A Song for Heart and Soul by rabbit.writer
“Fiery mountain beneath the moon;
The words unspoken, we’ll be there soon.”
“Song of the Lonely Mountain”
Neil Finn
[Source]: thorinoakenshield.net post: 05/12/12
Izgilnurt ‘Afgargablâg 1st
(Monday May 18th)
Dale
Kíli would long remember his first impression of Kivi Journeyman. He stood up as Bard’s “unexpected bit of luck” stepped further into the long-hall, dragging along her two companions by their ears. He couldn’t see much of anything except her silhouette at first, lit as she was from behind by the high afternoon sun. There was a halo around her head, though, that puzzled him for the few moments that it took for her to step into the darker room and to come into better focus. He stood as she stomped resolutely toward the table in front of the two men and when she stopped just an arm length or two away from them, Kíli realized that what he had mistaken for a halo was the light of the sun on her hair.
Kivi had a veritable mane of long tresses the color of freshly polished copper, a brilliant mixture of gold and rose that gleamed even in the dimmer light cast through the window. Her hair was braided sensibly down the length of her back and pulled away from her face, but even that practicality couldn’t hide the fact that Mahal had blessed her with a beautiful, wild array of locks.
Her eyes were tilted slightly downward in the corner, giving them a fetching almond shape. Her eyes themselves were a brilliant blue, the color of aquamarines, Kíli fancied. They considered each other for a moment – Kíli’s gaze appraising, hers openly curious, if not a bit mischievous. Eyes, Kíli had heard Gandalf say once, were mirrors of the soul; if that were so, then he could already tell that this dwarrow-maid possessed a keen intellect and a clear conscience. She met the King’s gaze head-on, never looking away, never dipping her head demurely, never fluttering her eyelashes at him. She looked at him as an equal; Kíli enjoyed the precious few moments he would have of that. Surely, she would look at him differently – like all the other dwarrow-maids – when she found out who he was.
Her piercing eyes did finally flicker over toward Bard and Kíli took the opportunity to consider the features of her face. It was oval-shaped, broad along the brow in the style of dwarves, but her jawline brought her face smoothly to a proportionate, if smaller-than-average chin. Kivi had almost a button-like nose, straight and unbroken, and much smaller in size than most noses Kíli had eyed on the dwarrow-maids living now under the Mountain. He then noticed (with a sudden, unintended rise of an eyebrow) that Kivi did not have a beard, or facial hair of any sort, except for a pair of gently arched eyebrows that were a shade darker than her hair.
All-in-all, he found her a rather fetching sight, and he was a bit startled by that internal realization. There was no external attempt, however, to enhance or to draw notice to Kivi’s femininity. She could almost be mistaken for a young man, except that there was no way anyone could look at her small, full-lipped mouth and long lashes, and mistake her for being male. Her dress and demeanor, though, were decidedly ambiguous.
She wore a tunic of sapphire blue, that was significantly shorter than any worn by Durin’s kin. The tunic stopped just above her hips and was cinched at the waist by a handsome, studded leather belt, upon which hung the pouches and loops of a workman’s tools. The tunic’s collar was stiff and high; it brushed the bottom of her jaw along the sides and looked as if it were meant to be clasped shut in the front. Kivi wore it open, though, revealing pale, freckled skin along the curve of her neck and the top of her sternum. The tunic had long sleeves that Kivi had rolled up to just above her elbows, revealing surprisingly muscled forearms and a much lighter dusting of hair along the top of her skin than was normal for most dwarrow. The tunic collar and bottom hem were embroidered with a bright red thread and a few faint weavings of gold.
It was simple garb, accompanied by sturdy brown trews and a pair of chunky-toed, black leather boots that had very clearly seen their fair share of hard work. Yet, despite its simplicity, Kivi’s attire looked almost extravagant to Kíli, for all its bright colors and brilliant hues – the dwarrow of Durin’s House kept to understated, deep, earthy colors. Next to him and Bofur, Kivi was as cheerfully attired as the riotously blooming landscape outside.
As Kíli’s eyes traveled up from Kivi’s blocky boots, he noticed with a slight frown that the dwarrow-maid had no visible bosom to speak of; as this was usually his favorite part of a woman to consider, Kíli was a bit perplexed. There was not even the gentlest of swells beneath her azure garb and for a second, Kíli suddenly wondered if he had mistaken her for a “him”.
He glanced up, out of sheer reflex, to Kivi’s face and found her grinning at him like a fool. She opened her mouth as if to say something to him, but a new voice beat her to it.
“Hei, veli!” the deepest voice Kíli had ever heard (deeper even than his own, or Dwalin’s) drew his eyes swiftly from Kivi to the space behind her. [“Hello, brother!“]
A burly human man stood behind her; the struggling legs of what appeared to be a dwarfling slung over his shoulder threatened to smack him in the forehead. The Man seemed singularly unconcerned by the matter; his eyes, which were the same crystal-clear blue as Kivi’s, were crinkled up in the corners in a smile of genuine pleasure.
