AUTHOR'S NOTE: I promised I would not give up on this story, didn't I? The updates might be fewer but they WILL come. Luckily I can use the DRAGON software to write, which has been crucial with some of the medical issues I've been wrangling with since March. Thank you all for your continued following. I might divide future installments into smaller chapters so I can keep the updates more frequent, if that is alright.
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The end of the Blue Mountains dwarves rounded out their carved and painted wooden wagons at the gates, stewards, stable hands, every manner of servant in a tizzy. And half the Blue Mountains dwarves were on foot. Behind them the the train from the Iron Hills stretched to the gates of Dale and curved chaotically around its stone walls, flanks of armored dwarves on foot and more in small wagons. Large wagons laden with food, supplies and rich gifts, lines of chariots pulled by goats, litters with wheels spiked in boar tusk and a wheelhouse drawn by a team of twenty oxen at a distance stilled, impatiently.
"The last I saw so many of our kin at our gates, it was for your birth, sister," Thorin relayed to Dis, wistfully. "They all came to pay homage to you."
"And to mother," Dis reminded sadly. "Only the dwarves of the Iron Hills were present in time for her burial though."
Thorin pursed his lips under the cover of his lengthening beard, the mustache tips clipped in silver square beads, aggrieved. Dis frowned in realization, the lines at either side of her mouth deepening. She managed a smile, grasped Thorin's arm in both of hers.
"Alas," she said. "This is not then. There is no mourning here, only joy." She flicked a gaze down at Tir in his pram, Meisar bent over him attentively, paying no heed to the hustle and bustle around and below them. Back in the mountain, the chaos bounced in barked orders at the servants and booming salutations from the arriving dwarves to other kin.
"I do wish our Blue Mountains kin would wait until they get inside the mountain to blather on with each other so," Thorin complained, gazing down over the rail at them. Knots of dwarves from Ered Luin stood outside gabbing away and sharing food and drink with each other even after the stewards and hands at the front had valeted their wagons and pack animals away, creating a bottleneck at the gate. The caravan from the Iron Hills still stretched to Dale and beyond. They had come with their tusk-studded wagons, their hoard of rams, aurochs, oxen and the shaggy copper-haired ponies native to the Iron Hills that matched their masters startlingly in coloring and build more oft than not.
"At least the men will be making a handsome profit off the rest," remarked Dis. All encapsulating the road to Dale were mannish hawkers and merchants, selling everything from ale and meat pies to hand fans, fine textiles, and pomade- items dwarves rarely passed over and they knew it.
"Is Bard going to come today?" Lulia inquired, watching the merchants of the menfolk hustle down along the lines of dwarves. She sat high and at ease in the saddle atop Burt, grinning ear to ear.
Thank Mahal the beast is pliant. Meisar gave him a careful scratch under his jaw. Burt had grown so large he was higher at his withers than either king or queen stood. Behind them the line of sentries stood ramrod straight and with their poleaxes at hand, all along the gallery. Their polished armor glistened in the heat of the day, although none seemed fazed from it yet.
"Tomorrow," Meisar answered. Burt tapped his front hoof impatiently, his gold armor and tack musically tinkling. Lulia waited on the saddle with little more patience, but her legs tucked daintily to the side with her skirts overlaid. She stroked his neck and he calmed, giving a pleasant guffaw.
"Stonehelm will be very pleased to see how he has grown. I've missed him since he's gotten too large and boisterous to be indoors," Meisar reminisced. "Redcoat misses him."
The wind blew hot against her face, sweat beginning to bead on her upper lip. The fine embroidered linen undergown kept her perspiration from the radiant blue summer silk worn over it, a high-waisted gown with elaborate geometric sashes, belting her under the bosom, and connecting to a matching deep V from the neck. Her white veil trailed past her waist, lifted in the heat of the wind.
"I'm certain he will be impressed," Thorin said humoredly, if a tad anxious. A gargantuan beast of burden in the king's greeting retinue might have struck Ereborians as rough, but the Iron Hills dwarves would appreciate it, surely.
"Pigs are loyal creatures, like dwarves, or dogs. They are good to have around. You will protect my child just like you're sworn to me, won't you, Burt?" Meisar asked the pig. "From all of our enemies far and near?" Lulia giggled as Meisar patted Burt's cheek approvingly. The pig glanced down at Tir and gave a small snort.
"In the Iron Hills they trust them enough to ride them into battle," Dis remarked. "In any case, he'll need all the protection he can get."
