AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Rohobu: Thank you for your review and your kind words. It is much appreciated, in both respects.
ErikaRexen: Your feedback is always wonderful and I strive as always to "keep it real" so far as it can be in a fictional fantastic universe- but I think, as you have described, the nature of some joy transcends fantasy. Thank you for the encouragement. Shalom Aleichem, as always.
durinsdaughter2469btw: Getting through this and getting it posted should clear my way for looking into your story and hopefully imparting something you can use.
AHRUS- Flicker
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Thorin yawned against the the snap of the morning coming in from the terraces, the cold dry air rendering him into a coughing fit. The endless summer and long, placid autumn had come to an end with the abruptness of a summer storm. The winds descended from the mountains, scented with snow.
"Water, my liege?" the man beside him asked.
He accepted the water skin from Bard's councilor reluctantly but grunted an obligatory gratitude once his fit had calmed. Percy, a grizzled barkeep, wore a jerkin of fine kid leather and breeches of fine wool, a set of vambraces at his wrists as intricately embossed as a dwarven craft, and yet still, he was ever the rube in the face of slightly better fortunes. If his tar-stained fingertips didn't give away his meaner roots, his stiff walk, his careful, stilted words in Thorin's company did the deed. He walked beside him through the long corridors beneath arch after arch of stone further down into the mountain, awkwardly trying to keep pace with the dwarf king, whose pace he found matched his own jarringly.
Percy hummed his relief against the warmth of a brazier lit on one of the wide mezzanines above the bottom-most cellar, where the market buzzed with activity.
"The wind will bring us little trouble here," Thorin assured with a slight hint of jape.
"As cold as it is, Yuletide does bring good cheer to the darkening days of winter," Percy remarked. "It is the time the children most cherish, for good reason, no?"
"The toy-makers of this kingdom would wish it Yuletide all the year," concurred Thorin more amicably. "A steady profit for their crafts, and the joy of children. What could be better than that?"
"Very little, if you see the light in their faces at the festival days."
Thorin breathed outwardly through his nose in silence for a moment, Percy stiffening next to him.
"Glad tidings it is my king, for you and your queen. A child is a great blessing."
"None more than for her," Thorin. "Her joy for this matter could alight a city." The darkly distant melancholy slipped from his countenance, eyes that had never been seen with warmth toward men peering up at Percy's with unguarded mirth.
Percy dipped his head gratefully. "Our braziers light the outskirts of the city well against danger as the days darken, thanks to your kin's western coal. Shall we speak of these outskirts my liege? The few dwarves, the..." He took a silently impatient note of Thorin's eyes regaining their belligerence. They stood at the open doors of a great hall near-side the main expanse of the bottom-most cellar.
The hall buzzed with the chatter he thinly recognized as being that of women. Dwarf women, sumptuous matrons in velvets and sturdy servant-lasses in heavy wool bodices and linen aprons, worked the space industriously. Kvetching knots of servant girls spoke to each other and laughed openly and loudly over tables of holly and ivy, weaving them into long garlands.
"We prepare for Durin's Day, and Yuletide. It is the women's doing, the merriment of these halls."
"And they are most festive," Percy veered cautiously, twisting his hands. Thorin's eyes roamed the space through it's modest light, ignoring him altogether. "Bard would be most eager to-"
"My queen," smiled Thorin suddenly, catching sight of her at last. He stepped from behind the shelter of the great door that was half-ajar and the sitting women rose and the matrons offered prim curtsies.
His orange-haired queen clacked across the stone floor on her horn-soled slippers toward them, in a long open surcoat of burlywood linen, bordered in gold thread at the parting and the tips of the half-sleeves, under which there was a purple gown of pomegranate patterned woven silk. She held her arms primly beneath the modest swell that was visible in her middle.
"My most hearty congratulations," Percy offered, bowing. "My lord sends the same, and his children. They are very happy for you, my queen."
"You will thank them for their kind words on my behalf?" Meisar reciprocated, sweetly.
"Might he trouble himself to pay a visit to our halls and offer them in his own? If this… disagreement, might be sooner resolved," Thorin broke in pointedly.
