Chapter Six

A/N: translations in footnotes.


Gunnar, young Prince of Erebor, led the sturdy mountain pony that carried a skinny, ragged wounded man. His name was Kenelm, son of Dengil, and he bore a three-day old axe wound across his left side that had likely broken a rib or two. The result of some spat with his orc allies...all too common among that kind.

After leaving three dead orcs hanging from a tree as a gruesome warning to others that clearly said Orc-kind in Ered Luin: this is your fate, the dwarves prepared to continue on.

And then, to Gunnar's surprise, his uncle had sent most of the Ered Luin Rough Coat regiment north to Duillond, but he used this man as his reason to take a smaller contingent east to the borderland between the Blue Mountains and The Shire.

"I put you in charge of this man, Gunnar." His uncle had been glowering, not at him, Gunz understood...but at the situation. He'd spoken quietly. "He gave a password. He is a spy of the Dunedain and our ally...though you will make a show of treating him as a senseless prisoner. Talk only to Skirfir or me if he needs something."

Gunz had agreed. He'd heard the password, he realized after the fact. By Brega's horse…

"I suspect he won't live more than a few days," his uncle had said. "But let's see if we can reunite him with his people before he's gone."

And then his uncle had walked away to attend to other duties, as if the Dunedain man were of no further concern. It had to be that way, Gunnar knew, in case any more orcs were watching and in case there were any more Dunedain spies in their midst. Those men needed to retain their cover.

So Gunnar trudged along beside the obedient pony. He'd made a tea using his Auntie Nÿr's pain-relieving mix and gave the man sips as needed. At first, he feared the dwarf-strength tea was too strong. But it was a blessing, he decided, for the man to lay draped on the pony's back, oblivious to the jostling and swaying.

After only a brief rest near midnight, Kili's small contingent of dwarves arrived at the shores of the River Lune in the early morning hours. Here they found a river crossing that would take them through the hills north of the Towers and drop into the Shire near Greenholm.

"We will stop here," Kili said in a low voice, the gently burbling river washing over the shallows not far away. "We will not cross into the Shire just yet. Tend the ponies, but no fire."

Gunnar checked Kenelm. The skinny man was still alive, but when he gently shook the man's shoulder to wake him, the eyes that opened were glassy and stared at nothing. With Skirfir's help, he moved Kenelm to rest in a grassy place and threw a saddle blanket over him. The pony was fed, watered, and brushed, and then Gunz managed a moment to wolf down salted pork and a cold potato, boiled three days ago. Someone handed him a flask of something fiery, and two swallows of that warmed him a bit. He grinned his thanks as he handed it back.

And then, as the eastern sky began to lighten, his Uncle motioned him forward.

Gunz knew exactly why. Ravens would awake at dawn, and he, Gunnar of Erebor, was a ravenspeaker.


Fili has been sitting alone in his rooms, in this favorite chair, smoking, for nearly a full day...mulling Iri and Zêl's translation of the words that "just came" to Thranduil as the moon went dark in the eclipse two nights ago.

Durin nosse anida tumba nu dagora nalla en' annuminas lirilla i' sikil en' nir' sana tuulo' numenor. i' er ya a' maa ten' i' sikil lotesse il- caela ta ar' will utua ere' ba...

Annuminas. Clearly the ruins of the old city north of the Shire. Sikil. Knife. He snorted. Thranduil's guards had once taken many of his own sikil.

He suspected the rest of the message was ordinary elf nonsense.

But sikil en' nir'...knife of many. That...made him think. In his early years, learning to care for and fight with blades, he'd heard old tales of such things. He took another puff on his pipe and sorted the old memories.

Balin...ever the teacher. Fili, a father now, understood that old Balin had been challenged by trying to teach two young lads who preferred the training ring rather than the study hall. He'd taken to catching their attention with weapons lore.

