"Is it really spring already? I feel like this winter has lasted far too long," Emli inquired aloud on the morning that greeted Muhudtuzakhmerag. The festival of spring, honoring Yavanna's mercies which kept nature in balance, beyond their halls of stone that yielded no sustenance.
The women were weaving sprigs of barley into their coifs. Brynja had made her a whole crown of it, slender and green.
Tir squirmed as Meisar dressed him, fed, burped, and relaxed after his bath. Still, he seemed not to much like the extra garments she was attiring him in.
"Tir is it? It's a simple enough name. Got a strength about it," Brynja remarked. She tickled his belly over his shirt, in his cradle indifferent to the bustle of the room. He was dressed sufficiently for his first outing, in soft hose and leather booties, a long white brocade tunic lined in green velvet with ruched cuffs and a white linen embroidered cap fastened in an elegant knot under his chin.
"It just came to us I suppose. Thorin's idea really," Meisar shrugged. "I thought you and Bofur would come together this morning. Is he unwell?"
"Nay, nay, m'queen. He's on his way right about. We've a gift for you this day," Brynja piped up eagerly.
When he did arrive it was with frayed braids and a wide grin. He pushed a beautiful pram carved of oak and painstakingly shined. Thorin's arms were engraved into its front, and a shepherdess's rune. Even the wheels were a special sort, collapsible that they might take stairs with ease.
"I made it myself, all of it. Needed a new polish this morning is all. I'm sorry for m'tardiness."
"How dare you apologize, Bofur? It is a wonder," Meisar laughed, peering into the velvet-and-lace-lined bed in to see that there were several carved toys in the fur-and-linen laid bed- rattle, poppet and a teething ring of soft leather.
"Those too," Bofur said. "Lad needs some form to keep him busy."
"I could ask for no greater friends than you, nor could he," Meisar embraced them both with tears welling up in her eyes, love and gratitude and an uneasy feeling of something ineffable in her belly. Tir began to cry again and it dissipated.
"I'll hold him for ye. I haven't even had a chance yet," Siv pleaded prettily.
"You might want to tuck those necklaces in," Meisar acquiesced, waiting for Siv to drop the rattling strands deep into her bodice before she placed Tir into her eager arms. Siv cradled him with obvious affection, even if his little blue eyes gazed up at her, only a little stunned by her sight.
"He's no idea what's on his wee shoulders, do he? He sleeps, he calls for a teat and for his swaddlins' to be changed. He don't know what this world is. Will you tell him someday of how his father come back from the dead?"
"He was never dead, Siv. A powerful magic only," Meisar said harshly. The pang in her stomach returned.
"Says a wizard who's got them sorts o' powers, bringing life from death and all," quipped Siv.
Her blitheness raised the pang to a hard twist in Meisar's chest. "There is only one force in all of this world that has the power to raise the dead, and it is cursed even to speak of it."
"He does have his father's look," Siv conceded, a little alarmed. "Quite fair he is."
Tir went on crying, in spite of Siv's harried attempt to calm him, bouncing him warily in her arms so that her jewels clacked and rattled. "Why's he crying now? He's just been fed and clean."
"He wants what you've got there. They're all the same to him for all I know," Meisar eyed Siv's savagely pressed-up bosom in her green-and-yellow frock. "But I'm afraid you'll not be much use to him there."
"Put them back into your dress, and he won't be a'crying so," Eda admonished, tucking Siv's fichu around her shoulders and deep into the neckline of her dress. The excess rouge from their rosy peaks rubbed off onto the pale muslin; Eda harrumphed. "Save it for the scoundrel you've betrothed yourself to."
Siv plucked the fichu from her shoulders and rearranged it, covering the mark with a braid of hers artfully arranged over the shoulder. "He don't like sharing anyway."
"Perhaps some of the rouge for the this lot, dear," Aroin clucked, filching the pot from the table. "Been cooped up under the ground all winter. Put a bit of rosiness in those cheeks. This is a time of joy."
"They'll be pink-cheeked enough after the spring mead," Emli countered, halting Gyda from smearing an awkward streak across her cheekbone. "I suggest you refrain from too much, Gyda. Freyda's got an actual babe that chucks and heaves enough. She won't be needing an extra one."
"Mind your manners is best, all of you," Meisar reminded lightly.
"We've also dwarves, lovie," Siv smirked, to the stifled agreement of the others in the room.
Over linen kirtle and petticoat she donned a coat of deep green velvet fastened at the torso with five gilded round buttons, long hanging sleeves lined in yellow silk and patterned from collar down center part in gold filigree thread. She wore her hair in two long plaits woven with green ribbons. But a spring-maid she felt little. Her eyes were pitted, her face blotchy, her fingers and belly still swelled uncomfortably.
"I look like I've been hit with a war-hammer. Very regal indeed," Meisar sighed into the looking-glass.
