Chapter 51

Healing Part 2: Scars

Most of the wounded have healed enough to leave the healing rooms under their own power. The folk who need his aid now have no open wounds that must be stitched. They have missing limbs or lost eyes that they must now learn to live with. Some have pain that does not fade. They are the scars of war.

Duly Noted, Chapter 50: Healing Part 1: Stitches


They corner Thoren at the Christmas party that is held in a barn that belongs to his cousin Archie in the strange land of England. So far, it has been a strange day, but a good one. His previously unknown cousin is a friendly man, the food and the company are good. The only thing that still puzzles him is why there is so much greenery indoors. It is suspended from the ceiling and for reasons not adequately explained there is a decorated tree in the middle of the room.

Most of his – very extended – kin are milling about the place, but Thoren has found a chair to sit down. His knee is giving trouble again. It's very clear that it will continue to do so for the rest of his life, no matter what Thráin likes to tell himself.

It is because he is sitting down that he is unable to make his escape before his aunt and his cousin's wife corner him. He does not invite them, but they both sit down.

'Your glass is empty,' Fiona observes, sliding a full one in his direction.

His cousin and aunt are wearing identical looks of mischief, which puts him on his guard. They can't be after his account of the war; he has been going through that with Duria these past weeks. It has been a harrowing experience, worse than he has anticipated. Almost worse than reliving his own worst memories is the effect that they have on his sister; his account of his capture and everything that followed had left horror written all over her face.

Fortunately Duria and her little team are currently interviewing everyone that hasn't had the good sense to go into hiding, which means that he is safe from her at least. These two ladies on the other hand are up to something.

He leaves his glass on the table, untouched.

'What can I do for you?' he asks.

'It is more what we can do for you,' Thora says. 'Fiona and I have been talking, one healer to another, about the state of your knee.'

That could not have been a productive discussion, because 'My knee is as healed as it is going to be.' It's been three quarters of a year or thereabouts. He can walk short distances without a limp. Longer distances leave him with pain. 'I have wed a healer and she agrees with that assessment.'

Thora gives him a look. 'No need to take that tone, Thoren. We know. And yes, we agree with you.'

'Then there is nothing more that needs to be said, is there?'

He has swallowed his pride and agreed to the wheelchair. It's something else entirely knowing that the war has maimed him in such a way that the things he would like to do are now forever beyond his reach. No matter what Thráin thinks, Thoren will no longer be able to stand beside him when Khazad-dûm will be retaken. At least Duria should be pleased; she'll never have to traipse all over the Mountain trailing after him again.

'That is where you are wrong.' Fiona sits up straight and gives him a very businesslike look. 'In Erebor, there is very little that can be done. But you are in England now.'

'Which means?'

'I could bore you with the technical details, but let's get right to the point: we could get you a new knee.'

Thoren finds that he has temporarily lost the gift of speech.

Fiona wastes no time clarifying: 'It would mean a surgery in England and a lengthy recovery period. It's a bit of a hassle, because you don't officially exist here, but I know someone who could do it and he owes me a couple of favours.' She smiles. 'They've made huge advances in this area the past couple of decades. You would be able to walk again properly.'

He is not sure that he has words for this. The enormity of it leaves him stunned. He would not say that he has entirely resigned himself to living the rest of his life as a cripple, but he also knows that there is not much to be done. Only now there is. The surge of hope is somewhat overwhelming.

'Why?' he asks.

'Because if there is anyone who deserves it, it would be you.' Fiona manages to deliver this in a very matter-of-fact way. 'It's not charity, it's a thank-you.'

'You have nothing to thank me for,' Thoren points out.

'You kept my grandson safe during a horrific war,' Fiona says. 'That is not nothing to me.'

He hasn't thought of that in this way.

'This is possible?' She has said so, but it seems somewhat unbelievable. He would be able to walk, to fight, to carry his child around. It is more than he has thought possible and in a way it almost feels like cheating. He went into the war knowing that there was a price to pay and now, it seems, he needs not pay it at all. If anything, he may have only gained.

'Yes, it is.' His cousin grabs his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. 'It will take some time to arrange everything, so you must be patient a little longer.'

But he will walk again. And that is more healing than he believed possible.


It is her mother's Christmas party that finally brings down the last wall in Beth's head. Before now she has stubbornly maintained the idea that her world and Boromir's world should never touch, never mind mingle, despite all evidence to the contrary. She has crossed the line, having one foot in each world, while insisting that this should never have happened. It's an uncomfortable position that could never have lasted.

It's probably for the best that she's finally letting go of it.

The one who is not letting go of it is Mary, who has been frowning since the moment she has stepped foot in Uncle Archie's barn, which has been commandeered for the purpose, given that it is the only place in England that is big enough for Beth's suddenly very extended – and sometimes honorary – family. Beth's mother, helped by Uncle Archie, has taken the lead in organising, which means that it is a Christmas extravaganza undreamt off in the most far-fetched Christmas film; it looks like twenty decoration boxes exploded, there is more food than would be needed to feed a small country for a week and there's a playlist of Christmas songs that might just play till the end of the decade.

The meaning of the word moderation must have slipped her mother's mind.

Not that Beth minds in fact, because the decorations may be tacky and cheesy and overdone, but the mood is good. She feels as if she can finally, finally, relax and enjoy being alive. She is on her home ground, the war is over, her loved ones are both happy and alive and there is not a single crisis in sight.

She's not sure if she has felt as much at peace since she found out she was pregnant with Harry. Eight years is a long time to feel uncomfortable in her own skin; she hasn't realised the burden she carried around until it is gone. It is as if someone has lifted a heavy weight off of her chest so that at long last she can breathe.

She's enjoying every minute of it.

Which is why it is such a bother that Mary is being such a killjoy. 'Will you stop frowning already? It's Christmas for goodness sake!' She tries to push a glass of wine into her sister's hand, in the hopes that it will mellow her a little.

Mary pushes the glass away. 'You just foisted Harry off onto the dwarves. Did you expect me to be happy about it?'

Beth is not exactly happy about it herself, but it is what's best for Harry and in some strange ways, it's gone a long way in mending her own relationship with her son. No one can doubt that Harry is happy about it; he's riding around on Thráin's shoulders, laughing and whooping in delight.

'We've been over this, Mary; Harry is my son and choices concerning his future are no one's but mine.' It has taken her years to do what is best for him, but she got there in the end. 'Let it go for one day; you can lecture me again tomorrow.' By which time she will have safely fled back to Middle Earth, but no need to mention that. 'It's Christmas. Don't be the Grinch. Drink your wine.'

