Part 1: Chapter 17: While Hammers Fell Like Ringing Bells

"What…" Sona bit into her lip as if to stop herself. Thorin pulled in his own, watching her intently from his periphery as he sharpened, out with the stone on the edge, then off, out with the stone, then off, out with the stone…

"What I mean to say is, that's not a concept or term I'm familiar with."

She turned to better face Dwalin, settling back on the log with her legs twisted at an angle away from Thorin, toward his nervous Friend tasked with explaining One to Sona. His One, if he would so choose. How could that ever come to pass?

Oh the irony. He did not envy Dwalin.

All the Company had gone silent to listen. No one looked at the Thief directly, though nearly everyone stared at Dwalin, all of them with various fading levels of anxiety which had eased toward amusement once they all got used to the idea. Glóin and Bombur grew more mirthful as the moments ticked on. Fíli, on the other hand, looked from Dwalin to Thorin, his face slackened to mask his residual concern over the topics at hand.

Sona's face was harder to see now that she'd moved, but when she listened she turned, and he could see her profile.

"Would it be okay for you to explain it to me?"

Her gentle directness eased the features of the Dwarf subject to Questions.

"Is it all right for me to know?"

And her sincere care worked loose a tinge of worry in Thorin's own heart. Their cultures were so different; how would she feel when she knew more? She had not wanted him to tell her much, when it came to something as ordinary as a person's daily color choice. But One? This was something people of Men judged without knowing. Still, he felt like he laid bare on a nail bed, waiting to discover her reaction. What would she think? Would she even say what she thought? Would she assume Dwarves lack deep emotional attachments unless they are blessed, or cursed as Thorin now thought, with Juzrazur? In these ways rumors of Dwarves having stone hearts settled deep into the beliefs of other peoples of the world...

She lifted her hands, full of music in their movement, and the bangles sounded yet again, like falling water, or like the echoes of the falls in Imladris, reminding Thorin of when she touched him. He glanced at the underside of the small finger that had graced that touch, sliding out with the stone over Orcrist.

Why had she done that? And now she was here. Why?

This question had no end.

"Though I totally understand if it's not. I promise I won't be offended.

Silence followed like an uproar. Thorin glanced back to Dwalin, who caught his eye immediately.

"Lass, I don't know if I'm the Dwarf to…"

'What do you want me to say here, Thorin?'

'Tell her, go easy.'

'You owe me,' Dwalin's face was caught in a snarl, both panicked and annoyed at once. But he was willing and able, and assented with a near invisible nod. "Well it's like this... you, you're of the race of Men."

She listened, nodding curtly, her movements clipped.

"So, you... when you wed someone, if they then... die... you can find someone else you like just as well and marry them, yes?" Dwalin spoke fast, tripping along the way, as though he were tying to swallow a healing drought from Óin, one of the ones that didn't taste so good.

"Uh, kind of?" she asked that. Thorin wasn't sure how it was a question.

In the meantime, she moved, and her long hair, mussed, loose and wild from the day's trek, spilled over her back. She pulled her hands through it, stopped and bothered by the snarls. He wished he could––

"When my Dadaji married my Dadiji..."

Dadaji, Dadiji: Not her Parents, she must mean her Grandparents in her ancestral language.

"...she was his second wife."

Second wife... so strange. What would it be like to love twice? He had trouble enough with the concept of once. One. However incredibly irksome, he had a Quest to see through.

She gripped her hair over her shoulder and began combing it absently with her fingers, sometimes ripping through, and Thorin cringed, wishing she'd stop. He had a hard time focusing on the stone while she had her hands in her hair... "His first wife died of cancer…"

Cancer? His hand slowed the sharpening strokes.

"…when I was only two, and he met and married my Dadiji a few years later. She's the only Grandmother I've ever known and I love––"

––love–– How she said it.

"––her dearly."

Her fingers ––embedded in her hair–– worked the knots, just as he tried to understand.

"And I know my Dadaji loves her very much, but to say he felt the same for her that he felt for his first wife would be completely inaccurate."

Dwalin had that look again, like she'd woken a second troupe of Trolls.

Her fingers caught and she glared at her bundle of hair. Thorin's hands truly itched, reaching for his comb, stopping himself. Why was she doing that, ripping her hair so?

