If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Author’s notes: This is still a bookverse fic and will remain such. However, I found the appearance of a few movie Dwarves appealing, so I adopted their looks. Óin is such a Dwarf (albeit younger-looking and not deaf), while Bifur and Bombur are not. To see my idea of Bombur, you can google for Váncsa István, Hungarian journalist, author of cooking books and all around great guy.

The herbal lore is based on “Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden” by Rob Talbot and Robin Whiteman – an excellent book on the topic. I hope I have not misinterpreted anything I read there.

Chapter 02 – A Dwarf of Many Journeys

After nearly being hugged to her death by her unexpected visitor, Bifur called Fródi, one of the young males entrusted with the care and feeding of their ponies, and ordered hi to look after Óin’s mount. It was a hill pony just like the ones pulling their wagons, but of a much nobler breed. One of those bred by the StiffBeard Clans in the Blue Mountains and called therefore Dwarf ponies.

They were bred for the use of messengers and errand-riders; sometimes even for warriors, although Dwarves generally preferred to march to war on foot, for only this special breed was capable of carrying a warrior Dwarf in full armour with good speed. Albeit much shorter, Dwarves easily weighed as much as any grown Man due to their densely muscled bodies… in most cases even more. Therefore Dwarf ponies were not much smaller than a regular horse – like the heavy-bodied, thick-legged ones used in Lossarnach.

They were strong, sturdy, powerfully built animals like their owners, with long, shaggy manes and tails, and feathering around their hooves that enabled them to carry weights under which the back of any great war-horse would break. They were also stubborn, wilful beasts that did not obey anyone else but Dwarves; and only those Dwarves that had won their trust by taking good care of them. Óin’s dappled grey pony was fortunate, as its rider was not wearing full armour and thus was presumably lighter than the average fully armed warrior. When the son of Gróin entered the Common Room of the Forsaken Inn, though, where supper was hurriedly re-heated, those of the caravan who had not met him before had to admit that he was one of the most imposing Dwarves they had ever seen.

Although not as large as a BlackLock or an IronFist warrior, the giants of Mahal’s Children, neither as heavily built as a BroadBeam (which would be impossible for any Dwarf not related to the Clan), he was still a powerful, striking figure in his travelling garb of fine black wool and the grey, moleskin-lined cloak worn over mail shirt. His lion-like mane fell unbraided over his broad shoulders, save for a ceremonial braid on the back of his head that identified him as a scholar, and shone in the deep hue of pure copper. That, with the thick, arched eyebrows so characteristic for Durin’s line, gave him a particularly fierce look.

He had deep, dark eyes, a fine scimitar of a nose and thick moustaches that curved around his strong chin like the horns of the wild kine, emphasising the fierceness of his appearance. His forked beard, also of shiny, coppery red, was braided and doubled back in two decorative plaits like thick rope, adorned with small silver beads. A broadsword, too heavy for a strong Man to lift, let alone wield, was buckled to his back in a richly adorned scabbard.

Despite his apparent status in the halls of the crownless King of the exiled LongBeard Dwarves, he seemed a friendly enough chap… and genuinely happy to see his old friends. He exchanged the obligatory head-butts with Bofur and Bombur, not caring that their plain clothes were stained from the long journey, and as for Bifur…

Dwarves could not read the bonded or free status from somebody’s eyes as it was said about Elves, but they could reach each other’s body language like an open book, no matter how subtle it might be. Therefore Dagrún and Frán needed but a few moments to come to a complete – albeit wordless – agreement. It was clear to anyone with eyes to see that Bifur and Óin had once known each other intimately… and that some of that old fondness was still there.

Dwarves dallied freely – and often outside their own race, given the low numbers of females among them – until they found the person who would be the one for them. Once they had found their chosen one, though, they only had ears and eyes for that single person. Remarriage after one of the bondmates had dies was allowed – in theory – but had not happened since the Awakening of the Seven Fathers, as far as everyone knew. They were a single-minded and fiercely jealous people, be it about their mates, about their work or about their wealth.

