If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Author’s notes: To tell the truth, I originally considered having Thorin & Co dwell among the ruins of Nogrod (=Tumunzahar). The geology of the Ered Luin is vague enough that I might have gotten away with it, but in the end I went for an ancient colony instead.

Uruktharbun is a name Tolkien considered for Moria but rejected later in favour of Khazad-dûm; I thought it would fit Thorin’s city. Zirakinbar means Silverhorn and was usually meant to be the name of the peak that became Zirak-zigil in the end. Uzban means “Lord” in Khuzdul. Without a kingdom to his name, I assumed that Thorin would not be called “King” by his people just yet.

Lofar is a semi-canon character. In the earlier manuscripts of LOTR he was one of the Dwarves helping Bilbo packing his things after the Party and moving to Rivendell.

Chapter 05 – The Halls of the Crownless King

The willingness of the wizard surprised them all, though they did their best to hide their surprise. And thus plans were made for them all to meet in Thorin’s halls under the Blue Mountains, although they would get there at different times and on different ways.

Thorin and Dwalin intended to right straight forth in the next morning, making only short rests until arriving at home. Gandalf wanted to make a detour for the Shire, where he had some business to look after, but promised to follow them soon enough. Dwalin tried to persuade his cousin to ride with them but Óin refused.

“I shall travel with the caravan,” he explained. “I must keep an eye on Bifur’s hand; and others also have injuries I need to treat. I shall be with you in a few days’ time.”

“We shan’t stay here longer than two more days,” added Bifur, “and then follow you on the shortest possible route. With the wagons it will take us a bit longer than for you, though.”

“It matters not,” said Thorin. “Our counsels will take some time as it is. And now that Bofur chose to join us, we shan’t begin without him.”

“I should hope so,” commented Bofur cheekily.

That earned him a few disapproving looks from the older Dwarves – a king was a king, with or without a kingdom to his name, after all – but Thorin just laughed, clearly not taking any offence. They parted ways then and there, as Thorin, Dwalin and the wizard had rooms in the inn while the BroadBeams and Óin returned to the wagons to sleep.

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

The following two days were spent in blessed peace. Thorin and Dwalin left at daybreak indeed – when the wizard had vanished no-one could tell – but the BroadBeams rested and recovered from their respective injuries. Aside from Bifur’s hand there was Fródi’s leg wound (a lot less severe), the one or other cut or bruise. Óin tended to all of those with great care, and they healed nicely, thanks to his newly acquired herbal supplies. In the meantime, the others sold a few more other items to the locals; mostly iron tools and leatherware.

In the third morning, though, they were all ready to move on – which they did eagerly. The hope of a long rest in the Blue Mountains gave them the strength to continue their journey, despite their still lingering weariness.

Having gained enough supplies in Bree, they chose the shortest route along the southern borders of the Shire and the Tower Hills, even though the roads there were not so well tended to, and the ponies had to struggle a bit with the heavy wagons. To ease the burden of the faithful beasts, those who were hale enough walked along with them rather then riding the wagons. Even Bombur was willing to drag his considerable weight on foot, much to the ponies’ relief; although, truth be told, he had lost some of said weight lately, his appetite not being what it once used to be.

That worried his children (and Bifur and Bombur) a lot. Not that he would not be still way too fat, even for a BroadBeam Dwarf, but the loss of appetite showed that he was still having inner troubles. Grieving, too, most likely. And while Dwarves did not die from broken heart, as it was said of the Elves, grief could do them great harm, eventually reducing them to pale shadows of themselves.

Meeting his old friends had brought him out of his grey mood, at least for the time being, and Bifur hoped that staying in the Blue Mountains for a while would be good for him. But he had accepted Bofur’s choice to go to Erebor with Thorin way too easily, she found. As a rule, Bombur was very protective of his younger brother, even though in truth Bofur had always been the stronger, more resilient, more practical-minded one. ‘Twas strange and disquieting for Bombur to let him go without protest.

“He has been our stalwart support and shadow for too long,” was all he said when Bifur asked him. “He deserves to seek out a life for himself; one that would make him content. Now that the children are all grown, we shall manage without him.”

Which was true, of course, but it did not put Bifur’s mind to rest. Thus she kept watching Bombur quietly, unobtrusively, and she could see Bávor and Inga, even Gellir do the same. Regardless of his brave words, Bombur had rarely been separated from his brother in all his life; losing Bofur, after having lost his beloved Maren, would be a hard blow for him.