The history of the sword that was broken. Shields imbued with extra protection spells as they were forged. Arrowheads that could not miss their mark. And the legend of at least one dwarven smith who had spent his entire life trying to unlock the secret of forging a blade of many blades. An Uhdbosh.

Fili understood—had always understood—the basic problem of using throwing knives in battle. Once thrown, they were gone. They could even be picked up and used against you. At the same time, a warrior could only aim at one target. It would help against a single opponent, but was a futile effort against an army.

His solution was to carry many, just as Kili kept a full quiver. He even preferred two swords, since losing one meant he was still armed.

But a blade of many blades would somehow let a warrior throw one blade that turned to many blades in the air. The legend was that a warrior could carry only one of these blades, but at need it would become many blades, enabling a lone warrior to defend against many.

But no one living had ever seen one, as far as he knew. Fili didn't even believe it was anything that could be created in iron, regardless of the blacksmith's art.

Mithril, though. In mithril...who knows...

And then the rest of the message. His heart burned at the words death and Durin kin.

He took another long draw on his pipe, then let the smoke out in a long stream. Iri and Zêl had dutifully translated the message, but Iri, at least, was too inexperienced to interpret it.

And he was stuck wondering how mithril could be spelled to turn one into many.


Just after sunrise on a cool, misty morning, Sam Gamgee stood outside Bag End, saddling up his pony Golda with a young Frodo-lad asking a million questions.

"But where are going, Da?"

"Just a visit to Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry," Sam said, tightening the cinch. "Not a half years' journey to elves or anything…" He smiled at his lad. Young Frodo was always asking about going to visit elves. "But maybe someday we will do that—when you've grown up a bit more."

Young Frodo raised both fists in the air and shouted his glee. And then Rosie was there, handing him a satchel with lunch and leaning in for a kiss.

"Da says we can go visit elves someday," Frodo-lad announced.

Rosie took her little son's hand. "Someday. But today," she looked at him and did not let go of his hand, "We are off to Mrs. Puddifoot's quilting bee."

Sam watched as Frodo-lad looked at his feet, lower lip starting to protrude.

"Oh, she'll have sticky buns, Mrs. Puddifoot will," he said.

Frodo-lad looked up, sudden hope in his expression.

Sam kissed the lad on top of his curly head, added another kiss for Rosie, and mounted up. "Just a few days and I'll be back," he nodded to them, and then pointed Golda toward the Road.

Despite being a Hero of the Realm, Sam rode alone in the direction of Tookland. He waved at hobbits doing morning chores, out to feed chickens and turn loose the goats into fields. Robins, chickadees, hummingbirds, and even one raven flitted through the air, and his gardener's sense had him looking at the sky. Maybe rain this evening, he predicted. A good overnight rain every few days was what made the Shire so green, after all.

An hour later, it seemed to Sam that one particular raven was following him. The third time it landed on a tree branch and quorked just as he passed, he knew it was no wild Shire bird.

It watched him. Sam looked at its beady eyes, recalling a little trouble with crebain once. "I'd like to hope you're one of those Erebor ravens as can talk to dwarves," he said to it.

The large corvid made a kuk-kuk-kuk sound as it laughed and launched itself into the air again.

Sam sighed, wishing he did not worry over every dark thing in the world.

Erebor's ravens are a breed apart, he recalled Gandalf telling him once. Not altogether friendly, but they are loyal to the house of Durin. And as long as the dwarves care about brigands in the wild, the Shire will be a safer place.

Sam had no quarrels with the western neighbors. King Kili had brought quieter times to the Shire, no doubt about that. And busy dwarves had gold and silver to purchase food. The entire Westfarthing was prospering from Ered Luin's new wealth, that was certain.

And then he rounded the corner that brought him to the barn at Waymoot.

"Sam!" A hearty voice greeted him, and Sam looked around. "Welcome to the party!"

And there was Merry Brandybuck, taller than a hobbit should be, arms wide in welcome.

