with his frying pan.'

The eyebrows climbed a little further up.

'It was by no means the first time that he had done so,' Thráin continued. He took pleasure in the telling, for even now many folk tended to underestimate that brave hobbit. 'After the fight he lamented that he had dented it, even though it was good craftsmanship. It was however not made to be used as a weapon and so naturally he regretted the loss of its intended use, so I promised him that when the war was ended I would myself make him another one, a whole set of them if he so desired.'

'Now I understand,' said Faramir.

'The war has ended and I am once again standing on my own two feet, so it is time I did something about it.' He breathed in deeply and enjoyed the fact that he could once again do so without feeling the many pains and aches he had acquired on the road to Mordor. Fiona still complained that he was underweight, but his strength had returned. He could lift a hammer and bend it to his will to craft, as he had been made to do.

Faramir led him to the third level. Soon they left the main roads behind. Thráin did not question it; Faramir probably knew these streets like the back of his hand and so he trusted in his lead. True enough, they came to a small square where Faramir pointed out a small workshop on the west side. 'Will this serve?'

Men were prone to say that it would before they had examined the place, mostly out of politeness and good manners, but Thráin was no man. So he took the time to examine the space and the tools laid out. Where the owner was, he did not know and Faramir did not say, but it was evident that it had been some time since he had last been in. Dust had accumulated on the surfaces, but the tools were in good repair and the workshop itself had all that he needed.

'I think I shall require a stool to work at the anvil.' Not a problem, since he had often laboured in the towns of men on his wanderings and had needed similar aids to help him then. He was not Jack that he would lament that some things were not always available for one of his size. 'But the space looks neat and well-cared for and the tools are of good quality.' Not the quality that his people could produce, but then he had not looked for that here. 'It will do me well.'

And so it did. Faramir stood back and Thráin went about his business. I was made for this, he knew. He had been made to wander and fight also, but he always maintained a balance. He had lost it of late. He had not worked as he should have since he had found Aragorn hunting for Gollum and that was more than a year in the past now.

I have been idle for too long.

Yet his hands remembered the work, even if his memory barely did. He felt a quiet confidence in performing the work. This is how Mahal intended us. He knew that, but it was good to feel it also. The material took shape under his hands, taking on the form he intended for it. This was to be a gift to Sam; shoddy work would not do.

Faramir stayed out of his way so that he could get on with the matter in hand, but he watched closely. If he was bored, he gave no indication of it on the rare occasion that Thráin glanced in his direction. If anything, it seemed to fascinate him.

'It is good to see something made that has a purpose other than the destruction of lives,' he said when Thráin asked him about it at last. 'It is my dearest wish that no weapons need to be made for a long time to come.'

Thráin had always fancied himself more of a realist than that. 'Unlikely,' he judged. 'Sauron may be defeated, but his minions remain in the world.' And they multiplied at a rate distinctly faster than rabbits. He knew of many a place that should be rid of them and good arms would see it done.

Faramir inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'Just so,' he agreed. 'Yet may I not long for the days of peace?'

'Of course you may.' It wasn't for him to judge what was in another's heart. Still, he could not deny that he had taken great pleasure in crafting something intended for ordinary daily life rather than war.

'This looks like fine work to me,' Faramir said, regarding the work before him.

No dwarf would be content with anything less. And this was some of his better work as well as rather more work than he had intended to do when he set out this morning. He had promised Sam one frying pan, but when all was said and done it made far more sense to create an entire set. He was busy now anyway.

And one set of pans is poor repayment still for all that he did. But perhaps it was enough to be getting on with. All things told it was perhaps better to cease work. Five pans now sat before him, three for frying, two for cooking. Sam'd have enough trouble getting this little lot home. He could always visit the Shire later and make more should Sam need that.

'I am not in the habit of giving shoddy gifts to anyone,' was what he said to Faramir. It did not cover all he meant to say.

'What of your gift?' Faramir inquired with no small amount of amusement.

This put him instantly on his guard. 'What gift is this?' He knew of none.

'You would have no reward then?'

This was definitely going somewhere and he could not place his finger on it. 'What use would I have for rewards? I did not undertake this quest to receive a gift at the end for merely doing my duty.'

Faramir considered this, then grinned in a manner that made him even more suspicious. 'And what of something that in truth already belongs to you?'

'Such as?'

'I recall that it was only your daring that led us to acquire several Mûmakil, one of whom was captured by your hand.' Oh, that was why he did not like the sound of this. 'By rights of conquest, Teddy belongs to you, not to Gondor.'

Thráin was shaking his head even before Faramir was through. 'What would I do with a Mûmak? I have no wish to travel on one and if I were to take it home, what should I do with it then? These beasts were not made to live underground as my people are. They would not thrive in my homeland. Let them remain here, where you can either make use of them or let them live on the open land, as you please.'

'Aragorn said that you would respond in this manner,' Faramir nodded, as though he had never expected any different. 'Yet I felt dutybound to at least make the offer.'

'I had the honour of naming the beast and that is as much as I ever want to have to do with any of these beasts ever again.' In this he knew his own mind. No doubt Duria would moan and complain that he'd been given the opportunity of showing something to her she'd never seen before, but her disappointment he could live with; he'd done so for many years. If she so desired, he would gladly accompany her south to show her. He anticipated many a trip to the White City in his future at any rate.

'As you wish, then.'

'That is exactly as I wish.' And the sooner they were done speaking of it, the better he would like it. 'Allow me to tidy this place and then I shall rely on your guidance to lead me back to the Citadel. I fear my sense of direction here is not what it is underground.'

'It will be my pleasure.'

'Are you well?' Thráin asked when they at last made their way up again. 'Truly?' He'd heard about Denethor's death and whilst he was of the personal opinion that this world was far better off that way, Boromir and Faramir were unlikely to share in that view.

His mannish friend knew what he spoke of without being told. 'Better than I was,' he replied. 'My father was… not himself at the end, as I am sure you know. It makes it easier to bear now that I know that his actions that led to his demise were not his own.'

If he chose to believe that, then Thráin would be wise and keep his mouth firmly shut. Denethor was dead. Let that be the end of it. Insisting that Denethor had started his descent into nastiness long before he'd ever gazed into that palantír gained him nothing. 'You have my condolences,' he said brusquely. And that was all he had to offer.

'Thank you, my friend.' Then, sensing perhaps that this was not a topic that lent itself to much discussion, he asked: 'What of you? Where will you go? And when?'

'Home.' Every day he tarried here was one too many, especially now that he was well again. Gimli was not, not entirely anyway, and Aragorn had asked of him to stay until the crown was on his head. Thráin had promised this, but that was as long as he would delay. The call of home was stronger with each passing day. 'After the coronation, if my kinsman is well by then.' He stood still so that he could look Faramir in the eye. 'I have not forgotten my offer to you. It remains open to you. Should you wish to visit Erebor, it will be my pleasure to show it to you.'

Faramir smiled. 'I have not forgotten,' he said. 'Soon perhaps I shall take you up on it. But not quite yet.' His gaze drifted to a point behind Thráin where the Lady Éowyn was just passing by.

Thráin chose to be wise again and so said nothing.

Next time: it is open volunteering season again!

As always, thank you for reading! Reviews would be much appreciated.

Until next week!