Notes:

So…I'm just as tired of Thorin not being here as you probably are. So expect more Thorin POV and some flashbacks. Oooo, flashback within a flashback, so you can have your flashbacks with your flashbacks while you flashback on those flashbacks and flashbacks. Flashback is a funny word.

ANYWAY I'm back. \(°-°)/

"Win?"

"One prize, an' it ain't goin' t' second best."

"You think I can win an axe-throw against dwarves?"

"No," said Belga shortly. "Ye gotta. Not a bit or but aroun' it."

"Besides," added Belbar with a nervous smile. "You know your way around a sword and a bow like they came outta the womb with you. Surely you've thrown an axe before."

"I don't follow your logic."

"Ye mean ye haven't?"

Mirra shook her head.

"Oh, fer the bloody love o' Mahal!" The dwarfmother threw up her hands, wheeling on her husband with a scowl. "I told ye! I damn well told ye this'd be a fool's errand!"

"Forgive me," he replied, his tone most unforgiving. "But who was the fool who thought it up?"

Mirra sat quietly to the side as they bickered. They assumed that she had as much expertise with any weapon as she did with her sword and bow – that skill was undeniable, observable fact – but they also assumed that she could not learn how to throw an axe. She could do this, train daily until the spring, earn them the money they needed to make her a sword and go on her way…

Or, she could go now.

She'd venture out of the mountains, barter for a good sword, or steal one, and then she'd be free. She'd plunge back into the wilderness. She'd hunt and gather and roam as she pleased. She'd live with the company of herself and herself alone, and never would she have to see another dwarf or man or orc again…

The temptation tugged at her, and it tugged hard. To leave and be free, or stay and…what? What was here that she could not provide herself?

Before her stood Belga and Belbar, red-faced and splattered with spittle, barking at each other without abandon. Three heads poked out from the doorway – how long ago had that house been not but lone wooden pillars? – watching the scene with curious eyes. One pair of eyes sneaked a glance towards Mirra.

"Do you have any family?"

Mirra flicked her eye, mid-bite into her rabbit. Thorin watched her, perhaps even studied her, behind his steely blue gaze. While the firelight revealed nothing in his carefully neutral face, Thorin's eyes were a different story. In order to study her depths, they revealed their own. And those iron eyes had softened as the journey wore on.

"I have told you already." She chewed on the tough meat, paying no mind to the smell of burning fur in the twilight air; she welcomed overcooked rabbit after weeks of roots and nuts.

"You did, once." He looked at her more when they spoke. Perhaps it's only natural, for they spent much time together now. Mirra wouldn't know; she's never spent so much time with one person. At least, outside of- "But if you were telling the truth, or the whole truth, that would amaze me."

"Prepare to be amazed then," she replied dryly. "My people had none of what you call 'family'. We had elders, who ruled us, and odhas*, who trained us."

"Trained you for what?"

What didn't they train us for? Her mouth opened to answer, but a little voice insider her head shut it again. How much had she revealed about her people already? What did outsiders already know of them; what stories ran through the land, what legends, what tales of horror? Was it enough that he could put the pieces together? Mirra honestly did not know. And that terrified her.

"Very well, then." Thorin cleared his throat, taking Mirra's silence for reluctance and back off the subject – which she thanked him for. The twitch of his nose showed mild irritation; for now, he would let it go for now, but one day, he will demand it.

Her blood went ice-cold at that thought.

Halnar simply regarded her. He held no readable expression, with no obvious joy or fear. No fear. Mirra kept herself from inhaling sharply, but a knot in her stomach that she did not feel before now dissolved. She bobbed her head at him, and his lips twitched into a vague smile.

From their perch on the forest's edge, a hundred light glimmered across the valley. Cricket chirps mixed with wisps of chatter from the hundreds of dwarf families. And on a slight hill in the middle of the valley sat the largest wooden home of all.

"How about yourself?"

The next morning, Thorin had woken to Mirra smoking the last strips of rabbit meat. He grumblingly took over while she cleared the camp (which she was clearly better at doing than he, though he would never admit that). It had been when the last bones were discarded and the fire about to be doused that she suddenly turned to him. "How about your family?"

"What about them?" he grumbled, hoisting up his pack.

"I don't know. Do you have a mother, or a father? Or brothers, or what do they call them when it is a girl-?"