"Now that's not to say he loved one more or less than the other."

The Dwarves were all looking at each other, lost in one form or another. Thorin smiled to himself; in between their discomfort, they studied her as though she came from a different world. Aye, she did. And some of them knew it. He glanced at Fíli, who just happened to be looking his way, smiling like the gleam of yellow flowers on a sun-kissed field. And then there was Balin, who had been eying his brother through the whole encounter, just waiting for him to slip up on some secret–– Thorin suspected Balin also knew. And then there was Dwalin, the Dwarf now subject to Questions, always known to be paying attention even when he didn't look it.

"Just that each relationship was completely different and you can't really compare them at all."

Glóin nodded in agreement, squinting and frowning at the same time, as if to say, isn't it obvious?

"That wouldn't be fair for starters––because how can someone compare to a memory?"

A Memory? Past beings are not gone to mere thought... he did not understand.

Her shoulder tipped up. Thorin forced his eyes back at the blade, wishing they would stop with the looking.

And he thought about it, wondering. For people of Men it could be no big event; and yet... this did not explain all of it. And then he saw his hand had gone completely still, and he began to move again.

"And, well, I could go on, but I'd rather hear about this concept of Ones."

Ones. Thorin squirmed, then pressed his back hard against the tree, telling himself just listen. He again he stole glances, all too aware of the choice before him. Juzrazur'ē.

"Er... Well..." Of all the lost Dwarves, Dwalin looked the most lost, but this was not taking into consideration the turmoil rolling through Thorin's heart now.

"It is not like that for Dwarves. Most of us never wed. Or, rather, you could say we are wedded to our work. We are very passionate about our craft, and that is often everything for us."

Wedded––to our work. Thorin rarely thought of weddings, and now–– Now he didn't want to think of them at all.

Balin suppressed a cough to get his Brother's attention, looking at him sternly as though he just left the Mountain with his breeches undone. Nori stared over Balin's shoulder with a smirk decorating his features, having seen the brunt of Balin's glare, and perhaps he was amused by Dwalin's word choice––wedded––Thorin was not sure, while Ori looked confused between the lot of them, every Dwarf vying to hear Dwalin make a mess of it.

"Apart from existing family and close friends, of course."

"Of course," the Thief nodded with him, leaning toward him, her hair moving across her back, waiting––like a Dwarfling on Durin's Day–– to hear what he'd say next.

"And then..." And then Dwalin choked on it, sighing and straining his stern face.

'Must I do this?' He signed, on the off-chance Thorin would relent.

Thorin just stared at him, widening his eyes.

"Look, why don't Glóin or Bombur tell you?" The Warrior asked the Thief while he glared at each of them with a dare toward his axes. They only smiled on, content to watch him sink. "They actually have Ones!" Dwalin hadn't mentioned all of them, only the Ones who were wed, as it was not for him to tell tales.

Fíli's grin spread over the meadows, so wide. It was for Danîe.

Thorin tried to snuff the smile curling up inside himself, the one for Sona, only barely managing to keep it from his face. He had a choice he had not yet made, and there wasn't room for joy in the present situation, no matter how much he wanted to let loose and feel it. Why was she here––?

That question––

Again Dwalin caught his eye, signing, 'Why don't you tell her?'

Why would he ask that? Durin's Beard, he knew the answer!

'Aye, I know, I know.' Dwalin's hand clipped out the words in tiny jagged moves. 'You're not telling her anything. Mahal's Furnace, Thorin, I know she's Binumral.'

Thorin went back to his blade, the steal reflecting blue sky and sun, and he kept with the sharpening stone, up the edge, then off, up the edge, then off…

Dwalin huffed his frustration. "All I know is what I was forced to learn in a book when I was naught but a Dwarfling."

The topic had bored them both, and neither had listened to their tutor. And from what Thorin recalled, his experience did not match up to the teachings, not yet. Maybe not ever.

The Warrior tossed the rest of his meal to Sasha, the conversation clearly having ruined his usually robust appetite. Fíli laughed aloud when the Dog sprang for the leftovers.

"Yer doin' fine!" Glóin nearly preened in his futile attempt to shake the grin from his usually-collected gruff exterior.

"Yes, please tell us all about it, Dwalin!" Bombur called from the other side.

