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: The use of healing stones and crystals is based on what I could find via internet research. I apologise, should I have got anything wrong. But using stones and crystals to heal people seemed a very Dwarven thing to do. The moonstone used here looks like the real item but has very different powers, of course.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, to my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

Chapter 06 – Healing Stones

Tyrfingr sent a messenger to the wise-woman at once and got a positive answer in return. She could see them now if they wanted to come over.

“Well?” asked the old leech. “Do you want to go over now?”

“Nay, I do not,” admitted Bifur bluntly. “Not now and not later. I do not trust hedge witches and their dabbling in magic, no matter what their intentions may be. Such things rarely end well. But right now, I would try just about everything to be able to keep my hand.”

Tyrfingr interpreted her answer as willingness to go, and so he told the messenger lad to go back to Mother Edhla and give her their gratitude and the answer that they would go at once.

He did not need to warn him not to telling her anything else. No boy-child in their right mind would be foolish enough to tell a wise-woman that she had been called a hedge witch, and messenger lads were usually rather bright. Otherwise they would not have been entrusted with such an important task.

“All right, then,” he said. “Off with us. It would do no good to make Mother Edhla wait.”

“Mahal forbid!” muttered Bifur sarcastically, but she followed her old friend without further protests.

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

She had to admit that she was relieved when they finally reached the chambers of Uruktharbun’s resident hedge witch, as she still thought of the wise-woman. To be perfectly honest, she had expected to find a filthy, half-mad old hag in a dank, smelly cave, like the oracle witches of the Easterlings in Rhûn. Fortunately, what she found was nothing like that.

Mother Edhla’s chambers were located on the First Rise, just one level above the East-gate and Thorin’s own Halls. This was a level populated by FireBeards, at large – unlike in the great Dwarf cities of old, the population of this colony seemed to be organised by Clan rather than by occupation, although there certainly were similarities.

The FireBeards dwelling here were mainly craftsmen – smiths of different sorts – and merchants; and well-to-do ones at that. They also considered the original tunnels and caverns their heritage and were rightly proud of the achievements of their forefathers. Thus the other Clans accepted their claim to the second-best level of the city with a minimum of grudge; only a handful of other master artisans – StoneFoots mostly – were allowed residence here.

This pride made the FireBeards a mite haughty perhaps, and they were fiercely jealous of their privileged status (such as it was), but one had to admit that their dwelling place was beautiful. In almost all corridors that led to their mansions, the faded carvings had been reconstructed and enhanced with artfully wrought gems and crystals that caught the sunlight streaming down the shafts and broke it into multiple rainbows that reflected off the patches of wall deliberately kept smooth like mirrors.

Most of the mansions and even some of the smaller houses – like that of the wise-woman herself – had open courtyards, with pillars shaped like trees, perfect right down to the leaves of malachite, and seamed by narrow beds of flowers, all carved of some sort of crystal or precious stone. Many had fountains in their middle, fed by the underground stream that flowed perhaps fifty yards away in its deep stony bed.

Not two of these fountains were alike, their water bubbling and dancing merrily ere it would fall back to its bowl to eventually rejoin the stream. The one in the wise-woman’s courtyard was shaped like a crested sea-serpent, the water shooting three feet high from its open maw towards the ceiling.

Entering the house behind, they found themselves in a surprisingly airy room that seemed to serve as workroom and supply shed at once. It was dominated by a large workbench in the foreground; one that might have belonged to a jewel-smith, based on the trail of fine tools on one end. Next to it a most interesting cupboard was leaning against the all, its countless little drawers filled with an amazing assortment of crystals and gemstones. Again, it would make one thing more of a jeweller than of a healer.

“My father was a goldsmith and taught me his craft, ere I would discover a different use of the stones,” said a deep female voice, and as they looked around, an old, broad-hipped Dwarf-dam entered the workshop through a side door.

She was short, even for one of the FireBeards (who did not belong to the giants of their race) but powerfully built, with a barely wrinkled face and very bright, gold-flecked brown eyes that looked like they had seen a lot of things in their time, good and bad ones alike.

Her long, iron-grey hair still had some reddish highlights and was tied away from her aged face in a series of simple braids and into a knot on the nape of her neck. Her golden earrings were set with yellow topazes hanging from multiple chains and jingling at the rhythm of her movements – it was oddly soothing.