"So will we, sister," Meisar added. Their blue summer silks nearly matched, billowing in graceful unison in the hot wind, except that Dis shunned her widow's veil for a round headdress, her thick hair loose down her back. Tir was dressed in the lightest of linens, but still wrapped in the cloth-of-gold blanket and with a lace-edged linen cap on his head. The hot wind blew and he cried.
"A long day, I know, dearest," Dis cooed, taking him to hold on her shoulder. "But you are a prince, little one, and you must greet your people. They are all here for you."
"Perhaps he needs a change of scenery. All of this commotion and he can't see what it's about," Thorin suggested amusedly. Tir's blue eyes darted from one side to another with each grunt, chortled command and bump of wagon hitches. A pony whinnied shrilly and triggered a similar outburst from Tir. The echo of his wailing rolled down from the walls of stone that encapsulated them at a distance, and into the crowds of dwarves waiting at the gate below.
"Go to the ledge, mizimel. Let our son greet his people," Thorin said.
Hesitantly, she stepped over to the rail, and held Tir aloft, a careful hand under his well-padded bottom. She took his tiny hand in hers and guided it to wave, floppily, at their guests below. One took notice and raised his voice in acclaim, then others. There was joy in their voices, joy and anticipation and glee.
He kept wailing and they kept cheering. Finally the guards had to all but shove them through the gates to get them to move and let the long queue behind them get on at last. The first of the Iron Hills dwarves arrived at the gate. Tir gazed down with fascination upon the phalanx of armored dwarves approaching the gate below on foot. Their tartans, their boar-bristled helms, their beards adorned in almost identical tusk jewelry.
"Speaking of near..." murmured Thorin candidly. He nudged his elbow lightly into Meisar's, as the dwarves in boar-bristle helms approached on the long gallery, in lockstep. Meisar straightened her back, stood to the wind so the veil blew behind her, and cradled Tir with a practiced gaze of hard-earned arrogance toward whoever might emerge from that regiment.
They parted, to reveal Stonehelm alone.
"Cousin!" the lad boomed, leaping into Thorin's open arms. The two embraced long and hard with plenty of slaps to the back. Meisar quickly handed Tir to Dis so she too could embrace the lad fully. He had a distinct sharp smell of pipe smoke and fresh sweat. Burt snorted.
"Your lovely gift to me, cousin. I thought you would like to see how he has grown," Meisar said.
"Fine beast he is, aye. Good lad," Stonehelm scratched Burt affectionately behind one ear. "And a better lad, this," he turned his attention to the baby, lightly wrapped, fussy and squirming, that Dis was bouncing jauntily in her arms.
"Little cousin, look at ye," gushed Stonehelm. "Such a lad, such a lad." He scratched Tir under his chin with his forefinger the same as with Burt. Tir for a moment regarded him warily then took his finger in his chubby fists and examined it. When he turned his gaze back up toward Stonehelm, he was serene, and satisfied for the moment.
"And such a lady," Stonehelm's attention migrated upward toward Lulia. "I do not believe we have been a'properly introduced."
Stonehelm was dressed in a shirt of mail but otherwise un-armored. The same tartan sash was worn across his broad chest, shoulders sturdy and wider yet. His copper hair was fashioned in two long plaits down his front, flyaways plastered to his forehead. The sharp hazel of his eyes seemed to quickly go darker when he looked up at her. He smiled broadly, his teeth quite white with a tiny chip in one of the front ones.
"I'm Lulia," Lulia finally answered, sheepishly. The dwarfling was blushing under the finely braided strands of her beard. "Daughter of Bombur. My lord."
"Lulia daughter of Bombur. I think Burt has a likin' fer ye, or he wouldn't agree to yer mount. In that case, so do I," Stonehelm offered, the natural truculence of his eyes receding, a dashing twinkle pushing up through.
"Yes, my lord," stammered Lulia. Her cheeks grew ruddier, and her wispy beard was no mask for it. The girlish pink soon gave way to a heavy flush. Thorin stepped forward to offer his nephew another hearty pat on his back. Lulia's color lightened two shades instantly.
"Is your lady mother afoot? I thought we would have greeted you together," inquired Thorin.
"Further back in the train," Stonehelm answered. He leaned in intimately. "Lets fer the wagons ahead to flatten the bumps about the road, so 'er piles are less troubled."
Meisar has heard clear enough; she stifled a laugh, dipping her head to kiss Tir in order it might be concealed. Stonehelm missed nothing though. He burst into laughter when he saw Meisar linger long on her son.
"Yes, the chariot might be less comfortable then," Meisar quipped when she regained herself. It smoldered like acid in her chest, the recollection of that woman. Thorin gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. "Nonetheless I hope both of your journeys were comfortable."
