MerianMoriarty

The Poor Man’s Wealth Dís was carving decorative patterns on a saddle, tapping her foot to the musical ringing of paired hammers at the anvil, when the door opened and closed. She paused a moment and pretended to be considering the placement of the next curl of vine in the motif.  Only a handful of people would come into the forge without knocking, all of them dwarf-men and two of them sweating away over what would be a very fine pot for the innkeeper at the bottom of the road.  One she had hugged so tightly she feared she’d break him, and two more she had kissed good-bye and tried so very hard not to weep for. Her husband leaned o

And I Cannot Reach You For a time, when they were very young indeed, Fíli had suffered a recurring nightmare that he would only speak of to his brother. We are in a great battle, he would say.  We’re warriors.  Uncle Thorin is King Under the Mountain, and orcs have attacked. There Kíli would interrupt to press for details of his own prowess, little pieces of childish egotism like, How long is my beard? and, How many orcs do I slay? and, Is Mister Dwalin there?—because I bet you ‘n me could slay more orcs than him. After an effort at shushing him, Fíli would go on.  We’re surrounded and outnumbered, and Thorin gets hurt, a

Whatever End Kíli stormed into their room while Fíli was packing. “You’re not going without me,” he said in a tone which brooked no argument. Fíli sighed.  “I fail to see why you place such importance on the quest—a quest to retake a kingdom that fell a hundred years before ever you saw sunlight.” “This is my chance!” Kíli said hotly. “Chance for what?” asked Fíli, confused. “To be more in my life than simply your brother.” Rocked to his core, he stared at Kíli.  “‘Simply’ my brother?  I have always felt that ‘brother’ was chiefest of my appellations and pri

Queenly at the Window It is fully a day and night before any of the cousins surface from grief sufficiently to remember their princess. Then it’s oh my, and she must be told, and yes, but who to carry such dire news… Bofur volunteers, but it’s agreed that one of the nearer relations should shoulder the burden. Dwalin categorically refuses; he has a mighty fear of Thraín’s daughter, and would not tell her of the deaths of her sons for all the riches in Moria. Bombur wonders whether it mightn’t be easier to tell Dís’ husband and let him risk her wrath (Bifur agrees that it would be the fellow’s husbandly duty