She had strange runes and patterns tattooed on her hands and the lower part of her cheeks, in dark red and pale blue. The tattoos seemed to continue down her body as well, though that could not be seen with her clothes in the way. She was clad in the fashion of well-to-do craftspeople: in an ankle-length, sleeveless tunic of earth-brown velvet, with gold embroidery along the seam, the neckline and the armholes. It was split right under her flat breasts to reveal the long-sleeved undergown of fine yellow wool underneath, embroidered with dark red runes on the cuffs and the high collar.

She must have been a much-respected person indeed, by the way Old Tyrfingr bowed to her.

“Mother Edhla,” he said. “’Tis good of you too see us at such short notice.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “We are healers. When people need us, we respond to their calls. How can I be of service?”

“My friend here has a stubborn wound that does not answer to herbal treatment as it should,” explained Tyrfingr.

“Hmmm,” Mother Edhla tilted her head to the side and scrutinised Bifur as if reading her heart. “You look troubled, child. You need to regain the balance of your heart and your spirit, just so that your body can focus all its energies on healing the wound. This should help.”

She fetched a small copper dish from a small niche in the wall; one of those used to burn incense. She filled it with some amber-coloured gravel that looked like chopped resin… and then snapped with her fingers. Small red flames appeared on her fingertips for a moment, before springing over to the dish and making the incense in it glow gently.

In moments, the room was filled with a mild, soothing scent.

Seeing Bifur’s shocked face, Mother Edhla grinned.

“Why are you so bewildered, child? Have you never seen the fire-touch of our Clan at work?” turning to Tyrfingr, she added. “The vapours of copal resin help to restore the balance of spirit and mind. Combined with copper they also have a cleansing effect on the bloodstream.”

The old leech nodded thoughtfully. “I have heard about that, aye. “Tis hard to come by them, though; and rather costly, they say.”

“Not if you have your own sources,” replied Mother Edhla. “The Khimmer jarls of Nimvarkinh have it brought from Harad in great quantities to cleanse the air in their caves, as they have little skill in making proper air shafts. I get some through my kin that still dwells in the lower caverns too narrow for Men to enter.”

She went on with her description but Bifur paid the tale no attention. Quite frankly, she was still in shock. She knew that FireBeards had always had a unique sense for fire not even other Dwarves shared; everyone knew it. That peculiar sense made them the best smiths, even among their own kind.

And she knew that Óin and Glóin, though of mixed blood, could make fire under just any circumstances. They could make dripping wet firewood burn. She had seen them do it. But all that had not prepared her for… well, for this.

At the sight of her still-stunned face Mother Edhla smiled gently.

“Mahal has made us of earth and fire, child, just as Elves were made of air and water, or so ‘tis said,” she explained. “Tis only so that my Clan happened to get a bit more of the fire than the others. Long ago, after the Awakening, when our ancestors did not have all the fine tools we use now, the fire-touch was much stronger and more common than in these late days. But it still resurfaces in full strength sometimes, like the ability to draw strength from the earth itself. My grand-dam was a Rune-smith, the last of her kind as far as I know. I inherited my powers from her.”

She then walked over to the cabinet and began to pull out various drawers, muttering under her breath as she selected the stones she needed.

“Here we are,” she then said, placing her selection on the workbench, one by one. “Chrysopraze will help healing the wound itself.”

The selected stone was about the size of a dove egg, its colour a beautiful, silky grass green shade.

“Amethyst is for cleansing the blood, should the infection have already spread,” she laid a deep purple stone next to the pale green one.

“Snowflake obsidian will draw the poison out of the wound, should there be any,” the small black stone, not bigger than the first digit of her thumb, had indeed a distinct white pattern like captured snowflakes within.

“And jet, just in case your liver and kidneys may need cleansing,” she finished. “You have lived with this wound for weeks by now, and yet it has failed to heal properly. We cannot know what inner damage it might have caused already; better safe than sorry.”

“And how are these stones supposed to work?” asked Bifur doubtfully.

“I shall make a healing charm for you, similar to the one your friend and mentor is wearing,” explained Mother Edhla. “Only that yours will be of copper rather than gold, which helps to keep the bloods stream clean. You will have to wear the charm ‘til your wound has fully healed; and afterwards, whenever the memory of the wound may haunt you.”