"Then consider yourself a warrior," Eda said. "What you've faced is bloody business, not unlike war. Except that there are no enemies to put down only to have them rise up again. This is the only end result." She placed Tir back into Meisar's arms with a regarding smile.
"Have you made ready, Meisar? It is close to the hour," Thorin entered with Dwalin beside him. The two wore ceremonial velvet tunics of matching hunter-green and surcoats of black and gold. Only Thorin's crown and cloak of state disrupted the synchronicity of their garb. Dwalin carried a sprig of barley tucked against a brooch on his chest, which Brundin was grabbing for.
Thorin poached Tir affectionately from Meisar. Brundin's attention quickly swiveled from his father's accessories to the smaller, swarthier model of himself cradled opposite him in Thorin's arms. Dwalin brought him in for a closer look.
"Ye'll know him all yer life, laddie," Dwalin explained to his son. "Get a look."
Brundin got a look as well as a handful of Tir's beard, grasped and tugged in his chubby fist until Tir screeched his disapproval.
"Ah, ye bright brute, Brundin. 'Tis a prince, ye numpty," Freyda scolded her son, drawing him from Dwalin's hold back to hers, her flushed face a portrait of secondhand embarrassment whilst the rest were laughing aloud.
"A babe knows not," Meisar reassured her calmly. She took Tir back the same to calm him, smooth the mussed section of beard that peered out from beneath his bonnet. "I'll carry him the way down. But we will bring the pram. Bofur's craftsmanship ought be on display for all the kingdom to see."
Bofur's bashful acceptance was a warm point between the dueling glances of Balin and Dis on either side. Dis was outfitted in deep teal, a high open partlett of gold lace under a square necked gown, a collar of sapphire at her throat.
"I wish to conduct it then," Dis spoke up. Balin's mouth straightened with a long hint of forbearance. Thorin's silence deepened something awkward in the room. Dis stood with her hands clasped against her abdomen, dignified in her request.
"Empty?" questioned Thorin.
Dis glared back at his jaundiced eye. "A symbolic gesture, brother. Our people must never forget what we have endured. If each and every one of them do not remember what happened to my sons, that I am a mother who has lost them, then his future is as like to be as theirs."
"Never," Thorin growled defensively under his breath.
"Then they must remember, in order to remember what they are vowing to protect," Dis touched Tir's head lightly over his little cap, bent and kissed him. "This."
"'Tis true. We dwarves must never forget, and true be, we celebrate the future as much as we commemorate the past," Baliin interjected diplomatically. "We recall a harsh winter in spring as much as we celebrate the warm days to come."
"Yes, yes. I think Mister Balin is quite right," Emli agreed. Her deep moss and burgundy paneled gown was puffed at the shoulders and matched what showed of Gimli's finely patterned tunic under his ceremonial armor, barley sprig tucked behind her ear, which was flush to its shell with pride.
She and Gloin stood together on the long walk from the royal quarters, at a comfortable distance behind Gimli, who walked at Meisar's side, his ax at hand ready to guard the prince's life with his own, so much as danger could be had within the mountain. Oliada walked abreast and slightly behind, shadowing Dis with the unoccupied pram. As they proceeded on, more dwarves were coming to line the stairs and walks and call down to them. Finally they assembled on the long stair with Thorin and Meisar at the landing, their courts ascending upward along the steps left of them, the thirteen of the conquest, Meisar's women, Bira and the children gathered to the stair descending right of the landing, flush with pride and overexertion from the journey up to the city heart. Balin's kin Floi and Frar served as kingsguard, along with Gimli, stationed to the side of the pram with ax planted firm upon the ground, stiff in his ceremonial armor.
"We greet you this day with joy in our hearts, for under the mountain a prince has been born. I invite you to behold my son and heir. Tir, we have called him."
"Uzbad-dashat! Uzbad-dashat! Tir! Tir! Tir!" the chant started with one voice high up on the skywalk above and spread like fire in a drought-wracked wood. Tir wailed over the swell of their voices and the uneven rhythm of their ax-poles thumping against the floor.
"We invite you to feast and drink in celebration of the springtime, and our prince," Thorin concluded.
"Hail his highness, Tir, first of his name, son of Thorin, son of Thrain, of Durin's House and heir to Durin's throne. Dwarves of Erebor, behold!" cried Frar and the cheers of the dwarves roared so loud the lanterns on the ceiling shook.
.
Before the banquet they received the lines of dwarves together as they filed into the hall. Familiar faces and equally unfamiliar bowed and acclaimed, one after the other. So many brought gifts for the little prince the stewards were carting them off to store in the lower hall lest they make a tower tall enough to bury the grand assemblage. A warm, familiar presence finally came in the form of Rebka the Stonefoot. The swarthy eastern matron smiled wide, her white teeth glowing bright against her sepia skin and white-peppered beard. She had the gentle scent of earth and greenery about her, the sweetest scent Meisar had known in months when they embraced.
"I have missed you, Rebka," Meisar sighed.