"Sisters," he said without malice. "I have a sister. And I once had a brother, and a mother."

"Oh." The memory flooded her: Thorin buckled over, cradling a glassy-eyed dwarf whose blonde hair was blackened and smeared with blood. Mirra felt heat rush to her cheeks. "I am-"

"My mother died in dragon-fire, and my brother fell in battle, a battle begun after my grandfather's head was returned without a body attached. Pity changes nothing, so give me none." His iron eyes swiveled around, searching for the path that Mirra already found. "The line of Durin is a long, sad tale."

Mirra shrugged. "We have a long ways to go."

"Only if you are certain." His voice was soft yet his eyes were clear. He had either dealt with their loss or grown numb to his grief. He asked Mirra for Mirra's sake alone.

The only thing uncertain to her was how she should feel about this.

"Tell me. If you would."

And so he did.

"…I'll do it."

Belga and Belbar were mid-bellow when their heads whipped towards her.

"The axe-throw. I'll do it." Mirra set her eyes at the ground. Accept it, before I change my mind.

Belga for once looked to be at a loss for words. Her husband blinked a few times, but once it sunk into his head, he leaped up with delight. "Haha, fantastic! I knew it! Right from the start I knew it! I owe my deepest thanks-"

"Ain't a favor when she gits something out'ov it, too," grumbled his wife. "Oy, boys!" Three pairs of feet scurried into the house chased by a rather crabby, rather tired dwarfmother.

The weaponsmith, meanwhile, remained outside, beaming like a man possessed.

"We will begin training tomorrow!" he cried. "Tricky matter it is, teaching ye how to throw an axe if you've never thrown one before." His fingers threaded themselves through his beard as he paced back and forth. "Belga says you got a good arm, but axe-throwin's a whole different warg from simply wrestlin' a dwarf, or a troll for that matter-"

"A what?" Mirra's eyes flashed cold.

"Hm?" He batted his hand at the air, ignoring her growl. "Prince Thorin happen'd t' mention it. Ye got more strength than meets the eye, it seems." He peered up at her, evaluating her arms and shoulders like he'd evaluate a blade. "How many months we got? One, two…six months. Fewer than liked, but not impossible. No, it will be done." He threw a startlingly enthusiastic grin at Mirra. "By my beard, we will see it be done."

By the third week, Mirra felt disheartened.

"Pivot, release, follow through. Can I get any clear'r?"

Axes were nothing like swords or arrows or clubs or anything she had ever used before. Heavy and unwieldy, they required both precision and brute force, to concentrate all your strength into a split-second release. Mirra had the focus, precision, and strength necessary, that was without question. But something kept eluding her; something simply would not click.

"Oy! Watch yourself with that axe! It's my…"

Your great-great-grandfather's great uncle's, recited Mirra internally as she rolled her eyes. Passed down through all those generations as a mighty dwarven battle-axe and the last thing it needs…

"…is some mannish lady treatin' it like a woodchopper!" snapped the weaponsmith, his eyes ablaze.

"The axe is unharmed. See?" She thrust it out for his inspection.

He peered down at it. The axe was in fine condition but he scowled nonetheless. "Ye need to carry through more."

"I am."

"Not 'nough, you're as stiff as a board. Look, your shoulders an' back-"

"Don't," she snarled. "Touch. Me."

He raised his hands, backing away several steps. While his expression remained neutral, his eyes had hardened. The hilt of his throwing axe glinted from his mahogany leather belt, but he carefully made no move for it. Belbar, she realized, was watching her like a seasoned fighter, anticipating her possible moves, waiting for her to strike first.

And for a fiery shameful moment, Mirra craved to give it to him.

"Tell me," said the fire-bearded dwarf all of a sudden, "how long's it been since you've struggled to learn something?"

It shattered the wild rage. Mirra blinked at him, and then looked away, although it disgusted her to do so.

"Tha's what I thought." Belbar approached with soft, questioning eyes. He gently pried the battle-axe from her hands. "I think it's time t' call it a day."

Mirra said nothing, split between shame at herself for failing and shame at her teacher for treating her so gently.

