*This chapter is rated NC-17 for battle violence and gore.*

“Haven’t seen the back of us yet;
We’ll fight as long as we live.”

“Song of the Lonely Mountain”
Neil Finn

Thanbnurt ‘Afgargablâg 4th

(Thursday May 21st)

Dale

“Kyllikko! Keep up, Pikkusisko.” [“Little Sister“]

The words echoed through Kivi’s mind, as she tossed about in a restless sleep. His was a voice she could never quite forget, whether awake or sleeping. She remembered the strength of his shoulders, the warm skin of his bared arms, and the cool, hardened leather of his intricately tooled chest-plate. She remembered his long hair, free of braids as was the tradition of their unmarried men; it was as dark as a losrandir’s summer coat. She remembered the way it felt against her cheek, when he stooped to pick her up.

She had tripped on a bit of stone that jutted unevenly from the otherwise smooth staircase beneath her feet. The darkened stairwell up which her savior and she was fleeing was ancient – an old escape way, built long ago by her fore-mothers, when Kivi Torni was still young. Kiinteä had grabbed her from the chaos and carnage of the Taivas Sali, the Sky Hall, where she had been watching her father, Oskari, hold an open court on behalf of her mother. The joyous news had been shared during the Midsummer Fest, which had just ended a mere handful of days before, that Äiti Taavi, Chieftain of the Stiffbeards, was four months pregnant with the third heir of Thulin. Oskari, as High Shamaani, had proclaimed the unborn babe a girl, based on the portents read in bone and wood. Taavi was reclining in her private chambers at the top of the mountain’s namesake tower and much of the ruling would pass to Oskari until the birth. [“Shaman”]

Kylli had been standing next to her father when the Kivi Vartija sounded the alarm. The Vahvimmat Isä – as Oskari was officially known – had been holding his daughter’s hand gently, her small forearm resting on top of his, when the fell Ironfist lord stormed into the Hall with a clash of bloodied steel. Oskari had turned only long enough to tell Kylli to hide, before he roared to his feet and drew a sword from the scabbard of the startled Vartija standing beside the Tuoli Neuvoston. [“Stone Guard”] [“Strongest Father”] [“Chair of Council”]

Kylli had been transfixed, however, by the sight of her flame-haired father thundering into the fray, intent on challenging the obsidian-armored Ironfists. Despite her father’s rallying cry to the Vartija, the Taivas Sali was a slaughter, as only the Vartija could enter before the Seats of Thulin while armed. The Ironfists quickly carved their way through the merchants, farmers, herders, and other assorted common-folk who had gathered to seek council from their Isä. The sentry bells, however, were clanging furiously, summoning all those within hearing distance to hurry the aid of their kinfolk.

Oskari’s curved sword met the saw-toothed edge of the Lord Ironfist’s hooked seax, but before Kylli could watch much more of her father’s fight, her upper arm was grabbed by a vice-like hand. She screamed, but the sound of it was lost in the din of death and battle that sullied the brightly-lit walls of the Sali.

“Kylli! It’s me! Kiinteä!”

She beat her knuckles against the hard shell of his leather armor once, twice, before realizing who had taken a hold of her. Startled, she stared up into familiar eyes as deep and smoky-brown as the colored quartz so greatly favored by their kin.

“Kiin!” Kylli threw her arms around his hard waist and buried her face in the uncomfortable angles of his armor.

“Not now, Kyl,” Kiin gently pulled her off of him and grabbed her wrist; he threw an uncertain eye around them, but the Vartija had managed to keep the Ironfists from advancing any further toward her father’s abandoned seat.

Kylli followed his gaze and saw her father’s stout body – ever so slightly taller and leaner than any dwarf’s – heave furiously against the armored might of his burlier opponent. All she could see was a flash of bright steel stained with blood and her father’s thick red braids flying about in his wake. Kiin pulled her firmly along behind him before she could witness any more and made a beeline for a small antechamber just behind the high-backed Tuoli.

The young heir of Thulin allowed herself to be led away, although her heart twisted painfully in fear for her father. The Sali had erupted into a melee of steel and gore, but she had seen enough to know that the invading swords were sharp and that the Ironfist’s grotesquely-shaped black armor was true. She had seen blood stain the white granite stones of her home and in mere moments, she had seen more than one of her kin – dwarf, Elf, Man – torn in half by jagged blades.

Kylli followed Kiin without question – she was just on the cusp of her first moon and a young dwarfling in that awkward stage between child and adolescent. But, she knew what she was to Kiin and what Kiin to her; they had grown up together, she always looking up to him, as he was seven years her elder. But, despite their age difference, Kiin had been her dearest friend all of her life; now that she was growing older, their friendship was just beginning to deepen with the first blush of something sweeter. Their parents had noticed this development and had privately spoken to them both just weeks before, about possibly being betrothed once Kylli was of age in four or so more years, “should they still both desire such a thing.”

