Chapter One
The day started as any other for Dwalin. He woke before the dawn, demolished a few dummies in his private training room, had breakfast in the barracks with his soldiers, then relieved the late shift on watch and took his spot on the ramparts.
He likes the early mornings when everyone and everything is quiet and the air is still. When he can breathe deep and allow the silence to settle his soul into the stone of his mountain home.
"I knew I'd find you up here," he says as though Dwalin isn't in this exact spot every morning. Thorin Oakenshield, his king and best friend, steps up to his left and copies his stance. "Can you believe on this day five years ago we were meeting Beorn?"
"Nay." Some days he wakes thinking their journey was merely a nightmare. Then he rubs the sleep away and see riches that could only be found in Erebor all around him. "Feels like it happened yesterday fer'ever ago."
Thorin snorts. "An apt description."
Dwalin holds up a hand, asking for silence, and peers into the distance. A couple ponies with riders and large packs approach from the south on what they've named The Northern Gateway. It stretches east to the Iron Hills, south to Dale and down to Laketown, and branches off to the elf road through Mirkwood, connecting the five communities together. "Ye see that," he mumbles. The ponies are sluggish, as though they've been pushed past their limit. One is definitely a dwarf, but the other...
"Dwarf and a small human is my guess. A woman? Teen?" Thorin shrugs. "Won't know until they get here."
"I ain't waitin' that long. Git me steed ready!" Dwalin shouts. "Ponies fer Nihla 'n Gortez, too!" He pokes Thorin in the chest. "Ye git back ta yer room."
"Yes, sir!" Thorin snaps. Dwalin growls at him and – ignoring the snickers from the troops – runs to gear up.
.
.
The riders dismount when they see them coming and wait at the side of the road. The dwarf supports the human to a boulder and carefully lowers them until they're seated. Are they injured? Did they come seeking medicine?
"Hail, travellers!" Gortez calls out as they pull their ponies to a stop. They dismount a couple lengths away and approach on foot. Dwalin hands his reins to Nihla, motions to her to stay back a step, and keeps silent as he walks a step behind the guard. "Why do you hide your faces?" Gortez asks calmly, but with steel.
The dwarf flips back their hood. A dam! "It's not safe to travel otherwise," she says softly. "Please don't ask my companion to remove her veil. I will vouch for her."
Gortez continues the interrogation, "And why should we allow that?" Dwalin grunts softly in agreement. They can't have faceless strangers entering Erebor. That's the kind of trouble he doesn't need in his life.
The dam glares at him. "Because she was disfigured protecting Mother and I from the filth that sired me," she hisses.
That was not what he was expecting.
The woman reaches for her hand – she's wearing red gloves and fitted long sleeves, also red, under the billowing black robe, ensuring every bit of skin is covered – and tugs. The dam puts her back to them and watches the woman sign, but it's not Iglishmêk. "I will not," she argues. "You've protected me since before I was born -"
Wait! What?
"- now it is my turn to protect you. Besides, if Lothur is no longer at Erebor we'll go back to Dale. I will not stay where you are unwelcome."
"Lothur, son of Pavali, currently resides in Erebor," Nihla confirms when Dwalin signals her. She then coughs twice and clears her throat. A code indicating Lothur is one of Nori's Foxes.
Interesting.
The dam sighs at the woman's signing. "I don't like it. We can always ask him to meet us at the lodge. You do not have to expose yourself for their amusement."
The next signs are sharp and make the dam flinch. "I- You're right." She turns to them. "I apologize for my harsh words. I know you do not ask to be cruel, but..." She looks intently at each of them before settling on him. "Just you."
Dwalin waves the guards back and walks to the other side of the woman. She turns towards him, putting her back to the others so they won't see her face when the veil is lifted. "Perhaps an exchange of names would help," he hints, crouching so he won't tower over her. "I am Dwalin, son of Fundin, General of Erebor, and member of The Company of Thorin Oakenshield."
"Well met, General Dwalin. I am Nivala, daughter of Mavili. This is Jean." Pavali, Mavili, and Nivala. There's definitely a kinship between her and Lothur.
"Well met, Lady Nivala and Madam Jean." He tilts his brow to each. Jean signs to Nivala, making her giggle, but the lass doesn't share.
Jean lifts the black and red veil, her movements slow and steady. Nothing to suggest she's nervous. He's beginning to think it's more of Nivala being protective rather than Jean being ashamed of her appearance.
The veil flips over her covered head.
This is not what he was expecting.
A large gash, thick and deep and a shocking purplish silver against her fragile, brown skin, starts past her hairline, goes through her left eye, down her sunken cheek, and curves along her jawline. The eye must have been removed as it's sealed shut.