"I shall speak to him of it," Percy shrugged. "Indeed, I may make a recommendation to him, based on our... talk. I of course shall relay your graciousness, my queen."
"Indeed," said Thorin shortly. "That would be most appreciated."
"Her majesty's efforts are robust for her condition," Percy remarked, shifting on his feet, raising his eyes from staring pointedly at her stomach to take in the panorama of the great hall. "These halls are lovely."
"We are little fond of dotage, we dwarves, even in my condition," Meisar grinned. "Durin's Day falls upon Yuletide this year. Is there not cause for merriment enough?"
"Our fair city smells of roasted chestnuts at every stall, and pine, northern pine. It is the first time in years we have harvested such."
"I think we shall keep the ones we have acquired to scent the halls all winter. It has been so long since I have smelled northern pine, and a lady is very conscious of these things in a certain condition," Meisar raised the handful of sprigs to her nose eagerly.
"There shall be a public erecting of a great northern pine tree in our center marketplace, a procession of candles and masquerading and offerings of gifts. All are welcome of course. The toy-makers may take note. Yuletide is a fortnight of festivities amongst men."
"The toy-makers will never miss an opportunity, I can promise you," Meisar assured him graciously.
"For that we are grateful, the children even more so," Percy chuckled.
The two of them spoke at the doors to the hall for several moments after the women had summoned Meisar back to the duty of decking the hall, and ever more, even strangers, wanting to fete her belly with words of adoration and bombard her with advice. She had eaten several bowls of Donbur's cheese-and-onion soup since the morning and craved another, an admission that set Eda and Lagert wife of Nifur, son of Bombur, quarreling over the fitness of onions when a dwarrowdam was in her pregnancy, until Meisar set them back to supervising the maids so she could eavesdrop at Thorin.
His arms were crossed, his foot grinding at the ground, and Percy, a man of considerable height and brawny girth, displayed some hard-wrought forbearance in the face of Thorin's posturing. Thorin eventually led the way out, back up toward the gates. He returned alone.
"You are keeping far too busy," Thorin scolded her lightly, slipping a hand into the opening of her surcoat and pressing it lightly on the side of her belly, cradling it in his palm as widely as he could, and massaging it back and forth. "For that the child has not yet quickened."
"Eda says everything is well. I shall not be cooped up, my blessing. It is no good," Meisar protested, turning to arranging the fragrant sprigs of pine upon a table center. "What disagreement then, Thorin? With Dale?"
"Please, let it not concern you," Thorin cajoled. "Diplomatic nattering is all. Bard's walls are expanding, and some dwarves nearby are... unhappy for this."
"When you are cagey with these menfolk, they go out of their way to flatter me, I have noted," Meisar observed wryly. "Do they think me so accommodating or do they wish to take advantage of me in my condition?"
"If they wished to do the latter I would be very unhappy," Thorin smirked. "We would prevent that from happening at all costs."
"If it requires a woman's way, you will let me know, surely? The good of this kingdom is not only in my womb right now, but everywhere needing of attendance."
"Perhaps I would not," replied Thorin stiffly. "You mustn't have trouble about you, not an iota if I am to be the decider in that matter. The child must..."
"The child may benefit from the mother's tenacity," Meisar countered with a lick of sass. "He, or she, shall have to learn quickly the art."
"Aye, and a tenacious mother you will be, alas, best untroubled by the whims of men. They are irritating me enough," groused Thorin.
He withdrew with Meisar to an even quieter nook, away from the hovering dwarrowdams. "It comes so swiftly again, Durin's Day," Thorin sighed, placing a hand discreetly against her belly again. "When does the child move? Is it expected soon?"
"Be patient with him," Meisar admonished sweetly.
Thorin looked up to gaze about the hall, the hive of the women readying it for Durin's Day, which would fall in half a fortnight officially. "I give thanks for this, my queen, and pledge patience as my resolution then. It is a New Year, yea, a new world."
