Hobbit 1. The Swan of Esgaroth

It was a doleful winter afternoon and the weather was cold. I should not have left my distant hovel, but I had promised that I would visit my kin and bestow delicacies upon my impatient cousins. I had indeed, in my basket, a few worn books of their favourite old tales for the enjoyment of their eyes and, swathed in a white cloth, a delicate assortment of their favourite treats for the pleasure of their palate. Their rapture was worth tenfold that painful walk in the dismal winter of Esgaroth, and my lips drew a smile with anticipation. I hurried in my haste to be welcomed by their warm and mirthful laugh. If someone had halted me, warning me that my existence would take an unexpected turn that precise day, I would not have dared to believe such a statement, and I would have discarded it with disbelief. However, fate would contradict me, though I still had no idea that I would meet a person who would change the course of my future, a dwarf to be precise.

I walked along a bleak dock of rotten wood and climbed an unstable bridge to reach my uncle's neighbourhood. The landscape was as it was supposed to be in Esgaroth. Pointed and dark roofs crenelated the horizon and a thick mist turned the tortuous silhouettes of the dwellings into fantastical creatures, constrained to a life of inertness. I met a stray pug and, interrupting my quiet walk, I greeted it with a stroke and a sweet. The dog smelled and lapped my hand to grant me with the warmth of a humid snout in gratitude. Without further ado, the creature resumed its stroll and returned to its life, trivial and desperate, similar to mine. I was a pale ghost in the city of men, a mountain of loneliness, cold and surrounded with sorrow.

My chest was oppressed by the perpetual and inscrutable fog surrounding Lake-town. When I raised my head to look out afar, at the sky and at the Lonely Mountain, I could find neither the comfort of the infinite ether nor the reassurance of the white summit, swathed in the purest cloak of snow. The mist restrained the horizon and dusk had turned the sun into a pale and feeble halo. Somehow, that faint golden light, in the coldness of the dull city, comforted me a little. I longed for a vision which could overpass the miserable sky line of Esgaroth, which could reach a more clement fate. I desired more than a life of outcast maiden, of fallen noble, I desired a life of freedom with someone I could feel akin to, someone who could understand my heart, and what I desired I wished to behold, for tempest brooded round my heart and perforce waited for its counterpart to break. I felt as if a dragon rested in my chest and waited with patience a frail flicker to set alight a furnace that would consume and evaporate the lake of solitude and despair in which I was drowned.

I jumped over a broken board to find my path on the canal that led to my uncle's home. The haze was so deep that I could almost not distinguish the nearest barque on the still water. The spectral shape of a fisherman sometimes emerged from the fog and I suddenly heard a stifled clamour around me, of a bargeman unloading some merchandise in a brusque movement. I quivered in astonishment, reminded of men's existence in a phantasmal city inhabited by grief. Furtively, I looked around me, and I could discern the imprecise silhouette of men and women, roaming and wandering in a painful gait, ceding beneath sorrow. I wondered with affliction if my appearance also reminded of an ethereal shadow, without hope and consistence. A layer of ice covered the water, alike a thin and delicate veil upon our misery. Life continued as it could, and men tried to tame the weather in vain, for we were ephemeral and hollow, and nature cared few about our race.

The cold penetrated my clothes and I gathered my robes around me to find protection against the dampness of the weather. The tail of my dress and my coat were wet with pearls of mist. My clothes were worn and since long had lost their dark blue colour to turn into a faded azure, but I did not care, just like I did not care about the frayed fur lining of my coat. I belonged to the pauper and my attire revealed my indigence. Most fortunately, my hair had such length that it protected my back from the bitter cold and formed an auburn cloak around me.

Even if I found myself miserable in my attire, people turned around to glimpse at my slender and white shape. I hurried my gait, embarrassed to be scrutinised, though I was accustomed to draw attention. I was tall and people considered me as graceful. My fawn mane was unadorned and unattached, while the women of Esgaroth had their hair tamed and concealed under a bonnet or a hood. My fair cast and my long and elegant neck did so that often was I named the Swan of Esgaroth.

I reached my uncle's dwelling and I climbed the wooden stairs with such haste that none of the steps creaked. I was pleased when I realised how nimble and silent my stride seemed. I had for prospect to surprise my kin, for they most certainly had lost faith that I would come. The weather was not clement and they would never expect me to confront the mist, even if they desired my presence – and furthermore my present.

I was about to knock when I heard an unfamiliar voice from the other side of the door. I restrained my knock and remained still, listening with concern and wondering who would visit my uncle in such an unfavourable weather. The place was occupied indeed and, though I could recognise my uncle's voice, I was unable to put a name on his interlocutor, and I realised with fear that I could discern four, perhaps five different voices. I hoped that he was not troubled by the Master's henchmen, for I knew what the merest incident would cost to uncle. I pushed my ear against the cold wood of the door and could hear an indistinct whisper. I felt somehow appeased; no sound of unsheathed sword, violent quarrel or unpleasant scuffle was troubling my ear.

The reason of such secret assembly was unknown to me. I had no idea what plot was about to be decided behind that door, and, above all, who were my uncle's fellow conspirators. I was an inquisitive maiden – and still am, though I am no longer in my youth – and my interest was sharpened by the worry I had for my family. I strode along the wall, silent and stealth. I glimpsed through the nearest window, watchful not to reveal my presence, but the condensation had turned the surface opaque and I could only see the dim halo of a lonely lamp.

I returned to the door and raised my hand, still hesitant. I would thank fate until my death for guiding my hand that precise moment, for I could have turned my back and returned to my hovel, afraid to disturb my uncle in a reunion I was perhaps not solicited, and I would have continued my life, cold and vain, deprived of the one I would love and be devoted to until my death. The one fate had decided I would belong to.

However impatience somehow had excited me and, in a sudden gesture, I knocked at the door in a delicate yet audible attempt to reveal my presence. I pushed my ear against the wood again, and realised that the room had turned utterly silent. A male voice whispered an order but was shushed by another voice with a muffled wrath. Then, I heard a peculiar sound, like if someone was trying to shift a piece of furniture, and the frantic stamping of several feet. But my uncle's rough voice silenced the febrile agitation.

"You have no need to hide. I know who is at the door; _she_ will not reveal your presence."

At that point, my curiosity had been perfectly aroused and I almost jumped on my feet with anticipation, though I was sore from the cold. It seemed that they were as worried by my arrival as I was by their presence in my uncle's dwelling. The door was soon unlocked and I noticed a nose peeping out from the narrow opening of the door. That nose belonged without any doubt to my uncle Bard.

"Well," I said with a pout, "do you want me to catch a cold? If I knew that I would be left to wait outside, I would never have abandoned the warmth of my little home..."

His head appeared from the opening of the door and he looked at me with stupefaction. It was quite comical to see Bard with a look of utter surprise on his face, for he had a stern and sharp face, and stupefaction was not an expression he was used to display. I smiled and bowed while he continued to stare at me, questioning my presence at the door. He seemed to remember that I had said I would come that precise day and he allowed himself a faint smile. He opened the door to welcome my shivering person and I did not wait to enter, or at least attempt to.

I had not yet crossed the doorstep that Sigrid, Tilda and Bain rushed to me and embraced me with effusion. I laughed when I found myself trapped in my cousins' embrace and they initiated a fight to determine who would first earn the privilege of my attention. Bain, who was no match against Sigrid and Tilda, fell flat on the floor in front of me. His father helped him to arise and, undaunted, my cousin rushed to me again. When I saw how glad they were and how delighted they appeared at my sight, I wondered if my exuberant imagination had not invented the event I had witnessed earlier. Bard's abode was far from being a castle, but it was filled with domestic contentment, peaceful and warm, alike any other afternoon. The hall in which I found myself, welcomed and embraced, was at it was used to be. I glimpsed behind my uncle and noticed that I could find neither an unfamiliar cloak nor an unexpected coat hanged on a peg.

"Sigrid, Tilda, let your cousin enter," reprimanded Bard.

He could still not close the door behind me and seemed a bit upset, for a cold waft of wind had entered and he was looking around with mistrust, afraid that a neighbour might eavesdrop inside his dwelling. I had noticed earlier with which insistence people were staring at me when I had arrived; it seemed that someone had decided to put my uncle's house under surveillance and I had a clear idea of whom.

"I can't believe that you missed me so much, I was absent for but a couple of days," I exclaimed as I dishevelled Tilda's tangled fleece in an affectionate gesture.

"We missed you indeed," Tilda answered with a small pout. "You should come more often."

"Svanhild, you'll never guess what happened," exclaimed Sigrid, who took my hand and jumped with enthusiasm.

"If you do not enlighten me, I will not indeed."

Tilda pulled the sleeve of my coat and I lowered my head. I offered my ear to the delight of her childlike conspiracy, expecting to be favoured by her last jest or her last ruse to torment her poor brother. But what I heard was most unexpected:

"We've welcomed a company of dwarves at home, can you imagine? I'm sure that they will bring us luck! Da' said it's a superstition, but I'm sure that's wrong... What do you think, Svanhild?"

"I think that you are lucky enough if you've been graced to contemplate a dwarf with the very eyes I can find on your lovely face."

"You'll be able to take a glimpse as well, they're in the living room," Tilda said with a smile, while I removed the cloth concealing the content of my basket.

Her eyes widened with pleasure and she grabbed a cake to shove it into her mouth without further ado. She tried to thank me but seemed to be impeded by her own greed. I smiled when her brother reprimanded her. I looked at my uncle in a silent question, but he refused to answer; instead, he furrowed his brows and I realised that he seemed quite crossed. It was most probable that he did not expect to receive such visit and I was quite sure that their arrival had not been anticipated.

However, I was wondering what commerce my uncle would have with the race of Aulë. Esgaroth was a city of men, cloistered and confined, and never did I meet a dwarf myself, for never a dwarf would venture in our town, not since they were exiled from their kingdom by a fire-breathing dragon, far before I was born. Furthermore, the dwarves of the Iron Hills, in the East, never visited Lake-town, for we were poor and we had no trade with their realm either. We were proscribed and suffocated in our indigence and none in Middle-Earth was stirred by our fate. Only the elven realm of Mirkwood accepted to trade with our bargemen, but with a disdain that sullied our dignity and encouraged us to feel even more destitute. The Master of Lake-town constrained us into the deepest impoverishment and took delight to rule over our hopeless kin. Never would he let a dwarf enter our city, especially without complete surveillance, and he would most certainly not permit a dwarf to visit neither my uncle nor myself, for we both had for common ancestor Girion, lord of Dale, and he endeavoured to humiliate our line and diminish our influence. In return, we tried to resist, and we combated to abolish his despotism.

I turned to Tilda, who had finished her cake and had, at last, her mouth unoccupied, and I asked:

"From where do they come?"

"From our toilet," said Tilda as she smiled with pride.

"From your toilet?" I repeated, abashed.

"Indeed. The first one to come was bald. He had a vile look and a scar, but I was not afraid..."

I smiled at her bold assertion and I retrieved, from my basket, her favourite book. Tilda expressed her enthusiasm with an exclamation of delight. Keeping my gift close to her chest, she rushed, with her inestimable prize, into the living room, most certainly to kneel at our favourite window-seat and contemplate each old illumination and illustration with a patient dedication – we often shared our seat to read together and, when she was younger, I had conveyed to little Tilda my adoration for literature while reading with her on my lap.

Sigrid followed her sister and encouraged me to meet the dwarves myself. However, I was still hesitant. I felt as if a decisive event of my life was afoot. I could not be more right, even if I had no idea yet that my encounter with a dwarven company would have such significance. I approached my uncle and he pulled himself together when he realised that I still was wearing my coat and that he appeared to be quite a rude uncle. He took my basket and put it on a chest while I removed my coat.

"Is it true, uncle?" I asked.

"What she said could not be truer, indeed," he replied as he helped me to remove my coat and hanged it on the closest peg.

"Thereupon, am I allowed to meet our dwarven guests?"

Bard seemed surprised by that sudden fit of reserve. I was bold and he did not expect me to ask for permission to meet our guests. I was tensed at that prospect, to say the least, and I wondered what had happened of my audacity, for I suddenly shivered with anticipation, trying to imagine how my first look upon a dwarf would be.

"I suppose you can," he said with a poor smile.


