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I usually dislike using quotes for stories/chapters, but if they're all Tolkien quotes, I find I don't mind so much lol.

Onwards!

Chapter Two

"The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot for ever fence it out."

After scrubbing the day's sweat and grime from her skin and changing into a fresh black tunic and pair of trousers, Asta left the Guard House to meet her sister. She kept her hair down to dry as the afternoon heat had yet to dissipate. The wet ends brushed the tops of her shoulders, dampening her collar, but a long walk through the city streets would have it dried before she reached Vana's cottage.

Asta spotted her sister instantly when she entered the courtyard. Myra stood before the fountain in the courtyard's center, watching the water trickle into the mosaic-tiled pool, but she turned at the sound of Asta's footsteps, a wide smile on her face.

"Asta!" Myra swooped in to kiss both of Asta's cheeks. She smelled like freesia and rose, and Asta wondered if her sister had spent her coin on more scented soaps. "It's so good to see you!"

Asta smiled. "How are you, Myra?"

"Very well," her sister said, taking her arm and leading her out of the courtyard. "I trust Lieutenant Dougal hasn't been wearing you down too much since I've seen you last?"

Asta made a face and Myra laughed, the sound as clear as the water in the fountain they'd left behind. She squeezed Asta's arm. "Oh, Asta, I've missed you. This last month has been dreadfully boring without you."

"You were busy with Princess Tilda, and I had my own duties," Asta said. She patted Myra's hand on her arm in reassurance. "I understand." She forced herself to say the next words pleasantly. "I'm sure Vana will, too."

Myra hummed but did not respond. Asta took that to mean that Myra was perhaps not as keen to see their elder sister as she had made out to be—which would make two of them.

Despite the sinking sun, Dale still thrummed with vibrancy. Sparkling oil lamps lined the shops, taverns, and residences they walked past, chasing away any shadows from the city streets. Pieces of colored glass hung on strings stretched overhead, catching the lamplight and refracting it into hundreds of twinkling colors that made the city feel like a faerie realm from the old folktales Asta had heard growing up in Lake-town.

That was one thing Dale did not lack: light. Before it had been rebuilt, it was nothing more than a ruin. To those who had dwelled in Lake-town and survived the war, light was what kept the crushing darkness at bay. It was hope for a better future, and the city reflected that.

Asta and Myra passed packed taverns and closed market stalls, arm-in-arm, talking amicably. As they crossed into the western quadrant, Asta kept her ears open and her eyes roving. While the western quadrant was one of the safer parts of the city and where the City Guard patrols were more frequent, she still kept her senses alert. She'd stashed her knife in her boot as a precaution, but she'd rather not use it if she didn't have to.

"Any interesting news on your part?" Myra asked as they entered the residential quarters. They left the bawdy laughter and singing of the taverns behind, heading for the city outskirts, where the residences became smaller and sparser closer to the bordering walls. The western wall backed into the spurs of the Lonely Mountain and was the closest to the city's aqueducts; Asta could hear the water gushing through the stone structures from where they walked, louder even than the bustling night life.

Asta eyed the too-innocent gleam in her sister's gaze. "Why? What do you know?"

Myra shrugged, though a sly smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, not much. Just a particular rumor I heard today about Aiken resigning as Captain of the Guard. And then I ran into Graham this afternoon, who told me such a peculiar thing about my sister meeting with King Bard…"

Asta scoffed, shoving Myra's shoulder lightly. "You are the most conspicuous person I know." Myra laughed. "All right. You want to know if I was offered the position?" Myra nodded. Asta sighed. "Very well. Yes, the King offered. No, I haven't accepted," she added, holding up a hand when her sister squealed.

"Why ever not?" Myra asked. "Asta, you'd be perfect for the role! And to have the King personally request you—it's an honor!"

Asta grimaced. "I'm aware."

Myra tugged on Asta's arm, bringing her up short. Myra studied her with green eyes like the sea—their father's eyes. Asta looked away, uncomfortable. Myra may have been the youngest sister, but she'd always had an unnerving ability to dissect their innermost thoughts and extract answers from them with ease.

"You don't think you deserve it," Myra said.