Belga went to market alone now to sell her wool blankets. When the load proved too much for her to carry alone, Valdar joined her. As the middle child, he often alternated between his older and younger brothers. Halnar occupied himself by running around with friends nearby: a fat carrot-headed boy and his brother who wore a strange hat. Naldar, as the eldest, had now taken up his father's mallet in the workshop, per apparent dwarf custom. Heritage, Belbar called it with a swell of pride. Both of these - heritage and pride - seemed to run deep in dwarven culture.

Come dusk, Mirra and Belbar returned from their practice glen with weary arms and weary looks. By then, Belga was banging on her pot to call supper. The younger boys would gallop to her. Naldar now preferred to walk.

Dinner was a play with a consistent plot and established roles. Halnar and Valdar would inevitably fight over some morsel of food and began throwing things, cueing Belga to bark at them if thing became too rowdy. Belbar would clap his hand on Naldar's back and ask him about the shop, and the boy would grin and tell them all about what orders he filled that day. And Belbar would then launched into a tale of some illustrious ancestor, making everyone groan and Belga roll her eyes. And all the while, Mirra would sip her stew in silence, finish with an appreciative nod (such were good manners), wash her own bowl, and then go off to occupy herself.

After dinner ended, the boys were sent to bed. Then Belbar and Belga would sit themselves just outside the door, light up their pipes, and smoke together for a while.

"…gossipin' in the market, ye know," Belga muttered to her husband one night after supper. "They talk 'bout 'er." Mirra sat inside, silently greasing her longbow. It was easy to picture the dwarfmother jerking her chin at her. "Ye can make yerself rich as a robber collectin' all the the two pence they jus' 'ave t' put in."

"Certainly," replied Belbar with little interest. He puffed out a fat ring of smoke. "Course they're gonna talk."

"It's wha' they're sayin' that migh' perk yer ear," Belga snapped, clicking her teeth. "Some, believe it if ye will, are feelin' a change of heart."

Mirra could almost hear Belbar's mouth drop in shock.

"Tis true, I swear it." The dwarfmother blew a smoke ring of her own. "What…'appened at market a moon or so ago, it made 'n impression. Riskin' 'er life for one of us, an' then not slittin' the filthy bastard's throat-"

"Must we recall such things?"

"We must," she spat. "Cos it's the shit tha' makes ye appreciate the gold. Anyway, they still take ye for a dwarf of honor. So if ye're treatin' 'er like a respectable dwarf, then tha's good 'nough for them. They'll put up wit' her. Half o' them, leastwise."

Belbar's lips smacked on the pipe. The smoke wandered into Mirra's nose; bitter and thick, yet a bit soothing once the acridness had gone. "The others?"

"Take a gander," was her sour reply.

The weaponsmith let loose one last ring of smoke. It hovered, wobbled in the night air, and then faded into nothing. As if it was never there at all.

"Why did the dwarf in the market say Halnar wasn't yours to keep?"

Six weeks had passed and the weaponsmith went stiff at her question. Mirra did not care; she needed the break to regain her focus, and perhaps getting some of her questions answered would help.

"Nothing escapes you, does it?" he grumbled.

Mirra cocked her head "How do you mean?"

His boots thudded the ground as he walked over to the axe blade-down in the ground. "That dwarf wasn' worth the hairs on his chin." The weaponsmith wrenched it up and examined its blade with a master's touch.

"Truth is truth. The character of the dwarf does not change the character of his words."

"That may be, in whatever clan you come from. But 'ere, a dwarf is nothing but his word." Belbar shoved the battle-axe at her, throwing her a frosty look. "Throw it again."

Her face twitched, but she seized the battle-axe without a word.

By now, Mirra could throw an axe nearly 38 paces at best.

The top dwarven throwers managed at least 55 paces.

It frustrated her to end.

One day, the yells of messengers rang through the Blue Mountains: "The king has arrived! King Thrain has come at last!"

All work ceased. Every dwarf in the valley seemed to drop what he or she was doing to rush towards the center of the village, Belbar most certainly included. Even Belga seemed livelier than usual at the king's arrival, though she made sure each of her three boys had dressed properly before hurrying them out to the crowd. Mirra ignored the excitement; the king was not her king after all, and with the more dwarves around, the more trouble she made. She heard an account later from Halnar.

From his papa's shoulders, he could easily the dwarf king. King Thrain had sat proud and erect atop a swaying pony between to two guardsmen. Behind the king ambled another pony, but Halnar could not see who rode; the face was blocked by the guardsmen. Anyway, the king led a procession of dwarfmen. Halnar watched their helmets bob as they marched to the beat of heavy drums.