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

Unfortunately, there was nothing any of them could do about it, and thus they continued their slow progress to the Blue Mountains, Dwarves and beasts of burden alike fighting their bone-deep weariness, and finally, several days later, they reached the outskirts of the mountain range. Or, to be more accurate, those of the southern range. For the once unbroken chain of ancient rock and stone had been cloven in two at the end of the War of Wrath, when Beleriand was swallowed by the Sea and the Gulf of Lhûn cut deeply into the very bones of the mountains.

When the Powers had to break Middle-earth in the order to break the reign of the Great Enemy.

The colony of Durin’s Folk did not consist of Thorin’s Halls alone, of course. In fact, it had been founded among the ruins of an earlier Dwarven settlement: in the abandoned caverns and tunnels of an ancient underground city that had been uninhabited since the early Second Age.

“We still keep discovering new tunnels and caverns from time to time,” explained Óin. “Or rather old ones, I would say. The method of the carvings and the motifs make us assume that this had once been a FireBeard colony; perhaps an outlier of the great city-kingdom of Tumunzahar. ‘Tis entirely possible that the halls of that city became crowded after a time and the inhabitants chose to migrate to the South. This colony was likely never as huge as its mother colony perhaps but still quite large.”

“Just how large are we talking about?” asked Niping.

Like most of their caravan, he had only ever visited the outer halls and the roofed market. Only Bifur and her kin had been in Thorin’s own halls – until they got banned, that is.

“’Tis difficult to tell,” replied Óin thoughtfully. “The part that is currently inhabited is roughly twenty miles in length and spreads across seven levels: the one where Thorin’s Great Hall is situated, three levels above and three below. But, as I said, new caverns are found as we keep building the place, and not even we know how far the old city once reached. Thorin’s Halls lie closer to the East-gate than to the western exit. After them, the upper levels take turns further up into the mountain, and the lower ones fell deeper. At the western end, the distance between the upmost and the lowest levels is almost twice of that at the eastern end.”

“By Mahal’s hammer!” muttered Hjalli, impressed. “You most have worked like moles in the last hundred years!”

“Most of it we found ready for the taking” admitted Óin, “although it had to be cleaned of the rubbish that had piled up for an Age or so. But aye, we have laboured long and hard to give back the city at least some of its earlier glory back. You can judge our success yourself; for we are come to the gates of Uruktharbun.”

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

They had been following a fairly wide mountain road – originally perhaps a natural cut between two raised spurs if the Zirakinbar, as the southern range of the Blue Mountains was called – that had been widened enough to allow two carts to pass each other – or four mounted Dwarves to ride abreast. It was also pawed with large, flat stones that might once have been white but had become grey and withered with age. Here and there a few of them were broken, but even now, the BroadBeams could see a group of stone-carvers working on repairing them.

The road led directly to the East-gate, which was basically a stone arch, cut into the living rock, and served as the main entrance of the city. It was guarded by the huge stone figures of Dwarf warriors, only half-cut from the rock, in old-fashioned armour widely worn in the early Second Age. On their breastplates a lion’s head was carved in high relief: the ancient heraldic symbol of the FireBeards, as the raven was for the LongBeards, the wolf for the BlackLocks or the widder for the BroadBeams. This supported the theory that these caverns must have been a FireBeard settlement once.

“I cannot remember the statues,” murmured Bifur. “Last time I was here this was just a shapeless rock, overgrown by the forest.”

Óin nodded. “Aye, they were found while we were clearing up the area around the Gate to allow us better sight at the road. It took years ‘til we cleaned away all the trees and bushes and dirt. But it was worth the effort, was it not?”

“Impressive stonework,” agreed Hjalli. “’Tis what Erebor must have looked like in its heyday, if one can believe the songs.”

“’Uruktharbun is older than Erebor, though; much older, even if it lay empty and forgotten for an Age or more,” replied Óin. “’Tis not back yet to what must have been its former glory; that will likely take another hundred years or two, but it is very beautiful already, as you soon shall see.”

He stepped closer to the heavy, iron-bound oak door under the arch and greeted one of the grim-faced Dwarves who were standing on each side of it, clad in full armour, their halberds – larger than themselves – crossed before the door to block the way.

“Greetings, Haugspori,” he said. “These good Dwarves are here on the invitation of Uzbad Thorin himself. They have travelled long and are now in need of some rest. Would you give the way free for us?”

