Chapter 4:
"One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain." - Bob Marley
He had been in the back of the shop, out of sight when he heard the sweet sound of a well played violin drowned out the awful droning of the off tune minstrel. Looking out toward the front of the shop he saw the blacksmith moving toward the archways at the front of the store, and from the side, other people dwarf and human alike gathering.
Thorin, wiping his hands on a rag, allowed curiosity to guide him. He couldn't see well getting close, thus he moved back, fetching a small bench to stand upon. In good time too, a second later he would have missed it.
She, the woman he'd seen a handful of times now, pointed her bow at the minstrel. "I'm challenging you for the right to play this street corner."
The man scoffed at her. "I've played here for three years, girl."
"If you call that playing music then I'm a barn owl." Her words cut with the same soft accent she always had. It was hard to reconcile such a sweet voice with such a temperament. "When's the last time you tuned that sorry excuse for a lute?"
Scowling the man glared down at her, "you know nothing about it. The people here adore me." He sang the last two words, sending a wink toward a woman who crossed her arms over her chest.
Ery's answering laugh was slow, mocking and deliberate. "Man's got his nose so high in the air he'd drown in a rainstorm." Which set off a series of laughter throughout the growing gathering. "Answer the challenge, or are you a coward?"
Red faced, angry, his hands gripping tightly at the neck of his lute. "I am not afraid of a dwarf."
Several dwarves in her periphery bristled.
And a racist to boot. Settling her violin up to her chin, "I want you to know, I am going to enjoy this." She began with Bond's Kismet while he began strumming something jaunty, almost a jig and singing along with much too much exaggeration. Erdene said absolutely nothing. Not even a hum. She kept her eyes on the man trying to play to an audience and watched him look at her with worry, then fear, then anger, followed by worry and fear again when the audience was having none of it.
When she reached the end of the song, she lowered both the violin and the bow to her side. Applause the likes of which rivaled her last recital ensued. Ery caught herself before her muscle memory tried to force her into a bow.
The minstrel had yet to finish his second jaunty tune. Someone threw an apple core at him. He dodged it, if barely, allowing it to pass over his shoulder and hit the wall behind him. The man had the grace to look betrayed. He turned his anger back on her.
She held up her violin again, "best two out of three?"
He switched tunes. A drinking song.
She made her violin sing Billie Eilish's Bad Guy.
Head up. Eyes on the prize kid, her mother's voice came back to her. Her mother winked, squeezing Ery's then ten year old shoulders, rock that bitch like the hurricane I gave birth to you in baby. One of the few times her mother was lucid enough to attend anything.
Her mom would have loved Billie Eilish. Her mom was a badass before.
No one bothered politely applauding him when he finished with a flourish. Someone threw what looked like a rag at him. Someone else threw a small rock. Another bigger rock followed. He managed to dodge the rag but not the first rock. The second hit his small makeshift stage.
When Ery finished, she again lowered her violin and waited.
He'd dig his own grave.
"Ladies," he spread his arms and hands at the crowd, "haven't I always-"
"Molested us as we walked by?" Ery injected. "I twisted his fingers not two weeks ago for trying to get into my skirts."
A wave of irate muttering went through the men.
His smile faltered.
"How many husbands had to be restrained from beating your face bloody?" Ery continued. "How many women didn't open their mouths because they didn't want their husband, father or brother to be locked up for beating you to death?"
Another rock, a bigger one. "You tried to grab my daughter! She's only twelve!"
The angry muttering rose in fervor.
Another woman yelled out how many times he grabbed her while she was distracted with her children.
It only occurred to her later, after she'd gone back to Warren's home, when she was up in her room. She had started the first me too movement of the city. It made her smile.
In the moment though, Ery watched him begin dodging things. She left her violin and bow hanging loosely at her sides when she called out, "you should be running."
Proving that the man did indeed have some sense, he took off, lute in hand. The crowd shoved him as he ran through. Men took several well placed punches.
Ery moved her bow under one arm, gathered her much too long skirt - Gwen was the closest in height to her at approximately five foot six and her clothes were still too small on the bust and hips and too long on the legs - in one hand, and took the step up to the abandoned makeshift platform.
She didn't wait for him to be completely gone, insead beginning TWRP's Starlight Brigade while stamping her foot to make up for the lack of backbeat. It drew the crowd's attention back. Someone took up the beat of her stamping with clapping along. As she reached the bridge more people did as well.
Ery allowed her eyes to close, the smallest smile making its way across her lips. Storm of the goddamn Century baby.
Catherine, grinning like a fool, looped her arm through Ery's that afternoon when she came to pick the older woman up. She had left earlier after the first song to finish her father's deliveries. Now she only arrived for the last half of the last song. "That was beautiful. I had no idea you were a music maker."
Erdene gave her half of a tight smile. If only she knew these weren't her songs. "Thank you."
"May I ask you a question, Ery?"
