"'Twas during the Battle of Dale that I needed the Nargothondian,"
Margaretta said. "For three blood-soaked days, our men and the dwarves of
Erebor battled orcs and Easterlings at the foot of the Mountain. I
remained here for most of that time, repairing or replacing weapons, along
with my daughters and some of the other women and children, and worried
about my husband."
"You are married?" Master Gimli asked, startled.
"I was, for seventeen years. Why do you ask?" Margaretta replied.
"It surprises me. I was under the impression human women took their husband's name when they married, yet you are still Mistress Stronginthearm," the dwarf explained. In truth, neither he nor his elf understood that custom, as neither of their peoples followed it. Still, he knew humans and hobbits shared many such strange customs, and this one had always struck him as very inflexible.
Margaretta nodded. "We do, normally. However, my husband and I agreed when we married that since I was to take over my father's shop, it would be bad business for me to change my name. People expect the proprietors of a place called 'Burleigh and Stronginthearm's' to be named Burleigh or Stronginthearm."
Elf and dwarf nodded. It never occurred to them to wonder why Margaretta's husband had not taken over her father's business. Neither elves nor dwarves limited their women's options the way the race of Man did. Margaretta was just as content not to have to explain that her husband was a professional soldier, not a shopkeeper, and would have driven the weapons dealership straight into the ground if he'd had the running of it. Fortunately, Arturl had been aware of that, and secure enough in his manhood that the lack did not frighten him. In fact, when Master Stronginthearm retired, the men of Dale had tried to insist Arturl take over. He told them in no uncertain terms that business both baffled and bored him, and he was more than content to leave the horrid details of it to Margaretta while he enjoyed doing no more than his monthly patrol and occasionally testing her designs. Furthermore, Arturl was very proud of his brilliant wife, and anyone who did not like her running of the business was invited to take their sorry selves straight to Mordor, and go there weaponless as she was the only arms dealer in Dale. Arturl Bannerman had been a gem of a man, the only male born on Middle Earth who ever stood the slightest chance of taming Ceril Stronginthearm's wayward, stubborn daughter. Margaretta had loved him beyond belief, and missed him still.
"As I was saying," Margaretta continued her story, pouring herself and her guests more tea, "most of the women and children were holed up here, with the remainder next door at the apothecary with the aged and wounded. So when word reached us on the third day that the kings had fallen and we were to evacuate to Erebor, everyone was already in one place. The evacuation went swiftly, for the most part. The small children, the wounded and aged all got away even before the foul orcs crossed into the town itself. Still, there were many women and older children remaining when the line broke and the enemy poured into Dale. Our men fought valiantly, but in the end there were simply too many to hold long enough. We needed more time, and more defenders, but we had neither."
Here Margaretta paused, remembering the terror of that time. When she spoke again, it was with a much subdued voice. "I could hear the battle growing closer. Soon, I could smell it: the blood, the sweat, the foul stench of the orcs. When the fighting finally reached this street, I was dismayed to see only three defenders battling a host of the enemy. Easterlings and orcs were burning and destroying everything they could lay hands on, while my husband and his cards-night buddies cut them down like wheat. 'Twas one of the most impressive sights I've ever seen, but it was nowhere near enough. I watched my husband die on orc blades, and I feared my children and I were next. For by this time, most of the remaining women and children had fled, but there was still one group left, including my daughters and nephew. I had to defend them. I could not dishonor my husband's sacrifice by failing his children."
Again, Margaretta paused, overcome with emotion. The pain of Arturl's death was still fresh, even years later. Master Legolas must have seen her unshed tears, for he touched her arm gently. "I sorrow for your loss," he said simply, his expression distant and sad. Margaretta had always wondered if elves felt anything when mortals died. Obviously, they did.
Master Gimli did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Dwarf women demanded time and solitude for their grieving, and this lady shopkeeper had much of the dwarf in her. If she needed more than space, Gimli felt certain she would inform him. Otherwise, he would let her be, until she was ready to continue.
In a surprisingly brief time, she was ready. Long years dealing with the public had taught her how to keep her emotions hidden until she had the privacy to deal with them. Brawny warriors did not purchase from weeping women, no matter how justified the tears.