Some hobbled, some staggered, and many bore white cloth around one limb or more. They, like the king, did not smile. And the crowd watching the march also did not smile.

At one point, the wail of one dwarfling rose over the silent crowd. The cry rang and rang, until you barely heard the low thudding of the drums.

Thorin's head was splitting.

He had thought – or rather hoped – that his duties would dwindle with his father's arrival to the royal manor. Alas, the weeks preceding and following his arrival proved the prince to be very, very mistaken.

When the porter came to his door, his expression grave, Thorin had half an idea about what was to come. He had been expecting it at some occasion. But he had thought – or hoped – that the matter would come to nothing, that Thrain could be convinced if Thorin put forward his case.

The look on Balin's face, as the scholar stood right before the throne room doors, shattered his illusions. "He's…displeased, Thorin."

"His Royal Majesty shall now see the prince," proclaimed an attendant in a loud, stiff voice. The doors opened and Thorin's mouth went dry.

The throne room was eight columns long, its walls lined with a colorful array of banners. Each bore the crest and color of a noble family who had sworn fealty to the king. At the far wall hung of course the royal banner, the largest and most spectacular banner in the deepest shade of midnight. It hung over a carved oaken throne draped in furs, with two guards posted on either side.

And in the throne itself sat King Thrain himself.

"Father." The prince gave a small bow, taking his eyes off the king only for a moment. "You called."

He looked stiff and stoic at first glance. His face, though gnarled and withered with age, held all the hardness of granite. His single eye blazed with perpetual fire. In his near two centuries of life, the king had mastered the art of diplomacy; no emotion escaped that stony face unless he let it.

For this reason, Thorin always kept his guard up around his father.

"You have gathered why, I presume." Sharp and direct, like a spearhead. Thorin winced at the impact.

"Yes, m'lord," he replied with a stiff lip.

Along the side of the halls stood six or so noblemen in their finery. They bore solemn expressions but Thorin caught what he thought was the faintest of sneers.

With a rustle of furs and thick wool cloaks, the king leaned forward towards Thorin. "I am inclined to think I know my children," rumbled the old king. "And I am inclined to believe that my heir would never do something so irresponsible as to endanger the lives of our people."

His eye glinted like cold silver. "Explain."

It was all he needed to say. The threat echoed around the chamber without a sound.

It left Thorin no choice.

So he recounted everything, taking care to emphasize the moments when Mirra had saved his life or defended their people. Some parts he left out: the advising of Balin for the scholar's own protection, the time Thorin called her spy and assassin, and the time when she came into slavery and later fell to blood frenzy. But it surprised even Thorin how many encounters he could list. He finished with a recount of his debt to her, and their ultimate deal.

When Thorin had no more to say, the room fell into silence. The king rose from his throne, stretching up like an old powerful bear. He took slow, noble steps, roaming about the throne room deep in though. His gnarled hands stroked at his beard – an elegant web of intricate gold beads.

It was unclear how long Thorin had stood in that hall before the King stopped in his steps. "You tell of her honor, Thorin, with great fondness."

Thorin swallowed. "I speak the truth, whether it is with fondness or not."

"You don't believe, then," drawled the king in measured tones, "that you speak from any…attachment."

The noblemen kept themselves solemn - such was expected in the presence of the king – but at least three bore a mischievous glint in their eyes. Something bitter simmered in the back of Thorin's throat.

"No. M'lord," the prince hastily added the formality. "On what ground do you ask?"

"You will be king one day, Thorin. This crown" – he thrust a finger at the heavy silver-gold diadem atop his grizzled gray hair – "is your birthright, your burden, and your destiny."

"She is not a threat to our people."

"Pray you are right." The king flashed him a frosty eye. "It is but the welfare of our entire people put at stake."

Thorin remained still. His insides suddenly went hollow.

Meanwhile the king had ambled away from the prince. He leaned into a guard's ear and muttered something. The guard nodded, and then marched out.

"Speaking of your responsibilities as my successor," continued the king as the door clanged shut. Thorin winced at the sound. "We have another matter to discuss; one that grows more pressing by the day."

"Which is?" said Thorin crisply, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Whatever the king was about to say was lost as the chamber door opened like a thunderclap. The guard had returned. By his side stood a small, cloaked figure.