It was obvious for the two older Dwarf-dams then that Bifur and Óin had not found the one in each other, which, in their opinion, was a shame as those two clearly liked each other very much. Óin must have known the whole family for quite some time, for not only did he call Bifur by her true, female Mannish name but he also asked about Bombur’s children, whom they knew by their names, all twelve of them, knew which ones were still alive and which ones had already families of their own.

“I used to travel with Sigrún’s parents in my youth, ere they would put this caravan together,” he explained. “Both my brother and I did. We were barely more than striplings, our parents lost in the war against the cursed Orcs; Kuoni and the Lady Sigga took us in and cared about us ‘til Balin would take over responsibility,” he smiled at Bifur warmly. “Glóin always says my wanderlust comes from that time.”

“How is that lazy brother of yours doing anyway?” asked Bombur, grinning. The unexpected reunion with his old friend seemed to have awakened him from his lethargy, for which Bifur was grateful.

Óin grinned back at him.

“He is well enough. Was doing his best to beat you where it comes to the number of children, but after the sixth one Nei put her foot down and flat out refused to have any more,” he turned sad for a moment. “I suppose she was shaken by the fact that their youngest did not last very long. He was a sickly babe from the birth on and died after a couple of moons. They were both inconsolable for a long time. You know what Glóin is like; big and ugly he may be but his heart is soft like butter.”

Bombur, a grieving father of several dead children himself, nodded in sad understanding.

“No-one should be forced to bury one’s own children,” he muttered.

“Are the two of you still making jewelled items?” asked Bofur hurriedly, ere the mood could have turned gloomy again.

Óin shook his head.

“Glóin found that he could not compete against Regin Frerinsson who is the best jewel-smith in the Blue Mountains in these days, despite his youth. So my brother learned how to make good armour and that is what he does nowadays,” he gestured at his own mail shirt. “As you can see, he does nice work. Nei still makes jewellery when the children leave her the time to do so. But mostly she teaches the younger ones her craft.”

“And what about you?” asked Bofur with interest. He found Óin’s obfuscating a little strange.

“I have been travelling across Eriador and the Wilderland on Thorin’s behalf,” explained Óin. “Acting as his emissary between the various settlements from the Iron Hills over the Grey Mountains down to Lindon leaves me very little time to do anything else. But I do not mind, honestly. I have met many people, from all seven kindreds; learned much about their traditions, their deepest desires… about whom one can count on in times of need and whom not.”

“Are we looking forward to times of need then?” asked Bifur. “More needful times than we already have, that is? For if we are, then I truly fear what may await us in the future.”

“Not that kind of need,” replied Óin. “Unfortunately, I am not entitled to tell you more. You would better ask Thorin himself.”

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that?” demanded Bifur bitterly. “You know we are not welcome in his halls. Not since I had that little… disagreement with Dís.”

 “That was many, many years ago,” said Óin dismissively. “Dís has learned to handle people more carefully in the meantime. Things would have smoothed over by now.”

Bifur shook her head. “Dís Thráinsdóttir has a long memory.”

“So does Thorin Oakenshield,” replied Óin. “He remembers all too well that Bombur fought on his side at Azanulbizar. He has not forgotten you; either of you,” he looked at Bofur. “Have you not laboured side by side in the mines and forges of Dunland for many years after that battle?”

“We have,” agreed Bofur. “But then he moved on to become lord of Durin’s Folk under the Blue Mountains and I… I remained who I have always been: a simple miner, labouring for other people for a handful of copper, trying to eke out a meagre living as well as I can. Oh, I am not unhappy with my life,” he added hurriedly. “What we need we have; even though we do not live in plenty like our more fortunate kinfolk. All I am saying is that people like me are not the usual company for the likes of Thorin Oakenshield. Not any longer.” "Are you sure about that?” asked Óin gravely. “For I can tell you this: Thorin is not the Dwarf who would turn his back on old comrades, just because his fate has taken a turn to the better.”