Asta winced. "I know I don't. I'm too young and inexperienced compared to some of the others. Especially the veterans. And I'm a woman besides." She shook her head. "The people may have been happy taking money from me when I sold them Father's pelts and meats from my hunts, but they will not feel the same if it comes to taking orders from me."

"They weren't happy either when the King decreed that women were allowed into the guard, but look where we are now," Myra said. "Nobody even bats an eye anymore! They'll come around, Asta. They always have." Myra smiled at her. "You're a strong leader. The people will look up to you, and so will those under your command."

Leader. Asta could barely stand to stomach the word anymore. Instead, she sighed and grabbed Myra's arm again. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's just go. We're already running late."

Myra didn't say anything, but Asta sensed her sister's scrutiny. It encouraged her to walk faster until the walls of Vana's cottage came into view.

The cottage was small but homely. The stones lining the path to the front door were still cracked and blackened from the dragon's attack on Old Dale, but the cottage itself had miraculously stood through the firestorm. It was one of the only intact buildings in Dale upon its reclamation, and Asta had fallen in love with it instantly once she had found it on a scouting expedition throughout the ruined city. She didn't quite know why she'd become so enamored with it. Perhaps it had been the ash-gray stones and the crumbling stucco roof that had called to her, offering a glimpse into a past life. Or perhaps it was because of its survival against all odds that appealed to her. A promise that even after such horror, life could go on, and devastation could lead to triumph.

Whatever it had been, Asta had spent every last coin their father had left them on that cottage, and when she and Myra became workers for the King's household, they'd poured their pay into rebuilding it for two whole years. Legally, it was Asta's residence. The contracts and payments were all in her name. But she'd bought it for her sisters, too. To give them a place to live that was nothing like their cold, wet shanty on the lake, where one mattress had to be enough to share between the three of them. To offer a refuge, a sanctuary, should they ever need it.

While Asta and Myra lived with the others who served King Bard and his household, Vana oversaw the cottage. But as Asta walked up the burned pathway with Myra, she could see that Vana was not doing a very good job with upkeeping, judging by the dead flowers and weeds that choked the path to the front door.

Myra strode past the withering plant life with only a cursory glance before knocking daintily on the front door. Asta stood at her sister's side, sniffed, and then cursed.

"What on earth is that stench?" she said, raising a hand to her face to block the offending odor. "Did something die?"

Though Myra did not react like Asta, her nose still scrunched in disgust. "I believe what you're smelling is our supper."

"Lovely," Asta muttered. "I always wanted to eat boiled skunk."

Myra snorted just as the door opened, worsening the smell but revealing Vana on the threshold.

Asta used to think their mother had been the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, but that was before Vana herself had grown. Unlike Asta and Myra, who had both received their father's fairer skin and flat hair, Vana had inherited their mother's Eastern traits of thicker hair, bronze skin, and a more pronounced tilt to her eyes—golden, just like their mother's, compared to Myra's green and Asta's peculiar mix between the two.

Vana's beauty was devastating—even when she turned those golden eyes on her sisters and glared at them.

"You're late," was her curt greeting before she whisked back into the house, her red skirts trailing behind her.

"I can already tell this evening is going to be so pleasant." Asta gestured to the open door. "After you."

Before Myra entered the cottage, she stopped and touched Asta's shoulder. "Just try not to get under her skin this time, all right? Please?"

Asta sniffed and regretted it when the stench hit her again. "You say it like I do it on purpose."

Myra sighed. "Asta, I've grown up with you all my life. I know you don't mean to, but you do have a habit of picking fights with her. All I'm asking is for one peaceful evening where you two aren't at each other's throats by the end of it."

"I promise I will do my best," Asta said. She patted Myra's cheek before ushering her inside so she wouldn't say more. "Now, let's go see what poor animal gave its life to be put in such a revolting-smelling dish."

The smell predictably worsened once they crossed the threshold, and Asta breathed through her mouth to keep from gagging. A large pot simmered above the fire in the modest stone hearth, and Asta watched Vana throw in a cluster of dark green leaves as she stirred its contents.

"Do you think she means to poison us?" Asta whispered to Myra.

"They're basil leaves, Asta," Myra chided. "Honestly."

"You did the cooking," Asta reminded her. "Not me, and" —she nearly retched when they got closer to the kitchen— "certainly not Vana."

