[piosenniel]

A month or more had passed since King Durin led his troops from the West-gate and set them against the dark foe. The battle had been fierce; the Dwarves fanning out from the entrance to the mountain to meet the Orcs and Easterlings on a number of fronts. Their numbers, large as they were, drawn from the families throughout the caverns, were no match, however, for the overwhelming number of the enemy.

But King Durin was a wise commander and he had a plan in mind. Not to vanquish Sauron’s troops, nor even to win against them in a short term foray. Those he knew would be only vainly tried, and many Dwarves would be lost in the trying. Instead, he had devised a hit and run tactic. Sting the enemy from the rear in a number of places, retreat, regroup elsewhere, and then harry them again. This maddened the Orcs and Men and set them chasing the Dwarves willy-nilly, in a futile attempt to stomp out their aggravating attacks. The King’s objective was to draw off Sauron’s army in an attempt to take the pressure off the combined troops of Elrond, Celeborn, and those Dwarves led by Rori Ironfoot.

It had proved an effective maneuver. But not without its own terrible consequences. The whole of the dark army turned upon the Dwarves of Khazad-dum and pushed against them mercilessly, driving them back to the stone gates. Many fell, defending the gates as their friends and kin retreated to the safety of the caverns and the halls. And when the gates were at last shut hard against Sauron’s wicked mignons, the names of those dead defenders were tallied . . . and read out in the King’s own hall . . .

~*~

Unna left the small oil lamp burning in her chambers. Leifr was snuggled in against her back, his eyes closed, lost in dreams. Tonight, she thanked Mahal, they were seeming pleasant ones. Ginna fretted in the oaken cradle next to the bed. Unhappy at her circumstances, she stiffened her tiny arms and pushed her fists hard against the blankets that were settled over them.

‘Sshhh!’ crooned Unna, taking the little one up in her arms and nestling her in the crook of her arm. ‘You’ll wake your brother.’ She brushed back the damp curls from her daughter’s fretful brow, and let her nurse to quiet her. ‘Let him sleep, little one,’ she murmured in a singsong manner. ‘Let him sleep . . . sleep . . . and you , too . . .’

Half drowsing, she pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Both her babes were quiet now, lost in the sweet release of sleep. She caught herself listening for the fall of her husband’s boots on the stone tiled floor, and half rose up on an elbow, waiting for him to push open the door and join them in the family bed. His great arms would settle the little ones between them, and he would reach above their heads to kiss her cheek. Then smiling, his fingers would graze her cheek for a moment and a few tender words would pass between them, scattered among the ordinary tellings of the day gone by. He would drift into sleep, then, she recalled, smiling at the image – his eyes growing heavy, his breathing softer and more shallow.

In the soft light of lamp, her eyes grew bright with tears . . .

There were only these memories now of him to comfort her. No sounds of footsteps drew near; the door stayed firmly shut; no familiar weight of him on the other side of the mattress, no lingering warmth where his lips had touched her cheek.

Riv was gone from her. One of the fallen, defending heroes.

Cold comfort, those words. Her pride at his actions could not fill the aching loss. Nor had the hurt and sorrow abated since first the news had come to her.

Leifr stirred in his sleep. Turning, she pulled him closer, kissing his brow. She reached back for Ginna and brought her to lie between them. ‘It will be alright,’ she murmured to them. And again, more softly, ‘It will be alright . . .’

As if the saying of the words might make it so . . .