"Hello, Mr. Merry," Sam nodded, pulling up and dismounting. Overhead, the same raven swooped past, then landed on a fence post. "That bird," he pointed, "has been following me."

Merry laughed, stepping up to offer a carrot to the pony. "Hello, Sir Bird," he called out to it. "Off with you now—tell your Raven King that his hobbit friends await!"

Sam looked at Merry as though the lad had finally lost his mind. "You think that will work?"

Merry shrugged and let out a bark of laughter. "Why not?" He looked back at the bird and waved a hand. "Off with you, now. Go on!"

Sam and Merry both watched as the bird stood tall a moment, muttered something neither of them understood, and then launched itself for a low pass over the hayfield before heading over the woods.


Late that afternoon, Zêl, guard-tutor to the Princess Iri, saluted the Erebor Royal Guard standing sentinel at the doorway to the Royal apartments with a short bow of the head, hand on heart, and was admitted. She needed her lunar charts for important calculations, and she'd left them on Princess Iri's desk in her study.

And the Princess was out for her evening sword practice.

Zêl walked with measured steps down the corridor, she knew the way. She passed the King's personal chambers. The heavy double doors were standing half open and the warm light of oil lamps shone on the smooth polished flagstones of the corridor's floor. Zêl walked by and from the corner of her eye she saw someone sitting crouched in a heavy, plush chair.

The King, it flashed through her mind. Was everything all right? Zêl paused and looked closer.

Fíli, King of Erebor, sat in an armchair, his golden braids framing his hunched shoulders, head bowed and his gaze fixed on a finely woven scarf he held gently in his hands.

Zêl recognized the elegant piece of cloth. A very fine scarf, the scarf of the Queen.

She felt a stab of grief deep in her heart. She knew that feeling all too well. She was about to move on—it would be more than inappropriate to disturb the King at such a private moment.

''Zêl?''

She turned and saw the King looking up at her. A brief tilt of his head told her that he asked her in.

Zêl slowly walked through the half-open door, then stood and bowed. ''My Lord.''

Fíli looked at the scarf in his hands and took a deep breath.

''Will it ever get any easier?'' He asked with an almost inaudible voice. Lady An had known Zêl's family very well and Fíli was aware that he and Zêl now shared the same kind of grief. She was herself a widow of many years.

Zêl remained calm despite the unusually private question. Her longsince service to the Royal Family had taught her that the descendants of the Line of Durin were not that aloof and detached. And since it was not proper to engage in such a private conversation while looking down at her King, she sat down on a chair by the door, folding her hands in her lap.

"At some point, My Lord ... yes," she answered.

Fíli sighed.

''Shall I fetch your daughter?" Zêl asked quietly.

''Thank you, but no...no. There is no need for that," Fíli said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. ''She has truly seen enough of this.''

Zêl understood. What the King really needed at that moment was the presence of his sons…or his brother. Someone who got him out of this ever-returning dark chasm, someone to take him out of himself and cheer things up, warrior-style. For a moment she considered sending for Lord Dwalin, but then something else got to her mind.

She stood up. ''My Lord, may I ask: When was the last time you went out? In one of the ale halls maybe? Having done something that was not purely mandatory."

Fíli looked confused. "Well, I think that was just before my brother's wedding, with Fjalar, and Gunz."

Gunz...that was a stiff subject.

''And with your brother?'' Zêl asked.

''I cannot remember…just for fun? Years back in the Ered Luin...that was a completely different time.''

Zêl relaxed as best she could and smiled at her King. ''Well, My Lord. I know when your son and heir accepts the crown from your hands that will finally happen again. But you should not wait that long. It may be a bit uncommon, but as your daughter's bodyguard, I consider it my duty to take care of your well-being, too. Please escort me to the Ale Hall of the Guard. It will do you good to spend an evening among your people.''

Fílis eyebrows shot up. Clearly, he wondered to the ale hall? Just so?