"It smells delicious, Vana," Myra said loudly. Asta shot her an incredulous look – Myra's eyes were quite literally watering, but she ignored Asta. "What have you made?"

Vana opened a tin container and poured a generous amount of what looked like salt in the pot. Asta hoped it was salt, at least. "Dumplings in broth."

Asta frowned at her older sister's flat tone. Truly, would it kill her to be pleasant?

"One of Father's favorites," Myra remarked cheerfully. "Shall I set the table?"

Vana grunted, returning to her stirring. "If you'd like."

"Excellent," she said. "Asta will help me." Before Asta could say anything, Myra had tugged her into the small kitchen. She gave Asta a warning look that was entirely similar to their mother's when she caught the expression on Asta's face.

"Patience," Myra reminded her.

Asta scowled, but she kept her voice down all the same as Myra began to retrieve bowls and utensils from the peeling brown cabinets. "She's not even trying to be pleasant!"

"I thought we were well prepared for Vana's mood changes?" Myra asked. She shoved three chipped ceramic bowls into Asta's arms before her expression softened. "You know she has never been the same since that night."

"None of us has been," Asta muttered. "That doesn't justify her behavior. You and I get on well enough."

Myra tugged on the sleeves of her pale blue gown. "We still don't know how long she was out there. I don't think she'll ever tell us, either."

"Long enough for her manners to disappear altogether," Asta said with a small snort. At Myra's insistence, however, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine. I'll keep my mouth closed. But that means you have to do all the talking."

"Not a problem," Myra said airily. "I am a great conversationalist, after all."

"Humble, too."

Myra shooed her out of the kitchen. "Off with you! I'll pour us some wine."

Asta tumbled back into the living area with a giggle and began to set out the bowls on the circular table near the front windows. A white linen cloth had been laid out over the top, but Asta noticed several stains and what looked like burnt holes in the fabric. She wondered if Vana had taken to experimenting with poultices and potions again. The thought made her bristle, but she forced down her misgivings when Myra joined her with a few tin cups and a bottle of red wine. She gestured wordlessly to the tablecloth, but Myra only shook her head.

"How does the stew look, Vana?" Myra said. "It's boiling something proper. Are we ready to eat?"

"Yes," Vana said, hauling the pot onto a sturdy table beside the hearth. "Bring your bowls. I'll serve you."

"That's very gracious of you," Myra said as she and Asta approached their sister and the simmering stew. The smell had dissipated somewhat, but Asta still had to resist the urge to cover her nose.

Vana began to ladle the stew. "You are my guests." She gave them a pointed stare. "Moreso now that you never have time to visit me as frequently as you once did."

Asta held in a long-suffering sigh, though the jab was expected. It had only been a matter of time until Vana aired her grievances.

"It's been a month," Asta pointed out. "We were busy."

Vana plopped the foul-smelling stew into her bowl, flecking Asta's tunic with broth. "The time does not pass as quickly for me."

"Sitting over a boiling cauldron and trying to fathom portents tends to do that."

Myra unsubtly trod on her foot, and Asta leapt back with a curse, sloshing more broth on herself. Myra ignored her outraged look and smiled sweetly at Vana instead.

"We are truly sorry, Vana," she said. "With harvest approaching, it's been hard to make time away from the king's family. They are busier than ever with merchants and councilors trying to find ways to distribute crops, which means our workload increases, as well."

Though Vana sniffed, her irritation subsided. "Still. It's been far too long. I've not had any visitors since we last met."

"Can't imagine why," Asta mumbled under her breath as she went back to the table. Fortunately, no one heard her, and soon the three sisters were seated with their food and wine before them.

"Shall we give thanks?" Myra asked, smiling around at them. She put her hands out toward her sisters, and despite her inward groan, Asta forced herself to grasp Myra's hand.

"If you'd like," she said to Myra before holding out her hand for Vana. "Vana?"

Vana did not reach for them. "Why should we? The Valar only speak in whispers; they do not listen."

"Just let her do it," Asta said irritably when she caught the crestfallen expression on Myra's face. "You don't have to say anything."