Mary frowns some more. 'Does it not bother you?' she asks. 'Does it not bother you that you're hopping worlds, being friends with elves and dwarves and all manner of fantastical creatures that weren't supposed to be real?'

'I'm not sure hobbits classify as fantastical creatures.' She sips her tea while Mary sputters beside her.

'You know what I mean.'

Beth shrugs. 'It used to. And maybe this was never meant to be, but that ship sailed eighty years ago when Gandalf recruited Kate.' She might have saved herself some time if she accepted that fact and moved on from there. 'Then he made it worse when he decided to draw me in. This is the logical result.'

Mary huffs. 'That does not mean I have to like it.'

'That attitude ended up costing me a lot of time and energy,' Beth says. 'And it did not get me anywhere. Save yourself some time.'

'It's an attitude like that that got you into this mess.' Mary directs a pointed look at Beth's pregnant belly, Harry on Thráin's shoulders and Boromir in an animated conversation with Dwalin, Elvaethor and Uncle Archie.

Oh, for goodness sake! 'It's either this or you would have never seen Harry and me again,' Beth snaps, trying to hang on to her good mood and struggling to do so. 'And then whose ear would you have bent to complain about everything under the sun?'

She decides to leave Mary to it and instead joins Peter and Flói, who have quickly become inseparable.

'Mary being Mary?' Peter asks with a knowing grin.

'Don't ask.' She is determined to hold on to her high spirits. 'It would drive me to drink and I am not allowed to do that.'

Peter pats her shoulder in a mock comforting manner. 'I feel for you, Beth. I really do.' He has a glass of wine in his own hand.

'A sad state of affairs,' Flói agrees.

'You'd better hide or she'll be after you next,' Beth warns. Mary has nothing to do but drink her wine and brood over perceived wrongs, and they happen to stand within her direct line of sight. Perhaps someone should explain proper Christmas behaviour to her.

It's not going to be Beth, though.

She lets her gaze slide across the room and lands on a cluster of ladies in the far corner, who look like they are deep in the planning of a conspiracy. 'Wonder what's going on over there?'

Peter grins. 'It's like the beginning of a bad joke: a human, a dwarf and an elf walk into a barn…'

'And invent all sorts of medical innovations,' Beth says. All three ladies in question – her mother, Thora and Tauriel – are healers and doctors after all.

'That, or world domination,' Flói remarks, which proves that he and Peter have spent entirely too much time together. 'My ma is involved after all.'

Either way, it's best not to get involved. It's time she moved on anyway; Mary's glare is boring daggers into her back. It's only prudent to go somewhere she'll enjoy some protection, so she joins her husband. He lays an arm over her shoulder and tucks her against him without breaking off his conversation about defensive structures, but that is fine.

It's not as new as it used to be, this easy affection, this sense of belonging with somebody, so it doesn't surprise her as much anymore, but she is nowhere near past the stage where she'll take it for granted.

Maybe this is what healing looks like, she thinks.


Healing comes in all shapes and sizes, in several areas and at different paces, Duria sometimes thinks. In some areas she has made great progress. She has found some peace and a sense of reward and accomplishment in her craft again. She's piecing her family back together bit by bit. They still have nightmares, but they are not so frequent. They have become scars rather than open bleeding wounds.

Then there are the areas that tear at the stitches she's put in the wounds and it is all she can do not to have them torn completely open again. She misses Jack more than she ever thought possible when he was alive, back when she was in turns terribly worried and horribly exasperated by his exploits. His antics had kept her up many a night, fearing the worst, but never once actually entertaining the possibility of truly losing him. But her nightmares are crowded with the memories of his last hour alive, when he was mortally wounded and in such pain.

And seeing the man who could have been his identical twin every so often does not help. It's not Peter's fault. He is a cheerful, kind man who can't help the face he has been born with. So she trains herself not to flinch when he shows up.

But it's an effort.

A very great one.

The problem is that she never quite knows when he is going to appear. He and Flói – they have become good friends and are almost inseparable – bounce around all over the two known worlds in a way that makes Thoren and Thráin look staid and settled. The magical box they have at their disposal facilitates this and she has nothing against that device, if only it could come with a timely warning.

As it happens, she is caught off guard each and every time and it is no different this morning, when her otherworldly kinsman knocks on her door just after breakfast.

'Good morning!' he says with extraordinary amounts of enthusiasm.

It's hard not to let her shock show on her face. The best she can do is tone it down to surprise. 'Good morning?'

'It certainly is,' Peter confirms. 'Or at least it was in England. I haven't a clue what the weather is like here; I haven't passed a window yet.'

If left unchecked, he will chatter on her doorstep until sunset, so she does a step back and gestures that he should come in.

Which he does, chattering all the way: 'I've brought you coffee. It's a good strong blend, you'll love it. It's from this nice new shop that opened up just three streets away from Mary's house, which makes it a wonderful retreat for when she becomes just a little too overbearing. The owner was quite impressed with amount of coffee Flói can put away. I'm pretty sure he's her favourite at the moment; she keeps giving him free refills.'

At the first stop for breath she interrupts: 'Where is my cousin?'

Peter grins. 'Reminding his parents that he exists. Do you have a moment?'

Duria does, in fact, have a moment. The lads are off to school and Narvi to work. The only reason she is still here is because she is running late. And what she wants to do today is not so urgent that it cannot wait.

'Yes,' she answers.

Peter charges into her home like he launches a war campaign. 'That's very good, because I need your help. I've told you I do some investigative work, didn't I?'

Duria nods. She doesn't get the chance to give a verbal reply, because he already carries on, marching towards her living room, leaving her no choice but to trail after him in bemusement.

'Anyway, this latest case is a bit of a disaster,' Peter says, emptying a large bag full of paperwork on her dining table. 'And before you ask, they gave it to me in this state. These people don't believe in the paperless office, in case you had not noticed. This lot is a mess, I tell you. So my first order of business is to sort out this tangle.'

Duria regards the mountain of disordered documents and experiences the familiar sensation of horror at such chaos and a burning urge to sort it out.

'But, as you can see, it's really bad,' Peter carries on, 'so then I had a brilliant idea.'

She hopes that it is the kind that finally explains what he is doing here. 'Which was?'

'Well, I'm on a bit of a deadline and I don't have a lot of time, so I thought I'd get some help,' Peter explains. 'So I thought: who do I know who's clever and really good with documentation? And your name sprang to mind, so here I am. If you are willing? To help, that is.'

All of a sudden he looks a bit shy and sheepish and the resemblance to Jack is so strong that it feels as though she has been punched in the gut. She had hoped that it would get better, but it's hard every time and harder still when he makes one of these faces or gestures that just tugs at her memory.

