Elrond pulled the letter from his inside robe pocket and broke the wax seal.
'Are you going to share, Elrond?' Celeborn asked.
The lord looked to the group of elven leaders seated near him in a private box overlooking the arena. Their support group that always traveled with the lords; guards and servants were seated as a group below them on benches carved from the stone walls, complete with intricate designs of past dwarven battles. If one were to walk around the empty arena, it told the story of dwarves from Durin I to King Thrór with smooth places waiting for future generations of Durin's and their story. There elves could guard the entrance to the box and be first line of defense should treacherous dwarves attack.
He looked at flawless Sindarin Cirth and mentally started reading to his small audience.
'Lord Elrond,
I greet you and yours. It is with great happiness and pride I inform the great lord of Eriador I am to wed a distant kin of yours, Morwen Steelsheen, niece of Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth. She is daughter of Princess Myrah, sister of the prince.
I met her on a trip to Belfalas and though she is many years my junior, I fell completely under her spell. I hope our union will bless us with a flock of young for my old age. I have decided to take the throne of my father when he dies; although my heart lies in the white city of Gondor where Sindarin is spoken as often as Westron.
I will rule with kindness; a trait my father never learned, and I pray you do not judge my character by his pernicious attitude. I am my mother's son completely and she was a gentle woman, not cut out for the austere life of the Riddermark.
For now I avoid going home to avoid contention that accompanies my father, even with his only son.
Yours faithfully,
Prince Thengel'
Elrond handed the letter to Erestor. 'You know what to do with it.'
'I'm glad you received the letter in my presence,' Erestor mentally responded. 'Had Mithrandir managed to get it to Imladris while I was here, Glorfindel would by now have spilled on it and wiped his nose with the soggy paper.'
Glorfindel smiled and lit from within and Gandalf realized he was missing a silent conversation. "Alright, no more silent talking," he grumbled. "I wish the Valar didn't strip my mental communication powers and force only communication through the ring with Elrond and Galadriel."
Erestor handed Gandalf the letter. "I was commenting on what Glorfindel would do had he received the letter for filing instead of me."
"I would have given it directly to Lindir," Elrond stated, "or Figwit."
From his place in the back corner of the box, Figwit straightened proudly at the complement.
"I have you all know I am very careful with tomes and papers," Glorfindel protested, but with mirth in his tone.
"Oh yes, you carefully have two books holding your window shut when you tossed your sword across your bedchamber and broke the latch," Elrond replied dryly.
"And I was gentle when wedging them in place." Glorfindel wasn't to be bested.
"I believe our next event is starting." Círdan's warning had elves in the box sitting as statues, eyes on the arena.
'I hope Prince Thengel is telling the truth,' Celeborn mentally stated quietly to Elrond, although all in the box could hear their private mental conversation.
'I refuse to believe anyone could be as self-centered as Fengel.' Elrond's endorsement of the prince gave them hope a brighter future was coming for Rohan.
In the next private compartment, Bard, Fingel, the kids and the other human's missed the exchange.
"Both of ye, suit up," Thráin commanded and the two young warriors started donning armor under the watchful eyes of Durin's and lords.
Óin squinted and caught the eye of Thorin, who was also frowning. Likewise, the seasoned Durin's and warriors around the arena focused on Fili getting ready.
Bát and Lióni, back in respectable gowns, slipped into the dam's booth and found two empty chairs side by side.
"I hope Thráin chooses you to marry Thorin," Bát stated out of the blue; her gaze switching from watching the next fighters to catch Lióni's reaction.
Lióni's breath caught that someone actually wished her to wed the next king, and she returned the gaze of one who looked all Durin, with her dark hair and blue eyes. "What have you heard?"
Bát looked smug. "Only that Thorin has spent time with you at Jötunheim unchaperoned." She got her confirmation at the blush that covered Lióni's smooth cheeks. Her beard was tucked in a pocket to be worn only when she left the booth.
"I thought he was the king then, and tried to quietly go around him, but broke a twig. He started talking to me and we entered the mountain together and rumors have abounded."
"And they've grown in the telling," Bát joked, just as they are embellishing of his time alone with Byrta."
Lióni's guts twisted and her blood boiled with jealously, and her hands clenched unknowingly. She forced them to relax and lifted her chin. "He is welcome to those addle headed tramps." She looked around to see if they were overheard. Luckily all were riveted on the Durin males below them.
Bát also glanced around and caught the eye of Dis, seated just behind them and one down in a seat of honor. Dis winked and smiled. Bát knew now that Lióni was still very much in play, even if her father and brother were contentious.
Fili saw the leaders giving him the stern, paternal eye. "What? I can take this stump jumper with just my left hand." To prove his point, he swung his Durin crested Warhammer, given to him when he left the mountain months ago. It flowed in a skilled arc.
