Mahal. Thorin suppressed the urge to draw a hand down his face as Tova departed.
So. His gaze touched upon the candle upon his desk. Such a risk, Tova and her son had taken. They had little inkling what they might have dragged down upon all their heads had their interactions with the brownie, Pepper, been witness by the wrong eyes. And he dared not tell them. Knowledge that the Nazgûl stalked these Halls could well end in panic, and should the Nazgûl determine the dwarves knew of their presence, they might well correctly conclude the dwarves' ignorance of certain matters a charade.
Which, in fact, it was. At present, the wraiths assumed only Daphne knew where the One Ring might be found and searched diligently for some way to locate her. Should they discover Thorin could point them in the right direction – or Bofur, Bifur, Gloin, and Bombur – life would become more of an adventure than even Thorin wished to contemplate.
No, his dwarves could not know what the Terrors were. And lighting the candle was a risk he, too, would have to take.
Thorin set out a plate at the edge of his desk, adding food from the platter Bombur had delivered to him earlier. It was a simple matter to light a candle and set it beside the plate. Then sitting to one side of the desk upon a chair, he feigned an indifference he did not feel and drew a piece of parchment to him, forcing his eyes upon the figures Lord Bard had sent to him. The surviving farming communities needed guarding. Both Erebor and Dale depended on what they would generate this spring and fall – they could not rely upon Thranduil's elves to feed them indefinitely. The elves' stored surplus would not last forever.
Time ticked by, punctuated by the steady toc-toc of the clock Nyrar had constructed for him shortly after he and his cousin had settled in the mountain. The pendulum swung beneath its body, childlike portrayals of Fíli and Kíli tussling upon the weight. Each dwarfling gained the upper hand in turn with the pendulum's motions. How the dwarf had managed such accuracy was a matter of wonder, for the depiction truly looked like his trouble-making nephews in their younger years.
He finished reading Bard's report and swiveled in his seat to scratch out his own notations to share with Dwalin in the morning. The men could not defend their farming communities alone. He'd send a small contingent to each to support the men.
The evening passed in silence. At last, Thorin blew out the candle, set his orders aside, and left his study in search of his nephews. He schooled his frustration from his face, but perhaps it was time to drag Dwalin onto the training ground. Thorin had a veritable mountain of aggravation to work off.
OoOoOo
"You dwarves truly are a fascinating people."
At the strange, female voice, Thorin bolted upright, knife in hand and body coiled for action. A weight dipped the foot of the bed minutely, but his eyes failed to locate any visible source for the disturbance. So, he thought, returning the blade to its sheath and sliding from beneath the sheets. One of Erebor's brownies finally deigned to answer his call.
"And handsome, too," she proclaimed with an exaggerated sigh, her voice rich with warmth and humor. He bristled, ready to rebuke her audacity when her tone changed to one more respectful. "My apologies for interrupting your sleep, Thorin, but the Fiends watch you almost constantly. I dared not reveal myself until we knew they had departed the area."
Thorin scowled, snatching up a robe, unwilling to speak to the creature in naught but his sleep braies. Then her words penetrated, and he whipped back around, tying the belt about his waist with jerky, absent movements. "You can see them?"
"Yes." As his eyes slid towards his door, she said, "Cicely guards the outer chamber. Should they return, she will give us warning. We have found the Fiends can walk through walls, but they prefer not to exert themselves unless necessary. We suspect doors are easier to pass through, though we could be wrong on that point."
They could see them. The fact sank home, bringing with it exquisite relief. Mahal. This was a boon he'd not dared to hope for. "Present yourself," he commanded in a low voice.
A small female popped into view, one no more than a hand taller than Bilbo with a delicate bone structure and elongated, pointed ears. She sat cross-legged upon his bed, patchwork skirts forming a colorful puddle around her. One elbow rested upon her knee, and her chin was propped up on the hand. A lively grin dominated her long face, and a shaggy mop of auburn brushed her shoulders with every turn of her head. Brown eyes twinkled up at him. "Angelica, at your service." Her chin abandoned its place and she straightened and leaned forward. "That is the proper way to introduce oneself, yes?"