“Tervetuloalänteen!” more foreign words tumbled out of the man’s broad mouth, which was framed by an impossibly bright red mustache that would have made Glóin green with envy. “Mikä perhe soittaa sinulle sukua?” [“Welcome to the West!” / “Which family calls you kin?“]
Kíli shook his head dully, his brow furrowed deeply in confusion. He had never heard such a language before in his life, but based on the Man’s immediate friendliness, he had apparently mistaken Kíli as someone he might actually know. The young king opened his mouth to respond, but then promptly shut it, as he squinted, perplexed, at the newcomer. He had no idea how to respond.
“Jarvi, he’s not of the North,” a softer voice answered in Kíli’s stead and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was Kivi speaking.
She had glanced over her shoulder at the Man who was only a mere head taller than her. She shook her head, as confusion settled across her companion’s face.
“No?” he shot Kíli a puzzled look and no one could miss the way the Man’s eyes dropped over the length of the king’s body and then back up at his face.
“No, he’s one Durin’s sons. Look at how he dresses,” Kivi’s eyes flickered over to Kíli and he watched with no small amount of discomfort as her eyes traveled the same path as the Man’s.
“Ah, I suppose so. Pity,” Jarvi sounded almost wistful and Kíli narrowed his eyes at him; the Man noticed and grinned haphazardly at the dwarven king. “You’ll forgive my mistake. You have the look of the North about you. You have the beard of an unmarried man and you’re much taller than most of Durin’s folk I’ve seen.”
Before Kíli could reply, Kivi rolled her broad shoulders and glanced up at Jarvi out of the corner of her eye.
“I thought so at first, too. For a moment, I had hope. But alas,” she looked back toward Kivi and her expression had dimmed. “Looks can be deceiving, eh, Jarvi?”
“Eh,” Jarvi grunted and finally seemed content to return to the matter at hand, as he reached up to grab his still-squirming prisoner.
Kivi had turned her attention back toward Bard, but Kíli wasn’t having any of it.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, not sure whether to be confused or offended by their odd conversation. “That looks can be deceiving?”
Kivi looked at him again; if she was ruffled by his tone, she didn’t show it. In fact, she looked a mite apologetic and Kíli found that some of the aggressive stiffness of his shoulders eased in the face of her apparent empathy.
“Please forgive me, Durin’s Son,” she inclined her head kindly toward him, her words genuine. “As we’ve said, my cousin and I thought that you were a dwarf of the North. You bear a striking resemblance, physically, to the younger men of our homeland.”
Kíli blinked and only barely managed to keep himself from sputtering (and only because he could hear Balin in the back of his head reminding him quite primly that “Kings do not lose their composure in the face of the unexpected”).
“You’re…” his voice trailed off as something Kivi had said clicked – he glanced from her, to the Man, back to her. “Wait…your cousin?”
Jarvi answered.
“I think before we engage ourselves in a discussion about our relation, we should probably explain to Master Bard why you have his eldest child’s ear in a death grip, Serkku.” [“Cousin.”]
Bard chuckled at this. He had struck quite a firm friendship with Kivi in the months since the new year – some of this was because she was a dwarf of unquestionable honor and was true to her word. She had shown up in Dale claiming that she was a master mason and her work proved the great worth of her word. They had also become friends in response to the almost-instant rapport between Kivi’s dwarfling charges and Bard’s three children. All five of them were, at any given time, thick as thieves. The dwarflings – Keri and Kal – were exceedingly hard to dislike and Bard thought the same of Kivi. The two adults had bonded over the inevitable consequences of their childrens’ shenanigans and this was not the first time that Kivi had marched into Bard’s Hall with one of the Bowmen’s children in tow.
He had merely raised his eyebrows in resigned curiosity, when he had recognized Bain bent over at Kivi’s side, his ear firmly captured between her nimble-fingers. The conversation had naturally swerved toward Kíli, since he was the stranger in the room, and Bard had patiently waited for the focus to shift back toward Kivi’s recalcitrant captives. He was still quite thankful, though, when Jarvi brought the conversation around – the Bowman was most interested in hearing what his only son had managed to do this time around.
“Ah, right,” Kivi finally tore her gaze away from Kíli and turned her head to consider young Bain, whose face was on the same level as hers.
He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye and grimaced. Clearly uncomfortable, Bain had nevertheless submitted to Kivi’s motherly instincts and while being forced to march to his fate bent over, he had endured it with a stoicism worthy of due respect. Kivi nodded, as if to herself, and let go of his ear.
“Master Bain apparently didn’t consider the consequences of letting my niece and nephew have a bow and quiver between them,” Kivi now turned her head at her other captive, who was considerably less resigned as Bain.