Kiin was the only son of the Captain of the Vartija – the jovial, but deadly, Miekka. He had been initiated into the Kivi Vartija three years earlier and was one of the youngest Vartija currently serving Kivi Torni. Miekka was, himself, of common birth, but that was of little significance to the Äiti or the Isä, as men were in such lesser numbers to women among their House. It also didn’t hurt that Miekka had grown up with Oskari and the two had remained fast friends throughout the years; where Oskari went, Miekka was very rarely far behind. The same could be said for their offspring – Kiin had long ago determined that he was to be Kylli’s constant companion.

And now, he had become Kylli’s protector.

“Where are you taking me?” Kylli asked only once.

Kiin whisked her into the antechamber and threw his shoulder hastily against a certain granite block, next to a smiling statue of Yavanna – who was, perhaps more revered among the Stiffbeards than any of the other dwarrow, for their dependency on the earth above, as much on the earth below. A grinding sound accompanied the shift of two blocks by their feet; Kylli stared, wide-eyed, as an entrance was revealed in the base of the wall before them.

“To Äiti,” he promised, with a jerk of his chin toward the levels above them.

The entrance into the secret passageway was low, so they both had to crawl through; Kiin let Kylli go first, in case part of the battle in the Sali spilled over into the antechamber. But, she was able to stand up on the other side and brush off her buttery-soft leather pants without incident. Kiin followed, pushed a corresponding stone in the cool darkness around them, and sealed them into the ancient tunnel. For several long moments, there was a scraping and shuffling from where Kiin stood, as he struck a flint and lit a crystal lamp that had been left on a hook just inside the passage.

“C’mon,” he urged her toward a spiraling set of stairs and the two started the arduous journey up the whole length of Gabilzahar’s great tower.

They went as fast as they could, jogging up each flight of stairs, but Kylli began to tire a quarter of the way up. It was then that she caught the tip of her boot against the rough stone and fell forward with a muffled cry. Before she could even gather that she had skinned her right knee and both of her palms, Kiin had swooped down to pick her up. As if she weighed nothing (which was certainly not true of any dwarf at any age), he cradled her in his arms and continued the long climb up.

Kylli was too frightened by everything that had happened, to do anything other than accept Kiin’s comfort and to take the swinging crystal lamp from him while both of his hands were full of her still-slight body. She curled one arm around his powerful neck and hid her face in his hair, which covered his shoulders in a tangled disarray. She would remember, ever after, how her bright locks seemed to tangle into his like ribbons of molten bronze.

Kiin had to pause several times on his way up; despite his endurance and strength from hours of hard training, the seemingly never-ending stairs were an exhausting challenge. A few times, Kylli tried to urge him to let her down, but Kiin just tightened his arms around her and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line of determination.

Kylli would never quite know how long it took for them to get from the base of the tower to the top, but her best guess in later reflections would place their time at a half of an hour or even more. However long had passed, it was enough for their emergence from behind Äiti Taavi’s full-length chamber mirror to be greeted with the sight of their chief fighting for her life.

Miekka was sprawled across the floor in front of the arched chamber doorway, impaled through the chest with an iron javelin. His thick black hair mercifully covered most of his face, so both young dwarves were spared the sight of his empty gray eyes, which had just hours before, laughed at his son as they left their quarters for the day. Kiin stumbled in shock and Kylli could feel his knees tremble uncertainly beneath their combined weight and sudden grief. The grinding slide and scrape of steel tore both of their eyes away from the Captain’s broken body; Taavi stood bravely in the center of her spacious, circular chamber, arms braced at the level of her chest as she caught the Ironfist’s downward strike against the mithril handle of her war mallet.

“Äiti!” Kylli cried out without thinking; she immediately reached out for her mother and in her haste, dropped the crystal lantern that Kiin had given to her for safe-keeping.

Her cry and the bitter chime of breaking glass startled both Taavi and her opponent. Waist-long braids of golden hair flashed between Taavi and the Ironfist warrior, as the Stiffbeard Chieftain turned her head – just for a second – in shock toward the unexpected sound of her daughter’s voice.

It was a second she couldn’t spare. Kylli watched in horror as the Ironfist surged abruptly in toward her mother’s body. His sword disappeared into the softly-rounded curve of her stomach. Taavi’s eyes flashed wide in pain and a soft gasp spilled from her lips as her mallet crashed into the floor at her side. Kiin’s knees finally buckled, struck with horror as he was himself, and Kylli tumbled from his arms as he lost his balance.

“Äiti!” she screamed again; she didn’t even pay heed to the pain that shot up through her scraped knee as it connected hard against the stones for a second time that day.

No sooner did Kylli feel the smooth, white marble floor beneath her, than she started scrambling as quickly as she could toward her mother’s body. The Ironfist had triumphantly torn his sword back out through her mother’s body and gore dripped like liquid hate from the tip of his blade, as he leered at the tragic tableau that he had created.

Kiin recovered his senses long enough to draw his long-handled ax from its sheath across his strong back. As Kylli knelt, weeping, at her mother’s fallen side, Kiin launched himself toward the Ironfist with a shout of his own.