The smile begins to slide the longer she struggles against her grief and remains incapable of speech. So she forces herself to smile – she's afraid it looks more like a grimace – and takes a deep breath.

'Right,' says Peter. 'Sorry. I know it's a bit presumptuous. I'll just…'

If she doesn't speak now, she will lose all the progress she has made with him. 'No, that is not it,' she says. 'I am honoured you've come to me.'

Enlightenment dawns. 'Oh, it's the size of this chaos that's taken you by surprise.'

It has at that, although it is not all of it. 'It has.'

Peter nods. 'Imagine my face when they handed that bag to me with the announcement that this was all I'd need and to please get on with it. I don't think Flói stopped laughing for half an hour. And then he ran away to his mother when I suggested that he'd help, so that's not going to do me any good.'

That is in no way a surprise. Uncle Ori's inclination towards scholarly pursuits has only been passed down to cousin Lifur, with… questionable results. 'I see.'

Peter grins, cheerfulness completely restored. 'So you do,' he agrees. 'Could you please help me organise this into something more comprehensible? I could bribe you with more coffee if that helps?'

A year ago Duria would have bristled at the mere idea of a bribe, but she is wiser to the ways of her mannish kinsmen these days and knows it for the joking friendliness that it is; he will shower her in coffee regardless. 'I will help you without the bribe anyway,' she points out. 'Though I reckon the work will be more pleasurable with coffee.'

He beams at her. 'See, I knew you spoke my language!'


The news arrives just after dawn and, not having set off for work yet, Thráin decides that he might as well get his visit in before the rest of his nearest and dearest crowd in. So it is to the rooms of Boromir and Beth that his feet carry him.

A knock on the door brings about a flurry of noise and movement and then he is face to face with one of Beth's adopted children. 'We have a brother,' Helm announces, smiling from ear to ear. 'And he is tiny!'

Thráin chuckles and nods. 'Babes generally are,' he agrees. 'May I come in?'

Helm steps aside and waves him in. 'They're in the bedroom,' he says.

Thráin takes this for the invitation that it is and walks straight through.

He knows that they have won, that slowly life returns to normal, but it's in moments like these that he feels it too. Here is the friend who never believed that he would live to see the end of the war: alive, happily married and cradling his newborn son in his arms, smiling fit to burst. This, he thinks, is what victory is supposed to look like.

Beth, continuing the theme, is smiling too. It's a new look on her, this contentment, but it suits her. She seems tired too, although that is to be expected.

'Congratulations,' Thráin tells them and he means it.

Happiness looks good on Boromir too. Now that the heavy burdens have fallen away, he moves easier, he smiles more and even jokes on occasion. He no longer looks pressed down by the weight of despair and hopelessness.

This is what we fought for.

'You are the first visitor,' Boromir announces. 'Which is only right.'

'How is it only right?'

'We have you to thank for us being here in the first place,' Beth explains. 'If you hadn't started about the fake marriage thing, we might not have worked it out for ourselves. Seems fitting that you're around to see the results.'

He has not thought of it like that. 'You did most of it on your own,' he says, because taking credit for the marriage of his friends is not something he feels he quite deserves. He was not even there for most part of their budding relationship.

'Well, you nudged us in the right direction,' Beth shrugs. 'Although better not let my sister hear that; she's still looking for someone to blame.'

He'll bear that in mind. He'd never have believed that he would ever encounter someone more tiresome than Duria, but Beth's sister Mary has exceeded expectations in all the wrong ways. If she starts every day by compiling a list of folk and things to berate, this would not surprise him. Usually Beth is the object of her ire – the move to Minas Tirith, her treatment of her children, anything really – but Thráin has been on the receiving end of her displeasure a few times as well. Apparently all of Beth's choices are somehow his fault.

'I will take care to stay out of her way.'

Boromir holds out his arms. 'Would you like to hold him?'

It is the expected thing to do, so he nods. He sits down in the free chair and lets Boromir put the babe in his arms. He's done this before with Duria's sons – although the reluctance with which she relinquished them suggested she had every expectation he would drop them – and Cathy's daughter. He expects that in a few months he'll be asked to inspect Thoren's child up close.

The babe looks like a babe: small. Duria was insisting from the first that this feature looked like her and that like Narvi, but Thráin's never been able to see that in one so young. He'll see it when the babe has grown a bit. What he can tell is that all limbs, fingers and toes seem to be present and correct, that the child is breathing just fine and that the body temperature is as it should be; much more important things to focus on.

'A fine child,' he says.

'Good to hear it.'

Beth's smile has a hint of mischief about it, which he does not quite trust. Likewise Boromir seems like he is in on a joke that Thráin does not yet get. He studies them both for clues, but comes up empty.

He wonders if he should ask, but Boromir speaks first: 'We've named him for you.'

It's a good thing that he is sitting down, else he might have dropped the child. Of all the things he might have reasonably expected to hear, this is not it. And yet, perhaps it should have been. He's heard it joked about that he might find a child named after him one day, as folk tend to do with war heroes. He's heard it, then brushed it off, because the thought makes him vaguely unsettled.

He knows that people consider him a hero and it is this that never quite sits easy with him. He has done what needed to be done. That it was done at all owes more to his innate stubbornness than any heroism. The praise never feels quite earned.

'Why?' he asks.

'Because Faramir vetoed the use of his name,' Beth says cheerfully. 'Apparently we are entirely too predictable.'

They have not been predictable to Thráin. He does not quite understand it. 'Why?' he asks again.

'You are our friend, Thráin,' Boromir explains. 'Whether you agree or not, we owe much to you. It bears remembering.'

'Your memory is fine without a daily reminder.'

'We did it because we wanted to,' Beth says. She has learned to read him well; the look in her eyes is understanding. 'It's not an obligation or a favour to you, so you don't have to say thank you or anything like that. We just think the name is fitting and we like it.'

He does not know what to make of that either. 'It will be an unusual name in Gondor.' And he knows how much that haunted Jack for much of his life.

Boromir shrugs. 'That is unlikely to remain the case for long; we remember our heroes in Gondor.'

There are things he does not wish to consider. At all.

'Besides, it is already happening here,' Beth says. 'Victoria is not exactly the kind of name that's common here. Nobody seems to have a problem with Harry either. They are just names, you know.'

But it is not just a name. It is his name and that makes it special.

'Thank you,' he says and he finds that he means that too.


It's hard to find contentment again, Cathy finds. People always say that it is her greatest gift, but after the war, this is no longer true. When so many have died and so much misery has happened, it is easier to see the bad; it is after all more plentiful. That does not mean that she does not also see the good, but finding it is what takes more effort.