"And he will use both hands with a weapon in each," Balin reminded him. "Let's see you draw your sword just as smoothly."
Fili smiled and reached for his other weapon. It barely cleared leather and try as he might, cringed.
"BLASTED, BOY," Thráin roared and talking abruptly ceased in the arena. "Take your armor and tunic off," he demanded formally in a tone not to be disobeyed.
Gandalf handed the letter back to Erestor and focused on the disturbance among the Durin clan. He hoped his weight as wizard wasn't needed in calming troubled Durin waters.
"I'm fine, Grandfather," Fili protested and backed up two steps right into Dwalin, who didn't budge.
Dwalin grabbed his right shoulder in a vice squeeze and Fili yelped in pain. "Strip now," Dwalin growled.
With help from Kili, he disrobed until bare chested.
Óin spun him around and all saw an ugly bruise turning black and blue with yellow around the edge. It covered his entire right shoulder; obscuring the new tattoo he won rights to for the Battle of Five Armies.
Dáin reacted first, as the king was gearing up for a long lecture. "Ah warrior is taught ta report all injuries. How did ye get this?"
Everyone strained to hear Fili's answer, although the elves clearly heard.
"I took a mace to the shoulder by an orc."
"And you thought to dishonor the Durin name by losing this bought?" Thráin found his voice and it rang out loud and clear and it was a king passing judgment, not a grandfather displeased with a grandson. "For deceiving me and your uncle, you are hereby restricted to my rule in this mountain for ten more years. You are nowhere ready for leadership. Also, no lasses for you until you are ready to take your place as a Durin lord."
Fili's face burned in shame at the rebuke and demotion in front of the entire mountain. He heard Tóvad laugh and turned on him. "I could have taken you with just one hand."
"You won't get a chance now," Thráin ordered and felt like hitting Thorin for being soft on the boys. Instead he motioned Dóvad and his son closer. "Lad, pick another challenger. I encourage ye ta take Kili. He may be younger than ye, but he is swift an battle ready, like I'm sure ye are."
"I want ta fight Thorin," Tóvad eagerly announced and the crowd roared its approval.
"Now, son, why don't ye pick the lad the king suggests," Dóvad encouraged. He knew his son would fare worse than him and he lost.
"I've made my choice," the obstinate son declared for all to hear.
"Why don't ye just challenge Lord Glorfindel of the elves," his father cried and the arena laughed and clapped.
Glorfindel grinned and lit from within, showing all where he was sitting.
Tóvad gloated, "Well, Prince Thorin, are ye scared of me?"
"Aw, Mahal, why did ye curse me with such stubborn dwarflings?" Dóvad moaned, to the delight of the audience and they shouted their opinions. Wiping his brow with a sleeve, Dóvad gestured he would allow the match. He knew what would happen and figured his son needed the humiliation. He stalked to the bench and sat, shoulders slumped in defeat, surrounded by his equally glum lords.
Thorin sighed and shook his head. "And if I refuse to fight a pup like you?"
"Then I won and don't have ta apologize ta yer father, probably ah fake king anyway."
There was dead silence at the grave insult and everyone could see Thorin's anger and the rage from all the Durin's.
Thráin muttered, "I hoped we were past all that."
The elves tensed. They didn't want to be caught under the mountain if a war broke out among the dwarves of Jötunheim and the Longbeards.
Thorin's next words alleviated their fears. "Fine, young Tóvad, but I will show no leniency or mercy for your abominable words. You will spend a month in the Halls of Healing when I'm through with you."
"I'm ready, old dwarf," Tóvad sneered. He knew he could best his father and would show these Durin's of the Longbeards a new elite warrior was in Erebor.
"Want me ta fetch yer armor?" a royal guard serving the Durin's that evening asked.
Thorin looked at Tóvad and shook his head. "No, I'm planning on moving fast enough he won't touch me." He smirked at the rest. "And besides, it is an insult not to dress for a match."
Celeborn linked fëas with his wife by lightly taking her fingers in his. Sharing only with her, he silently asked, 'Who wins?'
'I'll not spoil your sport, meleth-nín. You will find out with everyone.'
Thorin led the way to the center of the arena, with Tóvad trailing. Without warning, he drew Orcrist, his only weapon, and knocked Tóvad off his feet with the broadside taking his legs from under him and stinging the leg he smacked.
Tóvad felt his feet come up taking breath from him and felt his head slap off the stone floor and raise just enough to loosen his helmet.
Not wishing to give Tóvad a shot, Thorin brought the flat side of the blade against his head on the first bounced off the stone with such force, the helmet went flying.
"Two," called Balin. "One more, Thorin and make it count."
Tóvad lay there stunned and sure he would pass out. Never had he been hit that hard in his life. He made a weak attempt to rise and heard the blade singing before it hit his thigh and everyone heard the bone snap. He let out a scream and passed out.
