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Chapter Text

Orla died very simply.

She had been asleep in the passenger seat of her cousin's car in winter, on her way to the family holiday party when they were t-boned by a driver who had lost control of his vehicle on the black ice coating the interstate. She died instantly as his sedan crashed into her door.

She next remembered waking up under a wagon, lying on warm grass, the stench of rotting meat around her.

Chapter Text

The Dwarves of Erebor had been brought low.

The Men of Dale who managed to survive had little in the way of supplies and none to give the dwarves for succor. As for the fair folk of the Greenwood, Thranduil Oathbreaker had turned his back on every dwarf, dam, and babe. Every death which followed, was heaped upon his crown of twigs as the cost of his pride.

After the calamity, and the subsequent flight from their kingdom and the shadow of the dragon, the dwarves found themselves wandering. Trekking from village to village, scrounging up any work they could, trading their precious heirlooms and any coin or jewel to feed their young, and later, all the dwarves. Shunned in many villages, the dwarves were restlessly walking. None of the other dwarven settlements had the means to welcome refugees, although several managed to settle with Lord Nain in the Iron Hills, mostly miners and soldiers, those whose crafts could not be borne outside of stone halls. Those lucky few only wandered for two years.

The majority of Durin's folk traced lines across Arda, east to west and north to south, burying more of their kin in the dirt, rather than returning their loved ones to the stone, for they simply had no other choice. The weak went first. Those with lungs damaged by the smoke did not last three months. Those with severe burns lasted a fortnight at most. Only one silversmith's apprentice lived despite the mass of silver that had melted onto his left hand, from palm to elbow. The pain had been excruciating, but now he carried his weight, like all those who would hope to survive in the wild.

The babes born on the March were all so small, too small. Their mother's breasts ran dry too soon, too often. Only three survived their first year.

Fifteen of the mothers died in childbirth. Seven others simply wandered off in the night.

Several of the eldest of the dwarves spent as much time as possible minding the young ones, teaching the children what they could: history, sewing, knitting, wood carving, fire-building, Khuzdul, hunting, any skill they could pass on before their time came. They knew it would not be long.

The King minded none of the information his advisors delivered, and left his son Thrain to manage the affairs of the leader of such a tribe. Thror was often found, muttering to himself, or glaring at those who attempted to come close to him. He tolerated only his daughter-in-law, Fris, and his granddaughter Dis to feed, bathe, and clothe him, as he would not do these things himself.

Thorin and Frerin, despite their youth, were pivotal in firming up the morale of their people, their kin. Thorin spent many hours in discussion with his people, listening to their complaints with his full attention, promising to resolve the issues, and doing so as swiftly as he was able. Frerin made himself a figure of cheerful nature, getting his people to laugh, to sing, to dance, despite their troubles, despite their dead, despite their poverty.

The royal family presented a united front, and led their people with certainty; a certainty which translated into hope for their people.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

The dwarves had made a journey from dwarven settlement to dwarven stronghold, hoping to house even a handful of their people in a place which could not only house and feed them, but also provide a means for craft and trade and proper dwarven life. Their numbers had dwindled steadily, more from death or illness than installation in another kingdom, but as the group decreased in size, Thorin and Thrain began discussing the possibility of finding some place which might be able to fit their smaller numbers. And so it was that three thousand Ereborean dwarves began marching towards Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains far to the west.

The dwarves currently in Ered Luin sent out several warriors to guide Durin's folk to their refuge, among them was one Bifur of the line of Ur.

Knowing large numbers would draw too much attention, the caravan broke into five arms, and each intended to pass through a different village of Men to work for whatever they could manage in this last press to their last possible home. Thorin and his father's cousin Fundin, led the northernmost shaft, six hundred dwarves crossing the southernmost slopes of the Misty Mountains. They encountered little in the way of trouble, discounting one small party of human bandits.

Thrain led the innermost branch, marching straight around the woods of Rivendell.

Frerin led the branch between, accompanied by Groin, wending through the pass around the Valley of Imladris, since Frerin was the most diplomatic of the Durins, and therefore the most likely to sway the elves to an understanding of his need for trespassing. This was proved true two days into the march. The dwarves under his lead were given an elven escort and arrived at the meeting place first.

The branch just south of Thrain's was led by Thror, and Dis and Fris, accompanied by Bifur. Moving just north of Bree, a human way-stop, the group paused for three days to acquire much-needed goods, and trade their own crafts for food.

The final branch was led by Farin, father to Fundin and Groin. Their caravan marched just into the Shire, near the Old Forrest on the edges of Buckland.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Thror's group was the fourth to reach the meeting point, two days past the appointed time due to sustaining attacks.

Firebeards had ambushed the group, and began slaughtering any Longbeard in their paths. Bifur stood guard by the princesses, and took an axe to the head before his assailant stuck Fris down.

Thrain roared his grief as a wagon brought the bier of his wife moved into the center of the camp. Thorin and Frerin ran to embrace their sister and watched as their grandfather wept for the first time since long before the dragon had turned their lives beard-side down.

Bifur and several other dwarves were moved from additional wagons and laid out in the healing tents. Most with serious injuries didn't last the night. Bifur woke around third watch, bellowing in Khuzdul, mind in a berserker rage. It took four dwarves to hold him down as the stem of the axe was removed and his wound cleaned and treated. All that was left at that point was to ask Mahal to keep the warrior who defended Fris and Dis in his halls, or return him to his kin where they might honor him.