Kíli eyed the dwarfling with interest – by all appearances, it was a boy, with wildly tousled hair the color of cream. The dwarfling was dressed in a green tunic the same shade as Kivi’s jewel-toned blue. The tunic was of the same style as the master mason’s – belted around the waist and flared out at the bottom just beneath said belt, high along the hips. His tunic, however, was short-sleeved and edged in a mixture of white and orange embroidery. It was also a little worn in places and patched; an altered hand-me-down, which was a prudent decision, given the dirt smudged across every inch of the young fellow’s exposed skin.
The dwarfling (who didn’t have to bend over to be held in Kivi’s iron grasp) glared defiantly at the room at large. His bright eyes – the color of jade – settled on Kíli and flared wide in recognition. The King stifled a sigh; he had hoped to escape the pending introduction to Kivi without having to reveal his true identity. But, that was clearly not going to happen, if the little dwarfling had any chance whatsoever to share his revelation.
“Aren’t you in charge of the armory today?” Bard brought Kíli back to the present and he looked quickly away from Kivi’s nephew to follow the course of the conversation.
Bard had his arms folded over his chest and was eyeing Bain sternly from down the long length of his nose. Bain shifted uncertainly on his feet and admitted quietly –
“Yes, sir.”
“And you just gave two under-aged dwarves a bow and arrow?”
Bain’s head bowed down toward the swept wooden floor beneath him, his expression duly apologetic.
“Yes, sir.”
“Which one of you barbarians asked Master Bain for a bow?” Kivi interjected with a fierce look from her nephew at her side, to the other dwarfling now fidgeting next to Jarvi.
There was a long pause, before Jarvi’s young charge piped up.
“It was me, Täti,” the little trouble-maker looked up from the floor and Kíli was shocked to see that the second dwarfling looked exactly like the first. [“Aunt/Auntie”]
Twins! he realized with a jolt; twins were exceedingly rare among the dwarrow.
To the best of his knowledge, a multiple birth hadn’t occurred in Durin’s line for over 200 years. It was hard enough for a dwarrow mother to give birth to one dwarfling, never mind two. At once. He was also a little shocked to observe that both dwarflings were dressed exactly alike (the only difference being that the second young one wore a tunic of deep amethyst; the colors in the embroidery were the same between the two, however).
She said ‘niece’ and ‘nephew’… Kíli narrowed his eyes as he looked from one child to the other.
While it was true that dwarven men and women looked quite a lot alike (and especially so as children, before the beards started to grow), the completely asexual garb between the two dwarflings was puzzling, to say the least. On rare occasions, Kíli had seen adult dwarrow-dams wearing trousers, particularly in the mines or at the forge. But, dwarrow daughters were so rare that Kíli had never known a dwarrow-dam to not dress her girl in skirts, as a way to proudly differentiate her rare daughter from all the boys that were sure to be tumbling about.
“No, I think not,” Kivi finally broke the contemplative silence that had fallen on the room.
She looked sharply over at the dwarfling at her side and frowned disapprovingly.
“It was Keri, wasn’t it?” she arched an eyebrow at said young dwarf in question.
Keri had the decency to finally bow his head and shuffle his feet nervously across the floor. He scowled at his bare feet (yet another surprise for Kíli) for several long minutes before finally muttering a petulant:
“Kyllä, rouva.”
“In Westron, Keri,” Kivi prompted patiently; the dwarfling huffed impatiently, but obeyed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“‘Yes, ma’am’ what?”
“I was the one to ask Bain for a bow,” Keri looked as he wanted to throw a tantrum; his face flushed bright red and he was clearly staring at the floor, not as an act of submission, but as an act of refusal to look his aunt in the eye.
Kíli felt the corners of his mouth twitch; he was strongly reminded of himself at that age, as he was a far more dedicated rapscallion than Fíli ever was. The thought of his older brother, however, made Kíli’s heart feel as if were breaking into yet another jagged piece and his desire to smile faded.
“Bain, why would you do such a thing?” Bard interjected with an aggravated pinch of his nose.
“I told them to just shoot arrows into the old hay bale in the corner of the training ground. I didn’t know Alfrid was there,” Bain risked a furtive glance at his father and winced.
“Alfrid?” Bard dropped his hand from his nose and stared, nonplussed, at his son, and then at Kivi. “What does Alfrid have to do with anything?”
“‘Fraid one of our little dwarflings shot the ole’ bastard,” Jarvi answered cheerfully; he shook the shoulder of the boy (girl?) next to him.
“Where?” Bard asked faintly.
“In the knee,” the red-headed Man all but chirped; Bard sighed heavily and hid his face behind one large hand.
Kíli chewed the inside of his cheek with a particular vigor, in order to keep from laughing. There was an accompanying snort-fit from the corner where Bofur had been sitting quietly out of the way; Kíli didn’t dare look at his companion’s face, or else he’d start laughing out loud. He’d had the misfortune of meeting Alfrid at the Midwinter’s Festival, a few months before. The King’s interaction with the local coward was brief, but it was long enough for Kíli to think that Alfrid quite deserved an arrow to the knee.
“Which one of you shot him, anyway?” Kivi demanded a bit roughly; Kíli glanced at her and felt his lips twitch again when he saw that she was desperately trying not to giggle.