Vana rolled her eyes, but slapped her hand into Asta's, anyway, and gripped Myra's other hand. Vana's hand was warm and rough to the touch, and Asta noted the crooked fingers and the faint scarring on the back of her palm. She looked away guiltily as Myra began to speak.

"Eru and His servants, we thank you for blessing our gathering tonight. We give thanks for a plentiful harvest, a roof over our heads, and the light in which we conduct our earthly affairs under your ever watchful and loving gaze. We give thanks for our health, the peace that has been brought to our lands, and the prosperity in which our home now thrives. May you continue to bless us for the rest of our days. In your name."

"In your name," Asta echoed. Vana remained silent, and they did not speak as they began to eat.

Asta's eyes roamed the cottage interior as she spooned a bite of stew into her mouth. By some miracle, it tasted better than it smelled, although the broth was too watery and the dumplings too hard, in her opinion. Still, food was food, and she had spent too many winter nights hungry to let it all go to waste.

Candles burned in brass sconces along the walls, lending cheery light to the otherwise subdued meal. A blue thatched sofa that was supposed to be in front of the fireplace had been pushed to the far wall opposite the kitchen, underneath the large window that looked out upon the River Running. A small table beside it was filled with leatherbound journals and bunches of herbs wrapped in red cloth. Three bedrooms and a washroom were just up the stairs, and Asta endeavored to inspect each one before she left to ensure Vana had not been as neglectful there as she had with the yard.

"How have you been, Vana?" Myra asked, breaking the strained silence and capturing Asta's attention again. She looked beseechingly at her eldest sister, her smile calm and placating.

Vana pushed a dumpling around her bowl with a spoon and offered a half-hearted shrug. "Fine. Business has slowed." She smirked. "The neighbors think I'm a witch and that my remedies contain curses."

With her long mass of black curls, unusual golden eyes, and penchant for muttering under her breath in public spaces, Asta was sorely tempted to respond with a sarcastic I wonder what gave them that impression? She had promised Myra she wouldn't provoke her, though, so she kept quiet.

"A witch?" Myra said, aghast. "Vana, that's awful. I'm so sorry."

Vana rested her elbows on the table and picked up her wine. "Let them think what they want. They were the ones yammering on about prophecy all those years ago when Thorin Oakenshield turned up in Lake-town with his company. Seems their tolerance for portents disappeared as soon as riches from the mountain started rolling in."

"Gold is tangible," Asta said before thinking. She thought of the raven and the wolf again and forced the next words out. "Dreams are not."

"What do you know of dreams?" Vana said into her cup, refusing to look at Asta.

"A great deal more than you think," she retorted.

"Asta," Myra said through a clenched smile, "don't you have some news to share?"

"No."

Myra shut her eyes briefly before turning to Vana. "King Bard has offered for Asta to become Captain of the Guard. We just found out today."

"Really?" Vana sipped from her wine. "So, the hero gets another medal?"

Asta set her spoon down with more force than necessary. "I've never received any medals."

"No, just the people's everlasting love," Vana said, her every word dripping with derision.

"Better than to be called a witch. I told you to stop spouting your nonsense in the streets."

"The wind speaks with many tongues," Vana said. She looked at the dancing fire in the hearth and rested her chin on her palm. "I only repeat what I hear."

Asta stood abruptly and collected her dishes. She stomped to the kitchen and began to clean her bowl with the basin of dishwater and a cloth, breathing deeply to get a hold on her temper.

Vana may not have cared what others thought of her, but Asta certainly did. Those who did not fit the mold were cast out and ostracized, exactly as Vana had learned from the former customers of her home-based apothecary. Parading around the city and spreading drivel was precisely the sort of thing Asta had feared when she'd learned Vana was not to work in the king's household with her and Myra. They had clawed their way back to good standing in the eyes of the people they had shared their old home of Lake-town with, and for Vana to spit on their efforts and attempt to undo it all… She scrubbed at her bowl harder.

When their father had died, what security and support they had had died with him. Asta had only been fourteen, Vana sixteen, and Myra twelve. He had hunted game around the shores of the Long Lake and made a living from selling pelts and furs to merchants and meat to the butchers, but when the burden fell on his daughters after his sudden passing, they floundered, and the town had turned their backs on them. After Asta's aid in the battle and King Bard's personal commendation, she'd thought their days of hardship were over. She would be damned if ever they struggled again.