The incongruous sight of her small feet clad in diamond-patterned stockings in alternating orange and pink delayed his answer for a split-second. That alone must have been why he demanded, "Where are your males?" Mahal, where were their males? Was he addled? Little did it matter. But Thorin was ill used to females invading his bedchamber. Not since Dís and her infernal pranks had his privacy been so disturbed, and that had been near a century ago.
"Don't have any," she said with a little twirl as she leaped from the bed. The words were so casually stated, and her action so flamboyant, that at first he failed to catch the substance.
When he did, he frowned. "They did not travel to Middle Earth?" What kind of cowards allowed their womenfolk to venture into the unknown alone?
As she hummed lowly in her throat, two wooden rods appeared in her hands along with yarn he recognized from the supply sent by Dale's herdsman. Swaying upon her feet in time to her humming, she began to crochet. "No, there aren't any," she said as if it was the most reasonable thing in the word. "Male brownies? Don't be silly." The outrageous female reached over and patted him on the cheek. As if he was a dwarfling.
A tic tugged at Thorin's right eye while he struggled to contain his temper. Did she take him for a fool? No males? Absurd. His anger found an outlet. "You steal from us?" he asked in a low, menacing voice.
"Steal?" The female looked utterly baffled, but then she followed the heavy gaze he bestowed upon the yarn in her hands. Lifting her needles in demonstrations, she said, "This is for Gróa, wife of Ganar." Angelica smiled at him, eyes dancing. "Were you aware she is pregnant?"
Preg— He folded arms before his chest. "No, I was not."
"Just think, the first dwarf born within Erebor," she chatted away happily. "A cause for celebration."
How, Thorin wondered, had he lost control of this conversation? He was not certain what it was he expected, but it was not this rambling. With an inner grumble, he said, "Mistress Angelica—"
She stepped closer to him, concern furrowing her brow. "Just Angelica, please."
His temper spiked at the interruption. "You correct me?"
Now, it was confusion he saw. With marked care, she said, "Thorin… It is not my intention to cause offense. Among my people, the use of such titles when speaking directly to a person is a sign of distrust and distance. I spoke as I did not to correct or instruct, but as courtesy. You hold our loyalty and our respect. We count you our ruler."
That…was not what he'd expected, either. Thorin stared into the brownie's eyes, as if by dint of will he could peel back the layers to see the mind behind them and gain understanding. Not for the first time, he wished it was possible that Aleks had remained with them. Perhaps he'd have insight into these peculiar brownies.
That they were ruled by formalities was evident. The lighting of the candle, the saucer Tova had mentioned, and now this, the lack of formality to them not indicating a lack of respect, but the opposite. "Why?" he asked after a long pause.
"Why?" she repeated, thin brows meeting over her nose.
"Why offer me your loyalty?" he clarified. "Why any of what you have done? You could have left Erebor," he said, walking to the side table and pouring himself a glass of water. "Middle Earth is not Faerie. There are no echnari to play with your minds. Why do you stay?"
She continued to crochet, eyes never dipping to the work of her hands. A small smile lifted her lips. "It is not our way," she informed him with a half-shrug. "A brownie is never content without a host-family to serve."
He recalled the term from his exchange with Tova. Thorin sipped his beverage, studying the female. They intended to stay. He was not certain if he should order them away to keep them from the Nazgûl, or shut them up within the mountain to preserve them from others who might prey upon such generosity. Ori had confirmed Daphne's account of the fallen kings who became the Ringwraiths. Men, it seemed, had little defense against Sauron's machinations. The thought of such a people at the Dark Lord's mercies was enough to sour all but the most hardened of hearts.
So. A resolution must be reached. For them. For his dwarves.
Long into the night, he spoke with the brownie, finding her gratifyingly sobered when he outlined the peril in which the brownies found themselves. He told her of the Dark Lord and his rise to the south in the land of Mordor. He told her about Sauron's efforts to seek Daphne and the information of the future she had carried. He explained Sauron's ability to corrupt even the noblest of men, and the likelihood he'd be eager to get his hands upon her people.
