Thanks to those that reviewed, followed and added this story or me to favourites! It is much appreciated as always.
So happy its Spring. I've missed the sun an awful lot ...
I hope I haven't refered to Bard as king of Dale, but rather appointed ruler, as he was first instated as king three years after the reclaiming of Erebor. But anyways, he shall at least from this point forward be refered to as Lord of Dale. Such horrid mistakes!
I decided the speed up the story slightly, although any relationships will still proceed very, very slowly. And I love the Tolkien universe too much to not spend time going into details with everything he built! But at least our precious Dwarves shall make an appearance.
Either way. Enjoy!
When Ravens Fly
Chapter X: Amidst the Crowd
June, The Third Age 2942
A soft breeze plucked at her clothes, blowing loose strands of hair into her face.
Ranel, with legs outstretched in front of her place on the bench, enjoyed the warm caresses of the sun against her face; she rested her head against the tavern wall, eyes squinting against the golden light falling from a cloudless sky.
Her Lebethron lute lay in her lap, the familiar weight calming and comfortable. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she listened to the quiet encircling her; every small chirp and tweet from the hidden nests below the rafters, the creaking of wheels passing by outside the vine-covered gate; a dog's bark, followed by shouts and a string of curses.
The morning had dawned grey and damp, holding a promise of rain.
But the clouds cleared with the passing hours, until the distant horizon claimed the last flecks of swirling white and grey. In its wake, a sweltering heat had overthrown the region around the Lonely Mountain; the minstrel, skin coated in a thin sheen, had barely ventured outside to where the winds and shade cooled the air.
The courtyard of the inn was a much welcome sanctuary compared to her small, south-facing chamber that became close to the insides of an oven with the passing from morning to noon.
She wriggled her toes, inhaling the flowery air with much delight. Dale enjoyed some respite from the heat waves and humidity that had swept across the open plains of Rhovanion, thanks to the long shadows cast by the solitary peak of the Dwarven kingdom. Summer had hit – and it hit hard.
Humming below her breath, attempting to piece together small fragmented rhymes, Ranel recalled her first few weeks in the reclaimed city. It was almost one and a half month since she had set out from Minas Tirith, at first alone through the grasslands, but soon after with an unlikely company she now held close to her heart.
Ranel had yet to hear word from Frár and his family, though she expected the Dwarves were busy at work settling into a new life within Erebor. Often she heard talk about the on-goings beneath the mountain; of how the forges burned, invigorated, and the clangs rang as hollow echoes deep below, in the darkness of the mines.
It did not take long before the minstrel had grown accustomed to the lively city of Dale.
Amongst the winding streets, narrow and wide, lined with flowers in full bloom. A mass of people; traders and merchants, setting up stalls in the busy marketplaces hidden between tall, red-tiled buildings. Men, and Dwarves – even the rare fair-haired Elf could be spotted, overlooking golden jewelry, treasures infused with gems of unimaginable beauty in bloody red, midnight blues, and forest green.
The Valar had truly blessed her with luck of fortune when she found the small inn off of the main roads.
Her songs had lured many to the Three Kegs in the evening's dimmed and waning light. Not only did the customers put a weight to her purse, but also brought in a rush of trade for the innkeeper and her daughter. And that greatly warmed the plump woman's heart to the minstrel; so much that Ranel now rented the small chamber for half the usual price.
With the added wealth to her name, Ranel could - after years of use – finally replace some of her outer garments. She ran her fingers over the dark fabrics of her new skirt, smooth against her skin. The dark colour could be awfully hot in the sweltering heat but dirt showed less, and she much preferred to look somewhat tidy.
Smiling fondly, Ranel stretched her back and shifted in her seat, shoulders aching and popping.
A gentle, high-pitched whinny reached her ears from within the stables.
It was soon followed by muffled words, spoken placidly to calm the mare newly arrived from Gondor. Its owner had marched in, hooded and dark as an Autumn storm of thunder, and barked up about suitable rooms in this otherwise 'shabby and run-down place they so boldly dared to call an inn! '.