It's easier now that winter is behind them, and spring has brought with it the sun and warmer weather. Victoria, determined to do everything as fast as she can, is crawling and making attempts at pulling herself up by everything that is within her reach, so Cathy has taken her outside where at least she will fall into the soft grass.

There is soft grass again. That in itself is a vast improvement over the previous year. Vast swathes of land are now available again for farming, so much has been sown and the first green sprouts are poking through the earth. In the distance the first building work is being done in Dale. It is nowhere near like what she remembers from before the war, but a start has been made.

She has taken her own sewing outside with her, although with Victoria wandering off if given half a chance, she doesn't get much work done.

'She's a restless lass,' Thoren observes.

Cathy has not seen him approach; the grass mutes his footsteps. He walks again, with a cane when he is not in his wheelchair. Aunt Thora claims he'll be able to walk even better once he's got a new knee.

'I blame you,' she says. 'It's in her blood.'

Thoren sits down and laughs at her. 'It must be in your blood as well then.'

Cathy ignores that. 'Don't you have some kingly business to do?'

'I have done that,' Thoren counters. 'Some of the men have taught me more about farming than I ever suspected there was to know.'

'Will we become a kingdom of farmers then?' Cathy asked. Her people excel at many things, but she is not sure they are in the business of growing things.

Thoren shrugs. 'I don't think so. But the war has shown us our weaknesses. It wasn't long ago that we were on the brink of a famine. Had it not been for the supplies from the Iron Hills and the farming knowledge of the men, we might have faced starvation.' It's clear that the memory of that haunts him. 'We might have won the war and lost everything else. That is not a risk we can ever take again. If we must learn how to farm, then so be it.'

Cathy suspects that, many centuries hence, historians will remember him for two reasons. The first of course will be that he was the King under the Mountain who flatly refused to bow to Sauron and who throughout the war never wavered from his course. Already people call him the Defiant King, a compliment rather than an insult. The second reason that history is sure to remember him is that he does what has to be done to get their people back on their feet, often by nothing more than sheer force of will.

Which brings her to a very obvious conclusion: 'I'm glad Thráin stopped you from foisting the crown on him.'

Thoren rolls his eyes. 'Do you mean to say that you are going to spoil this lovely day by saying I told you so?'

'Does that mean you agree with me?'

He avoids answering that by grabbing Victoria by the back of her dress before she can topple over. Victoria laughs and waves her little fists about, because to her, life is just a never-ending game. She manages contentment without any effort.

While us adults make such a hash of it.

'She grows fast,' Thoren observes.

'Yes, she does,' Cathy says. 'But that is not what I asked.'

Thoren puts Victoria on his lap and she promptly starts playing with the laces on his tunic. 'That is not a question easily answered, Cathy.'

'Try,' she invites him.

This is, after all, important. He no longer looks as war weary, but he is by no means as recovered as the healers would like. The war has marked him, probably for life. Cathy is not so naïve as to think that time can mend every wound. There'll always be scars left behind and Thoren has more than most.

'I am not as tired as I used to be,' he begins. 'Nor as low as I was last summer. I have more strength to perform my duties and my craft.'

'And folk don't actually mind that you need a bit of help to walk,' Cathy says. She knew from the beginning that this was not going to be an obstacle to his kingship except in his own mind.

He gives her a stern look. 'I've had one I told you so from you today. I don't need another.'

She won't say sorry when she is not. 'I'll try not to do it again,' she offers instead.

'The trouble with walking will be almost gone once I have that new knee,' he says. 'I'll be able to stand at Thráin's side when he reclaims Khazad-dûm.'

Cathy can tell that this means much to him, so she keeps her mouth wisely shut.

'But the succession remains a problem.' He takes a deep breath. 'It does not seem right that a child that is only a quarter dwarf should inherit the throne of Erebor. All we have done is push the problem away for a time. It would have been better maybe not to.'

Here she firmly disagrees. 'Your child has not even been born. Perhaps you ought to wait and see how that babe turns out before you decide anything.'

Thoren studies her intently. 'Have you been talking to Thráin?'

'Often, but not about this.'

Anything to do with Thoren's war weariness she has, with the exception of Uncle Ori, kept to herself. That isn't to say that Thráin could not have worked it out by himself. Her brother is many things, but no one can accuse him of being a fool.

He leans back against a rock. 'Must I worry that you conspire against me?'

'Not at all,' Cathy says, grinning at him in a way that visibly alarms him. 'We will happily conspire for you.'

He closes his eyes at the horror of the prospect. 'Maker save me from my own kin.'

Cathy bursts into laughter. It comes easier than she had expected.


'Good morning!' His brother's cheerful voice pulls Elvaethor out of the book he is reading.

'Good morning,' he replies.

'I have come to announce a robbery,' Thráin says. He looks rather too happy to be planning something nefarious.

'What are you robbing?'

'You.' Thráin grins at him. 'Apparently you spend so much time in the healing rooms that the rumour now goes around that you have moved your bed there. It has been decreed that you should go outside before you forget what the sun looks like.'

He is torn for a moment between being touched because of their concern and being slightly miffed that they think he does not care for himself. They care, he knows, deciding on the first sentiment instead of the second. When he was still in Mirkwood, none but Tauriel ever expressed such concerns.

'It is round and bright,' he reports, getting into the spirit of things. 'It appears during the daytime.'

Thráin crosses his arms over his chest. 'You could have read that in a book. Folk think you're too busy healing everybody.'

'I am not engaged in that occupation now.' He triumphantly holds up his book in evidence.

'That's a book about healing, isn't it?'

He cannot deny that.

'Aye, that's what I thought,' Thráin nods. 'Therefore we have been charged by our kingly brother to go out and see if we cannot supply our food stores with some meat. Setting snares, shooting deer, that sort of thing.'

Elvaethor arches an eyebrow. 'I have never seen you shoot a deer.'

'That's what I am bringing you for.'

He supposes he should have seen that one coming. Perhaps he has been here too long. 'Very well.'

They collect what they need and set off. The weather is mild and sunny now that winter has at last released its hold on the land. This almost surprises him; it had been cold when he last stepped foot beyond the gates. I have become like my people. I live my life underground.

He has found that it suits him, more than he thought it would. Having said that, it is good to breathe the fresh air again as well. The land no longer resembles Smaug's desolation quite as much. The orcs have done great harm, but in the end it will not last. Sauron has been defeated and life will triumph again.

They head north, past the cultivated fields. As much as the land is healing, the area north of Erebor is untouched by war. As grounds for hunting, they are therefore better suited.

It is familiar and comfortable, hunting with Thráin. They've travelled together several times, they know each other well. It is easy in a way that very little else has been these past years.

When he comments on this when they stop for lunch, Thráin only shrugs. 'That was what we fought for, is it not?' he asks.

