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wiseheartToday, as the Germans would say, der Knoten ist endlich geplatzt - I'm sorry, I can't translate that into English. But the fact is, a many-years-old plotbunny finally decided that it wanted to be tended to, and I wrote 3 pages for the first chapter of a story temporarily titled Elf-Root Revisited.
It started off as a missing scene to Elf-Root, which refused to work, no matter how much I tried. Due to my general inability to write anything short - save for a few exceptions - as soon as I've worked out a plot that consists 6 chapters so far, things seemed to work at once. I've put what's written beyond the tag in its entirety, in the unlikely case somebody is interested. Should that happen, questions and comments will be welcome. If not, at least the fact that the bold fonts and italics are already put into it will spare me the hand-coding when I post it to AO3. ;))
ELF-ROOT REVISITED
by Soledad
Author’s note:
Mistress Íreth, Thranduil’s chief healer is a returning OFC of mine. Among other stories, she features in “The Web of Darkness”.
Reminder: my Dwarves have little to nothing to do with Peter Jackson’s vision of the Company. This is a bookverse fic; and besides, my Dwarves were there first, so they have a seniority of decades… not to mention a great deal more dignity.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART ONE
Erebor, 2 months after Bilbo and Gandalf’s departure
The aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies was worse than the battle itself had been, Bifur found. Above all else, it lasted longer. Much longer.
Weeks upon weeks after their pyrrhic victory, Dwarves were still dying from their grievous wounds, in spite of Óin’s best efforts. The army of the Iron Hills had brought battlefield healers with them, but they did not even close to Óin’s skill who had studied the healing methods of many people, from the Grey Havens to Dunland and even Near-Harad. He was the best; yet he was but one Dwarf and even he needed the one or other stolen hour of fitful sleep, lest he would make a grave error due to exhaustion.
Sometimes he wished the foolish legends of Men were true. Were Dwarves indeed made of stone, his work would have been infinitely easier.
And the Dwarves were not the only ones with many wounded. The Lake-men had not come out of the battle – and the fiery death of Esgaroth – any better, and their herb-mistresses and simple leeches were not trained to treat battle wounds. Had the Elven healers not come to their aid, their wounded would never stand a chance.
But the Elven healers came, after having tended to their own people (a great many of whom were injured or dead, too), and their arcane healcraft saved many men, women and children who otherwise would have died. The senior healer of the Elvenking’s court, an ancient Avari Elf by the name of Mistress Íreth, even came over to the Dwarven field hospital and offered her aid.
She was a slender elleth of middle height and surprisingly plain for an Elf with her serene, freckled face, although still stunning compared with the daughters of Men. She wore a simple, unadorned forest-green gown and tied over that the long, loose apron of a healer. Her thick auburn hair was bound back in a grey cloth, keeping it out of her eyes – eyes that were brown and very bright, like polished chestnuts and mirrored the wisdom of Ages… literally. The sleeves of her gown were rolled up to her elbows and she carried a full scrip on her shoulder.
The fact that she did not look nor did she behave like many of the haughtier Elves made Óin swallow his pride for the sake of his charges and accepted the offer, grudgingly admitting that she might have learned more about the healing herbs in the countless seasons spent in the forest. ‘Twas said that she had known the oldest oaks and beeches of Mirkwood from the accord they had grown of, after all, and even then she had not been young anymore. She was one of the oldest and wisest people in the whole Rhovanion; they were lucky to have her help them.
Bifur helped wherever she could; mostly with menial tasks as she was not a trained healer, although she had learned much by experience during her long decades spent on the Road. Wanderers rarely had the luxury of turning to a proper healer,
The Company had its fair share of injuries, too. Dwalin lost an eye, which only made him even more ferocious, so the healers gladly let Bifur deal with him. Vain, spoiled young Nori, the apple of his older brothers’ eye, had his dominant hand broken by the club of a huge Gundabad Orc and was now fretting day in, day out whether he would be able to continue his craft or not. Crystal-cutting demanded a stable and precise hand.
Ori suffered a head wound. They had to shave off his magnificent braids on the left side to be able to treat it, making him look, as he sourly put it, like a half-plucked chicken. Compared with that Glóin’s broken nose was but a small inconvenience.
In fact, the only ones without an injury were Balin and Dori. The latter even managed to slay a cave Troll single-handedly, without as much as a scratch. But again, Dori’s strength was as legendary as his appetite.
Bifur’s family had not fared all too well, either; although they were still alive, at least, and that was more than many Dwarves could say about themselves. Bofur had several broken ribs and had his entire torso wrapped tightly, which made breathing rather painful. But his merry nature helped him overcome the pain… and the worry about his brother.