After one more day, and still no sight of the fifth branch, Thorin sent the order for scouts to seek their late brethren.

Three days later the scouts returned by midday, bearing the helmet and beads of Farin and a single stretcher.

A lass, barely forty if the healer was any judge, bearing a large bloody bruise on her temple.

The healers could find no other injury on the girl. When asked, the scouts described the scene they had discovered, a field of blood, bodies torn to pieces by scavengers. Except the lass, whom they had found beneath an overturned wagon. She had called out for help, or they might never have found her. They got some water down her throat, but once she had been lifted into the hastily made stretcher, she had fallen unconscious and had remained so for the remainder of the journey.

The healers cleaned her wound, and bound her head, lying her on a cot beside Bifur. Thorin had granted the healer's one week's stay as their location was easily defensible, before they continued on to the Blue Mountains. He prayed to Mahal that the warrior who nearly died defending his mother, and the little girl who had finally lost everything else, would both recover quickly. It would not be an easy march, even for those not wounded.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Bifur woke fully the following afternoon.

His words were slurred but discernible Khuzdul Proper, and the healers all expressed great relief and anticipation for the swiftness of his further recovery. Dwarven skulls were strong, and it took much to knock a stubborn mind about!

Bifur was fed a hearty stew with an ale for supper, but he seemed disinterested in its contents. When one healer's apprentice suggested a lighter meal, a thin and watery vegetable broth with a pitcher of water, it was tried and found suitable to the injured dwarf.

It was in the process of eating his meager meal that Bifur finally recognized the presence of the young dam on the cot several meters to his left. Further inquiry detailed her journey to her current bed.

The pie-bald Broadbeam slipped into a melancholic mood, and he shifted his focus from rebuilding his strength to tending for the nameless dwarfling.

He spent the remainder of their time in the encampment pouring water and thin broth down her throat incrementally, speaking to her, telling her every story he could think of, cleaning her injury and changing her bandages until they were cleared to come off entirely. Thus it was that he was the first dwarf to notice her bruised temple was no longer swollen, and at the center of her injury was a rune, the mark of Mahal.

Bifur spoke of his discovery to no one, except young Dis, who had come and shared some of his time spent waiting at the lass's bedside in companionable silence, and who happened to be with him at the moment of its discovery. The princess swore to remain silent until the girl was awake to decide the course of action for herself.

Bifur agreed and moved and braided the young dam's hair in such a way as to hide the mark from those who might happen to see the lass. In the course of their secret conversation, Bifur told Dis, "I would claim her as mine. No lass should be without kin. Especially above ground."

Dis had hummed. "Agreed, but what called out to you that she should call you kin?"

Bifur raised a slow hand to his axe-laden brow before gesturing to the girl's own abused forehead. Dis smiled, "I see. You will be good for each other, I'm sure." Dís' voice held no judgement.

"I will wait for her to wake, before I speak of it. That she may choose freely." He bit the words out tersely, head pounding, determined to speak clearly.

"I expected no less of you." Dis' voice was soothing, in its regularity of tone and volume. She was a quiet princess, or at least she had been since her mother's death.

Bífur nodded at the princess and nothing more was said on the matter.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

On the last day before the camp was packed up to move on, Orla woke.

Chapter Text

Orla moaned as she opened her eyes. Her temples were pounding and she felt nauseous. Had they spiked the eggnog at- with sudden clarity she recalled the force of the sedan crashing into the passenger door, and the metallic crunch as the door gave way before pain overwhelmed her mind.

A vague memory of paramedics calling out indecipherable words swam through her mind, but the sounds in her would not scramble into words she could recognize, no matter how hard she tried.

A numbing headache whited out her vision for a few heartbeats and then a breeze tickled along her hairline. Shortly after she could hear the sounds of someone, someone very close by, moving clothes or blankets around. Tilting her head slightly, she noted the constant sound of things being forced into a bag of some sort.

Was she in a room with another patient who was being discharged?

Blearily she focused her eyes on the ceiling above her. It was oddly shaped and seemed to bend in in places a ceiling normally shouldn't. But then the ceiling was also a deep brown in color, so it was already unusual for a hospital.

What was the closest hospital to the house? She couldn't remember.

Turning her head towards the continued shuffling noise, she caught side of a large, bearded man. He appeared to be a patient, head bundled in bandages with some sort of metallic fastener, and he was leaning his weight against the cot...

The cot on the dirt floor.

Orla squeezed her eyes shut. Oh no, I'm hallucinating, she thought as her level of nausea rose.

She breathed forcefully out of her nose and then held her breath before inhaling deeply through her mouth. She repeated this several times, too focused on her breathing to notice the sudden silence from her companion.

The man moved closer to her and grunted out something in sharp syllables she couldn't break apart and piece back together into recognizable words. "Water," she gasped out, throat dry. The man either understood her or her intent. It wasn't until she had finished the broad and shallow bowl-like cup of water that she attempted to ask him where she was.

His face turned away and he shouted for over his shoulder. His loud voice pounded in her skull.

More people entered the room, moving the entrance curtain aside. The floor was still dirt, and the ceiling still an odd plane. Or rather, a juxtaposition of planes. "I'm halucinating," she told the bearded doctor? nurse? before her.

