A Song for Heart and Soul by rabbit.writer
“Some folk we never forget;
Some kind we never forgive.”
“Song of the Lonely Mountain”
Neil Finn
[Source]: thorinoakenshield.net post: 05/12/12
Note: This chapter contains implied slash.
Adadnurt ‘Afgargablâg 3rd
(Wednesday May 20th)
Erebor
The King of Erebor quickly discovered that letting go of his bottled grief and sharing it with his mother did not solve any particular problem. Kíli found himself sitting on his throne the next morning, feeling as out of place as ever before. Indeed, one might wonder what good speaking of the dead and crying for them had done. But, he felt more present in the matters of state than he had before; while his heart still hung in his chest like a chunk of broken steel, the young king was able to finally free a part of his mind from the all-consuming, subconscious business of sorrow and actually focus on what was going on around him.
That morning, he had made a step – however small it was – toward an acceptance of his fate. His straight razor remained untouched by the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom; as quickly as his hair grew (as all dwarrow hair grew), he was quite certain that the doubting lords of the Iron Hills would see a difference in their King when they came searching for a reckoning six days hence. And a reckoning they would certainly seek, according to Dáin, who was speaking now:
“…There’s dark mutterin’s, Thanu men. My old ears only hear whispers, but it’s enough to know that there are enough voices wi’ power an’ wealth who would use the eastern interlock’s collapse as sufficient cause to argue your abdication,” the brilliantly-haired dwarf-lord shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the very mention of a mutiny against the throne of Erebor.
“And what of you, Lord Dáin?” Kíli focused hard on modulating his voice – calm, collected, deep – and schooled his expressive features – detached, focused, impassive.
The young king sat properly in his throne, his boots planted quite firmly beside one another on the jadeite floor beneath him. His arms rested straight on the arms of the cool granite throne, hands draped across the ends to reveal the intricately carved rings he wore – silver on both of his thumbs to represent himself, gold on his right middle finger in memory of Fíli, and a recovered mithril on his left middle finger in memory of Thorin. He was not dressed as regally as he would have been for a truly formal court, but his jerkin was still quite fit for a king. It was made out of a well-dyed wool that was a shade or two brighter than the blue Thorin had usually worn. Like Kíli’s formal robe, the jerkin was edged with gold trim woven with geometric knot-work that mimicked his own personal sigil. His under-tunic was a simple, dark gray linen. Both tunic and jerkin were bound tightly at his waist with the same studded, sturdy leather belt he had worn as a member of Thorin’s Company. Kíli’s hair was neatly combed and bound in its usual way, pulled away from his face with a leather clasp. The Crown of Erebor – gold, ancient mithril and smoky obsidian – glinted across his brow and the King Under the Mountain tried not to fidget uncomfortably beneath its weight.
He had glanced at his reflection many times in the polished columns and crystal edifices of his regal halls; Kíli was well aware of how he looked, with the raven’s wings sweeping across his brow. He thought of one such glimpse just mere hours before, when he had allowed Dís the honor of placing the crown on his head. His mother’s name for him, the whole of his life, was “little raven”. Perhaps, he was born for the crown, after all.
Kíli made every effort to keep his shoulders back and his broad chest pushed out, as if he were in a seated version of military attention. As if, perhaps, he actually believed that he had every right to sit in his uncle’s throne, as if he was completely assured of himself.
It all felt like a lie, but Balin had long insisted that if one pretended long enough, a lie could become reality. Kíli sincerely hoped that this was true, else he would play quite the fool. But, Balin’s council had never been in error before, so the young thane had decided that there was no harm in trying to put his best boot forward.
It seemed to be having a mostly positive effect, from what he could gather in the faces before him. Bofur hadn’t stopped squinting up at him thoughtfully, sometimes nodding gently as if to himself, when Kíli made a particular move with his hands or asked a certain question. Ori – who he couldn’t quite see, since the mousy Chronicler was to his left and only in his peripheral vision – was scratching away madly in his enormous tome of blank pages, even when nothing was being said. Which surely meant that he was sketching yet another portrait, although Kíli tried not to flatter himself and assume that Ori’s quill-scritches were because of him. And Dáin had drawn his shoulders back and kept them there, proud and stout, when he had met Kíli’s schooled and careful gaze from upon the Mountain’s legendary throne.
Although, Dáin had not apparently pulled his shoulders or his spine to his full height until now. At Kíli’s question, a fierceness flashed through Dáin’s bright eyes and he puffed himself out in a subconscious display of unquestionable resolution. The strike of metal against metal rang through the open chamber, as the Lord of the Iron Hills smacked his gloved fist proudly into his chest-plate.
“I stand with my King, Your Majesty. As do all in my household,” Dáin’s beard all but quivered with the force of his sincerity. “You need never doubt that, sire.”
“We don’t,” Kíli dipped his head graciously toward Dáin and for a moment, the two smiled at each other (although, the younger dwarf tried his best to keep his as understated and kingly as possible). “But, the loyalty of Dáin may well be mute, if we cannot resolve the issue of the eastern interlock. A thane who cannot find the means to build his own kingdom can be rightfully called into question.”
The statement might have seemed self-effacing, but Kíli saw Balin nodding his snowy head in approval in the periphery of his right eye. The movement was slight, circumspect to be sure, but it bolstered Kíli’s confidence enough for him to continue calmly:
“You bring more masons to us, Lord Dáin?”
“I do,” Dáin’s wild hair looked even more feral as he nodded his head vigorously. “Fourscore journeymen, ten apprentices, and one master.”
“And what of the master’s credentials?”
Dáin was quite unsuccessful in disguising a sudden grimace. There was a pause, then a short puff of resignation.
“He is just turned 85, sire, and…” Dáin took a deep breath and all but mumbled: “He passed his Master’s Trial only a moon ago.”
Kíli resisted the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his long nose. He did squint down at Dáin and tapped the fingers of his right hand once, twice, against the runes of protection and power carved into the stone beneath his sleeve. It wasn’t Dáin’s fault, however, that one utterly inexperienced master was all that he could offer to Erebor’s reconstruction.
“We would speak to this Master of the Iron Hills,” Kíli tapped his fingers again; to his surprise, Dáin looked rather startled by the request. “He is waiting in the Summoning Room, is he not?” one dark eyebrow arched toward the carved wing resting just above it.
“He…he is, Your Majesty,” Dáin’s chest puffed in and then out, as if he was at a loss for what to say; after a few seconds, he sighed heavily and threw his hands mildly up in the air beside him. “He is deaf and mute, Your Majesty. An’ I fear he knows nothin’ of the elegancies of court.”
“Neither do you, if you flap your hands before your king,” Kíli reprimanded gently, but there was enough of a smile about his lips for Dáin to relax after a moment of wide-eyed dismay.
“My apologies, Thanu men,” Dáin bowed respectfully and clenched his hands at his side – not in defiance, but in an effort to remind himself to keep his frustration reigned in.
“This is, however, an informal gathering, though it is held in our throne room and recorded for Memory,” Kíli finally lifted his right hand and and rubbed it across his scruff; it was torture, sitting so still for so long. “Surely, your Master knows iglishmêk?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the dwarf-lord confirmed immediately.