Poor Bombur had been hit in the upper thigh by a poisoned Orc arrow. The wound became inflamed and without the lady healer of the Wood-Elves he might have died of blood poisoning. Fortunately, Mistress Íreth knew just the right herbs to force the poison out of his blood stream; but cleaning the wound was both unpleasant for the healers and horribly painful for him.
Bifur could call herself lucky that she had come away with a broken head. Granted, no Man or Elf would have survived such a hit on the head; but Dwarven skulls were hard (both literally and otherwise), and her doubled-over, thick braid take off much of the impact. The only after-effect was the randomly returning splitting head-ache, but Óin assured her that, given enough time, those would become less frequent and in the end would stop entirely.
She hoped he would prove right; because the head-ache made her practically useless for hours, every time.
Despite all these difficulties, life started to settle under the Mountain – although only slowly and with many throwbacks. A number of Dwarves began to return to Erebor; mostly those who used to live there under Thrór’s rule, or the descendants of such people. Most of them came from the Iron Hills, but there were also a few of those who had fled to the scattered FireBeard and StoneFoot settlements in Taforabbad, the Grey Mountains.
Dáin Ironfoot reluctantly moved to Erebor with his family and his court, leaving his beloved Iron Hills in the capable hands of his cousin Vestri. He would have preferred to step back and leave the Raven Crown to Balin; but he was more closely related to Durin’s line and besides, Balin did not have the means to secure the Mountain. Not yet; and perchance not in the foreseeable future, either.
“I am not Thorin Oakenshield or Thráin or Thrór,” the scholarly old Dwarf pointed out. “I have no armies, nor devoted followers to answer my summons. I fear this burden has to be laid upon your shoulders, Cousin. But I shall help you with all my knowledge; and Dwalin wills ere you faithfully, as he served Thorin all his life – for the good of our people.”
“For the good of our people,” echoed Dáin glumly. “I never wanted the Raven Crown, you know that. I was content with living under the Iron Hills; ‘twas a good life.”
“And you have been a good king,” replied Balin gently. “You took over kingship while still barely more than a Dwarfling and led your people in peace and prosperity for a hundred and forty years. We need you here; we need Dáin the Restorer. We need you to work the same miracle here that you worked after the Battle of Azanulbizar in the Iron Hills. No-one else could do it.”
Dáin sighed and gave him a sour look. “I know. It does not mean that I have to like it, though, does it?”
“Nay,” agreed Balin. “I would not like it if I were in your boots, either. ‘Tis a gargantuan task – for us all, but particularly for you.”
“If we only had more people to restore the Mountain!” Dáin rubbed his craggy face tiredly. “Even if I emptied the Iron Hills, we could never fill the halls of Erebor. This was once the largest Dwarven realm, seconded only by Khazad-dûm; and I wouldnae force anyone to give up their homes, unless they came voluntarily.”
“We have sent word to Uruktharbun,” said Balin encouragingly. “Our families, and many others who are eager to return, are preparing to move as we speak. Not everyone, of course; particularly the FireBeards are not willing to give up Uruktharbun and the great work we have begun there. But a considerable number has already declared their willingness to come; mostly LongBeard families who originally hailed from here, but many others as well.”
Dáin let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Aye, that is good. Can you, by chance, give me any numbers?”
Balin shook his white head. “Nay, not yet. But Glóin, Dori and Bombur intend to travel back to Uruktharbun and get their families. They will be able to send us word in time, so that we can prepare dwellings for them.”
“What about you and Dwalin? Do you not want to go as well?” asked Dáin in surprise. “You have families of your own in the Blue Mountains, too.”
“We do,” allowed Balin. “But I have the feeling that you might need me here; and Dwalin needs to get used to having only one eye. ‘Tis uncertain whether he would be able to keep serving as Warmaster; if not, he will need to build a new life for himself, and that would not come to him easily. He is slow to change.”
“All Dwarves are,” commented Dáin with a crooked smile.
“True,” said Balin with a sigh. “Dwalin, though, is even slower at it than most. He will need my support; and Glóin is more than able to guide our families here.”
It started off as a missing scene to Elf-Root, which refused to work, no matter how much I tried. Due to my general inability to write anything short - save for a few exceptions - as soon as I've worked out a plot that consists 6 chapters so far, things seemed to work at once. I've put what's written beyond the tag in its entirety, in the unlikely case somebody is interested. Should that happen, questions and comments will be welcome. If not, at least the fact that the bold fonts and italics are already put into it will spare me the hand-coding when I post it to AO3. ;))
ELF-ROOT REVISITED
by Soledad
Author’s note:
Mistress Íreth, Thranduil’s chief healer is a returning OFC of mine. Among other stories, she features in “The Web of Darkness”.