"Mmm," her head bobbed as she set the violin back in its makeshift case. She would have to speak to a craftsman to get a real case. And oils. Tools to tune her instrument.
"You never correct anyone when they mistake you for a dwarf. Why?"
Brow drawn together, unaware of who might be hearing her, "I don't understand."
Catherine too did not understand, though her misunderstanding was also based in a common, rampant racism that she was utterly unaware of. "Well you're not a dwarf."
Hazel eyes blinked up at her, "and?"
"It's just…" she made a plaintive move with her hands.
Ery rolled her eyes, disengaging herself from Catherine's arm. "People, whether they're four foot nothing or six foot tall are still people. With dark skin or light, different beliefs, different gods, or not. We're all here standing on the same dirt trying to get by. I don't care if someone mistakes me for a dwarf, or a very tall hobbit, or a very short elf, or an Easterling." She slung the case over her shoulder on the strap she'd reinforced with scraps of leather. "I like you, Cat. You're a sweet kid. But if you don't change the way you think, I can't be your friend."
The girl, no more than fifteen, frowned deeply, her brow drawn in both sadness and confusion. It's the first time in her life anyone had ever pointed out the problem with the way she thought. The way she was raised. The way everyone she knew thought and was raised.
Erdene patted the arm closest to her. "Come on, I could eat the north end of a south bound polecat."
Catherine's head canted to the side, "a north bound what?"
Groaning, "I'm hungry."
"Oh," the girl replied as they began walking, "but what is a polecat?"
While she did still work on the occasional tapestry or helped Warren open the shop, for the last month Erdene had taken to leaving right after breakfast for her corner in the plaza. She would play from morning into high noon, breaking to eat some of the oat bars she'd been making herself and dried fruit. Protein was apparently for those with money and status.
Her gaze flickered toward Thorin's back. Or rather, Thorin's torso because he was facing her today. Again, if only for a moment, she could appreciate the strength in his big hands and powerful forearms corded with sinew and muscles. Despite the cooling weather, his cobalt linen shirt was rolled to the elbow giving her a hint of equally thick, strong biceps that lead no doubt to powerful broad shoulders. He looked as if he might be entirely muscle under that shirt and black pants.
And the way he worked, lord. Sure and steady, zero hesitation, complete focus. It's enough to make a lady wonder, would he be like that doing other things?
Blue eyes met hers.
Erdene flushed pink, averting her gaze immediately. He caught her ogling him like a piece of meat. Nice, E, nice. The exiled King Under the Mountain wasn't here to be lusted after or gawked at.
Dusting her hands on her borrowed skirt - she would have her own clothes instead of wearing the hand-me-downs of the family she lived with soon, Valis sent word - Ery stood atop the small stand and brought her violin back up to her chin. She very pointedly did not acknowledge the movement across the street in the blacksmith's open archways. Anxiety sent a nervous spike through her. It stung her hands, made her wrists and ankles tingle. Calm. Down. Breathe.
The Thorin from The Hobbit isn't someone who just starts yelling at a stranger on the street because they were looking at him, she reminded herself.
One long breath held and blown out. There were eyes on her now. She felt them burning her skin. Playing what she planned on playing didn't seem fitting any more. What did you play when you actually had a king's attention?
An idea struck her. Well he wouldn't get the joke.
She set the bow to strings and began to play War*Hall's King of the World.
By sunset, when the shops around her began closing for the evening, her small coin pouch left open on the ground sparkled with more silver than she had received since the first day she kicked the previous occupant of what was now her corner to the curb.
The torch lighters were walking the streets. The fires at the blacksmith were still going, throwing flaming shadows on the ground past the archways. She gathered her skirt with one hand, hopping down to gather her coin purse. Once that was safely put away, her violin settled into its makeshift case, the strap thrown over her chest and-
Someone was watching her again, she could feel it on her back.
The blacksmith's place was to her left, in sight. There was no shadow in any of the archways. There was no dwarven figure she could see. Not Thorin contemplating calling her out on ogling him. Damn. That she could have dealt with.
How many times does one get the chance to flirt with a king?
Erdene slowly straightened, adjusting where the violin case fell so that if she was pushed or tackled it wouldn't be harmed. From the inside of her coat she drew her only weapon, a small taser gifted by Judith years ago. For the first time since she appeared in Arda, she was suddenly glad her solar charger had come along for the ride. She only grabbed it that morning because her plug in charger had miraculously disappeared. Yes it may take all day to charge up and all night to dispense its charge to her phone and taser, but it worked.
Had she brought her compact she might have been able to feign checking her hair to glimpse whomever it was watching her. She did not. Breathe. Walk. They could just be looking. People always looked here. She was darker than the average person, though apparently not as dark as an Easterling. People had begun recognizing her when she walked to and from places in the city.
Walk. Just walk.
She made it a block when she both felt and heard someone running up behind her. Her mistake was leaving her hair down. She turned to stick him with the taser but he grabbed a huge handful of her hair and twisted it violently. The gasp of pain that left her lips sounded so loud to her ears but-
The former minstrel's pockmarked face was in hers. He smelled of sour ale and his clothes stank of wine and piss. He breathed hard in her face when he snarled, "you."