"Khalganash?" He asked in rather feminine voice.

Orla turned her head in confusion, then winced and raised a hand to the goose-egg on her forehead. "I don't understand you," she managed through gritted teeth.

"Khazad, menu t--," the rest was a barrage of gibberish and deep noises. Phlegm was involved, and the broad Scottish "-ch" sounds as well.

"Where am I? What happened to my cousin? How... How long was I asleep?" Orla began rattling off every question she could think of, despair growing as the faces around her looked more astonished and confused by her own speech.

One rather short doctor attempted to speak in something lighter, a language more similar to Spanish or French in sound, but it still made no sense to Orla.

"Help me," she pleaded with the bearded men. "Help me please."

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

No one could understand the lass.

She didn't understand Bifur's Khuzdul proper, nor the cradle Khuzdul Groin tried when he entered the tent. When Oin thought to try Westron, hope rose again because the lass clearly recognized that it was something different, but she still was unable to understand them. Dis stepped forward and began to sign to the girl, thinking she might better recall the physical language of the dwarves. The lass focused on the princess in astonishment, and some recognition did shine in the girl's gaze, but they were unable to communicate.

Bifur stepped up. "Is there nothing we can do, Master Groin?"

Groin shook his head, long braid at the back moving like a tail along his spine. "It is like your speech, Bifur. We shall simply have to reteach her to understand her own people."

"I will teach her." The gathered dwarrow glanced at the injured dwarf. "I also... I had hoped to seek her approval, but until we can communicate with her, I should like to step forth as her guardian. And once she is able to understand, I would like to claim her as my daughter, should she be willing." Bifur stood, ram-rod straight, gesturing to Orla frequently, causing the lass to stare at him in confusion, though she continued to spend short glances on the others as well.

"I think that is a wonderful idea," Dis spoke up from the girl's bedside. "I think you of all dwarves would know best the manners of dealing with a language-affecting head injury." Her small smile inspired the girl on the cot to smile hesitantly as well, which seemed a sign from Mahal to those in the tent.

Groin smiled, "I acknowledge and grant your request, Lord Bifur. The lass is under your care. Let us know when we do discover her name, that we might search among the records to ensure she has no surviving kin that might disagree wity your proposed claims."

Bifur bowed and sat as the healer began checking the lass's bandages before filing out of the tent, leaving Bifur, Dis, and the lass alone once again.

Dis urged Bifur to sit closer and began a conversation with the silently staring girl. "Hello, my name is Dis. Dis," she repeated, pressing a hand to her breast.

The girl blinked at her before smiling. Placing a hand on her own flat chest, the girl said, "Orla. Orla." Before glancing down at herself in confusion. She patted her flat chest a few times before she brought her hand to touch the beard she could barely see the edges of. With wide eyes she looked up at Dis once more, tugged at her facial hair and made a desperate, inquiring noise.

"Beard. Your beard. It is a very nice start to a beard, and will be quite lovely when you are older."

"Be-ear-d?" the girl slurred out.

Dis nodded. "Beard."

Orla shook her head. "Mhfg Beard."

Dis looked in askance at her. The girl sighed, and looked around trying to find a way to say what she meant.

Eventually she just shrugged and tugged at her beard once more. Dis shrugged in return and the two moved onto having Bifur introduce himself, and both lasses took turns naming things in their own tongue.

"Tent."

"Hspinash. Tent."

"Water."

"Agulin. Wat. Er. Water."

"Orla, Dis, lass." Orla expressed confusion over that until Dis pointed directly at her breasts and crotch with eyebrows raised. Bifur made a show of looking away.

A look of clarity stuck the girl and she replied, "Orla hn Dis kreshlyn. Lass."

Dis cheered the girl on and they continued for a few more minutes, breaking down the components of her meal, "Meat." "Grrnr, meat.", before packing up her things and preparing to move.

Dwarves were hardy creatures who could endure with greater strength the threats nature and violence threw their way. And it was only her youth which had kept Orla abed so long, Groin assured Bifur. So Bifur marched alongside Orla, leading her to the Blue Mountains in the long chain of Durin's folk.

Chapter Text

Orla watched in a daze as the doctors filed out of her... Tent? Was she really in a tent? Had something truly awful happened that they had set up a medical station in a field?

The bandaged man had stayed with her, and had helped the boy with a close-cropped black beard to feed her, and the boy had tried to help her bathe her, but Orla had drawn the line. Even though the boy claimed to be a girl, that was a thick beard for a fourteen year old of either gender to have managed, even if the 'girl' was going to be a bearded lady. Orla was conscious now, and could bathe herself despite her communication issues, and potential hallucinations-had she ever seen so many people with facial hair in her life? And everyone was roughly the same height and build, which she might have noticed if it hadn't brought her attention to the changes in her own form.

Her boobs were gone. Completely gone. Not missing, like something horrible had happened in the accident; no scars, or stitches, or any mark of their previous occupation. Her chest seemed to have regressed to prepubescence. Upon further investigation, she found her underarm and groin were still coated in a sparse gathering of dark hair, but then her full body seemed to have more hair across it as well. And she was shorter too. The ground was much closer, her legs and arms were thicker, stubbier. But no one else towered over her. She even stood an inch taller than the boy with the beard. Dis, he'd called himself. Or herself.