	2. Welcoming the Dwarves

_Here is, for your pleasure I hope, the second chapter of my second fanfiction. May it provide you the same contentment I received when I wrote it. I know that I have mentioned, in my summary, that _Crown of Redemption_ is about a female Thorin, and Thorin is indeed a dwarf queen in my story, even if, at that moment of the plot, she conceals her femininity so as not to be exposed to the peril a woman would endure in such a dire exile. And even if Svanhild seems sometimes almost about to reach the truth - I venture to call it feminine intuition - she is not yet to discover Thorin's most undisclosable secret. The revelation shall happen in due time, and I hope that you will be patient._

_I would like to thank MirielOfGisborne, for the idea came from her, I am only the laboured hand, the literary convict who patiently puts words and symbols upon the most beautiful idea._

* * *

I aimed to the living room, followed by my uncle, but, as I entered, I jostled someone. I lowered my look and realised that I had most inadvertently shoved an unhappy dwarf. He glared at me and, with a sepulchral voice, he pronounced a vivid imprecation in a tongue I had no knowledge of. He raised a large fist and I noticed with fright that he had a broken axe embed in a rather wrathful forehead.

I tried to regain my composure, pondering that I never would have expected my first encounter with a dwarf to be so desperately erratic. The dwarf was staring at me, caressing his draggled beard in what seemed to be a gesture of appreciation, when another dwarf appeared, who approached my odd interlocutor and seized him by the sleeve. That other dwarf had a dishevelled brown mane and a kind chestnut stare. Noticing my tall presence, he removed his weird hat and bowed with deference.

"Hello," he said with a thick accent and a wide smile. "I'm sorry lass, but he forgot how to speak the common tongue. His intent was not to frighten you. His name is Bifur, and mine is Bofur, at your service."

I sighed with relief when I heard him talk in common tongue himself. I feared to be perfectly unable to communicate with my uncle's guests, for I was afraid, after my encounter with Bifur, that none of them would know a word of my tongue. I pulled myself together, smiled at both and bowed deeply, a hand on my chest, resulting in an endless wave of auburn curls falling around my face.

"I bid you welcome, Master Bofur, my name is Svanhild," I said by way of presentation. "May I enquire if your companion had a request?"

"He didn't," said Bofur as he reprimanded the other dwarf with a scowl. "He just mentioned that he was pleased to see you, and that you are far more beautiful and amiable than our previous host. I agree with my cousin, I admit. You are quite a beauty, especially compared to the unpleasant lad who brought us here without ceremony and forced us to enter through the toilet."

"How unpleasant indeed," I said with a glare at my uncle, who groaned in displeasure at my silent accusation.

Sigrid and Tilda, who were sitting at the window and looking at us from afar, decided to join our discussion and hurried to our merry company. However, Bofur and Bifur, in all likelihood afraid of my uncle's discontented demeanour and perhaps intimidated to find themselves amongst so many tall people, left in a hurry and scampered across the living room until they disappeared behind a large curtain. From their makeshift hiding place, I could hear someone groan in displeasure, as well as a complaint in the dwarven language, as if both had walked on someone's feet or bothered their kindred in their surveillance. Forsooth, I surmised that our fearful guests were hidden in the front room, observing my arrival through the worn fabric of the faded curtain separating each room.

I was most pleased by our small companions – at least by Bofur and Bifur, for I still had not met our most timid guests – and I was touched by their odd manner, so full of candid loveliness and polite directness. I knew that they were prompt in friendship and that they were a direct race, eager to reveal what dwelt in their heart. They could declare someone a friend or foe in a mere instant, and I was apprehensive of my first encounter with the entire company. My intent was to help, but I was a daughter of men, and dwarves were distrustful towards my tall kin. We had for long ceased all interaction with the secret race, and our past trade ended in fire and death. When a dragon came from the North, to annihilate the dwarven kingdom of the Lonely Mountain, the city of my ancestor was the first to be eradicated, for it rested under Erebor's protective shadow. The reptile claimed the vast wealth of the dwarven realm and still slumbered into the mountain, keeping its plunder in a possessive embrace. The race of Aulë was constrained to exile and my kin, whose wealth and quiescence was deeply entwined with the dwarves' benevolence, was deprived of shelter and protection. Few were men who survived the desolation, and few were still wise enough to remember the past, though some fishermen and raftmen still knew a paean of olden time. My kin once wandered and beseeched Esgaroth for sanctuary. Alas, the great days of old were gone, and gone each ship filled with gold. Only desolation moored Lake-town. My forefathers contemplated the decline of men twice; after the sudden pyre of grief, they beheld the torpid impoverishment of Esgaroth, like a pile rotten with indigence and deprivation, into the silt of oblivion.

My uncle despised the race of Aulë. He thought that they were responsible for our tragic fate and for the fall of our ancestry. He could not pardon the demise of our common forefather, lord Girion, and he once told me a tale about the return of the lord of carven stone, who would come to claim his realm back and turn the wrath of the reptile against our kin. However, though I often looked at the Lonely Mountain from afar, and contemplated its dark head in a torn cloud or its white flank in the noon light, never was I inclined to believe such tale. Quiet was the Lonely Mountain, swathed in mist and secret, in a silent eternity. Lake-town would remain Lake-town and would putrefy in the deepest destitution, until one day it would be engulfed by the Long Lake.

I had no idea how my uncle had behaved and if earlier he had upbraided our dwarven company. Ungentle he used to be to people who seemed a threat, albeit I knew that Bard was a kind soul; when my father and mother died, he raised and protected me from a dire fate. I received an equal attention, an equal affection and my cousins cared for me as they would care for an older sister.

I feared that the dwarves would consider me with distrust and refuse to be helped by my hand. They were a dignified race and I had to endeavour not to hurt their pride. A dwarf could misinterpret a benevolent praise and think he was offered an insult where there was none. The task I had in mind required a great deal of respect, and no small amount of care. I had to be prudent and clever enough to earn their confidence. But I believed it could be done. I valued honesty and I knew that I could only feel at ease with people who cherished it as well. I was weary of men's manipulations, of the harmful intention they were so prompt to conceal behind a kind smile and a helpful hand.

While I walked in a quiet pace to reach the curtain, a polite smile on my face, I could almost feel their inquisitive stare on me, studying me from behind the worn fabric. With calm and composure, even if my hand shivered a little, I was about to open the curtain when, all of a sudden, the distinctive thunder of a fabric being torn broke the oppressive silence of the room. I stepped back, as prompt as I could, afraid of the unexpected fall at my feet. The dwarves had pulled the curtain and torn it in length and, since they were all gripping and leaning on the fabric, they were carried away, unable to retrieve their balance; it resulted in our guests falling flat on the floor just in front of me, one dwarf on top of the other, and all were groaning with the utmost discontentment.

I surmised that I had to bid farewell to my courteous introduction. I rushed to the poor pile in front of me and offered my help to the dwarves who were on top. After I lifted Bofur and Bifur, a few dwarves were able to stand back on their feet. They were vituperating and cursing whoever could hear their imprecation. Bain had rushed to help as well; he aided a very small and very old dwarf, who whimpered a bit about the poor treatment his white and plentiful beard, curled up so that he could not see around, had received lately. Bofur pulled my sleeve and I leant to hear his request; he asked me to help his brother, who was a fat dwarf with an impressive braided beard. I nodded in acceptance and helped Bofur to lift Bombur, for it was the name of the dwarf. Bifur exhorted us both, gesticulating and snoring. Poor Bombur almost fell again and looked around perfectly disoriented but, at last, he could stand and remain upright, though still unsure of what had happened.

Howbeit, I smothered a cry when I realised that another dwarf had been crushed under the whole pile; he groaned and attempted to pick himself up. I approached him with worry, wondering how he could still be conscious after being crushed by so many dwarves. I noticed how strong he appeared but still, the experience surely seemed painful. I kneeled and put a careful hand on the dwarf's muscular shoulder. He tensed, when he felt my considerate palm against his sore shoulder, and I removed my hand with haste, afraid to trouble my dwarf with such a bold contact. I could not distinguish the features of the dwarf, for his face was concealed behind a thick mane of dark and damp hair, but I noticed with fright that he had clenched two enormous fists from the furtive touch. I apologised and enquired about his condition but I found myself interrupted by a bald dwarf – probably the one Tilda had mentioned, for he appeared quite wrathful and formidable – and another dwarf with a thick red beard, who interposed themselves with a scowl. A blond haired dwarf rushed to the other dwarf, who had somehow found the strength to kneel, while almost all the company surrounded him in a possessive circle, as if they feared that I would injure or threaten him. Only Bofur and Bifur stood by my side. The latter commented the scene with a deep voice, but I could not understand what he said, only did I notice that Bofur seemed to share his perception. Even if I did not know yet the dwarven language, I could guess that Bifur was resenting his kindred for their fit of suspicion. He hanged himself at my sleeve while I silently studied the company. They were facing me with pride, as if I was a foe in battle, sombre look and defensive posture.

Although they considered me with defiance, I could not repress a compassionate smile when I realised how sore and stiff they appeared. They were so bruised and buffeted that they could hardly stand. They looked famished and had a savage stare, filled with fever and fear, as if they had been chained and imprisoned for a while. I noticed another creature, whimpering and raising a scared look at me; a little man, with hair the colour of wheat, smaller than a dwarf but who did not appear to be a dwarf himself. He seemed frail and I could glimpse at a small pointed ear when he looked around like a frail hunted. I noticed that he walked barefoot. He had large feet covered with hair as blond as the hair on his head. I was most intrigued, of course, and I wondered why he would share such a journey in such an odd company, but I had to admit that I could not part my stare from another guest; my secret dwarf, concealed and protected by his kindred with great concern. He seemed to have in their heart a worth that went far beyond gold, and he was surrounded by an aura of power and secret. I knew that he was not a common dwarf, and I was right, though I still could not consider in which aspect.

I surmised, however, that he was a dwarf of influence, perhaps a lord, for he had a noble demeanour. He seemed dignified, even in the most unexpected situation; he had in each movement the deep solemnity of a warrior who had faced life and had learnt to fight against fate, who had battled foemen with wroth and still had a sullen and feral desire to rise above, to reach a peaceful haven he could not reach, for Aulë created him to suffer and endure a dishonourable fate in a world that did not deserve such a noble heart. Though I could not contemplate him whole, for he was concealed in the shade, hidden behind his kindred, I could glimpse at a vigorous face and an eye, dark and deep, staring at my person fiercely, and a shadow around him, together with a waving mane of dishevelled sombre hair, heightened the wild aspect of the dwarf.

I approached, but they stepped back with a savage look, the bald dwarf glaring at me with wrath, snarling in his beard and defying me to approach further. However, I did approach further, even if Bofur tried to hinder my advance, afraid that I may be hurt or jostled by a horde of wrathful dwarves. I admit that I cared few about my safety, for I still could not part my stare from my dwarf, and I realised that he did not avoid my look; he pierced my heart, sharp like a keen arrowhead and I complied, avid to feel that exquisite pain in my chest.

Suddenly, he spoke, and I shivered with rapture, initiated to that deepest voice, speaking in the secret and ancient language. Initiated to such a rare delight, I almost swooned upon that harsh chant, and my soul imagined, with a childlike elation, a dark dwarven realm, enlightened with gold, embracing the foundation of the earth. Yet I endeavoured to remain impassive, and I studied my guest with care, whilst he seemed to reprimand the bald dwarf. I noticed that my intuition was right; he seemed to be the leader, for a sudden silence accompanied the diatribe, and the bald dwarf was listening with the utmost respect. He looked at my dwarf in contrition and moved aside. By my side, Bofur sighed with relief when he realised that the other dwarves had loosened their protective defence, though they were still studying me with trepidation. I smiled to appease their concern and bowed in front of them with the utmost respect:

"Welcome," said I, "I am named Svanhild, at your service. I do hope that my uncle didn't mistreat you. He's not quite fond to receive a visitor, even more so if it is a dwarf, and a whole council moreover, and I fear that he doesn't seem to remember how to welcome a guest, on the evidence of the way I was left to freeze outside."