The Thief fought off her own smile, Fíli and Kíli saw it too, and both purposely faced Thorin, making it all the more difficult for him to keep his composure.

At that point, Glóin stole a glance his way; his Treasurer's face now unreadable but for the feelings expressed in his eyes, hints of humor over a load of worry and warning.

A motion from Dwalin brought his attention back. 'Is it like the books?'

Thorin nodded once, 'vaguely so.'

Dwalin rolled his eyes. 'I'm ill equipped here.'

Thorin made no answer.

And then Sona took a drink from the adjustable hollow stick fixed on her water flask, lips around the clear material––she had called it 'plastic.' Looking at her mouth he stalled midway with his stone on the blade.

Dwalin was about to toss up his hands.

Fíli and Kíli grinned ear to ear.

"I hate the lot of you," Dwalin muttered, resigned he was to be the spokesperson, no matter how ill supplied in knowledge he happened to be.

Thorin felt pained for his Friend, and frustrated he could not take up the slack as they always did for each other. But this––

The others around the Warrior shared their delight with smirks and twinkling eyes, though not in any malicious way: they enjoyed seeing the Warrior out of his comfort zone in friendly circumstances.

Again, Thorin clamped down on his urge to smile, for seeing Dwalin so was indeed comical. And Thorin couldn't stop the thought–– was this something more than friendly circumstance?

Why had she come?

"Very well." Dwalin braced himself, looking hard at the Thief. "I don't have a One."

Or you don't know it yet, Thorin thought darkly, his brief levity gone, remembering the fogs, his own sudden onset and Fíli's words on Juzrazur. Not all Ones feel Juzrazur before they meet; the books on the subject lack entirely too much detail to be truly useful. "Mahal's gifts," Thorin muttered beneath his breath, pulling his eyes away, taking up his stone again.

"I don't understand how it works…"

I don't either, blast it. This thing driven by feelings, everywhere, but singular, all contained in One. And again he was glancing at Sona, who was clearly trying to keep the grin from swelling her cheeks, rather unsuccessfully at best. He had a hard time looking away from that grin––

"…But what the books say is that you feel a pull to someone and then you can choose."

"You choose?" Her face crinkled as she thought about this. "Like... there are a few possible Ones and then you pick one?"

Thorin smiled. It all did sound confusing, considering the words used to describe the concepts in Common Speech.

Dwalin looked at her as though she had suddenly sprouted a full beard.

"No... there is only one." Though he appeared angry, his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "That's why it's a ONE."

The Thief's crumpled expression made it clear she did not follow.

Dwalin could see it, too, and his brow darkened with increased frustration, though Thorin knew it was directed at himself, and not due to at any lapse in the Thief's understanding. Dwalin blew out air. "I don't know how it happens, but you feel a pull, and then if you choose, that person becomes your One, and there is never another. That is it. Do you understand?"

"I guess?" Her question was hardly an answer. She drank again––Her lips on the–– Thorin blinked and pressed his eyes shut. She does not drink for you.

And then her face cleared in understanding, and it was one of shock and denial and––was she repulsed?

Again, Thorin stopped his stone on the blade, watching.

"Oh... Ohhhhh..."

She looked anything but happy. Why so upset so suddenly?

"I think I get it? At least a little." She sat back again, and Thorin could see her better as she put her head in her hands and considered what she'd learned, fighting to keep her face even. "So, you think I've lost my One…"

Binumrâl.

"…and because of that I'm doomed to a life of loneliness and feeling empty?"

What? Now Thorin frowned, glancing over at Bombur and Glóin, who appeared as baffled as he was–– This was not it. He knew it was not––no. He had heard, with Ones it was more like amputation. The beginning of Life Apart. Love apart. Binumrâl. He looked at his right arm, fleetingly recalling Azog, cramming his eyes shut at the image of the severed limb. He shook his head, certain he would never feel the way he felt before Juzrazur'ē.

And why was this topic making her angry?

Was their way so abhorrent? Or was there something she did not understand?

And who was going to correct whatever it was she did not understand?

He tightened his jaw shut, gripping the blade.

He had an idea, in his vivid imaginings, of just how losing One might feel in an instant. You must then find your own way after, facing life with half of you dead to it, that half being more than half of your whole. One. Amputated. Without. Dís. And to live it for centuries after––this was––the downside of gifts from the Immortals.