The minstrel had heard him clear as day, so clearly he could just as well have been standing next to her in the courtyard, shouting, and not in the dimness inside the building.
The poor horse was with little strength left when it was eased into the stables. It would have likely collapsed onto the cobblestones if not for the stable boy's soothing reassurances of grains and water. Her brow furrowed at the memory, irksome beneath her skin upon witnessing such horrid treatment.
At least the steed was now in capable hands.
The stable boy, Alden, appeared particularly good with animals and would surely see that it received the best care possible. On the other hand, with how red-faced she looked escaping the inn, Edild would likely spit in the man's supper come evening ... Ranel could not resist a half-smile at the thought.
Ranel returned to her work; hands grasped the familiar wood, and shortly followed soft and carefree notes weaving into one with the rustles of wind. She leaned in over the instrument, brushing hair away from her face, and then allowed her fingers to take control while her mind continued its wanderings and musings.
The days following her arrival, she had grown accustomed to the small inn and the modest staff running it. From the barmaid, never to turn from gossipy talks or stories of faraway places; to the kindly yet strict matron, Tova, capable of tossing out any man unable to pay for his drinks. Ranel had come to an agreement with the mother – while she helped bring in customers, they were willing to lower her cost of living with them and, as such, both turn a profit.
Ranel had, of course without much pause, humbly and gratefully accepted the offer made.
She had ventured around the buildings in the days following; two wings were used as guest quarters, with both sleeping areas, kitchen, and tavern room. Arches let from the narrow road into the open courtyard, creating a peaceful and quiet spot to rest away from the bustling city. Facing west, the third wing held a small stables with room for up to five horses. Here, within the heavy air of hay and between trampling hooves, reigned the taciturn Alden.
The young man – with a heavy stout body; muscular legs and well-developed sinewy arms - had a temper completely opposite his outward appearance. She imagined it was the very reason he was perfect around the stabled animals.
When Ranel encountered Alden for the first time, during one of her aimless ambles around the property, he had been mucking out in one of the stalls. Leaning over the shoulder-high fence, she had attempted to strike a conversation mostly commenting on the weather.
He had looked at her with saucer-round eyes beneath shaggy brown hair, mouth opening and closing, much like a fish out of water; before she even managed to comprehend the situation, the stable boy scrambled into an escape.
Baffled, she later asked Edild only to receive a laugh in reply.
"Ya shouldn't worry about Alden. He's harmless, and completely terrified around people!" The barmaid explained, wiping a dried-up spot on the table with vigorous strokes and looked towards the minstrel. "It would likely take months for him to stay in the same room as ya, not to mention put together comprehensible words."
"He looked as if he had seen a wraith," Ranel mumbled and scratched her chin with a frown. "I was not too sure why I scared him off."
Edild laughed again.
"Never really been any good around others, but he's a great help with the horses," she explained, then, pulling a face, the girl paused in her work.
She settled against the table.
"Afraid to say he isn't quite right in the head, haven't been since childhood. He helped us out back in Lake-town, too – mostly fixing things and such for a bit of gold, because he had to take care of his ol' gran. Poor woman was sick yet had to raise him alone."
Ranel nodded slowly, brow creased in thought as she listened. "And what of her? His grandmother?"
One look at Edild's face was enough to answer her question, yet the blonde girl nonetheless explained in a voice teeming with sadness. "He managed to get her out through the flames and across the water. Mostly thanks to his brutish strength. But ... An even worse adversary awaited those that survived the dragon-fire. She did not make it through the winter." She turned her gaze away, downcast. "Mum took him in, so he is part of the family now."
Unsure of what to say, Ranel had let out a small hum and instead remained quiet.
The words of the young barmaid served as yet another reminder of the hardships and struggles, forced upon the humans through the winter months. If not for the aid of Thranduil, the Elvenking, many more would have been claimed by the hunger and harsh frost covering the ruined city. Lives had been saved when the wagons rolled across the bridges and into the city, brimming with fruits and berries, milk and wine; food aplenty to feed the refugees from Lake-town.