Her injured companion had braided her hair that morning, moving a braid over the slight mark on her temple, and tied it off with a dark wooden bead from his beard. The man was now helping Orla to pack a small bag, he had stuffed some bandages and jars in first, before sticking some combs made of different colored wood in as well. After tying it off, he slung it over his back and held a hand out to her.

And so Orla tucker her much smaller hand into his. They left the tent, which several more men were working to dismantle, and Orla found herself in a large plain surrounded by several thousand people, all bearing facial hair, some as sparse as her own, and even more with beard braided to their knees. The man, who referred to himself as Bifur, led Orla to a wagon and lifted her up onto the seat beside the driver. He passed her the bag, and stood beside her as they waited for the activity to dwindle around them, and for the chain of wagons and folk to begin moving.

From her vantage point on the wagon, Orla could see better the tearing down of tents in a variety of colors. Hers had been brown, but she also found dark reds, dull greens and yellows, dotted around the plain, with the wagon train through the center like a spine through a moving body. It took the better part of an hour for the clean-up to be complete, and by that time the first twenty wagons had started moving.

Orla shivered as her wagon started forward, Bifur marching beside her with a large spear in his hands.

Her hallucination was either getting worse, or she was still in a coma and dreaming vividly. Unless, perhaps she was dead, and this was purgatory? It wasn't hellish, and certainly wasn't paradise, but it would make sense that purgatory would be somewhere no on e could understand her, and she was struggling to come to grips with the changes in her own body, and the strangeness of the bodies of the people around her.

They were kind to her, not trying to harm her. In fact, Bifur seemed to have appointed himself her protector, as he'd shooed several people with beards away by waving his spear and grunting.

Coming to a decision, Orla pledged to work to understand the language spoken all around her, so that she might be able to discover just what was happening to her, and she was going to start with Bifur.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

They didn't stop walking until an hour past nightfall. No tents were put up, and everyone just laid out on blankets, on wagons, under wagons, or stood watch. Orla turned and tucked herself closer to Bifur, he was warm and the night was not.

"Bifur?" she queried. "Cold," she explained, and shivered several times, trying to ferret his word for the term out of him.

Instead of replying, he tucked his blanket more firmly around her, and bundled her up into his arms, running his hand up and down her back to warm her up.

"No," she insisted. She touched a hand to her lips and said, "Cold." She then put her icy fingers against his beard-wrapped mouth and repeated herself, "Cold."

Bifur grunted in something like surprise before he responded, "Tentrul. Tentrul."

"Tentrul," Orla parroted. She touched her hands to her own beard and whispered the word Dis had taught her before repeating it and wrapping her fingers into Bifur's own beard. He grunted but didn't stop her, instead repeating the word back to her

Bifur reached a hand up and tugged at her fingers, tracing them individually and tugging lightly before whispering, "Tringon." He moved his hand to pull on several fingers at once, and whispered, "Tringoy."

"Tringon, tringoy," Orla repeated, mimicking his behavior with her own fingers before recreating the actions on his own hand. She then pointed to her palm and looked up at him in askance.

And so they spent the time until she nodded off to sleep teaching her to speak his words for parts of the body, for night, and for blanket, and the last word he taught her was "Sleep."

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

It was the work of several days for Orla to manage to retain enough terms to make a very simple, badly pronounced version of a sentence, but she compensated with physical gestures, and Bifur soon learned that teaching her Inglishmek might be a smoother transition than working on Khuzdul Proper. Dis had joined them for the day and helped him to explain some of what he hoped to convey, and soon the three were in agreement, and gesticulating madly.

Chapter Text

Over the first several days of the march, Orla lost the few words she had gained from Dis and Bifur. Names seemed to stick in her mind well enough, and another ten odd words: the word for beard and water among them. The sign language they taught her, however, stuck to her mind like a burr in a dog's coat.

Dejected by her losses in speech, Orla redoubled her efforts in sign language and was soon successfully able to carry on small conversations with Bifur: small talk mostly covering topics such as weather, food, and physical objects in their environment.

Bifur seemed to be trying to teach her enough to communicate enough to ask her some of the questions-they had to be questions- he kept trying to ask her. Every night as they set up camp, he would rattle off more of those butchered phonetics, before devolving into abrupt hand gestures and finger signals.

Orla was still no better at the spoken word; but Bifur never stopped trying. Had something important happened? Not that it would matter if it had, Orla could only recall the crunch of impact, and the medics giving her water. She had nothing between hose moments, and no memories between the medics and waking up in the hospital. Tent. Hospital tent.

Seriously, had an apocalypse level event occurred?

Orla tried to push the incident from her mind, and not just because it made her head ache. Dis was coming over, walking alongside Bifur to chat about something- Orla's stunning inability to communicate, or her lack of significant progress in correcting that inability probably.

Not that either was unkind, but Orla could see their small frustrations just as surely as she could feel her own.

Her tongue felt trapped in her skull. Nothing she said had any meaning, and nothing she wanted to learn to say stuck in her head for very long.

"Dis?" She called out.

The short, dark-haired girl/definitely a girl; you can only 'Oregon Trail' so much with people and not figure out their bathroom equipment- turned and grinned up at Orla before climbing onto the wagon beside her.

"Orla?" Dís' voice was cheerful. That was a rare sight, not that the girl was ever cross with Orla, but she wasn't usually a cheerful person.