“Why would that happen?” Bifur frowned. “I have been wounded before but never with such lasting effect.”

“This wound of yours is no ordinary injury, or it would have healed better,” said Mother Edhla grimly. “There is some evil power working within; I must draw it out, or you still might lose that hand… or your life.”

“How is it possible?” asked Old Tyrfingr. “Dunlendings are not a people meddling in witchcraft.”

“They must have found new allies then,” replied the wise-woman. “Or they had taken weapons from other, more evil creatures. ‘Twould not be the first time that Orc bands roamed the empty lands between the Old North Road and the Greyflood. Whatever the truth may be, this wound was definitely caused by a cursed or poisoned blade, and I must pull out that evil ere it gets too deep. I dare not say what could happen if it reached your heart,” she said to Bifur.

“Can you do it?” asked Bifur, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

Orcs and footpads and other dangers she could deal with. But witchcraft was beyond her understanding, and the mere idea of it scared her witless.

“I can try,” the old one replied honestly, “but I cannot promise that I will succeed. It all depends on how strong the evil power is and how far it has already spread. Do you allow me to give it a try?”

Bifur shrugged dejectedly. “I don’t truly have a choice, do I?”

“We always have a choice,” said Mother Edhla sternly. “More than just one, in fact. But we have to weigh them carefully, so that we may make the right one. What is your choice, then?”

“I ask you to try whatever can be done,” sighed Bifur. “I would like to live.”

The old Dwarf-dam nodded. “Very well then. Take this stool and lay your wounded arm on the workbench. And you,” she looked at Tyrfingr, “remove the bandages. I shall need free access to the wound.”

Old Tyrfingr obediently – albeit a bit regretfully – removed the bandages that had changed less than an hour ago, while Mother Edhla rummaged in her drawers again. Finally she found what she had been looking for: a semi-translucent, opaque white stone, about the size of her thumb, wondrously smooth and shaped like a teardrop.

“Here it is,” she said. “The most powerful healing stone of all; a crying shame that they no longer can be found in Middle-earth. In the olden days, they were harvested on the Star Isle of the Sea-Kings of Men; for all other ones had gone to the bottom of the Sea when Beleriand was broken.”

“Moonstones!” breathed Old Tyrfingr in awe. “Where did you find one? They say some have been buried with the ancient Kings and Queens in the haunted barrows that rise between Bree and the Old Forest but no-one dares to go there in these days.”

“And they do well not to go there,” said Mother Edhla with emphasis. “Those barrows are evil and cursed, and the creatures dwelling there tolerate no living thing among them. This stone does not come from there, either. I got it from my grand-dam. Her longfathers had once dealings with the High Elves of Eregion, so it had to be either a generous gift or the result of some very hard bargain. I tend to believe the latter, for I cannot imagine even an Elf to part with such a powerful stone willingly.”

“Not many of them truly understand the power of stones,” said Tyrfingr. “They like gems and crystals for their beauty but hardly ever use them as we do… well, the few of us who still can, that is.”

“’Tis ‘cause the stones won’t work for them the way they work for us,” explained the wise-woman. “Their elements are air and water and thus they seek aid and healing in the living things that are here today and gone tomorrow. Mahal’s children seek their strength from the things that prevail: from rock and stone and the roped veins of metal weaving through stone. It would take a wizard, and a powerful one at that, to use a moonstone on any other creature under the sky the same way I can use it on another Dwarf. See and learn!”

She put the white gem onto the wound, right where the cut had begun to heal but its edges were angry red and inflamed again. It felt cool and smooth, and Bifur let out the breath she had not been aware that she was holding. Perhaps the stone could help indeed. She held not much about magic, but – like every Dwarf – she knew of the power of stones and that her own race could harvest them – in theory at least. This theory was being put to test at this very moment.

Mother Edhla held her knotted old hands above the stone, closed her eyes and began to murmur something that sounded like Khuzdul but was not. It was older, much older – the ancient version of the Dwarven tongue perhaps, the one spoken at the dawn of time, when the Seven Fathers awakened from their cribs of stone.

The moonstone was growing gradually warmer. Bifur winced, but watched with morbid fascination as its heart began to glow gently. Then the glowing dulled as some infinite darkness seemed to rise from the wound, sluggishly like black oil and was drawn into the white stone ‘til the whole of it became clouded and dark.