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The drums began to beat around Erebor in the afternoon, fiddles crying out with various skill as bands of dwarves paraded through echoing halls, stopping at the overlooks and balconies to serenade crowds below, preparing last minute for the Durin's Day festivities. Toymakers hustled back into the mountain at dusk when the markets at Dale closed for the evening and a powdery snow began to fall, bottlenecking at the gates with their carts and wagons awaiting the sentries to give them pass. Even Bofur had revived his old living for the occasion, and empty-handed of wares returned with Brynja bundled beside him, holding several bags full of florins and shillings under her coat, shaking them at the bosom to Bofur's roaring amusement.
When she came to Meisar's rooms to dress, nearly all spilled out in a great shower of clinks from under her skirts. Laughter, Meisar had found, was a cautionary exercise as the baby grew, lest a similarly golden jet come from beneath her own skirts. Dagny had worked long and devotedly at the patterned crimson velvet on gold ground for her dress, the lining of ermine, the comfortable belt of pine-green silk to be worn above the belly, and give it a frame the seamstress thought it due.
Niva and Griet helped her dress, bringing her the necessary drawers first and short, loose chemise as her bosoms stubbornly remained sore and protruding. How the dwarrowdams stopped and stared and fawned at her when her belly was bare and she was nearly naked made her feel the fish in a bowl, and yet with some flare of pride, the outward curve subtle still but sturdily convex. Once dressed, they quarreled with each other over who would see to the fashioning of her hair in two long clasped plaits to trail behind her with only the raven crown to cover her head that night.
At Durin's Day the modest and the genteel came in their best furs and jewels, greeting each other with loud salutations, kinship groups clustering together at the long tables, dwarrowdams breaking off sprigs from the table settings to scent their pockets. Many candles were lit upon every table, illuminating the hall up to its vaulted ceilings.
Married dwarves always made lofty entrances into the hall, their proud wives on their arms, beards stiff with pomade and jewels.
"It seems a lifetime ago we were married this day," sighed Meisar on the high dais. "And now."
"I did not think I could have more joy than that day, but alas, I do now," Thorin said. "It is a precious state, this."
"A very precious one indeed," concurred Dis. "From death, life does flicker back to being." A steward filled her glass with heavy winter lager, dark as rye bread. She lifted it toward Meisar, a language all her own in her eyes. "It shines more brilliant than all, and it is all that matters."
"That I would toast to," Thorin agreed, kissing Dis's cheek lightly, her eyes off to the opposite side, demurely, and drinking with her. Dis too wore skirts of crimson velvet embossed upon ground-of-gold, a broad-shouldered, fur-lined coat and high ruff of starched pale linen, with a dark velvet jeweled cap and snood of silver-and-white thread. She wore the girdle that was suspended about her waist most of the time in a thin chain draped several times about her chest, the lockets pinned in place just above her heart.
"You shall know joy as I have, Thorin," Dis continued. "Between joy and sorrow, it is a cycle that must keep turning, and it is in your favor at last."
Mellifluous harps and pipes and flutes had played a drawn-out, soothing shanty in the halls, and now burst forth with the up-sweep of drums and fiddles and the doors of the hall ceremoniously bowing open to allow the entrance of a cadre of dwarves putting all their strength into their burden.
They carried a hairy black boar, eight dwarves strong to haul it, suspended as it was on a set of poles and then laid it upon the catafalque before the dais.
"A Yuletide offering, and a blessing for the New Year if it helps, that it might be as bountiful as this beast will surely provide," trumpeted Nali, a dwarf who had escaped the wrath of Smaug in his swaddling.
"A fair bounty indeed," echoed Thorin. He descended from the dais to give the ritual Yuletide blessing, stepping on the ceremonial stone that raised him to the level of the catafalque and laying his hand upon the boar's neck. "I mount here and swear by Mahal with this offering... that I shall protect this kingdom with my life, for my people, for my child."
Thorin's lips parted in thought but no sound came out, to the solemn silence of the dwarves in the hall. "What I could not fulfill in times that have passed by us, I swear now, at the forfeit of my own life... Mahal bless us, upon this Durin's Day and feast-day of Yule, and forever, until we are stone again."
"Here! Here! Bless you my king!" a dwarf boomed out from the hall. Others followed, to the visible relief of the dais and the hall.