After much consideration, hearing her thoughts on the matter, Thorin made up his mind. He told her what he wanted done.
Angelica rose from the chair she'd claimed at his invitation and inclined her head. "It will be as you say. I believe you are wrong to forbid the celebrations and festivals we planned, Thorin. I fear it will harm your people more than you know." He reacted only with a tic of one brow, but she lifted one slender hand. "You are our king, Thorin." A brief smile. "I may disagree, but I assure you, we will obey." Brown eyes held his, eyes full of gravity. "We have lived in silence before. We can do so again."
OoOoOo
Pepper frowned at the shawl she was repairing for Tíra, fingers white about the fabric. The fear of an incredible loss blurred her vision. Would Ríkin wait? Could he, when the two of them had not had opportunity to speak? Two brief encounters seemed to her a very flimsy foundation upon which to trust.
Clove's hand touched her arm, and Pepper read the empathy in her sister's face. Shame touched her, for Pepper at least had hope. Clove had none, for she'd had no chance to speak with Fíli at all.
And now…this. Pepper's lips twisted. Thorin had ordered the brownies silent and invisible until the Nazgûl departed, an event he expected would take four years at best. They were forbidden to utter a single word, not even to each other without outrageous precautions. They could not uncloak, and more depressing to Pepper, they were to no longer announce their presences using their preferred fragrances. To all appearances, it would seem the dwarves' Helpers had ceased to be. What would Ríkin think? Or Tova? For Thorin had all but gagged the brownies, disallowing her to even explain…
"Nothing?" Nutmeg asked quietly as Angelica finished conveying Thorin's decree. "No decorations at all?" Pepper's sister looked resigned, an expression she suspected adorned her face, too.
"I pointed out that the wraiths must have seen the masks. To cancel All Fools could very well cause as much suspicion as not." Angelica twitched her colorful skirts, turning in a circle to bring each brownie into view in turn. "He will hold the masquerade we planned and bestow the two awards. But on the rest, he is determined."
"Wise, the king," Cicely decreed, bobbing her head. "It is not much to ask. After all, we've lived in such a fashion already."
Was Cicely blind that she could not see the way Hyssop crumpled at this decree? She isn't going to make it. Pepper wished to do nothing so much as charge into Thorin's quarters and flay him with her tongue, but she reined in the impulse. He was the king.
It was only later, when Pepper lingered to speak to their second eldest, that Angelica told her, "It will not work."
Pepper returned Tíra's shawl into her work smock, mentally girding herself for what lay ahead. "What will not work?"
"Thorin's plan." A glimmer of impish humor filled Angelica's eyes. "Quite the stubborn dwarf, but even he will see reason. Mark my words. The dwarves need us and our cheer." Angelica fingered a lock of auburn hair from her face. "I look forward to seeing him squirm when the truth finally slaps him in the face and he's forced to recant this foolishness."
"Angelica," Pepper said, laughing despite herself as she berated her elder. Then more somberly, "Hyssop."
Angelica patted her cheek. "Our Hyssop is stronger than she believes. She will endure." She shook herself, a hum claiming her as she spun upon a heel. "That king," she said. "Such a handsome dwarf," she tossed over her shoulder as she breezed from the house. "A shame he's as much a stick in the mud as Cicely."
OoOoOo
And so it was the dwarves celebrated a much altered All Fools' Day. Kíli was crowned King of Mischief for his pranks, which surprised no one, and Bifur won the title of Counterfeit King for his excellent costume at the masquerade. Not even his own cousins recognized him.
Clove watched it all, happy for the dwarves' sakes that the brownies had their way in this at least.
But it was a hard time, too. She watched as Pepper's shoulders bowed lower with each passing day. Her Ríkin had returned, but in accordance with Thorin's decree, Pepper's things and presence seemed to have vanished from his household. Clove knew her sister followed him, witnessing the way he sniffed the air as he went about his business. And she knew her sister's heart broke as at last, resignation replaced the anger and confusion that had ruled him for weeks.