“Kunniaan!” his cry echoed through the open, airy chamber. [“For honor!”]

Kiin was no match for the Ironfist, but he did manage to surprise the more experienced dwarf. Enough so, that his ax struck true in the narrow, unguarded space between the enemy’s gorget and right pauldron. What happened after that, Kylli never quite knew, as her attention went directly toward her gasping mother.

Taavi had her hands pressed firmly against the ragged gash that tore open her flesh from hip to hip. The sword had cut her low across her belly, at a slightly horizontal angle across the swelling that had just begun to show. Kylli averted her eyes and tried to keep her gaze firmly fixed on Taavi’s face. The stench of death, blood, and gore clogged Kylli’s nose as she bent, weeping softly, over her mother. Bile rose in the back of the young dwarf’s throat, but she fought it down and tried to soothe the sharp creases of pain that now lined Taavi’s forehead.

“Äiti,” her whisper was almost lost in the clash of steel against steel that raged behind them. “Please, Äiti…” the plea died on her lips; Kylli had been in the world long enough to know that her beloved mother would not survive her mortal wound.

Tears blurred her eyes, even as Kylli tried desperately to memorize the shape of Taavi’s face.

“Kyllikko,” Taavi’s voice was so faint that Kylli had to bend her ear almost to her mother’s lips in order to catch what was being said.

The dying chieftain drew a ragged breath and Kylli could hear it rattle inside of her mother’s chest. The tears came fast and hot, spilling over Kylli’s brightly flushed cheeks and disappearing into her mother’s beautiful blond braids.

“Ole nyt vuori,

Ole nyt kivi,

Ole nyt Äiti,” ancient words brushed softly against Kylli’s skin, carried ever so tenuously on her mother’s breath. [“Be now the mountain, / Be now the stone, / Be now the Mother.”]

Kylli recognized the words; they shocked her so soundly that for several long moments, her sobs caught inside her throat. She stared, wide-eyed and desperate, at her mother, as Taavi continued to speak, her breath rattling louder with each word.

“Olen Kahdesti nimi,

“Kiven tytär Thulin.” [“I Twice Name you, / Kivi, daughter of Thulin.”]

“No, Äiti,” Kylli finally found her voice and began to shake her head in a wild disbelief.

Her hands sought her mother’s and, quivering with the force of her sobs, Kylli tried herself to hold Taavi’s broken body together. Blood leaked thick and warm across her fingers and the young dwarfling could only wail as her palms pressed desperately against the gore that threatened to spill out to the floor between them.

“Motsognir siunatkoon sinua,

Päällikkö Pohjois.” [“Mahal bless you, / Chief of the North.”]

“Äiti, no,” Kylli – now newly re-named “Kivi” – finally placed her forehead against her mother’s and let her tears mingle with Taavi’s.

With her final words, Taavi had sealed her daughter’s fate – the Sarvipäinen Kruunu, the Horned Crown, had now been handed over to the next generation.

“K-Kivi,” Taavi could barely speak, but she had one last thing to say, one last attempt to spare the line of Thulin. “C-c-” her mouth, her tongue, couldn’t quite form words any more, but she finally managed to gasp a single name: “N-Nopea.”

Kivi shook her head, not understanding what her mother was commanding of her. She hiccuped through her tears and listened in horror as the rattle in her mother’s chest reached its peak –

And then stopped.

Kivi’s whole body froze, as her mind clawed through an overwhelming wave of denial. Frightened, confused, horrified, Kivi frantically moved her hands over her mother’s hair, face, neck. After several anguished moments, the dwarfling realized that she was smearing blood wherever her fingers fell. A keening cry tore itself out of her throat, as she snatched her hands away, held them tight against her own stomach, and bent over in indescribable grief.

Before she could truly work herself into a good wail, a hand grabbed her arm for a second time that day and roughly hauled her to her feet. Kivi immediately twisted around to fight whoever had a hold of her, but she stopped just short of shoving her small fist into Kiin’s already crooked nose.

She blinked dully through her tears – in her sorrow, she had quite forgotten about Kiin.

And the Ironfist.

Kivi whipped her head around toward the chamber door; Kiin had somehow managed to lure the Ironfist out of the room and had bolted the solid oak door shut between them. The new Chieftain stared, agape, at the door, and then at Kiin – only then, did she realize that his face was deathly pale. Confused, her eyes dropped and she saw, to her great dismay, that where his right hand had been, was now a bloody stump held stiffly to his chest.

“Kiin,” Kivi’s voice was low and hoarse; she looked from his mangled limb to his wan face.

He just shook his head, as if to shrug the whole thing off. His gaze lingered sadly on the floor behind Kivi and tears filled his own eyes as he realized that Taavi had gone to the Halls of Waiting.

“Nopea,” his own voice was a rough scrape against the eerie silence around them. “We need to call Nopea.”

