“Now, I remember the splendor of Erebor very well, though I was just a little girl…”
A look of here-we-go-again was passed around the room when Lagís began a tale not dissimilar to one spoken many times before. Three generations of Dwarves sat happily together around the hearth in the cramped and poor Blue Mountain halls. And though there was exasperation when the eldest lady began speaking, there was also immense fondness.
The eldest of all was her husband Karlin, and though he was particularly fond of hearing his wife speak, he was a Broadbeam with, truthfully, little care for that Longbeard history. Their son and daughter, Lanin and Kanís respectively, were two of the younger adults sitting in the room; the former lolled his head to the side once his mother’s prattling began, but the latter seemed perfectly amiable to listen once more as she stitched a tattered quilt for the hundredth time.
The third of that medial generation was a Dwarf named Nyriath, also a Broadbeam; he had no family of his own until meeting Lanin, with whom a tender friendship was forged, and he was welcomed into the household as any blood relation would be. He found mostly complacent amusement in listening — Erebor, to him, was a far-off tragedy of the past and nothing more.
Upon his knee was the last generation and the youngest of them all: ten-year-old Arlis, bright-eyed, freckle-faced, and unruly-haired. Men would probably estimate her to be but a child of five (despite her shorter height and the fuzz on her cheeks which befitted a Dwarf that age). She was the most enraptured of all by the story being spun, leaning far off of her perch, as if doing so would help her hear better.
Nights such at this were common for the family of six. Sitting around the fire, talking or singing, laughing or reading, with bellies satisfied from what dinner they had. Arlis went through childhood — as her uncle and mother did — hearing Lagís tell stories of the Lonely Mountain before its fall.
“Have I told you that...” she would start over knitting.
“Did I tell you the story...” could begin another query in Thorin’s Hall.
“Have you heard about the time...” during a bath.
“Did I mention…” while cleaning.
“Have I described...” at dinner.
The old Dwarf would carry on and on about how the Lonely Mountain would surely be reclaimed one day, how they would all move there and live in resplendence with naught a worry in the world. Kanís inherited that spirit and passion, despite never having lived there or seen it herself; she would also whisper to her little daughter her hopes of someday having such halls of grandeur.
It was when Arlis was sixteen that news of Smaug’s death and the Mountain’s recapture reached the Blue Mountains. After the mourning period for King Thorin came to an end, all of Durin’s Folk were bustling and excited, both in Arlis’ household and the mountains as a whole.
When first hearing the news that Erebor was saved from that big, nasty dragon (Smug, she called him), the little Dwarf believed her family would pack up and walk over to their new home the next day. A new home, filled with all the amazing things that Gran spoke of. Toys and plush blankets, magnificent food and mild winters. A new home, where everyone in the house could have their own bedroom. A new home, where she would hear no more worried whispers about coin when the adults thought her to be asleep.
Arlis believed that they were ready for Erebor.
But — forget not that there were also two Broadbeams in the home, neither of whom particularly desired to leave. Nyriath was much too afraid to depart from the safety of the mountain to travel somewhere strange and far; Karlin had a stable job that would be needed for those left behind after a migration, and the Blue Mountains were his only home. Furthermore, Lanin thought to bring up more issues: could they afford such a travel? If so — what then? What if they arrived only to find themselves unsuited and unhappy with a life out East? Shouldn't they wait until Arlis is older to take such a journey? And the road could be dangerous, and Erebor could be unsuccessful or attacked again, and…
Ultimately, the family never left.
Arlis would be gently hushed with every question of when they were leaving, or every comment about the mountain. She didn’t understand why her friends left and they had not. Mom and Gran wanted to go, didn’t they? Why were they still here, and not there? Eventually her questions ceased completely; she learned to look more than listen, which allowed her to observe just how empty the Blue Mountains had become.