“We have no need for him and his charity,” said Bifur harshly. “We can do well enough for ourselves.”

The other BroadBeams nodded in agreement and murmured wordless encouragements. They were a hardy people, used to the hardships of the Road and proud that they managed on their own, without outside help.

Óin shook his head in mild exasperation. “But perhaps he has need for you,” he said.

“Why would he?” asked Bombur with a frown. “We are just a bunch of Wanderers. What good could we possibly do for him?”

“I cannot tell – why do you not ask him?” replied Óin with a question of his own. “You are going right to Bree from here, right? So am I. And I am to meet Thorin in the Prancing Pony in a few days’ time.”

“We cannot afford rooms in the Prancing Pony, said Bifur. “We shall camp right outside Bree as always. The recent years were not kind of us; ever since the passing of Maren, we had to make do what little coin we could earn – and believe me, that was not much.”

“But it would still be enough for a tankard of ale or two in the Pony, would it not?” asked Óin. “You can afford that much to meet Thorin and hear what he has to say.”

“I would like that,” admitted Bifur. “It has been too long since any of us met him, and while we may not be of Durin’s Folk, we still keep the loyalties of our longfathers. But I fear we do not have the time. We must look for work to earn some coin; fortune has not been kind to us in recent times.”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Frán sternly and glared at the younger Dwarf-dam from narrow dark eyes. “You are our leader, but we are no children. We can do without you for an evening or too. Niping and his lads can deal with the merchants of the Breelands; and those with a craft for which might be demand there can look for work on their own.”

“We have sent word to the pony breeders by way of those FireBeard traders we met on the Road,” added Dagrún. “At least we shall have buyers for Veig’s harnesses.”

“And I shall go around all the smaller villages and offer my services,” said her brother Draupnír, a locksmith and wandering cutler. “If Tyrgg comes with me to help, we can make some honest coin; there shan’t be much demand for miners here, I fear.”

Tyrgg, a relatively young Dwarf – and a fairly handsome one as BroadBeams go, with his dark brown, almost black hair, high cheekbones and almond-shaped black eyes – nodded in agreement. The multiple braids of his beard swung gently from the head gesture, making the silver rings that fastened the ends glitter in the firelight.

“I can do that,” he said. “If we take our wagon, moving the wheel should be easy, and we shan’t need to waste our coin on rooms.”

“We might find something, too,” said Hjalli, Frán’s mate. “There is always something to do for a stone-mason, and even such simple Men know that we are much better than their own craftspeople.

Like his wife, he was an old Dwarf who had begun to show his age. His hair was turning iron-grey and his hairline receding – a trait characteristic for BroadBeams only – and he wore it as well as his beard unbraided. Those big eyes under his bushy brows had seen a lot and he was not easily shocked or surprised anymore.

“And you should show that hand of yours to a leech,” added Frán, looking at Bifur. “The lady healer of the Rangers did her best with it, but it still does not seem healing well to me.”

“We cannot afford the services of a leech,” protested Bifur, but Frán cut into her word.

“Oh, but we can afford you losing that hand? I thing not. Don’t be a fool, young one! Coin can be replaced; a hand cannot.”

“You have been injured?” asked Óin worriedly. “Well, show me the injury; I have learned quite a bit of leech-craft on my many journeys; perchance I shall be able to help.”

He was already shedding his fine tunic and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Bifur did not feel comfortable with this turn of events, but she knew better than to argue with a determined healer. Besides, she was worried about her hand that had not healed as fast as it was supposed to be, given the sturdy nature of Dwarves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Therefore she extended her arm to Óin, who carefully removed the bandage and the poultice applied by the lady healer in the Angle… and shook his lion-like head in concern at the sight offering itself to his trained eye.