I glared at my uncle, who looked at me with a bit of irritation, though I noticed how amused he seemed, discerning the half-smirk he was attempting to conceal from my watchful eye. My polite and respectful introduction had appeased our dwarven guests, and they promptly gathered in a close circle, talking in a low whisper, most certainly discussing if they should trust me. Bifur and Bofur joined the crucial council and, with a pert wink, Bofur tried to reassure me upon the outcome of the debate. He seemed indeed quite certain that I would earn their trust and I had hope that he was right. I remained calm and silent, patiently waiting, smiling at Sigrid and Tilda, who were contemplating the scene with amusement and a widened stare, sharing a delighted grin. I tried to find my dwarf in the circle but I could not glimpse at him and I let a little sigh of frustration escape through my lightly irregular breath. My dwarf – I praised Aulë that he could not hear my thought, for I considered him in a quite possessive manner already – was leaning over to listen carefully, and sometimes I could hear that voice, powerful and virile, but, equally soft like a fur and suave like honey, a voice that could lead a battalion and seemed used to dissimulate a hidden indulgence behind a rough intonation of command.

Whilst I pondered in my heart, Bofur rushed to me with a broad smile and I noticed that the dwarves had broken their circle and that they were staring at me with interest. The old dwarf with a white beard, whose face I could henceforth see, approached and raised at me a kind look, filled with benevolence. I towered over that very small dwarf, though I had inclined my chest to reduce the height contrast. From their viewpoint, I probably looked like a fair and tall column, almost unreachable and, in all likelihood, a bit awkward. Howbeit, I endeavoured to show, through my attitude, that I did not consider myself more important in consequence of my size, and I felt a bit humbled when I noticed how old he appeared. A frail yet wise voice broke the silence:

"I fear that we're responsible for your uncle's behaviour; we refused that he would open the door at first, for we had no idea that you were the one to be left at the door. We feared that it would be someone who would seek trouble and we had planned at first to hide ourselves so as not to be discovered. I wish you could pardon our distrust, fair Svanhild, for it was not aimed at you."

"You are pardoned," I replied with a smile. "I perfectly understand how you must feel, alone and forsaken in Lake-town. I venture to say that it may be better for you to remain watchful and not trust easily my kin, for the Master of the city has many servants, and his observant eye wanders almost in every house. If you wish to remain unnoticed, you shall use the utmost caution and not let an unsolicited person notice your presence. However, I believe that you are safe in our care, for we shall not reveal your existence to anyone, and our safety is as compromised as yours I fear."

While I spoke, I was studying that unexpected company and realising the extent of their miserable condition. They indeed seemed quite wretched; they did not have any coat or fur to provide protection against the cold, and their clothing was worn and sometimes torn, tarnish breeches and tattered tunics. Their skin was sullied and pallid and their braided mane was still drenched and dishevelled – perhaps from their most peculiar arrival. I realised that they had fish scales in their hair and that they smelt of sewer and sullied water. I was stirred by their pitiable look, and I smiled with consideration, saying:

"You will most likely catch a cold if you don't dry yourself and don't rest a little. And I suppose that you are famished and that uncle didn't prepare you a meal. Would you allow me to serve you and take care of you?"

They all looked at me with a wide astonished stare and they seemed surprised by my kind proposal. I knew, at their deplorable state, that they would not refuse my aid, but I did not want to make them think that my compassion was a fit of hidden condescension, and I required their approval to assist them so as not to hurt their pride of dwarf. The little man with hairy feet whimpered a bit and stamped the floor with impatience. He seemed to wonder why they took an eternity to accept, and he looked at me, perfectly desperate.

I stepped back a little when my peculiar dwarf chose that precise moment to reveal himself fully and stared at me with a soulful look, which intensity frightened me at first. I knew that precise instant that I would be bound to that dwarf, for my heart was stirred with respect, though I did not have, at that moment, a precise idea of what feeling dwelt in my innermost being. I knew that I felt deference and admiration, for he could not educe detachment, and the beholder could either despise or revere such a dwarf. He had the poise of a sovereign and the demeanour of a lord; my first instinct was to kneel in front of him, but I restrained myself and, instead, bowed in a deep and respectful movement.

He inclined furtively his heavy head, as if to receive the evidence of my consideration, and he stared at me, odd maiden who had proposed her help without question. While he remained silent, inspecting my slender shape, I could not part my look from him; tall he seemed for a dwarf, even if he did not reach my shoulder, and he had a face of a wild beauty, shaped with art from the mountains of Aulë. I remembered a book I had read, describing dwarves as churlish creatures, coarse and acrimonious, whose unattractive aspect was far beneath the finesse and splendour of their craft. I never believed such tale and had, since my early youth, developed a deep interest for the hidden race. Howbeit, I looked in disbelief at that dwarf; he had a beauty that went far beyond the ethereal allure of the elven race, yet considered as the fairest. He had the dark beauty of a stone sculpted with the finest instrument. He had a sturdy chest, broad shoulders, muscled arms and thick hands. A vigorous nose contrasted with a delicate and severe mouth. He had a dark beard and he seemed to be past youth, for his noble face worn the sign of ordeal and pain. His dark and thick mane, adorned with a simple braid on each side of his face, was strewed with strands of silver.

However, what troubled my soul the most was not the rare and virile beauty of that dwarf. I was inclined to be ravished by the stern splendour of the look he was raising at me, and I could barely part my stare from those deep and clear blue eyes; redoubtable as a dreadful storm, and beautiful as a pure ether. I knew how prompt he would be to storm and to smile, yet I surmised that he was accustomed to display anger rather than delight. He could touch my soul with such stare and, for the first time in my ephemeral life, I felt akin to someone. Those eyes, surrounded with delicate, dark and almost feminine lashes, had the purity of a fountain, withal they were sharp as a keen arrow, and I felt drowned and pierced, desperate in my attempt to part my stare from his, but desirous to never abandon that haven where my heart had found its place, nestled at peace.

Tamed by the dwarf's imperious stare, I felt perforce humbled and troubled. He had such presence that I seemed, at that moment, unable to explain my confusion. I had within me a bounden desire to protect that dwarf, just like he was protected, cherished and kept hidden by the company. I had found, unconsciously, how vulnerable the dwarf seemed, how he had, deep inside, a secret weakness that incited to protect him and keep any peril far away from him. I tried to conceal my trouble with a confused smile. I reordered the tails of my dress in a sudden fit of timidity and, noticing my gesture, the dwarf gave me a look full of depth and a bit of concern. I had parted my eyes from his and, when he noticed that I had interrupted our silent communion, he searched my face with a dark and irate look.

Everyone around us was silent, except Bifur who sometimes let a turbulent snore escape his dishevelled beard, each time hushed by Bofur. My uncle and cousins were quiet, studying the scene in front of them with astonishment. My dwarf chose that instant to speak, and I had to repress a jolt at the sudden sound of that deep voice:

"We accept your proposal. We would be thankful if you could offer us bed and board."

"Very well, make yourself at ease. We will take care of you," I said with a smile.

I did not wait further to attend to my duty; I strode across the room and aimed to the kitchen. On my way, my cousins jumped to me and declared that they were ready to execute my instructions. I asked the two girls to go upstairs and retrieve plaids, shawls and blankets to warm our dwarven company. I requested Bain to follow me in the kitchen, and he seemed so cheerful at the prospect to help that he rushed to the room without hesitation and that I was the one to follow him.

However, my uncle seized my arm and halted me in the middle of the corridor.

"You are not serious, Svanhild. You cannot welcome these dwarves and allow them to stay as if they were friends. This is unsafe; we don't even know who they are."

"They are in your home, uncle, and as such they should be considered as friends, or should I think that you've decided to invite burglars and brigands in the very house your children live in? Why did you allow them to enter if it was not safe? How did you meet them?"

"I was in the wild, at the edge of the elven forest. I had to retrieve my last barrel assignment for the day. While I was about to moor my barge, I heard voices nearby and I hid in the thicket with my bow and an arrow ready to shoot, for you know just as I do that the area is meant to be deserted and that we are not supposed to interact with the fair race. However, I didn't meet elves, but dwarves, surrounded with the barrels I was supposed to carry to Lake-town. The dwarves were soaked to the skin, and I think that they must have been prisoners in the Woodland Realm. They had escaped with the very barrels I had to recover, for the barrels were not intact as I was used to see them; I noticed numerous marks on the wood, as if the dwarves had been attacked and protected by the resistant elven wood."

"Uncle, do you mean that they escaped Mirkwood's dungeons and sailed to the lake inside a few damaged barrels?" I asked, unable to hide my astonishment.

"It appears, indeed."

"By Aulë, those are not common dwarves..."

"I share your sentiment. The old dwarf claimed that they were simple merchants from the Blue Mountains on a journey to meet their kin. I don't know what business they had with the elves, but it didn't end well, and their escape reveals that they are far too clever to be the imprudent travellers they pretend to be. Who would venture in such a suicidal journey just to meet their kindred?"

"What happened next? Why did you decide to help them enter Lake-town?"

"They asked me for a way to enter our city and requested that I procure them with supplies... and weapons," he added with a frown.

As I remained silent, he continued:

"I do not believe a word of what they can pretend. They are dangerous, Svanhild. I accepted to trade with them because they paid double and kept their word about it, but the elves are after them and who knows by whom they are pursued as well? If we allow them to stay, if we help them further, they'll probably turn everyone's wrath against us."

"I admire their bravery," said I. "To escape Mirkwood, ride a barrel and trade with you... it must have been quite an adventure. I don't know how you did to infiltrate them into Lake-town and deceive the surveillance of the Master's henchmen, but you truly accomplished the impossible. I admit that their presence abode can have dire consequences. However, we have no quarrel with them, and should they be hunted by a whole horde of orcs, they should rest and be helped as we would welcome and assist our kin. If you do not want their presence further in your home, I shall conceal them in mine."

Bard seized my arm with concern and spoke, voice deep in threat:

"You shall not. You do not understand; they stay here for I still need to provide them with supplies and weapons, but I shall not allow them to remain, neither in my house, nor in yours, during the fortnight they intend to spend in Esgaroth. I will fulfil the second part of the deal and chase them away. How they'll survive in town and how they'll leave it is none of my concern."

"What kind of help is this, uncle? They will be arrested as soon as they will leave your home and find themselves outside..."

"I do not care; I have children to feed, I accepted that deal for the money. But I will not protect and pity the dwarves; they are responsible for their fate."

"Then," I repeated with a determined pout, "I will be their host and they shall remain hidden into my home. I will relieve you from your duty when Lake-town will be asleep, and I will help them to leave our city, should I end my existence in prison for it."

"You've lost your mind, my niece."

"I haven't. Never would our ancestors have abandoned a dwarf in need."

"And their care and benevolence carried our despair and the destitution of our line... Svanhild, they are a promise of ruin and pain."

"We already live in ruin and pain, uncle, what more could happen to us? I am a pauper and outcast in my own race. I need to respect myself and to be as fair as my poor heart can be. The people of Lake-town do not help us in our battle; they consent to starve and refuse to accept any sacrifice. They do not seek freedom and they do not want to destitute the Master. Each time we help at the peril of our life, and they blame us for our imprudence. They refuse to be helped, and I even wonder how we have not yet been denounced for our betrayal. They only care for an ephemeral comfort and a wealth of copper. I have no idea which ordeal the dwarves have faced and how dire their situation is, but they seek to change their fate, and I intend to help them in their torment. I can ask no more than that, uncle."

Bard looked at me with discontentment and I resumed my diatribe:

"Uncle, I see no reason the chase them away while they need our help. I don't think that they are our enemies, and, since you claim that you helped them for money, take mine to repay you for the food."

I retrieved a small pouch with inside the only wealth I had.

"You are poorer than we are, I cannot accept your money."

"You will accept, or else I shall make you swallow that pouch."

We both jumped when we were interrupted by a noise nearby. Bard frowned and I turned just in time to notice that someone had surprised our conversation and had returned promptly to the room. All I could notice was a broad shoulder covered with a worn blue fabric and a lock of dark hair. I returned to my conversation with my uncle. He took the pouch and said:

"Very well," said Bard, "I accept the money, but they will be allowed to stay in my house rather than yours. However, should they complain or threaten you or my children, I will drown them into the toilet they come from."


