"Meisar, I must speak with you."

She turned and stood on her toes to peer over her pony's back, finding Brynja timorous, looking at the ground. "Are you alright? Do you have an injury? Eda and Oin…"

The wind had shifted. They were downwind of the dreadful miasma coming from the village now, and they could all smell it in the camp, the death and the fear of it. She had all intentions of telling them to move until nightfall. Brynja twisted a lock of braided nut-brown hair

"No, no, it is nothing like that. I have already spoken to the king of it. But I thought it right to speak with you also, in case you were to advise against it." "Well what is it?"

"Bofur and I will be married today. When we next make camp, my lady."

Meisar set down her swords and saddle-bag. "This is news." She gave Brynja a courteous half-smile.

Brynja came around to her side, as she un-saddled the pony and sent her off to take water with the others. "After last night, I am reminded of our mortality. We face grave dangers. If I should die along this road, I will die wife of my One." Meisar stood and braced Brynja around her shoulders, something assuring about the firmness of her hands that made the brown-eyed dwarrowdam ease. "You will not die. I will do all to see that."

"You don't seem terribly happy for me," Brynja pouted, giving Meisar a hung-dog look.

And what did you expect of me, sweet girl? A face full of mirth, with no beard to grace it?

"Bofur will make a fine husband, and you a loving wife. It is just… so sudden." She forced herself to smile at the bride-to-be, her neck and shoulders draped in Bofur's scarf, her hair braided like his with a pair of silver courtship rings clasping them. She looked so innocent and kind. How could any begrudge her?

"Yes I know it is sudden. He asked my hand in marriage only this night past. Asked the king's blessing and for Balin to make our vows sacred."

"And what did Thorin- the king- say of this?"

"It was King Thorin who urged Bofur to ask my hand in the first place."

II

In the shadow of stone, jutting out from a great rock face which shaded them, Balin read out the pronunciations of marriage, and Bofur and Brynja repeated their vows, swearing fealty and love until they were stone again. The dwarves stood in a circle around them as Bofur made a circle of his own, seven times around Brynja. She wore flowers in her hair and her best dress, white gauze embroidered in a delicate panel all down the front and all about the round curve of the neckline in deep cobalt-blue thread. Brynja, that shy, sweet girl who could neither read nor write, signed the marriage contract by drawing two crossed miners' picks, symbols of their heritage, their sameness, their oneness. It was read aloud, of course, so that each of the dwarves present might hear and retain all that was contained within, in case any of it were to be broken.

There was no time to make a proper veil so that she might be uncovered before him, prior to the saying of their vows, nor did she wear the bridal crown or circlet of precious metal that a dwarrowdam would don with her wedding attire. So the dwarrowdams improvised; they brought a fine lace curtain, dug haphazardly from Emli's stuffed wagon, to hold up before her and open when Bofur came to meet her beneath the stone. On her head she wore a crown of daisies, painstakingly threaded about blue-and-white ribbon that matched her dress. "A custom of exile, but a fair one nonetheless," she said coyly, as she held it in place upon her head, while Bofur worked patiently to make her marriage braid. He improvised and clasped it with a bit of twine and his boar-tooth earring. "When we come to Erebor lass, I shall make ye a crown of emeralds and diamonds, yellow diamonds, for your hair." Thorin's ear twitched at the sound of Bofur whispering it, along with a kiss, into her ear.

"Truly?" the dwarrowdam blushed. "It's in the contract, love, and a dwarf respects a contract." She burrowed into his cheek with her nose, took his moustache on the tip of her finger and twirled at it, blushing like the maid of only 84 years that she was.

84. She looked like a child in comparison to him. If only Fili had been granted so many years. His people were understand, and forgive him for never having taken a wife. There was another in the wings, young and brave, who would be king after him. In only a few years, dwarrowdams from all the Seven Kingdoms would have clattered for his hand. Flattering him in Erebor in bright brocades with jewels in their beards.