The wounded hand was clearly infected; a dark red swath was running from the base of Bifur’s palm up her arm. The skin in the affected area was taut and shiny. What was even worse, two of her fingers seemed markedly swollen, as if the blood could not flow freely through the injured part of her hand.

“This is not good, not good at all,” murmured Óin, carefully turning the injured hand over between his broad palms. “The wound is inflamed; I could feel the heat radiating from it before even touching it.”

“How can that be?” demanded Bofur. “There was no sign of swelling, nor any trace of infection when the healer of the Rangers bandaged it, back in the Angle, a couple o’ days ago!”

“Then the infection must have developed since then,” replied Óin. “Unfortunately, such things happen, even if you do your best to spare the injured hand. You did spare it, right?” he asked from Bifur, with a clear warning overtone in his voice.

She gave him an annoyed look. “Of course I did. I am not an idiot, you know. So, can you heal it?”

“I can try stopping the infection, but that would mean cutting and draining your hand,” answered Óin honestly. “Which would be painful, and in the end might not even help. Not too much anyway.”

“If you do not, though, I might lose my hand,” said Bifur. It was not truly a question, but Óin nodded nevertheless. Bifur sighed. “We have no chance then; we must give it a try. I need that hand.”

“All right,” said Óin. “But I will need lots of boiling hot water for that, all the time; can somebody see to it while I am doing the rest?”

Inga, now seriously worried about her older cousin, hurried over to the kitchen to fill the largest cauldron and stir up the fire in the hearth. Óin, in the meantime, brought forth from his saddlebags a small, silver-bound lidded chest, beautifully carved from oak-wood, that stood on four short, sturdy legs. Unlocking the small padlock, he lifted the lid, revealing the contents: small, wood-stoppered vials of clouded glass with various tinctures and healing oils, bunches of dried herbs, a small soapstone mortar, rolled-up linen strips and other bandage materials and all sorts of odd-looking instruments for treating injuries. It was the chest of a travelling leech indeed, like the one Old Tyrfingr used to carry with him, only better equipped.

“I shall wash your hand with a juice made of both the roots and leaves of adder’s tongue first, to clean it from all possible things that might aggravate the infection,” explained Óin. “Then you will have to soak it in scalding hot water for a while, ere I do the incision. That will soften the skin and draw the infected matter closer to the surface.”

Bifur nodded her understanding. Óin washed his own hands in hot water first, scrubbed them in fact, and coated them with some clear liquid from one of the stoppered vials. Then, wetting a soft white cloth with the same liquid, he washed Bifur’s hand carefully. Bifur gritted her teeth against the pain but otherwise endured the treatment stoically.

Óin then asked for a small bucket of steaming hot water, in which to soak her hand, and for a candle. While she held her hand in the bucket, drops of sweat from the heat and the pain gathering over her brows, Óin took a small argent knife out of the chest and held the narrow yet obviously razor sharp blade over the flame of the candle.

“Is that a mithril blade?” asked Bifur, her pain momentarily forgotten at the sight of such a beautiful instrument.

Óin nodded. “Aye; I bought it from an Elven healer in Lindon. He was setting off for the Grey Havens, planning to Sail to Elvenhome in the Far West and no longer needed it. ‘Twas a lucky purchase, seeing as mithril has healing qualities in itself.”

He finished cleansing the blade and pulled up a stool for Bifur.

“Sit here,” he instructed. “Bofur, stand behind her and make sure her upper body does not move. And you,” he looked at Inga, “must hold her arm still at the elbow and shoulder.”

The two other Dwarves nodded and did as they had been asked.

“Let me see how the hand is doing now,” said Óin.

Bifur drew her hand from the hot water and looked at it with detached interest. Thanks to the soaking, the skin was no longer shiny; instead, the whole hand seemed puffy and red. Óin took a fresh cloth from his chest and dried the hand with it. Then he wetted the cloth with woundwort tincture from another vial and swiped over the area where he intended to make the incision.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Bifur nodded tersely.