The pattern of scarring around her lips suggest they were sewn shut at one point. Her one good eye, a sparkling amber jewel, spots him staring at her mouth. She opens as far as she can, which truly isn't much, and lets him look. Someone tried to cut her tongue out, but only managed to mangle it, and she's missing at least three teeth. The rest are in surprisingly excellent condition.
Her throat, ears, and hair are all covered, but he's seen enough. Dwalin looks the old woman in her still clear and clever eye. "How old are ye, lass?"
Nivala answers, "185 on the fall equinox." Dwalin barely manages to hide his surprise. She's much older than any human, including those Dúnedain Rangers, he's ever met or heard of.
How is that possible?
"And Lady Nivala?" he asks, still looking at Jean.
"160, this spring."
Dwalin slowly moves his hands towards her veil, just in case she doesn't want him touching it, and lowers it back down. It's made of a fine material with mesh across her eyes, but the holes aren't large enough for him to see through. Not even this close. "Let's git ye on a fresh pony and in'ta the mountain."
.
.
"Git Nori 'n Lothur in Balin's office. Now." Nihla takes off without acknowledging the order, but Dwalin knows she'll get it done. He rushes over to help Jean off the pony, since Gortez is suddenly acting like a bumbling tween. "Hands on me shoulders," he grasps her waist – fire and forge, she's tiny! – easily supporting her, "I'll lower ye down." Once her feet are steady, she pats his hand in thanks and takes Nivala's arm.
He considers sending for one of those carriage carts fat, lazy lords use to get around the mountain, but the ladies aren't moving slow because of exhaustion. They're looking around every which way, completely in awe of the splendour of Erebor.
Lamps, fuelled by gasses found deep in the earth, hang down from marble ceilings liberally streaked with dark greys and browns, making what should be dark tunnels as bright as midday. Coarse textured granite floors, mottled red and brown, are smooth and without seams, though they show the wear from hundreds of feet travelling it each day. Many visiting lords have asked Thorin why he doesn't repair them to look pristine. His answer is always, "Erebor deserves to look lived in."
The next hall has different colours, telling without words they've entered a new section of the mountain. The floors are now a fine textured blue and brown, and the walls are a light grey limestone with large chunks of quartz scattered throughout to catch the light. Long narrow tapestries telling the history of Durin's Folk hang down every ten steps.
They turn off the blue stone to floors of green marble. Veins of gold wind through like rivers, sparkling from one end to the other. Panels of pure white marble, framed in basalt and separated by columns of onyx, showcase significant events of the history Middle Earth, regardless of race.
Balin designed this hall with a purpose. All of the royal offices and meeting rooms are here, so any visiting lords or nobles have to walk past and remember: Mahal's Children do not stand alone.
Jean taps Nivala, drawing her attention away from the carved murals. She nods along at her signs. "Yes, I think so, too."
"What's that?" Dwalin asks casually. Feels strange to only get one side of the conversation.
"She said Erebor is worth taking on a dragon for." Nivala grins as she translates. "In what Jean refers to as her glory days, she says she would have proudly stood with you against the beast." Jean taps the giggling dam on the nose. "She has the best stories of her life before- " she stumbles over the word, "before everything," she finishes softly.
He tries to catch her eye through the veil, though he knows it's impossible. "I'd like ta hear some, if yer willin' ta share."
She holds her hands flat, palms up, and lowers and raises them like a scale. "Maybe."
"Ye got plenty of time ta think it over." Dwalin gestures to an open door. "In here." Balin and Nori are chatting by the front desk, both with a bun stuffed with egg and ham in one hand and a mug of something hot in the other. They straighten up when they enter and hurry to put down their breakfasts.
But they don't get to greet them because Lothur leaps over an armchair and rushes the lasses. "Thank Mahal!" He squeezes Nivala until she stomps on his foot, the both of them laughing, then gently embraces Jean like he would a treasured grandmother. "I can't believe you made the journey," he whispers.
Jean pats his back then steps away so she has room to sign. He translates instead of Nivala. "Nivala's been worrying each winter would be my last. I told her I wasn't going anywhere until I saw your handsome face again." He lifts her gloved hands and lovingly kisses the backs of her fingers. "As always, I am in awe of your strength," he murmurs. She cups his face and cards her fingers through his black beard as she slides away.
Balin smiles at the exchange. "Welcome, ladies, to Erebor," he greets with a bow. "I am Balin, son of Fundin, Steward of Erebor, and member of The Company of Thorin Oakenshield. If you'll follow me through here, there's breakfast as well as facilities if you need."
"Our thanks, Steward Balin." Nivala orders Lothur to make Jean breakfast then steals her to wash up.
Once Dwalin is sure he won't be overheard, he asks Lothur, "Do ye want ta prepare 'em or shall I?"
"For what's under the veil?" Balin clarifies.
"Jean almost had her head cleaved in two." Lothur turns to the table and grabs a bowl. "It shows."