What her mother meant finally clicked into place inside of Kivi’s head. Nopea was the Great Pale Owl that had bonded with Taavi a quarter of a century before. The enormous bird was big enough to carry a grown dwarf, much less a prepubescent dwarfling. Kivi then realized why Kiin had brought her up to her mother’s chamber in the first place – Nopea’s nest was said to be on the mountain ridge directly adjacent to the tower. The wide balcony that hugged half of the tower’s exterior was large enough for Nopea to land on, so that Kivi could climb onto her back.

She had been brought to the Tower to escape.

All of this flashed through Kivi’s mind as Kiin hustled her away from Taavi’s broken body and toward the crystal balcony doors. They had already been opened, to let the gentle summer breeze waft across the interior of the chamber, so it took no time at all for the two young dwarves to rush to the delicately carved granite banister that separated them from the vast emptiness of mountain air.

Kivi put two fingers in her mouth and blew hard; her whistle cracked loudly like thunder across the towering peaks around them. As her whistle called to their white-winged deliverer, the chamber door behind them shuddered ominously. Frightened, Kivi glanced over her shoulder, to see the tiniest tip of steel glimmer from the center of the thick pine panels. Alarmed, she whistled again and leaned over the balcony to see if she could catch a glimpse of Nopea’s nest. Kivi had to crane her neck to see the near northern peak and Kiin grabbed a hold of her woven belt, to keep her feet steady on the stones beneath them.

The door groaned; Kivi didn’t dare risk another glance behind her.

“Nopea!” she screamed in desperation.

The distinctive sound of splitting wood shot through the quiet chamber. Kivi began to shiver in terror and she turned wide eyes toward Kiin, as if to silently ask, “where is she?”

“There!” Kiin hissed; he threw a hasty look over toward the door and his face tightened in alarm.

But, he distracted Kivi from what was happening behind them, by jerking his chin toward the southern slopes to their right. A bobbing white form grew larger and larger, giant wings propelling the graceful Nopea rapidly toward their desperate last stand.

For a whole minute, Kivi’s heart soared in hope. Her mother – through Nopea – would rescue her one last time. And whatever lay on the horizon, she thought she could perhaps face it bravely, with Kiin at her side.

But, Nopea never made it to the balcony.

A rain of fire arched up from the slopes, toward the magnificent owl. She screamed – her cry high and otherworldly – as several arrows found their mark and set her ablaze. Kivi’s cries joined Nopea’s, as her mother’s totem wove drunkenly in the air for the span of several agonizing screeches. Then her powerful wings went limp and she plummeted toward the jagged cliffs below her.

Kivi was beyond the point of articulation; she shrieked her grief and horror into the wind. She turned to throw her arms around Kiin, to grab a hold of the one being she had left at her side, and stopped to stare in disbelief at the knife that had seemingly sprouted between his shoulder blades. Confused, the young woman turned her head toward the broken shards of her mother’s bedroom door and to the black-armored Ironfist who stood triumphantly in the middle of the blood-soaked floor.

“Kyllikko…” Kiin’s last word was her True Name, whispered in a mixture of shock and sorrow.

Kivi could only choke on a plaintive sob, as Kiin’s knees buckled and he fell forward toward the railing. Out of sheer instinct, Kivi threw herself beneath the momentum of his body and grabbed him around the waist. His dead weight was abrupt and knocked her own feet out from under her. The two collapsed to the floor, but Kivi was beyond caring. She had kept Kiin from pitching forward over the banister and onto the mountain below. Heart in her throat, she tried to ease him as carefully as she could to the floor, on his side. Hoping against hope, her hands fell about his face and neck, searching for a pulse, for a breath, for a sign of life.

Before she could come to terms with the fact that Kiin – her best friend, her future betrothed – was as breathless as her mother, Kivi was hauled away from his body by her hair. She found her voice again, and she began to scream obscenities at the enemy that cruelly dragged her away from Kiin’s body.

“What is this?” a sinister, gravelly voice cut sharply through Kivi’s violent attempts to break free of the fist that held her captive.

The Ironfist who had a hold of her roughly forced her to turn away from the balcony, away from Kiin, and to face the door. The lord who had led the slaughter in the Sali contemptuously kicked Miekko’s body out of his way, as he stepped through the shattered doorway.

“The whore’s daughter, Lord Synkkä,” Kivi’s captor grunted in the guttural tones of Khuzdul. “The heir-child.”

Kivi didn’t hear what Synkkä said in response, as she was exhausting herself in an attempt to gather her feet beneath her. The room was silent, except for the sound of her boots slipping across the patterned white-and-gold marble tiles, as her captor all but tossed her toward Synkkä’s spike-tipped boots. A soft groan slipped from her lips as her hands slipped in Taavi’s drying blood. Too overcome with her emotions to look up, Kivi closed her eyes and kept her face bowed toward the floor.

Synkkä mistook her position as one of submission. He made a pleased sort of sound above her and Kivi could sense him bending over, reaching for her.

Please, Motsognir, her soul cried out to Mahal as if on sheer instinct.

Synkkä’s fingers brushed the top of her hair…and an incandescent rage flared up inside of the dwarfling. Kivi opened her eyes, intending to push herself to her feet and to push Synkkä’s hand away from her, but the glint of mithril caught her attention.