Margaretta took a deep breath and went on. "I had had training in weaponry. My father always claimed an arms dealer and designer should know how to properly wield the weapons she sold, to better detect and correct flaws BEFORE they cost a warrior his life. Arturl agreed with him. He insisted our daughters and I be able to defend ourselves when he was on patrol. I never thought to need those skills, never thought battle would come anywhere near me, but when it did, thankfully I was prepared. Well, as prepared as any unblooded fighter ever is. When the last defender fell to the enemy, right on my doorstep, I took up the Nargothondian, which was one of the last blades left in my possession at the time, and did my best to give the children time to get away. Illya, my eldest daughter, joined me in my battle, while Ana, the younger, herded the children to Erebor. My nephew Halorec wanted to join the fight, but he was much too small then. Why, the Nargothondian was bigger than he! So I gave him my dagger and charged him with keeping the path clear while Illya and I kept the enemy at bay."
"Battle is a terrible business," the shopkeeper went on, "even when it is a matter of your life or theirs. I did what I had to do, fought and killed all the way to Erebor, but I hope never again to be put in that position. I sell to them, but I will never understand folk who seek out battle, who glory in it. To me, it was horrible, messy and confusing. I lost part of my soul with each life I took, even though I had no choice but to take them. I lost my innocence as well as my husband that day. I miss both."
"That is a stunning tale, Mistress Stronginthearm," Master Gimli rumbled when Margaretta finished speaking. "You showed strength and determination worthy of a dwarf. You have every right to be proud of yourself and that blade, and to keep it for remembrance."
"But that is not why I keep it. If that battle were all, I would have sold the sword to the first person who wanted it, yes, even taken a loss to rid myself of the memories it holds. There is more to the story, if you would like to hear it," Margaretta protested.
Master Legolas and Master Gimli indulged in yet another of their looks. These two, like most long-time companions, could communicate without words. Margaretta imagined that would be annoying to others, but she was long used to the phenomenon. She ignored it until one of them spoke.
"Of course we would like to hear the rest of the tale, Mistress," the elf said at last.
Margaretta smiled. She expected as much. "Then you shall. But first, let me brew some more tea. We are out," she said, rising and heading toward the back room.
"Bring some more of those most excellent tarts, as well!" Master Gimli called after her. Margaretta laughed. Dwarves really were amazing people.
"You are married?" Master Gimli asked, startled.
"I was, for seventeen years. Why do you ask?" Margaretta replied.
"It surprises me. I was under the impression human women took their husband's name when they married, yet you are still Mistress Stronginthearm," the dwarf explained. In truth, neither he nor his elf understood that custom, as neither of their peoples followed it. Still, he knew humans and hobbits shared many such strange customs, and this one had always struck him as very inflexible.
Margaretta nodded. "We do, normally. However, my husband and I agreed when we married that since I was to take over my father's shop, it would be bad business for me to change my name. People expect the proprietors of a place called 'Burleigh and Stronginthearm's' to be named Burleigh or Stronginthearm."
Elf and dwarf nodded. It never occurred to them to wonder why Margaretta's husband had not taken over her father's business. Neither elves nor dwarves limited their women's options the way the race of Man did. Margaretta was just as content not to have to explain that her husband was a professional soldier, not a shopkeeper, and would have driven the weapons dealership straight into the ground if he'd had the running of it. Fortunately, Arturl had been aware of that, and secure enough in his manhood that the lack did not frighten him. In fact, when Master Stronginthearm retired, the men of Dale had tried to insist Arturl take over. He told them in no uncertain terms that business both baffled and bored him, and he was more than content to leave the horrid details of it to Margaretta while he enjoyed doing no more than his monthly patrol and occasionally testing her designs. Furthermore, Arturl was very proud of his brilliant wife, and anyone who did not like her running of the business was invited to take their sorry selves straight to Mordor, and go there weaponless as she was the only arms dealer in Dale. Arturl Bannerman had been a gem of a man, the only male born on Middle Earth who ever stood the slightest chance of taming Ceril Stronginthearm's wayward, stubborn daughter. Margaretta had loved him beyond belief, and missed him still.
