Middle Earth || OS

26. Dwalin | Who comes uncalled

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Who comes uncalled.

One spoon, two, three, seven. You lost count of them and had to start over again.

Twelve, eighteen, twenty-one...spoons. An old fork. Done with the cutlery. Done with the crockery. Done with the dusting. Now all you had to do was to pack whatever needed washing and ironing, and you could head home with a light heart. Until the evening, that is. The tavern still had to be prepared for tomorrow.

The place belonged to your father, and, honestly, you were not obliged to clean it up. Running it, as well as the grocery shop at the other side of the town, brought your family enough money to hire servants and workfolk, but at the end of the harvest season each pair of hands was needed at the fruit patches. Besides, you didn't mind a little work. Your father promised the tavern would be your dowry, so the sooner you learnt to keep it up and running, the easier your life would be.

You could safely say you wouldn't stay without a husband, and not just because of the tavern. There were more beautiful girls in this town, but people often called you sweet. Even the judge's son gave you those looks, and that meant something. You could quite expect to make a good wife for a good man by the next year, even if no one had asked your father about it yet.

Smiling to yourself, you tied up the bag with the napkins. A bunch of dusted curtains was packed into another sack, and you decided a pound more would just break your spine.

"How d'ye do?"

You could hardly believe that anyone as sturdy as the Dwarf, who appeared to be standing behind your back, could enter the door so quietly. You hadn't noticed him until he spoke all of a sudden, making your heart nearly jump out of your corset.

"I am sorry, master," you stammered when your voice was finally back, "We are closed today."

"But you're here," stated he in a flat tone.

"Just cleaning," you shrugged apologetically. The Dwarf nodded, but strangely didn't go. Instead of that he marched up to the farthest table and sat himself down at it.

"A pint for me," grumbled he under his nose, "Please."

You were hesitating. Your father was surely waiting for you already.

On the other hand, the Dwarves paid generously. One of them could leave here enough silver to last the tavern for two days. Although this one didn't look either a merchant, or a money-maker. He was younger than most of his kin who'd ever appeared here. Thinner at the waist, heavier at the shoulders, with a swarthy face of a street rowdy, piercing eyes and the broadest wrists you'd ever seen. Not a single soft place on him. If anything, he looked cut out of stone.

Refusing him a drink didn't appear to be too wise even for someone three times as big as you.

With a sigh you went to the back room and brought him the beer. He downed it in one long draught, which was truly a relief.

"I must be going," you told him, when he put the mug down and stared at you again heavily.

"No man t' carry those for ya?" asked he all of a sudden, nodding at your bags.

"N-no."

"I'll do it," he'd caught up the bundles before you could object, "Close up the place."

Confused and unhappy, you lagged out after him helplessly. The last thing you wanted was to appear outside, accompanied by a Dwarf young enough to be called your wooer. And with your things on his hands. But how could you possibly venture to tell him that?