Orla sighed and began moving her fingers into the symbol for question-hadn't that been a job and a half to learn-then pointed at Bifur and said his name. She shaped her left hand into a bowl, pointed into her palm and pointed at a nonexistent 'gift' before repeating Bifur's name, and pressing gift to her own flat chest and quickly adding the sign for 'question' once more.

Dis stared at Orla for a long moment before turning to Bifur and speaking to him. Their language had become less aggressive to Orla's ears with more time spent hearing it and nothing else but her own English, but it was no less indecipherable.

Bifur looked up at Orla with a noise of surprise. He rumbled his question out to Dis and to Orla, eyes moving from one to the other and continued to march forward, glancing before his feet and about the distant hill and tree line as he waited an answer.

Dis looked over at Orla, who stared blankly back. Dis sighed and stated to sign: first she made the sign for question, saying Bifur and Orla's names, and then made a sign for shield, which Orla had learned two days ago when she saw several of the bearded men carrying some.

After shield, Dis hesitated before making a gesture that looked as though she were rocking an invisible baby.

"Baby? Shield baby?" Orla's confusion was plain on her face in the scrunch of her brow and the pinch of her mouth so Dis tried again: "Bifur" and the sign for shield, "Orla" and the baby-rocking motion.

"Orla""?" Orla asked and pointed at the invisible baby.

Dis nodded happily.

"Bifur thinks," he Orla pointed to her head, "Orla is a baby?" Here Orla pointed again to the nonexistent baby in Dis's cradled arms.

Dis peered at Orla for a minute, before she nodded and shook her head.

Yay.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

"Bifur, how can I explain that you don't think she is a newborn? But are still trying to be her guardian, or her father?" Dis's voice and expression remained serene, as all the Durins worked to be when in the eyesight of their people. Even a small dissatisfaction could undermine the fragile hope that bore their kin forward.

"Show her the children."

Dis blinked down at the warrior who nearly died defending her mother and to whom she owed her own life. "What?"

"There are children of different ages on the caravan, show them to her and make clear the gaps in age, before working your way up to those dwarves of age. Explain to her that she is not a babe, but she is very young." Bifur sighed and looked up at Orla. The lass was watching the two of them discuss her as though she were an imbecile. He flushed with shame. He wanted to help her, but to leave her so helpless?

"Orla!" He called up to her. Once her full attention was focused on him, Bifur pointed at the wagon in front of them, where a father and son marched beside the wagon. The lad was eight or so years older than Orla, but that would do.

Orla looked, and then glanced back at Bifur. "Adad," he gestured to the father. "Child," he said with a gesture to the lad.

He repeated this over and over, adding the Inglishmek symbols for each term once he saw recognition flare in Orla's eyes.

"Adad, child," she repeated, using the words first but then just sticking to the gestures.

"Orla, child," Dis chimed in, making the hand gesture herself.

"Orla, child?" Orla asked, incredulous.

Dis sighed and patted her own flat chest, causing Orla to glance down at her own. Dis ran fingers over her beard and pointed at Orla's, making sure not to touch it.

Orla's shoulder slumped as she peeked a glance down the front of her tunic and sighed. She righted her tunic and closed her eyes, hands limp in her lap. They rode in silence for half an hour or so before Orla turned tearful eyes to Dis, and glanced over at Bifur as well. "Orla." Then she made the gesture for child.

Dis nodded, careful to say nothing else.

"Orla," Bifur called out, adding the gesture for 'you want?' Orla had learned through a week of camp meals. He added his name again and then the word for father.

"Orla," hands pointed at Orla and then going flat, palm up in offering, "Bifur", pointing at Orla again, and the symbol for Adad; "Orla, you want Bifur your Adad?"

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Orla was floored. Bifur... Bifur wanted to adopt her?

Orla looked around numbly at the caravan, and noticed so many families she had blindly seen but not noticed before. She had even seen Dis with her father and brothers and grandfather. Everyone was with someone.

Except her. And Bifur.

Was this another layer to the purgatory theme? Her becoming a minor once more?

She wasn't accustomed to the thought of needing a minder, or a protector.

But.

She didn't have breasts, or a beard, because apparently feminine gender and beards were no longer mutually exclusive. So, she was prepubescent herself. Definitely a child.

And she wouldn't leave a child alone. She glanced over at Bifur, and thought that she wouldn't leave him alone either.

He had taken on the role of fatherhood out of necessity whil he couldn't ask his question, but he had asked her every day all the same.

He wanted to be her father, but cares that she wanted to be his child.

She looked up ahead through the line of wagons. There were so many people, and once they arrived wherever they were going, she would probably get lost in the change.

At least Bifur had... He had done so much for her, and never asked for anything in return. This wasn't even asking for anything in return, he was basically asking to keep on as they had been, just more officially.

Orla didn't answer right away. She considered it through the remainder of the day's March. Neither Dis, who climbed down after two hours and rejoined her grandfather on his wagon, nor Bifur, who marched steadily beside her, pressed her for an immediate answer.

Orla mediated on what this would mean for her. If she was dead, and this was purgatory, then she could use a guardian for sure. If she wasn't dead, and an apocalypse had happened, which had also somehow made her young again, then a guardian would also be a good thing, until she found her real parents. If they weren't dead.

Orla refused to consider that.