The family waited, an air of uncertainty hanging in the home for many years; it was only when Karlin passed due to misfortune that the matter was truly settled. He didn’t wish to go, so the rest of the family would respect that by staying in the halls he built for them — even if the living was meager and humble. Arlis was over thirty, then, and quite learned in holding her tongue.
Years further, it took, until Erebor was allowed to be a topic of discussion again. Kanís began her whispers once more, confiding in her child that she and Lagís both still dreamt of going. The whispers and wistful musings eventually turned to bold statements, and the matron finally began relaying her tales of that great Mountain once more.
The answer to all of Lagís’ questions — whether Arlis had or had not heard a specific tale, knew about ‘that time when..’, so on so forth — became ‘yes’ decades ago, yet the young Dwarf always found herself shaking her head ‘no’ just to hear them again. As she grew, the stories grew with her, developing longer and more fabricated the older her grandmother became and the further the memories drifted from that elder's mind.
After Kanís’ passing, similarly unfortunate as her father was, Arlis turned into an even quieter sort. The house had little time to grieve before the realization that they needed that income set in; Lord Gormr had only increased poverty since Thorin left, and the humble family wasn’t spared. So, at seventy-two, the youngest began work as a barmaid. No expert was she at any craft; Lagís taught her some leather work, Lanin some forging, and Kanís raised her daughter knowing how to fight… but there were enough older, better crafters, Arlis couldn’t pursue any intellectual jobs with the basic education her family gave, and Lagís wouldn’t even consider the idea of her granddaughter serving as some sort of sellsword like Kanís had.
So Arlis doled out ales, washed dishes, and counted grubby coins.
She then, more than ever, began to yearn for Erebor; if she could only travel there for her family’s sake…! Like the women before her, her heart clung tightly to the naive hope of a luxurious life — even with her hands in dirty dishwater. She wanted to go for her mother, for her grandmother, for herself, to determine firsthand whether or not there was a better life waiting.
No fear did she have for the world outside of the mountain, even if she never had traveled past Gondamon. How bad could it be, truly? Even if she was kept inside all her life, sheltered within stone and valued as the emerald of her family — why couldn’t she take a trip? She would stay safe, she was confident about the head on her shoulders...
But, if she did leave, she would be away from that good family longer than she ever had been. And what if, just if, she did get hurt, or worse yet never returned? If she left them with another Dwarf to mourn? All that remained were her uncles and grandmother; Arlis wanted to be there for them.
The Longbeard in her wished to travel, yes, but the Broadbeam did not.
The Firebeard half of her was just frustrated that she couldn’t decide.
Not yet, she would think, looking into the kitchen as Lanin would be making his cabbage soup once more.
Not yet, she would murmur, helping Nyriath carry crates of dye for his day-craft, during the rare chance that she wasn’t working.
Not yet, she would hiss, as she cleaned yet another spill off of that dingy tavern’s floor.
Not yet, she would convince herself, as Lagís began needing assistance each night just with climbing into bed.
Now, struck her heart just as she reached ninety-three. It was an unceremonious occasion, walking home from the tavern one blustery night; her eyes again found themselves looking past Thorin’s Gate, to the mountains and stars beyond. An unbearable pang of longing struck through her chest, and before she knew it, she was at her bedside packing a bag to leave.
Apologies were quickly stuttered when Lanin found her doing so, but they were met with only a pitiful nod of understanding. Like grandmother, like mother, like daughter, he sighed, before reluctantly encouraging her to finally take the journey.
After all, if Arlis waited much longer, there may not be enough time to tell old Lagís about it by her return.
So, with her mother’s axe for protection, Arlis quit being a barmaid, bought a cheap pony, donned her best tunic, and trotted out of Thorin’s Gate, seeking traveling work that could take her to the Lonely Mountain. Alight with innocent hope for what lay beyond, the girl was sure that nothing could squander her happiness, nor stand in her way!
Arlis believed that she was ready for Erebor.
Nearly two years ago, that was; it is only now that she’s finally on her way to see it.