“Then we see no issue in requesting his presence,” Kíli waved his hand dismissively and then set it back down across the arm-rest. “As we have already said, this is a mostly informal court, among kin. We will speak to him in iglishmêk and we will disregard any breach of etiquette that the Master may make, for this one time.”
Dáin bowed again, Kíli’s implied command understood – if the sole master mason of the Iron Hills was going to participate in the reconstruction of Erebor, then his presence in formal court, however infrequent, would be required. The intricacies of court was something the poor mason would have to learn, and quickly, if he was not to make a fool of himself, Dáin, or his King in the Council of Words planned for the first day of Gargbuzrâmrâg, which was less than a week away. [“Deep Ale Fest“]
As the guards at the entrance to the throne room reached up and heaved the tall iron doors open, Kíli propped his elbows more firmly on his armrests and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. In a formal court, he would not use iglishmêk himself – that would be Balin’s duty. But, the young king meant to extend courtesy and respect to Dáin’s master mason and there would be no harm done in using iglishmêk himself for this first meeting. As it was, Kíli had always quite liked the hand-language of his kin, and had frequently held whole conversations with Fíli over the years without ever once uttering a single word. He had not used iglishmêk since Fíli’s death, either, and those closest to him would know that their king hadn’t spoken with his quick, nimble fingers in almost two years. They would mark his effort and know the cost it made him. They would also recognize the subtle message he was trying to get across – that he had accepted, or was at least trying to accept, that he was King Under the Mountain.
A diminutive form trotted obediently down the long, narrow walkway, a little too fast for the dignity required of meeting a king. But, the round face that politely refrained from looking up him was quite earnest and once the master had drawn abreast of Dáin, he bowed appropriately, if clumsily.
“Please tell the young Master that he may look at us,” Kíli unclasped his hands and let them hang loosely above his lap, as he addressed Dáin. “We would speak with him ourselves.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” his uncle’s cousin nodded and after a few brief flickers of his fingers, the master mason turned wide gray eyes up at his king.
“You honor us with your presence, Master Mason,” Kíli’s hands wove his words in front of him and he couldn’t help a brief smile at the look of awe, respect, and appreciation that brightened the surprisingly beard-less face below him. “Welcome to Erebor. Hail and well met. Please, give us your name, so that we may address you accordingly.”
“I am Alf, son of Althjof, of Ered Luin, Your Majesty,” the young master mason answered back, slowly at first, but as he eyed Kíli carefully for any sign of displeasure – and found none – his fingers flew faster. “It is indeed my own honor to even walk the halls of mighty Erebor and to speak with the King Under the Mountain.”
Kíli dipped his head regally at Alf with a faint smile of approval that the sharp-eyed mason caught. The young dwarf was clearly shy and most unused to speaking to those far above his own station, but his shoulders straightened back under the kindness of Kíli’s approval.
“Tell us, Master Alf, have you studied the prints and plans of Erebor?” Kíli suspected he knew the answer – Dáin was a thorough man, for all his bluster and bellowing.
“Yes, sire,” Alf signed back immediately.
“Have you seen or studied the notes of the late Masters, Skirvir and Virvir?”
“I have,” Alf nodded his head as he signed and only after he let his hands drop did he realize his mistake and added a belated (and bemused), “Sire.”
“Do you know what went wrong in the eastern interlock?” Kíli watched Alf carefully for his response.
The mason – who was little, even for a dwarf – did not answer immediately. The King did not push him; Alf would answer in time and hurrying him for an answer would simply frighten the skittish young man. This was also a question of the greatest importance, which would determine whether or not Kíli would truly have to go back into Dale and seek the help of the cantankerous Kivi Journeyman.
Dáin had come to Erebor after the cave-in, fully prepared to provide what help he could to his new king. But, because of all the funeral arrangements, ceremonies, and condolences, Dáin hadn’t had an opportunity to tell Kíli much of anything about the masons that he had brought from the Iron Hills. For a few moments, at least, Kíli had hoped that he wouldn’t have to take Bard up on his advice, but as Alf answered, he realized that he may have little other choice.
“I must regretfully admit, sire, that I do not know what went wrong. My review of the materials I have been given, do not offer a ready explanation. I am an experienced mason, but Masters Skirvir and Virvir had almost a hundred years more of master-craft than I can claim,” Alf paused and his eyes searched Kíli’s face nervously for any sign of anger or disappointment.
Kíli was disappointed, but he didn’t want to undermine Alf’s confidence.
“Please speak freely, Master Alf. You are wise to tell us your limitations so honestly.”
The dwarf-mason’s chest – which was covered in a neat, if rather weathered, leather workman’s apron – rose and fell as if in deep relief. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, Alf continued.
“I can find no fault in the Masters’ plans,” Alf’s face was earnest, as he continued speaking to his King in the only way they could. “I have also taken the liberty to inspect what I could of the eastern interlock and its rubble. I do not possess the skill necessary to determine what went wrong and how to avoid a collapse from happening again, when we rebuild.”
“Is it possible that the eastern interlock could be rebuilt without the fear of another collapse?”
“Yes, sire, that is possible. But it is not well-advised,” Alf’s hands were steady and his eye-contact firm; he was certain in his reply. “Without knowing what went wrong the first time, it would be foolish to rebuild again. I fear…” he paused, his fingers faltering.
“What does your intuition tell you, Master?” Kíli leaned forward slightly, intent on watching Alf’s small hands for his answer.
“I fear, sire, that the fault may not have lain with Masters Skivir or Virvir…nor with the dragon, Smaug,” Alf’s eyes were wide and something like uncertainty tinged his gaze, but he continued to sign to Kíli, determined to obey his King’s command. “I fear that the fault may lay with the interlock’s original creators.”
“Nonsense!” Dwalin huffed, but Kíli threw up his hand and shot his personal bodyguard and long-time protector a harsh look.
“It was once said that reclaiming this mountain was ‘nonsense’,” the young King pulled his shoulders back until they were resting, rigid and proud, against the back of his throne. “Yet, look at where we sit,” he spread his hands open wide, inviting the gazes around him to take in – yet again – the incredible majesty of their ancestral home. “There is not a being in Middle Earth, Captain, that does not make wrong judgments.”
Kíli’s duly appointed Captain of the Guard bowed his head respectfully in acknowledgment of the point so made. For himself, the younger dwarf heaved an internal sigh and stared thoughtfully off into the distance, just beyond Alf’s narrow right shoulder.
Perhaps if we hadn’t assumed the infallibility of dwarven skill, much would be different, he thought to himself, the memory of Fíli’s lifeless body lying broken amid bloodied stones and sullied snow. Perhaps Bard has a point – some humility might do us well.
The Stiffbeard dwarrow-maid’s brilliant halo of hair and piercing eyes came to mind, then. There was no confusing the matter – she was a fire and a tempest, and an unbending knee. Her words had cut deep – “Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further. But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I refused to consider your request through yon Master Dwarf.”
She had defied him, had put her hands upon him (not that Kíli had much minded, since royal boundaries were not exactly something he enjoyed, being a fairly tactile individual himself), and had treated him as if the crown he now wore on his head was nothing more than a woven braid of posies. Her refusal to help Erebor confused him, as Kíli had never encountered such a lack of loyalty from another dwarf.