If she was trapped in a world of her own making, her body trapped in a coma somewhere, having a guardian would be useful.

The only other option, her mind offered from the role of devil's advocate, was that this place was real. And if that was true, she needed a guardian more than any other option.

That night, after supper and curled up against each other on the ground beside their wagon, Orla turned to Bifur with her answer.

Chapter Text

Bifur was dozing off when Orla put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet and scanned the perimeter for a threat.

Finding none, he turned his gaze back to the lass, who had dropped to her knees and stared up at him in shock as he had hefted his spear. Bifur took a step back, returned his spear to his bedroll, and sat down. Hands on his knees, cross-legged, and back straight, he looked to Orla and waited for her to speak. Or sign.

Orla seemed to hesitate before saying, "Bifur," and she made the sign for question, followed by the sign for location. "Adad Orla?" She made a shrugging motion and looked around.

Bifur looked at her in askance.

"Orla Adad?" She repeated and looked around.

"Oh, where is your Adad? Where are your parents? Adad and Amad Orla?" Bifur breathed in revelation.

Orla's face lit up and she nodded, "Orla Adad and Anad!"

"Amad," Bifur corrected without thinking.

"Amad," Orla parroted dutifully.

Bifur struggled over how to ask, before pointing at Orla and saying, "Orla, Orla." Then he pointed at himself and said, "Bifur, Bifur." Lastly he said, "Orla Adad and Amad?"

Orla blinked up at him. She really was terribly young, and so very small. Her dark hair made her tan skin seem warmer than she ever was. The lass shivered so much in the night, Bifur had requested extra blankets from Groin.

"Oh!" Orla looked excited. "Ghgsmf vrrty." She nodded. "Orla Adad, Mark. Orla Amad, Bess. Mark and Bess Orson."

"Orson? Orsonul?" Bifur tried to clarify. Who was Orson, and why had he named his son Mark? It was the third letter of the alphabet, not a name! Bess was slightly better. But only by a little; not too many dwarven daughters were named for the moon.

Orla nodded, "Mark Orson. Bess Orson. Orla Adad and Amad!"

Bifur nodded and stood to walk over and check with the list of the dead. Orla walked beside him, on nearly silent feet.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

It was the work of nearly twenty minutes for Bifur to read through what he could decipher of the list. But no Orsons were on the record anywhere. So he turned to the accounts of the caravan itself, much to the consternation of Fundin, who was responsible with the guarding of the records.

When Bifur still could find no record, Fundin himself made short work of a second search. He shook his head and pointed at a page which was largely blank.

"They probably died in Erebor. The only deaths left unrecorded at the moment are the innumerable souls consumed by dragonfire." Fundin shut the book with a snap. "The lass has probably been an orphan this whole time, but has forgotten thanks to her..." Here Fundin trailed off and gestures at his forehead.

Orla made a questioning noise and repeated the gesture. Then she started to cry. "Hallof? Nun Hallof! Nun Hallof!!"

Bifur moved towards her, arms stretched out, and made the gesture for question. "Orla, lass? What's wrong?"

"Nun Hallof!" she cried again, shoulders shaking as she sobbed. She put her hands on her head and made a gesture neither Bifur nor Fundin had ever seen before. Her hands were moving dizzily around her ears, fingers waggling strangely.

"Tangling? Moving?" Fundin tried.

"Scrambling?" Bifur tried, thinking of his young charge, his orphaned cousin Bombur who adored food and cooking.

Orla tried again, repeating the new gesture, before adding the familiar signs for speech and adding the words, "Orla, yes." She shaped the new gesture once more, pointed to her brow, and said, "Orla, no." Her voice was thick from her tears, but easy to understand.

"Oh," Bifur exhaled. He moved forward and hugged her, murmuring Khuzdul promises he would die trying to keep. He pulle dback so he could sign to her. "Orla," he pointed to himself and made the sign for 'think, know' and said, "Orla, no," before imitating her new gesture. "I know you're not mad, Orla."

Orla seemed to sag, leading him to embrace her once more as she cried herself to sleep. Bifur carried her back to their bedrolls, nodding his thanks and a good night to Fundin.

He had just laid her out, and knelt down himself, when her sleepy voice asked, "Orla Adad, Amad?"

Bifur looked down at her sadly and shook his head before sliding his tumb under his beard and across his throat, a universal sign for death. Fresh tears spilled from Orla's eyes, but she nodded, having probably anticipated that. "Bifur, Orla Adad?" She asked.

"It would be my great honor, Orla. Yes," he gestured his want to be her adoptive father and his agreement.

Orla smiled up at him through her tears and hugged him, "Adad."

"Nathue kurdu," he whispered into her hair. "Daughter of my heart."

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Dis watched the lass get presentable for the adoption ceremony. She was pleased by the joy which seemed to shine in Orla's eyes. It was hard to remmeber that Orla was in fact older than Dis. If the healer's estimates for her age were correct, as they seemed to be.

At twenty-three years of age, Dis was hardly a babe, but nor was she of age. She had not even entered into her fertile majority yet either. though, many of the young lasses who ought have crossed that threshold hadn't. Many reasons were tossed about, from hunger and strain, to the curse of a dragon or evil magic of elves on the above world. Dis would bet good sticky buns that Orla was still awaiting that threshold herself, whether by deficit of age, or by another reason, only Mahal himself could say.

