Thanks to the patience of all my dear friends here I don't deserve your kindness to me.

Thorin the Wanderer

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

"Melhek - ar baruck" (My love - be safe.) she whispered.

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again

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A few hours later Dwalin found Thorin at his forge, he'd been casting some pendants and a few pieces of jewelry. As Thorin acknowledged him, he glanced at the various trinkets that he's set aside. Dwalin was one of his dearest comrades. Unlike Balin, Dwalin had neither questioned him when he'd returned from the storm or hovered over him. Thorin wiped his brow and stepped away to chat with the hulking war chief. They stood companionably together as Thorin lifted one of the silver stylized pendants shaped like a hammer and started to examine it critically. "So you'll be leaving before Durins day?" Dwalin stated simply. Thorin nodded quietly and continued to review the piece of jewelry. As he looked for flaws in his work Dwalin eyed the stones he'd set in the center…" Amber?" he asked

"No, it's citrine – amber's too fragile for this sort of setting." After a while Thorin spoke again, "Kinsman - I have a favor to ask of you – not an order - a request. It's about Dis."

From the corner of his eye Thorin watched Dwalins face and he marveled to see the way that for a moment his old friend's cheeks seemed almost pink. But in a split second he was completely composed – it must have been the heat of the forge. He must be imagining things after all.

"I don't expect anything to come of this… but if I should go traveling and not return…well as you know - her sons are my heirs …the Heirs of Durin. Well, please I'm asking you to do your best for Dis – she's strong but she'll need someone to turn to… her life ought to have been better, gentler, Please just - take care of her."

Dwalin wanted to grab Thorin and hug him, and ask him how long he'd known about the two of them. But he also dreaded the implications of Thorin's remark. Had he foreseen a terrible fate awaiting him in the wilderness?

"You're not going anywhere." He said simply – I'll see you at the pub – it's your turn to pay y'know."

Thorin smiled "Aye…Now if you see Kili or Fili send then to me. I'll be here another hour I reckon…."

"Have they gotten up to some trouble?"

"Nay – I have a small job for them… that's all."

Later, the two old campaigners sat in the local tavern enjoying mugs of ale at a table they'd chosen for its strategic seclusion near the hearth, with a clear view of all entryways – even in Ered Luin, amongst the dwarves of the colony and the various dwarf friends, some warrior habits were impossible to break. Fili and Kili came tumbling the door together like gangly puppies. There uncle inwardly grimaced. While any mortal might have considered them to be adult by their appearance, in the reckoning of their own folk they were still children. He wondered as he watched them, if he had ever been so clumsy immature and awkward. Dwalin glanced over at his kinsman. Seeing him looking at his nephews, the older campaigner easily guessed his thoughts. Smirking he chortled – "Ye were born old - y'know." Was the ale was starting to get to him, or was it his daydreams of a possible life with the fair Dis that made Dwalin feel giddy? The tavern keeper gave the two youths tankards of Kvass; fermented drinks tempered to be slightly less potent that true ale. The two would-be princes socialized briefly with a few acquaintances - but when Thorin gestured his nephews approached.

They sat together amiably together. Thorin inquired about the general community. Although both Balin and Dis had confirmed that things were calm and fairly prosperous in the colony, he hoped to encourage his heirs to be as aware of the community as possible. The needs of his people had become second nature to him. No matter what might happen, Kili and Fili ought to learn how to read and understand the subtle requirements of the Dwarrow colony. Fili eagerly expanded on what Thorin knew. Trade with the men in Bree and the Hobbits throughout the Shire continued to be good; focusing on farming implements and household supplies, cooking pots and pony tackle. The iron and tin mines were thriving and the recent discovery of a deposit of semiprecious stones were of some delight, as even the discriminating gemologists from Erebor classified this find as remarkable. Having mastered the skills of mining, Fili was now studying gemstones and jewel crafting. He listed the minerals and stones he'd seen there – various agates, garnet, bloodstone, selenite, moonstone, citrine and jasper, adding the semi superstitious associations that the Khazad community had for the properties of certain stones, showing how carefully he'd been taking his education.