There was a long, guilty pause. Finally, Keri squirmed and offered up a surprisingly meek:
“Me.”
Kivi rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, as if beseeching Mahal.
“Of course it was you, Keri,” her tone was one of completely contrived disappointment (not that young Keri would understand that); the dwarfling’s shoulders dropped at the sound of her aunt’s disapproval.
“Kal,” Bard abruptly focused his attention at the mostly-silent dwarfling held tight against Jarvi’s side.
“Yes, sir?” Kal’s eyes went wide and round.
“What was your part in all of this?”
“Uh…” Kal looked down and kicked an imaginary speck of dust on the floor. “Um…well…uh…I kind of dared…” here he swallowed hard and stoutly refused to look at anything but the very tips of his dirty toes. “I…uh…dared Keri.”
“Motsognir preserve us,” Kivi rolled her eyes toward the heavens; Bard coughed, as if to cover a laugh.
“What’d you say to your sister, Kal?” Jarvi demanded in his distinctive rumble.
“He told me that I couldn’t never shoot as good as him!” Keri jumped in before her brother could answer; she pointed right at Kíli and the young King could feel the tips of his ears turn red.
Thank Mahal they were hidden by his abundance of dark brown hair. He met the dwarfling’s gaze; her chin was proudly raised and something like tears glimmered in the corners of her pale eyes. Clearly, she had been rather deeply affected by Kal’s claims – although, Kíli couldn’t quite figure out how she knew about his archery, to be compared to him. He was also still trying to piece together the abrupt revelation that Keri was a girl.
She looks nothing like a dwarrow-maid, his head was spinning wildly as he eyed Kal, and then Keri, closely. She looks exactly like her brother!
Kivi’s voice – suddenly soft and wary – drew Kíli’s eyes away from the dwarflings. The two stared at each other and the suspicion on the master mason’s face was rather alarming.
“Who’s ‘him‘, Keri?” the look in Kivi’s eyes, though, told Kíli that she already knew the answer.
He decided to take the situation in hand; the broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward and inclined his head at Kivi in courtesy.
“King Kíli Thorinkin,” one of his long bangs fell into his face and he shook his head slightly to coax it back to the side by his left ear. “It seems young Keri has sharp eyes,” he glanced at Kivi’s disapproving face (which rather confused him), to the dwarfling’s wide eyes. “An indispensable quality in an archer.”
The dwarfling’s face lit up like a rare jewel in torchlight. Kivi, however, seemed to determined to disregard her niece’s excitement and Kíli’s existence. Now scowling, she turned stiffly toward Bard and asked what his verdict was for the children’s actions.
If Bard was startled by the abrupt change in conversation, he didn’t show it. He reached up and stroked his mustache thoughtfully for a moment, before pronouncing his judgment.
“Bain,” he addressed his own son first. “Since you seem to think that weapons are toys, to be handed to children without supervision, I’m going to put you in charge of the youth combat training. I want you down on the training yard every day – sunrise to sunset. I do not necessarily discourage your intent to encourage Keri’s interest,” his eyes flickered toward the younger child and for just a second, Bard’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. “And you were right to not leave your post in the armory. But, you should have said ‘no’, or told them to find an older child or an adult to oversee their activities. I would have gladly helped Keri, had one of you thought to ask – I expect you to do the same from now on.”
“Yes, sir,” Bain lifted his head and met his father’s dark eyes with a meek nod of acceptance.
Bard nodded back and added –
“Go back and finish your duties in the armory today. I expect you on the training yard tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Bain nodded one more time and then beat a hasty retreat out of the long-house’s door.
That left Keri and Kal, who both stared at Bard with no small mixture of trepidation.
“Keri,” the little dwarf quivered a bit as she was sternly addressed. “You will help Katrikki tend to Alfrid until he is healed. I admire your fighting spirit, as I admire it in your aunt,” Bard softened his words with a slight smile at Kivi. “But, you need to learn that any weapon – even a bow and arrow – can cause harm, most especially if used thoughtlessly.”
Keri looked less than thrilled at her punishment; she even looked, for a minute, like she was going to complain about having to help Alfrid. But, then she glanced up at her aunt, whose expression all but dared the dwarfling to protest, and the young girl lowered her head in defeat.
“Yes, Master Bard.”
“Go now,” Kivi nudged her gently toward the door. “Katrikki is more than likely already seeing to him at the chirurgeon‘s station.”
Keri hung her head and turned to go, but not before sliding a shy glance Kíli’s way. The King noticed and he forced a slight smile to his face and accompanied it by a playful wink. Keri brightened up considerably and scurried out of the Hall to obediently do as she was told.
Last, but not least, was Kal. Bard sighed heavily and shook his head slowly at the last remaining dwarfling.
“Young Master Kal…you should not tell your sister what she can and cannot do -”
“That’s my job,” Kivi interjected firmly, with a thunderous glare down on her nephew’s wheat-colored hair.