The hooting and the clapping of the present jolted him back, as the two shared another kiss that went on and on, as if they had no need of air. If he would never such sublime joy himself, then Bofur deserved it. Ever faithful, ever optimistic, Bofur had earned this rare and wonderful privilege, a One, and one as amiable, as good-hearted as Brynja. True, Ones were not earned but determined by the Creator at the moment a dwarf was molded in his mother's womb, but aloneness, aloneness was earned. He pushed the bitterness back down into some metaphorical black pit he imagined inside his own body, appropriately around the heart he thought, but it felt lower, an ache at the very bottom of the ribcage. It was a sensation that spread in him from there to his mouth, where it felt very much like swallowing against a tongue full of salt or bitter herb.

As they parted their lips from each other, he took in the dwarrowdams who all stood on the other side of the circle from the men. He could feel each of their eyes on him, just as he could feel Balin's on the back of his neck, and Dwalin's. Dwalin was always so close he could feel his breath.

Meisar was the only one who seemed distant, against this awkward vigil over him that the others seemed to keep. He wished they would say something, to him, or through one of the other dwarves. He wished she would say something, her long wordless spells against the constant nattering of the dwarrowdams had been uncanny relief at first. Now it nagged at him, like an itch that no scratching would heal. He watched her for any sign than she may too learn to fear for him, even fear him. In the moment there was a tenderness in her eyes though, if not joy. It was subtle, a placated look that one might notice upon the face of a lady who smiled so seldomly. For all that the days past had brought, the joy of Brynja and Bofur seemed contagious. It was a rare and precious happiness, this love. To see Bofur as he was at that very moment eased the rigidity of his spine.

"Would my king do the honors and my lady Meisar, to pour for us the wedding mead?" Brynja requested. "I would, my lady." "And I," said Meisar quietly. She stepped forward to hold the chalice while Thorin poured, thick fingers curled about the bottle's neck, the lightest of tremors at the tips of his hands.

Her hands too must have trembled. The bottle clinked densely and lightly on the silver of the chalice, until it was full, and they stepped back, able to see each other more clearly now that they stood close in the gloaming light.

Thorin had taken the time to refresh his attire and see that his hair was combed and braids fixed. He looked regal, more a king than she had seen him in many days. And for this occasion, purportedly at his urging, why not?

Not for a second did he meet her eyes again than hers were at once sharp, then lowered. She had shirked the shapeless cloak of undyed wool and donned a half-cape of tan-and-green tartan fastened with a brooch of bronze. Her hair was washed clean of orc blood and ash, and braided anew. Her gaze came upward and focused at him again, and though he lowered his own quickly and fumblingly, he saw that it had drawn a slight smile from her, as modest and discreet as she was, but a smile nonetheless.

The bitterness on his tongue seemed to fade a bit.

They drank from the chalice of honey-mead until it was empty and they tasted it further from each other's lips. Hegi came staggering over and barged past Thorin before he could return Meisar that small courtesy, already drunk on something. "A gift, special," Hegi garbled in Khuzdul, directing the dwarves to her wagon. She roused Bifur, who was sleeping there, gave him a smack upside his head for missing the wedding.

Amongst the other foreboding lumps in her wagon, which were covered tight, Hegi unveiled a gargantuan barrel of Moria moonshine, the kind of spirits better suited to the heartiest of their hearty race. It was her own recipe, she bragged in Khuzdul, which should have warned any of them of its possible properties. It was gone before night fell.

In spite of frayed nerves, they willed themselves to make merry. There was ale, mead and Hegi's dwarven moonshine. Eventually the dwarrowdams took Brynja off to ready her for bed. She had made such of her wagon, its bed arranged in pelts of warg and bearskin, their worn-out bedrolls cushioned by a few extra blankets and a pair of goose-down pillows. Emli said a benediction over her, clad in only her sleeveless linen shift and the one good piece of jewelry she owned, a topaz necklace that matched her eyes. She looked nervous but entirely blissful.

"Yavanna, your daughters ask your blessing," imparted Emli. "Bless our lady, the fairest of all jewels in Aule's creation: the bride, the bearer of your children, whom you created first from stone, so stone may come to yield creation hewn of flesh and bone. For she is called the Giver of Fruits."