Then again…Thorin had called for the Seven Houses to meet at Ered Luin and all to a one had refused to contribute troops to the retaking of Erebor. Even Dáin had initially refused; Thorin had, however, been frustrated, but not bitter. He had, instead, made the best of what he had – not the best nor brightest, Balin had pointed out that fateful night at Bag End – and had welcomed Dáin’s belated arrival with gratitude, not anger. For the first time, Kíli wondered who of the Eastern lords had answered Thorin’s call and who had stood before his uncle on behalf of the Stiffbeards. No doubt, it was a man like Jarvi, but the cheerful smile on Kivi’s face before she realized that Kíli was not a fellow Frost Dwarf swam into focus. Had it been one like her? A rare dwarrow-dam, full of passion and pride?
What was it that the master mason had said? “You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself.” Kíli stroked his chin and turned those Northern words over in his mind for a long moment, before he finally focused on Alf again.
The throne room had gone still and silent. Kíli could feel the tips of his ears (so conveniently hidden beneath the waves of his hair) turn red in embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to drift into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation.
“Master Alf, thank you for your council and for your wise accounting of your skills. You will serve our Kingdom well…” Kíli paused for dramatic effect and held Alf’s eyes meaningfully for several long seconds. “But, we must ask one last question, before releasing you to return to your own valuable time: could you work without conflict with another master mason?”
“Assuredly, sire. It would be my great honor and pleasure,” Alf replied instantly, eagerly.
Kíli couldn’t help a dry smile as he added the all-important punchline:
“Even a daughter of Thulin? A master mason of Gabilzahar?”
Alf’s gray eyes grew wide, until they seemed to dominate the totality of his expression. For a moment, the little mason just quivered in his very boots and Kíli began to worry that he had given the master dwarf enough of a shock to induce a failure of the heart.
Alf’s answer, however, was everything Kíli had hoped for and none of what he had expected.
“A true master mason? A Mestari of the Stiffbeards? Sire, a Stone Master of the North would be a highest honor to Erebor. I would willingly rank myself as a mere apprentice again, for the opportunity to work under the chisel and mallet of a Stiffbeard mason.”
Well. That settled that. Almost, anyway – Kíli wasn’t quite sure Alf comprehended the full details of what he was getting so excited over.
“Even if this master were a woman? A maid of your own age?” Kíli was guessing here, but based on the lines on Kivi’s face and the lack of others, he guessed her to be a contemporary of himself or Alf.
“If she is a Mestari of Gabilzahar, it matters not,” Alf waved a dismissive hand between his words. “Male or female, it makes no difference. She would have no parallel in the West, sire.”
“You’re not thinkin’ o’ askin’ that thrice-damned shrew again?” Bofur just gaped stupidly at Kíli from across the length of the narrow Council Room.
“Third time’s the charm?” Kíli shrugged, with some of his old cheek rising to the fore.
“Don’t make jest, Your Majesty!” Bofur’s mustache trembled indignantly. “I dare say we can make due wi’ Master Alf!”
“Except no one’s askin’ ya’ fer ya’ say,” Dwalin drawled laconically from his post by the fire.
The enormous (for a dwarf) warrior had one thick arm resting above the other, as his chest was entirely too wide to cross them as perhaps Ori or Nori could. One foot was draped casually over the other, as Dwalin rested the bulk of his weight on one leg and against the corner of the carved fireplace mantle. The older dwarf fixed Bofur with a warning gaze, which the engineer respected, but not without a put-upon little huff into his mustache.
“An’, dinna’ kin if ya’ noticed,” Dwalin continued, his eyes hard fixed on the fuming Bofur. “But, I dare say that Master Alf looks as if one good push o’ the wind would send ‘im tumblin’ feet o’er head into the nearest ravine.”
“Well,” Bofur snorted and stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. “One certainly couldn’t say that ’bout that damned dwarf-maid. Lass is so prickly, she coulda’ chased Smaug outta’ here just by screechin’ at ‘im.”
“What is all this talk of a dwarrow-maid?” Dís had quietly entered the Council Room while Dwalin had fussed at Bofur.
Upon realizing her presence, every male in the room (which accounted for the whole room) either stood up or stood up straighter. Kíli quickly grabbed his chair at the head of the Council Table, which he wasn’t using, and beckoned for his mother to take her seat among them. Dís did so, her movements through the gathering of men with more grace and fluidity than one might have otherwise expected from a dwarrow-dam. Only after she had settled her skirts about her – today, a cheerful robin’s egg blue – did she look expectantly toward Bofur, who blushed clear to the tips of his fuzzy ushanka.
“Ah…well…ah…” Bofur stuttered, shocked not only to be speaking to the sole Princess of Erebor (a long-time and well-known recluse among the Blue Mountain dwarves), but to be in the presence of a female dwarf in general.
Dís just smiled brightly at Bofur and shook her head; her dark eyes, so much like her elder brother’s, slid over toward her son. She lifted a thick, but gently groomed, eyebrow at Kíli and teasingly demanded:
“There’s a dwarrow-maid?”
Kíli immediately flushed a bright red and even he stammered in the wake of his mother’s words.
“Ah…uh…n-not quite like that, Khagun,” he sputtered, thankful to be only in the company of those who had known him since his dwarfling days.
“Though, she is a right beauty,” Ori piped up without thinking; when every single set of eyes in the room turned to him; the gentle scribe blushed as well and immediately found something quite fascinating about the stone beneath his feet.
“Do tell, Master Ori,” Dís continued to smile brightly and propped her chin on the palm of her hand, as she leaned against the carved rests of Kíli’s oaken chair.
Conflicted, Ori glanced up at Kíli, who was darkly mouthing the words “don’t you dare” at him. The scribe then glanced at Dís, who was as winsome as any fresh-faced dwarrow-maid at that moment, and Ori gulped. He was helpless against Dís’ considerable charms and he tried not to look at Kíli as he answered her prompting slowly.
“Oh, aye, Your Highness,” he didn’t dare speak above a whisper, as if that would somehow spare him from Kíli’s indignation. “A right beauty she is. Like a sunset in winter,” he nodded, quite pleased with his imagery. “Brilliant, flaming hair, an’ lots o’ it! An’ the brightest blue eyes, rather like F-” Ori stopped himself immediately and lost his nerve.
He had been about to say “like Fíli’s” and his heart pounded in his chest. What a cruel thing to say to the heir apparent’s grieving mother.
“L-like f-frost on the River Runnin’,” Ori cleared his throat and continued bravely, not daring now to look at anyone in the room, but still quite determined to recover from his inexcusable slip of the tongue. “When the afternoon sun hits it.”
“So, like Fíli’s,” Dís murmured softly; startled, Ori snapped his gaze up to hers and was perplexed to see her still smiling.
Although, on second glance, it was a smile tinged with sadness. Ori dipped his head again, unable to voice his apology, but hoping the Princess would forgive him all the say.
“It is quite fine to speak the names of our dead,” Dís continued a little louder, as if sensing Ori’s thoughts. “And to compare the eyes of a dwarrow-maid to Prince Fíli’s is quite certainly the highest of compliments.”