Thorin looked down at him with disdain and raising his head, roared, "Anyone dare insults the king, they will face me. I'll kill the next dwarf. This dwarfling got lucky that his father is ranking lord of the Blacklocks." He stalked back to the Durin lords and they could see he never broke a sweat.
Stunned the match was over with only three blows, dwarves silently filed from the arena while the elves stayed put.
Thráin patted Thorin on the shoulder and made his way to the elven booth. They rose out of respect when he entered with Dáin and Balin flanking him. "Ye got ta see ah bit of life under the mountain. How long are ye all staying?"
Galadriel spoke first. "Princess Dis invited Arwen and I to attend a courtship walk. I would like to stay for one. She assured me the best would be one she attended and since I know the lass Thorin will choose, would like to partake in two or three." She paused. "That way you will only know approximately which one."
Thráin laughed. "Ye are welcome to stay in my halls as long as ye desire an join Dis."
"Galadriel and Arwen won't be staying inside now that I'm here," Celeborn quickly declared; his distrust of dwarves extending to this generation, although he still considered Thráin a Durin reincarnate.
"The choosing of the order will be in the morning. Ye are invited ta partake in the drawing an have breakfast with me," he offered to all in the booth.
"I would be delighted," Círdan spoke before one of the more cantankerous members objected. He threw a stern look at Celeborn and Thranduil. "I understand tomorrow afternoon we will start our summit, an abbreviation of the treaty you hammered out at the end of the last battle."
Thráin nodded. "Is that enough time ta vouch I paid all my bills?"
"That should be a sufficient amount of time," Thranduil agreed. "I have my records in order."
"As do I," Thráin solemnly replied, but his eye danced with mirth.
He walked the elves to the main gate and pointed out objects of interest. "Now that we are at full staff, trade over the mountains will resume like before. Are the coastal communities able ta meet our demands?" Thráin didn't wait for the meeting on the morrow. He was burning to know.
"All in good time, my friend," Círdan answered and patted his shoulder with affection. "I have numbers and know dwarves are not the most patient of races."
"Can't blame me for trying. Goodnight all," Thráin bid the elves farewell and quickly had a word with the human kings, assuring for himself they would attend.
"I am not invited," Fengel complained bitterly. "Celeborn told me I could depart in the morning, so I'm leaving."
"Then it is likely I will never see you again. Thank you for the supplies and effort you personally made in delivering them," Thráin formally told him.
Fengel nodded and hurried from the mountain. He didn't trust his men nor elves Celeborn provided as guards not to help themselves to his gold and didn't expect to be kept inside so long. He hurried to catch up with Celeborn. "My lord Celeborn," he hailed.
'I just may kill him tonight.' Celeborn snarled to everyone nearby. He turned and didn't say a word aloud.
"You sent elven guards with my gold. I will check they didn't steal any before I pull out at dawn. If any is missing, I don't care if you are the high prince or whatever, I will never allow an elf….," he trailed off when a very sharp blade rested against his Adam's apple.
"Lord Celeborn has given me leave to behead you," Glorfindel silkily interrupted the tirade.
"Trade with Rohan is hereby suspended until your son is on the throne," Celeborn decreed and all elven lords inaudibly agreed. "No more wagons will be allowed from Rohan or your people will be slaughtered and wagons confiscated. If you are attacked, we will not come to your aid and will instruct the Steward of Gondor to avoid your realm also. You have isolated your kingdom from men, elves and dwarves until you die." Celeborn walked away with Galadriel on his arm.
Elrond stopped before the stunned king. "Glorfindel, please lower your sword."
Glorfindel complied and melted into the night leaving the two alone.
"I am most disappointed with you, Fengel. Your son sent such a nice letter and over the years, I've heard from him many times. He wrote me when he fled your kingdom and went to Gondor to live. He wished to keep lines of communication open for when he took the throne. I want you to be reassured that your people won't suffer for long and if you decide to do them a favor and die sooner than later, the elves will restore Rohan to former standing."
"You worthless elves," Fengel screamed in rage. "Just for that, I'll live to way past a hundred. Elves are hereby banned from Rohan. Stay off the Wold or face my warriors." He stumbled over a rock and caught his footing as he marched away from Elrond. He wondered what the elf meant by his people wouldn't suffer for long and came to one conclusion; they were going to kill him. He roused his caravan and without checking his gold, they moved south in the light of a full moon.
Dóvad, Lári and Lióni waited out of the way for Lord Óin to set the leg.
Master Melcótte, Elrond's head healer effortlessly kept Tóvad unconscious during the moving of him to the Halls of Healing. He worked with Óin several times during both battles and liked the cankerous dwarf that could barely hear. He motioned for Óin to place his trumpet in an ear. "I will set tonight with your dwarf."
"Nay, Melcótte, I have young healers for that chore. Ye did enough keeping him out of pain an mixing ah draught for when he wakes."