"As I was saying," Margaretta continued her story, pouring herself and her guests more tea, "most of the women and children were holed up here, with the remainder next door at the apothecary with the aged and wounded. So when word reached us on the third day that the kings had fallen and we were to evacuate to Erebor, everyone was already in one place. The evacuation went swiftly, for the most part. The small children, the wounded and aged all got away even before the foul orcs crossed into the town itself. Still, there were many women and older children remaining when the line broke and the enemy poured into Dale. Our men fought valiantly, but in the end there were simply too many to hold long enough. We needed more time, and more defenders, but we had neither."
Here Margaretta paused, remembering the terror of that time. When she spoke again, it was with a much subdued voice. "I could hear the battle growing closer. Soon, I could smell it: the blood, the sweat, the foul stench of the orcs. When the fighting finally reached this street, I was dismayed to see only three defenders battling a host of the enemy. Easterlings and orcs were burning and destroying everything they could lay hands on, while my husband and his cards-night buddies cut them down like wheat. 'Twas one of the most impressive sights I've ever seen, but it was nowhere near enough. I watched my husband die on orc blades, and I feared my children and I were next. For by this time, most of the remaining women and children had fled, but there was still one group left, including my daughters and nephew. I had to defend them. I could not dishonor my husband's sacrifice by failing his children."
Again, Margaretta paused, overcome with emotion. The pain of Arturl's death was still fresh, even years later. Master Legolas must have seen her unshed tears, for he touched her arm gently. "I sorrow for your loss," he said simply, his expression distant and sad. Margaretta had always wondered if elves felt anything when mortals died. Obviously, they did.
Master Gimli did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Dwarf women demanded time and solitude for their grieving, and this lady shopkeeper had much of the dwarf in her. If she needed more than space, Gimli felt certain she would inform him. Otherwise, he would let her be, until she was ready to continue.
In a surprisingly brief time, she was ready. Long years dealing with the public had taught her how to keep her emotions hidden until she had the privacy to deal with them. Brawny warriors did not purchase from weeping women, no matter how justified the tears.
Margaretta took a deep breath and went on. "I had had training in weaponry. My father always claimed an arms dealer and designer should know how to properly wield the weapons she sold, to better detect and correct flaws BEFORE they cost a warrior his life. Arturl agreed with him. He insisted our daughters and I be able to defend ourselves when he was on patrol. I never thought to need those skills, never thought battle would come anywhere near me, but when it did, thankfully I was prepared. Well, as prepared as any unblooded fighter ever is. When the last defender fell to the enemy, right on my doorstep, I took up the Nargothondian, which was one of the last blades left in my possession at the time, and did my best to give the children time to get away. Illya, my eldest daughter, joined me in my battle, while Ana, the younger, herded the children to Erebor. My nephew Halorec wanted to join the fight, but he was much too small then. Why, the Nargothondian was bigger than he! So I gave him my dagger and charged him with keeping the path clear while Illya and I kept the enemy at bay."
"Battle is a terrible business," the shopkeeper went on, "even when it is a matter of your life or theirs. I did what I had to do, fought and killed all the way to Erebor, but I hope never again to be put in that position. I sell to them, but I will never understand folk who seek out battle, who glory in it. To me, it was horrible, messy and confusing. I lost part of my soul with each life I took, even though I had no choice but to take them. I lost my innocence as well as my husband that day. I miss both."
"That is a stunning tale, Mistress Stronginthearm," Master Gimli rumbled when Margaretta finished speaking. "You showed strength and determination worthy of a dwarf. You have every right to be proud of yourself and that blade, and to keep it for remembrance."
"But that is not why I keep it. If that battle were all, I would have sold the sword to the first person who wanted it, yes, even taken a loss to rid myself of the memories it holds. There is more to the story, if you would like to hear it," Margaretta protested.
Master Legolas and Master Gimli indulged in yet another of their looks. These two, like most long-time companions, could communicate without words. Margaretta imagined that would be annoying to others, but she was long used to the phenomenon. She ignored it until one of them spoke.
"Of course we would like to hear the rest of the tale, Mistress," the elf said at last.
Margaretta smiled. She expected as much. "Then you shall. But first, let me brew some more tea. We are out," she said, rising and heading toward the back room.
"Bring some more of those most excellent tarts, as well!" Master Gimli called after her. Margaretta laughed. Dwarves really were amazing people.