Stonehelm didn't answer. Dis nudged her lightly and jerked her head for Meisar to see he and Lulia, the silence between the two quickly growing awkward, Lulia's furious blush and Stonehelm's wide pupils. Down the terrace another contingent of Iron Hills dwarves were briskly approaching.
"And here she comes now, my lady ma," Stonehelm broke off abruptly. He squeezed Meisar's hand briefly, winked at her.
Her ladies, including that poor plodding Gunhild, formed a tight line behind her. Alfhilde wore the same tartan cloak, the heavy chains draped shoulder-to-shoulder fastening it tight. Under her pale gray beard the jowls had lengthened, the hard, narrow eyes more tired than injudicious. Weary looking old thing. What a difference a year made.
She curtsied, stiffly with her crackling knees and the bulk of her above, a dwarrowdam almost as barrel-chested as her son. "Majesties, well met we are once more."
"Well met," Meisar answered back, forcing a smile.
"For a happy occasion, a happy one fer certain. And this must be the cause of our celebration," she laid her eyes intently on Tir, returned playfully to the crook of Stonehelm's elbow. "He has the look of his father. A true heir of Durin's House."
"Aye, and handsome he is," Meisar agreed, a passive-aggressive urge on the tip of her tongue that did in earnest try to quell itself. "He is a delightful babe."
"I owe yer majesty due congratulations," Alfhilde finally brought herself to meet Meisar's eyes, and curtsy low before her again. "He has a look of rude health, I am sure in no small part to yer efforts, as a loving mother would see to."
"So I would like to think," Meisar answered. "He is beloved by all who tend on him. But indeed a mother most of all. He is my world."
"Nonsense," Thorin chided. "He is barely out of your arms. Your love for him is the elixir of life, I would say."
"The elixir of life? Always was to think that was mead," Alfhilde japed lightly.
"When he is of age," Thorin quipped back.
Burt snorted and lurched a sudden, short distance toward Alfhilde. The lord mother of the Iron Hills took a sharp leap back, her ladies all whinnying with her.
"He is quite protective of me, I must say," Meisar laughed with intent ease. "You chose a wise gift for me, cousin."
Tucked back in his pram, Tir began to wail again, nudged by Burt's lurching flank. Meisar picked him up and bounced him lightly in her arms. Her efforts went unrewarded and his cries grew more shrill.
"Perhaps I shall take him on a light walk. I think the heat and noise may be unpleasant to him," Meisar excused herself carefully.
"If your majesty would not be troubled, I would speak with ye privately anyhow," Alfhilde replied. "I mean no offense, m'queen. I would scant disturb ye from the peace o' motherhood, ye ken. Nor the babe."
"Praise the golden hour I have my babe in arms, indeed," she responded, graciously. "Come then, cousin. Let us take an ale for refreshment inside. You will be tired from your journey, I imagine."
Stonehelm followed her from the terrace into the foyer of the city, where mingling crowds of dwarves parted like water for them to pass when they ascended from the stair. Dwarves and dwarrowdams alike trilled in excitement for the sight of Tir on either side of them in long flanks. Stonehelm stopped to greet those who called out to him. Younger dwarrowdams gathered and whispered and blushed, covering their faces with their hands to hide it as he passed.
"You look like something is on your mind, my lord," Meisar observed of him as they continued on.
"Aye, something feels… different under this mountain, than last we met."
"Much has changed since then, my lord," Meisar answered. "So very much. I could not even begin to tell you."
Nor would I.
"I was afraid of this place. Aye, it even had a cursed feel when I set foot at first. I do not feel it no more," Stonehelm elaborated further, rubbing his chin. "Canna explain it."
Meisar smiled, serene. "No more than I can."
"Perhaps it was you after all," Stonehelm said. "After all, when Thorin came around last, before he came at yer side, the dragon sickness took to 'im like a belly flu. Still enough gold in yer vaults to tempt a fire-drake, and he seems to have no care of it. Ye have made him whole and happy well beyond its reach, m'queen."
"I'm a simple woman, not a curse-breaker. I don't have that sort of magic in me," Meisar answered demurely. "The mountain on the other hand… it knows its heart. It alone makes its judgement."
"I apologize fer the likes o' my ma," Stonehelm said abruptly, sheepishly. "Ma's a forward lady, not always for the best. I'm afraid she hasn't it in her to treat ye with the dignity ye deserve that way."
"Each of us must be forward if we are to understand each other, in true," Meisar demured. "You may always speak plainly with me, cousin. I'm afraid I know not how to do elsewise. A trait of common birth perhaps."
