The Halls of Erebor

The Dance

"Do you really think this will work?" Frin emerged from her room and into her father's study. Her dark hair was draped down her back. Two delicate braids pulled the frontward strands behind her head. She stood before her father in an emerald, shimmering gown. It's simple shape made her comfortable.

"That remains to be seen." Her father stood from behind his desk, approaching her. "The young prince has an....ambitious plan." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "He's asked little of me, and nothing which will risk our family."

"But will it work?" She reiterated.

"If what I know of the two kings is true, then no." He sighed. "But I do want it to work."

Frin could see the despair in his eyes. In truth she felt the same, hopeful but pessimistic. Her father exited the room with Frin following closely behind. Near the entrance to their home stood her mother patiently awaiting them. She wore an opalescent gown and a string of white stones around her neck.

"Are we ready?" She asked with a small smile. The pair nodded, then as a family, they left their home and headed towards the royal quarter of the city. The rest of Erebor was quietening down for the evening while they prepared themselves for a night of dancing and formal conversation.

Over the past few days, the royal family had been preparing a great feast and party to welcome Thranduil and the elves to Erebor. The interaction in the throne room made Frin believe the party was canceled but it seemed Thror saw no conflict. The event was still planned and now it was about to begin.

When they arrived at the grand hall, they were greeted by a vast crowd who all ate and mingled cheerfully. The elves stood out among the mostly dwarven gathering, stiff backed and polite. It was early but the Frin suspected the event would grow robust as the ale flowed.

"I will be seeing the King." Her father said to them.

"I will join you." Her mother moved closer to him.

Frin nodded to both her parents before excusing herself and drifting into the crowd. As she moved among the strangers she found herself thankful for her dwarven height. She could see the dwarves around her whispering, casting weary glances towards their elven guests. Slowly, she wandered through the crowd, taking the time to grab a glass of wine as she went.

The minutes wore on and she realized how very little she socialized. She'd yet to see anyone she was familiar with. At the far end of the room, she could barely make out the line of Durin standing stiffly beside Thranduil. Thorin was clearly occupied.

Aimlessly she wandered through the mass of bodies hoping to at least overhear an interesting conversation, when, suddenly, a rough hand grabbed her arm. Startled and furious, she turned swiftly towards the owner of the offending hand. Instead of finding some drunken dwarf as she expected, she saw a familiar face. The line of hair on his head was neatly braided along with his beard. He was cleaner than she'd ever seen him wearing fine robes of leather and furs.

"Lass." He greeted her. His gruff voice was a welcome sound to her ears.

"Dwalin," she smiled at him. "You clean up quite well."

He gave a small huff. "My brother insisted, I was content to wear armour."

"I'm glad he did." She slid to stand beside him. His hand no longer grasping her arm. "He knew better than to rob the women of this much beauty." She was smiling broadly at him as he frowned at her.

"Are you enjoying the party?" He asked.

"Before your company...no, but with your presence the evening may be bearable." She took a sip from her glass. "What about you?"