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Bror’s hammer strokes rang in the silence. He turned the heated metal with his tongs and struck again before pausing to consider the iron and thrust it back into the coals. His thoughts didn’t let him sleep and he worked in the late and dark hours of night. The hot coals from the day’s work were easily rebuilt into flames and his dark eyes stared with melancholy into the red embers.
Thoughts of war turned over and over inside his brain. Images of the heads on the pikes some little distance from the front gate came in and out of his vision. He had gone out with a small scouting party yesterday, and though it had only gone a few miles out and they were not gone long, it was far enough to see where the orcs had been fought, and where the Deepdigger sons had been killed. They had stopped there and the bodies were taken away and carried back by some of their group.
‘Take it out of the fire, or you’ll have lost all your work and a good piece of metal.’ The voice of his uncle interrupted Bror’s thoughts and before turning around to face the newcomer, Bror hurried to obey. The metal was red with the heat and sparks flew up and sizzled like firecrackers. He lay it on the anvil and then turned.
‘Uncle Orin,’ he said in the quiet hushed voice that came at night when all else slept. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Coming to see what kept you awake.’ Bror gave one nod and then turned back to the anvil and lifted his hammer. Orin was silent while the blows lasted and only walked forward again when the iron became too cold to work with and Bror buried it again in the coals. ‘It won’t do you any good to stay up all night working like this.’
‘I can’t sleep,’ Bror replied without turning his head. ‘I keep thinking about the Deepdiggers.’
‘War brings those images. They’re not easily forgotten.’
‘I’m not afraid, Uncle Orin,’ Bror said, his shoulder heaving with a great breath that he took. ‘I’m not afraid of the war, understand that. But while I think of Deepdiggers, I can’t keep out the thought of Riv bleeding on the battle field like he did a year a go when we brought those elves through. I don’t think I could see him, or Skald, die.’
‘Take the iron out of the fire, Bror,’ Orin instructed quietly. His nephew fumbled with his tongs to take his piece of metal out. He plunged it into the bucket of water waiting close by. Steam went up from it, and until it passed, they both were silent. ‘We are not going to be fighting in open battle, Bror. Your brothers aren’t going to be in too much danger of dying. We didn’t vote to go off and fight them. We’re just going to help the refugees through this mountain. That work has to be done with as little fighting as possible, or else it wouldn’t do any good, because all those women and children will be killed anyway.’
Bror made no answer. He knew just as well as his Uncle that when they went to help the elves, there wasn’t supposed to have been any fighting. But there had been, and Riv and himself had come very close to being killed, and some Dwarves weren’t as lucky as they. He could not be comforted with such words. In the pause that followed, Orin realized that he had not convinced his nephew.
‘Whatever the case, Bror,’ he said in a gently, ‘no one can foresee the future, and it won’t do anyone any good to stay up like this and fret your nights away. Go to on to bed.’ Bror heaved another heavy breath and nodded. Orin sent him a small smile and turned to go. Bror took his piece of work from the water and laid it on the anvil before putting his tools away and leaving the forge.
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