"I've given 'er the advice it does no good to insult ye, my queen. Not like the last we all met," Stonehelm avouched. "I swear to ye I had a firm talk with her after that."
"Oh cousin, you do me great honor. But trouble yourself no more for my part." She hitched Tir up higher and turned him around to Stonehelm could see his toothless grin, his big curious blue eyes. "I have something so precious now that I care no longer for anyone's insult, in word or deed. You see? There is nothing that can injure me now."
.
Alfhilde tossed off her cloak and flung it efficiently at her nearest lady in waiting. She caught it, silent and deft. Alfhilde dismissed her retinue of timid, ungainly dwarrowdams with an efficient flick of his hand. The entourage shuffled off, hesitant at where they might go, and Alfhilde took Thorin by the arm and gestured to walk the opposite way.
"This dragonslayer presumes to be a king now does he? Everyone knows Dale is nothing more than a city. An important city but a city no less. Hardly a kingdom," Alfhilde began without missing a beat.
"Once perhaps. Now I am inclined to think otherwise. This region requires the strength of both our kinds. A mannish king may hold greater clout with his own. Besides, the dragon-slayer is a bargeman at the core. His pretensions are not much."
Alfhilde gave him an incredulous stare. "With his own? And just how does that bode to your advantage, Thorin Oakenshield? To have more mannish power clamoring at yer gates?"
"I do not intend to make war upon my neighbors so if they clamor at the gates I expect it will be for need of shelter. From what I am loathe to guess."
"If you open your gates to anyone like your queen is prone to doing, you might find yourself troubled by more than stray packs of orcs. This is a dwarvish kingdom. You are sworn to protect it for yer own. Both o' ye."
"Do you think that there is any dwarf under this mountain or anywhere in whole of this land who do not know this? Including my queen," grumbled Thorin. The harridan made him grind his teeth to stop from ripping his arm out of her grasp.
"There is trouble brewing in this lands. I feel it my bones, aged as they are. Your loyalty is best kept closest to your own, Thorin."
"Indeed, my wife has felt a similar sensation. But she is, as you say, a wildling. Perhaps the ways of nature are lost on neither of you after all," quipped Thorin.
"Were some fate to befall ye, what would become of either of our steads? To leave Erebor in the hands of a wee babe? So much rests upon him that he canna know. Then what of this dragonslayer lord beside ye? Ye know what power does to people."
"Wise council attends me as they will my son. And my wife," Thorin stated. "Besides, when it comes to Bard she has a rapport that frankly I do not."
"I imagine she does," Alfhilde sniffed.
Thorin wriggled his arm aggressively loose from her hold. "Do not speak as if you clamor for some skirmish. I do not."
"Nor do I," Alfhilde insisted. She turned a stern eye at Thorin. "My son needs ye. 'Tis a mutual need. He is yer own and I am old. Take him into yer confidence as best ye know. Teach him to be... as ye are."
"Teach him to be a king? Is he not a lord in his own? Does he not keep his own council that guide him? Or are you saying you wish him to be in my place?" Thorin put it to her starkly.
"I wish us to see our strengths realized, together. I am old. Your son is a babe in arms. You and Stonehelm are what is left to see us ahead."
"Do you forget there is a queen under the mountain? A princess of my own blood as well?"
"Dis has forsaken the crown once. And Meisar... Meisar is..." she grumbled in silently selecting her words. There was care in her consideration, Thorin conceded to himself, care if stark maneuvering. "A dwarf cannot know what it is to rule if they have spent their days apart from their own so oft. A dwarrowdam raised in a royal court prepares herself for the day when her child will serve the greater good, and trains her possessive instinct away from that which a mother has. But thrust into this role, who'll ken what she does? A mother loves her child first..."
"As does a father."
"Dain knew his duty. So does Stonehelm," Alfhilde proclaimed stoutly. "A babe has a long way to learn. And this world changes so quickly fer my liking."
"His place in my stead is assured, after my son. If that is what you mean," Thorin grumbled.
"Oh Thorin. I pray that we may always keep him in his own stead. The Iron Hills are our home. Come the day though, it may be my son stretches his cares between two kingdoms. I fear for that."
"I pray that day never comes. It is no easy task. You speak of a distant future, cousin, but what of now? Stonehelm is, as all of his father's line hath been, and your lands are in need of him. The East... the east," Thorin sighed long. "He is strong, and he is his father's son; I trust in him."
"The East..." Alfhilde repeated, gravely.
"You speak of loyalty, of keeping our own close? The Iron Hills need that more than you know," Thorin placed his hands on Alfhilde's shoulders firmly, holding her at arm's length. "Under this mountain I will raise my son to be king."