Kíli, for his part, swallowed thickly and tried not to think that Ori was right in his comparison. Kivi did indeed have eyes as brightest blue like Fíli’s – although, perhaps, hers were better compared to Thorin’s, as stormy as he had seen them.
“And who is such a lass, to remind you of a friend and prince so dear?” Dís titled her head, eyes and mouth still gentle, but still a little sad.
Ori opened his mouth to answer, but Bofur’s grumbling beat him to it.
“Yi’, I assure ya’, that’s where the resemblance stops. An ill-tempered creature, that one.”
“Oy!” Ori startled himself by stopping his foot; he paused for a moment, as if to process that yes, he had really had just yelled at Bofur, but then plowed ahead at full steam. “Would you stop that? Why don’t you just admit that your dislike o’ Master Kivi ‘as nothin’ to do wi’ the King, or Erebor, or none o’ it!”
“You shut yer mouth!” Bofur jabbed a thick-tipped finger at Ori as if it were the sharp end of a sword.
The little scribe was having none of it, however. He fairly shook in anger and Kíli watched, wide-eyed, as Ori lost his temper for the first time in memory.
“I was mad wi’ her the day we left Dol Amroth!” despite his warning, Bofur seemed unable to disengage from the argument brewing between him and Ori.
“For a day! A week, perhaps!” Ori threw his hands up and his face was rapidly turning a rather interesting mix of white and red. “But, you didn’t ‘ave an ax to grind with ‘er, ’til the eastern interlock collapsed!”
“She coulda’ helped us! She coulda’ kept the interlock from collapsin’ in the first place!” Bofur’s roar made even Dwalin stand up straight and lean away from the engineer’s wrath. “This whole…this whole…” Bofur fumbled over his words and everyone watched in shock as tears began to well up in the stout-hearted dwarf’s dark eyes. “This whole mess coulda’ been stopped! We wouldn’t ‘ave to bury ‘alf o’ Durin’s masons and stone-workers, if she ‘ad been willin’ to ‘elp us. Instead, she’s out there,” his voice finally broke, as he threw an arm wide and waved a hand in the vague direction of Dale. “While we…while…”
It would appear that Bofur couldn’t speak any further. He just stood there, tears leaving thick, glistening streaks that disappeared into his mustache, his arm outstretched, his body taut, his haunted eyes fixed angrily at Ori.
“Just say it, Bofur,” Bombur had hauled himself up out of his seat and across the floor to put a meaty hand on his brother’s outstretched wrist.
Gently, the robust head cook of Erebor pulled Bofur’s arm down toward his side. The engineer never looked away from Ori, though, never stopped trembling in his grief and anger.
“She’s out there, ‘elpin’ Men,” he finally hissed through his tears, seemingly spurred on by Bombur’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “While we bury more o’ our kin, some o’ our best. While -” Bofur made a choking sort of sound in his throat, but Bombur murmured something to him in a low voice and the words tumbled out in rush. “While I buried Han.’
Ori looked puzzled for a moment, but then an awful realization dawned across his face, as several facts clicked into place.
“Han? H-Hanar?” he stammered. “The toymaker?”
Bofur just nodded
“What was a toymaker doing in the interlock?” Balin looked up from the respectful attention that he’d been giving to his knees; he paused to consider his words and added more gently: “Or, was he in one of the upper levels that collapsed as well?”
“He had come down to the construction that day, for a wee bit,” Bofur’s throat moved slowly as he closed his eyes and swallowed what very well may have been a sob. “He was bringin’ me dinner.”
“Were you friends?” Kíli cautiously slid his voice into the conversation at hand; in truth, the young King had no clue about what had been going on between Ori and Bofur, but something like understanding was beginning to dawn on him.
Bofur’s whole body jerked and the muscles popped in and out of his jaw several times, before he dragged his eyes over toward his king. He couldn’t quite look Kíli in the eye, though, and it looked as if it took every ounce of internal strength he had to faintly whisper to a spot in the center of Kíli’s chest:
“Much more than ‘friends’, Your…Majesty.”
Kíli was shocked, but not scandalized. With a ratio quite skewed in the favor of Durin’s sons to Durin’s daughters, it was not so uncommon a thing for a male dwarf to find his One in another of his own gender. It was a quiet thing, though – not necessarily because there was any social taboo on the matter, but because it was such an ordinary occurrence. The fuss and focus was made over male-and-female unions, since they were themselves so much rarer. But, for all their appearances to the outside world, the dwarrow were a deeply passionate race, full of affection and the drive to share it with one another. Men and women, or men and men, it didn’t matter.
Kíli just hadn’t ever realized that Bofur had left his One behind in Ered Luin when he joined the Company. Then again, Kíli hadn’t really known the affable engineer before their meeting at Bag End. Bofur had never mentioned Hanar’s name – or nickname – once, however, in all their travels, in all their time together. That, as well, was not so unusual.
Dwarrow did not make much to do about their relationships with one another. And dwarrow friendships were often so long-lasting and intimate (in the most platonic sense of the word), that it could be near impossible to distinguish a close friendship from a marriage between dwarrow men. It was simply something that unfurled quietly in its own time and the dwarrow, as a whole, where quite happy with that. After all, what was their own business, was indeed their own business.
Bofur’s response toward Kivi from the other day now made much more sense to Kíli. He had been so busy that he hadn’t had any time to pull Bofur aside and to get to the bottom of the issue. But, an “issue” Kíli had suspected, as Bofur was usually the most easy-going and pleasant of all the Company, barring Ori, and Fíli when he had been alive.
“We have lost too much, sire,” Bofur had finally found his voice again and Kíli focused again just in time to see the engineer rubbing a sleeve roughly across his face. “Why must we grovel for the aid of a lass who doesnna’ wanna’ give it?”
“Well, I wasn’t intending on groveling -” Kíli began, but Bofur cut him off.
“But, you are, even if that’s not your intent,” the older dwarf finally looked his king in the eye, although his face was still hot and wet with tears. “We keep comin’ back around and back again over this master mason business. We need one, aye, I don’t deny that an’ I think I can say that as Chief Engineer, I know that fact better than anyone else in this room,” Bofur’s voice grew stronger as he brought his emotions under better control. “But, why must we chase after a woman who doesn’t even call us kin? I say leave ‘er to rebuild Dale’s walls and may Durin’s Bane ‘ave ‘er.”
There was a long silence at that, until Dís gently interjected:
“I do insist – who is this lass that so troubles the proud sons of Durin?”
“Kivi Journeyman,” Kíli finally answered, his words dragging past his lips reluctantly. “And according to Master Bard, who introduced us to her, Master Kivi troubles us because we are proud.”
“Ooh,” Balin huffed into his snowy-white beard. “I would have loved to have been a mouse in the corner for that conversation.”
Kíli shot his loyal and level-headed adviser a dour look. Balin was forever – for as long as Kíli had known him – grumbling about Durin’s pride as if he were a smaller version of Gandalf.
“Is this lovely lass a Firebeard, then?” Dís frowned ever so slightly, as she thought of the Longbeard’s irascible cousins, who were more than well known for their scarlet hair and flaming tempers.