“So, I will leave your judgment in the hands of your aunt,” Bard concluded smoothly, as if he had expected Kivi’s interruption.
The Bowman crossed his arms back over his chest and calmly glanced over at Kivi.
“What you said to Keri was deeply disrespectful,” Kivi scolded her nephew sharply. “I have raised you better than that. You will help Keri with Alfrid when Katrikki cannot be present,” the master mason held her hand up sharply to cut off her nephew’s abrupt attempt at protestation. “And you will spend any other time helping Bain train. If Katrikki allows Keri to go practice with a bow while Alfrid is otherwise occupied, then you will help your sister.”
Kal opened his mouth again and was promptly shut down by Jarvi’s heavy hand on his thin shoulder.
“Do not argue,” Jarvi shook his ruddy head in warning. “This is a fair judgment, Kal. Accept it gracefully.”
The dwarfling sighed deeply, but then stomped out of the Hall to go follow his sister toward the chirurgeon’s station. That left just the adults remaining, to make of each other what they would.
The silence wasn’t long, but it was profoundly uncomfortable. Something lingered in the air – an unspoken curiosity, an unspoken animosity. Then there was Bard, the neutral balance, who settled back on his stool and waited patiently for someone to break the silence.
Kivi tried not to look in the king’s direction, but it was hard not to; he was not at all what she had expected. He did indeed have the look of the Northern Khazâd, with a taller-than-was-average-for-a-dwarf height, a more agile build, something of a definable waist above his wider hips, and a half-grown beard. He had kind eyes, too, though darkened by what looked to be a soul-deep weariness that bruised the skin beneath his lashes. He was young, too, his face a bit weathered from exposure to the elements, but still quite unmarred by age.
The Stiffbeard chief had expected an older dwarf – one with the characteristic excess of facial hair for which the Longbeards were well renowned for. She wasn’t precisely expecting an elder, with snow-white locks and wrinkled skin, but she also wasn’t expecting a tired-eyed youth who could not possibly be any older than she was herself. This was not at all the ill-tempered, gold-obsessed, xenophobic, dour-souled Longbeard that was practically a stereotype among her own people’s perceptions.
No, the King Under the Mountain was surprisingly easy on the eyes and if his eyes told the truth about what lay within him, he was a thoughtful, observant soul. His expression, while carefully guarded, was far more open than Kivi would have assumed, which probably had something to do with the fact that most of his face was not hidden by facial hair. Her eyes lingered on the thick, well-groomed hair that framed his face and fell over his shoulders; it was the rich burnt umber of a Losrandir‘s summer coat and matched his soulful eyes. Kivi felt her cheeks flush when she realized that he was meeting her inquisitive gaze straight-on. The two eyed each other silently for several long moments and Kivi finally huffed under her breath and turned sharply on her heel, as if to leave.
“Oi!” Bofur suddenly made an accounting of himself; Kivi tried to hide her surprise, as she had not noticed him sitting so quietly in the corner of the room.
When Kivi had turned, she’d provided Bofur with his first full look at her face. For a moment, engineer and mason seemed both frozen in their respective spots. But then, Bofur swung his legs off of the bags of grain that he’d been using as a lounge and stood up.
“I’ve gotta bone to pick with you!” he waved a half-gloved finger in Kivi’s startled direction. “You’re the master mason of Dol Amroth!”
Kivi blinked, then frowned, as she tried to make out the engineer’s features from within the shadows that gathered around the makeshift pantry to the left of the fireplace. Bofur stepped forward into the light of two adjacent windows and Kivi’s eyes flew open in surprise. She also felt a deep twinge of embarrassment, but she carefully schooled her features to keep her more personal emotions hidden.
“And you’re the King’s Messenger who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” she blurted back, having decided that maybe it was best if she engaged the fiery-eyed Longbeard head-on.
She had a strong premonition about where the conversation was going to go and Kivi would be damned if she didn’t at least try to take some control over it in the beginning.
“You would refuse the request of your kin…but you’ll help a Man rebuild his city?” Bofur’s face was slowly turning a fierce red beneath his distinctly styled mustache and trimmed goatee.
“Well, thank you, Bofur,” Bard answered before Kivi could, his tone dry. “I only killed Smaug. No big thing.”
“Ach, I mean no disrespect, Master Bard,” the dwarf had the decency to grimace at his guffaw and glance apologetically over at the future King of Dale. “But, Ori an’ I made a special effort to travel out of our way, when we talked to the Men of Minas Tirith and ‘eard them praise the work of the ‘wanderin’ dwarf mason’ who had helped build many impressive expansions to their city,” Bofur paused and turned back to Kivi with the grimmest scowl that she had ever seen on any man of any race she knew. “We came to Dol Amroth specifically to talk to you,” the fingerless-gloved hand was wagging furiously at her again. “An’ you wouldn’t even give us the time o’ day! Ya’ sent an Elf to come talk to us!”
“And a master smith,” Kivi sniffed loftily, as if bringing Seppä into the conversation would somehow make it better.