Horror slammed into Thorin's head before the figure even revealed its face. He had to steel his legs to keep from falling over.

By Mahal, no.

It was fortunate that the king arrived when he did, for soon after, the Blue Mountains tumbled into the jaws of winter.

"What crevice o' Mordor did this crawl out of?" grumbled Belbar with a brrr! as he shook piles of snow off his shoulder. "The lads just got 'emselves out in time. Nearly burned out the forges, this damn did-"

"Watch yer bloody language," snarled Belga, shutting the door on the blinding, howling white. The walls were covered in blankets, with extra wrapped around each boarded window. Her sons huddled together under one blanket until Belga and Belbar each threw away their own. The boys snatched up the blankets with greedy, shivering hands.

"W-W-Where's M-M-Mirra," the smallest dwarfling tried to say behind chattering teeth.

Belga ruffled Halnar's hair and cooed, "She'll be back soon 'nough," just as Belbar whirled around and boomed "She's still out there?!"

The dwarfmother threw her dumbstruck husband a glare and dragged him into a corner. "Yea," she hissed. "Off practicin' last I heard." "You're lyin'," hissed Belbar. "She wasn' gonna practice t'day. I told 'er not to."

"Oh an' she always listen t' ye, 'ow coul' I forget-"

"Belga," growled the weaponsmith in a low, dangerous voice. "Where. Is. She?"

The wind howled and beat its awful hands against the rafters. The house creaked but did not budge. Halnar nestled himself among his brothers. All three looked to Belga, faces creased with worry.

The dwarfmother let out a huff and turned her head away. "Sent 'er to…" Then she mumbled something indinstinct.

"Where!?"

"Alrigh' I sent 'er off t' get supper!" she spat, folding her arms in defiance. "Wasn' but a few hours 'go, notta whiff of snow 'n the air!"

Belbar knitted his fingers through his hair. "She'll be dead in an hour," he groaned. "If she's not already."

A little moan escaped the huddle of dwarflings, in near perfect synchronization with the wailing wind outside. Halnar looked just as pale as the blistering snow too.

He waited for his wife to scoff and say, Go and see how much I care. Instead all that came was a murmur: "Ye think I don't know tha'?"

Belga had wrapped her rugged arms around herself and drooped her head. Like a moth to a flame, Belbar drifted towards her until he could pull her into his arms. They stood there for a while, wrapped in one another's warmth, thinking about how blue the mannish woman's skin would turn as she fell headfirst in the snow.

Remembering his promise to Thorin simply added a bigger knot to the existing bunch in his stomach.

Please, Belbar pleaded silently as the storm howled about them, Mahal above, please. What she has done for us – for our family, our home, and our entire people – it is far more than we dare admit. Please, Mahal, I beg you of you: please bring her home.

Suddenly at the door: knock-knock-knock.

"Mirra!" cried out the dwarflings in unison as a snow-angel stumbled onto the ground with gasps, while Belga locked the door firmly behind. The snowy figure got to its feet and revealed a familiar – though frost-nipped and damp – face.

"Supper," grumbled Mirra. She hoisted a strange, snow-masked shape over her back and it fell on the floor with a thud. There at her feet laid a glassy-eyed buck. "Got lost in the storm, like I just about did."

The children cheered. Belga scolded Mirra for dripping all over the floor. Belbar had not yet moved from his spot.

"I am…was one of three brothers," the weaponsmith finally decided to tell her that night when Belga and the boys had gone off to sleep. "Holbar, then Gulbar, then myself. We stuck together from the time we were babes, we did. We saw Erebor at its highest heights and lowest lows, and we held together in the Dunlands.

"Then… then Thror, the last King Under the Mountain, went to Moria and was returned as a head on a pike. Thrain took up the crown and called upon all able, unwed dwarves to fight before the gates of Moria; Gulbar answered the call. The rest of us - Holbar and I, men of family – made for Ered Luin per royal decree. It was the first time we'd ever parted."

He shook his head as though to shake off a bad dream. "Pressed our luck, that did. When we three had stuck together, no harm came to us, not even from dragon-fire. Then Gulbar broke off, and he broke off from the luck. Halfway through the journey, the ravens came. My brother was one of those slain in battle." He stroked his beard, his eyes a tinge misty. "A month later, a pack of orcs stumbled across our train. Holbar rushed after the wargs to defend us … he too fell."