Bifur was prouder than a newly-minted Master of Craft to be getting a daughter, but beyond that, Dis had been privy to the genuine fondness the two shared. Bifur understood his duty of care to Orla, and that came before his desires. Mahal had ordained that he be at her bedside when she woke, it seemed. As surely as a child is crafted in her mother's belly, Mahal crafted the circumstances for this Adad to gain a daughter, bittersweet though it might be.

But who said childbirth is without pain?

Once her face was scrubbed Orla neatly brushed out her hair--and such lovely hair too! Dis fought to keeop her hands from brushing the silken strands of deep darkness. She stopped Orla from doing her braids in her customary style; her hair must be unbound for her adoption so that Bifur could braid in her new clan, kin, and deed braids.

Beads were a precious commodity in the richest of times; now, many beads had been traded to feed small stomachs, but Bifur seemed to have carved his own beads out of wood, and had made a full set for his daughter. Dis had watched him carve one, untouched by any mark of his kin or clan, and bearing only the mark of Mahal. Dis had a strong suspicion of where that bead might sit.

Thus prepared, Dis led Orla into the tent housing her grandfather, father, and Thorin. Frerin was on duty with Fundin, Dwalin, and Balin. But Groin and his young son Oin were present as well.

Official adoption, in Dwarven culture is usually a simple affair, much like the birth of a child, and just as heartily celebrated. Except, with adoptions, the office of the royal family is involved in a prominent fashion, behaving as the intermediary of Mahal in the adoption.

Bifur responded in the proper places and added Orla's braids one at a time, as each layer of the adoption proceeded: first naming her as a daughter of Mahal, and placing the braid and bead over her temple. Then with a bead Dis had given Bifur for saving her life, bearing the mark of Durin's Line, and a small braid trailing behind her right ear. Next, he gathered a large section of hair towards the back and braided a thick braid bearing a bead with a carved image of the lonely mountain, "for the home and kin you have lost, as you gain a new home and new kin." Lastly, Bifur gathered a section of hair before her ear and braided his clan braid and clasped it with his own copper kin clasp. " I give you the clasp of my line; it is fitting that my daughter should bear it for me."

And it was official.

Dis' father stepped forward with a broader smile than she had seen since the passing of her mother.

"On behalf of his Majesty, King Thror of Durin's Line and Durin's folk, and myself, Thrain Throrul, Prince of Durin's Line and Durin's folk, well met, Orla Bifuril, of Durin's folk and the Line of Ur." Dis watched as her father winced around "Durin's line and Durin's folk" when "of Erebor" should have been before it. But how can you be King or Prince of a mountain without the mountain?

Orla nodded at the King and his son, clearly not understanding their gravity, though she certainly seemed to recognize that they had the authority to administer the adoption procedure.

"Well met, Orla Bifuril, of Durin's folk and the line of Ur." Thorin inclined his head lower than his father, but it could not be called a bow. "I am Thorin Thrainul, Prince of.... Durin's line and Durin's folk." Dis bit her lip as her brother stumbled over the adjusted title.

"Thorin?" Orla asked, a spark of recognition on her face. "Thorin.... Hghysfr? Thorin Hghysfr and... Erebor."

There was a beat of silence in the room before Thrain laughed and clapped Thorin on the back. "She must have seen you at one point back in our mountain, inudoy, and she remembers even the shadow of that day!"

Thorin nodded, and looked Orla in the eye, "The thoughts and memories of Erebor are strong in our people, that she lasts in Orla's mind where even Khuzdul does not."

Orla, unable to follow that whole sentence nodded and repeated, "Erebor."

"It is a good omen, Your Majesty," Groin spoke to Thror but so all could hear.

"A good omen, indeed," echoed his son, in a quieter, more pensive voice.

Chapter Text

Orla was still coming to terms with the reality she was facing. Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, leader of the dwarves of Durin's line, the Longbeard clan, was here. With his father. And grandfather. Dís was his sister.

Orla was with Tolkien's dwarves!

She was also a little miffed she hadn't put Bifur's injury and name together first, but his head was still bandaged, and she hadn't seen proof that a while axe head was lodged in her adopted father's skull.

Adopted father. Because she was a dwarf now. A lady dwarf, well, a little girl dwarf, apparently, beard and all.

Orla sat on the bench of her wagon and looked out over her caravan with new eyes. These were the dwarves of Erebor fleeing Smaug and seeking to carve a new life in a new home.

She turned to Bifur, "Bifur-Adad?" She saw the smile light his face when she added the moniker and it made her happy to make him happy, but honestly, she had no one here, except him. Why wouldn't she want him for a father?

Those thought were quickly brushed aside as she struggled to communicate her question. "Erebor?" she asked and made the sign for sleep and safe. Then she gestured around and held up empty hands to him.

"Ered Luin," he answered. "Grrunnfsh."

"Groon-fish?"

Bifur sighed and tried a sign she didn't recognize. She repeated it, but her face still communicated her lack of understanding. Bifur made the signs for sleep, safe, meals, Adad, Amad, and many others she wasn't sure she had right. Bifur grunted before trying a new tack. "Bifur," he began, pointing at himself, "porlket", here he made two of his fingers sit on his hand. "Ered Luin."

Orla nodded. She made the signs for Adad and said Ered Luin, and lifted her bum from the bench slightly before sitting soundly again.

