Carved columns towered beyond sight into the murky darkness, strength and beauty combined, supporting the roof of the grand hall. She felt small, like an ant or a mouse, scurrying from trader to trader, talking to the mostly friendly vendors that littered the spacious room with their fine wares. Oddly, she didn't feel completely out of place, for some of those who were dear to her bore the same sort of appearance, the same blood, the same tales of Erebor, and once word reached the traders ears as to why she was visiting so close to their time of celebration, their demeanor was even more welcoming, laughing with her and exchanging words mostly on what news they could gain regarding the lands beyond their border. She purchased a hat, a rather silly looking thing and much too big for her head, yet of the softest, tightly woven wool. Her mother would have the gift of a necklace, the pendant angular, square and of silver cradling a green stone. Her father would be the recipient of an assortment of three bottles of what she had been told was the very best ale that side of the mountains. Ma Denton would have a blend of herbs that was used in the stews cooked in the inn. She had yet to think of what to get the others.
Maurr was the first she saw, and the one bearing sad tidings, for the dwarf known as Yurri, one who had not so terribly long ago caused chaos in the inn, wishing to fight against Atharann, had passed away. Even though the dwarf had been troublesome, her heart felt heavy at hearing such news, yet warmed at the knowledge that her dear friends had kept his company in his final days, even beyond death. It was duty, but more so compassion that guided them. Guilt also played in her heart, for she felt she now intruded on a private, sacred moment, yet the children of Bourr were gracious, welcoming and she would like to believe, glad for the company, in a time of grief. Maddoct would remain at the side of Yurri, a sentinel with a heart as soft as butter, and she respected his vigil, for her friend in Combe had told her many tales of what lay beyond death. Tales that seemed more real to her in this time, as her words of comfort regarding her friends meeting the old dwarf in the next life were met with agreement. They did not question them, they were of like thought.
The trio sat by the fire in a dwarven home kept by the family of Bourr- Bild, Atharann and herself. They spoke of the journey she had undertaken with the man, of the Durins Day celebration, of sadness and of lighter subjects, until the man needed to depart. Twas then her dwarven friend spoke on more delicate matters. Her heart. Words flowed easier than she anticipated, for they had often kept counsel with one another, secrets that rarely left their lips to others, at least as she was aware, not hers. Advice was given, advice she already knew in her heart. Words Maddoct had spoken many days back echoed in her mind also. She was trying to forget, trying to force something, and along the way was getting lost. A beautiful, haunting song was played upon the harp, her friend skilled with not just his words but also with his music, an attempt to soothe and bring clarity to the mind in the form of an elven tune. It worked, to an extent. She felt the weight she had carried on her small shoulders lessen, perhaps due to the music, but more likely their conversation. There were many things to be discussed and a path to set right.
Later, in the strange, fascinating home that Fiontann had, buried in a heart of a mountain, she began to write. Several letters lay out before her, a note to be presented to Maddoct as previously spoken upon with Bild, one for her friend in Combe, another for her family, one for the Dentons, and lastly a very short letter, precise in its wording, to a healer. She was exhausted, the journey had taken its toll on her body, but it was a price worth paying, she did not suffer with new ailments, only the tiredness of a body not quite as strong as a year ago. Atharann had made certain that the strange bitter paste she would eat kept her chest from tightening too much and her body failing. Gathering the letters, each one sealed and clearly addressed, the fur cloak keeping the cold at bay, she ventured forth, back into a cave of beauty, craftsmanship, crystal and braziers, to send off her words.