A figure slipped into the kitchen behind her, and she braced her hands on the edge of the water basin with a sigh. "I'm trying, Myra, all right?"

"Trying to be cordial for my sake?" Vana asked. Asta spun around. Her elder sister seemed amused. "I'm almost disappointed. It's been ages since we had a good fight."

Asta glanced at Vana's crooked hand and swallowed. "I'm not that type of person anymore."

Vana sidestepped her to rinse out her own bowl. "No, you're not. Now you're Captain Asta. Well, soon-to-be, anyway."

"It's a big decision." Asta gave her a pointed glance. "I would be even busier."

"All the more reason to accept," Vana said wryly. "Don't object; I know you hate coming here."

"I don't hate coming here," she said. "I bought it, remember?"

"I should have been clearer. You hate coming here when I'm here."

Asta frowned. "I don't hate you, either, Vana."

"I know." Vana dried her hands slowly, all traces of wry mirth wiped from her features. Angled away from the candlelight, Vana's face was hollow and exhausted, and Asta wondered if she had not been sleeping again. "You only mourn who I have become. What I have become. A witch who hears prophecies carried on the breeze from birds and beasts."

She hesitated. "You nearly died in Smaug's attack. I understand. Horrible experiences like that can twist the mind—"

"Every night, I see nothing but shadow and flame," she said, speaking over Asta as if she were not there. "There is a burning eye in the dark, and a fell voice speaks in a tongue of black malice."

Asta shifted uneasily. "Memories of the dragon—"

"But closer is a quake in the earth, in the roots of stone and river," she continued, staring out a small window to the darkened street beyond. "It knows that blood shall be spilled, and it craves it. The wolves will see that it shall get its fill. That is what I hear now."

Asta's breath caught in her throat. Vana was known to speak in such riddles ever since Smaug had destroyed Lake-town, and she had always ignored it and chalked it up to be nothing more than the ramblings of a traumatized mind. But at the mention of wolves, Asta recalled her dream, and the snarling white wolf that had torn out her throat. It was only coincidence, she knew, but her sister's words unnerved her all the same, much as they always did, she reminded herself.

Outside the serene quiet of the cottage, a scream tore open the night.

Instantly, Asta's knife was in her hand. She rushed to the front door, Vana on her heels, and Myra jumped to her feet when she saw them, her face pinched in worry.

"What was that?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"Stay here," Asta ordered her sisters. "Bar the door behind me. Do not follow me."

Without waiting to see if they would obey, Asta ducked out the door and raced down the front path to the street. Ahead, on the outskirts of the residential district, where the neighborhood morphed back into the city, a sparse crowd had gathered beneath one of the tall oil-burning streetlamps. Asta approached carefully, angling her knife away from the light.

"What's going on here?" she said, adopting her stern guardsman voice. "Let me through. I am a member of the King's Guard."

A man in a tanned leather tunic and patched breeches looked up at her. He was bent over a crying woman, and Asta figured that was where the scream had come from as she was the only woman present in the group of civilians.

"Look there," he said, pointing to the streetlamp. "We was coming back from the tavern when we saw 'im."

Asta followed his finger and held in a gasp. A man had been propped against the iron pole of the lamp, clearly dead. His eyes were open, glassy and lifeless, and blood dribbled from his blue lips. One of his arms had been broken and cruelly adjusted to point toward the heart of the city. A tilted crown of twigs and leaves stuck in his hair, and on his neck had been strung a sign:

BETTER THE MASTER THAN A KING

A choked cry came from behind Asta. "Oh, my!"

Myra pressed a hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with tears when she saw the brutal scene. Vana stood with her, stone-faced and grim.

"Don't look," Asta said, turning Myra away by her elbows gently. She threw Vana a glare. "I told you not to follow me."

Vana merely watched the man's lifeblood ooze across the cobbled stones, and the look she fixed Asta with froze her to the marrow.

"Sometimes," she whispered, "I wish that the wind did not speak at all."

I promise the Durins are coming in the next chapter, please bear with me! There's just quite a bit to set up before our lovely dwarves enter the picture.

Thank you for reading!