Melcótte nodded and bid him goodnight, leaving without making a sound or looking at anyone else.
Óin motioned for the family to join him. "He will indeed be flat on his back for ah month. After that, I assume he will offer ah humble apology or Thorin will kill him." Óin didn't hold back. "He won't be allowed ta leave until he does an there will be ah fair chance he will be stripped of his future lord status. I suggest ye all take this month ta knock sense into his thick head." Not placing a trumpet to his ear, he left them alone and departed to his chambers to check on his father, who didn't attend tonight festivities, sighting weariness.
"Why is Tóvad acting like this? Didn't he meet and get to know Thorin during the war?" Lári asked as she pulled the wool blanket higher on her son's chest. He was stripped and she didn't want him to get cold.
Dóvad looked sheepish. "I pushed our underage son during the war an bragged ta anyone that would listen and probably embellished Tóvad's skills, making him think he was ah better soldier than he was. And no, he only met Thorin maybe once in seven years. Father went ta all the meetings an I ran day ta day activities of the Blackfoots."
Patience at an end, Lári snapped, "How many times have you lied to me?" She raised her voice and Lióni quietly stayed in the background, listening to every word. "You promised me our son would do nothing more than polish your armor and fetch your meals. You had no intention of using him as more than another soldier and something to feed your ego, did you?"
He sighed and painfully told the truth. "Yes, I lied an told Tóvad never ta tell ye the truth. Ye heard of his fighting in the war an never questioned me before now, why?"
"Because when I heard of the awful details, I figured our son had to fight for his life and not for his father's bragging rights." Lári wanted to hit him and eyeballed a stone mortar.
"I wanted my son ta be ah warrior with his own name recognition an it takes ah war for that," Dóvad counterd. "What was ah few years of age against ah lifetime of accolades? As son of the ranking lord, our son had ta fight younger an harder than others his age an I embellished the tale of every orc he killed. If he killed one orc, I turned it into two. When we returned ta the mountain, he was given passes instead of training by the instructors, saying anyone who fought at Azanulbizar wouldn't need further training."
"He is paying a horrible price for your pride, Dóvad. He believes his skills are superior and he has to live up to your expectations," she grounded out through clinched teeth. "How can our daughter marry a Durin with this shame hanging over our family? I'm pulling her from consideration and we will leave and return to Jötunheim as soon as our son is able. I cannot bear the laughter and whispers that will follow us now. I will say goodbye to my mother, as her heart is with the mountain."
Dóvad sadly nodded his head. "Aye, I've been ah fool for so long an look what it's cost our family. Our son took ah beating that was mine an our daughter will never marry more than ah lesser lord. Even Trafid of the Stonefoots is marrying another, so she won't even get him an his title."
He paced and Lióni pressed against the wall, hoping to escape detection, for she didn't want to be sent away from this revealing conversation. Her father was her hero and to find out he was less than she imagined tore at her heart and she wanted to run into his arms and tell him it was okay, she still loved him.
Dóvad leaned over and stroked his son's hair off his neck. "I'm sorry, son. Tomorrow, we will be the Blackfoots your grandfather would be proud of and not this cheating, lying version."
Through his drugged haze, Tóvad, heard every word spoken and struggled to open his eyes. He did and looked into remorseful brown eyes. "I egged ye on, Da," he whispered and his hand caught his fathers. "Remember when ye wanted ta come clean an I blackmailed ye?"
"I should have ended it then," Dóvad admitted. "We each are both guilty, but no more. From now on, we will not talk about it and it will be our family secret. No more bragging about deeds ye didn't do an ye will apologize ta the king an Prince Thorin before we go home."
Tóvad nodded as he slipped back into slumber.
A healer entered. "I will be with him if ye want ta sleep in yer own beds."
Dóvad escorted his wife and daughter through empty halls, his boots echoing loudly on stone. The fire was banked and Risári long retired.
Elves settled down for the night, many to sleep and some to play music and sing quietly until dawn. Dale was still and even the night watchmen dozed off.
At four in the morning three long mournful blasts from the large dwarven horn roused dwarves, elves and men. There was much milling about and Bard rode from Dale into the elven camp, where all the lords were up and decked for war.
"What is going on with the dwarves?" he asked Elrond.
Elrond looked at Galadriel for answers.
"I'm not sure," she admitted, so they waited.
Finally, there was movement on the rampart and everyone gathered below. It was Thorin that stepped out and looked down at them. They waited while he talked quietly to a raven. When done, in a loud voice he proclaimed. "On this day of the Third Age, July fourteenth, year 2942, Gróin, son of Farin, died in his sleep. He will rest in state for one week in the main hall. King Thráin states business will continue as planned and visitations are open starting tomorrow for everyone. The Durin's will await the arrival of Lord Glóin before having a funeral."