'What do you mean?'

'We fought to end Sauron, true enough,' Thráin says. 'After that, life is supposed to return to normal. What victory would it be if we let Sauron overshadow our lives for years after?'

Elvaethor studies him. He's heard Thráin utter words of such a nature before, but it's more than words. Thráin lives them. From the moment he returned to Erebor he has devoted his every waking hour to them, whether by labouring in the forges, cleaning up the lands of Dale or supporting his kin in whichever way is required. It is why he is here now, steering Elvaethor back to life, by force if necessary.

'You are under no obligation to ensure my wellbeing,' he says.

Thráin scoffs. 'You are kin, Elvaethor; there are no obligations among kin.' He follows that up with a stern look, just in case Elvaethor is unsure how seriously he means this. 'You are not among elves now, so you had better learn this.'

It'll be a difficult lesson, but one that will be worth learning.


Beth has moved house before, but this time feels… different. It's more than just moving worlds, because that bridge has been crossed a while ago. She has lived in the palace of Minas Tirith and in the halls of Erebor, but in effect that was more or less the same as her house in England; it was just somewhere to live. Now this, this is home.

It's been a bit of work fixing everything up, but Beth has rolled up her sleeves and put in the work. She wanted to do that, almost as if by pouring her energy into this, she is staking her claim on the house, making it hers. It turns out, she is pretty decent at painting walls and fixing crooked shutters. That being said, she and Boromir both agreed to have the leaking roof fixed by professionals. It would be a crying shame to have their marriage end prematurely because one of them falls off and breaks their neck.

But now the roof can withstand any downpour, the draughty holes have been fixed, the shutters painted, the chimneys swept and everything looks bright and welcoming with a new coat of paint. It's time to move in.

'Where do you want this, Beth?' Peter asks, lugging a box that, by the looks of it, weighs about two hernias.

'Kitchen, please.'

'And this one, mum?' Freda asks.

'Living room, please, Freda.'

She is mostly directing operations instead of lifting boxes with the rest of them because Young Thráin – the moniker bestowed upon him in his first hours of life has stuck – is asleep in the carrying bag strapped to her chest. She tries to squash the little guilty voice in the back of her head that says she never really did this with Harry. She knows she's made mistakes with him, but he is here, talking a mile a minute with Helm while they carry the bed covers up the stairs. She has a feeling she is going to regret agreeing to them sharing a bedroom at some point very soon.

At least it will only be for weekends and holidays.

Boromir and Faramir go past with some of the heavier furniture, grinning at her as they go. She might feel uncomfortable standing around while everyone else is working, but most of the unpacking will be her job.

'He's still sleeping?' Faramir asks, looking at Young Thráin, when he and Boromir come back out.

'He sleeps through thunderstorms,' Beth comments. 'This bustle can't hold a candle to that.'

Boromir strokes Young Thráin's head in passing, smiling. Like her, he can't quite seem to believe that this is their life now, that despite everything the world has thrown at them, they are here, alive, with their friends and family around them. Of course, they both still have nightmares once in a while, but they are healing. Better than that, Beth is pretty sure that she's getting rather good at happiness these days.

It's a busy day, but their friends and family have turned out in force to help. Even Thráin, who is not even here, has contributed by having a veritable truckload of kitchen and garden implements delivered via Harry. She knows he'll have crafted those himself. She should probably offer to do something for him, even though he'll tell her that services done for kin come free of money and obligation.

The one really conspicuous by her absence is Mary, who has at last found a job and who could not get the time off. Beth hasn't mentioned to her that the moving date was specifically chosen with a view to Mary's working days in mind. Everything just goes a lot smoother than it would have had she been around to stick her oar in.

It's only later, when everyone has left and the children are in bed that Beth realises with an uncommon depth of feeling, how very blessed she is. Two years ago she was a lonely single mother with more issues than you could shake a stick at and now she has a husband, children, a house that, even with so many boxes still unpacked, feels like a home and an eclectic and very expansive family whom she loves to bits.

How did I get so lucky?

'What are you thinking of?' Boromir asks. He comes up behind her and slips his arms around her waist.

Beth smiles. 'I was counting my blessings,' she says. 'And I found that I have too many to count.'


The crowd at Haldr's is already quite noisy when Thráin comes in. This isn't new. Haldr's has been around longer than he has been alive. It was the first eatery to open after the death of the dragon and as such has a reputation. Many folk come here because of that, but most come for the good food and the company.

It's never anything other than completely packed.

In here it is easy to forget that the war only ended a year ago. There's talk and raucous laughter. Someone has found a fiddle somewhere and it's striking up a tune that makes the feet tap to the rhythm. It won't be long before some folk will get up and dance. Of course, when he looks closer he'll notice all those with missing limbs and scars. He'll see that some have come in wheelchairs – those that will never dance again – and others have availed themselves of the hands and feet that Víli and Nes – and their army of apprentices – are making. It's patchwork, but the people here are wonderfully alive.

'Thráin! Over here!' Alfur has climbed on a table to make himself as tall as possible, waving his arms as if he's afraid Thráin won't see him if he doesn't keep the motion going. He disappears from sight – limbs still flailing – almost immediately after. Probably Halnor complaining Alfur is standing in his food.

He tries not to laugh, but he is still smiling by the time he joins his friends.

'Evening, Thráin!' Víli calls at a volume that would be loud enough to wake the dead in any other place. At Haldr's it's barely loud enough to be heard. Any and all conversations have to be shouted on a night like this; Alfur always claims it's good practise for the voice. He's usually hoarse the day after, so perhaps more practise is needed.

'Have some food.' Nes shoves a plate in his direction. A tankard follows in its wake. 'We risked life and limb to get it for you.'

That they can use phrases like that again is testimony to how much they've healed. Halnor has gone one step further than that and has taken the loss of his eye as a good excuse to make as many eye-related jokes as he can get away with, which has led Alfur to threaten him with loss of teeth if he does not stop already.

'Thanking you kindly.' He snatches a sausage out the air before it can hit him between the eyes. It appears to have originated from a neighbouring table, but rules dictate that any food on his table belongs to him, so he takes a generous bite out of it.

'Did you know that training hapless youngsters is turning out quite well?' Halnor asks, mischief sparkling in his remaining eye. 'I reckon I've got quite the eye for it. It really requires vision, a keen perception of priorities and…'

At this point Alfur hits Halnor over the head, probably on principle. 'You stumbled over your own feet today.'

They descend into good natured bickering.

Thráin leaves them to it and turs to Nes instead. 'How's the business going?'