“Just try breathing deeply and steadily,” Óin handed the cloth to Frán who was watching him with narrowed eyes. “Would you hold this beneath the hand to keep the foul matter coming from the cut from dropping onto the floor?”

Frán accepted the cloth without comment. She was a warrior; she had seen worse.

“Good,” said Óin. “Let us begin now.”

The fine Elven blade seemed like a mere sliver in his large hand as he carefully but steadily sliced into the infected area. At once a thick yellow substance started oozing out of the cut. Bifur closed her eyes briefly and her face became tense but she gave no other sign of discomfort. Bofur wrapped his big arms around her, keeping her immobilised, while Inga kept her arm still.

After a short while the oozing stopped but Óin did not seem satisfied just yet.

“There is still much of this foul stuff inside the wound,” he said. “We need to get all of it out, or else you could get blood poisoning, and I do not need to tell you what that would mean, do I?”

Bifur shook her head. She had seen people dying from blood poisoning and had no intention to end that way.

“Can you force it out?” she asked.

“I can and I will,” replied Óin, “but it shan’t be pleasant.”

“I understand,” Bifur sighed. “Just… just do it.”

Óin nodded tightly and began massaging her forearm with his thumbs, down from the elbow towards the incision. More foul-smelling matter seeped from the cut at that; fortunately, Dwarven stomachs were strong. More sensitive people might have keeled over from the sight… or the smell. Óin continued pressing the hand and the arm from different angles, cleaning the wound of all traces of the yellow substance, and Bifur endured it in the laconic manner Mahal’s Children tended to bear all hardships.

When the draining was finally complete, Óin asked for a fresh bucket of hot water. In that, Bifur had to soak her hand again for a while. Óin then cleaned the wound with the woundwort tincture again and looked at his handiwork in satisfaction.

“That went better than I would expect,” he said. “See, the swelling is greatly reduced, and the skin is no longer taut and shiny. I will have to stitch up the wound, though, and that might be more painful than when I made the cut.”

“Do what you must,” replied Bifur tiredly. “I never knew the wound had taken such a turn to the worse. It appeared to me to heal well enough while we rested in the Angle.”

“Aye, but the leeches of the Rangers have kingsfoil; an herb that only ever grows around their settlements,” Óin re-washed his hands and selected a needle from his healer’s chest, cleansing it over the flame of the candle as he had done with the knife. “Kingsfoil has a cleansing effect that wears off infections like no other herb can. Alas, ‘tis very hard to come by; but I shall do what is within my modest skills to help you.”

He asked Bofur and Inga again to keep Bifur immobilised; then he threaded a long strand of horse hair through the needle and began stitching up the wound. If the cutting and draining had been unpleasant, the stitching was downright painful; there were moments when Bifur thought she might pass out. Only Bofur’s solid presence behind her kept her grounded.

She realised that she had unforgivably neglected the wound on the way from the Angle to the Forsaken Inn. Dwarven hardiness – and the ability to ignore pain by sheer willpower – was not always an advantage, it seemed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Here we go,” Óin finally said, snipping off the rest of the horse hair and bandaged the wounded hand again. “I fear this is all the good I can do for now. When we reach Bree, I shall visit the herbalist’s shop there and look for more and better healing herbs. What happened to you anyway?”

“We were attacked on the Road, at our last night camp before reaching the Angle,” explained Bofur grimly. “By a large band of Mannish outlaws; Dunlendings, by the looks of them, although they must have lived rough for years and seemed not much better than Goblins… or wild beasts. In the end, we managed to fend them off, but they slew Órn and Skeggi; and Bifur here is not the only one wounded, although her injury is by way the most serious one.”

“That is odd,” said Óin with a frown while collecting his herbs and putting his tinctures away in the healer’s chest he had obviously taken to carrying with him on his journeys. “The Dunlendings were always friendly with our people; why would they turn against us, all of a sudden?”