"Just look on me as one of the other lads," Zêl added, shrugging.

Fíli inhaled and tried to formulate an answer. But then he closed his mouth again and stood .

Zêl pointed with one hand to the door. ''My Lord, our Lady Queen would have been glad to know that you feel better. ''

Fíli understood why Iri liked her tutor so dearly. She was not just sophisticated and loyal to the core; in case of an emergency she was game to everything. He looked bluntly at her.

''Do we need a chaperon? '' Fíli asked with a weak grin and a frown.

Zêl thoughtfully rubbed her lightly whiskered chin. ''If you want to boost the rumor mill properly, then yes , My Lord.''

Fíli smiled.

Half an hour later he was sitting in the Ale Hall of the Guards with Zêl, the lads had raised their tankards to him, roaring a toast, but otherwise showed courteous restraint. Fíli was their King after all.

Zêl raised her first ale. ''To those we love,'' she declared.

Fíli bumped his mug to hers. "To those we miss sorely," he answered.

They both drank deeply.

''I hope you don't mind my asking, but how long…?'' He trailed off.

''Twenty-seven years and 3 hours, '' Zêl said dryly.

Mahal.

They drained their tankards.

Five ales each later, Zêl rested her head in her hands and looked up at her King. ''If I may ask, My Lord: there was a lot of whispering back then, that time when suddenly a Royal Wedding took place. How did you get to meet Lady An? It was said that Lord Balin had a hand in this?''

Fíli laughed out loud. ''Balin. Indeed. But he only grabbed the chance to keep the line of Durin going. I actually had a lot of other things going around in my head. It was utterly crazy. I…it...it was a coincidence.''

Zêl raised an eyebrow as if to say. "Yes? And?''

''You really want to know?''

''Aye," Zêl nodded.

''Well, it began like this...''

Two more hours later and after sharing a lot of pleasant memories about their "Ones," Fíli smiled, drank up and wiped the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. "I never would have guessed that your husband was such a merryman. Priceless. Another ale?''

Zêl shook her head, looking a bit tipsy. "Another one would be completely inappropriate in the presence of the King," she declared with a feigned serious face. "I think it's time for me to retire to my quarters. And I should probably do my calculations on the moon another time. How are you feeling?''

''Good…er…good. Thank you.'' Fíli realized what Zêl was getting at.

''You see, My Lord. It is getting easier. It's the good things that count, the happy memories. Thank you for celebrating them with me today.'' Zêl rose and bowed her head, hand on heart. ''Sleep well, My Lord.''

Fíli got up also. "You too, thank you." He returned the gesture.

''You are welcome. Should you ever need a representative to stand-in for your brother again, you know where to find me.'' With that she turned and disappeared in the crowd of revelling guards that filled the hall.

Fíli looked after her in surprise, feeling slightly dizzy.

Later, back in his bedchamber, he spread An's scarf over his pillow and slept soundly all through the night.

.

.

.


A/N: Please welcome Jessie152, who is writing Zêl's point of view in this story! Hand on heart to you, Jessie!

- Translation:

Elvish: Durin nosse anida tumba nu dagora nalla en' annuminas lirilla i' sikil en' nir' sana tuulo' numenor. i' er ya a' maa ten' i' sikil lotesse il- caela ta ar' will utua ere' ba...

English: Durin kin beware: deep under the battle cry of annuminas lays the knife of many...taken from numenor. The one who seeks the knife may not have it and will find only death...

Source: The Tel'Quessir Online Translator

- Also, if you are curious about How Fili met An, Fili and Kili tell the story to the kids in Story 3, Ch 20 (Kinseekers)... :D

- Finally, my apologies for the long wait for ch 6...spent the holidays with a pre-op and then post-op spouse and that sort of took priority. All is well now!

- Thank you so much for reading, and all feedback is welcome if you would like to drop a note/review!

- Summer (and Jessie!)