Author's Note: For a visual of Emery's banquet hair, go to youtube and type "intricate warrior hairstyle myhairstyle_xo" and just imagine the hair is brown, curly, and longer.
Emery picks at her sleeve. The material is comfortable enough, but the clothing itself is unpleasant to wear. She couldn't tell the elves about her pack, and therefore she couldn't tell them she has her own spare clothes. So when one of them brought her a dress to wear to the banquet while her travel clothes are being washed, she had no reasonable excuse to refuse. It's not that she doesn't like dresses, but she much prefers to choose her own clothes. Otherwise she feels like a doll in a game of dress-up. That's not to say the dress itself isn't lovely. It's even tailored to fit her (how they got her measurements, she can only guess). The fabric is a pale green with floral embroidered accents in gold. It's fitted to her torso and flares loosely from the hips, and has bell sleeves. She doesn't mind the fit of the dress, but she would love to rip off those annoying sleeves. And the color, while pretty, feels wrong against her skin. The shoes are simple enough, similar to ballet flats. She wonders if they happened to have a pair of shoes on hand that would fit her thick Dwarven feet, or if they made them on short notice.
"Quit your fidgeting, lass," says Dwalin beside her. She sighs and drops her hands to her sides. The outfit is uncomfortable, but it's not the cause of her nerves, and neither is the prospect of dining with Elrond. No, the source of her anxiety is the Company waiting in the pavilion at the end of the hall. She can already hear their laughter and general merrymaking. Her pace slows to a stop, her feet unwilling to take her further. She hasn't seen them since the warg chase, and she's afraid to face them.
"It's been a long time since I've worn a dress..." she says, trying to distract herself. Dwalin stops walking and turns back to her, then puts a hand on her shoulder.
"Dress or trousers, Dwarves or Elves, you're ready for anything you'll face in that room. And if not, tug on your ear if you need a rescue." That gets a chuckle out of her, which was his goal. He beckons her forward, so she takes a deep breath and wills her feet to move.
When they arrive, her eyes instinctively search for her boys. The sight of them laughing lifts some of the weight from her chest...until they see her and the smiles leave their faces. Their companions notice the sudden change and follow their gaze, and one by one they each fall silent. More than a few glares are being directed her way, but surprisingly not as many as she expected. Still, the feeling of being an unwelcome stranger sends a wave of sorrow through her.
"Ah, Lady Emery," the title causes her to jolt in surprise as Elrond stands, "won't you join us?" He beckons to the seat between Gandalf and Thorin. Dwalin walks her over to the table and pulls out the chair. She nods to him in thanks, then turns to Elrond as he goes to sit with the others.
"I'm no Lady," she says softly. "That would imply that I am of noble or royal blood, and I am neither. Just Emery is fine." Elrond nods and takes his seat, and the meal commences. She avoids Thorin's gaze and instead stares at her salad. She doesn't mind the green food, but her appetite left her long before she set foot in the pavilion. Besides...there's a problem she didn't anticipate.
"Is the food not to your liking, Miss Emery?" Elrond asks. She looks up, feeling a bit like a rabbit caught in a trap (she hoped he wouldn't notice). Hoping to avoid causing offense, she shakes her head.
"There's nothing wrong with the food, sir..." She pauses, feeling rather stupid. After a moment, she sighs. "It's the fork. I haven't used one since I was seventeen. If I pick it up, I'll almost certainly embarrass myself."
"Seventeen," Thorin says, speaking to her for the first time. She looks at him finally, and sees in his eyes what she's been expecting and avoiding: distrust and quiet anger. "You have been masquerading as a wolf since you were seventeen," he states rather than questions. She tries not to let herself shrink.
"That's how old I was when you found me," she says timidly. "I was three weeks away from turning eighteen, and I'd just transformed for the first time the day prior."
"Seventeen upon your first transformation?" Elrond says, an eyebrow raised. "I was under the impression that skinchangers are capable of shifting between forms as early as their very first breath." Muk. That's not a question she was prepared for.
"Well, I'm not exactly a skin changer as you know them," she says slowly, considering her words carefully. "I wasn't born with the ability to change my form, it was a gift."
"A gift? From whom?" Gandalf speaks up, eyeing her curiously. She starts to panic a little. What should I say?! Tell them you are unable to reveal that at present. They will know if you lie, but the truth must wait for the right moment. Her ears prickle at Yavanna's voice in her head (which doesn't go unnoticed, seeing as they physically twitched), and she sighs.
"I can't tell you that," she says. Thorin bristles.
"Why not?" he asks, his tone low and forceful.
"They said the time is not yet right." He looks ready to argue, but the wizard hurries to speak first.
"Does this person speak to you in your mind?" he asks. She looks at him with wide, confused eyes. "You appeared to have heard something," he answers her unspoken question. She decides not to answer his verbal one, but her silence is answer enough. Gandalf shares a glance with Elrond, but neither of them comment further. Though the elf takes pity on her and changes the subject.
"I do not recognize your accent," he says. "From where have you come?" She internally rolls her eyes. He unknowingly asked yet another question she can't answer. Thankfully, though, she did prepare for this one.
"I lived in many places during the early years of my childhood, and I picked up bits and pieces of many accents." Her reply is quick and concise, and the best part: it's not a lie. If any of them is suspicious, they don't voice it, and the conversation goes on much more smoothly from there. The swords are examined, the food is eaten (Emery makes the excuse that she'll eat later so she can reacquaint herself with forks without an audience), and she finally relaxes when Bofur breaks into song.
"Theeeeeeere's aaaaaaaan...inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn beneath an old gray hill;
And there they brew a beer so brown the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill"
A bread roll comes flying at the high table and soars between Gandalf and Elrond's heads, and Emery tries and fails to hide her laughter.
"The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow now squeaking hiiiiiiiiiiiigh, now purring loooooooow, now sawing in the middle.
Sooooo the cat on his fiddle played Hey Diddle Diddle, a jig that would wake the dead;
He squeaked and he sawed and he quickened the tune while the landlord shook the Man in the Moon, 'it's after three!' he said!"
She pities the elves (no doubt they're unused to such outward playfulness and it makes them uncomfortable), but the laughter stubbornly remains on her face despite all efforts to conceal it.