When their reverence had been properly observed, the dwarrowdams all burst into fits of nervous laughter. They bid Brynja drink more ale, and begged off at Emli's insistence eventually, so that she could counsel the bride on matters only a married woman could. They retreated, giggling, whispering bawdily, and settling at the edge of the camp or hiding under the wagons to catch a listen. A wedding after all was a rare treat, a wedding on the road, rarer yet. Half of them might go all their lives without ever seeing a dwarven couple join in their presence. Less than that would themselves marry. They savored the night, the ritual and joy, the possibility of something pure.

III

"It is predetermined, written in stone. There is no other way. If you have a One, he will reveal himself to you when he is meant to," insisted Emli, righteously, joining the huddle of dwarf women again. "A married dwarf has an easy time saying such a thing," remarked Freyda, wistfully. "For the rest of us, it's a wee tiresome waiting game, wondering if he's going to come along."

"Do you think I say such things for the sake of hearing myself speak?" asked Emli.

"Even if not, I wager you like that part just fine," quipped Siv.

Ignoring her, Emli sighed, wistfully. "If any of you ladies have a One awaiting you, I am only trying to help you recognize him when he comes."

"Here, here!" chuckled Freyda, raising a tankard of mead. "If my One is afoot, be a kind lass then and drop me a hint. That goes for all of ye, 'cos I'm far clumsier with men than I am with iron." There was a hint of hope in her self-deprecating shrug.

"Let us pledge then that we will all do the same for each other," suggested Gyda. The dwarrowdams toasted on it and swore. Gyda leaned over and whispered something in Freyda's ear and it made her smile. The two of them made eyes together toward Meisar, making her so un-eased it half-relieved her when Urdlaug came waddling in.

"All you'll do is get yourselves all worked up into a tizzy, seeing things that aren't there. Only disappointment in that lot," grumbled Urdlaug dispiritedly. Her huge, wide frame eased itself to sit upon the hard ground, bones creaking. The mood died a bit but the plate of blackberry tarts Urdlaug brought lifted it again.

"It is not to say we cannot hope, even for that which seems far off or impossible," Emli sighed wistfully. "I pray Mahal should bring my Gimli a beautiful dwarven lady, a strong, big-hipped maid with a beautiful beard." "He is very handsome, Emli," grinned Siv.

"A beautiful, fine-bearded dwarrowdam of undebased reputation," Emli gave her a disapproving side-eye. "Sterling, I dare say."

"I hope he marries an elf, just to see the look on your face," Siv cursed, low enough under her breath so that Emli didn't hear. Or the sour-sweet pinch of the tarts might not be the only bite served that night.

The dwarrowdams passed around the tarts, more ale and mead. Against an instinct she was accustomed to, something inexplicable drew Meisar to stay with them. Their talk was eager, hopeful, talk that made even the older women blush and laugh coquettishly as if they were girls in that awkward stage again, filling out at the hips, wearing gaudy jewelry, in constant turmoil over the state of their beards.

"I do not want to be married," asserted Lulia against their saccharine swooning, a proud and self-assured look about her. Her elder sisters nodded vigorously in agreement, all stubbornly unmarried. "I want to be have my own forge under the mountain. I'll make anything from swords to cooks' knives, to steel needles even, so the ladies of Erebor can sew jewels onto their gowns." Small and square and stocky, Lulia donned mail like a warrior, a great belt set about her waist, hair worn in several long plaits with a messy fringe over her forehead. She had a short beard, thin as twine, braided at the chin. None could imagine her promenading about in velvet and diamonds, but if the re-conquest of Erebor, and Thorin's unexpected return, had taught them anything, it was that the impossible often was far from it.

"If I have a One, I pray he comes soon. I'm not getting any younger," sighed Freyda. She craned her head this way and that and squinted into the dark of the camp, as if looking for someone. "You will know him when you see him. The creator gives us but one love, and does not let us miss them when they come," harped Emli. "Why, the moment I lay eyes on Gloin I knew he would be my husband."

"A perfect love story for the ages I'm sure," quipped Siv, rolling her eyes.

"You'd like every dwarf you lay eyes on to be your husband, Siv! All at once," teased Lulia. "She don't have a One. She has a one-at-a-time," Freyda hastened to add. "You're a queer fish for a dwarf then, Siv. That is not our way. Dwarves love once, haven't you heard?" snapped Emli.

"Me a queer fish? Why I'm not the one who…" she grumbled in a weak protest that trailed off and ended with her folding her arms crossly.