Beryl brings good luck to the folk/

Garnet wards away the foe/

Malachite blesses the birthing bed /

Bloodstone is the healer's friend/

Citrine keeps a constant lover/

Agate is a gem for joy…

Thorin felt himself start to turn slightly red at the mention of Citrine and he interrupted Fili –"Aye…Now you mentioned agates - any moss agate? What quality? Have any pieces been cut and polished?"

Kili sat in the shadows watching his uncle attentively as he removed the pouch he wore about his throat, and drew a small carefully folded bundle from within. He pulled a large amber bead from the soft leather and as he straightened the remaining contents, his thick callused fingers traced a long soft lock of red brown hair which he'd carefully woven into an intricate lovers knot. Dwalin saw it as did the younger prince. His eyes were bright with curiosity. Kili had no idea what that the knot meant or even what it was; but before he interrupted his uncle, Dwalin - with a scarcely perceptible gesture - silenced him. Thorin held the bead in the light. It was solid, bigger than the great joint of his thumb and it shone with a rich warm honey glow. He had plans for the amber, he'd take time to cut and polish a face on the bead and set in a silver filigree collar. He slipped the bead into Fili's palm. "I'm interested in pieces this size… dark moss beads well cut and carved … About 40 beads or so - set for hair or jewelry."

His nephew smiled "Yes…beads this size and bigger too…You can claim as many as you want, uncle, no one would deny you twice that number."

Thorin shook his head. Kili leaned in, intriqued at this turn "I need you two to scout out the beads and determine a good price for them but I want no one to know that they are for me …" Fili looked blank - but Kili suddenly felt his mind racing at this news.

"Noone will know that they're for you… No craftsman would want to charge you for the beads as it would seem disrespectful of your status, yet anyone who gives these gems to you might feel that he has your favour - but you want this to be a secret." Kili suggested.

"Good - but I prefer the term 'private' rather than secret."

"I know a good Dwarrow here; a hearty fellow - he can make the purchase for us and he'll let it be known the beads are part of a gift for his wife." Suggested Fili…And so it was decided that Bombur; a fairly prosperous cook with a broad firm torso and a fine red beard arraigned the purchase of the beads under the pretense of a love gift for his wife who had successful born him a healthy daughter. It was a blessing to Bombur to be trusted by the house of Durin, and Thorin found his willingness to assist in the 'negotiations' very fortuitous.

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A week of relatively clear days followed after Eikensjaildi had left, and Morwen had been more despondent at his departure than she'd wanted to admit. Her experience with Dwarves was such that she knew they didn't make promised of affection lightly but she worried that her fortune was almost too good. Nevertheless she knew how seriously Dwarves were about such things – they didn't make shallow promises. Indeed they were often deeply troubled by what they perceived as the 'shallowness' of other folk. Her familiarity with Dwarves went back as far as she could recollect, in her childhood she hadn't differentiated Mortals from Khazad until well after her father had fostered her out – perhaps that was the reason for her comfort, indeed preference - for the company of the Noble people.

Morwen heard the distant sound of snow crunching underfoot and a deep gruff voice muttering to out loud. For a split second she wondered if it was her lover but it had only been about a fortnight since he'd left and it was too soon for him to be back - then she recognized the voice. Morwen finished filling the kettle with water and placed it over the hearth, then looked out the door way. In the distance a dark skinned stalky figure approached, his long white hair was braided and wrapped in elaborate twists about his scalp. He wore a shaggy robe of wolf pelt. At his side a large broad dog trotted, a light wooden yoke was braced against his shoulders and dragged behind the creature with a few bundles lashed to it. It was Ve, an elderly Khazad craftsman, an old family friend whom she hadn't seen in years. He had known her father and she used to think that he was part of the family when she was tiny. Morwen wondered what he might think of Eikensjaildi, and she found herself blushing.

As he approached the structure the home of the man smith and his wife, Ve smiled thinking about the promises he'd made to Morwen's father to watch over her. At least seven swift years had passed since he had come this way but he knew that Morwen would not forget him - not wee Morwen. He wondered how she might have grown or changed in that time – would she take after her mother or follow her father. Ve'd kept his word to her father but he wondered now if her sire had made the right choice in sending her away from him when he did.