“She is not a dwarf of the West,” Kíli shook his head, his nose brushing against his shifting hair. “Master Kivi is a daughter of Thulin, a Stiffbeard.”
Dís’ eyebrows began to knit over her eyes as she considered her son’s news. All eyes fixated on her as she gazed into the fire for a moment and unconsciously nibbled her bottom lip.
“How odd,” the Princess murmured thoughtfully, with a sidelong frown toward the wide-eyed Ori. “You said something about Dol Amroth?” Dís rapidly put two-and-two together. “Is that where you first met her, Master Ori?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the scribe nodded his head meekly. “It was while Bofur an’ I were on the King’s mission to recruit more dwarrow masons for the reconstruction. We first heard rumors of her when we were traveling through the villages of the Brown Lands. That lead us to Minas Tirith and their praise of her there lead us to Dol Amroth.”
“And now she lives in Dale?” Dís pressed.
“Yes ma’am,” Ori nodded dutifully, while keeping his gaze carefully averted from Bofur.
“A fascinating lass,” Kíli’s mother tapped a bejeweled and painted finger against her lips. “A dwarrow-maid who also claims the title of a master mason, traveling alone? This in and of itself would be quite curious, but a Stiffbeard as well? They haven’t been seen in the West since the great defeat of Azanulbizar and most rarely before even that.”
“She doesn’t travel alone,” Ori jumped in as Dís took a breath and a pause; he then realized his rudeness and stammered: “M-ma’am.”
“A company, then?” Dís’ eyebrows rose higher.
“She was accompanied by a man named ‘Jarvi’, the other day,” Kíli, too, was intrigued and he leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. “Her cousin,” he frowned slightly, choosing not to mention Jarvi’s curious mix of dwarven and Mannish features. “I didn’t know that she had other companions.”
“Just a few more,” Ori explained slowly, not quite sure what his information would mean to the King and the Princess. “There is the Stiffbeard smith, Master Seppä, who has traveled with her. Also, Katrikki, the Ice Elf, and Etsijä, a Man of the Forodwaith.”
“And the two dwarflings,” Kíli added; Ori nodded.
“Aye, Master Kivi’s niece and nephew.”
“Two dwarflings, three Stiffbeards – two masters of their craft – an elf, and a Man,” Dís titled her head prettily, but her gaze was quite intense as she looked toward her son. “A curious party, indeed.”
Kíli frowned thoughtfully at his mother and then toward the fire. He, too, chewed his bottom lip for a moment as he considered this additional revelation about the proud-hearted Kivi Journeyman.
They are either running from something, or to something, he squinted suspiciously beyond the jumping flames of the Council Room’s crackling fire.
“You say, Master Ori, that Master Kivi moved to Dale after refusing the King’s offer in Dol Amroth?” Dís dug a little further for clarification, her eyes as deep and distant as her son’s.
“Y-yes ma’am,” Ori answered sheepishly; even he, as mild-mannered as he was usually, was offended by Kivi’s blatant gall and disrespect.
Unlike Bofur, however, Ori had an almost compulsive need to understand the motivations of others. What perplexed him the most, was not Kivi’s refusal, but was that he could figure out no logical explanation for why she was acting the way she was toward the Line of Durin. He said as much to Dís, haltingly, certain that such a confession was necessary to move the conversation along a little further.
Ori did not believe that beings – even hard-headed dwarves – acted without some true reason. At least, those beings who were not, at their deepest depths, corrupted or evil. There had to be an explanation for Kivi’s behavior, surely, since Ori didn’t think she was either corrupted or evil. Just…broken somehow, someway, as Thorin had been.
“I know very little about the Stiffbeards, but during the War of the Dwarves and the Orcs, I was sent back to Ered Luin for a time to recover from a severe wound to my shoulder,” Dwalin piped up, his voice distant as he spoke to the fire. “I was accompanied by a Stiffbeard that Balin had befriended, an engineer and military leader named Vasara, as Balin himself could not be spared from the front lines. I and others who knew Vasara frequently referred to him by his title, ‘Eldest Brother’, or…” Dwalin paused a moment, to remember the foreign words and their pronunciation. “‘Vanhin Veli’,” the words came awkwardly from his tongue, but he continued without further pause.
“Vasara did not speak much, but he had a good and cheerful spirit. He held his friendship with Balin and me in high regard; he told me once that he quite respected the Line of Durin. He was proud to give us aid and to travel from the safety of his homeland to help us reclaim ours. He had a saying that has always stuck with me -”
“‘You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself,‘” Kíli interrupted, the words tumbling from his mouth instinctively.
Color tinged the apples of his cheeks, though, when he realized that he had cut off his elder and he glanced over at the gigantic Captain with an apology poised on his tongue. Dwalin, however, was now looking at him with something like amazement and if he was offended by his king’s disrespect, he didn’t show it.
“How do you know that?” he raised an inquisitive black eyebrow.
“I met Master Kivi in Dale the other day,” Kíli grimaced – his impromptu trips to Dale were something he preferred to keep to himself when possible. “With Bofur,” he glanced over at the chief engineer, whose face was still splotchy with the fury of his previous emotions. “We, ah…” the young king sighed deeply and squared his shoulders defensively as he sat up on his stool. “We exchanged some rather heated words, Master Kivi and I. Toward the end of our conversation, she uttered that very saying and then I called her a hypocrite,” Kíli turned his head up toward the mountain above them, as if seeking divine intervention. “That was not a conversation that ended well by any means.”
“She met you and yet still refused to help Erebor?” Dís interjected; she seemed more shocked by that, than by the fact that her son had engaged in a verbal altercation with a woman.
“I do not think I was what she was expecting,” the edges of Kíli’s lips twisted a wry sort of half-smile and he glanced down at his hands, which hung casually between his knees. “Her cousin thought I was a Stiffbeard myself and greeted me accordingly. I think she thought the same as well, but Master Jarvi beat her to it.”
Kíli thought back to the look on Kivi’s face, when she had first seen him, before she knew that he was a Longbeard, much less King Under the Mountain. That, truly, was Kíli’s first impression of her – a wide smile, dimpled cheeks, and sparkling eyes. She had seemed surprised, but hopeful, even excited. His brow furrowed in a shocking revelation, as he pictured her face and body posture in those first, fleeting moments – it was if she had recognized him. Except, as someone else, someone who was most certainly not the King of Durin’s House.
“I think she expected me to be someone else,” Kíli admitted, before his mother could interject. “Starting off a conversation off a shock and a disappointment would certainly make anyone reluctant to put forth their best selves.”
Bofur grunted.
“I don’t think she ‘as a better self.”
“Master Bard says she does,” Kíli’s broad shoulders rolled beneath his finely-spun tunic.
“I still don’t understand how she can give her loyalty so willingly to a Man and not to you,” Bofur continued to object.
“She said she didn’t trust me and was not yet ready to do so,” Kíli pushed a sigh through his teeth and shifted in his seat. “I cannot fault her for that, really.”
“The lack of loyalty, though,” Dwalin mused softly with a shake of his bald head. “Vasara, from my memory of him and Balin’s stories of him, was just as stubborn and proud as this Master Kivi seems to be. But, he came willingly to our aid and by all accounts, the Stiffbeard chief sent his best and brightest to us without qualm.”
