Chapter Two
Boots off, hair tied back, beards clipped at the chin, and stripped down to shorts, the King and his General charge each other with a roar. Battleaxes collide with mighty crack, again and again and again, echoing throughout the room like thunder.
Sweat begins to pour, making chest hair slick and tattoos glisten. Especially the red and gold dragon they both have wrapped around their left biceps. Same as the rest of the Company, including their burglar, Bilbo Baggins – though he insisted on a much smaller version of Smaug – and King Bard the Dragon Slayer.
The non-dwarrow took their ink like champs. Better than some dwarrow even. Bofur was so proud he bawled like a dam, blubbering about how his babies were all grown up.
One dwarf over corrects. The other takes advantage.
"Come on, ye old boar!" Dwalin taunts, jumping to the side. He hooks the back of Thorin's knee and sends him tumbling. "Yer gittin' soft from sittin' on yer arse all day."
"I'm the king," he grumbles, laying on his back. "You're supposed to take it easy on me so I feel good about myself."
"Ain't gonna happen." Dwalin gives him a hand up, slings an arm over his shoulders, and walks him to the lockers. "I'd rather have ye alive 'n mad at me than have ta bury ye."
They dump water over their heads, letting it drain through the grate in the floor, and towel off the worst of the dirt and sweat. Dori and Dís never complain about sweaty clothing, but threatened them with kitchen duty the next time they find bloody holes in their uniforms.
Dwalin doesn't know what their problem is. Óin barely grumbles when they show up with bloody holes in their skin.
Dressed, more or less – some buckles, buttons, and laces may be undone or loose, but folk are used to seeing them like this after their weekly spar – they walk in silence through the halls towards their rooms. If they don't stop for a proper wash and fresh clothing then they won't be late for dinner.
"General Dwalin!" The runner quickly bows. "Your Majesty!" He straightens up, clearly agitated. "There's a problem in the central market. Guardsman Brogit confronted a dam and her, uh, handmaiden. He kept trying to lift her veil, but Guardsman Hartiv stopped him and refuses to take them into custody." Dwalin takes off in a sprint, hoping to get there before Jean is injured or Nivala starts putting bloody holes in his soldiers.
The lad continues to inform them as they run. "Hartiv signalled a Fox, who sent me. The ladies in question arrived this morning and are official guests of Steward Balin! He also said Brogit didn't read the bulletin before going on duty. Again, sir."
Dwalin's going to strip his rank and toss him in a dungeon.
"Gotta my way!" he bellows, his bulk and unusual height – for a dwarf – have dwarrow leaping out of the way, least they get trampled.
"General!" The four guards keeping the crowd back from Brogit, Hartiv, Nivala, and Jean snap to attention. Hartiv catches his eye, but doesn't move from between Brogit and the ladies.
"Finally!" Brogit rushes to him, "I demand -" and falls to the floor. Because Dwalin punched him in his big, fat, ugly face.
"Ye are in no position ta be makin' demands," he says softly, causing everyone around them to suck back a breath. They know things are about to get dangerous. "Did ye, or did ye not, read the Very. Important. Announcement? I posted it in the barracks, the offices, the trainin' rooms, and by all the entrances ta the ramparts. Same places I post all the others."
He blinks rapidly. "I-I-I don't recall seeing an announcement, sir."
"No?" he whispers, leaning down until his face right above Brogit's.
"Well, I-I-I may not- possibly- might have- not looked." He swallows. Hard. "Sir."
Dwalin hums, though it sounds more like a growl.
"By the Gods! Jean!" Nivala laughs. "You're lucky no one else can understand you."
He straightens up and leaves Brogit on the floor to stew. Jean is fanning herself with a gloved hand while Nivala giggles. Dwalin folds in his lips so he won't smirk. One doesn't have to understand what she said to know what she's thinking. "I'm sure I left ye in bed, lass."
"Lonely without you," Nivala translates. She shaking from holding in laughter. "I'm not saying that. I don't care if it ruins your fun." Jean crosses her arms and pointedly looks away.
Thorin steps up beside him and clears his throat. "Care to introduce me to your friends?"
"No," he growls and motions Hartiv over. "Throw him in a cell. I'll deal with him ta'morrow."
"Yes, sir." Hartiv has two guards flank Brogit and the three of them march him out.
"Dwalin," Thorin warns.
"What?" He turns to Thorin, but he's not looking at him. His blue eyes are locked on the feisty, honey-haired lass who's signing with Jean. "Oooo-oh-oh," he chuckles. Dwalin smacks Thorin's shoulder and pushes him to get his feet moving, leaving the guards to disperse the crowd. The ladies stop their silent chatter and step forward to meet them. "My king, Lady Nivala, daughter of Mavili, and Madam Jean. Ladies, King Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor."