She greeted him - glad to see such a dear face after so long. He was a part of the family a part of her earliest memories. She used to call him 'Uncle Ve' when he would visit her father and how he used to laugh to hear it. Calling her 'my little maid' he would swing her up into the air with one hand and easily catch her with the other, juggling her until she grew dizzy. All the Khazad used to make a fuss of her, as she had a sharp wit and some skill with languages. They would tease her that she had picked up Khudul faster than Westron. She called them the Noble people - a name she insisted on (it was an accurate interpretation of Khazad) - and she refused to use words like Naugrim, Nog or Naug. Ve and the others had encouraged her to read and write in Westron, and Sindarin (she'd picked up Quenya on her own) and she could cipher well enough to keeps accounts. Ve had wanted to teach her more but her father insisted that he stop. Morwen's father had thought it best for her to put aside the ways of the Dwarves and to make her way amongst the children of men - but she'd remembered the all old words and habits and, as he knew she would, she'd remembered him.

'Kinsman Ve' she cried out eagerly and reached to clasp his forearms. When she'd bid fair well to her lover they'd leaned close to each other like drunken columns and held each other by the hands - he'd wrapped his thick muscular fingers around her smaller hands and had caressed her knuckles with his broad palms as they'd spoken their parting wishes. But this was different - she inclined her head and pressed her brow to the elder dwarves' sunburned, wrinkled forehead, as she intoned the familiar salutation.

Ve was both delighted and a bit stunned that she greeted him so openly. He'd promised her father to keep an eye on her after he fostered her out, even though his instincts were against it. 'Too soon to send the child away' he'd thought, but he'd held his tongue, he knew why her father was doing it even if he disagreed with the choice. Her mother's people had disowned their daughter at the wedding and wanted nothing to do with their poor granddaughter - Ve considered them unworthy of such a child and was happy to turn from their door and the shake the dust from his boots - poor Morwen should not be held responsible for their small heartedness. She would never need them -he and his kin would keep their commitment to the child even if others shirked in their devotion. He'd watched her struggle to fit in - first with a farmers family, then with some traveling merchants (mostly Khazad) for a short time, then she stayed with a couple of elderly sisters, an herbalist and a beekeeper . She'd managed to be accepted or at least tolerated by most of the townsfolk - in spite of the early odd whispered remarks of 'changeling' but it was her marriage that had been an unexpected success. Gerion took her in - he was happy for Dwarf clientele and for her familiarity and comfort with them, and their initial warm friendship had grown into a loving cozy affection. Sometimes her husband would frown on her being too open about her familiarity with Khuzdul, it intimidated him at times.

"My little Maid," Ve answered her in Westron, thinking to himself how she had scarcely changed from the time of her union to Gerion. In that respect she took after her father - he smiled inwardly considering this and wondering what her sire might have done had he guessed this.

"I fear the forge is unlit - where is your man?"

She blushed. Her initial thoughts were of sweet Eikensjaldi - not of her late husband and she sighed "Gods be good - we will talk of that later - Come, inside is a warm meal and a rest for you and..."

"No - where is your man? " Ve insisted.

"Gerion is gone … struck down by bandits on the old south road – it was about nine months past."

Ve was stunned – "Nine months? Who was here to help you? No strong arm to protect you - no aid at all?"

"I managed. I'm a widow and as a widow I am to be 'in mourning' for a year. That year will end in a little over two months' time. Gerion had no living kin – I am, as you see - here."

"Your father would never have accepted this – you need folk around you at such a time!" Ve was mortified at the news of Morwen living alone in the midst of her mourning -amongst the Khazad, and especially the Firebeards of the White mountains, such behavior was incomprehensible.

"My father - may peace rest on him – sent me away from him…because … because I was responsible for my mother's death and I was a disappointment to him. I would do anything not to bring him shame but I knew he was unhappy with me."

Tears stung her eyes at the painful thought of what she considered to be her father's rejection, although she hadn't thought about it in a long time. She was feeling far too emotional these days… maybe she had been alone too long.

''No - no wee one…" Ve held her forearms gently as he tried to reassure her. "He loved you better than you know, he sent you from him because he was growing ill…He feared that you might also suffer, you being so young. I know that when he lost your mother, it nearly broke his heart."

Morwen sighed, "I'm a poor hostess – come inside – there's warm food and some scraps for brave Gryma" she gestured at the large dog "We have much to talk about."