Her training took over. Before the Ironfist lord could grab a hold of her, Kivi gritted her teeth, rolled neatly over the gore-slicked floor, and scrambled desperately over her mother’s corpse. Everything in her rebelled against her sudden disregard for Taavi’s body, but Kivi felt as if possessed. Her hands reached out and she grasped the heavy handle of her mother’s war mallet as she sprang nimbly to her feet.

With a shout of defiance, Kivi rose proudly to her full height, her muscles taut with the strain of lifting the heavy mallet. With a strength she didn’t know she had, the dwarfling heaved the mallet up and to the ready. Her eyes – narrowed with hate and fury – scraped over Synkkä’s armor, looking instinctively for a tactical advantage. With a hiss pushed through her teeth, she hefted the mallet up higher above her chest and shoulders, ready to aim its heavy weight toward the center of his broad torso.

But, then her eyes caught sight of the hideous prize swinging grotesquely from Synkkä’s belt –

The head of her father, his red hair matted with blood, his face marred by what looked like a blow from an ax, his blue eyes like painted glass – dead and cold.

The fury-fueled bravery that had given her the strength to challenge the Ironfist lord drained abruptly from her. Fear tightened its icy grip around her heart and Kivi’s arms dropped beneath the weight of her ancestral weapon. The mallet cracked the marble between her and Synkkä.

It took her several long seconds, however, to realize that the scream that ripped through the room was not hers.

Synkkä had stepped forward during her moment of panic. When Kivi dropped the mallet, it did more than crush her mother’s carefully crafted tiles – half of Synkkä’s left foot had found its unfortunate way beneath the mallet’s flashing diamond head.

She was too appalled to scream. Stunned, Kivi froze, her hands still wrapped around the mithril handle that was so very cold against her palms. She stared, wide-eyed at Synkkä, too overwhelmed by the rapid series of events to react in any other way. As a result, she never saw the Ironfist’s steel-covered hand flying across the distance between them.

The back of the dwarf lord’s hand landed hard against Kivi’s right cheek; her head whipped abruptly to the side from the force of the blow and her fingers finally slipped from around her weapon. The world grew dark as she slumped to the floor.

When Kivi regained consciousness, she was laying tangled up in the sheets of her bed. Her chest heaved, her throat was sore from her cries, and a timid little voice whispered out of the depths of the dark room to her left –

“Täti?”

Confused, Kivi shook her head, visions of the Harrowing still trying to bleed through from the past. The small voice came closer and she bolted up in her bed as a soft hand tentatively reached out to touch her left foot.

“Täti?”

“Keri?” Kivi licked her lips and hoarsely asked the darkness.

The past began to fade, as the present became more real.

“Yes,” Keri confirmed her presence and the gentle hand now moved more boldly up to grasp the very tips of Kivi’s shaking fingers. “Täti?”

“Yes, Keri?” Kivi took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her breathing; she opened up her hand and pressed her palm against her niece’s.

“Why are you crying, Täti?”

Kivi’s only answer was to roughly swallow a sob; she reached out to grab Keri’s narrow shoulders and pulled her up into the bed. The two said nothing more and Keri, with the intuitiveness of youth, seemed to understand that she had asked a question that her aunt couldn’t answer. So, the dwarfling curled into Kivi’s arms, as she used to do when much younger, and listened silently as her aunt cried herself to sleep.

—

“Well, you look like you’ve just exchanged a few blows with Durin’s Bane,” Jarvi lifted a bushy auburn eyebrow at his wan-skinned cousin.

Kivi just leveled him with her best glare and responded with a particularly unattractive grunt. Jarvi, who usually responded to the world at large with a belly-laugh and a grin, startled Kivi with his unusually solemn expression. She paused and met his level gaze with a quizzical frown, the copper kettle in her hands all but forgotten.

“Keri tells me that you were dreaming last night,” the Umli mason titled his stool back and braced his broad shoulders against the wall of Kivi’s large, one-room home.

“The Harrowing,” Kivi said by way of answer; she shrugged and cast her eyes down toward her waiting wooden mug.

She didn’t want to have this discussion with Jarvi – not again and for the hundredth time since they had settled in the West. So, she tried, as she always did, to say as little as possible and look anywhere but at her cousin’s compassionate eyes.

The conversation, however, took an unexpected turn.

“You need to talk to Keri and Kal about that.”

“About what?” Kivi looked up abruptly, her voice sharp.

“About the Harrowing,” Jarvi narrowed his eyes at her from across the thick oak table that dominated the left corner of the room, beside the gently smoldering fireplace. “About what happened to their parents. About what happened to our people.”

“When they’re older,” Kivi shook her head stubbornly; she had not yet braided her hair for the day and her long, free-flowing locks all but covered her face.

“They are practically the same age as you were when the Harrowing took place,” Jarvi’s voice was hard, unforgiving.

“And I was completely unprepared for it,” the master mason snapped, her ire rising. “My innocence was taken from me that day without my consent or choosing. The least that I can do is to spare my brother’s children the memories of that horror for as long as I am able.”