Reminder: my Dwarves have little to nothing to do with Peter Jackson’s vision of the Company. This is a bookverse fic; and besides, my Dwarves were there first, so they have a seniority of decades… not to mention a great deal more dignity.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART ONE
Erebor, 2 months after Bilbo and Gandalf’s departure
The aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies was worse than the battle itself had been, Bifur found. Above all else, it lasted longer. Much longer.
Weeks upon weeks after their pyrrhic victory, Dwarves were still dying from their grievous wounds, in spite of Óin’s best efforts. The army of the Iron Hills had brought battlefield healers with them, but they did not even close to Óin’s skill who had studied the healing methods of many people, from the Grey Havens to Dunland and even Near-Harad. He was the best; yet he was but one Dwarf and even he needed the one or other stolen hour of fitful sleep, lest he would make a grave error due to exhaustion.
Sometimes he wished the foolish legends of Men were true. Were Dwarves indeed made of stone, his work would have been infinitely easier.
And the Dwarves were not the only ones with many wounded. The Lake-men had not come out of the battle – and the fiery death of Esgaroth – any better, and their herb-mistresses and simple leeches were not trained to treat battle wounds. Had the Elven healers not come to their aid, their wounded would never stand a chance.
But the Elven healers came, after having tended to their own people (a great many of whom were injured or dead, too), and their arcane healcraft saved many men, women and children who otherwise would have died. The senior healer of the Elvenking’s court, an ancient Avari Elf by the name of Mistress Íreth, even came over to the Dwarven field hospital and offered her aid.
She was a slender elleth of middle height and surprisingly plain for an Elf with her serene, freckled face, although still stunning compared with the daughters of Men. She wore a simple, unadorned forest-green gown and tied over that the long, loose apron of a healer. Her thick auburn hair was bound back in a grey cloth, keeping it out of her eyes – eyes that were brown and very bright, like polished chestnuts and mirrored the wisdom of Ages… literally. The sleeves of her gown were rolled up to her elbows and she carried a full scrip on her shoulder.
The fact that she did not look nor did she behave like many of the haughtier Elves made Óin swallow his pride for the sake of his charges and accepted the offer, grudgingly admitting that she might have learned more about the healing herbs in the countless seasons spent in the forest. ‘Twas said that she had known the oldest oaks and beeches of Mirkwood from the accord they had grown of, after all, and even then she had not been young anymore. She was one of the oldest and wisest people in the whole Rhovanion; they were lucky to have her help them.
Bifur helped wherever she could; mostly with menial tasks as she was not a trained healer, although she had learned much by experience during her long decades spent on the Road. Wanderers rarely had the luxury of turning to a proper healer,
The Company had its fair share of injuries, too. Dwalin lost an eye, which only made him even more ferocious, so the healers gladly let Bifur deal with him. Vain, spoiled young Nori, the apple of his older brothers’ eye, had his dominant hand broken by the club of a huge Gundabad Orc and was now fretting day in, day out whether he would be able to continue his craft or not. Crystal-cutting demanded a stable and precise hand.
Ori suffered a head wound. They had to shave off his magnificent braids on the left side to be able to treat it, making him look, as he sourly put it, like a half-plucked chicken. Compared with that Glóin’s broken nose was but a small inconvenience.
In fact, the only ones without an injury were Balin and Dori. The latter even managed to slay a cave Troll single-handedly, without as much as a scratch. But again, Dori’s strength was as legendary as his appetite.
Bifur’s family had not fared all too well, either; although they were still alive, at least, and that was more than many Dwarves could say about themselves. Bofur had several broken ribs and had his entire torso wrapped tightly, which made breathing rather painful. But his merry nature helped him overcome the pain… and the worry about his brother.
Poor Bombur had been hit in the upper thigh by a poisoned Orc arrow. The wound became inflamed and without the lady healer of the Wood-Elves he might have died of blood poisoning. Fortunately, Mistress Íreth knew just the right herbs to force the poison out of his blood stream; but cleaning the wound was both unpleasant for the healers and horribly painful for him.
Bifur could call herself lucky that she had come away with a broken head. Granted, no Man or Elf would have survived such a hit on the head; but Dwarven skulls were hard (both literally and otherwise), and her doubled-over, thick braid take off much of the impact. The only after-effect was the randomly returning splitting head-ache, but Óin assured her that, given enough time, those would become less frequent and in the end would stop entirely.