“Oh, yes. The smith,” Bofur all but growled, as he planted his feet wide apart and crossed his arms angrily across his chest. “Who beseeched you on our behalf and you still refused to consider the King’s offer!”
He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. Kivi could think of nothing in her defense and Jarvi was remaining unhelpfully silent behind her. Bard looked bemused at the situation and she didn’t dare look at King Kíli – she could practically feel his dark eyes boring into her as he studied her profile.
“So, yes, I’ve gotta’ bone ter pick with ya’!” Bofur’s accent thickened considerably as his voice rose. “Ya’ send us away without any common decency, or hope to give to your own kin, and now you’re rebuilding Dale thirteen months later? Ya’re in the very shadow o’ Erebor an’ this is how ya’ meet our King?”
To discredit or belittle Bofur’s rather justified frustration would have been dishonorable. It was Kivi’s turn to take a deep breath, as she decided to fight blunt honest truth with blunt honest truth.
“You Longbeards may be my kin, but I know nothing of you, nor you of me,” Kivi spread her own feet wide and propped her fists definitely on her hips, as she squared off against Bofur. “I chose not to entertain your presence in Dol Amroth, because I had no interest in hearing the orders of a king, thinly disguised as a request, that could have carried more obligation than I was willing to bear,” she lifted her chin stubbornly, as her words gathered steam. “But, in the end, my companions convinced me that perhaps I could position myself so that I could observe you Longbeards and learn about your ways and your king, without having to first obligate myself to your terms and conditions. That is what I chose to do – however, as you can see, I am the guardian of my brother’s son and daughter. I have mouths to feed, bodies to cloth, a roof to keep. I came to Dale at the new year and had to make a living while I decided whether or not to approach your king with the honor of my word. So, I accepted Master Bard’s request to rebuild Dale,” Kivi stared hard at Bofur, as if daring him to object to her methods and means. “My intentions have remained practical and honorable all along. Surely, your King,” her eyes, flashing with reproof and challenge, turned to Kíli. “Would not begrudge a guardian providing for her charges?”
“I would begrudge your unwarranted suspicion of us,” Kíli countered quickly; he pulled his shoulders back proudly as he turned the conversation back on Kivi.
“‘Unwarranted‘?” Kivi’s voice rose sharply and she spun away from Bofur, to stalk angrily toward Kíli, her boots thudding ominously on the floorboards. “You know nothing about me, Your Majesty,” she all but spat the title out, as she stopped just an arm’s length away from Kíli. “I do nothing that is not warranted.”
Kíli was quite proud of his self-control. Before the loss of his uncle and brother, and his acceptance of Erebor’s crown, he would have gotten right back into Kivi’s face and given her a piece of his mind. But, Balin had managed to make some headway in getting it through Kíli’s thick head that impulsiveness was not a quality that ought to be possessed in spades by a king. He chewed the inside of his lip – a habit he had started when trying to stop himself from snapping out his most immediate thoughts – and narrowed his eyes in warning at his unexpected adversary.
“You’re right,” he practically ground the words out through gritted teeth. “I do indeed know nothing about you. I do not know about your kin and my House also knows nothing about yours. However, that means that I – and my people – have never done anything to you to deserve such hostility. My offer, sent through two of my most trusted dwarves, was given in good faith,” some of Kíli’s control slipped and he clenched his fists reflexively.
Kivi’s face flushed a brilliant scarlet and her own control started to fade. Her eyes flashed and in other circumstances – in another time – Kíli would have taken a step back in surprise. She looked like she was about to slap him across the face.
“Kivi Äiti!” Jarvi’s voice was all but thunder on the mountain; the volume and tone of her cousin’s warning stopped Kivi from lashing out (verbally or physically) – both actions that she would have regretted later, if not instantly. “Hän ei tiedä mitään sinusta , eikä menneisyyden . Älä rankaise häntä haavat hän koskaan luotu!” [“Stone Mother!” / “He knows nothing of you, nor your past. Don’t punish him for wounds he never created.“]
She didn’t move, didn’t turn away from Kíli. The two practically shot arrows at each other with their eyes, and both of their shoulders were tensed for a fight, their fists clenched hard at their sides. But, Kivi bit her tongue; her jaw worked furiously as she forced the words she wanted to shout back down into the depths of her throat. Jarvi took the moment to drop some of the volume of his voice and added almost gently –
“Olit väärässä , serkku . Myönnä se ja siirtyä eteenpäin.” [“You were wrong, cousin. Admit it and move on.“]
Kivi wanted to scream in frustration, but unfortunately, both Kíli and Jarvi had valid points. Even Bofur; nothing had been said so far by any of them that hadn’t been said (albeit, much differently) by Jarvi, Etsijä, Katrikki, and Seppä in the last year.