Thorin raised his head from a silent prayer upon the cold beast. "Let all come forth who wish to swear by this sacrifice and offer their fealty to our Creator."
One by one the male dwarves, some escorting fathers barely able to walk in their white-beard age, others holding the hands of young dwarflings, walked forth and laid their right hands upon the boar's icy neck bristles and swore the solemn oath to uphold all that Mahal had created and held dear. The youngest mustered their seriousness in front of their fathers, raised their hands and met the king's eyes as they recited the vows, to Thorin's praise.
The dwarf Floi straggled in well-imbibed at the end of the queue, a kinsman of Balin and Dwalin's, resembling the former in his younger years when his hair was only gray and not white, forked beard sternly pomaded, but warm in the eyes like Balin was he, and almost as rich as the king himself.
"I expect a good fat goat from you, my friend," Thorin chuckled toward the dwarf Floi, Balin making gestures of japing concurrence, his kinsman's swagger a confirmation of a well-fed offering.
"A fat goat is being prepared by the best cook in the great kitchens as we speak, blessed before the sacrifice I assure you. I only wished the sight of blood not to be upsetting to the women or children, or the queen in her condition. Mahal bless you, lady."
"Mahal bless you, friend. We thank you for this gift," Meisar offered, her cheeks pink, feeling hot already in the hall, in spite of the distance of the hearth.
"The choicest cut shall come to you my queen once the spit-boys are satisfied by it, for the strength of the child within you. It is my gift to you, as all mothers are crowning jewels, but a mother of Durin's sons... why she is the true king's jewel," the dwarf expounded with a poet's dramatic muster.
Over her soup she hiccuped suddenly into her spoon and it clacked hard against her teeth and then the roof of her mouth. Thorin's hand was on hers as the spoon fell to the ground.
"Are you alright?" His eyes flooded wide with alarm.
Eda and Virta and Emli were busy at their cups around them, when Meisar's throat issued a tiny croaking sound. Only Dis took notice, and silently so.
"Meisar!" Thorin all but hissed, the noise in the hall filtering his urgent tone.
She kept her eyes ahead and bowed her head with determined grace to an awkwardly gaping Floi. He shuffled away swiftly enough once Oliada had swept in to shoo him off, taking her subtle notice of things. In silence she took the hand of Thorin's that lay over hers with her opposite and nestled it under the dais against her belly. When a second hiccup emerged, so did a sudden hitch from inside her.
Prodded from the inside, there came a fleeting ripple, penetrating the velvet of her gown.
"Is that…?" Thorin croaked just above a whisper.
She nodded silently, cheeks a shade of rose and growing darker. The baby kicked inside her a third time, making her stomach do a little flip that brought another hiccup and then a hitch of breath against the crystalline rim of tears that had formed inadvertently on the crests of her lower lids. She blinked across to Thorin and saw the same dewy lines at his.
A moment was theirs alone, serenaded by fiddles, drums, the hollering of kin to each other over the length of a hall, sempiternal in its essence, if not its time. Balin and Dwalin were raising cups of lager to each other, taking no notice, nor was Dis as Brundin grabbed for the locket at her chest and shook both loose from their pins with a chubby fist, Freyda on her guard gathering him up in a hurry.
Dis had called him once in a high voice that usually signified panic, on a long rutted road they traveled through Dunland on a summer night. Eili by her side as she sat girded by piles of metal-work and rough blankets to buffer against them, she had felt Fili move the first time then. He had stopped the wagon, and sat for nearly an hour beneath the light of the full moon, waiting for another sign, another kick. He and Eili had shoved each other's hands off the expanse of Dis's belly so irately she was soon warning them against their coming to blows over the matter.
His heart had almost burst its walls then.
Now it...
He held the swell down in his chest by stiffening his throat, that or to stifle the urge toward tears, openly. His heart came back into rhythm and into being, with the beat of another, like a ghost, but rather than the specter of death, the hope of life coming into being, rather than departing it.
"Aye, it is. Banzith," she pulled Thorin's hand closer to the groundswell of rippling that was coming up again from her womb. "The first son of winter."
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Banzith- Kick That Is New