The weaponsmith suddenly looked an extra hundred years old. Every wrinkle in his old, withered face became more pronounced; every silver hair in his red beard shone like ghosts in the fading twilight. And his eyes…she had seen that kind of eyes before, though on a different man. But the weaponsmith looked simply old and tired, not cold or hard, for he had seen what a dwarf his age is supposed to have seen.

"Halnar, his child, was a mere babe," he muttered into his knuckles. "And we were the only family he had left." He looked to Mirra and began wagging his finger. "You gotta stick with your family; don't go off and leave 'em. Bad luck is what that is. Bad, bad luck."

As the weeks wore on, Belbar found himself having less and less time to teach Mirra. As capable a smith as Naldar was, the orders kept coming in. They needed the extra hands.

It was on such a day that she was practicing by herself that Mirra had a visitor.

"Valdar," she said all of a sudden, not even turning towards the rustling thicket behind her. "I know you're there."

Out popped a wide-eyed Valdar with a bundle of cloth.

"Ma sent me," said the dwarfling. He flicked his brown hair with a sniff, acting more confident than he felt. "She tol' me to bring lunch to you and Pa. Pa first."

Mirra froze.

"What's wrong?"

"How did she say it?"

"Huh?"

"Belga, your mother: how did she say it to you?"

Valdar quirked his head to the side, brows furrowed. "She said, 'Take this, it's lunch for yer pa an' Mirra.'

Mirra stared at the bundle in her hands, blinking very, very slowly. Then, remembering the pair eyes watching her, she put the bundle down and sat beside it.

"What's wrong about that?"

After a little while, she shook her head. "Nothing. Thank you, Valdar."

His brows remained knitted, but he bobbed his head nonetheless. "You're welcome." The leaves crunched beneath his moccasined feet as he turned to leave, but then the dwarfling stopped. "Ma says you're family now. Does that mean you're stayin' forever?"

Words disappeared from Mirra's head.

"I don' mind if ye do, you know," he added, thinking she simply needed encouragement. "And I'm sorry for calling ye an elf before." The dwarfling then dropped his head in sudden timidity.

She nodded. That was all she really could do while her mind was reeling.

They called me family.

Mirra could hardly bear the warm flash inside her chest.

Watching from the thickets was an old fire-bearded dwarf who couldn't help checking on the progress on his pupil.

Smithing was his trade, but by Mahal teaching was his calling. Was he not responsible for teaching both sons of Thrain how to properly defend themselves in battle? His lesson served one better than the other though...

Never mind that. But as much as he reveled (privately) in being able to teach once again, he had a living to make. And winter, when snow stopped many lines of work, leaving people time to get around to maintaining their tools, oft proved to be his busiest time of year. The forge belched hot soot into his eyes. He finished each day unable to feel his hands, numbed by the repeated hammer blows against the hard anvil. Better than the opposite, he always reminded himself.

But.

After Valdar handed him his lunch, Belbar bundled up and followed the dwarfling into the white snowdrifts, following an unusually shallow line of footsteps. What is she? Not an elf, for she was not nearly so exquisite and…pointy-eared. It went without saying that she was no dwarf, though her stubbornness indicated otherwise. She called herself mannish, and certainly she looked mannish, but she did not quite carry herself as one.

Several moments later, they stumbled onto the practice glen There a tall figure was twirling in the snow, It let loose a mighty battle-axe that spun into the thickets.

"Go on, laddie," he whispered to the boy. "I'll be righ' back 'ere."

If Belbar had to make a guess, he would say her throws averaged about 42 paces. One he reckoned sailed as far as 45.

The Valar take me, he thought with shamelessly gawking eyes, she just might do it.

The weaponsmith's family nestled right into winter. The three dwarflings could play for hours and hours, often joining up with neighboring boys to organize mock battles with sticks and snowballs or massive fort building. It took no small effort to keep the boys clothed, fed, and watered properly throughout this epic time of play. Thankfully, Belga had no small amount of vigor to keep up with them.

Meanwhile Belbar kept busy with the endless flood of orders at his smith shop. But one day, instead another order for nails or tools or what have you (thank Mahal), something else came in. Or rather, someone else.

"Afternoon, Belbar."

"Prince Thorin!" He whirled around like his pants were on fire. Which they just about did, if he'd been a smidge less careful.