“That is not to say, though, that they acquiesce to our every beck and call,” Dís murmured thoughtfully, as Dwalin fell silent. “After all, they did not represent the House of Thulin when Thorin called all Seven Lords to Ered Luin -”
“I thought he said that all had come,” Kíli remembered well every event that had transpired on his uncle’s fateful quest to Erebor; his eyes narrowed. “Was that not so?”
“I think, perhaps, in Thorin’s mind, all were indeed represented,” Dís titled her head; the beads in her hair clinked together softly as she moved to sit up straight against the back of the Elven-carved chair. “But, my memory of that day has never sat well with me. Thorin asked for my council and for my presence at his side during the talks among the Houses. The Stiffbeard chief was not there – although, Lord Synkkä of the Ironfists said that he represented both the Houses of Thulin and Sindri. He claimed that the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists had joined their Houses by marriage and so he came in representation of both.”
“A most unexpected claim,” Balin’s white beard quivered against his brick-red vest as he spoke; the elder dwarf’s expression was a mixture of concern and suspicion. “When did this Lord Synkkä claim the marriage had taken place?”
“He did not say and no one asked,” Dís reached up with one hand and absently fingered the tear-drop shaped sapphire that hung below her breasts on a long, finely crafted golden chain. “I found his claim curious as well. But, we were not there to unravel the secrets of Stiffbeards or Ironfists, so Lord Synkkä’s news was quite lost to thought by the end of that eve.”
“I find it quite hard to believe that the Stiffbeards would marry one o’ their daughters to an Ironfist,” Balin clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I remember the sons of Thulin from the War quite well myself. They were a just an’ honorable folk, secretive for sure, but some of the stoutest hearts to join us from the East. They were not at all like the Ironfists and I find it hard to think that they would have changed much in just a few hundred years.”
“The Ironfists were a common focus of derision in those days, too,” Dwalin was back to leaning against the mantle and he met his brother’s gaze from across the rather narrow width of the room. “We complain quite often about the Firebeards, but they are quarrelsome dwarflings compared to the Ironfists of the East.”
“Didn’t the Ironfists once wage war against us?” the young King spoke to his hands.
He was growing a bit impatient with the length of the conversation at hand; he had pulled out his old hunting knife and a block of wood that he had been whittling down. It was something he had done his whole life, since he had never enjoyed having idle hands.
“So, you do listen to your lessons,” Balin chuckled softly; Kíli looked over at his adviser with a frown, but the smile on his elder’s face told him that Balin was only speaking in jest.
Mostly. Kíli had become quite infamous as of late for his seeming inability to pay attention to Balin’s rambling lessons about dwarrow customs, histories, and laws. It didn’t help that he’d always been that way – Balin was only just now learning the challenges of Kíli’s child-hood tutors.
“But, yes, Your Majesty,” that wise old head nodded briskly. “Long ago, before the orcs took over Gundabad, the Ironfists got it into their heads to lay claim to the holy mountain. They succeeded for several hundred years, in fact. Until, that is, Durin II kicked ’em out with a mighty army from Khazad-dûm.”
“The Ironfists have held a grudge against the Line of Durin since then,” Dori finally joined the conversation, from his quiet seat to the right of Dwalin.
“Filthy petty dwarves,” Glóin grumbled in agreement from his stance in front of the Council Room’s tall, narrow door of polished silver. “A disgrace to Mahal and all dwarrow kind. Traitors, charlatans, mercenaries, and bastards – the whole lot ‘o ’em.”
“There is a great hatred between the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards, too,” Óin, who appeared to have been following the conversation surprisingly well (though, it probably helped that he was sitting between Dís and Kíli at the table, and therefore able to pick up the greater gist of the topic at hand), added his own knowledge of the two Eastern clans. “Not much is known about the histories of our Eastern cousins, but the ill-will between the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists is well documented.”
“This is true,” Balin looked a bit surprised by Óin’s unexpected knowledge, but graciously acknowledged it and added to it. “The Chronicles tell o’ a great host that came from the East, to join King Durin II and to help him reclaim Gundabad. It is said that the chief of the Stiffbeards rode at the head of his whole army – a proud and exceptionally trained alliance of Blacklocks, Stonefoots, and Thulin’s own sons. Incidentally, that is the only time in recorded history where the Stiffbeard chief ever set foot into the West.”
“What caused the ill-will between the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists?” Kíli glanced up from his whittling to direct his query to Óin.
“I do not believe our histories say,” the Royal physician had his hearing trumpet all but welded to his ear, as he leaned closer toward Kíli in an effort to hear what his king had asked; this seemed to work, as Óin actually answered appropriately. “But, in the early ages of dwarrow history, Kings Sindri and Thulin had a great quarrel between themselves. There was a brief, but very bloody, civil war between both Houses as a result. There has been animosity between the two ever since.”
“A fact which makes it quite difficult to believe this Lord Synkkä,” Balin huffed indignantly into his bushy beard. “There was no love lost between the Stiffbeards I knew in the War and their conspicuously absent Ironfist cousins.”
“Perhaps things have changed,” Kíli suggested naively.
“Not likely,” Dwalin laughed shortly. “Look at the Firebeards and the Broadbeams,” the grizzled warrior jerked his chin toward Bofur and Bombur on the other side of the mantle. “There’s not ‘alf as dramatic a history between our two cousins here in the West, but ya’d never know it for as much as they quarrel ‘tween themselves.”
Bombur – who, like Bofur and their cousin Bifur, were the sole Broadbeam representatives of the former Company – hooked his thumbs into his broad, saffron-colored sash and smiled, as if pleased.
“Aye, this is true,” his eyes were glittering beads in the folds of his thick face. “But only because those thick-headed Firebeards never listen to reason. Too full o’ themselves and the fires of their forges.”
A contemplative silence fell over the Council Room after Bombur’s chuckle drifted up toward the carved rafters and disappeared into the hardened earth that sheltered them all. Kíli leaned his elbows on his knees and his hair fell forward to create a sort of curtain about his face. Usually, he hated having his hair in his eyes like that, but he was grateful for the momentary privacy it afforded him. He stared hard at his whittled block and the scraping edge of his knife, seeing past them with barely blinking eyes. Throughout the discussion, several intuitive suspicions about Kivi that he hadn’t yet been able to analyze had fallen into place.
He found her interesting, in spite of himself and her brazen defiance. While he secretly agreed with Bofur and thought Kivi might be a few arrows short of a full quiver, Dís’ guidance of the conversation had made Kíli start to suspect that there might be deeper reasons for her resistance than just innate obstinacy. He had begun to suspect, at the start of their gathered council, that perhaps Kivi was hiding ulterior motives toward Erebor. Her decision to reside in Dale and self-admittedly “observe” the comings and goings of his kin had stirred Kíli’s suspicions. What was she hoping to see? An opportunity to sabotage them, perhaps?
