Thick snow crunched under his boot. The pack lay, a firm weight in the center of his back.
Dwalin shifted the axe on his shoulder and he looked out over the gentle slope before him. His green hood slid back. His breath fogged the air. The only sound in all the wood around him was the step of his own feet breaking through the ice on the top of the snow.
He cherished these moments.
Spices he carried, for Dís. Dyes for Ori's yarn. Tints for the ink Balin needed for his books. Herbs Óin wanted for his leech craft that couldn't be found in Ered Luin. He'd gone east to the Iron Hills to trade with Dáin's folk, and he'd come back along the Dwarf Road west a long way. He had finally set boot to the Greenway. The last leg home.
There was a flutter, and a croak.
Dwalin raised his head.
Ahead of him on the side of the road, there was a tree that threw out a branch over the path. A crow had settled in a flurry of wings, and it sat, looking down at him with beaded black eyes. It cocked its head. It squawked.
Dwalin looked back at it. "I dinna speak the tongue of the crows in these parts," he told it. He crunched through the snow under the bough. "Health to you and yours," he said.
Behind him, the crow cawed. He heard it leap up into the sky.
Settling the pack between his shoulders, Dwalin kept on towards his home.
Merry Christmas everyone!