With matching broad grins, the guards, uncrossed their halberds, and the one Óin had called Haugspori laid a hand upon the door. At the slightest push, the great oakwood wings swung inward noiselessly, revealing a wide tunnel behind – one wide enough for the wagons to pass it, one after another.

“You have been away a long time, friend Óin, “Haugspori then said. Judging by his flaming red beard, which he had in two thick braids and doubled over, he was a FireBeard, too. “Your brother and his family were getting concerned. They will be glad to have you back.”

“’Tis good to be back,” admitted Óin. “Even if I have not run into any kind of trouble myself this time. Now, can you find someone to lead my friends here to the guest halls? They have never visited the deeper parts of the city.”

“You will find Lofar at the first juncture,” said Haugspori. “He is in charge of the guest hall in this moon; he will help you with everything you may need.”

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

Bifur thanked the guard in the name of the others, and so they passed the East-gate, driving their wagons down the well-tended passage that, according to Óin, ran across the entire colony, connecting the two farthest ends on the east and the west side of Zirakinbar, respectively.

This was clearly one of the older tunnels, its stone floor rubbed smooth by the countless feet (and hooves and wheels) that had trodded it during the long millennia of its existence. The walls of the tunnel had been richly carved once. By now, only the vague outlines of the once vivid scenes could be seen. Here and there somebody had obviously been working on restoring them, for the one or other figure – strange animals, exotic trees and other plants and even oddly-shaped buildings – were well-visible again. They all seemed to have a certain Southron flair, making one wonder if the original builders of the city had some connection with Harad once… or with other, long-gone and forgotten southern realms.

At the first junction they came to a circular stone chamber, in which an elderly-looking Dwarf was sitting. He had a bold face with a very high forehead, a short but crooked nose, large eyes and a jutting, cleft chin. His forked beard, carefully plaited in two thick braids that were looped together on the nape of his neck, with their ends fastened to his topknot, revealed him as a LongBeard and the ink stains on his fingers revealed him as a clerk.

His tunic of fine, earth brown wool and his fur-lined, sleeveless coat showed, however, that he was not just any common clerk. The gemstones he wore on his throat spoke of a Dwarf of a certain standing. And he had to have seen at least some battle in his days, for his left eye was missing, his empty eyehole covered by a leather patch.

He obviously knew Óin, for he greeted him by name and with a respectful bow, which said a lot of Óin’s status in Thorin’s halls. Then he welcomed the BroadBeams in a friendly enough manner, asked about their needs and soon found them comfortable quarters in the guest halls as well as fitting places for their wagons and ponies.

“Agde here will take you to the First Deep,” he said. “That is the first level below us, where your ponies can be brought to the grazing patches and your wagons to the caves that serve as sheds. There are also guest quarters with access to the common baths. Food will be served in the common dining halls; or you can visit one of the inns if that is more to your liking. Agde will give you directions.”

Agde was a young lad obviously still before his last growth pains; as-yet beardless and clearly enjoying his tasks as an errand runner very much. There were a few other beardless youths kicking their heels nearby; Bifur assumed that they, too, were running errands for the clerk – who now turned to her.

“As for you and your family, Lady Sigrún, I was told that you are Uzban Thorin’s personal guests. He gave orders for you to be given his own guest chambers. Óin and his brother dwell nearby, he can show you the way.”

“But my wagon, my ponies,” protested Bifur. “I must…”

“Oh, don’t fret so much!” interrupted Frán. “We shall see after your goods and your beasts; and those of Bofur’s, too.”

“That shan’t be necessary,” said Lofar. “We have skilled StiffBeard grooms and shepherds here. They look after all our beasts, even the hill sheep and the mountain goats. Your ponies will be in good hands.”

“You have livestock here?” Frán was surprised, almost shocked to hear that, and who could blame her for it? Ponies were one thing, even Dwarves needed steeds and pack animals, but keeping herds? That was a very un-Dwarflike thing to do.

Lofar shrugged.  “There are but a few Mannish settlements on this side of the Blue Mountains, and even those are farmsteads mostly. We cannot run to the shire every time we need food. We had to make allowances, at least where the meat is concerned. It takes a lot of food to feed several thousand Dwarves.”

“Several thousand?” repeated Niping in surprise. “Your colony has grown in numbers considerably since our last visit.”