"What about you Meisar? Do you want to marry?" inquired Gyda innocuously.

The girl's voice startled her. "I… I don't know." Suddenly feeling hot about the neck and face, her focus darted around avoiding the sharp gaze of Siv's black eyes. The other dwarrowdams were looking at her less intently, but just as curiously. "Well," said Emli, putting an arm around her shoulder and making her flinch. "You haven't a choice in that matter. If Aule has decided that you shall have a One, you will meet him. It is unavoidable."

Her voice caught in her throat. She wasn't used to this, a group of women prying her for an answer, to a question she had never once asked herself. "If it is in my future, then it is," she decreed finally. "Now is time for my watch."

"Just remember," Emli called after her. "There are no chance meetings in this world."

IV

"Reporting for watch, milord." She approached and gave Thorin one of her now-distinct curtsies, so stiff and clumsy as if she would lose her balance bending her knees, not that she had far to fall even if she did wind up flat on her face. She was so very small, Thorin observed quietly to himself. Small, but unyielding; she may yet prove more tenacious than ever he could have anticipated. That was good. Good enough.

"Should be Brynja, this time around," remarked Dwalin, drunkenly. "Mister Dwalin, Brynja has just been married."

"And where have our newlyweds gone?" Thorin asked. Half the dwarves had flown off to the edges of the camp to spew their suppers along with the shine. The strongest, and the soberest then, took watch. "To the bride's wagon," said Meisar. She gestured to Brynja's painted wagon with its heavy canvas top. From inside filtered out the dim illumination of the lantern, suspended above the bed of it. It showed the shadow of Brynja's gown hanging up. Just below it moved the shape of Bofur's hat. Forth, and then back, and forth again.

"Pray they do not break the axles," Dwalin said without a smile. In the distance the groan of wheels was followed by the hushed, uneasy laughter of the dwarrowdams over in their huddle. "Away from the hens I see, shepherdess. Their talk must bore ye to tears." He grunted sarcastically.

"I think you do not know women very well, Mister Dwalin," she said quietly. Dwalin got a queer look about him, and she said no more.

"A happy occasion fer sure. Could have done without another delay though," Dwalin finally hastened to say, eyeing Meisar.

"Well… the animals needed to rest and regain themselves. You know they become skittish after attacks like that, better chance of spooking and bolting… then you'd really have a delay. They need their rest…" she rattled off.

Her jumbled tongue betrayed nothing, certainly not the sudden irritation that rose in her at Thorin's silence, if this all been at his urging. If Brynja had not in her innocent way heard something different than what she was meant to, if this was not some strange jest being played at her-

"Sit then, dunininh," he commanded. "I would speak with you anyhow."

She eased herself down to sit, her distance from him too obvious. He was a king, she reminded herself. How had she dared to be so forthright earlier, to meet his eyes in the company of all of them, to smile? Eda was right. Rumors would kindle, and rebuke, and all trust in her, even amongst her own people, might be forsaken. Or some offense might be given to this dwarf that was their king back from the proverbial dead, their gold-sick king and his sister-sons cold in their tombs, cold as the stars above, and as distant, and compelled to redeem the power of love for an old comrade, if it were to be believed. If only he would say. If only he would look at her. His eyes were so woebegone and resplendent. She was standing on a shore as the tide pulled out, and took her into its depths unresisting. Not once in her life had she seen the sea…

There was something still alive and good, that she had come so close to seeing plainly, like the opening and closing of a door. If only she had the gall to ask outright. Thorin sat beside her wordlessly and smoked a pipe of strong, dry tobacco. His silence was heavy, and Meisar turned her attention stoically to the deep of the night. The sole light, the lantern in the newlyweds' wagon, had dimmed and darkened altogether. The strains of their coupling still carried on the silent night, a lull of strained breath followed by the inevitable crescendos. Thorin had said he wanted to speak with her. Of what she had no mind to guess, and though he was wordless while he smoked, his face regained its previous distance. She willed she would not break the silence between them, even if a nagging instinct inside her told her it was better to be broken than not. Listening to two dwarves on the night of their wedding could be an amusing if sporadic pastime, but with every yelp and throaty keen in Khuzdul coming from Bofur and Brynja Thorin stiffened. He folded his arms in front of him around his sword. Dwalin had drifted off, helped by a bit of the moonshine, and was snoring, upright against the rock face. Meisar's brindle hound sniffed about him, only to be sleepily swatted away with the back of his huge, tattooed hand. The cur slunk back to Meisar's side and buried himself in her tan-and-green cloak.