They curtsy. "Your Majesty," Nivala says as they stand, fearlessly holding Thorin's intense gaze. "As we told General Dwalin earlier, Erebor is a marvel. No other hall compares to her."
Thorin raises a brow. "Have you visited many halls?"
Nivala translates Jean's signs. "All of them. From Ered Luin to Orocarni. White Mountains to the Iron Hills. Even the west gate of Khazad-dûm and Mirrormere." Her voice gentles. "I never thought I would live long enough to see Erebor, the Jewel of the North, reclaimed. To walk her halls is a dream come true."
"Mother and Jean took us all across Middle Earth," she says, speaking for herself. "Not just dwarf halls. Edoras, Minas Tirith, Dom Amroth, the Grey Havens, Rivendell, and more."
"I would very much- " Thorin is cut off by an old dam coming out of the living quarters of the stall they've parked themselves beside.
"Madam Jean! Oh, my sweet, little Nivala!" She shuffles as fast as she can and greets the ladies with a hug and kiss on the cheek. "I thought my ears were playing tricks when I heard your names." She wipes her eyes with a laugh. "Is that rascal Lothur around, too?"
Nivala flashes Thorin an apologetic glance and gives her full attention to the dam. "My heart bursts with happiness to see you again, Madam Olgal. Lothur is around here," she waves a hand around, "somewhere. You know how he is. Mother, as you may have heard, returned to stone forty-eight years ago."
She nods, tears flowing freely. "Yes, I received Jean's letter. But let us not speak of such horrid things during this joyous moment. Olfah!"
"Yes, mum?" A redheaded lad pops around the corner from out front. "Oh!" He comes around and hugs the ladies, treating Jean as carefully as Lothur did. "How wonderful! Hold on! Father made something for you." He rushes into the back.
Dwalin steps up beside Jean. "Kufah and Olgal are well-respected jewellers from Ered Luin, which is where I'm guessin' ye met them. This was originally Kufah's father's stall. B'fer Smaug."
"It was a wonderful day to open the market and see so many families back where they belong," Thorin says, finally looking away from Nivala, who's murmuring softly to Olgal. "That was when Erebor truly began to feel like home again."
Olfah returns with a dusty, flat-top, wooden chest. The kind used for large sets of jewellery. "He made these using a portion of the materials you traded him. Father always claimed you never asked for enough, but didn't argue because as soon as he saw those shells- "
Olgal smacks his arm. "Just open it already! Been waiting over sixty years to see these enhance the beauty of their true owner."
It feels like the entire market is holding their breath as Olfah places the chest down and slowly opens the lid. Sparkle and shine burst out of the case like a shower of stars.
Gasps of, "Amazing," and whispers of, "Extraordinary," come from all around.
It's made almost entirely of silver and white. Dwalin leans closer. No, not silver. White gold.
The earrings are oval fire opals of the deepest red with ropes of teardrop diamonds hanging down. Armbands look like silver waves with purple and green rainbows within. The thin circlet is almost elven in design. Black opals – they're actually blue, but Dwalin isn't about to argue about it – are surrounded by tiny diamonds.
Durin's colours.
"White gold, diamonds," Thorin murmurs. "White, black, and fire opals." His brow furrows. "What's the base on the combs?"
"Mother-of-pearl," Olfah whispers. "It's the inside of ocean shells. It's on the armbands, too."
Rings, necklaces, hair combs, bracelets, armbands, earrings, and a headpiece. Dwalin feels a little breathless just thinking about the skill and time that went into it all.
"Olgal! I can't accept this!" Nivala cries. "Where would a commoner like me wear these masterpieces? They deserve a queen!"
"Nonsense! Common you are not!" Olgal scolds. "And every dam is a queen, if only to her mate." Dwalin watches Thorin watching Nivala and thinks that magnificent set might yet belong to a queen.
Nivala frowns, her fingers running along the fine chains hanging from the headpiece. "Which I am also lacking," she pouts. "You know I scare them away as quickly as they show."
Olgal wraps her weathered hands around Nivala's and pulls her away from the case. "Mahal would not have forged a dam of your strength without creating a match. You just haven't found him yet. But I have faith they are here, in Erebor, waiting to find you, too. "
"I hope so," she whispers, smiling softly at the old dam.
Jean threads her arm through his and slumps against him. "Ye ready ta leave?" he whispers directly in her ear, trying to be as quiet as possible. She nods. "Thorin." He tears himself away from Nivala, frowning when he sees him supporting Jean. "Jean needs ta git back. Ye escort Nivala ta their suite when she's done at the market," he says as an order, not a suggestion.