“Keri is beginning to ask questions,” Jarvi’s voice deepened in reflection of his own disapproval and frustration. “As is Kal. Keri didn’t even greet me this morning – the first words from her mouth were, ‘why does Täti cry?’ How am I supposed to answer that, Kivi?” the stool’s legs thumped loudly on the bare wooden floor beneath their feet.

Jarvi pushed himself off of the wall and leaned intently toward his cousin.

“And Kal is beginning to question why he has no father, no male dwarves, to guide him.”

“He has you,” Kivi evaded most of what Jarvi said; her gaze dropped again to her mug and she busied herself by pouring the hot water from the kettle over the mixture of tea leaves that she had selected for her morning brew. “And Seppä.”

“I am not wholly a dwarf,” Jarvi countered, heat beginning to rise into his rough voice. “And Seppä is the very best of dwarves, but he is not able to give Kal what he needs.”

“And what does Kal ‘need‘?” Kivi slammed the kettle down on the table with a bit more force than she had intended; her eyes flashed in challenge.

“What Kal needs is to be given the chance to try his hand at mallet and chisel,” Jarvi’s jaw jutted stubbornly.

For a long moment, there was silence. Kivi stared stupidly at her cousin, startled by what he had said. Whatever she had expected, this was not it.

“I had only started to notice his interest myself, since we came here to Dale,” the red-headed half-dwarf leaned his elbows on his knees, his eyes never straying to the right or the left, but boring steadily into Kivi’s face. “And, really, it was Seppä who noted it first. Kal is fascinated by what you do, Kivi. Have you not seen him trying to read your journals and your drafts, when you have them scattered all about the table?” Jarvi waved a nimble hand at the slab of wood between them.

Kivi had actually noticed that, but she hadn’t thought anything of it. Her face began to flush as she realized what it was that Jarvi was getting at – she hadn’t been paying as much attention to the talents of her nephew as she should have been.

“Kal and Keri are both old enough – far old enough – to start learning their craft,” Jarvi continued doggedly, knowing that he wasn’t going to get much of an admission from his stubborn chieftain. “Kal should be spending his time with masons and engineers – with you,” his hand gestured through the air again. “And Keri? Keri is much more like your father, Kivi, much like the Umli. She loves trees, open skies, the hunt, and grand adventures. She has a warrior’s heart, Serkku, and should be learning to craft her weapons in Seppä’s forge.”

Kivi’s hands moved restlessly around her mug; her fingers fiddled idly with the handle, as it sat steaming on the tabletop before her. Her eyebrows were knit close together and she was scowling for all she was worth at Jarvi. Anger welled up inside of her, but she kept her mouth shut. She wisely recognized that her anger had nothing to do with Jarvi, but with herself. She had not noticed any of these things about her niece and nephew…and she, their rightful guardian.

“Then it is settled,” she finally ground out into the uncomfortable silence. “Kal will start coming to the wall with me and Keri will start an apprenticeship with Seppä.”

“It is not settled,” Jarvi snapped and rubbed a wide-palmed hand over his face. “Kivi – Kal and Keri need to learn more than just their craft. They have not yet started learning Khuzdul, they have not learned about their history – not just their personal history, but the history of our people, of the North. They have never played with other dwarflings and they have never celebrated any of the great feasts!”

Kivi huffed, unable to think of anything to say – even something angry, or defensive, or mean – but her pride was deeply wounded by Jarvi’s blunt truth. She had made little effort to teach her niece and nephew the ways of their people; there was no way to deny that without making herself out to be a liar and a fool.

“What happened the other day with the bow has sat ill with me,” Jarvi was determined to speak his whole mind on the matter. “Kal should know better than to suggest that his sister has no right to put a hand to bow and arrow. But, he has grown up in the West, with Western Men, and I am much afraid that he has picked up their attitudes toward women. He would limit his sister, make fun of her, taunt her, dare her. These are not the actions of a respectful Son of Thulin.”

“You’ve dared and taunted me plenty, Jarvi,” Kivi scoffed haughtily, hands now fisted on her hips.

“Certainly,” Jarvi conceded with a casual roll of his shoulders. “But, never once have I, nor any other Son of Thulin, ever suggested to you that you are anything but capable of doing whatever it is you so desire.”

“Well…the same can be said of me to you,” Kivi insisted. “I’ve never told you what you can or cannot do.”

“Precisely,” Jarvi smacked his right fist into his left palm. “In the North, the only expectation we place upon each other is to survive and to make certain that those around us survive,” the Umli grew more and more passionate with each word he uttered, his own blue eyes blazing. “And if the Harrowing had never happened, if Kal and Keri could have grown up as they were meant to, then there would be no questioning of her desire to seek the life of a soldier, or a Vartija, or a hunter. Her brother would not mock her for wanting to aim an arrow as skillfully as a king.”

“I still don’t quite understand how she even knew anything about that,” Kivi tried to divert the conversation entirely.