She could not imagine such kindness, as rumours had always depicted the ruler of the Woodland Realm as detatched. Unconcerned with affairs beyond his borders and distrustful of strangers, much quicker to turn stragglers from his gates than to offer a helping hand.
Her fingers stilled against the strings, her attention brought back to the present.
To judge a man ... or Elf, by the words of those who do not know any better, she mused wryly, shaking her head in disgruntlement. A King should place his own people first and foremost. She kicked her feet against the cobblestones, sending a puff of dust into the air before she stood to her full height. Rolling her shoulders, joints crackling in complaint, she settled the lute onto her back.
It would do her no good to think poorly of others; of people she did not know, nor would ever come to meet. "You should not concern yourself with the workings of noble and fair folks," she scolded herself below her breath.
Smoothening her unruly hair into a messy bun, Ranel decided to spend the noon hours in town. Lazying around only brought idle thoughts she would do just as well without. And Dale held many an interesting sight for her to waste time away; she slipped through the arched entrance, breathing in the sweetness of the white flowers, and sat out down the sloped street.
The Dwarven cloak flapped around her legs as s gust of wind brushed down from the north, picking up fallen leaves and swept them away in a winding dance over the stones. Ranel enjoyed the freshness against her exposed neck, soothing against the uncomfortable sheen left by the heat.
Her steps were jovial and soon she whistled a lighthearted tune.
The previous years spent in Minas Tirith had made her accustomed to broad roads, straight and with sharp turns between blindingly white walls; but Dale's narrow and winding streets were much more like a maze, leading her through twists and turns until she always ended up in a new place through her curious wanderings.
There were fewer people around. With balconies without life, shadowed, where she would usually find beautiful women leisurely wasting their days away without much care. Most people, young and old, made their way to the thriving marketplaces instead.
She had attempted to map out the city in her head, but found herself lost once more.
Brushing a strand of hair from her face, exhaling deeply, she smiled to herself. Ranel did not mind, but rather found the unknown path intriguing and new. Her fingers ran across the coarse wall, rough against her skin; the stones slanted continuously downwards until they were entirely replaced with steps.
Following the steps, she rounded a corner and ducked beneath green branches dipping out over the walls. Gnarled and braided, they crept across the thin line of light to the opposite wall, completely shutting out any view of the skies above. Shadows blocked her view of the sun momentarily, and a buzz of insects scratched her ears.
The green enclave was a sharp contrast to the yellow and red buildings; yet unfortunately it was short-lived, for the stretch of trees only lasted for so long and the city's usual view came into sight ahead as the steps evened out and ended.
She rested a while longer in the shade, making sure she could remember her way back.
Ranel then proceeded and used the stifling silence as a guide, until voices echoed between the walls; turning one corner and another. Three, four. Left, then right. The sounds grew louder and louder until the dimness opened up into the bright sunlight upon the grand square.
A roar rose as she slipped into the crowd.
The quill scratched against the parchment, a harsh repetitive grating against his ears. Leaning back in his seat, patiently and quietly waiting for the scribe to finish, Fíli peered towards the window. A long, thin line of light filtered through the gap between the frame and the wall, allowing a clear view of the blue sky outside.
Gleaming specks of dust shimmered lazily through the air.
With his clenched hand, the young Dwarf tapped his knuckles on his knee and shifted his weight around. Much to his astonishment, their uncle had agreed with Kíli; his sister-sons were too often cooped up in the mountain's darkness, and were in the need of fresh air. Of course, Thorin still had a thing or two to say about the manner in which they acquired said fresh air previously ...
And so, with Kíli more or less voluntarily forfeiting his share of the rabbits, the two brothers were tasked with managing the relationship between Erebor and Dale. It was a mundane task, mostly handled through counselors and letters to and fro their cities, but it was an excuse for them to traverse the grasslands.
"My lords," a voice drawled, forcing him to turn his gaze from the window. "The documents from your meeting with Lord Bard have been prepared."