The prince simply smirked at him. He wore a magnificent cape, as deep a blue as the depths of the Mirrormere, but without any embroidery or decoration to speak of, save for a golden brooch at Thorin's neck. His hair was combed and clean and his beard bore elegant braids bound by simple silver clasps.

"I was unaware of the ball this evening," quipped Belbar with a grin.

Thorin bobbed his head, acknowledging the joke but not smiling either. "We just arrived from a gathering of four of the seven houses."

Belbar gaped. There were seven houses of dwarves in Middle Earth. Despite a shared race and ancestry, each had its own people and its own royalty. The House of Durin was the largest, followed by the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. A meeting of any of the houses meant de facto a meeting of kings. And a meeting of kings only took place on when there was a matter of great importance.

"If I may ask-"

"It'll earn you naught," said Thorin, pressing his lips thin. And Belbar understood. Kingly matters were to stay between kings.

Thorin as a king...now that put a swell of pride in his limpin' old chest.

"Very well." A wave of heat from the forge reminded the weaponsmith to pull out the saw blade – his current project - which glowed a satisfactory orange. It crackled and hissed under his mallet as he hammered it into a blade.

"How does your family fare?"

"You know," sighed Belbar, scanning the length of the iron bar, "I remember every blade I craft, but I remember every arm I teach e'en better." He tapped a knobby finger against his temple. "I remember when ye came just up to my belt, runnin' around and barkin' orders to scare the servants. But I'm old now, m'lord, and I haven't any breath to waste on 'how'd ye do's'."

A small smile curled on Thorin's lip. Belbar held back a sigh of relief; he could have easily lost his head for speaking to the prince in such a manner. "How does she fare?" asked the prince softly.

Ah. "Well 'nough," replied Belbar with a nod. "Good worker, does what she's told. Solid 'ead on her shoulders."

Thorin blinked at him.

"Ye're surprised to 'ear that."

"Surprised to hear it from the lips of someone besides myself. The other dwarves find her barely tolerable."

"Yes, well." Belbar shrugged as he handed off the saw blade to one of his assistants to sharpen and polish. "They don' know her like we do, 'ey?"

With a careful finger, Thorin brushed over some tools left out on a table. "My father is among them." The prince's eyes had gone cold. "He was…most displeased when he arrived and word reached his ear. I defended her as best I could-"

"That's very noble of you-"

"I spoke truth, nothing more." Thorin picked up a pair of tongs and studied them. It was more than that, Belbar knew; to stand up to the king took a great deal more for Thorin than pursuit of truth. "We settled on a compromise. I know your wife publically declared her as family under the law - and I must ask how in Durin's name she knows our law better than many of our lawmakers." He threw Belbar a half-smile that was still laden with respect.

"Ah, that." Belbar flashed him a shameless grin. "We were in the Dunlands, Nalder was but a swell in her stomach, and so she read to pass the time. Badgered e'ery writin' dwarf she could find for their books and then went and devoured every one. One of 'em must've been a law book. I'd half forgotten about it till she came home from market that day that Halnar…" Belbar pursed his lips, lowering his hammer until his fist stopped shaking. "She pulled me aside an' told me her scheme t' put Mirra in the axe-throw so we'd have the money to make good on our promise to you."

It took a few moments before Belbar caught Thorin's face. It was positively thunderous.

"What," snarled the crown prince in a voice that could bring down mountains. "About. The axe-throw."

Four months had lapsed since Mirra first struck her deal with Belbar and Belga. The sun was peeking out farther and farther from the blue snow-capped peaks. The snowdrifts settled into gray piles of slush, and whatever blusters came through seemed relatively tame to those blizzards at the beginning of winter.

The axe sailed straight and true into the bushes. As Mirra measured the distance, she grimaced. Her throws had plateaued at 50 paces for a few weeks now. Five paces more, and she had a chance at contending for the axe-throw, let alone out-throwing every dwarf in the settlement.

She let out a huff as the axe parted from the tree with a moan. If only she could give just a bit more. If only she could call upon-

No. To hear that voice hissing in her ear; to feel the icy shadows crawl all over her innards like a thousand snakes; to possibly lose herself again, like she nearly had in the market, like she nearly had in front of Thorin, once upon a time.