'Really well!' Her face lights up with enthusiasm. She had worked in stone before the war, but Thráin suspects that her new business might be her real craft. She and Víli have a talent for inventions. 'I think we have worked out most of the design flaws in the brakes.'

'There were design flaws?'

'Folk could put the brakes on, but then couldn't get them off again,' she explains. 'Which was not a great deal of use.'

'I can imagine.'

'But we think we've designed a hand that could move individual fingers. We just have to figure out how they would be managed, but we'll get there.' She takes a bite of her food. 'And you?'

'The work is going well.' His work has never had much of an overarching theme. He works to order – and his own whims – which has suited him fine and yet, lately, it is not quite enough. He loves his craft, no doubt, but since Khazad-dûm there is this other longing and it is getting harder to ignore with every passing day.

It is not time yet. He knows this as well. His people are still recovering and rebuilding. They are nowhere near ready for another war. There are things that have to be done first. Mirkwood has to be cleansed to start with. The elves are gracious guests, but they wish to return to their lands and Thoren, although he is too polite to say so, would be quite glad to see the back of Thranduil.

But those are concerns for another day. He finishes his food, drinks his beer and laughs at Halnor, who's trying to prove he's as good at throwing things now as he was when he had two eyes. The potato he throws at Alfur ends up at a neighbouring table and is never seen again.

'Time for a dance,' Nes announces eventually. The fiddle has been joined by two others and a few pipes. The whole room takes it upon themselves to stomp out a rhythm. Space has been cleared in the middle and some folk are already dancing. 'How about it, Thráin?'

'Very well.'

'Oi, how come you never ask any of us?' Víli demands.

'Because you tread on my toes,' Nes retorts without missing a beat. 'Thráin can actually dance.'

Alfur throws him a look of pure disbelief. 'Where did you learn to dance?'

'Part of the princely duties,' Thráin clarifies. 'Can't have a prince tripping over his own toes on the dancefloor.' And it turned out that he rather enjoyed those lessons, even if it had been hard work. And it certainly had not been wasted effort; it had improved his footwork no end.

'Less talking, more dancing,' Nes decrees, pulling on Thráin's hand.

He lets himself be pulled to his feet and join the dancing throng. The music is rousing and joyful, as are the people. It is easy to be pulled along, to stomp and move and twirl. Nes is an accomplished dancer herself, which makes the whole thing that much more enjoyable. It requires no words, no thoughts even.

In all this there is one thought that crosses his mind: that it has been a very long time since he has felt this alive.


Thoren has held babes before, yet none of those times has felt as special as this time: the first time he holds his own son in his arms. He is tiny, but perfect.

'He definitely has your nose,' he tells Tauriel, who he can tell looks tired only because he knows her so well.

Her fingers brush the little cheeks. 'Your mouth, I think. And your ears.'

So he does. Perhaps that will make his life a little easier. Thoren doesn't say it, but he certainly thinks it. He cannot regret his life choices, not for himself. He is more at peace than he has been in a long while. Yet niggling at the back of his mind – and recently more to the front as well – has been the memory of Jack, how sticking out like a sore thumb had made him so deeply, deeply unhappy.

A part of him knows that Jack made his own choices, that the resentment and discontent that he clung to were his own choice, and yet they arose from the whispers that had been told about him almost since his birth.

Tauriel knows him well; her free hand rests on Thoren's arm. 'Our son is not your brother,' she says. 'He will forge his own path through life.'

Yet Thoren would spare his child the pain if he could. Had he been allowed to step back, to give up the crown as he had wished to do, he might have spared his child the constant scrutiny. Yet in the end, he also knows that if people are going to offer comment, they are doing that regardless of the subject's status.

Sparing a body pain might be beyond me, he thinks. The war has taught him that much. And Tauriel is right too. His son's life will be his own, as will his choices be.

He can worry all the same.

But there is joy to be had as well. Not so long ago he had thought that he would not live another year. Now he has a wife and a son. Most of his kin is alive and he knows how lucky he is in that; there are many families who have lost all or almost all of their male kin. The price for victory has been very steep.

He wonders if he would have dared to pay it had he known beforehand what the cost would be.

'Hard to tell whose hair he has,' he observes instead, because this is not the time for dark thoughts.

The hair has been the punchline of many a joke, with a high – or low, depending on one's perspective – being reached when Thorli had wondered if a child of two redheaded parents would have hair that would flash red in the dark. The babe's hair, what little there is, is indeed red.

This is not a surprise.

The babe yawns, opens his eyes briefly and falls back asleep. Life for him is easy and will remain so for a few years. Thoren almost envies him that.

'He must have a name,' Tauriel says.

'Aye, so he does.'

They have considered many a name, but not a one of them has felt quite right yet. In the end they decided to wait for the child's birth in the hopes that looking at their babe would grant them the perfect name. None of the ones they've considered before feel like they would fit this precious new life.

'I do not think we ought to name him for either the dead or for a hero,' Thoren says. He fears that it would be more burden than honour. No one like this child has ever existed before. His name should be his own. Yet nothing too outlandish will do either, because that had not done Jack any favours.

It is a fine line to walk.

They think it over for a while.

Perhaps his Maker grants him inspiration once in a while, because after a few minutes a good suggestion does pop up in his head. 'Fryr,' he says. It's an old name, a name more known from a good tale than from any famous kings or heroes. It seems to fit all the criteria he has imposed on himself for a name.

Tauriel considers it. 'I like the sound of that,' she says. 'How did you come by it?'

'It is the name of a dwarf in one of our old tales,' he replies. 'He set out with a group of friends and his company gets trapped in a cave, where his companions get killed off one by one. Fryr does not die, and once he and his few remaining friends are let go it is revealed that his perished friends had all committed some heinous crime that had gone unpunished.'

He's not a born storyteller and the way he tells the story has Tauriel's eyebrows rising. 'That sounds… peculiar.'

Thoren smiles as the babe grabs his finger and holds it. 'Fryr on the other hand is shown to be of good and even impeccable character,' he says. 'Which is what I hope our son will be.'

Understanding dawns on his wife's face. 'That does not seem so bad.'

'It will be his own name,' Thoren says. 'His to do with as he pleases. He will have no ancient kings or great heroes to live up to.'

'Yes,' Tauriel agrees. 'That name will suit him, I think.'

Fryr yawns in response, but does not otherwise react to the fact that he has just received the name that must last him a lifetime. He doesn't know that he will have his whole life ahead of him.

'We made the world a safer place,' Tauriel says softly. 'He will know peace because of what we did.'

Thoren hasn't considered this before, but he can recognise truth when it is spoken to him. Fryr is born in a world where the greatest evil of this age no longer lives. His life won't be free of struggle, nor likely of war, but a war like the ones Thoren and Tauriel fought, no, that he will never see.