"Jean?" Nivala barges past Thorin to get to her. "I'm sorry. We never got to the food vendors. I was hoping to find some of those meat pies we had at the Iron Hills for supper."
Dwalin mumbles, "Good choice." He likes the spices in them.
Thorin clears his throat. "If you find it agreeable, Lady Nivala, I'll send dinner to your suite and escort you through the market. Dwalin has offered to keep Madam Jean company until your return." She looks between him and Thorin, uncertain. "I promise I know my way around," Thorin coaxes. "We'll have your shopping finished in no time."
"I..." She hesitates and looks at Jean. She waves at her to go. "Alright. Thank you, Your Majesty." Then with a false innocence that wouldn't fool anyone, Nivala asks, "But what will folk think? The king, thoroughly dishevelled, with an unknown dam on his arm?" She grins. "Terribly improper."
He looks her in the eye and calmly replies, "I assure you, if we were to get up to anything improper," he purrs, "you would be just as dishevelled as I." Jean shakes in silent laughter as Nivala blushes. The lass recovers nicely and fires back at Thorin as they walk away.
"She gits that sass from ye," Dwalin confidently states. Jean waggles a finger in denial, but he knows she's smirking under that veil. "Cannae fool me. I know a firecracker when I see one."
She gently pats his chest and gestures towards a stall loaded with bolts of fabrics, skeins of yarn, and trays of buttons. He playfully sighs, "One stop, 'n only 'cause it's on our way out. I'm ready fer dinner," not actually upset. He's fully aware they won't be leaving directly, no matter how tired she is.
.
.
Fabrics for, uh, something, probably veils, a mug she can easily hold with her mangled fingers and a matching one for his big mitts, a selection of pastries that Dwalin insisted he purchase as he's sure he'll be eating most of them, and a black leaf tea from the East and a pile of spices. Those made Jean bounce on her toes, so she must have something special planned for them.
Not bad. Dís would have taken three times longer and bought twice as much on her way out.
A servant brought a food cart and lit fires in the bedrooms and sitting room before they arrived. Dwalin leaves Jean to wash up, lays the fabrics on her bed, puts the rest of her shopping in the kitchenette, and fills the kettle. She may want to make a pot of that tea and use her new mug.
"Bombur must've got my note," Dwalin mutters to himself. Beef stew, soft rolls, and apple oat muffins. The chunks of beef fall apart when gently pressed, as well as the potatoes and carrots. Jean shouldn't have a problem with it. "'Bout time someone listened ta me."
Knocking comes from Jean's room. He abandons setting the table and hurries to check on her. She's sitting at the vanity, head resting in her uncovered hands. Only one button on the back of her neck is undone. Dwalin gently rubs her upper arms, "It's alright, I got ye," and deals with the pesky things. She must only wear the complicated headdress when Nivala is around to help her into and out of it. "There." When she doesn't move, he slides it off, causing it to hang down around her arms. Jean takes a deep breath then tosses it aside.
Dwalin moves to her good side. "Ye want outta that robe?" It's a slimmer fit than the billowing garment from this morning. The sleeves end mid-forearm, the skirt just past her knees, and has lacing at the collar rather than buttons. She shakes no, drapes a long scarf on her head and loosely wraps it around her neck, leaving the ends trailing down her front and back.
This must be what she wears at home. Can do on her own, keeps her head warm, looks nice, and seems rather cozy. "I like this," he compliments, running the edge of the patterned scarf through his fingers. She nods and taps her chest. He thinks she's saying she does, too.
Balin and Lothur are setting the table when they come out, her arm in his once again. "Ah, there they are." Balin narrows his eyes at Dwalin. "Why are you and Thorin incapable of dressing yourselves after a spar?"
"Gives folk somethin' ta talk about." He pulls a chair for Jean and seats her. "And look at," he adds with a smirk. As expected, Jean signs a remark. Dwalin knew she wouldn't be able to resist commenting.
The lad doesn't bother trying to smother his chuckles. "I certainly don't mind. Even us old ladies appreciate the view." Lothur shakes his head at her with a grin. "Only your body is old, Jean. Your heart and mind are still young as ever." But his grin falls as he translates, "A blessing and a curse, my dear. A blessing and a curse."
Dwalin catches Balin's gaze as he accepts the basket of rolls. There must be more to that comment to have Lothur looking so devastated. "Balin was the other way 'round. Dodderin' old dwarf from birth."