“Oh aye, that it has,” replied Lofar contentedly. “Once they heard that we found what was all but a ready-made city to take, many of our people have come to dwell here with us; and not Durin’s Folk alone. Our FireBeard cousins were eager to re-claim their heritage,” he grinned at Óin in a friendly manner, “and as the meadows are good for keeping herds, more and more StiffBeard Wanderers drifted closer and decided on a settled life. By now we breed the best hill ponies west from the Riddermark, and the fleeces of our sheep are much sought after by the Men of Eriador, for they are thicker and warmer than what they get from their own beasts. Weaving and leather-working has become quite the flourishing trade among the StiffBeards.”

The BroadBeams shook their heads in bewilderment, for such crafts were seldom practiced among Dwarves. Well, leather-working was, of course – they needed endurable clothing and good horse-gear for the ponies – but certainly not spinning and weaving and breeding anything but ponies. In the goode olden days they had got all sorts of fabric from Men and Elves through trade.

“Times change,” commented Dagrún thoughtfully, “and we must change with them if we want to survive.”

Frán just kept shaking her head morosely. As the oldest Dwarf-dam among them – and a warrior at that – she felt more strongly about the old ways than most. But though quarrelsome she might be, even she realised that this was not the time for such debates, and so they followed the lad named Agde to the quarters assigned tot hem, taking the wagons of Bifur and Bombur with them.

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

Óin indeed led his friends to the guest chambers of Thorin’s Halls. Those were fairly large rooms on the same level as the East-gate, with easy access to a shared bath. They also got real sunlight through the shafts cut into the ceiling, which was a relief. Dwarves they might be, made to live in the heart of the mountains, but they were also Wanderers that had spent most of their lives on the Road and grown used to the great outdoors.

“I would miss feeling the warmth of the sun upon my face,” admitted Inga, and Bifur nodded in agreement.

The two got to share one of the chambers, with Bofur and Bombur sharing the other one and Bávor getting the third one with his brother Gellir.

“I fear it will be hard on me to get used to a life under stone,” continued Inga. “Save for the time when I learned my craft in the Iron Hills – and that was difficult enough at times – I never knew aught but the Road in all my life.”

“You don’t have to stay under stone all the time,” said Bifur. “There are always markets and fairs; and from the Iron Hills ‘tis easy to visit Lake-town.”

“Aye, but I wonder what Yngvildr would say if I started wandering around instead of sitting in my workshop and working like a good craftsman,” replied Inga with a sigh. “’Twould not be easy to have a legendary hero as one’s Clan matriarch.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Bifur. “But you shall have to stand up for yourself, child, or you shan’t have any respect at all. Not from your life-mate or from his mother.”

“Stand up to the Raven Lady?” asked Inga with a hollow laugh. “A fat chance I would have to succeed with that. She is not only a living legend, she is a Forge Guard, too; and the only living descendant of King Azaghâl himself.”

“And as such she will know to value strength and integrity above all,” pointed out Bifur. “Grovelling at her feet would do you no good. If she is being unreasonable, you can always remind her that – according to ancient custom – you could demand from Nár to leave the Iron Hills and live on the Road with you.”

“Aye, and get myself expelled from the King’s halls as you did?” returned Inga. “Nay, I cannot do that to Nár, as I doubt he would be up to sharing my life as it is now.”

“Then he is not worthy to you binding your life to his,” said Bifur harshly.

Inga shook her head. “You are unjust, Cousin. Not everyone is fit to live on the Road; nor is it a way Mahal’s children were meant to live. You can see how the older ones grew weary of it, one by one. Old Tyrfingr, my father… even Uncle Bofur has had enough.”

“But you have not… not yet,” said Bofur.

It was not really a question but Inga nodded all the same.

“I shall not miss fighting Wargs or footpads… or trying to outwit people intent on cheating on us… or the often uncomfortable lodgings and the foul weather,” she confessed. “But I shall miss the freedom of it, the great unknown of the lonely roads, the wonders we got to see, the good people we have met… aye, I shall miss all that very much. And I fear what may become of Father once I shan’t be here for him.”

“I shall never leave Bombur alone,” answered Bifur. “I promised to Maren on her deathbed that I shall always be there to take care of your father.”

“I know you will,” Inga touched her fingers to her forehead, her lips and her heart as a sign of gratitude, “and we who are his children thank you for that. Yet my heart tells me that living on the Road would be the death of him, sooner or later. His mood has been heavy and dark lately. It lifted somewhat upon Óin’s arrival, and I hope that staying here for a while would do him good, but I cannot believe that he has the strength to remain a Wanderer much longer. Not with Uncle Bofur gone, too.”