	3. An Unexpected Feast

After Bard had announced, with a defeated shudder, that I could offer the company a deserved welcome, I could not repress a reaction of utter elation. I jumped, pleased at the prospect, embraced my uncle and rushed without hesitation to the kitchen, impatient to join Bain and help him collecting food in abundance for our famished council. Yet, when I arrived, I found my cousin hurled into a desperate battle with Bifur, and the prize seemed to be a quite enormous piece of roasted ham. Bofur was fluttering around a bit and, suddenly, he crawled behind my cousin to steal a pile of cheese from a nearby shelve. My arrival tempered the conflict somehow and Bifur forthwith released the ham. Bain fell backward and Bofur whined when he found himself crushed under my cousin. The dwarf still had in hand the food he had endeavoured to purloin in a silent precision and he was imploring my pardon with a look of utter repentance.

I rushed to Bain and Bofur, equally worried. When I realised that none of them was hurt, I helped both to lift with a chuckle, for Bofur was quite adorable, still crushed under my cousin. The poor dwarf did not seem to realise yet that he had fallen twice, in such a brief interval, and he was looking at me as if the mountain of Aulë had fallen on his chest.

"Bifur, Bofur, do not be afraid, you will have your share of food, just like your kin will. You have no need to devote yourself to thief or conflict. Will you trust me?" I asked, with a kind smile.

I allowed Bofur, who still appeared a bit shaken, to rest on a chair, with a pint of ale at his elbow. The dwarf nodded with a look of contrition and he contorted himself on the chair like a chastised child. I retrieved, from the floor, the odd hat he seemed to be constantly adorned with, and he requited me in a smile full of warmth, small dimple at the corner of a mouth full of mirth and accustomed to merriment. He hid a dishevelled fleece under each tail of the hat and stared at Bain with discontentment. My poor cousin was himself a bit flummoxed and I tried to appease him with a few words of comfort. Even Bifur seemed quite contrite, but I reassured him tenfold when I retrieved a tray, held it out to the dwarf and put on it food in profusion.

He thundered the deepest appreciation and, without further ado, he disappeared with the delectable burden. Bofur, who seemed reassured, arose and endeavoured to help Bain. Both retrieved a small barrel of ale and a wineskin. They left whilst I retrieved my basket and filled it with bread.

My mind was occupied by a dwarf, only one, and, even if I was dedicated to my task, my soul craved for him in a silent fascination. I suddenly wondered about him, pierced with disquietude, for I dearly desired to see him reveal his identity and be graced to hear the name he had received at birth. I could only picture him as a dwarf lord, stern but secluded, and I could almost devise a name for him in my mind; surely he had a noble name, albeit tender and perhaps evocative. I knew yet that he would not yet reveal who he was and that he would certainly not confide in a poor maiden of Lake-town. I had to respect my dwarf's desire of secrecy, even if I remained consumed by a deep desire to whisper that name. A dwarf of such importance had to be respected, and my heart had already yielded to him, obedient and docile.

I returned to the room and was recompensed with an adorable scene; each dwarf was swathed in a blanket, famished and feverish, brushy beard on the worn fabric and a look of utter relief on each face. Even the little man was draped in a blanket, but it was such a wide blanket that only a few locks of hair and a pair of disorientated eyes were peeping out from the material. I approached him and he stepped back a little, intimidated by my tall shape. For a while, my soul was occupied elsewhere and wandered far from my dwarf, drawn to that poor creature who needed my aid.

I smiled at him and held him out a roll of bread. He promptly shoved it into his mouth, as if he was afraid that I would steal it or reconsider my decision to courteously serve him. In order to appease the little fellow, I offered him another roll and he seemed to control himself, for he thanked me with warmth and smiled a poor but kind smile. He nibbled at the bread as if he had just been caught in an act of utter rudeness and I smiled to convince him that I had taken no offense at his display of eagerness. I was their host and had a duty to please them in such a fair feast-day. Furthermore, with such a famished company, my heart could only be stirred with benevolence. I had for desire to care for each one of those we had welcomed and to remove the traces of ordeal from their weary forehead.

At last I had found a way to escape the dreadful routine and despair of my life, at last I could be of aid and assist people I felt akin to, even if they were not of my kin; souls that seemed, just like mine, in search for a shelter and a bit of warmth, endless wanderers lost in a desperate path, starved of soul and athirst of heart. If I could just once appease their lassitude and help them feel welcomed, I would be content and feel that my life was not spent in vain.

However, at present, they were more interested in the kind of sustenance that could fill their stomach rather than their heart, and I hurried around them, hastened to pour food in an offered dish, to fill each emptied cup, and to dispense a smile when I met a polite look, still widened by disbelief in front of that fresh food in foison. They had probably starved for a while, I presumed with sadness; they were smiling with wonder to feel in their mouth the humble but tasteful meal I was offering, and they were expressing the deepest relief each time they took a bite of bread or a mouthful of wine, as if I had offered them the ambrosia of the Valar. A small dwarf called Ori almost wept with ecstasy in front of his full dish.

Ample was served, but I was afraid that I would not be able to content each dwarf, for our pantry was not abundant, and we were quite impoverished since the arrival of the dreadful winter. I remembered a colourful tale I had read, when I still was a child, about the vast appetite of the race of Aulë and of a precise dwarf, who had allowed his kindred to win a decisive battle when he had eaten, most inadvertently, the content of the enemy's pantry and hence had starved a whole army. I realised that the tale was not immoderate and Bombur seemed himself to confirm such a myth; he was devouring the food and almost suffocated himself when he shoved, in his mouth, both a cake and a napkin that was attached to it by a bit of honey. I had found a perfect illustration for my childhood tale, thought I with delight. He indeed had a disproportionate appetite; he ate and ate without rest. My mind tried to picture Bombur as a common dwarf soldier, lost in an immense pantry, about to be praised in front of posterity, not for his achievement in battle, but for an obscure exploit in some larder. Bain and Bofur rushed to Bombur for help. He finally recovered from his unfortunate suffocation, and I peeped behind me and noticed my uncle, glaring with a displeased look on his face. He seemed most obviously dissatisfied to find himself witness of such a famished council in his very dwelling. His dark stare seemed to flare with exasperation.

Sigrid, Tilda and Bain could not part their look from my various civilities; they probably guessed how pleased I was to tend the company. I was indeed uplifted and appeased, contentment written on my face in a quiet smile. The wistful maiden, filled with melancholy, was no more, replaced by someone who had found a cherished purpose, surrounded with creatures she felt similar to.

"Excuse me, young lady," said a polite but timid voice behind me.

I turned and lowered my bust to face the little famished man of earlier. He was staring with envy at the wineskin I had against my chest. I lavished him with a full cup of red wine while he offered me a smile widened with anticipation. He sipped at the crimson nectar for a while and, all of a sudden, he decided to initiate a fearful conversation with my tall person. He seemed still a bit shaken and I endeavoured to help him feel at ease.

I asked him why he walked barefoot in such a dread weather. I enquired as well if he had lost a certain part of his apparel and if he desired me to retrieve one of my cousin's shoes for him, or another blanket to warm his bare feet which hair was still soaked. But he thanked me with a warm smile and instructed me that never did he wear shoes and never would he, for he called himself a hobbit, and his race was created to walk barefoot. He told me that the hair on his feet protected him from the cold, yet he deplored that, unlike his companions in ordeal, he was not covered with hair all over his small body. He informed me that he felt a bit feverish, and feverish he seemed indeed, for he had a pallid face and a poor appearance.

As I revived the embers in the hearth to keep the hobbit comfortable, I remembered that I had read once a book about a quiet race from the West, men with the size of children but not quite children themselves, and I told the little fellow that I reminisced a tale about people like him and that they lived in a land West of a city of men called Bree. He looked at me with astonishment and said, after a nose twitch:

"Indeed, my kin lives West of Bree. The Shire my land is called, a verdant place, with a nature so vivid and beautiful that you would probably never find alike in Middle-Earth, I live in a verdant place under a sky of azure, just like a blanket of deep emerald, as would probably say a dwarf, for they do not care about nature and oft they compare beauty to a jewel, unlike my kin, who has no concern for wealth and adventure whatsoever. My people enjoy the warmth of a quiet afternoon after the tea and a pipe of Old Toby weed, not nasty adventures that make you late for supper."

I smiled at such a lovely description, and, when I enquired about his name, he told me that he was called Bilbo. However, he did not look like someone who never ventured outside of his home, for he was quite far in the East. He seemed to have endured many adventures, which he did not seem to appreciate in the least.

"Bilbo," said I, "you are far away from your home, why do you constrain your kind nature to such a dreadful exile?"

"I am unable to answer, I fear. I think that I just followed my Tookish side and I felt a queer desire to join the company in their adventure. They arrived at my hobbit hole – for we live in holes, you see, not nasty and uncomfortable holes, however, but quiet and warm ones, with round doors, wide armchairs and warm fireplaces. Holes you never want to abandon, especially mine, for my home was renowned in Hobbiton for the beauty of my front yard. Howbeit my heart craved for more and I found myself, during a beautiful day of May, on a pony, with the world ahead, and without a handkerchief. I didn't even eat my first breakfast. And I lost my pipe at some point of our journey, I fear... I miss my home dearly, but, though I faced ordeal and discomfort, I am forth content, for you remind me of my kin in your forbearance, and I almost can feel in my little hole again, even if I am unwell because of my unfortunate entrance in your uncle's dwelling..."

I had to admit that I did not understand most of his endless chatter about his homeland, but I listened to him, charmed by the poetic description he offered to my keen ear, filled with a quiet melancholy. He kept quiet suddenly and he approached a frail hand at the basket I had next to me; he had realised that it was not yet empty and he stared at a honey delicacy with envy. He was about to seize a cake when he found himself shoved by the bald dwarf, called Dwalin, if I had heard correctly, who took possession of the basket and put in mouth as many cakes as he could. Despite a rather untamed aspect, he appeared to be fond of the most delicate treats.

"Confusticate and bebother these dwarves!" muttered the excitable little hobbit, after a faint shriek.

He tried to approach Dwalin in order to claim what was due to him, but the wild dwarf kept the basket close to his chest and snarled to defy the hobbit to approach further. Bilbo stepped back, determined not to disturb Dwalin and his plunder of honey indulgence. I did not find the time to object, and I did not even realise that a quite flushed hobbit had escaped my watch to hide himself under the table and not come out until the dwarf had eaten the content of the basket. Still a bit worried for poor Bilbo, I jumped when I heard the dwarf's rough voice:

"The cakes, I like. Any more?"

He had taken a mouthful of no less than four cakes simultaneously and I looked at him with a blend of amusement, astonishment and pride. Of course, if my talent had softened such an indomitable heart, I could only feel honoured. And I realised that Dwalin did not seem that dreadful, especially with crumbs of cake all over his beard and face. Tilda, who could no longer restrain her curiosity, approached to contemplate and question our wild guest. I smiled and, before the savage dwarf could react, my hand seized a cake from the basket:

"I fear that I didn't expect to meet your company; there is only the content of that basket," said I. "However, I am pleased that you enjoy my gift. If you remain in Lake-town a fortnight, I shall prepare you some more, with honey, cinnamon and hazelnut. Would you like it?"

He rumbled a bit in his beard and I considered that he had consented. I bowed deeply in front of him and aimed to the table in order to reassure the hobbit. But I was interrupted in my impulse by Bifur, who was running across the room and shoving a few dwarves, carrying a barrel of ale. Bofur was following and, when he noticed that I had witnessed the theft, he tried to catch his cousin in vain. I became aware of the complete disorder in which our living room was, apocalypse of spilled cups and abandoned dishes, remains of food and scattered blankets everywhere, and, of course, our merry company talking, sitting or wandering around with no concern whatsoever for my uncle's wrathful – and perfectly vain – attempt to restore a bit of order. The dwarves were recovering part of their contentment and they talked and talked, fetching food and ale or throwing bread into an open mouth that appeared to belong to Bombur.

"You should see what they did to my house," sighed Bilbo with a weary smile.

I did not mind, however, and I had in my heart another purpose that I was endeavouring to accomplish; I seized myself with a plate, and put on it all the food I could find, even if that meant to upset a few of our guests. Once I had my plate filled, I put the cake I had stolen from Dwalin on top of the food and aimed to the window-seat.