She brought the taser up once again, trying to nail him square in the chest. He knocked her hand aside sending the small black cylinder clattering down the street. She began clawing at his hand, nails sharp and digging in while she opened her mouth to scream. He hit her gut, right at her diaphragm forcing all the wind out of her, forcing her to the ground as her body tried to double over protecting itself from another blow.
Plant your feet. Her brain started screaming as she was knocked flat on her back, still trying to breathe. Plant your feet and your hips. He's going to let go of your hair. Plant. Your. Goddamn. Feet. Heartbeat pounding, blood roaring in her ears. He did just that, he let go of her hair to put his hands around her throat. Her feet were planted, his thighs between her legs kneeling on her skirt.
Eyes. Nose. Do not stop hitting. Roll your hips when he lets go.
She punched him with both hands, digging her fingers into his eyeballs. Dig. Eyeballs pop like grapes. DIG.
He howled at the pain, his hands slackening allowing her to draw in a much needed breath, she moved to roll. And then he was off her, thrown across the street. A voice she knew said something angry in another language.
Erdene rolled to her knees, gasping, mentally ordering her body to calm down. But her body wasn't listening. She'd had enough goddamn trauma in her life, attempted murder made the list now too.
A large hand appeared in her vision. She followed the view upward. Forearms and biceps she'd been ogling not five hours ago. Long dark hair peppered with silver, wavy and loose. Two braids tipped in solid silver clasps. The clear, summer sky blue eyes of Thorin, Son of Thrain, met hers in the moonlight.
Coughing, Erdene put her hand in his, allowing him to pull her up to standing. She opened her mouth, croaking, a harsh, pained, "thank you." Seconds of damage to her throat and her vocal chords were shot to hell. She sounded like someone who spoked ten packs a day for twenty years.
"Do not speak. You will hurt yourself." He told her gently. His eyes are kind, assessing her for damage, but kind.
She was also still holding his hand. His large, broad, warm right hand that fits hers too well. Ring pressing into her skin. With a small apologetic smile, she took her hand back. The loss of warmth was notable.
"Are you well enough to leave?" he asked, his gaze searching her face, falling to where she clutched her own throat with her other hand. He grimaced. Had he been a moment faster he would have stopped the scum before he managed to hurt the girl.
Nodding silently Erdene cast around for her taser.
He gathered her violin case which was scuffed from falling, the strap, now that he saw it up close, a patchwork of multiple different cloths and leather scraps. The wooden case itself is old, and not originally made to hold such an instrument. It looked more like a simple long box one would store small clothes in. Its latch is newer but still old, rust at the corners while the nails used to pin both sides of it into place are the newest thing about it. He looked up in time to see her grab something small, rounded and black from the ground.
She sighed, her voice cracking on it. She pressed something on it and whatever the object was meant to do failed. Her frown deepened. Her lips parting, lower lip quivering before she drew in a quick, sad breath.
The girl tucked the object into her pocket before meeting his gaze again.
He had thought her eyes dark, they seemed to be such from a distance. Up close, catching the light of the moon above, her eyes were the gray of pregnant storm clouds over the mountains before a heavy snow storm. He held the case out to her.
She took it with shaking hands, a whispered harsh rasp of, "thank you."
Thorin shook his head, "If I'd been quicker-"
She hugged the case to her chest, "I'm alive." All of her training, years of it, had fled her brain the moment her fight or flight response tried to take over. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There was a grunt of pain from where he tossed the scum. Thorin threw a disgusted look over his shoulder at the man. Had he put his strength into it, Thorin might have killed the garbage. He did not. He could not. It would cost him too dearly.
"Come," he motioned to the way she had been headed.
While scuffed after being manhandled the way it had been, her violin case seemed not too much worse for wear. She opened her mouth to speak again, which only garnered her a disapproving glance. He was right. She was hurting herself by talking. What she needed was honey in a chamomile tea and sugar for the shock. Silently Erdene shrugged, and gently patted his upper arm, motioning to the street before them.
He took her at her meaning.
It was a silent walk, with her pointing to where they needed to go before the turn came. When they came closer to the city center, closer to the predominantly homes of men, Thorin took note. She pointed to a tall white three story house, pristine with ebony beams and empty open displays in front.
If her family had the money to maintain such a residence, why did she play music on an old instrument kept in a battered box? Why were her clothes so ill fitting? He could see her skirts drag, the cloth at her waist bunching because it was meant for someone with a longer torso. Her shoes weren't meant for her feet.
She smiled at him, a bit sheepishly. Her mouth opened before she touched her hand to his right shoulder and gently patted. Her head bobbed, and she mouthed the words, thank you to him.
"You are welcome." He inclined his head.
She waved a small wave, to say goodbye no doubt, or good night, before turning and opening the door to walk into her home.