"Excuse me?!" he protests, but only for show. "I was never a trouble making rascal because I was constantly saving you and Thorin from your own antics. Why, this one time..." Dwalin turns his focus to his dinner, letting his brother bring the mood back up. A pat on the arm from Jean let's him know she knows what he did.
It's nice to be appreciated.
.
.
Thorin and Nivala show as Jean is adding a hefty scoop of honey to the tea pot. "Chai?" Nivala gasps, looking ready to join a vibrating Lothur. Lad's eyes haven't left the pot since Jean left it to steep. Dwalin admits it smells amazing, but is it really worth the fuss?
Guess he's about to find out.
"You're going to love this," she whispers to Thorin, who took the time to fix his clothing at some point. Traitor. "We spent a couple years in Rhûn with the spice tribes. Hard work, but fascinating. One of the most rewarding experiences of my life." She turns to Jean. "I will never forget the delicacies you made, nor how the tribe matrons praised your cooking." Jeans pats her own cheeks, as if cooling a blush.
"This is the drink that got us in," Lothur continues the tale. "They almost never allow outsiders to learn their ways, but Jean impressed them. Even knew how to use some of the spices they don't take to market. Kept calling her a lost daughter."
Jean shakes her head, refusing the title. "Not from Rhûn," Nivala says quietly. "Not from Harad." She adds a splash of milk to each cup then pours the dark, spiced tea. "Please enjoy."
Dwalin smacks Thorin's hand away from his new mug, "Git yer own!" and quickly, but carefully, grabs it from the table and cradles it to his chest as though protecting it. King or not, Jean chose that mug special for him and he's not sharing.
"Earlier you mentioned visiting the Shire. Now Rhûn. Have you also been to South Gondor and Harad?" Balin questions. Dwalin takes a sip of tea as his brother does. "Oh my. This is lovely," he compliments. Moans of agreement sound around the room.
It's nothing like the flower water Dori foists on them during Company dinners. He takes another slurp. Reminds him of the spiced biscuits one of the vendors from the Iron Hills sells.
"The bazaar," Lothur prompts Nivala. "Coloured tents lined up alongside South Harad Road, stretched out half a league or more."
She leans back, resting against Thorin's side with a happy hum. "Baskets of sticky dried fruits and little green nuts. Delicate glass sculptures and window panels made of coloured pieces to create images. Swaths of fine silks, cottons, and goat's wool in rich hues and intricate patterns. Dresses and instruments we've never seen anywhere else."
Jeans sends Lothur to her room. He runs back with a case and puts it end down in the middle of the table. It opens into a display of sorts, showing off dozens of scarves like the one she's wearing. She motions for Lothur to turn the stand in the centre until she finds the one she wants.
Nivala makes a funny noise at the back of her throat. "You still have that? I thought for sure it would have disintegrated by now." Jean pulls the wide blue and purple scarf from the collection. "Lothur and I chose that for her almost a century ago. Impossibly warm for how lightweight it is."
Thorin handles the precious fabric with the reverence it deserves. "The swirling pattern is extraordinary. Like clouds at twilight." He sniffs the scarf. "What is this scent?"
Nivala leans over and breathes deep. "Frankincense," she moans. "After all these years it still makes me want to wear flowing cotton robes and eat sticky pastries loaded with pistachios."
"One day you will again," Lothur says for Jean. "A loving husband by your side and a curious child urging you to walk faster so they can poke and sniff and explore. Mavili and I showed you – both of you – the world, not just so you could find your place in it, but for you to experience the beauty of other cultures. Is your love of dwarrow dance less because you found joy while twirling with hobbits? Does your tongue not crave the thick, mushroom stew of the Dunland colony though you dream of tasting vanilla rice pudding just one more time?"
"You've always had a way with words," she whispers, tears running into the plaits of her thin beard. "I know I can love my kin and my culture while still opening my heart to others. I know because you taught me that. Taught us that. And I'm- "
"We," Lothur interrupts.
"We," she corrects, "are forever thankful. I can't imagine what I would be without you." She smothers a sob behind her hand. A muffled, "I'm not ready for you to go," is barely heard.
Lothur helps Jean stand and let's Nivala steal her away, murmuring he'll join them later. He stares sadly at the closed door. "Since the hit to her face, which should have killed her, Jean has said many times she's living on borrowed time. Now that she's seen Erebor and we're reunited..." he trails off as he turns to them. "Any day could be her last."
Dwalin drains his mug, but not even the soothing spices of her tea can chase the heartache away. He just met her – is still getting to know her – and Lothur makes it sound like she could be gone tomorrow. "Not enough time," he murmurs. He's not prepared to bury his new friend.
"There never is." Lothur slips into the bedroom without looking back.