“Nay, I do not believe so, either,” agreed Bifur. “Which is why I have been thinking about handing over the caravan to Niping and his family and staying in Uruktharbun with Bombur.”

“You would give up the caravan?” asked Inga in chock. “But… but it is your inheritance! He only thing your parents could leave to you!”

“That is true,” admitted Bifur. “However, I find that I am growing weary of the Road myself. ‘Tis not something I would ever have chosen for myself; ‘twas a necessity. But now… now I do not have to live on the Road any longer. This city houses thousands of Dwarves; surely it can house two more.”

“And what if Dís Thráinsdóttir protests against you settling here?” asked Inga seriously. “The two of you never got on; and she has already got you banished once.”

“Then I shall find us another place to live,” replied Bifur with a shrug. “We can go on to Lindon, to the Grey Havens. The Elven shipwrights of Lord Círdan have always been friendly with our people. ‘Tis said that there are still Dwarves working in the forges of Mithlond. And there are Men living with them, too. Where there are Men, there are children. And where there are children, a cook and a toy-maker can always eke out a living.”

“You would live among Men or even Elves, rather than among our own kin?” Inga was clearly scandalised.

Bifur shrugged again.

“I would live with Orcs ere I would allow Dís Thráinsdóttir to lord it over me,” she said coldly. “And if you asked your father, he would tell you the same. Maren had much to suffer from that contemptuous bitch too. Ask old Tyrfingr if you do not believe me.”

“I fear that Sigrún is right,” said a deep voice that sounded a bit hollow with age from the open door behind them. “However, right now I would rather occupy myself with your injured hand, my dear.”

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

They turned around and saw with great delight their old leech standing on the doorstep, the long apron of a healer bound over the quilted surcoat of brown velvet that he was wearing, the sleeves of his fine linen shirt rolled back above his elbows.

Tyrfingr, with whom Bofur was still cross for leaving their caravan a couple of years before, was a very old Dwarf indeed. Hi wispy hair and beard were snow white and so were his bushy eyebrows that almost met above the long, thick blade of his nose that almost curved down deeply enough to touch his thin mouth. Only the very ends of his forked beard were braided and his moustache was short and thin, too.

His eyes might have been the usual beetle-black of most BroadBeams once. Now, however, they seemed pale, almost red through the thick white membrane that appeared to cover both eyes like cloudy glass. He also had heavy bags under his eyes, and Inga suddenly understood the true reason behind his sudden decision to leave the caravan and settle down in Uruktharbun as Balin’s personal healer.

“I suppose Uncle Bofur owes you an apology,” she said quietly.

The nearly blind healer waved off her concern, though.

“Don’t worry off that pretty head of yours, child. Bofur is a decent chap who takes family obligations very seriously. I don’t blame him for that. Besides, he could not know. I never told anyone that my eyes were weakening. It had gone on for years and no-one of you ever noticed. I stayed with you as long as I still could be of use; but I never wanted to become a burden.”

“Is there no way at all to give you back your eyesight – or, at least, stop you losing it even more?” asked Bifur.

She could feel her heart clench in sympathy. She had always liked their old leech very much, and Tyrfingr had treated her like a daughter. She had even learned a great deal of herbcraft from him, which proved very useful after his departure.

“Being out of the harsh sunlight helps,” explained Tyrfingr, “and there are some herbal tinctures I use to clean my eyes regularly. And then, of course, there is this.”

“This” was a golden amulet in the shape of a trefoil, each leaf set with a different gemstone: a pale blue crystal called the sky-stone⁽¹⁾, a greenish blue ylâma gem⁽²⁾ and a finely cut mica flake that glittered like golden fish scales. Tyrfingr wore the amulet on a short golden chain around his neck, above his heart.

“And what exactly is this?” asked Bifur doubtfully.

“’Tis a healing charm,” replied the old healer. “We have a wise-woman among us: an ancient FireBeard dam with great knowledge about crystals and gems. Not only can she heal maladies of the body, heart and mind with their help, she can also use them to predict the future. Well… the various possibilities of the future anyway.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Bifur.

The old leech smiled. “And I cannot offer you any proof. Not for the part about predicting the future, that is, but I have seen her heal wounds and illnesses and heavy melancholy with the help of her stones, though.”

Bifur was still shaking her head in doubt and Old Tyrfingr made no attempt to persuade her just yet.

“Let me take a look at your hand now,” he said. ”Óin told me about the treatment you have already received; I wish to see how much it helped.”