"You've been occupied by far more important things, majesty. What are gardens compared to princes? No more precious life would spring yield than the life of this child," Rebka swooned. "The terrace gardens are soon to be in bloom though, my queen. Would you come to see? We have missed your guiding presence."
"Soon I hope."
Dwarves were queuing at the banquet tables in lines four and five deep that were beginning to snake out the doors of the hall. The air smelled of spring rain and well-charred mutton, huge cauldrons of sticky cheese soup and plates heaped high in fresh-baked sourdough knots, butter-and-garlic on roast capon, the stout aroma of barley-beer.
Balin banged on the side of his cup with his spoon, a signal for Meisar to stand. She did so, dizzy from the noise in the hall and the nerves that were still raw in parts of her, some she expected, others less. Balin and Dis had gone into a vestibule and remained for several minutes, emerging in time not to catch Thorin's notice. Both were straight-faced in the way people were when they wanted to hide something.
"The queen," announced Frar. "The queen under the mountain will speak, and bless this meal, in honor of the Smith's Wife."
She gazed out blankly into the sea of dwarves whose eyes were all focused at her. Keep it brief; they're hungry.
"When I believed all to be hopeless, Yavanna's grace has brought me my son. An heir to his father's throne. Mahal makes all things as they are meant to be. And Yavanna... Yavanna gave our fathers each their own sprig of barley. Without the barley, there is no beer and no bread. We are reliant on her mercy, always. But let us not forget that our fortunes may rise and fall in this world for cause of our wills. Choose wisely, all of you, and choose in the spirit of good, and all is like to be so."
.
In Thrain's Hall there were pipes and fiddles, games of horseshoe and arm-wrestling. The latter was done with great ceremony, a coin flipped at the start to determine who would compete as the prince's champion.
She held him at the rail before the dais so the lucky flipper could dramatically offer his fealty, the strength of his arm. The dwarves around him began to chant rowdily, both sides calling out colorful insults to each other until one wrestler's arm was slammed reverberating into the table.
"Uzbad-dashat!" the winning dwarf boomed. The chant went up from table and dancing floor, arms raised in the air at once, and the champion given a gold piece from the prince's own purse by Thorin himself. Tir lay indifferent and snuggled warmly in Meisar's arms; the noise in the hall didn't seem to perturb him much, a slight relief.
There was a call to dance then, an elaborate volta performed by the betrothed couples of the city for the king and queen. The dwarrowdams wore crowns of flowers and barley sprigs in their hair like maidens among men, attired in their finest, shades of green, yellow, coral and sky-blue for spring. When the dance had been concluded there was unorganized merriment, more games and drinking and drinking games, and king and queen came down from the dais to mingle.
Dwalin and Onar chugged stout tankards and commiserated in their little posse, while Brundin was passed from Vestri to Vigg, Lofar and then Hepti.
"Year Thorin's Halls were founded in Ered Luin we had a spirited Muhudtuzakhmerag. Pony race with the hobbits down on the northern fronts of the Shire. Dun need to tell ye who won that lot."
"Us. Hobbits are soft creatures," chuckled Onar. "Tubby, break their falls."
"Myself, to be sure. Left him breathing me dirt, some halfling potato farmer with too much ale in him," Dwalin went on, determined.
"Don't ye get boasting now," Freyda scolded lightly, swooping in to seize Brundin from Hepti's uneasy dancing about with him, so gone on the beer his eyes were spinning in his head.
"Can't do much about that with men. They're too tall for our ponies, and their horses are too big for us. Shame about it," lamented Lofar.
"I'd take any one of 'em, pony or no," Dwalin said.
Onar shook his head in amused disagreement. "Takin' halflings at wrestling matches ain't a fair fight at all either. No sport in that. But maybe the menfolk that way would accept an invite to The Pits one o' these days. Show 'em a fair fight." Brundin twisted in his grandfather's hold, wrenched the side of his chin plait. "Size o' that fist, lad. This one's going to be a right legend in ring or field o' battle."
"We must always keep their arms strong and at the ready. But as king I would have them take the field of war only when there is no other choice," Thorin insisted. There was honesty in those sad blue eyes, Meisar thought, both the best and the worst kind.
"She sad, princess," Oliada murmured to Meisar discreetly, nudging her to give Dis an equally discreet glance. Her mouth was set in a stiff line. The group of dwarves had knotted about Thorin, with business of this or that. It never really ended, even in festival days. Meisar stepped at a distance, Oliada at her side. Balin and Dis were together again, conversing with all the appearance of normality.
"She held her firstborn in her arms just like this once," Meisar replied gravely. "Do you think any mother wants her child to grow older in such a world as this? And to go to war much less."
"Peace come, war come, one or another. It come around again. It is the world," Oliada shrugged.
"Why does war come? What are we ever really fighting for?" Meisar questioned, her baby in her arms flitting in and out of sleep.
"Evil," Oliada said flatly, grasping hard at her spear.