And what a blessing it is.

'Aye,' he says. 'So he will be.'

Fryr does not seem impressed. He sleeps peacefully in his father's arms. For the first time in a long time, all is right with the world.


'Good morning!'

These days it is not a surprise to Duria to find Peter at her door, but today his appearance leaves her with some questions.

'Good morning?'

Her eyes slide over him from top to toe, taking in the straw hat, the bright colourful shirt with flowers in even brighter colours and the wide breeches that only reach down to his knees. The ensemble is finished by shoes that are secured to his feet by only a few flimsy straps of leather.

Far from being disturbed by her staring, Peter grins, holding out his arms to show it off. 'Like the outfit?'

There is no right answer to that. 'It is… bright.'

He nods vigorously. 'It's supposed to,' he says. 'It's beach attire.'

'Ah?'

Fortunately Peter understands that she needs a bit more in the way of clarification, so he launches right into it. 'It's glorious weather,' he says. 'In England at least. Bright sun, warm temperatures. And since it's unseasonably early, everyone will be mewling with confusion and indecision, so we will have the beach probably mostly to ourselves.' He shrugs. 'And it's a normal weekday, not a weekend or a holiday, so it will be even quieter.'

Somehow Duria suspects the point of this speech has been lost. 'Why do you tell me this?'

Enlightenment dawns. 'Ah, yes. I propose a family beach day. You live nowhere near a beach, so I don't suppose you've ever been, and it's been an Andrews family tradition since before your mother was born. And we can't break with tradition, can we?'

Duria blinks. She wonders if Peter has ever conformed to tradition unless someone held a knife to his throat, and perhaps not even then.

'And by we you mean…?'

'As much of the family as we can round up, naturally,' Peter says, rummaging in his pocket absent-mindedly. 'Flói's off to collect his parents and uncles and I've sent Harry to Thoren and whichever of your siblings he can find before I get round to it. Ah, there it is!' He pulls something out of his pocket and holds it under Duria's nose.

After quite a bit of time spent with her otherworldly kin Duria has seen a few pictures before, but the one Peter shows to her now is one she has not seen before. It shows her mother, her very young mother, in vast amounts of sand, with a great body of water behind her. The beach and the sea, Duria presumes.

'See, your mum used to do that.'

Duria has only been in her mother's world once – a few months ago – and she has found it strange and bewildering. It is so entirely other from everything she has ever known before. She could not seem to find her footing there. Every time she thought she had it figured out just a little, something took her by surprise yet again. Even though her own mother came from that world, Duria has not found herself in a great hurry to go back there.

But Peter is staring at her in a manner strangely reminiscent of an excited puppy and she finds herself agreeing to the scheme before she can think better of it. He grins so widely that one might be forgiven for thinking all his birthdays have come at once.

I might regret this.

Oddly enough, she seems to be the only one of her family with reservations. Elvaethor bounces with nearly as much enthusiasm as Peter – no surprises there – Thráin has never not jumped on the chance for a new adventure, Cathy follows where they lead and even Thoren is uncharacteristically quick to agree. She suspects Harry's enthusiasm has been the reason for that. He is certainly making a quick job of spreading it to her own lads.

As usual when there's something afoot, her kith and kin are quick to show up. She wonders sometimes if the walls whisper to them and that is why they know to come. Her uncles and cousins are all there. Nes has tagged along with them as well, and Harry has dragged his friends Alfur and Halnor along.

'It will be very crowded with all of us,' Duria says.

Peter shrugs. 'There'll be space enough,' he says. 'Trust me, the beach will be as good as empty this early in the season.' He regards the motley bunch that makes up her extended family. 'We might have to do the trip in a few groups, though.' Duria is about to agree, but she doesn't get the chance, because he follows that up with: 'Fancy going first?'

She doesn't say that the trip across worlds has left her slightly nauseous. She's already agreed after all. 'Very well.'

Peter is remarkably quick to herd everyone into four mostly even groups, which is just as well, because that gives her less time to be nervous. And in this she is the only one too; her own children bounce with enthusiasm.

The trip unsettles her stomach this time too, but she finds she can't focus on it. Her destination takes up most of her focus. They land on an empty stretch of sand – Peter is right; there are no others on the beach – with blue skies above them and the sun beating down on them. Waves roll onto the sand and retreat again, providing a strangely calming noise. The air smells of salt, which is strange and distracting, but not very unpleasant.

Under Harry's direction they set up their camp while Peter retrieves the rest of their company. Soon enough it is nowhere near as quiet as it was when she first arrived. Somehow word must have been passed to Minas Tirith as well, because Beth and her family as well as her parents and the King and Queen of Gondor arrive with their own box.

'What does one do, exactly?' she asks of Beth, seeing as how Peter is busy elsewhere. 'On a beach?' It occurs to her, a little late perhaps, that she has not the first idea of appropriate activities. This is not an oversight she expects of herself. It's because Peter somewhat overwhelmed her with this, Duria decides.

Beth smiles, shifting her son to her other arm. 'Whatever you like,' she answers, which is not the enlightening answer Duria has hoped for. 'Reading, relaxing, walking. The water might be too cold still for swimming, but playing in the shallows is certainly an option. And if I know Peter at all, there'll be a ball around here somewhere. Oh, and I'm sure we'll see a couple sandcastles before long.'

Somehow, this is not helpful.

Beth must have noticed that. 'This is not work,' she says. 'And it does not matter what you do, so relax, enjoy and do what you feel like.' She gestures in the direction of their children, who are sitting down in the sand, piling lots of it on one pile. 'See, they get it. We adults, we tend to overthink everything.'

Duria knows herself well enough to know she does overthink everything. She is a dwarf; everything has to have a purpose. Idle enjoyment has never been particularly easy for her. If she knew how to as a child, she has forgotten that now.

Beth must have noticed. She passes her son off to her husband and smiles at Duria. 'You know what? Let's go help the lads with their sandcastle.'

Duria is doubtful if she can enjoy that, but failing anything better to do – she is feeling very much out of her depth – she joins Beth and the children.

It is surprisingly fun. Harry is an expert; Dari and Nari are quick to follow his lead. Beth chimes in with suggestions and even Duria starts to get the hang of the game. It is very well possible that their combined efforts result in a castle of somewhat excessive size.

It's only when they stand back to admire their handiwork that Duria realises that she has spent a few hours on idle fun and she has enjoyed every second of it.

It is not at all an unpleasant feeling.


Kate's world, as Elvaethor still thinks of it, is a strange and bewildering place, but he finds that he does not in fact mind very much. There are few people about. Those that are on the beach give their group a wide berth; Elvaethor overhears some of them saying that "that group over there is far too noisy."