Mother Edhla ceased her chanting and opened her eyes, looking utterly exhausted.

“That must be enough for today,” she said. “As you can see, there was much darkness in that wound of yours; but the moonstone is now full and cannot absorb more of it. You shall have to come back tomorrow, when I have cleansed the stone, and keep coming ‘til it remains clear during treatment.”

“And how will you clean the stone?” asked Bifur, staring at the once white gem with utter repulsion. That darkness had all been inside her?

Mother Edhla gave her a tired grin. “Why, with fire, of course,” she replied.

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

“Are you sure the fire-touch will be enough to clean the stone from the stain of evil?” asked Óin doubtfully later on that day after Mother Edhla had explained him what she intended to do.

“Of course not,” she replied with a rather un-ladylike snort. “Which is why I need your help.”

“My grasp on the fire-touch is a lot less secure than yours, I fear,” admitted Óin. “I know not how much of help I could be.”

“I know all about your abilities,” she said. “I am the Eldest Mother of our Clan in Uruktharbun, after all. I have no need of your abilities. I have need of your brother. Or rather of his forge. ‘Tis said to be the best one here; it requires a very hot fire to destroy such evil. My little fireplace cannot do it.”

“You can simply request access to his forge,” reminded her Óin. “’Tis your right as the Eldest Mother.”

“True,” she replied. “But Nei is your family matriarch, and she is a force to be reckoned with. I don’t wish to tread on her territory. Nay; ‘tis better for us all if I go through you. I shall also return the favour if you can find the means for me to do so.”

“I just might,” said Óin thoughtfully.

She nodded. “Name it.”

“’Twould be helpful if you could read the rune-stones for me,” said Óin.

She became very quiet at that; almost frightened.

“So, Thorin Oakenshield has set his mind to face the dragon, then,” she finally murmured. “And you have already decided to go with him. Why? Erebor has never been the home of our Clan; Tumunzahar was. And Uruktharbun is closer to our home of old than any other settlement ever was. Why would you want to leave?”

“For I am also of Durin’s line, and I have an obligation,” replied Óin simply. “Thorin will need the support of his kin. Besides, I am a scholar and a healer. Whoever else is going with Thorin, they will need me in both capacities.”

“And have you no obligation towards your mother’s Clan?” she asked, her voice heavy with accusation. “The Lady Frey was the only one in whom the line of Telchar survived; do you not feel that you owe this place, the one closest to a home our Clan had since the First Age?”

“I do,” admitted Óin, “and I do not deny that my heart pulls me in opposite directions. Thorin is more than just a kinsman for me, though; he is my King, with or without a crown, and my mother saw it the same way. She went to war with Thráin to take revenge on the cursed Orcs who had defiled the Eldest of our race, and she gave her life at Azanulbizar to see it done. ‘Tis her heritage, too, that I fulfil by going with Thorin to Erebor.”

Mother Edhla remained silent for a while again; then she nodded reluctantly.

“As you wish,” she said. “I shall do it. You know, though, that whatever I might see in the stones shan’t necessarily come true. I can see things that may happen. But the outcome always depends on the decisions of the people involved. We all shape our future, with every single choice we make.”

“I know,” replied Óin. “Yet I prefer to know the choices available to me ere I would choose one way or another. Whatever you may see, it won’t stop me from doing what I believe to be the right thing to do.”

The little old Dwarf-dam gave him a fond smile.

“I know it won’t,” she said. “Frey has taught her boys well. Sit down then; I shall bring forth the rune-stones at once.”

“Now?” asked Óin in surprise. “I thought you would need to prepare yourself first; and you have just spent a great deal of your strength on healing Sigrún’s hand.”

“Reading the stones does not require strength; only knowledge,” answered Mother Edhla, taking the moonstone with a thong and placing it onto the glowing embers of her small bronze brazier. “Here; the heat will keep the darkness enclosed until I can put the stone into much hotter fire. Now for the rune-stones.”

She brought forth a beautifully carved malachite casket containing a great number of different stones that were cut like sliced bread: encrusted with crystal on the rim, smooth like the surface of a mountain lake on their face… a face that was written over and over with runes, following the natural pattern of the stone. Not with the Angerthas used in the present day but with the forgotten, most intricate ones of Ancient Khuzdul, said to have been taught to Mahal’s Children by their Maker himself.