Nori drapes himself over an armchair, mimicking that prissy, woodland king. "And her voice?"
The bowl drops, thankfully not spilling. "The one who enslaved her didn't like her attitude. Sewing her mouth shut didn't have the intended effect, so he massacred her tongue and punctured her throat."
"Nivala's father?"
"No, not Nogluk. The one who gifted," he sneers, "Jean to him." At the sound of footsteps approaching, they go back to loading plates and pouring drinks.
Lothur waits until the ladies are seated before handing the bowl of meticulously prepared oat porridge to Jean. She tilts her face up and waits for him to lift the veil.
Dwalin watches Balin and Nori closely as Jean's face is revealed. Nori manages to stay stoic, but he catches Balin's heart shattering. "Bombur made a good spread," Dwalin throws out there, doing his best to make small talk before an awkward silence can fall.
Thankfully, Balin picks it up. "Gaitti announced they're expecting again. Baby number six."
"Six!" Nivala's eyes go wide and absentmindedly accepts a pastry from Lothur. He sits on the arm of the couch beside Jean and lays a protective hand on her back. "Goodness! I've never heard of dam able to bear so many. Does she have a hobbit ancestor?"
Nori chuckles. "That's what I asked! She thanked me for the compliment, but said as far as she knew there isn't."
"Too bad." Nivala's voice and face soften. "I love the Shire. Orchards in spring, petals falling like rain at the slightest breeze. Packs of fauntlings running everywhere with twigs in their hair and pockets filled with mud and frogs. At the midsummer festival, fireflies lit the sky as much as the stars." She flops her head back and turns to Lothur. "We could barely move the next day. Told Mother it was from sore feet," she giggles, "but Jean knew it was from all the mead we drank."
Jean smirks, obviously pleased with herself, and continues eating. She takes small bites, chewing and swallowing slowly. Damage to her jaw and throat? Dwalin wouldn't be surprised. The hit that made that scar would have cracked bone in at least three different spots. He reminds himself to inform Bombur that any meal she attends needs a smooth soup or soft food options.
Lothur grins. "Nobody can party like a hobbit."
"Or eat like one," Balin chuckles. "I know I certainly cannot." He sets down his empty plate and looks around. "If everyone is finished, we can move to my office."
Jean nods, placing her half eaten meal on the table. Lothur frowns, but Nivala shakes her head at him. While they're silently communicating, Dwalin offers Jean a hand up and escorts her to Balin's back office. All his staff know that if he's in there he's not to be disturbed for anything short of an orc invasion or another dragon. The only one who might barge in is Thorin, but that's because the blockhead thinks he owns the mountain.
He seats her in the best chair and moves the pillow up to support her back. "There ye are." She pats his hand. "Yer welcome," he says softly. Dwalin circles the desk to Balin. "Unless ye need me, I have me own job ta git back ta."
Balin doesn't even look up from his papers, just waves him off. "Yes, yes. I'll find you later."
.
.
Dwalin prowls the units as they practice pike forms. The goal is to get them moving in perfect unison. It looks impressive on the field and muscle memory helps overcome the fear that makes new soldiers freeze.
That and the elves can do it. Anything elves can do, dwarrow can do better.
He nods to his Captains as he walks by, not saying a word. They know they need to tighten up if he stops at their section. The simple act of him frowning makes them figure out the problem themselves.
He likes it.
Steel scraping steel catches his ear. Dwalin sighs and changes direction. He didn't think anyone had booked the east training room this afternoon.
This isn't what he was expecting.
"Been thinkin' that a lot ta'day," he grumbles to himself. Lothur and Nivala are going at each other while Jean stands off to the side. She bangs the butt of a wood staff on the ground. The pattern must correspond to a form, as the fighters stop and adjust their stance.
A tiny stone bounces off his head. Dwalin scowls and looks around. Nori waves from the benches. "Took you long enough," he says as he sits beside him.
"I was workin'." He motions to ring. "What's with 'em?"
"Lothur was bragging 'bout his new knives so Nivala badgered him into a spar. Look how they dart about. Slash and stab. In and out. He's more skilled, by far, but she's no slouch."
"Fight like ye do. I know Lothur works fer ye. Is Nivala from the same vein?"
"Nah." They change forms again. "Nivala's moves are all about disabling her opponent. Put 'em down and get away. Her fighting is self-defence, not war or shadow work." Nori bounces in place. "But those moves! They'd work with a utility knife, long dagger, curved short blade, rolling pin, almost whatever is close at hand. Genius!"
Dwalin hums. "I see it." Clever. "Jean teach 'em?"
"Yep," he confirms, popping the P. Dwalin grunts. Glory days, Nivala said. His mind wanders as his eyes follow their blades. What was she like in her prime? Must have been slight and fast like them.