Fíli rose to his feet.
"Excellent," he said, extending his hands to receive the offered package prepared for them. Looking at the servant, his younger brother coming to stand by his side, he gestured to leave. "Please inform your master of our departure, and that we hope to see him in Erebor in the coming week."
The servant and scribe both bowed their heads, before the Dwarves were guided from the room. What remained of the old Lord of Dale's mansion, once grand before the destructive fires of Smaug, were a few buildings of the east-wing. It had then been servant quarters, but the less than ostentatious – homely, rather – feeling had suited the bowman perfectly upon his moving into office.
They passed through the entrance hall, stepping out into the open where they were met with the appointed guards from the mountain. Not to mention one very gruff and impatient-looking Dwalin, who, if he had his way, would have both princes tied to their animals and halfway back to Erebor already. The old warrior still knew how to hold on to a grudge, and had certainly not forgiven their unannounced hunting trip some weeks earlier.
Then again, Fíli thought as his gaze landed on the Dwarf's stiff appearance, Dwalin had not only been close to losing him and Kíli, but their king in the bloody battle. That was sure to put a terrible fright in any loyal heart, leaving deep scars that would never truly disappear.
Taking the steps two at a time with wide strides, the Dwarven pair approached the company.
Their ponies had already been saddled. Kíli heaved a sigh, scratched his beard and shot Fíli a sideways glance. Choosing to ignore his brother's obvious attempt at catching his attention, the crown prince took the offered reins in his gloved hands.
His pony breathed heavily through its nostrils in greeting, head brushing against his arm.
"It would almost be a shame to return so quickly," Kíli said casually, pointedly ignoring the glare – and accompanied snort of disapproval – Dwalin shot him over the heads of their guard. "Surely uncle would appreciate a report on the city's progress."
"Would he now, brother?" Fíli answered blankly, knowing well what his brother hinted at.
He flung himself up into the saddle, shushing the tripping pony soothingly until it calmed and stood perfectly still. Beyond the closed gates a mesh of noise rolled over the walls; the main road, carving through Dale to the lord's mansion, would lead them through the hubub of the blooming marketplaces.
Urging the pony towards the entrance, Kíli directed his own close to Fíli's.
"We will be passing through either way," he pressed.
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation, Fíli instead turned his gaze to the captain mutely trailing behind. "What say you, Mister Dwalin? Should we take a detour?"
"While you are at it, why not go poke a sleeping troll, too?" Dwalin groused, looking less than impressed.
Kíli grinned and turned his head, slipping through the gate as it creaked open. He loudly, and with a laugh, responded. "That does indeed sound most enjoyable, but I fear we will have a hard time rooting out any trolls around these parts! I shall make do with a trip to the market."
Fíli could not help a bark of laughter. "Perhaps we should indulge the little one. At least just to avoid his persistant nagging?"
Although the captain of the guard was inclined to disagree – and did so, loudly – the brothers' combined forces prevailed. While the armoured escort was sent ahead with word of their delayed return, Kíli was less successful in shaking off the oldest Dwarf.
Dwalin had threatened to beat them black and blue in combat training if they as much as entertained the idea of moving out of his sight. If anything, Fíli felt like he was a young Dwarfling again, the bald warrior trudging through the maze-like set of tunnels beneath the Blue Mountains after a pair of troublemakers. Yelling threats and profanities that would make even an orc blanch.
Back then they knew of the rigorous training awaiting them if they were caught.
And they always were. Without fail.
They had dismounted once more when they found riding through the crowd difficult, leaving the disgruntled captain to handle the three ponies; they needed little direction and obediently trotted after him.
Kíli leisurely took in every little item in every little stall; hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet, and making small thoughtful hums and comments ever so often. While his younger brother was inspecting pottery – and putting Dwalin in a miff – Kíli looked over the crowd.
All the stalls and shops were open. A row of pigeons cooed from on top of the opposite building, beady eyes on the lookout for crumbs between busy feet, weaving in and out between carts and animals.