I had noticed that my dwarf had not eaten yet and that he did not have a blanket to warm him and drape his strong shape. In retreat he was sitting, silent and stern, in a posture of reflection and defiance; he seemed to threaten anyone would approach him. He did not look like a destitute dwarf who had arrived in a miserable city, hidden in a barrel as if he was a commoner or, worse, a criminal. From him emanated pride. He had the silent look of the one who was used to rule and be respected. His movements were reserved, but filled with dignity and, sometimes, I realised, far too delicate for a dwarf of such a broad and muscular stature. I was certain that such a stern appearance hid a compassionate nature. He was the only dwarf I did not know the name yet; the rest of the company had been introduced to me or I had overheard their name as I was wandering to serve food and drink. But my dwarf still had not been named. He was surrounded by an aura of secrecy and I had realised for a while that he was looked upon with deference and fearful distance. I detached my look from my dwarf, and I realised that Balin had not lost a minute of my silent contemplation. He was staring at me, and his benevolent face expressed a deep concern. Was he afraid that I would disrespect my dwarf, or that I would inadvertently discover a secret I should not be initiated to?

My dwarf arose in me a patience I did not know I had; I did not need a name to convince myself of his existence. He filled the room with a dark radiance and I was drawn to him as would be a delicate moth towards a furnace. I had to be worthy in order to hear the secret name, and I would consider myself blessed if I could be introduced to its solemn beauty.

I felt no fear of him, even if I was troubled by his presence. Had he been less severe, I should not have dared to approach him and offer him my service. If even he had smiled and picked food, like the rest of the company, if he had approached me and talked to me with warmth, I should not have approached him myself, afraid to displease him or disturb him with my tall presence.

But his frown, his arms crossed upon a muscular chest set me at my ease and I had the certainty that he was akin to me; his heart was untouched, hidden behind a great armour of disillusion and discouragement. I took seat next to him and offered him my plate. He stared at me, unreadable yet expressive gaze, and he slowly took the pate from my hands. My pale fingers furtively brushed his calloused palms and I shivered from that exquisite contact.

I removed my shawl from my shoulders, but the dwarf hindered me; he seized a tail of the fabric and grunted:

"I do not need the warmth of your shawl, and I do not want you to be deprived of it at my benefit. I am a dwarf, and as such am more resilient to the cold."

"At least accept the food, else you shall offend your host," I added with a puckish smile.

He nodded and continued to stare at me. His thin lips were clenched in a delicate line of indecision. However, he put the plate on his lap and parted a roll of bread. I remained at his side while he was eating slowly; I wanted to be sure that he would eat the content of my plate and not discard it after a couple of mouthfuls. Unlike his kin, he did not seem to affectionate food and I wondered with concern if he had been properly fed during his journey. A creature like him needed to be nourished and I felt a sudden shard of fear when I noticed how vulnerable he seemed to be in his heart. I swore to myself that he would not be famished with me to protect him and care for him, but I remembered that he would remain in Lake-town only for a fortnight. The future never seemed so dread and uncertain, henceforth I had to care for another soul than mine.

I remained silent, afraid to displease him with my conversation. I knew that he would refuse to answer any question, and that I would lose his trust if I questioned him. I tamed my curiosity and silently studied my dwarf as he ate, ravished by the warmth that emanated from him. I had the certainty, in that precise instant, that I no longer desired to be parted from him.

Since I towered over him, I could not observe his face; I could only study how he ate and delicately parted the food with his thick fingers. I smiled a bit when I saw that his feet did not reach the floor. I was troubled by the contrast with his kin; while the rest of the company seemed to be deprived of table manners – Ori confirmed my assumption when he let a loud burp escape his mouth, at my uncle's great displeasure – my dwarf was quiet and polite. He did not rush to the food to swallow it with haste. Neither did he speak with his mouth full nor did he soil his beard. I remained fascinated by his calloused hands, so virile in appearance but so feminine in movement. My eyes widened a bit when I realised how he cautiously parted the cake and how he ate it with dedication.

His arm was so close from mine that I could feel his warmth and notice how his prominent muscled moved under the still damp tunic he wore. I wanted to lean toward him and to ravish my soul in his protective embrace, but I tried to keep hold of myself and blamed my own impropriety.

I asked Tilda to approach with a drink, in order to quench my dwarf's thirst, for I assumed that he was thirsty, even if he did not complain. My cousin held me out a tankard of ale, probably afraid to offer it directly to my guest. I thanked her and handed, with the deepest respect, the tankard to my dwarf. He took it silently and sipped at it, instead of the rest of the company, who had started, a few minutes ago, a contest to determine who would finish my uncle's last barrel first. Bifur seemed to be the closest to reach that aim – and to turn consequently my uncle wrathful. Bofur and Glóin were battling, not far away from me, for the very last roll of bread. I looked above my head just in time to see a hat fly and end on Bilbo's head. The poor hobbit shrieked, suddenly blinded, and rushed involuntary in my uncle's arms.

I contained a chuckle, afraid to disturb my dwarf in his meal. I met his stare and realised that he seemed revived by the food and he looked different to what I had seen him look at first; not quite so stern, a dim smile on his lips in his after-meal mood. Still he looked preciously severe, except the unexpected softness of his stare on me.

"You examine me," said I, "were you displeased by your meal?"

"No," he replied, "I enjoyed it, and I want to thank you for your noble deed. However, I do not want you to displease your uncle for a few famished dwarves."

"I do not displease my uncle. However, that would not be the first time I act on my own free will and disrespect his decision when I feel that my heart instructs me to behave otherwise."

"And that would not be the first time that he is worried just like I am when my nephews act on their own free will as well," he snorted. "You should not dispense your kindness to people you do not know, and you should not ruin yourself to people who can only offer their appreciation in return. You are poor, and I feel indebted to you twice because of your destitution."

"Are your nephews in the company?" I asked in a sudden fit of curiosity.

"Indeed, Fíli and Kíli they are named."

I remembered them, Fíli was a blond dwarf with a braided beard and Kíli was a brown haired dwarf. He had me worried at first, for he seemed quite pale, but he had refused my care and said, so as to reassure me, that he just lacked proper food and rest. He seemed a bit better indeed, but he still looked pallid and his elder brother was sitting next to him possessively. I turned my stare to my dwarf and noticed that he had raised his head towards me in a silent examination. I was avoiding his look, and pondered in my heart how unreachable he was. I knew that he was not in his youth, and I wondered exactly how old he was; probably two centuries, or more, for the life of a dwarf went far beyond the life of a man. I was a child for him, a poor child who never ventured outside Lake-town and who did not know the world. I was humbled and troubled, for even if he was so close that his body brushed mine, he never was so distant. Why did my soul ventured towards him, tried to reach and touch him? I was a child, a pauper child without wealth. I should not nourish hope when there was none.

He seemed to notice the turmoil I was in, and he searched my face with what seemed to be concern.

"Why do you help us?" he asked with that deep voice I craved to hear until the end of time. "You will receive only pain and torment in return. Your uncle is right, you will be in trouble if the word is spread that you feed a company of dwarves who entered your city illegally."

"My lord," I answered, unaware of the title that had escaped my lips, "the trouble I may encounter is derisory compared to the joy I experience to be your host. I do not require a present in return, I only wish that you would feel well and receive the comfort and warmth you seek to continue your journey."

Briefly, when he heard the title I had given him instinctively, he looked at me intensely, so intensely that I lowered my timid look in front of a stare which depth had pierced my heart. Stirred by that sudden fit of humility, and probably aware that I had no ill intent and that the title had escaped my heart with an innocent candour, he softened his stern look and I almost could see him draw a faint smile, half-hidden by the dark beard he had.

"How can I repay you for your kindness?" he asked. "I am beholden to you, maiden of Lake-town, and I wish to offer you back the comfort and care you give to my kin."

"I do not wish you to feel beholden to me. I demand only your contentment and the accomplishment of your journey, whatever it may be..."

"Unlike your uncle, you do not ask us what the purpose of our journey is. Why?"

"Would you offer me the truth if I did?" said I with a smile.

Of course, I already knew the answer. My dwarf, sullen and silent, was looking at me and I realised that his noble demeanour was darkened with affliction. He was studying me from under his thick eyebrows, as if he feared that I would be offended by his reserve. I reassured him promptly, for my heart was stirred by the pain I found in his beautiful stare:

"You are not constrained to offer me an answer and to reveal where you come from and where you aim. I am your host and as such I have a duty to help you feel at ease; it appears that you wish to keep your journey a secret and I heed that choice. I respect and admire your kin. Your simple presence is a present I never dreamt I would receive. I understand that you do not desire to reveal your identity, and I shall consider myself fulfilled with your trust."

"You do not even ask my name," he said, seizing my forearm in a sudden impulse.

I shivered from the contact but yielded to his hold almost tenderly, and my pale hand brushed his in a careful touch.

"Would you give it to me if I asked?" I enquired.

"I wish I could, fair maiden," he replied. "I am seized with despair not to be allowed to, for I trust you, and I know that you would not betray my confidence."

"Then you have repaid me from my care. Your trust is a meed I didn't even dare to covet, and I shall endeavour to deserve and cherish it."

"Humph!" my dwarf replied.

My arm was still enclosed in his hold, and I had no desire to be parted from him, but he released me when we heard someone sneeze next to me. I turned to meet Bilbo. The poor hobbit had a nasty cold in the nose and he was asking desperately for a handkerchief. I happened to have one in my pocket. I arose and held him out the delicate white fabric, adorned with a worn lace. He was contemplating me with a look of utter adoration, as if I had offered him a treasure of great value.

"Thag you very buch," he said.

Then, I bowed in front of my dwarf and declared:

"Thank you, my lord, for your trust. I am oddly honoured to know you and to share a part of your journey. I feel that wherever your journey will lead you, a part of me will remain at your side. That certainty is filling my heart with pride and will be the solace of my desperate life."

I walked on so fast that he did not have the time to realise that I was leaving. I had abandoned my shawl on the window-seat in a deliberate attempt to offer warmth to my dwarf, and I did not want him to realise that until I was out of reach. I found the perfect distraction when Ori came to me and asked:

"Excuse me, miss, but what should I do with my plate?"


	4. The Warmth of a Shawl

The night fell quite early and I decided to bring another lamp into our living room, for a lone lamp did not offer enough light. The beclouded afternoon had forsaken our misery, turning into a pallid sunset. While I walked into the corridor, I heard the rain beating on the window and the wind howling through the canal, engulfing through the narrow street. I found a lamp and, after an unfruitful attempt, I could light the damp wick. I warmed myself a bit, for my extremities were as cold as a stone. My uncle found me, enlightened by a flickering halo, though almost concealed by obscurity.

"Svanhild," said he, "I will not allow you to return to your dwelling in such an inclement weather, you shall stay here at least for tonight."

I raised my fevered stare and, swathed in both light and night, I nodded with resignation. He seemed confounded, frightened by my fierce appearance, most certainly enhanced by my auburn mane, capturing each dancing reflection of light as if a salamander had been caught in an aflame snare. I could only imagine how feral I appeared, though affliction had seized my heart.

"Very well, uncle, I shall stay." I replied in a murmur.

He frowned, surprised at my absence of hesitation, wondering why I would not oppose any resistance or even insist to return to my hovel. I was a cloistered soul, and never did I venture outside except to please my family or accomplish my everyday toil. Sigrid and Tilda often had to insist in order to encourage me to stay with them, for I cherished my solitude and refused to burden my kin. He was not accustomed that I did not contest an advice he gave. Never did he see me so obedient and calm in appearance, though he obviously noticed my inner turmoil. He approached, looking at me with concern:

"My niece, is everything all right?"

"Quite all right indeed, I was just fetching a lamp to light our company, though they seem to revel in secret and thrive in obscurity."

"May I enquire why you seem so oddly docile? Usually you do not give in without a fight."

"Should I find a reason to?" I replied with a smile. "Though I admit that I may not contradict your decision since I do not want you to banish our guests while I have my back turned."

"You are inclined to remain for those dwarven vagabonds, aren't you? I should have guessed."

"Please, do not consider my alacrity to stay as a sign of ingratitude to you or your children. Withal, you are perfectly right; I should not be outside in such a weather and I have no desire to get drowned after slipping on a damaged board."

"I am not pleased to see you cosseting the dwarves, and that's an understatement. They may be ill-intentioned and prey on your credulity."

"I am not naive, and I am free to decide whom I wish to aid," I retorted sharply. "You are responsible for inviting them in your house. Uncle, do you truly expect that I would disdain my duty?"

"You speak of duty though you have none. _We_ have none. We paid our duty long ago, and we gained only desolation."