“Outlaws have no friends,” reminded him Frán, quoting the old Wanderer saying. “Less so when they are starving and desperate, both of which this band clearly was. Perchance hunted by the Rangers of the Angle, too.”

Óin nodded in grim understanding. Attacking a caravan of Wanderer Dwarves was courting death for everyone – even for a numerous band of Mannish outlaws. Dwarves were fiercely protective of everything they considered theirs; and as Wanderers could call but very few things by that name, they fought what little they had like demons. 'Twas often a question of life and death for them and their families, so they know no mercy in such fights.

But, as the case of the two dead Dwarves of this small caravan showed, neither did the outlaws. ‘Twas a true ‘them or us’ situation for both parties.

“I am sorry about Skeggi,” said Óin to Bofur. “I know you were friends. I wish I knew him better; but he looked like a decent enough Dwarf to me.”

“Aye, that he was,” replied Bofur with a sad nod. “And good travelling company, too. I have known him since we were both but mere striplings; never had so much fun with anyone else. He was so full of mischief, always could make you laugh, no matter what.”

“And he was deadly with his battle-hammer, too,” added Bifur with a dejected sigh. “We shall miss his strength on our travels greatly.”

“So will the merchant-wives in Lake-town, too,” commented Tyrgg with a grin. “That red-haired widow in particular, the webestre… she was awfully fond of him. Would have taken him into her house in a heartbeat, had be been willing,” he winked at Bofur. “And that little slattern of her handmaid could barely take her eyes off you.”

Bofur raised an amused eyebrow.

“I thought it was you who dallied with her the whole time we spent in Lake-town,” he answered. “The two of you seemed inseparable.”

“Aye, but only cause you showed no interest,” returned Tyrgg, laughing. “I was only her second choice, as always.”

That ridiculous assumption made everyone laugh, for it was always Tyrgg who would catch the eye of the daughters of men first. The way he pulled his hair back from his face and wore it in two tight braids, plaited behind his ears, gave him a general look of tidiness that women found very attractive. His handsome, slightly exotic features and his honeyed tongue also helped to make him much sought after, whenever they visited a Mannish settlement.

“You see what I have to put up with?” Bofur said to Óin in mock exasperation. “The young ones today have no respect for their elders. That is the thank for teaching him how to wield a pick-axe when he still could not tell his left hand from his right one.”

“Aye, ‘tis hard when all he ever had were two left hands,” a deep, amused voice said and Bávor, who had been on guard duty and got just relieved by his baby brother Gellir, entered the Common Room.

The third son (and fourth child) of Bombur looked very much as his father had at the same age, Óin found, only with his mother’s much darker hair, which he wore in multiple braids, fastened with golden clasps. A trained warrior as well as a skilled merchant and a passable ironsmith, he was Bifur’s right hand at leading and protecting the caravan, and he radiated a natural authority his father also used to have once but appeared to have lost after the death of his beloved Maren.

Broadly built like his father, in his hard leather jerkin and thick cloak of heavy wool Bávor made the impression of being massive and incredibly strong – which he actually was – instead of looking simply fat. A quick glance at him could help imagine Bombur as a warrior who had fought at Azanulbizar, however involuntarily.

He exchanged the obligatory head-butt with Óin, whom he could only fleetingly greet before, asked about the state of Bifur’s hand – which seemed to worry him seriously – and then sat down to the table to eat. He had his own folding spoons of silver and a beautifully cut drinking glass of crystal, both of which he wore in their own hard-leather cases around his neck, together with the small silver key on its chain that opened the lock of the lidded case of his glass⁽¹⁾.

No other Dwarf present had such utensils. Bávor was clearly one who respected his own status – and expected others to do the same.

“That glass is one excellent piece of work,” commented Óin. “Made of rock crystal, is it not? Where did you get it?”