He can't exactly deny that.

At Peter's insistence he has joined a group of them at something called beach volleyball, something for which surprisingly Cathy seems to have an aptitude. Her team beats Elvaethor's with ease. There's talk of a rematch after lunch.

'I could never picture this world,' he tells Thoren when they sit down afterwards.

Thoren, who does not yet have his new knee, has kept score. 'Can you picture it now?' he asks.

Elvaethor thinks this through. 'A little.'

It is not so much the world that has surprised him really. He has known that it would be very different from anything else he has ever known from the stories that Kate used to tell. It is the people who have been such a surprise. They have been kind and welcoming.

'And you?' he asks in turn.

Thoren ponders this. 'A little,' he too says.

They sit in silence for a while, taking in the strangeness of this other world. It is nice and companionable. As they sit it dawns on Elvaethor that for the first time in a long while he does not feel like there is something he should do or fix or organise. He is content to simply be where he is. The memories of the war do not loom as large as they have done.

We are mending, he thinks.

He studies his nearest and dearest for evidence of this and finds it in abundance. Duria, playing with her children and Young Harry near the waterline, where some sort of building made of sand is under construction. She reaches out to steady Nari as he slips and he holds onto her to maintain his balance. Duria's smile comes easy in response.

Thráin, and indeed most of the adults, have gathered around Peter, who explains a game he calls football with quite a number of animated hand gestures. Thráin has healed well. He has regained the weight he lost. He looks healthy. More than that, he looks ready for what must come next. To somewhat his own surprise Elvaethor realises that he himself is ready to stand beside him when that time comes.

Cathy has perhaps recovered the best of them all. She has regained her joy for life, if indeed she has ever lost it. She has not stopped smiling this day. As he watches she is off after the ball, kicking it away with a whoop of triumph. Not for the first time he resolves to take her approach to life as an example.

Tauriel must have learned that lesson well already, because she radiates with happiness. She has taken up position at the edge of the game, Fryr in her arms. It's a hard choice she has made – and it will be harder still in the years to come, this Elvaethor knows – but she has made it with her eyes open. Like him, she must have discovered that life among mortals is a life worth living.

'What of you, my brother?' he asks Thoren. 'Are you well?'

Thoren gives the question the consideration it deserves. 'Aye,' he says. 'I am not as I was. That I may not ever be again. But I have my life, my kin. That will be enough to suit me.' He looks in the direction of Tauriel and their son. Indeed he looks content. 'And what of you, Elvaethor? How are you?'

The answer to that takes no time at all to ponder. 'Well,' he says. 'I am very well.'


'Can you give me a hand?' Out of nowhere Peter materialises next to Cathy.

'What with?' she asks.

'Getting the food,' Peter explains. 'I need some help to lug it all here and well, you're the most human looking here. Except for my sister, but she's feeding the baby and I was invited to bugger off and find someone else. Which I did.'

Jack would have taken such a comment as an insult. Cathy takes it for the fact that it is. 'Of course.' She checks that Victoria is still playing at the water's edge under Halin's supervision, which is indeed the case. The waves are still endlessly fascinating to her.

It's an almost surreal feeling, walking around in the world her mother came from. As much as Cathy's family has history here, to Cathy herself it still feels so strange and alien. And yet, there's something that just gently pulls at her. But if that's the land or the people, she isn't sure.

'Where will we go?' she asks.

Peter points along the coast to a town a little ways away. 'Over there,' he says needlessly. 'And we are after fish and chips,' he adds. 'Part of the family beach tradition.'

She'll take his word for it.

There is however a question that has been playing on her mind. 'Why did you invite us here today?'

Peter frowns and then vaguely gestures at the sky. 'Because it's a gloriously sunny day and none of you have ever been to the beach. I thought you might like it. Don't you?' All of a sudden he looks a bit uncertain of himself.

Cathy shakes her head. 'That's not what I meant. You didn't have to do this.'

'I know,' Peter says. 'But I wanted to.'

Somehow that does not make it clearer.

He must sense that, because he elaborates: 'I thought that you've all been so very busy with the rebuilding and the aftermath of the war, that you may have been more surviving than actually living. Makes sense, of course, but I thought that taking you all out of the situation to just do something for fun might just jog your memory, to remind you what living actually feels like. Not that you don't know how to do that – blimey, you lot know how to throw a party – but to get back into the swing of things, so to say, might… help? Anyway, the weather's actually decent for once and it seemed like the thing to do.' He shrugs. 'It's just… nice, I suppose.'

Yes, Cathy agrees, he is nice. Kind, too. He is certainly kinder than most of the rest of her family. Kinder than Jack had been, she has to admit, although that did not raise the bar very high. Perhaps it's for this reason that, alike though they are in appearance, she can never mistake Peter for Jack. They are too different.

'Aye,' she agrees, softly. 'It is nice.'

'Well, so are you,' Peter points out, erroneously.

Cathy stares at him and nearly trips in the sand as a result. 'Beg pardon?'

'You're nice,' he repeats, although his confusion is furrowing his brow. 'In fact, your whole family is. I mean, here's this whole other branch of the family tree showing up at your doorstep and you just welcomed us and that when you just had a war behind you too. We were strangers and we barged in uninvited, but you've never treated us that way. And that's not even mentioning what you did for Harry.'

Yes, because he and his are kin. That's normal. She says as much.

'I've heard of plenty of families who would have happily slammed doors in faces if they were in that position,' Peter replies.

Cathy would like to say that dwarves would never do that, but she finds that she can't. Her in-laws spring to mind. There's a few others – mostly the tiresome folk on the council – that she can't see responding well to such an invasion either.

Huh.

Maybe it is after all not a dwarvish characteristic, but more something that her family does.

Peter grins – he does that a lot – when she has nothing to say for once. 'See? You lot are nicer than you think you are.'

It is rather annoying that she has nothing to say to that either, but she turns his words over and over as they fetch their food and on the walk back. Peter keeps up a running commentary on their surroundings, the people they met on their journey, the tide and the passing sea gulls that makes anything Cathy can say superfluous to requirements. She suspects he does that on purpose.

But he's right, she knows as they sit down to eat. He's right about everything. They haven't been so at ease with themselves for a long time. They talk and laugh and enjoy themselves.

Thráin must have followed her way of thinking, because when she catches his eyes, he nods. 'Aye,' he says. 'This is what victory looks like.'


Next time: The Great Mirkwood Cleansing. Thráin proves himself very much his mother's son, Lancaeron proves to be very cunning and Nori… proves to be absolutely incorrigible. Warning: here be spiders.

Reviews and requests would, as always, be greatly appreciated.

Until next week!