"I am not my ancestor and I am not bound to feel resentment for a past event, for which they suffered and grieved as much as our people did. They may not even be related to the dwarves of Erebor, and should they be, they are not about to destroy Esgaroth, you can be sure of that."

I seized myself with my lamp in a fit of anger. I do not remember what my uncle said after my outburst, I only recall that I replied with some unclear platitude. I rushed to the living room to find, sitting and conversing, a very quiet company which sight appeased my wrath at once. They did not seem about to plot our imminent destruction. I even noticed that, while I had been fetching a lamp, they had tidied the fearful mess; each plate arranged in a pile, each cup cleaned and aligned, each remain of food removed with care – or eaten. I noticed that Bombur was devouring a buttered scone, though I had no idea where he had found it – we did not have any scones in our pantry. With a smile, I put the lamp on the table and set a jug of coffee in the hearth. Sigrid approached and helped me to prepare enough cups for our guests. I asked my cousin, in a whisper:

"Sigrid, I admit that I am a trifle surprised when I see that everything is in perfect order. I hope that uncle didn't demand our guests to clean around while I was gone."

"He didn't have to, the silent dwarf all of a sudden gave an order and, in a brief interval, they've tidied everything. He seemed resolute that everyone should clean before you return, and he even helped a bit."

I looked at my cousin as if she had announced that the Lonely Mountain had disappeared from the horizon of Lake-town. I regained my countenance and tried to concentrate on my task, but I almost spilled the jug of coffee in my trouble. Bofur, who was smoking quietly not far, seized himself with it and put it on the table with a puff on a pipe that, I just realised, belonged to Bard.

"Well, lass," he said with a wink, "you shouldn't be left alone with a full jug of steaming coffee, you may very well scald us all."

"And you shouldn't be left alone with my uncle's pipe, Bofur," I replied, smiling and holding him out a cup for him to pour coffee.

"Aye, but I fear that you're not truly displeased that I stole your uncle's pipe, are you?" he asked, taking a deep puff of pipe with a satisfied smile and blowing a perfect ring of smoke with it.

"Not a whit, Master Bofur," I laughed.

I turned to give the first cup of coffee and almost dropped cup and saucer when I realised that my dwarf had approached and was standing just in front of me. I pulled myself together, pondering that I should definitely not pour warm coffee on my dwarf, and held out the cup with a respectful bow. Against my expectation, he accepted my gift and I stared, fascinated, while he recovered the cup from my hand in a gesture so graceful for such a strong creature that the saucer shook from my shiver. He looked at me, silent and solemn, and I stood, mesmerised by that brief instant of singular refinement. He seemed to turn each gesture, even a trivial one, into a demonstration of beauty and dignity. I noticed how he lingered on my hand, a palm prisoning me, warm and calloused against my skin. However, after what seemed an eternity, he removed the cup and interrupted our silent communion.

I did not remember what happened after, for my trouble was great. I continued to serve our guests, but my heart was elsewhere. I remembered that I helped Bilbo to rest into an armchair, just in front of the chimney, swathed in a blanket and sipping at a cup of herbal tea. The poor hobbit seemed quite unwell, though he assured me that he would recover after a bit of rest. Once my duty as a host was performed, I remained for a while with my merry council and I fear that it was already late when my kin and I decided to take leave, entrusting our guests to a peaceful slumber.

I had to admit that I was oblivious of my own state of exhaustion. I accompanied Tilda to her small bed, for she had asked me to lull her to sleep with a tale. Whilst I was covering her frail shape with a warm blanket, I realised that my hands were trembling from fatigue and I felt a sudden surge of despair invading my doleful heart. Yet I endeavoured to respect my cousin's wish, and I could not forsake the vivid expectation I could find in her supplicant and adorable look.

I smiled, seized myself with her favourite book, sat at her bedside and read, voice as quiet and tuneful as I could, eager to lull her delicate ear. After a mere chapter, she fell deeply asleep, an expression of utter contentment on her smiling face. I pulled the blanket to cover her neck, exposed to the cold winter breath, and I brushed her innocent forehead to remove a lock of chestnut hair. How pure was her life, with only joy for company. However, I did not covet her insouciance. In my youth, my heart was seized with sorrow, incapable to find rest in a pure and simple life. I did not crave simplicity, and my nature proscribed contentment. I possessed an existence of perpetual frustration; I desired more of myself, more passion, more rapture, and I had within my reach only vexation.

My kin often called me discontented, and I could not blame anyone. I yielded to my fate, similar to a captive who would accept a sentence. My soul was an uprooted tree, and I could not help my heart to long for more, agitated in a painful desire. My sole relief was to read, in the silence and solitude of my alcove, and to allow my soul to dwell on a gentler vision of existence. My heart flourished within an imaginary life, my inward self embracing a tale without end, created by my vivid imagination, elaborated with devotion and action, with what I desired and had not in my actual existence. I had to admit that I found in my insurrection against the Master a provisional aliment to my craving; I could somehow joust against my doom, endeavour to change an inert fate. However, I felt, in that derisory attempt to fight stagnation, how deep my restraint clasped me, and how I would probably never escape Esgaroth.

I realised that I had found, in my dwarf, a feeling that I could at last accomplish a greater fate. He did not come from my imagination – or, at least, I conscientiously believed he did not. He lived in the flesh and breathed a similar ether. He even seemed quite real, though silent and stern, withdrawn in a secret he seemed to despise and cherish. He was not a dream, such dream I had when I fell asleep on a book, when I embraced the volume against my chest, afraid of my awakening, dreading my return to an empty reality, deprived of warmth and enthusiasm.

He had a nobility and a beauty that seemed unreal, written on a paper with the finest quill and the darkest ink. Yet he was real, he had come while my heart was athirst and he brought to my mouth a clear nectar, a nectar delicate and dreadful, in a word, a poison. And that poison, which contained a cure in itself, was named hope. My noble dwarf, desperately similar to my childlike dream, had a reality I could not deny. Yet my heart could not find rest, for hope had tended it to assail it even deeper. My dwarf was within my reach, yet I did not deserve to approach him. I was parched, beseeching for sustenance, attempting to quench my thirst, fierce and desperate. I solely needed to outstretch my hand in order to attain my fount of life, but I could not touch it, afraid that I would soil or tarnish the stream of pure silver and light.

I put a shivering hand on my forehead and realised that I was feverish. I arose, book in hand, approaching the small window of Tilda's bedroom. I lifted the curtain and studied the aspect of the drear town, petrified underneath an armour of obscurity and a murk so dense that I could not discern the canal below, torpid and haunted, yielding below a century of winter; dreadful to me seemed that landscape and I felt my forehead nipped from the chill air when I leant against the cold pane of the latticed window. My heart was saddened by a similar winter, and I was as well deprived of hope and illumination. I could notice, far and desperate, the brief halo of a lonely lantern, soon devoured by dusk. I looked at the ephemeral aura and realised that my heart did not respond to me anymore.

The trouble I felt could not be explained, it was a pure assault of emotion. Vanquished, abandoned to that vivid storm, I could not think, I could not dream, for my despair seemed to reappear at each attempt to escape. My restive heart was a pyre and I quivered in a fevered turmoil. I was assaulted by a great cold, for, deep inside, despair had turned my inner self into a desolate winter. Albeit, my heart was lost in a deep passion, which sudden fire smouldered and burnt me all within. I released the curtain, concealing from my troubled mind a scene that reminded me of my very heart.

I left Tilda's bedroom, silent and quiet so as not to interrupt her peaceful sleep, and went down the stairs. My uncle had advised earlier that I should rest in a spare bed, concealed in an alcove, a secluded place where I was used to sleep when I was younger or when my family refused that I would abandon them and return to my solitary hovel. I revelled in that place, and I reminisced how many nights I had spent in that comfortable nest, dissimulated from reality behind a curtain, ornamented with a worn yet beautiful adornment. I often trailed, with a careful finger, an interlaced knot or a fantastical creature embroidered on that curtain, imagining a story around it and dreaming of a faraway land, where I could breathe a clear wind, contemplate a great mountain, wander on a verdant land or hold a bow instead of a book.

However, I particularly loved that alcove for another reason; a bookcase was hidden behind that curtain, with a humble collection of ancient books, relic of our ancestor protected from destruction and oblivion, kept into exile until my generation. I felt that I had a duty to read each book, remembering our tragic path and our alliance of old.

I promptly hid myself, curtain shut, embroidered drapery isolating me from reality, and I changed with a chemise that had belonged to my aunt. I climbed into the couch and brushed past the edge of each book with a respectful finger. Betwixt an ancient treatise with an old leather cover and a volume about our history, so worn that I could not read the title written in gold, erased by decades of ordeal, I found at last the object of my thirst; a very old book about the race of Aulë, my favourite book to say the least, for it narrated their lore in a beautiful manner, poetic like a chant, without the contempt I usually found in each dwarven chronicle written by my race.

I possessed myself of the volume and, with an infinite care, opened it. I leafed through it until I reached my most treasured chapter, about Erebor under the reign of king Thrór. That chapter descried, with noble metaphors and evocative descriptions, the beauty of the Lonely Mountain; rampart of green marble adorned with craft to create a most stately gate, protected by a mighty army dressed in mithril. A realm stood, hidden behind that massive fortification, carved inside a stone of a solemn beauty, joining the foundation of the earth, veined with gold and opalescent light. Erebor prospered, beautiful emerald, forbidden realm concealed from rapacity, impregnable citadel, secret and silent... Erebor reminded me of my dwarf, for he had the beauty of a dwarven kingdom, sullen, solemn and set in a shield of stone.

However, my heart had been stolen from me... I discovered, after I had turned a leaf, that my enthrallment was hindered and that I did not find in that chapter the comfort I often found. How that description seemed dull compared to the dwarves I had met, so full of life and mirth. I realised that I could not read, I could not live. For a reason I had not yet understood, I was a wreck of despair sinking in a lake of misery. My chest was oppressed, almost constrained, but my poor chemise was not the cause; I had grown thinner with the approach of winter, and the fabric was loose around my frail shape. I wished I could tear my own flesh in my desire to be released. That place I was used to consider as my nest, where I was used to delve deep into the haven of my fantasy, secret place full of charm, did not fit my desire anymore.

Saddened, I arose and abandoned both book and retreat. I seized a candle and walked barefoot, without aim, though my heart guided me. I wandered, cold wooden floor under my restless feet, and found myself into the living room, where the dwarves were slumbering, deaf to the beating of my heart, though I could hear it thunder into my ear. They were snoring, quiet hill of blanket and hair, huddled up in an attempt to embrace a treasured warmth. I smile a bit, somehow appeased by that sweet sight.

However, I did not come to watch over our guests; I came for my dwarf, keen to make sure that he was well and quiet. I found him lying in the farthest corner of the room, so far from the heart of the chimney that I was seized again with a feeling of raw wrench. I wanted to bring him warmth, to protect him from the bitter chill should I have to carry a flame within my hand.

That bounded need predominated over the fear to be discovered. I walked to him, silent as a shadow. My reason tried to resist, but my heart refused to hear it. I noticed with stupefaction that he was not swathed in a blanket, but in my shawl, my poor and worn shawl. I could not see if he was asleep, for he was lying with his back to me, but I surmised that he was abandoned to a deep slumber, exhausted by ordeal and a journey without end. I approached my candle and saw that he had his arms crossed over his chest, a large hand, clenching my shawl, resting on a broad shoulder. He was enlacing my shawl so tightly that I wondered how he had not yet torn the fabric. I somehow envied my shawl for being grasped with such strength. I would not mind such embrace, should I find myself shattered, for at least I could protect and be protected, cherish what was closest to my heart.

I noticed how broad he appeared, and how he inspired power. I outstretched a careful hand, feeling the warmth emanating from him, and I had to repress a contented sigh. My hand seemed so small and narrow, hand of child about to be surprised in a forbidden contemplation. Yet I did not withdraw my hand, but I did not touch my dwarf either; I merely brushed the void, delightful void, since I realised that I no longer felt the chill anymore. Warmth curled about him and reached my shivering hand. Void covered in secret as well, dark like my dwarf's mane, black as a raven feather, and I saw, at the flickering light of my candle, a silver rivulet, lost in the murk of the abundant fleece. I wanted to touch that vein of moon light, to cherish it and feel it against my finger, but I contained my instinct. I understood suddenly why the race of Aulë was told to be filled with greed. Surely they shared a similar feeling when they were delving into a dark mine to find, in a shrine of stone, a thin vein of gold. I felt like a dwarf myself, finding my lode of prized silver and cherishing it with all my heart.