OoOoOo
At first, Ríkin scarce believed his lassie had left. Neither Tova nor his brothers could offer an explanation. Quite the opposite, in fact, as his dam recounted her meeting with Ríkin's brownie. Yet, the fact remained. Her things were gone. Her scent no longer filled his home with its spicy warmth. When he lit the candle as her customs dictated, she never came.
He stared at the pink upon his walls, the mask left by his bedside, and could not fathom what had gone wrong. 'twas as if she'd been erased, leaving behind only reminders, and that infuriated him all the more. He often stared at the two red hairs he'd filched from her head, throat tight. They'd not had many conversations, his lassie and himself, but he'd settled his affections upon her nonetheless. For a dwarf, that happened once in his lifetime.
Anger raged within his breast, yet deep inside, he wished only to know for certain if Pepper was safe. That her things had vanished said, aye, she'd left of her own accord, but what if there was more to the matter than he knew? Well did he remember her words that he and his brothers were her family.
Naught made sense. Day by day, he prowled Erebor's byways, senses alert for any whiff of her. And night after night, Ríkin tossed upon his bed...and feared.
OoOoOo
Pepper inched closer to the bed after Ríkin had finally fallen asleep. Anger burned through her, and regret. She'd obey Thorin – the brownies owed the king a debt that could never be repaid – but this separation tore at her heart. Tears dotted her lashes, and her fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing across one braid in his beard.
She could stand it no more. Pepper slipped onto the bed and curled up bare inches from her dwarf, head resting upon her arm and gaze fixed upon him. "I'm here," she mouthed, tears leaking down her cheek. Then whispered, tremulous words escaped her, "Don't give up on me. Please, Ríkin. Be stubborn, and don't give up."
OoOoOo
Tova was neither young nor a fool. She added up the sequence of events, and a fury rarely seen kindled. What had she done, sharing about their Pepper to the king? What had the king done with her knowledge?
She retreated to her preferred forge, venting her spleen through single-minded work. Tova pumped the bellows before thrusting the crude lance she worked upon into the hot fire. Her Ríkin was hurting. Aye, he was. And with each sighting of his bewildered, pained face, her anger climbed higher. 'twas unsafe for her to near the Throne Room, and that was a fact.
Yanking the lance from the fire, she hammered it with enough force to destroy her project. With a roar of rage, she hurled the distorted length away from her with all her strength, the misbegotten thing banging against a wall and clattering to the stone floor. Her chest heaved with the force of her breaths.
That was when Dalkin's arms materialized around her. "My jewel," he murmured in her ear, arms tight. Tova leaned back into him, relishing his strength. "Speak with me, my lover," he urged.
She hugged his arms to her, blinking away the sting of tears. *Our son has been harmed,* she told him. *And I may have caused it to happen.*
OoOoOo
Not a day passed in which one of his dwarves did not approach Thorin or one of his advisors in search of answers about their missing "Helpers." The mountain was full of speculation, such that Thorin longed to tear at his hair. What use was hiding the brownies away if his dwarves grew all the more bold in their demands that he do something to locate them? By Durin. Did they not understand…?
No, he realized. They didn't. They pestered him, at first openly, and then using more "discrete" means – though a dwarfish concept of discrete was anything but. Comments flowed in iglishmêk about how the public areas had looked so much the cleaner back when their Helpers had aided them. Or how fine was the embroidery upon many pillows, as if their dwarven craftsmen were unable to match the work.
Thorin did not know whether to snarl as his temper worsened with each comment or to beat his head upon a wall.
The worst offenders by far were his own kin. Fíli grumbled about the lack of the clove scent he'd grown fond of, his pale eyes hard. That Fíli full well knew Thorin's reasoning did not alter the fact that his heir disagreed with his decision.
So long as it keeps our people safe, I care not. So Thorin repeated to himself on a daily basis.
Kíli, however, was the more upset of the two. And after months of heated words in Khuzdul and iglishmêk, it grated in Thorin's craw that his own sister-son would give him the silent treatment. Oh, he full well recognized the irony that he was receiving what he'd forced upon the brownies. A part of him maintained his sister-son needed maturing, but Thorin missed Kíli's simple devotion daily.
Mahal. Three and a half years to go.