"I am sorry that he speaks to you so roughly. He does not easily trust or tolerate many," Thorin muttered apologetically.

"There is no need for you to apologize. He protects you, and that is admirable."

Thorin rubbed at his bruised throat. "And do you think I need protecting?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment, her mouth dry. The tuft that swept raggedly over the underside of his chin and the upper part of his neck was less coarse. His throat was bare from the tip of that tuft to its baseline, and his layers of armor and clothes were impenetrable and heavy. The slightest hint of bare skin was visible where throat and collar met, leaving a small sliver exposed. When the dragon Smaug was slain, the talk was of a foreboding armor all about his being, with a single chink at his chest which the black arrow had pierced. The weakness, the vulnerability of that single entry point, which could change everything, whether for better or for worse. She had never felt so much like a black arrow stirring in its bow.

"I… I think we all do, one time or another," she said finally.

Looking back at her, his eyes felt terse. He blinked, and their regal iciness melted a bit. "Aye. That is true enough." He put aside his sword and took her hound, the russet-and-white nestling between his boots, onto his knee and stroked at its fur. His thick fingers moved with uncanny gentleness on the animal's back. A smile began to form but he seemed to stop himself. "Thank your hounds for their services as well… my lady… Meisar." No sign could be read in his face that a smile might arise, but he looked… at least un-disturbed for the moment.

Had Siv been right too? That errant-minded girl and her naughty tongue. Oh, she was too smart for her own good, always seeing and saying too much, on subjects she had no business knowing so much about. Had she seen the way she had looked at him? The meeting of their eyes over the newlyweds' kissing into oblivion? The flame hiding just beneath her cheeks?

"He has seen your die and come to life again. More or less. What else would any of us do under the circumstances?" Meisar mused, her voice thick and murmuring, eyes on her hands.

The space between her and Thorin had shrunk by the width of a sitting man, and she was not even sure who hastened to narrow it.

"My lady, I think perhaps… "

Her throat tightened. Had Dwalin besmirched her when they reached the camp? Or worse, had Eda been right about rumors, and the talk of the dwarrowdams not fallen on Dwalin's deaf ears- or Thorin's- in spite of his professed disinterest in it? She remembered too how her hands had trembled at the wedding, how he had looked at her across the circle, which had served to do no more than unnerve her when she thought back upon it. He was not a stupid dwarf blind as he could be to other things, or so she had been told in woeful tongues again and again by the dwarves, of his tribulations, recent and distant.

She looked up at Thorin again, mustering her courage, with her deep, solemn eyes waiting for him to continue. When he did not and the silence between, the lost look in his eyes, finally started to become tense, she took a breath, willing herself to say what had been on her mind to say.

"I meant to tell you earlier my king, much earlier that I am sorry, for your lo-"

"Mahal!" Dwalin sprung back to consciousness with a start, as a keening mewl and moan pierced the night. It settled into a happy, placated lull of soft sighs that carried yet, which Dwalin scowled and cursed at but Meisar let seep into her psyche. It was a sweet sound, as something of its nature had never been to her. A kind husband he would be, a gentle dwarf, Bofur, Meisar thought silently. He cared for her. He would do all to make her happy, please her…

Dwalin came to, hauled himself up to sit and did so between them. Only then did she realize that the space between them had been no wider than Dwalin's own width; his weaponry-belt nudged her to scoot to her right.

"I do suppose they could keep it down," Meisar fanned herself in spite of the cool, dense night air. One moment she was ablaze, and the next even the summer night felt colder than death. Thorin and Dwalin were both narrowing their eyes at her, as she felt her skin cycle rapidly from mercurial flush to icy pale. "Are you alright, dunininh?" Thorin queried lightly. He looked at her now as he had that morning, eyes with concern, his hand at her cheek.

"Yes," she responded. "Yes my king. I am fine. I am, truly."