She hoped he would prove right; because the head-ache made her practically useless for hours, every time.
Despite all these difficulties, life started to settle under the Mountain – although only slowly and with many throwbacks. A number of Dwarves began to return to Erebor; mostly those who used to live there under Thrór’s rule, or the descendants of such people. Most of them came from the Iron Hills, but there were also a few of those who had fled to the scattered FireBeard and StoneFoot settlements in Taforabbad, the Grey Mountains.
Dáin Ironfoot reluctantly moved to Erebor with his family and his court, leaving his beloved Iron Hills in the capable hands of his cousin Vestri. He would have preferred to step back and leave the Raven Crown to Balin; but he was more closely related to Durin’s line and besides, Balin did not have the means to secure the Mountain. Not yet; and perchance not in the foreseeable future, either.
“I am not Thorin Oakenshield or Thráin or Thrór,” the scholarly old Dwarf pointed out. “I have no armies, nor devoted followers to answer my summons. I fear this burden has to be laid upon your shoulders, Cousin. But I shall help you with all my knowledge; and Dwalin wills ere you faithfully, as he served Thorin all his life – for the good of our people.”
“For the good of our people,” echoed Dáin glumly. “I never wanted the Raven Crown, you know that. I was content with living under the Iron Hills; ‘twas a good life.”
“And you have been a good king,” replied Balin gently. “You took over kingship while still barely more than a Dwarfling and led your people in peace and prosperity for a hundred and forty years. We need you here; we need Dáin the Restorer. We need you to work the same miracle here that you worked after the Battle of Azanulbizar in the Iron Hills. No-one else could do it.”
Dáin sighed and gave him a sour look. “I know. It does not mean that I have to like it, though, does it?”
“Nay,” agreed Balin. “I would not like it if I were in your boots, either. ‘Tis a gargantuan task – for us all, but particularly for you.”
“If we only had more people to restore the Mountain!” Dáin rubbed his craggy face tiredly. “Even if I emptied the Iron Hills, we could never fill the halls of Erebor. This was once the largest Dwarven realm, seconded only by Khazad-dûm; and I wouldnae force anyone to give up their homes, unless they came voluntarily.”
“We have sent word to Uruktharbun,” said Balin encouragingly. “Our families, and many others who are eager to return, are preparing to move as we speak. Not everyone, of course; particularly the FireBeards are not willing to give up Uruktharbun and the great work we have begun there. But a considerable number has already declared their willingness to come; mostly LongBeard families who originally hailed from here, but many others as well.”
Dáin let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Aye, that is good. Can you, by chance, give me any numbers?”
Balin shook his white head. “Nay, not yet. But Glóin, Dori and Bombur intend to travel back to Uruktharbun and get their families. They will be able to send us word in time, so that we can prepare dwellings for them.”
“What about you and Dwalin? Do you not want to go as well?” asked Dáin in surprise. “You have families of your own in the Blue Mountains, too.”
“We do,” allowed Balin. “But I have the feeling that you might need me here; and Dwalin needs to get used to having only one eye. ‘Tis uncertain whether he would be able to keep serving as Warmaster; if not, he will need to build a new life for himself, and that would not come to him easily. He is slow to change.”
“All Dwarves are,” commented Dáin with a crooked smile.
“True,” said Balin with a sigh. “Dwalin, though, is even slower at it than most. He will need my support; and Glóin is more than able to guide our families here.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2018-07-20 11:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-21 02:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-25 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-25 05:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-26 02:15 am (UTC)And I had to think a little about the dwarf sections. But I think it was this paragraph being the transition to a future time that didn't quite get me where I needed to be for the next section of dialogue.
Despite all these difficulties, life started to settle under the Mountain – although only slowly and with many throwbacks. A number of Dwarves began to return to Erebor; mostly those who used to live there under Thrór’s rule, or the descendants of such people. Most of them came from the Iron Hills, but there were also a few of those who had fled to the scattered FireBeard and StoneFoot settlements in Taforabbad, the Grey Mountains.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-26 07:34 am (UTC)The other characters are actually canon - book canon, with the only twist that my Bifur is female. Which could actually be possible, with the slightest stretch of imagination, as the Professor says that female Dwarves look so much like males when travelling that no outsiders could tell them apart. Of course, after the Jackson films it is hard to write bookverse Dwarves, as people's imagination is greatly influenced by the visuals.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-08-13 10:43 pm (UTC)I think the deal with the paragraph is that it needs to be broken into more parts. Did not come too abruptly.
It's been a while since I've read the books, but I remember that description.