There, in the indigence of the world, I craved for a wealth that would never be mine, I suspired, with the greed of destitution, a fortune I would never be endowed by fate, and, from afar, I intoxicated my heart with the promise of despair. I do not remember how long I remained, captivated, staring at my dwarf's strong shoulder and hand contracted on my shawl. I contemplated his silhouette, rising in the regular rhythm of his deep breath. I noticed with concern that sometimes he inhaled unevenly and I feared that he would be seized with a nightmare but, quite fast, he handled some dark thought he had, resuming a quiet respiration, content in the warmth of my shawl.

I had no idea that my dwarf was awake, abandoned in a deep turmoil, and that he had felt my silent presence at his side.

I learnt that one precise day, a year after the event, when _she_ told me about it.


	5. Weaving Fate

Just before dawn, I arose from my disquiet rest. Though I had covered myself with a blanket and a frayed fur, worn and deprived of warmth, I had spent my night attempting to ignore that my tall shape, seized with fever, did not respond anymore. I did not remember where I had found enough strength to abandon my dwarf and return to my alcove. I was a ghost deprived of hope, feeling around and swathed in a cloak of shadows since my candle had died down during my silent contemplation. Stumbling over at each step, I still was mesmerised by my dwarf's presence and my look had kept memory of each detail I had caught glimpse of, in a moonlight of silver and a flickering light of gold, slowly fading into obscurity.

I realised that I treasured him more than a dwarf would treasure a gem of great wealth. He was a promise of hope into despair, of abundance into destitution, and I could not prevent myself from desiring to plunge my hand into his abundant fleece, to suspend my ecstasy at each lock, allowing it to rest at peace with a providential languor, lost in a distant and extinct world, inviting myself to faint with rapture in his haven of ebony and silver. I had for desire to explore his wealth, deep and dark, and to reverently touch his hand, exquisitely strong, though strangely delicate. More than my dwarf's forceful and virile appearance, my heart instinctively was captivated by what I perceived as a hidden vulnerability. My strong dwarf seemed to me frail, desperately attempting to guard himself, to conceal a secret that I craved to protect and cherish. I was touched by such beauty, carved in silent stone like a proud throne of desire, a fair statue with wide eyes of eternal dignity, swathed in dawn and dusk, colour of a stormy night, fearful yet merciful. His presence was an exquisite philtre, a perfume mingled in my soul, warm and ardent.

While I was awaking in my alcove, heart aching in delight, I realised first that my exhaustion had refused to abandon me after such a tormented night. My weary head was resting against my pillow and I suddenly buried my afflicted face into it, enamoured with rapture, trying to imagine how it would be to plunge into that sombre mane, to ardently breathe its captivating musk, and to get asleep in my dwarf's abundant fleece, like a vessel sailing through an ocean of ebony, enlightened by a sorrowful moon. I remained, indolent, sprawling in a languid attempt to regain countenance and I sighed, dreaming of my dwarf, wondering if he had spent a peaceful night and craving to contemplate him again. He had taken nest into my very soul. My heart was embraced round my lord, mountain of adoration about to subside with grief.

I closed my saddened stare, feeling with astonishment a single tear escape to water my pillow. I was seeking obscurity, assaulted by the pale and faint glow of the winter dawn breaking through the curtain. Burying my face into the pillow, I breathed deeply its scent of lavender and discovered with resentment that I no longer was appeased by that delicate scent of my childhood. Instead, I longed for his redolence of nonchalant myrrh and powerful musk, evocative fragrance of a faraway realm, mesmeric incense of a haven of old.

How I would pledge my loyalty to you, my dwarf, without restrain and judgement. Since our very first encounter, my heart had bound itself to you, and I sunk into despair knowing that our fate would never be entwined, and that never would I belong to you. My heart was cursed, seeking a promise of light amongst obscurity, prisoned and vanquished upon a canvas of despair, attached by a golden thread, captivated by a stare aglow, most cherished treasure of mystical diamond and sacred opal. I remembered a tale I have read once about a gem called Arkenstone, revered by dwarves as a stone of sacred right. He had become my Arkenstone, and I needed only a mere instant to fall upon his sombre radiance.

After I had twisted my blanket with frustration, almost tearing it, violent in my despair, I felt a deep fear creep into my heart. What if I had dreamt our encounter? What if he was a dream, a shadow, a beautiful yet ephemeral illusion? What if I had to resume my eternal routine, my life consumed in austere solitude, with only a ghost of delight to appease my misery?

I suddenly arose from my early doze of exquisite rapture and I roused myself from my bed with a start. Hurried, I did not remove my chemise but, instead, seized myself with my gown, gathered each tail around me and, without even adjusting my belt around my waist, I left my retreat and rushed to where I had left our dwarven guests. I did not even ponder why I had given in to such a sudden impulse. I only craved to see, with my own eyes, if I had not dreamt. Fright was harrowing me, tormenting me. I reached at last my fate and, as my fearful shape entered my uncle's living room, modest yet solemn as a dwarven hall in such a dire moment, I expected to find an empty room reflecting my own void. I was blinded with affliction. I approached and almost let a distraught sob escape my lips when I realised that everything was quiet; no joyful sound blessed my ear, no small and strong silhouette rushed to greet me. I probably was still lulled by my languid waking and most certainly confused by my state of mind not to notice, at first, that someone was present. I entered and walked silently, reverently, as if I was a lone soul, roaming a battlefield where all hope was lost. I was convinced that I had dreamt, and each step was a descent into sorrow, though I endeavoured to remain dignified through grief.

However, my stare caught sight of a motion in a corner. I blinked twice to distinguish who it was, for my sight still was impeded with unshed tears. I was not wronged by my imagination; a dwarf was standing, proud yet fearful, almost shy, concealing himself in a salutary shade. I recognised his stature. He was a dwarf and he was my dwarf. I smiled through my despair, seized with a sudden feeling of rapture. Thereby he was real, more beautiful and noble than my imperfect heart remembered. He still was unaware of my presence, for my steps were silent, precise as a hunter about to capture a prey, and I had held my breath so as not to betray my presence. He seemed lost in thoughts, almost distraught himself, wrath and despair jousting upon his large forehead, sombre mane similar to a heap of clouds before a tempest. He was standing nearby a window, tensed and hurried for a reason I ignored, and dawn seemed to bother whatever intrigue he had in mind.

Though he was almost completely concealed by a deep shadow, adorning him like a cloak of sovereign glory, the pale light of daybreak enlightened his most noble profile, shaped in sturdy marble and delicate ivory, framed by a mane of a wild beauty, pelt of temptation, censer of deference and veneration. I could glimpse at my dwarf without restrain and I noticed how fragile he appeared and how his strong featured were softened, delicately illuminated by dawn. His stern forehead was crowned with gentle light and I revelled in the contemplation of his nose, strong and long, yet regular and noble, enhancing a profile of noble lineage. However, what ravished me and encouraged my heart to pound with vehemence in my chest was not his male beauty, _desperately_ sure to detain the strength of a warrior, but rather my dwarf's delicate eyelashes casting a shadow on his severe cheek, reminding me of a maiden tenderly waiting for her loved one to approach. He closed his eyelid with a sigh, lowering his stare in a graceful gesture. I remained still and silent, captivated by such beauty, hidden deep within a shield of fortitude and vigour.

He still was swathed in my shawl, arms crossed in front of his chest so as to keep its warmth against his heart – or to conceal a secret he could not avow himself. I noticed how much he seemed to find comfort in such a protective posture, and how he relished in embracing my shawl. His large hands were clenched on the fabric, almost fiercely, defying anyone to tear it from his grasp. He sighed again, caressing the fringe of my shawl, and I frowned when I realised that his sigh was a sigh of anguish, for affliction was perceptible in his attitude. Why was my dwarf stirred and distraught, seizing handfuls of my worn shawl as if it was a plunder of prized amber and diamond?

He seemed unaware of my approach, focused on some dark thought, frowning in grievance. However, my shade had betrayed my presence and he suddenly turned over to face my shivering shape. He was unprepared, for he did not expect to find someone nearby, let alone that tall and strange maiden of earlier. I could glimpse a mere instant at his face before he pulled himself together and returned to a severe though noble expression. And what I could discern precipitated me into utter bewilderment. I noticed guilt and grief. Howbeit he promptly returned to a prideful expression and held out a large hand, trying to reach me, but contained himself and, instead, seized again a tail of my shawl. My heart was stirred with a profound desire to pledge my loyalty to him and to follow him until my demise. I was suffering to behold my dwarf's pain, and I would without hesitation dedicate my existence to bring a smile to that noble creature who had faced enough ordeal and abasement.

He was even more beautiful than in my memory, decisive face framed with a wild and untamed mane, intent stare delving deep into my heart, pouring in me light and delight. For he was my light, burning my heart in a furnace, replacing with ardour the dim and pale sun of winter, fierce torch brought to me after a life spent being cold and bitter. While he was silently facing me, I noticed how broad he appeared, muscled chest slightly rounded, enhanced by my feminine shawl around his shoulders.

"Good morning, my lord," said I with a bow and a hand on my chest, endeavouring to conceal my deep trouble from his clear and sharp stare.

He approached and I could barely restrain a sudden shiver as I tried to step back a bit, gathering my robes around my frail shape. We were alone and I grew afraid of such a proud presence, especially in my attire, dishevelled and disarranged. I avoided delving into his eyes, afraid to face a stare more magnificent than a sky of apocalypse. He seemed quite annoyed by my sudden fit of reserve, and he searched my gaze as a raptor would try to reach earth after a long flight. He raised a stare darkened with concern when he realised how miserable I appeared.

"Good morning, Svanhild," he replied, voice deep and disquieted.

"May I enquire why you remain alone? Where did your kin depart?" I asked.

"They are hiding in your uncle's kitchen, eating what remains of your pantry; I fear that I could not detain their early appetite."

"Thereupon you should follow your kindred and eat your breakfast while there is still some food left."

"I am not hungry," he said in an impulse, "and we should already have left earlier..."

Colour left my face and I stood still, petrified like a statue of wrath and despair. Pale, proscribed and devastated, I faced my dwarf, stirred with absolute woe. Had he just admitted that he should have left already? My heart refused to believe that he had for purpose to renounce my care before dawn, even before my awakening, and to leave without a word, refusing my concern, abandoning me to my torment. Had I been such a mediocre host that he no longer desired to remain at my side?

"My lord, are you offering me insult? Are you willing to offend your host by leaving and compromising your own liberty and your kin's safety doing so?"

He stared at me, almost defying me, dumbfounded by my sudden vehemence. I stood proud in front of my dwarf, dominating him with my tall shape, a hand turned into a fist of rage and anger. He continued to face me, though without wrath, but rather with benevolence and devotion. My ire fell forthwith and I leant my head, timid yet gentle, in a posture of contrition.

"My intent is not to insult you, Svanhild, only to preserve you," he softly replied. "I do not wish you to endanger yourself. Never did I feel more welcomed than in your presence. I have wandered and roamed in Middle-Earth without nourishment and shelter; I have been proscribed and humiliated, sentenced to an existence of dishonour and painful disappointment. I am an exiled dwarf, and as such, I am vowed to indigence, to be considered with disdain and arrogance. I have been deprived of faith, trying to keep what remained of my dignity, facing abasement with pride, yet feeling my heart stirred with despair. You alone considered me with deference and decency, and, above all, you gave me hope when I had none left. Hence, I wish to preserve you, to relieve you of a burden that may endanger you."

"Burden! Where is my burden? My desire was to help and I could, my wish was to encounter someone who would allow me to find my virtue and my worth, and I met you. If ever I dispensed a good deed or thought a good thought, I did it since our encounter. And you alone, my lord, can stir my devotion. You are no longer abandoned on your path and you should not decide instead of me. If I wish to share your fate, I shall face each consequence of it and never hold you responsible. The choice is mine and mine alone."

"For you delight in devotion, fair maiden," he murmured, "which is why I needed to leave..."

"Leave for where, my lord? Who else would offer you shelter and warmth in men's province? Why would you wander without purpose and deprive yourself of my care? Why would you refuse my regard and respect?"