“From Nori Orinsson⁽²⁾,” replied Bávor. “He was just finishing learning of his craft the last time we returned to the Blue Mountains and made several such drinking vessels as his masterpieces. This one he liked less than the rest, so I could afford to buy it off him. Fródi,” he nodded in the direction of one of the youngest members of his caravan, one with light brown, almost blond hair and a distinctive forelock over his right eye, “made for me both cases.”

“He does beautiful work,” said Óin, taking a closer look at the excellent leatherwork.

Bávor nodded. “That he does; and he earns honest coin with it, whenever we visit the marketplace of some Mannish village – Men like his designs very much.”

“No wonder,” said Óin. “They seem delicate and very elegant.”

“Just cause we live on the Road, it does not mean that we have to live like barbarians,” replied Bávor with a shrug. He finished his stew and yawned. “Speaking of which, you can have my place in the wagon tonight, Óin. I have not slept with my family for some time and we have much to discuss. I am sure Bifur shan’t mind the company,” he added with a wink and avoided a punch in the upper arm from Bifur with surprising nimbleness for a Dwarf of his heavy build.

“And I shall take poor Skeggi’s place to make sure Tyrgg behaves,” said Bofur, grinning.

Bifur rolled her eyes at their transparent efforts to give her and Óin some privacy but made no attempts to protest. It would be good to catch up with her old friend and lover, she decided. Even if the passion that had once burned between the two of them had long turned to ashes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The wagon in which Bifur – and before her her parents – lived and travelled did not change much since Óin had last seen it from the inside… which had been quite a few years – nay, decades! – earlier.

It was large, with four small windows on one side and one large, shuttered shop window on the other one, which made it possible to turn the wagon into an actual shop whenever they visited a market or a fair. The walls and the roof were made of wood, giving the inhabitants proper shelter from the moods of the weather and from the arrows of any possible attackers.

Half the wagon’s floor was covered by thick fur rugs, made of bearskins of different colours, all beautifully curried; having several leather-workers travelling with the caravan was clearly an advantage. It was on this half where the family would sleep, under thick blankets. Óin still remembered how safe he had felt as a young Dwarfling in the warm nest of blankets and bodies, where he, his brother, Bifur and Bofur had slept together as children.

On the other side was a small, low table that served both as dining table and as Bifur’s working bench, with cushions and pillows scattered about. There were several large chests along the wall that held clothes and valuables, as well as various types of wood and rope and the tools that Bifur would need for her craft.

Two lamps hung from the ceiling, with various bunches of dried herbs, some of them left behind by Old Tyrfingr when he had chosen to return to the Blue Mountains; even a small medicine cabinet, holding what was left of his tinctures, was nailed to the wall.

There were weapons within easy reach everywhere in the wagon, and even a trap door in the floor, in case of an emergency. Life on the Road was never easy. Óin remembered that Kuoni, Bifur’s father, had always slept by the trap door, to shield the rest of the family with his own body. He had been a brave one; and a deadly warrior, too, despite having lost a limb at Azanulbizar.

Bifur and Bofur’s entire life consisted of what could be found in this wagon. ‘Twas not much; even less so compared with the relative comfort of Óin’s own home in the Blue Mountains. Or rather Glóin’s home, which he happened to share in the rare occasions when he actually spent time there. But this was the only life the two cousins knew, and they did seem more or less content with it.

Bifur led him to the table, leaving the wagon’s main door open to allow the starlight and the night sounds of singing insects to come in. She left the lamps unlit. They were running out of oil, which was hard to come by when one lived on the Road, not to mention costly. Besides, the starlight was more than enough for the keen Dwarven eyesight.

“You can put your clothes here,” she said. “We are eating in the Common Room while resting here; and ‘Tis not so as if I could work any time soon – if ever again.”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Óin. “Hopefully, we have stopped the infection, and I shall see what I can get in Bree to treat your wound better. But you should be mindful of your health, Sigrún. The others cannot afford to lose you… and neither can I. I may not be the one for you, but you have always been and will always be the one for me. And I have missed you greatly.”