“Etsijä and I took her to watch the archery tournament during the Spring Fest two moons ago. She was quite keen on King Kíli’s competition against Master Bard and the Elven lord, Legolas,” Jarvi entertained Kivi’s stalling tactic briefly. “Keri has always liked bows, Serrku – you would know this, if you ever paid attention to the way she watches Etsijä when he practices. It was quite exciting for her to to watch another dwarf prove his mastery and skill at what she has always assumed to be a Man’s weapon.”

Kivi didn’t realize it, but she was beginning to worry her bottom lip between her teeth. She had dropped her gaze again, and Jarvi could finally see that he was finally starting to get through to her.

“Katrikki says that your soul may never truly heal from the Harrowing and from what Synkkä did to you,” Jarvi threw up a hand to stop Kivi, when she jerked her eyes defensively toward him and started to work the muscles in her jaw, as if to speak. “And I – all of us – are willing to accept that -”

“Accept what, exactly?” Kivi did manage to cut in, her tone practically poisonous.

“That you may never wish to rule in Kivi Torni, or to truly wed, or to bear heirs,” Javi’s own voice softened in an attempt to soothe the harshness of his words. “But, if you would not wish those things for yourself, Kivi, then you must wish them for Keri and prepare her to take your mother’s crown. You must begin teaching Kal how to be the Elder Brother, to be his sister’s Voice to the greater world and her most trusted counselor in private.”

“I do not, nor will I ever, wish those responsibilities on them,” Kivi responded stiffly in her attempt to not lose her temper; her knuckles grew white around the curve of her mug.

“And why not, Serrku?” Jarvi asked gently, the answer already known between them.

“Because,” Kivi took a deep breath and squared her shoulders defiantly. “They should be free to chose their own fates.”

“So, you would accept the responsibilities of Kivi Torni?” Jarvi continued to press.

“I have no choice. Nor have I ever,” Kivi’s teeth were all but clenched together. “I was born to those duties. They are mine to bear and no one else’s.”

“Then bear them, Päällikkö Pohjois,” her cousin stood abruptly and pressed his palms hard on top of the table; they stared each other down for several tense seconds.

His words echoed the memory of her Twice-Naming and Kivi couldn’t suppress an involuntary shudder. Jarvi saw her eyes flicker and dim with the weight of her remembrance, and he shook his head with a heavy sigh.

“You have done nothing but run away from your responsibilities, Äiti,” his words were gentle, but firm. “And the severity of your denial is reflected in those two young dwarflings – your own kin, heirs themselves of Thulin’s throne,” he lifted one hand and pointed toward the little house’s open door, through which poured bright morning sunshine and cheerful birdsong. “They do not know how to carry themselves, proud in the knowledge of their history and heritage. They do not know the courtesies and etiquette of addressing other royalty – Keri should have known much better than to reveal King Kíli’s identity when he was without his crown,” Jarvi shook his head grimly, the ends of his thick mustache quivering with disapproval. “They know nothing of a world that is not ruled by Men and common Men at that. And when they do have questions – which is becoming a daily occurrence, now that they live in the shadow of Erebor – they do not ask another dwarf. They do not ask you.”

Kivi blinked rapidly; the corners of her eyes suddenly stung with the warning heat of impending tears. Her jaw muscles popped once, twice, but she didn’t dare speak. She remained riveted to her spot across the table, her eyes narrowed bitterly at her cousin’s broad, handsome face.

“They ask me questions,” she finally rasped, when Jarvi stayed silent.

“You don’t answer them,” it was his turn to narrow his eyes; he looked as if he was reconsidering his approach, but then he heaved a great sigh and ran a hand across the top of his head. “Keri wants to know why you cry so much in the darkness; Kal wants to know who belongs to the names you cry out in your sleep. They ask me why you are always angry, they ask Seppä why you never take them to meet other dwarrow. They ask Katrikki why you never sing to them, or tell them stories, or teach them to use the runes.”

“I-” Kivi instinctively sought to defend herself, but she had nothing.

There was nothing that she could say; words faded away before her mind could even grasp them. She had never been cruel to her twin charges; she had never neglected them, had never hurt them, had never wavered in her quest to meet their every need. She had laughed with them, worried over them, chased after them, and taught them many things.

But, she had never taught them how to be dwarves. She could not deny that, even though innate self-preservation tried desperately to excuse her failures.

“They are growing up, Kivi. And I fear the day is not far off, when they will ask me why you hate the Khazâd – their own people, their very blood.”

She knew she didn’t want to hear the answer, but she couldn’t keep herself from asking anyway:

“And what would you tell them?”

Jarvi never broke eye contact; his deep voice reverberated through the neat and homey room.

“I would tell them that it is because you hate yourself.”

The following silence was deafening. Tears finally fell for good from Kivi’s eyes and her bosom – which she hadn’t yet bound for the day – heaved erratically as she tried to keep her composure.

“You speak cruelly, Serkku,” she eventually whispered, her voice a ragged mockery of her normal, husky alto.