"I had to leave before it would be too late, yet I fear that I can no longer retrace my steps and divert myself from you, for each instant spent in your presence seals my fate and yours..."

I had to admit that I did not expect such a cryptic answer, but I did not have time to question him; he pulled himself together and stared at me, severe as a dwarf who was used to command – and to receive obedience.

"Have you ever left Lake-town?" he asked, without contempt but rather with protective concern.

"Never did I venture beyond Esgaroth. We are not allowed to wander outside, except bargemen who detain a permit."

"Thought as much," he grumbled, "you led a cloistered life; no doubt you are unsoiled of heart. Yet you know how to welcome a dwarf. How were you introduced to our lore if you never met someone of my race before?"

"I read, my lord."

He stared at me with a raised eyebrow, somehow surprised by such a brief yet meaningful answer.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I am eighteen," I said, leaning my head in a sudden fit of humility, aware of my great youth.

"You are young," he murmured, voice stirred with a sudden regret I could not explain.

I was playing nervously with a lock of my hair, and he was staring at my white hand and at a slender finger, desperately entwined with a fawn knot, mesmerised by each agile movement I was initiating to detangle myself.

"Young and faithful," he continued, "fighting to protect an unworthy dwarf who cannot even entrust her with a name. You are unique, even in your youth, and your heart does not seem shallow as men's heart; yours reminds me of our mountain, deep and sombre, yet veined with gold and light. Your life and mine are opposite, though we both desire what we are certain we cannot obtain. I am grateful and, even if I shall roam a path of grievance and shall never receive what I desire, I praise Mahal to know you. Your devotion is a gift I never thought I would receive, and even deserve."

I looked at my dwarf, abashed. However, he resumed, forgetful of my trouble:

"Tell me, graceful maiden, where is your kindred? You must have some sort of kinsfolk somewhere, except your uncle and his children."

"None that I am aware of; my uncle and my cousins are my only family."

"Are you implying that you do not have a brother or a sister, not even a parent alive?"

"I am. I don't have a sibling, my mother and father died when I still was a child and I do not even remember when my dying father entrusted me to my uncle's care."

"You had a lonely existence, deprived of family, except of course a quite unpleasant uncle who does not even accept our presence," he said, and I thought I perceived resentment in his voice.

"My uncle would never harm neither you nor your kindred. Even if he remains mistrustful of you, he allowed me to care for you. I am certain that he would never disrespect you, my lord. At least not in my presence," I said, smiling, appeasing my dwarf's possessive dissatisfaction.

"And your home?" he curtly asked.

"I own a small hovel. I cannot afford more, I fear, and I remain withdrawn in a great solitude, cold and outcast, but I would not exchange my dwelling for any other place in Lake-town, even a notable's manor."

"Why wouldn't you?" he asked, curiosity aroused.

"I live North, in a remote area of Esgaroth, and I can contemplate, each time I glimpse at my window, a noble mountain which sight gives me faith and strength. The Lonely Mountain people of Lake-town call it, and your people name it Erebor, since it once was a great dwarven kingdom, before a dragon conquered it. I ignore what are your origins, and in which dwarven realm your fiefdom is, my lord, but surely you've heard of it."

"Aye, I've heard of it," he murmured, avoiding my look.

He suddenly seemed so distraught, haunted stare and desperate demeanour. I approached and enquired, cruelly worried:

"Are you unwell, my lord?"

"I am well, my most thoughtful host," he answered. "You deserve more, Svanhild, and I imagine quite well that you are not satisfied with your quiet existence. You crave for more, and contemplating a shattered kingdom from your hovel isn't enough. You are ardent, I notice quite well in your countenance how fierce you are. You hope that one day you would escape your cage. Such wild and passionate creature cannot remain long without aliment; else she would tear her chest open to let her heart escape."

"I ignore if I deserve more, my lord, and I cannot judge of my own worth. Anyhow, I surmise that I should not expect anything from fate. We cannot weave our fate. We are entwined and ravelled on a great and intricate tapestry, bound with a knot, each choice of our life a stitch, steadily sewn by an inexorable hand. We cannot escape, and each attempt to haul ourselves from our web results in our strength to fade, and our knot to tighten even more. I often attempt to release myself, plagued with despair and contempt, but my fight is vain and I find myself each time prisoned by another knot, condemned to endure my captivity without hope to depart."

My dwarf stared at me, silent. He seemed of a solemn mood and my statement had immersed him in quite a turmoil. I had no idea what had troubled him so much, and for which reason he seemed so distraught. He groaned a bit and, pulling himself together, he decided to question me again:

"Your uncle must be protective of you, I assume, constantly trying to keep you out of danger."

"Indeed," I assented.

"And how do you occupy your routine?"

"I am a weaver, my lord."

"A weaver?" he asked, probably wondering if I had meant to continue my preceding metaphor.

"I embroider and repair tapestries upon request. A humble labour, I fear, and I do not earn much from my toil; people are no longer interested in such craft and they are poor, as a consequence, they do not care about repairing some ancient and vain inheritance," I explained with a weary gesture.

"Yet you work honourably, and never would I judge your labour disrespectfully. You would never fall in my regard because you need to work in order to feed yourself and your kin. In time of ordeal, even a queen or a lady sometimes needs to perform a humble task so as to protect her people."

I restrained a gasp and stared at my dwarf, bewildered, pondering what he had meant with such a comparison. I wondered forthwith if he had pronounced a simple and innocent metaphor or if he had knowledge that I was a noble maiden of a fallen yet great ancestry. I stepped back and hid my face behind my dishevelled mane, desperately trying to conceal my trouble. He observed my gesture of fright and, while I furtively caught glimpse of my dwarf in front of me, I noticed that he appeared stirred with concern and admiration. Why would a dwarf revere a poor daughter of men? I had only contempt to myself.

"Tell me about your clientele, fearful Svanhild," he enquired with benevolence, so as to appease my disquietude.

"They are mostly old women and bargemen, entrusting me with an old tapestry or a drapery that they want me to repair or embellish. Very seldom I receive a request to create an original piece of embroidery. They are reluctant to solicit my craft; poor we all are, and we cannot allow such luxury when we cannot even afford nourishment. I have one regular customer, though, yet I despise him."

"Who is that customer?" he asked, frowning with disquietude.

"The Master of Lake-town, and I fear that he doesn't care about my craft. He must suspect that I am an insurgent and he must seek any sign confirming such accusation."

He leant his heavy head at my answer, severe and wrathful, angered that I was used to receive such an unwelcome visit. When our discussion had been initiated, we both had maintained a respectable distance, both afraid to approach each other. I would refute my very soul if I claimed that my fright was caused by my current position, alone, in a room occupied by a quite impressive dwarf lord, which could appear as a particularly improper situation in itself. However, I was not frightened about my honour and he had, whatever it be, my absolute trust. I rather feared that I would allow my heart to yield to a feeling I could not understand yet, though I was aware that I was overwhelmed with it, almost abandoning myself to such a foreign urge.

However, he had approached my tall shape, reducing our distance. He seized my arm with vigour and enclosed my frail hand in a warm embrace. I had to refrain myself from collapsing with a feeling of utter rapture. I remained still, trying to regain my countenance, pondering that I must have been outraged by a contact of such intimacy. Yet, my dwarf's touch felt right on my feverish skin. I had despised people's contact, afraid of such intimate bound, and I had held in contempt any sign of care and concern. But I was pleased to feel my dwarf's hand circle my frail wrist, and I felt secure in such embrace, warm and careful. He was staring at me with an ardent expression, swallowing me into a furnace of passion. I gave in, without a word, to my lord's embrace and I had to gather my spirits so as not to kneel in confusion and adoration. He was close, head raised to examine my face and, yielding to a bounden need, I came even closer. I closed my eyes when I felt a calloused finger trail along my palm, respectful and tender.

"Such a graceful hand, thin and frail, must produce the most delicate tapestry, exquisitely detailed, and with such finery that your work, though not often requested, must be praised."

"I cannot judge of my own craft," I murmured.

"Will you allow me one day to contemplate your work?"

I hesitated, unsure of what I should answer and evermore afraid to disappoint him with my singular craft, I humbly said, in a whisper:

"Who am I to disrespect your will, my lord? If you want to look upon my work, I shall honour your desire, though I do not deserve such privilege and fear that you would be disappointed in what I shall reveal to you."

"I alone will judge, but I know that my heart will relish in your craft."

"You can already have a glimpse of my work, though, since that shawl you are adorned with has been embroidered by the very hand you are holding. Indeed, you are wearing my very first piece of embroidery."

He looked at me with an expression of complete disbelief. He realised that he still was wearing my shawl, not being aware of such detail earlier and feeling distraught about it, as if someone had caught him committing a crime. Guilt troubled him and he was about to remove my shawl when I hastily hindered his gesture of contrition, voice stirred with emotion:

"My lord, I beseech you, keep that shawl. I see that you revel in its warmth and I wish you to keep it. I am honoured that it can help you find a bit of comfort, even if such a worn, poor fabric is beneath your rank. Some would pretend that a dwarf lord should not adorn himself with such a feminine garment, but I think that it suits you well."

With a look of utter astonishment, he unfolded my shawl in front of him, studying each detail. It was an old shawl, of a worn brown colour, with a mended embroidery. I had embroidered a white lily, so detailed that a pearl of dew was resting on a petal. The lily had delicate pistils of a dark gold colour, graceful leaves of my most vivid green thread and, peeping out of a leaf, stood a small thrush, with an eye as dark as onyx and a beautiful flecked throat of gold and light brown.

"You said it was your very first work?" he asked.

"Indeed," I replied.

"I have never seen something as beautiful as your embroidery. Even our jewellers cannot shape a stone as beautifully as you embroider, and your hand is more delicate, more precise and evocative than our craftsmen. That lily reminds me of you, it has the whiteness of a swan, and is leaning gracefully, just as you are inclining your head in front of me, patient and considerate, yet noble, humble in your poise, though unbowed in front of your fate, resilient despite your frailty. How old were you when you did that?"

"Svanhild," called a voice behind me, preventing me from answering.

I turned to meet my uncle's angered stare, smouldering with discontentment. He had discovered our secret discussion, my dwarf and I desperately close, with only my shawl separating us from a forbidden embrace.

I stepped back abruptly, untamed, hiding my troubled face behind my dishevelled mane. I knew that I should not have reacted so impulsively, for my reaction confirmed to my uncle that he had come upon more than a common conversation. I suddenly felt distraught that he could so easily realise my attachment to my dwarf lord; enthrallment was written on my face, I had a feral demeanour and I could not completely conceal my torment.

He did not appreciate that his niece would be so close to a dwarf, let alone that precise dwarf, proud and dignified, inevitably a sign of great danger. He approached, glaring at my dwarf, who stood proud, interposing himself between my uncle and myself, ready to face whatever was about to come with a quiet strength, shawl kept in an embrace of stone. He seemed to protect that worn piece of clothing as he would protect a gem of great price, and he looked like a warrior about to fight an opponent.

"How can I help you, uncle?" I asked in order to divert my uncle's attention from such a threatening attitude.

"Your guests are in the kitchen, pillaging our pantry and smoking my tobacco. Could you please protect what can still be saved and lead everyone away from our food?"

"I will, of course," I stammered, hesitant and fearful, afraid to abandon my dwarf with my uncle and even more frightened that he would disappear during my absence.

However, I was about to withdraw with a bow, yielding to my uncle's wish, when a calloused hand touched mine and I realised that my dwarf had approached again, staring at me intently, appeasing my fright.

"I will go and bring my kin back," he murmured, "do not be afraid, I no longer wish to leave, and I should not have envisaged it earlier."

I felt his warmth against my hand for a mere instant before he left, defiantly glaring at my uncle on his way to retrieve his kindred. I was left alone with Bard and, while he was reprimanding me – though I feared that I did not listen to what he had to reproach – I approached the window to glimpse at the quiet rise of dawn.

I had long been cursed to contemplate shadows of the world, in an imprecise and sombre dream. Yet, that providential day, my stare was lost in a pure golden light and the Lonely Mountain was swathed in glory, white and proud on the horizon. My fate would not be so dismal, after all, and I could even relish in a golden promise of hope. I could no longer deny my dwarf's reality, and I thought that I could perchance wave my own fate, entwined to my master, whom I desired to protect against a dragon if I had to.


End file.