Dwalin gave her his rounding assent, nodding in a circle as he glared and signed to Thorin, 'Close enough. I've no idea what I speak of.'

Thorin returned a silent nod, 'Aye. Âkmînruk zu.'

He was shocked by the fear that coursed through him over One, by how much he now knew from the inside. No book could contain this Knowledge. It would thrill, frighten, and stir possible envy, so: what did the Writers ask? Would the Knowledge help the knowing? Thorin knew it did not. Nothing prepared them.

It just came.

So, perhaps most wisely, the Writers of Knowledge had kept it brief in the Books.

He took in her reaction to what little they could tell, and this did not ease his heart, for though he saw her struggle in thought with her mind toward curious understanding, the hint of horror beneath it made him pause.

And now she was talking… sharing her experience. "Well… yes, I was very sad when David died."

Binumral. She might have sounded nonchalant, except he knew better. He knew how the injured carried their wounds, and she carried hers. He'd seen it. Held it.

Held it. She had wanted him to.

What did it mean? Why was she here?

Ash on the breeze, in the falls.

"Sometimes I do get caught up in melancholy moments when I think about who I've lost…"

David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor.

"…who the world's lost. Because David was wonderful."

She loved him deeply, though they were not Ones. People of Men don't have Ones… And he wondered as she spoke now, was she melancholic now? She was upset, defending, and then he understood: somehow they had all offended her with their way of being, their culture, for what else could it be? He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to wrap his mind around what and why.

Thorin felt a pang for his friend Dwalin; this was an outright awkward conversation. But then it began to sink in, and then he felt a deeper pang–– so lost.

How was he to navigate this? With three of them to answer, one silenced by death, himself by law? And the third unknowing, and was she even able as a person of Men? Only Sona could speak for two, for herself and David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor. Thorin could say nothing–– she had to initiate, and would she think it necessary, even supposing she were interested?

A soft whisper eased through his mind: maybe, just maybe, that's why she came, because she was interested...

Thorin brushed that thought aside. People of Men did not have these laws. She would not think of his need for permission.

So, hammers to anvils for answers, Mahal, why was he Pulled to Sona? Why Jusrazur'ē with One who could never have One?

Or could she?

He dared not hope. Yet he did hope. He danced on ice that would crack beneath him.

"But…" An anger note hit her voice, a quiet kind, white heat, and he could see the steel set in her jaw. "I think I have a very different belief system."

Belief? It just is… Thorin stared at her, confused as he'd ever been.

And what does she mean, system?

"As a Hindu, I believe in the rebirth and reincarnation of souls..."

The what? Rebirth, reincarnation? Did she speak of their bodies re-forged in Itdendûm? Or did she mean from the womb, as babes? And if so, how? For a moment he imagined Mahal's Halls filled with naught but Dwarflings and he wondered where they'd come from, with no means of conception or birthing, not among the Dwarflings…

"... Souls are immortal and imperishable..."

Aye.

"... and... I could go into a lot more detail..."

He leaned up from the tree, craving the telling.

"...but maybe that's best saved for another conversation."

She didn't want to share with them––he felt it. Dismissed.

She was livid; Thorin had no idea why, and fought to curb any curiosity for questions he might have. They had done something wrong, and he was baffled and feeling ill for it. What was he to do with all this?

She straightened her spine with resolve. "But the important thing to know is that because of that, death, to me, is not the end of all, but a natural process in existence."

Souls, the essence of being, go on into someone else…? But then…?

Now that was different ––a different belief system–– she called it. Thorin's mind stumbled and grappled. He was losing the battle against questions… too many intimate questions… Things he could never ask, no matter how hard the wishing would riddle him. Just as it already did, like her hair, falling heavy down her back.

"It still hurts, yeah."

Aye. And he could hear her pain; see it, even. The old ache. And it feels like heartbreak, his Sister would say. Only it keeps beating, even partly dead, and it altogether hurts. He knew it didn't work the same with people of Men as with Dwarves, but in Sona's case this loss was a shattering of equal proportions, the kind no one wanted to measure through feeling.

"I miss David..." and then she sighed. And in her eyes he saw how happy she had been––

––Birashagimi––

And still she smiled now, reaching, alive, and in no way content with waiting––Gold Song.