“I speak truthfully,” Jarvi clenched his jaw proudly, but his eyes were more compassionate than Kivi could bear.

She dropped her chin and closed her eyes, the honesty of her cousin almost too much for her to bear.

“I accept my responsibility to stand at your side, Päällikkö],” his voice was a soft caress over her wounded pride; Kivi flinched at the reminder of her true title and duty. “If you would not hand the crown of Thulin over to Keri, then I, as your last remaining male relative, must faithfully serve as Elder Brother. I am therefore bound by honor and oath to speak the truth to you, whether you wish to hear it or not.”

“You do not know what happened that day,” Kivi’s voice shook with the force of her tears; she continued to clench her eyes shut, not daring to see the look on Jarvi’s face as she made her awful confession. “You do not know what happened in Äiti‘s tower.”

Jarvi said nothing, wisely waiting for Kivi to continue of her own free will. The words tumbled out of her, as if some nefarious hand had slipped a truth potion into her morning tea.

“I am the reason Äiti is dead. I-I,” her shoulders rolled with the force of her sobs. “I distracted her, w-when she was fighting Synkkä’s youngest brother, R-Raaka. I-I called out t-to her a-and,” Kivi’s knees threatened to buckle, so she abruptly sat down on the stool right next to her. “H-he…” the word stuck in her throat, but after a quiet sob, it stumbled out. “H-he g-gutted h-her. A-and it’s a-all m-my f-fault.”

Jarvi had straightened to his full height – all five feet and five inches of it – and for a long moment, he stood on his side of the table and looked down at his weeping cousin with eyes wide in shock. But, Kivi seemed to have no intention of stopping, now that the silence had been broken; as she babbled through her tears, he moved quietly around the table toward her.

“A-and I had a c-chance t-to kill S-Synkkä,” Kivi squeaked through a woeful little hiccup. “M-Motsognir g-gave m-me strength to…to pick up Äiti‘s war m-mallet -”

Jarvi paused, his eyebrows rising up to all but disappear into his bushy hair line. The great War Mallet of Thulin – the Jäänmurtaja, or “Ice Breaker” – was said to weigh as much as an adult male dwarf. It took considerable conditioning and training to wield the fearsome weapon of mithril, diamond, and petrified pine-wood. That a dwarfling could even lift such a thing on her first attempt would certainly indicate the intercession of her Maker.

“I-I c-could h-have crushed h-his chest i-in, but…but…” Kivi dissolved into absolute grief and hid her face in her hands, irrationally humiliated by the ferocity of her tears.

Jarvi crouched down in front of her and thought about telling her that she didn’t need to continue. But, he stopped himself, just before the words could leave his mouth; Kivi had never spoken of what she had seen and Jarvi instinctively knew that she needed to hear the memory out loud, in her own voice.

“I-I saw Isä‘s h-head t-tied to Synkkä’s b-belt b-by his h-hair,” Kivi’s words were muffled by her hands and Jarvi’s heart broke; he gently placed his hands on his cousin’s knees and bowed his head, unable to witness her sorrow any longer. “I-I w-was s-scared o-of h-him,” Kivi hiccuped a bit as she jerked beneath Jarvi’s hands; she grabbed a hold of his wrists, as if to ground herself. “I-I w-was a c-coward and e-everyone d-died b-because of m-me. Synkkä s-still r-rules Kivi T-Torni, b-because of m-me.”

Jarvi lifted his head and then his hands; he cupped Kivi’s tear-soaked chin and brushed his thumbs along the line of her jaw.

“Look at me, Äiti.”

Kivi tried to shake her head, but Jarvi held her firmly between his palms. Finally, reluctantly, Kivi opened her swollen eyes and met her cousin’s own tear-filled gaze.

“I am a c-coward, J-Jarvi,” her whisper was a broken confession.

“You are a survivor,” Jarvi replied firmly, quietly. “And you will be a victor, yet.”

“I am afraid t-to f-face him,” Kivi couldn’t bear to look at Jarvi and squeezed her eyes shut again. “I am, after all th-these years, st-till afraid of S-Synkkä.”

“Do you think, one day, that you will choose to face him?” Jarvi moved one hand to grip her shoulder and one to cup the back of her head.

“I know one d-day that I m-must,” two more tears fell from beneath her long lashes.

“Will you fight him, when that day comes?” Jarvi pulled her head toward his, until their foreheads touched; this seemed to finally bring Kivi some comfort and she cautiously opened her eyes, although she wouldn’t yet meet his.

“I m-must,” Kivi repeated faintly. “It is not a m-matter of ch-choice.”

“Then, we will let that day come in its own time,” Javi rubbed the tip of his nose briefly against Kivi’s, in the manner that was not uncommon among kin of the North. “And in the days between, forgive yourself, Kivi. That will make you brave again.”

“And what if I c-can’t?” her voice was small, almost child-like, as she finally lifted her eyes.

Jarvi shook his scarlet head, mouth grim and eyes far too full of knowing.

“For the sake of yourself and for the sake of us all, tytär Thulin, you must.” [“Daughter of Thulin“]