The blade rose up…

The dwarf squirmed, a worm trapped by her finger…

She began to hack the boar in a wild fury…

How easily his throat would split. How easily the blood would ripple forth…

"Mirra! Stop! Stop!"

Terror had seized the dwarfling…

"Mirra."

He was terrified of her.

Never again. Don't even consider it.

"Mirra."

She leapt forward like a mountain lion, tucking herself into a roll while her hand went straight for her dagger. In less time than it takes to blink, Mirra was crouched on her haunches, teeth bared, nerves crackling like they were on fire.

She looked up and her heart tripped over itself in shock.

"Thorin." And like that all the months that ha passed since they spoke last tumbled away.

"What are you doing?" There wasn't a hint of kindness in his curdled in her chest.

"You surprised me," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I reacted."

"Do not waste my time," he spat back. Sparks flew from his iron eyes, smoldering beneath his thunderous brow. "What on earth compelled you to compete in the spring festival's axe-throw?"

Mirra blinked at him. Her muscles bristled and re-tensed. "I struck a deal with Belbar." Her words bit and she let them bite. "The prize money will be enough for Belbar to gather the supplies necessary to forge a sword. I get my blade, you get your debt filled, and he gets compensation."

"You first gave your word to me." He jabbed a finger at his breastbone. His words stabbed beneath her skin. "I ask you to keep out of trouble. I asked you to keep your head down. Then you go and pull your knife on a dwarf in a market-"

"To defend the life of a child."

"Belbar had to recognize you as part of his family to spare you the consequences. Do you understand what that means?"

"The law shall let me compete in the axe throw in their name."

"Confound the law!" he roared. This was no longer the Thorin of her memory, but a predator. A potential enemy. It took every ounce of willpower she had to not react accordingly. "You are no dwarf. And if you compete – Mahal forbid if by some miracle you win – you may not be breaking a law, but you will outrage many a dwarf. My people will not stand for it."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "While your opinion of me is most encouraging," she hissed, her muscles throbbing, "the distance I throw an axe does not depend on the whims of others."

"The king will not stand for it," snapped the prince. "You could throw an axe from here to the tower of Orthanc, but it means nothing if the king of Durin's folk does not recognize you as the victor."

Warning bells were ringing in her head. The bone knife in her right hand had raised and now hovered between them. Her limbs no longer shook; they were primed and ready to strike.

"You," she snarled savagely. "You are all utter hypocrites."

It was as though she had hurled lightening at him. "Come. Again?"

"Think me what you want, but I make no pretensions about who I am and what I do. But you." She let out a laugh so cold it sent shivers up her own spine. "All your laws and your manners and 'traditions', they're just words. Every word that passes through my lips means something. But you let words run through your hands like water. Oh, I have given much of myself to protect your world. Yet while you say that it owes me, I have received nothing. Talk of honor all you like, but you know nothing of the word!"

And with that she grabbed the axe, pivoted about on her foot, and let it go with a shout. It sailed far, far, far into the thickets.

Far beyond 50 paces.

Notes:

1. I based the axe throw event (the records, the type of swing, the weight, etc.) off the hammer throw, which is better suited to throwing a heavy, dwarvish, double-bladed battle-axe than throwing it over your head like a normal human axe. The measurements are based off of medieval paces (one pace is about 5 feet or 1.52 meters; the record hammer throw was about 86-88 meters, or 57 paces, but c'mon these are burly AF dwarves we're talking about here) and English stones (one stone equals 14 pounds or 6.35 kilograms; throwing hammers weigh about 16 pounds). And I should shut up now so you guys won't know when I make a mistake!

2. *'Odha' is a made-up word based on 'odgajivač', which is Bosnian for 'breeder'. Connotation intended.

3. Tolkien used elements of Anglo-Saxon and Viking culture (presumably) to craft his peoples, and unfortunately neither of them really have books of law. But Middle Earth has a crapton of libraries all over the place so…*throws hands in the air and quits*

4. If you are still following this story, thank you thank you thank you for your kindness and patience after literally a half-year-long break. This story has grown into something epic and huge and extraordinary and I'm always challenged to keep up and improve with it. It is testing my work and writing habits big-time, but it has made me a stronger writer because of it.
I will finish it, though. I promise you that. It may literally take me years, but dangnabbit, Mirra deserves her story be finished.

Thank you all for reading! DofS tomorrow night!