Each stone had a small hole in its upper part, through which gold or silver strings of various lengths were threaded. By those strings she hung them onto an intricate bronze frame in a pattern Óin could not even begin to understand, muttering under her breath.

“Tiger-eye for confidence… garnet for commitment…. Aquamarine for courage… azurite for finding the right way… jade for fidelity… green aventurine for luck… rubies for wealth… malachite for awareness… turquoise for travelling the dream fields… thunderegg for farsight…”

Finally, she hung up the thusly adorned frame above the small copper dish in which the copal resin was still burning… and waited.

As the thin smoke rose from the incense burner, the stones began to sway gently in the hot air. Some turned halfway, showing their thin, encrusted side to the waiting Dwarves. Others turned around wholly and Óin could see that their back side was covered in ancient runes, too. Others again remained in the same position, swaying a little but never actually turning either way.

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

Óin could not tell afterwards how long he had been sitting there in Mother Edhla’s small workshop, staring at the barely moving stones as if bewitched. He could not understand the importance of the position of the individual stones or the meaning of the pattern they formed, either. He only hoped that the wise-woman could.

After an indefinite length of time the movement of the stones stopped. Mother Edhla watched them for a while yet, ‘til she could be sure that the final pattern had been formed. Then she looked at Óin.

“It seems that Mahal approves of your undertaking,” she said. “But it won’t be an easy quest. You will have to learn to accept help from the most unlikely sources, all of you. And even so, the outcome is uncertain. In any case, success – if it comes at all – will come at a high cost.”

“Are you telling me that I should try talking Thorin out of this Quest?” asked Óin doubtfully.

Mother Edhla shook her head. “Nay; he is set to go and ‘tis not for us to hinder him in following his destiny. ‘Twould be good, though, if you could see that he chooses his followers carefully; and that he accepts help that he would reject if it were up to him. He is way too proud for his own good; he needs someone with common sense to keep him grounded.”

“I am not sure that anybody but Balin could do that,” said Óin with a rueful smile.

“Then you will have to talk to Balin and prepare him to step in if needs must be,” she replied. “I am deadly serious about this, Óin son of Gróin. If Thorin Oakenshield does not learn to listen to the words of wisdom, even if they come from the mouths of strangers, he shall lead you all to your deaths and nothing shall be accomplished.”

She was not willing to say more, no matter how much Óin was urging her. Instead she turned deliberately away from him and began to collect her rune-stones and store them in their malachite casket again.

Óin was old enough to recognise the dismissal. He bowed deeply, thanked the old Dwarrow-dam for her help and promised once more to speak with his brother about the use of his forge. Then he left.

But he did not return home; nor did he go to the forge that had once belonged to his father, the late Gróin, and was now his brother’s. Instead, he went to see how Bifur was doing after her highly unusual treatment.

“I am much better now,” she assured, showing him her unbandaged hand. The redness along the edge of the wound had lessened considerably and the swelling, too, had gone down quite a bit.

“’Tis not so hot anymore, and I can bend my fingers more easily,” she added. “I must admit that I was full of doubt at first, but I cannot deny that the stone worked. It pulled a great deal of darkness out of the wound… though not all of it yet. I must go back tomorrow; and perhaps the day after, ‘til it is fully cleaned.”

“And I must talk to my brother about using his forge to clean the healing stone,” said Óin. “I am grateful that we have finally found a way to help you. Thorin said something about wanting the three of you on his next council, and it would be preferable if you were healed by then.”

“’Twould make it easier to pay attention at least,” she agreed. “When will that council take place?”

Óin shrugged. “I am not certain, but I assume when Tharkûn returns.”

“Hmmm,” said Bifur a little grumpily. “And when will that happen, pray tell?”

Óin shrugged again. “Who could tell? He is a wizard, and, as Bofur likes to say, he comes and goes as he pleases. But he will come. He has promised.”

“And just how reliable are the promises of a wizard?” asked Bifur doubtfully. Her dealings with the often distracted Radagast did not make her feel very hopeful in that area.

Óin smiled grimly. “We shall see very soon, shan’t we?”

~TBC~