“’Tis healing all right,” replied Bifur defensively. “The wound was infected a bit at first, but Óin cut it open and drained it and has been tending to it ever since. It’s much better now.”

“That is not what Óin says,” said the old leech reproachfully. “He says the wound is still inflamed somewhat and heals way too slowly. Something must be done about it, and sooner rather than later.”

“Óin has already done everything he could,” protested Bifur.

“And he is a good enough healer for one who has come to the craft late,” answered Old Tyrfingr. “But I saw more injuries than he probably ever will and know a tad more about such things. So why don’t you come with me to my workshop so that I can see it for myself as long as my old eyes still serve me?”

Put it that way Bifur could hardly refuse the old Dwarf’s request.

“Go on,” encouraged her Inga. “I shall take a proper bath while you are away and finally way my hair. I will help you with yours later.”

Having been cornered by them, Bifur sighed and followed Tyrfingr over to Balin’s mansion where he lived in these days.

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

Bifur did not truly feel like meeting either Balin or Dwalin just yet – or anyone from their families, to be honest. The meeting with Thorin in the Prancing Pony had been enough for her for a while. She was not used to be around royalty much.

Dís, who was an infuriatingly haughty, condescending bitch did not truly count, no matter of her birth.

She knew, of course, that Óin and Glóin were of royal blood, too, just as closely related to Thorin as Balin and Dwalin. But Óin had travelled the Road with them in his youth and – aside from their affair – he was almost family. HE could never intimidate her, no matter what; and neither could Glóin.

Balin, however, and even more so his warrior brother, could and did. Besides, they were both married to Dwarf-dams of considerable standing – Balin to a respected BlackLock warrior and Dwalin to a StoneFoot artisan – compared to whom Bifur had no standing whatsoever.

To her relief, Tyrfingr led her in through the side door that opened to the chambers of the servants. At the moment only Balin’s old valet was present, a StiffBeard named Loki whose bristling beard and wiry hair made the Clan name full honour.

He was a short, ancient Dwarf with terrible burn marks that all but covered the left side of his face. Not everyone had survived the coming of the Dragon unscathed, even of those few who had managed to escape. But apparently, the scarring did not bother him the least. On the contrary, his button-like dark eyes were full of mischief.

He greeted them merrily, clearly aware of the arrival of the caravan. News spread fast among servants, it was said. Then he returned to his work, namely putting the cloaks of his masters into the clothes press so that they would look presentable on the next day.

“The young masters are in conclave with Uzban Thorin,” he mentioned to Tyrfingr absent-mindedly.

Bofur needed a moment to realise that the old manservant was actually meaning Balin and Dwalin! But again, Loki had already served Fundin in his capacity as a valet, so he perhaps still saw his former master’s sons as mere striplings, no matter how old and how venerable they had become.

Tyrfingr gave Bifur an ill-concealed grin as he guided her over to his workshop. It was a small but well-equipped one that also served as his bedchamber if the cot in the farthest corner was any indication. A cold-lamp⁽³⁾ – one of those once used in Khazad-dûm that generated light due to the vibration of a particular crystal in their centre – gave the room enough illumination to even read by it, but the light was not so bright that it would hurt Tyrfingr’s weak eyes.

He had her sit on a stool at his workbench and carefully removed the bandages with which Óin had dressed the wound. He bent close to see its condition better, even poked it at certain points… then he shook his head unhappily.

“Something is wrong with this wound of yours,” he murmured. “’Tis still inflamed a bit and slightly swollen. Either Óin had not drained it properly, or there is some evil force working deep within yet.”

“Do you know how to drive it out?” asked Bifur, truly frightened now. She did not want to lose her hand; but she know that if any infection from the wound spread to her bloodstream, she might even die from it.

The old leech shook his head regretfully.

“Nay, I do not,” he confessed. “But Mother Edhla, the wise-woman I spoke about, might. I can send a messenger and ask her to see us if you would let me.”

After some inner struggle Bifur gave in fairly quickly. She did not have much of a choice, after all; not with herbal medicine failing to heal her properly.

“Very well,” she said. “If you think it would help…”

“I hope so,” answered Tyrfingr seriously, “for otherwise I have truly come to the end of my rope.”

~TBC~

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

Endnotes:

(1) celestite crystal

(2) labradorite; both these and the mica crystal are supposed to help with eye problems

(3) Cold-lamps are supposed to be the Dwarven version of the Fëanorian lamps. I assumed that the Dwarves of Moria had learned their making from Celebrimbor and his smiths in the Second Age.