She was as proud as any dwarf – perhaps prouder, since she was the heir to the only matriarchal House in all of Middle Earth. Kivi had also been broken – badly – at the cruel hands of the Ironfist lord, Synkkä. It had been 22 years since she had escaped, with the help of Jarvi and her older brother, Viljo, but Kivi hadn’t been able to bring herself to trust any of the very few Khazâd that she had encountered in her travels. Before King Kíli and his messengers, she’d only met maybe half a dozen or so in her paths from Kivi Torni, to Minas Tirith, to Dol Amroth, to Dale. Kivi had made a concerted (and fairly successful) attempt to avoid much interaction with any of the dwarrow she had encountered.
This unexpected meeting, however, forced her hand. She had felt her stomach sinking when she began to realize who the long-haired, short-bearded Khazâd was. Initially, like Jarvi, she had joyously assumed that he was one of her House, a son of Thulin, come to find her, a memory from her past. To find out that he was none other than the King of Erebor had been a bit of a blow – distrust had immediately crept into Kivi’s thoughts and disappointment colored her actions.
And, really, no small amount of embarrassment. She had hoped to rebuild Dale in peace – the reconstruction, if kept up at the same pace that she had set since new year, could be completed in another year. Then, she had thought, she would have been able to sufficiently observe the Erebor dwarrow as they went about their business through Dale – mostly merchants, although she had spotted the odd soldier or artisan wandering about through the days – and would be able to make her own informed decision about whether or not the King Under the Mountain was a man worthy of her craft.
It would seem now, however, that what Seppä had warned would happen…had happened.
“What you’re doin’ is shady at best, Äiti, and dishonorable at its worst. You really think that you can rebuild a city of Men beneath Erebor’s very shadow, and not attract attention. The Longbeards are known for being stubborn – not stupid!
Seppä had gone on to swear (on more than one occasion) that Kivi’s deception would surely be found out.
“An’ mark my words, no king is going to look favorably on that. You’re all but showin’ him your bare arse, Äiti.”
The black-haired smithy’s words rang in her ears, as Kivi took a deep, steadying breath, and spat at Kíli through equally clenched teeth:
“I have excellent reasons for being suspicious of any man’s intentions, dwarrow or otherwise,” her eyes flashed, despite her best effort to sound ameliorating, not argumentative. “Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further,” the very idea terrified her, but Kivi swallowed roughly and continued doggedly on. “But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I refused to consider your request through yon Master Dwarf,” the young chief motioned slightly toward Bofur, who still looked quite put upon. “You both should well remember that I am not a daughter of Durin and I am not yours to command.”
She lifted her chin proudly, eyes daring Kíli to counter her challenge, and she could hear Jarvi all but groaning under his breath behind her.
“Tarvitsemmeliit olainen, Kivi…ei toinen vihollinen!” [“We need an ally, Kivi…not another enemy!“]
For a moment – for just a moment, Kivi thought about biting her tongue and sacrificing some of her pride on behalf of her people, who were still unwillingly enslaved to the Ironfists. It was what a päällikkö would do. But, then Kíli opened his mouth…
“I am willing to provide you with whatever you so desire, if you would just help your own kin,” the young King finally lost his temper and he took a step toward Kivi, which she read as an attempt to intimidate her (in truth, it was just Kíli being Kíli – which meant he simply wasn’t thinking his actions through the whole way).
“You are not my kin!” Kivi shot back; she took two steps forward and jabbed her finger squarely into the King’s chest.
Kíli’s eyes went big and he looked down at her hand and then back up at her. His personal boundaries hadn’t been breached since he was crowned. Well, except for his mother; Dis was not a dwarrow-dam who took ‘no’ for an answer when it came to forcing her motherly affection upon her sole remaining son.
There was the sound of a scuffle to the side of them; Kíli didn’t dare break eye contact with Kivi, as her furious, icy eyes were unexpectedly riveting. Kivi didn’t look over either; there was a muffled curse in Bofur’s voice, so the two adversaries assumed that either Bard or Jarvi had restrained him. Most likely, Bard, since there wasn’t any further protest, besides the scraping of boots across the floor.
“He is my kin,” Kivi jerked her other thumb behind her in her cousin’s general direction. “My kin are Men of the North – the Forodwaith. My kin are the Ice-Elves. My kin are the Umli and the Fustir-gost, the Mornerim and the Avari. My kin are those of the North with whom I have grown up with, those I have called ‘friend’, those who have helped my House thrive in the frozen earth,” the irate dwarf-maiden poked her finger into the center of Kíli’s chest multiple times for emphasis. “My kin are those that the Stiffbeards have depended onto survive, to thrive, and to tame what we all could of the harshest lands of Middle Earth.”
The scuffling to the side grew more frantic and Bofur was starting to growl, apparently beyond reasonable articulation. There was a sharp exhale of breath and Kivi guessed that Bard had gotten an elbow to the stomach for all his trouble. Without looking away from Kivi, Kíli threw up his hand toward Bofur, his palm flat, fingers pointed up, in a silent, but unmistakable command to stay put.
“You value the kinship of Elves over the Khazâd ?” Kíli demanded quietly; there was a hint of wonder in his voice, Tauriel on his mind, but Kivi did not know him to note it.