"...and a part of me will always love him..."

True heart. Even when you're thieving.

"...but he has moved onto his next life."

David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor.

Did she mean past the veil, into the Halls of Waiting? Wouldn't she join him there? Maybe they do not––? All the peoples of Middle-earth knew the fate of Men past death was a mystery, their spirits leaving the world to parts unknown, the Gift, it was called… He wondered, reminded that he could not ask.

"It's well past time for me to live the rest of mine."

You still live... who has said you have stopped? Thorin frowned, confused.

And then something shifted in his thoughts: was she saying she could love again?

Asti–– you would do this again?

And, as if to show them she would do just that, this very instant, as in right now, she stood up, swatting her behind with her hands to shake the tree bark off...

Her hands, that backside, how he wanted––oh... how was he to live this way?

His eyes fell back to the blade and the stone, and sharpening.

"So along those lines, I refuse to be identified by the fact that I'm a widow." Now she was clearly upset, her words forced, her arms stiff at her side, a self protective motion as she rummaged through her bag looking for something.

Thorin wished there was a way he could help, but... his mind was blank.

Why had she come after them? The Elves were her choice after his blunder at the beginning–– Or was it something more like this is where she wanted to be, with his Company of Dwarves, with him? No. Not possible. But here she was.

Could it be?

She told them things they struggled to understand; she could see they did, and so she patiently explained and explained, all while it strained her.

He wished he understood her strain, so he could ease it.

Were they supposed to ignore her loss in the world she came from? That would be a strange custom, and Thorin shook his head, confused. And then it clicked. Did she mean pity? No, we can't have that... He needed a way to tell her.

She wasn't done explaining. "That's an aspect of who I am, yes. But it doesn't define me or control my happiness. I've dated plenty since David's passing."

Dated?

Courted? Surely not. He could sense, nothing serious since David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor. Did it mean she had been with people? He thought so. He had been with people, pleasant times from before. He couldn't imagine much liking it now, considering she would most likely never have anything to do with him, and all that was left was this want... Blast Juzrazur.

She threw her pack on her shoulder.

Where are you going?

"Just haven't met the right one.

One? What do you mean? People of Men don't have Ones, he needed to get ahold of himself. One. Asti. I must choose... How do I? You don't even know.

"Maybe I never will."

Mahal help me.

He was resigned, for nothing could change what was; he was to miss what he would never have.

"But I can promise you, I'm certainly not spending the rest of my life feeling lonely and sorry for myself," and she was heading down the trail.

Sad, lonely and sorry, still utterly angry, Sona's breath caught as she took the path, and there was nothing he could do. It grieved him to realize it was more than people's pity that hurt her so.

"Pack up, all of you."

Thorin and Company quickly caught up to the face-paced Thief. Fíli gave Thorin a sad half-smile, one that did not reach his eyes, as he passed on back to the rear guard.

The day stretched out long and awkwardly. Thorin chose to set camp on a high knoll near an overlook surrounded by rocks and trees for cover. Sona had been gone to the overlook nearly an hour ago, far longer than her usual time, and Thorin sought out his Friend, still wearing a deep scowl from the day's unwelcome lesson on Dwarven Custom.

"Can't wait anymore, Dwalin."

"Then we won't. I'll go get her." His Warrior moved off, but Thorin was before him, blocking the way.

"I need to know she is well." Thorin paced slightly next to Dwalin, who glared into the woods behind them.

"I usually get her, Thorin; She was talking to me, she's going to think I'm offended or some such bollocks, if I'm not there to get her."

"She's upset about something; I want to know what."

"You cannot ask."

"I know, but I can listen, if I were there, and maybe…"

"Durin's Longest Beard, Thorin. Hear yourself speak."

Thorin stared at him, refusing to rise to it. Keeping his calm easier than he would have expected, he simply asked the question, "And what is it I should hear?"

"The longing there." Dwalin's eyes dug in. "We need to help you."

"No." He would not argue.

"Let me get her," Dwalin made to move past just as Thorin shot his arm out, putting an open palm on Dwalin's chest, catching Dwalin's eyes in a grip of wills he would not lose.

"I'm going," he said softly with his own war mask firmly set

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

Khuzdûl:

Birashagimi – I am sorry