But, that line of thinking didn’t hold for very long. If the master mason had nefarious intentions toward Erebor, then she had soundly undermined herself in reacting the way she did toward Kíli and Bofur. A spy, or an assassin, or a saboteur did not go out of her way to make a nuisance to herself. Perhaps if she had played coy with him, or had tried to ingratiate herself, Kíli might have had reason to suspect ill-intentions toward his kingdom. But, Kivi had been quite the opposite of all of those things and first impressions were hard to reverse – if she had personal or political plans that would pit her against the might of Erebor, then she would not have verbally attacked its king in the course of their first meeting.
No… Kíli wrinkled his brow until his eyebrows were practically a thick, straight line above his eyebrows. He was starting to suspect that she was running from something. If he had read his mother correctly, Dís seemed to be thinking the same thing from perhaps the very beginning, when she learned that Kivi had traveled with others of the North besides herself. And, if Kivi Journeyman was running away from something, Kíli thought it was perhaps best that he didn’t immediately involve his own kin in an affair that wasn’t of their own making.
“I think that Master Kivi carries secrets with her that may or may not be a danger to Erebor,” Kíli finally lifted his gaze and shook his head to try and move some of his hair from about his face. “Perhaps we should take heed of her choices and observe her for a while, from a distance,” the king slid his knife back into its sheath inside of his right boot and pocketed the now significantly smaller block of pale wood. “Let us make due with Master Alf for now,” he sighed heavily and tried not to think of the response this decision would most likely solicit from his growing dissenters. “And wait to see if Master Bard’s high opinion of Master Kivi is warranted.”
Kíli then fixed Ori with a firm gaze.
“How did you know about Master Kivi’s traveling companions?”
The little scribe cleared his throat nervously, glanced uncertainly toward Bofur (as if he expected another outburst) and answered in his meekest tones.
“I run errands for Óin and pick up herbs, teas, and other medicines from Dale each week. Master Kivi’s companion, the Elf-maid Katrikki, has established herself as a great asset to Dale. She is a skilled healer, with a great knowledge of herbs and their uses that so far has not equal among Erebor or Dale. I pick up Óin’s weekly requests from her and,” Ori dropped his gaze from Kíli’s dark eyes, to Kíli’s dark boots. “We talk.”
Frankly, Kíli was rather impressed by Ori’s admission, although the scribe seemed to think that he would instead anger his king. Ori had always been quite shy and virtually incapable of speech around any member of the fairer sex. Kíli had seen several of the new dwarrow maids try to strike up conversations with Ori during feasts. On more than one occasion, what he had seen had made the young king chuckle – not unkindly – into his ale, as he watched Ori turn bright red and all but flee from the festivities. The idea that Ori, of all dwarrow men, would voluntarily converse with a woman of any race was quite novel.
Perhaps there’s hope for him after all, Kíli couldn’t help a fleeting grin (which Ori missed, thankfully, as he would likely misinterpret it).
“What is the nature of your conversations?” Balin asked gently. “And don’t look down, Ori. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Unusual,” Dori grunted with eyebrows raised at his youngest brother’s uncharacteristic confession. “But, not wrong.”
Encouraged by Balin’s smile and Dori’s assurance that all was well, Ori looked up from the floor and met Kíli’s eyes again.
“We talk mostly of herbs and their uses. Katrikki will tell me tales of her childhood and legends of the North. She has told me a little of the history of the Stiffbeards and their culture. She has been silent about what brought her and her companions to the West, though. I must confess that I haven’t wanted to pry,” Ori made a face, as if kicking himself mentally for not being more nosy.
Kíli sensed Ori’s chagrin and waved his hand dismissively.
“There’s been no reason for you to dig into their business,” his hand then turned to brush thoughtfully across the stubble along his jawline. “And there still isn’t good cause, really.”
The king leaned back on his stool, until his lower back bumped softly up against the edge of the Council table. He folded his arms over his chest and considered his words before speaking again.
“Have you recorded any of your conversations with Mistress Katrikki?”
It was well known among those who had traveled with Ori to Erebor that he wrote down everything. Or, at least, it certainly seemed that way. He was never without quill or book, and the tips of his fingers were always blackened by ink. If he wasn’t writing, he was drawing; once, Fíli had jokingly asked if Ori planned to scribe what they all ate for dinner in the Royal Chronicles. A joke that might have been, but it wasn’t too far from the truth. Ori had admitted to Fíli that while, no, what they ate for dinner was not exactly worthy of the Chronicles, he did jot down details about each day in his own personal journal. If anything happened of note, Ori then made a note to himself to include the incident in more official documentation at a later time.
As Kíli suspected, the sandy-haired scribe nodded his head in the affirmative; the braids that framed his face swished merrily against his cheeks.
“Yes, sire. She has shared many fascinating things and I’ve kept a detailed account of our meetings.”
“Excellent,” Kíli stood up and stretched with a yawn that he made no attempt to hide. “Would you drop your notes off at my chamber, before you go to bed? I’d like to read them.”
Ori looked like he didn’t know whether to be pleased or concerned. He settled for a careful smile and a meek bow of his head.
“Of course. I can go and fetch my journal now, if you’d like.”
“Please,” Kíli stifled another yawn with the burly width of his right forearm.
Everyone else who had been sitting (except for Dís) stood when Kíli rose to his feet. Ori was the first to move toward the door; the others could tell that their king was bringing their meeting to a close, but waited patiently for him to officially dismiss them. Just as Glóin stepped aside to let Ori grasp the door’s cumbersome bolt, Kíli called to his friend to stop for just a moment.
“Just so you know, Ori,” Kíli dropped some of his formality for the moment – it was still hard for him to be “the King” to his peers and close companions at all times. “I’m not asking you to spy on Master Kivi or anyone else. Please continue having your conversations with Madame Katrikki in whatever way suits you best. I only ask that you let me read your notes each week – even if it’s just stories of the North Lands, any information about the Stiffbeards and their kin is of value.”
“Will you not ask Master Kivi to rebuild Erebor?” encouraged by Kíli’s informal address, Ori turned a little more fully toward his king, though his hand still lingered on the bolt.
“Not now,” Kíli sighed heavily and ran a hand through his long, slightly-tangled hair. “I think it’s best if we keep our distance for a time. We will rely on Master Alf and Bofur,” he nodded his head briefly toward the reconstruction’s lead engineer. “And whatever help can be gathered from those who remain.”
“What about the Council of Words? That’s a mere six days away,” Ori pressed hesitantly, as if he feared the answer.
“The dice fall where they may and to Morgoth with the consequences,” Kíli’s hand fell to his side with a half-hearted shrug. “There is only so much that can be done to influence the will of others,” his eyes grew dark with a determination he hadn’t felt since standing up to Thorin over the abandonment of his promise to Dale. “To use Bofur’s word, I will not grovel before any of the Khazâd – Stiffbeard, Longbeard, or otherwise.”
Kíli stretched out on top of his bed with a contented groan. It had been a long, long day and he was glad to be finally free of it. He felt, however, that he had ended it on a positive note, as his declaration to stand tall against his opposition among the Western dwarrow had been met with vocal approval from his mother and the Company.