The three Dwarves were still only at the edge of the crowd, yet the towering wall of noise and commotion blinded him momentarily to anything else.
His head pounded; mind turning a fuzzy blur.
Colours swam across his vision; waves and ribbons of blue and red; gold and brown in a dance against his senses.
A green line carved brightly through the disarray, clear, and shook him from his daze. The cloak, vaguely familiar, brushed past them and vanished ahead into the crowd. Slipping away with ease. The runes brought Fíli's memory back to the riverbank and the broken-hearted figure standing deadly still against the shimmering mirror-surface.
He had spared no real thought on the young woman afterwards, but now, when she suddenly collided with his field of vision Fíli struggled to pry his gaze away. His eyes followed the green cloak, disappearing and reappearing between merchants and onlookers; and before he knew of his own actions, the Dwarf prince followed behind, lured by his curiosity.
Fíli's pace was slow compared to the woman; her lithe movements practiced in a crowd while he was held back, and with each step she slipped further from his sight. It did not take long before his absence at the stall was noticed.
His brother's inquisitive calls reverberated in the back of his head, yet Fíli did not hesitate nor linger.
Several men shot him looks of curiosity; with him unconcerned and unapologetic cutting through the mass, not to mention the eye-catching, expensive garments, he undoubtedly stood out. The brown hair vanished.
Fíli froze.
Then he blinked.
Running his hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, he frowned.
He had lost sight of her. "What are you doing?" Kíli's confused voice broke through, sending a bolt of shock through him when a hand was placed on his shoulder. His two companions had caught up to him.
"I saw the cloak again," he slowly responded, gaze still fixed on the spot in the crowd.
"I see ... What cloak?"
With a shake of his head, Fíli tried to regain his senses and felt his mind clear. "Do you remember the woman at the lake? The one with the Dwarven cloak? She was just here," he explained, stepping aside as an ox-drawn cart was pulled past them. The large beasts opened a straight path through the gathered.
Kíli gave him an incredulous look. "And what, if I may ask, was your plan after following her?"
"Nothing," he said, still feeling oddly distracted – the Dwarf prince could not explain his strange fascination with the rune-stitched cloak, but he felt as if he needed to know the story behind it. Fíli waved his hand absentmindedly. "Nothing, I think."
"Think?" His brother repeated, brow furrowed now with an edge of concern before he, too, glanced towards the crowd. "Perhaps we should get you back home after all." Dwalin remained quiet, observing the two he was tasked with protecting; tattooed arms crossed in disgruntlement, while Fíli and Kíli exchanged words and the ponies tripped anxiously.
"It is nothing, brother," Fíli reassured with half a smile. "Pay it no mind, and let us proceed."
He continued down the open road, the dark-haired Dwarf close behind this time; pointedly regarding the vendors and items with special care to show everything was normal once more. Sparkling, coloured glass were lined up over wooden boards, and the vendor greeted them politely. "Just let me know if you find anything of interest, my lords," he offered. "Finest wares in the lands, I'd like to think."
Nodding in acknowledgment Fíli could still feel the clandestine and frequent looks from Kíli, and he instead picked up a crystal decanter. While his eyes were on the royal blue glassware, his sight went past it looking into nothing in his distraction.
Fíli returned the item carefully, turned, and allowed his brother to lead them to the next stall.
While the sun finished its climb across the sky, descending once more with the turning from noon, they had made their way through the first half of the marketplace. Ahead of them, the road widened further into a square, and the stalls were replaced with jugglers and musicians; children gathered around a puppeteer, the white-masked puppet dancing across the stones in tune with the music. It twisted and bent, wooden arms and legs clacking together until it stilled with a bow.
Kíli applauded good heartedly, adding a coin to the tattered collector hat as it passed through the audience. The puppet began another dance, this time joined by another. The tune slowed, all merriment forgotten as lovers had eyes for only each other; Fíli admired the swift hands, the flick of a wrist, making it all look so very effortless.
A figure, not much taller than he, paused at his side to watch the show.
Green cloak hung loosely over her shoulders.