“I value the kinship of all the races of the North who have depended on us, and we on them, to survive,” Kivi hissed; she had moved unintentionally closer to Kíli until their noses were mere inches away from one another. “We have a saying in the North, among all our races – ‘Voit pudota jäihin omalla, mutta et voi säästää’. ‘You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself’.”
Kíli paused for effect, before looking Kivi straight in the eye and very quietly answering back:
“Then you are a hypocrite, Kivi Journeyman. Because your kin – and yes, we are kin – of Durin’s House have fallen through the ice.”
A feather could have been heard falling to the floor in the moments after Kíli’s soft retort; Master and King stared hard at each other, their individual thoughts a mystery to each other. Then, without warning, Kivi swiveled abruptly her heel and stalked out of Bard’s Hall without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
Kíli fell back into his chair after Kivi and her cousin had left. He leaned his head back, covered his eyes with his bare forearm, and groaned.
“That went well,” he mumbled.
“I-what-why?” Bofur was practically beside himself and sputtered incoherently for several minutes. “Why did you let her talk to you like that? She touched you!”
“It’s not like I’m here in an official capacity, Bofur,” Kíli let his forearm fall back to his side and he glanced wearily over at his old friend with a shrug. “She treated me like an equal – quite frankly, that was a refreshing change of pace.”
“She blatantly disrespected you!” Bofur insisted hotly.
“She was well within her right to do so,” Kíli disagreed. “Let’s be frank, Bofur – she owes the crown of Erebor no loyalty whatsoever. If she decided she wanted to come to Dale to observe us before making her decision, and to rebuild Bard’s future kingdom in the interim, then that’s entirely in her right.”
“But -!”
Kíli held up his hand again and shook his head, his jaw set in a stubborn fashion that Bofur knew only too well.
“What do you think, Bard?” the young dwarf turned his head and considered the Man who had remained mostly silent during the exchange between the three dwarrow.
“I think that the two of you made right asses of yourselves,” Bard was, if anything, brutally honest; it was part of why Kíli liked him so much. “You came off as aggressive and arrogant, Bofur,” the Man squinted sternly at the dwarf in question, before he turned to Kíli. “And you need to think before you speak. Clearly, everything you said was either in the wrong tone or stated with the wrong set of words. Kivi is a proud woman and I am beginning to suspect that she has had a past more horrific than either of you can imagine. I am also beginning to suspect that she carries rank and privilege from among her own people. I would tread gently, Kíli.”
“Well, it’s not like I’ve had much experience in handling such…such…” he fumbled for the right word and waved his hand dismissively in frustration. “Such delicate negotiations.”
Bard barked out loud in a terse, sarcastic laugh. He reached over and slapped the young king on the knee, the corners of his mouth twisted up in a wry smile.
“It has more to do with the fact that you clearly have no experience in dealing with women.”
“Yes, I do,” Kíli bristled.
Bard just laughed again and shook his head.
“Striking a business negotiation with a woman is a far cry from trying to negotiate a woman into bed, Kíli,” the Bowman’s dark eyes twinkled.
“For some that could be the same thing,” Bofur muttered and Bard reached forward to cuff the impertinent engineer about his ear.
“You know what I mean, Master Dwarf,” the Bowman rolled his eyes as he settled back on his stool.
“Well…dissecting what we’ve done wrong is only helpful up to a point,” Kíli ran the fingers of one hand through his long hair in frustration. “Any productive suggestions about what to do moving forward?”
“I would ask why you’re so determined to win Kivi’s services, but I suppose I need only look at my own walls to know the answer to that,” Bard sighed.
“And what she’s done here is nothing to what she’s done in Gondor,” Bofur was almost grudging in his praise, but he meant it sincerely; in truth, he had never seen such stone-craft and he was not too proud to admit it.
“I can well believe that,” Bard replied gravely; he turned his whole body toward Kíli and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
“My friend,” he reached out with one hand and patted Kíli’s knee again. “What you need to do is to woo Kivi. She will not respond to arrogance, or gestures of dominance, or to even the faintest hint of control. She is not a dwarf of Erebor, nor a daughter of Durin. In a way, she is quite correct – she is not your kin. I dare say, she’s an entirely different type of dwarf and not one that any of you fools have ever encountered before,” Bard patted Kíli’s knee one last time and offered the scowling King an encouraging, if crooked, grin. “My best advice to you, Kíli? Ask, don’t tell -and don’t, for the love of the Valar, send another dwarf to ask on your behalf. She treated you like an equal and you have admitted yourself that you appreciated it. Give her the same courtesy, Your Majesty.”
Motsognir – Mahal’s name in a derivative of Delsk (native language of the Northern Rhovanian, to include the Men of Dale) spoken by the Stiffbeards.
Chirurgeon – a ye olde French word for surgeon/doctor; seemed an appropriate term for the feel of Tolkien’s world.
Losrandir – reindeer.