Bifur smiled sadly, though it was too dark in the wagon even for the night-eyes of another Dwarf to see it.

“No-one ever calls me by my true name anymore,” she said, a little wistfully. “Not even Bofur and Bombur.”

”Understandable,” said Óin, his voice revealing that he was smiling, too. “For them, you are first and foremost their leader. For me, you will always be the girl I fell in love with.”

At that Bifur laughed outright. “I am too old to be called a girl, Óin!”

“Perhaps,” allowed Óin. “You are a proper Dwarf-dam now; have been for quite some time. But the respect I feel for you does not lessen my older feelings.”

He reached out to caress the fine down on the side of her cheeks, the only actual beard female Dwarves would grow⁽³⁾.

“Even without suffering from the true effects of the love-longing, there was never and will never be anyone else in my heart,” he added quietly.

“But how can you say that if you never experienced the full onslaught of the longing?” asked Bifur doubtfully.

Óin shrugged. “Love must not always be something stormy and wild. Sometimes it can come with a gentle spring breeze – but that does not make it any less binding. I shall always miss you, whenever we are apart – which happens far too often for my comfort.”

Bifur sighed again and leaned against him, comforted by his solid presence. She was a tough one, even as Dwarf-dams go, but the harsh life on the Road had taken its toll on her recently, appearances notwithstanding. Being reunited with her old friend who still saw her  as she had once been eased her burden a little.

“I missed you, too,” she confessed. “’Tis hard work to lead a caravan in which most people are older and more experienced than I am. I hoped Niping would take over after poor Maren’s passing; he comes from a long line of successful merchants, with contacts just about everywhere; and Dagrún would make a good wise-woman. So would Frán, for that matter, and she is more of a warrior than I ever wanted to be.”

“And yet they chose you,” said Óin.

She nodded. “They did, and I am not one to shirk my responsibilities, you know that. Bofur and Bávor are a great help, but they have their own concerns – Bombur, mostly, who still has to get over Maren’s death – and in the end, it all comes down to me, although I never wanted this. All I ever wanted was to make the best toys that can be sold on the market.”

“I know,” said Óin, “and if it is in my power, I shall make sure that you can work again, sooner or later. I promise.”

“Make no promises that you cannot keep,” she replied, shifting positions so that she could learn more fully against him. “For now, I am just glad to see you again. How long do you intend to stay with us?”

“It depends on how long you are planning to stay in the Forsaken Inn,” said Óin. “I am to meet Thorin in Bree in four days, at the latest. That means I must leave this place behind in three day’s time, unless I want to ride my poor pony to the ground. Can you and the rest of your people be ready to move by then?”

Bifur nodded. “Sterday is market day in Bree. As we have missed the fair in Michel Delving already, we were planning to try our luck on the Bree market anyway. We have to move on the day after tomorrow for that, though. Our wagons are not as fast as a sole rider.”

“I shall ride with you, then,” decided Óin. “If I may store my bags in your wagon, that is. My poor steed would be relieved if he had to carry my weight alone.”

“Of course you can,”  Bifur smiled in the darkness. “It will be nice travelling with you again… like in old times.”

“Like in old times indeed,” Óin echoed, kissing the top of her head. “Shall we turn in then and sleep side by side like old friends once more?”

Bifur laughed and bumped shoulders with him.

“I would like that,” she said.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Endnotes:

(1) John Howe originally designed those items for Bofur, who was supposed to be a bit of a snob at that time. As far as I know, the utensils were never actually made, and neither was Óin’s travelling chest, originally designed (also by John Howe) as Ori’s toolbox.

(2) The name of Nori’s father is not given in canon, so I invented it. Remember, the Nori in my tales is not the same one as in PJ’s film.

(3) Well, yes, this is compromising between the Professor and myself, based on the film design of female Dwarves. I found them very pretty.