He decided, however, not to spend any further time ruminating over the events of the day. What was done was done and he was quite tired of thinking over any of it. Kíli quite treasured his time alone – even when Fíli had been alive, Kíli would often steal away from his brother’s side and spend a few hours by himself. The two of them had appeared inseparable to the outside world and indeed, during the quest for Erebor they had been, but Kíli had always needed time to think and be on his own. Of the two of them, Fíli was actually the extrovert, although he hid it well behind the austere mask of the heir apparent. Kíli, however, was an introvert – a fact that many never realized, for all of the young Durin’s chatter in his princely days. Fíli had always enjoyed dealing with people and never seemed to tire of them – Kíli had always been quite the opposite, preferring instead to deal more one-on-one with the world around him.
A mug of half-drunk tea stood on his bedside table, just within reach, and Ori’s blue-dyed leather journal lay across Kíli’s bare stomach. He had quickly divested himself of his fine clothing the instant his bedroom door had closed behind him; all that remained were his pants, which hung low on his hips without the aid of a belt. The luxurious, silky strands of the wolf pelt that covered one side of the enormous bed was warm against his lower back, and the fluffy pillows propped up behind his shoulders and head did their best to lure him to sleep. His balcony did not open up into his bedroom, since that was quite a security risk; it opened up, instead, in the gathering room on the other side of the door. But, there was a large window with an ornate iron grate open to the left of his bed, opposite the wall-to-ceiling fireplace to his right. A warm, almost-summer breeze wafted pleasantly across his skin.
Yawning loudly, Kíli picked up Ori’s journal, determined to finish the last few entries before he allowed himself to finally fall asleep. So far, the reading had been – as Ori had promised – quite fascinating and Kíli was beginning to piece together a detailed portrait of life in the Northern Wastes.
Ori and Katrikki had talked more about the Stiffbeards than Ori had let on in the Council Room, and it was this information that Kíli prized the most. They were a complex dwarrow and, according to Katrikki’s claim, the wealthiest of the Eastern Houses. They were also the best organized, most well-connected, and most respected of the Eastern dwarrow – among the Khazâd (Ironfists not withstanding), elves, Men and all other races briefly named. As Kivi suggested by her demeanor, the Stiffbeards were indeed a proud people – as proud as any Durin’s son – and were quite supported in their perception as chief of the dwarrow in the East.
Kíli made a quick note in a journal of his own, which lay on the bed to his right – he intended to ask Balin about the Stiffbeard’s claims of equality to the House of Durin. For all that he had grown up in his brother’s and uncle’s shadows, Kíli knew little about the politics between Eastern and Western Khazâd. Were the Stiffbeards equals to the Longbeards, rulers of equal footing in the East? Or, was it just a perception shaped by the thousands of years spent apart from one another?
Kíli eyed his inelegant scribbles and thanked Mahal that Balin would never see the inside of his own journal. Penmanship had never been his strong-suit, for all of Dís’ valiant efforts and Thorin’s thunderous criticisms.
Turning back to Ori’s memories, Kíli rubbed a hand absently across the thick, black hair that covered the broad expanse of his chest. His fingers lingered subconsciously against the jagged, star-shaped scar left by Bolg, but for once, his concentration wasn’t derailed by the feel of his puckered skin. He flipped a page with his other hand and Ori’s latest account – dated two weeks before – thoroughly captured his interest.
“…A most curious thing happened today, when I went to visit Katrikki’s apothecary. It was a quick meeting, so we did not have our usual opportunity to talk about things that didn’t pertain to my errand. But, Katrikki was as beautiful and gracious as always; she offered me a cup of a new blend she had made, to try for her, and I stayed for about half of an hour to enjoy her company and craft.
“Katrikki was quite busy – apparently, Dale’s younger denizens have been experiencing a rash of morbilli and she had been working without stop. She took the time to wrap up Oin’s requests as always and we chatted quite pleasantly about tinctures and ointments suitable for the care of morbilli. As we were talking, however, we had an unprecedented visitor! Master Kivi all but burst into the apothecary, her expression quite perplexed.
“She did not see me at first, as I was sitting at the far end of Katrikki’s great big table, in the shadows toward the back of the store. Without any preamble at all, Master Kivi asked Katrikki if she had a mixture of Klamath weed and lavandula on hand. Katrikki seemed quite surprised, but answered that she did; I must confess I was quite shocked myself, as Klamath weed and lavandula are strong treatments for terrors of the mind and anxieties of the heart. Katrikki immediately set about making another tea for Master Kivi to take with her; they talked quietly as she worked, but I could hear quite clearly what was said.
“When Katrikki asked why she would need such a mixture in the middle of the day, Master Kivi admitted that some of her workmen had been sharing with her details of Smaug’s desolation and the Battle of the Five Armies. Master Kivi confessed that the workmen were, perhaps, a little too detailed in their accounts and had triggered ‘memories of the Harrowing’. I saw that her hands shook quite noticeably when she took her tea from Katrikki. While I cannot fathom what this ‘Harrowing’ might have been, it was clearly distressing enough of an event to affect Master Kivi from words alone. Her reaction – her wide eyes, shaking body, and roughened voice – are all too similar to what I have seen in Dori and Nori, when the night terrors awaken them and the memories of our devastations come back to them unbidden. Klamath weed and lavandula is what I pick up each week, as well, for the King, to manage his own memories and heartaches.
“Master Kivi left without ever once glimpsing me in the corner. Katrikki did not swear me to secrecy, but she did give me a look once the Master had left, that quite clearly asked me to keep this knowledge to myself. I do not know what haunts Master Kivi, but I would not deign to dishonor it by spreading about word of what I’ve seen. Some great calamity has touched the lives of our Northern kin and I do hope Katrikki – or even Master Kivi herself – may trust me well enough one day to tell me what they have seen.”
Ori’s journal lay open for many long moments after Kíli had concluded his reading. He drew one knee up as he pressed his right foot into the mattress; his left arm slid under his neck, to prop his head up as he frowned up at the deep blue drapes that covered the top of his four-poster bed.
“What is your story, Kivi Journeyman?” he gently asked the night in a voice deepened by thought and exhaustion. “And who are you?”
Iglishmêk – the secret hand-language of the Khazâd. I imagine it to be something like the hand signals we use in the military, but better developed, like ASL (American Sign Language), so that conversations can be held in the din of a dwarven smithy or mine.
Gargbuzrâmrâg – the “Deep Ale Fest”; this festival runs from the 9th to the 19th of the 8th Month (the 26th of May – 5th of June, for the purposes of this story). The Deep Ale Fest celebrates the hard work of the dwarrow – I won’t say more than that, since it’ll be described more in-depth in upcoming chapters.
Gabilzahar – the Khuzdul name for Kivi Torni, home of the Stiffbeards.
Durin’s Bane – the name given to the Balrog of Moria/Khazad-dûm.
Vanhin Veli – means “Elder Brother”, as mentioned in the text; this is the name given to the eldest brother of the Stiffbeard chieftain.
Sindri – the King/Father of the Ironfist dwarves.
Morgoth – the first and most powerful of the Ainur; Morgoth is who corrupted Sauron and tried to destroy Middle Earth.
Morbilli – another name for measles.
Klamath weed – another name for St. John’s Wort, which is an herbal treatment for mild-to-moderate depression.
Lavandula – another name for lavender, which is traditionally used to calm one’s nerves (anxiety).