He moves his gaze to Jean. She still is slight, probably much more than she used to be, but not so fast anymore. Has she spent most of her life as an old woman? Or is she like a dwarf, aging dramatically in the last decade as death approaches? Dwalin frowns. She's leaning heavily on that staff. "Ye take over fer Jean," he murmurs. "I'll git her ta her suite."
Nori's sly eyes quickly note the changes in Jean's posture. A sharp whistle stops everyone mid-motion. "How 'bout we teach ya some moves, lass, while Jean has a rest?"
The combatants whip around to check on her. "Oh!" Nivala runs over. "Why didn't you say anything?" she scolds. Jeans shoos her away and accepts Dwalin's arm.
Lothur places a hand on Nivala's shoulder to hold her back. "We'll wake you for supper." Jean waves at him over her shoulder.
"Hmm?" She stopped them at the door. "Oh!" Dwalin moves her veil into place. "There. Now my soldiers won't be jealous of yer battle scars." She softly swats his chest with the back of her hand, shoulders shaking as though laughing, but she makes no sound. "Ye know the way back, or do I need ta fetch one of Balin's runners?"
She taps the side of her head and directs him with confidence through the halls to the wing for visiting nobles, right across from the Royal Quarters. The guards straighten up at the sight of him, "General Dwalin," and nod to Jean. "Steward Balin has placed Madam Jean and Lady Nivala in the Topaz Suite."
He orders, "As ye were," and hooks a right to the short stairwell. Jean stumbles going up a step, but Dwalin catches her around the waist before she takes a tumble. "Lean on me," he whispers, holding her close. "Yer almost there." She grabs his other hand with a strength he didn't think she had and rests against his side as they shuffle along. "Sorry, lass. I should've gotten ye a cart ta ride in instead of makin' ye walk." She shakes her head. "I should have," he repeats firmly, opening the door.
He's always liked this suite. Light coloured pine furniture is covered with dark orange and red cushions, yellow blankets for laps, and piled up in the corners are plenty of small pink pillows.
Reminds him of a sunrise.
The bedrooms are mostly blue and purple with bits of yellow scattered about. Dori fussed over the quilts and rugs for weeks before declaring them finished. Nori threw a party to celebrate.
Jean sighs – the only sound is the wind from her breath – when he lowers her to the foot of the bed. Dwalin reaches for her veil, giving her time to shoo him away if she wishes, and flips it back. The poor dear is nearly asleep. He kneels and removes her shoes, continually glancing up to make sure he's not making her uncomfortable, but she's completely at ease with him tending to her. "Anythin' else I can help ye with?" he asks as he opens the covers.
The gloves she wears are off, exposing swollen joints, a crooked thumb, and three missing fingertips. And the littlest finger on her right hand is almost completely gone! There must be filler in the gloves, as there was nothing to suggest her hands were brutalized.
Just one more way someone tried to silence her.
She pats the back of her neck, bringing his attention to the row of tiny buttons under the curtain. "Let's see if me clumsy fingers can git these fer ya." He fumbles a bit, but manages to get it undone without too much fuss. At her gesture, he slides the fabric forward and off her head.
Tight grey and white curls are cropped close, showing scars and bald spots. If he had to guess, they're either from someone ripping her hair out or gouging her scalp while sheering her. He follows the tug on his tunic to her front. More buttons. As gently as he can, Dwalin starts at her throat, exposing the scars that stole her voice, all the way down to her sternum.
With the top loose, he helps her stand. The billowing robe slides off her shoulders and pools at her feet, leaving Jean in loose, black pants and the fitted, long sleeve, red tunic. Looks comfortable enough to sleep in. "Facilities b'fer bed?" She shakes no, dead on her feet.
Instead of helping her shuffle to the head of the bed, Dwalin sweeps her legs out from under her and cradles her close. Three steps and he's laying her down, her head on the pillow. Jean shakes a finger at him as she gets comfortable, but she's smiling. "Dinnae think ye'd mind," he says with a smirk and pulls up the quilts. He made her walk all the way here, least he can do is tuck her in properly.
He turns to go, but spins back around at the knock on the side table. Jean's pointing to a book. He pulls a chair over, back to the bed so she can see when he opens it. The first page is blank. Second page is a drawing of a young woman. Wide, laughing smile. Wild mane of curls. Two sparkling eyes.
"This beauty must be ye." He follows her finger to the bottom of the page. "Twenty years old, huh? Just a wee baby," Dwalin teases, chuckling when she lightly smacks his bicep with the back of her hand. "Nay, I know. A grown woman." She motions for him to close it and burrows under the covers. He returns it to the table, moves the chair back, then kneels beside the bed so their faces are level. Her eye is closed, but he knows she's not asleep yet. "Thank ye fer sharin'." Jean pats his cheek without looking. "Sleep well."