Bifur grinned and let out a brief chuckle. He made the sign for yes, and then made the two fingers walk across his hand before giving her the Inglishmek sign for travel. "Orla," he said. "Bifur hhungesh Ered Luin fe Orla." Then he pointed at the ground beneath them, and made the symbol for "now". "Orla t Bifur hhungesh Ered Luin fe Grrunnfsh." He added gestures and repeated himself slowly.

"Yes, I get we are both heading there, but..." Orla grumbled in a frustrated tone. She sighed and looked up at Bifur and asked, in a defeated voice, "Erebor. Ered Luin. Next?" She pointed to an invisible dot on her palm as she named the places, three in a row.

Bifur's face lit up and he shook his head emphatically. "Erebor, Ered Luin. Ered Luin." He pointed at his own palm, only showing the two points.

Orla felt understanding dawn on her, "We will live in Ereed Luin?" She stood up in the wagon and stared forward, imagining she could see blue mountains on the horizon line. "Ered Luin is home?"

Bifur puffed his chest out, "Orla. Bifur. Ered Luin." He seemed to realize something and turned wide eyes to her, "Bifur... nadad-adad inudoy."

"Brother, father, sons?" Orla mde the signs for each word as she repeated them.

Bifur corrected her with a symbol that combine father and brother, and then repeated her gesture of sons. "Bombur, Bofur."

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Your cousins! Your father's brother's sons! Bombur and Bofur?"

Bifur pressed a fist to his chest twice, quickly, and nodded, a proud look on his face. "Bombur," here he gestured to his hip, implying a short, very young child. "Bofur," and here his hand to his chest, implying an older, certainly taller child.

Orla beamed at him, "Orla Adad nadad-adad inudoy, Bombur, Bofur?" She clarified. Bifur smiled and nodded at her.

She laughed and turned her gaze back to the winding caraven. She would meet more of the company! Not only that, but they would live with her, and teach her to speak better Dwarvish, and oh! This was turning into such an adventure!

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Bifur led Orla to Dis, the next morning after breakfast, and managed to communicate that she should spend the day with Dis. The princess could use some companionship, and Bifur was needed on guard duty at the tail of the wagon train. Oin had expressed concern about the dust infecting Orla's lungs while she was still recovering, so she would be apart from him for the duration of the day.

Orla nodded at him, but didn't seem to quite follow his instructions. It was only as he turned to leave and Dis tugged her hand in the oposite direction that she cried out, "Bifur-Adad!" and ran to his side, throwing her arms around his stomach. He grunted as she hit him, and stepped back to compensate for her force as she curled her arms more securely around him.

He hugged his daughter fiercely for a moment. "Dis," he said to Orla, as he pulled her arms off him. "Dis, meal and next meal. Then Bifur, sleep." His simple sentence seemed to reassure her, and she nodded and stepped back to stand with the princess.

He walked off and marched to his post, confident in the care of the daughter of his heart.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Orla spent the bulk of her day following Dis around and helping her with whatever she did.

The two delivered water up and down the lines, Dis laughing and talking with those they met, Orla smiling and nodding dumbly. She felt utterly useless and disheartened by her stunted progress with Inglishmek and Khuzdul alike.

During lunch, Orla watched Dis closely. This was the woman who was sister to the Thorin she knew so much about. The Thorin who did not yet exist. His grandfather still lived, and his father walked among his people. Frerin's blond head was in and out of every circle, stirring laughter wherever he went. No oaken branch had spared the line of Durin yet.

Orla watched as both brothers constantly circled to their sister, embraced her, and returned to their duties. She found it sweet that they doted on and cared for her, so visibly. Her heart ached for the danger she knew would one day claim them.

Orla spent some time working on more signs with Dis, and found herself thinking of Fili and Kili, wondering at the relationship they would have with this strong girl, once she was grown and brought them into this world.

Middle Earth.

Orla couldn't get it to settle in her mind that she was in Middle Earth, not every moment at least. It fit when she didn't think about it, but when she stopped to wonder, her head ached and she couldn't think straight.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

The following day, Bifur led Orla around the caravan. As near as they could estimate, she was forty years of age. This was a reasonable enough age for her to be able to hear the call of her craft, though Bifur had some fears it might be as warped as her speech.

But. She had remembered Thorin and Erebor. Bifur wouldn't give up without trying. And then, many dwarves couldn't hear the call until fifty. And, the lass might be younger than they estimated.

It was the duty of the father to show his child the craft at their disposal. And, while the road was not an ideal location, he could begin with some which did not require halls of stone to work.

He quickly dismissed metal-working when she tried to gesture by copper and bronze by the same garbled name. Gems were equally set aside when her inability to tell a white sapphire from a diamond became apparent.

"Perhaps, they speak to her in her language now?" Dis suggested.

Bifur allowed it, but still thought that perhaps another craft beckoned his daughter's soul. And he swore to help her find it. Perhaps not today, but when her soul and craft called out to one another, she would need for nothing to seek it out. It was the honor and privilege of a father to do so.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

They had stopped by a calmer section of the large river and the caravan was having a washing day-bodies and clothes.

Orla walked up and down the wagon ranks with Dis, collecting small children so the mother's could bathe the older ones. Bifur stood guarding the makeshift nursery with a fierce countenance. That countenance broke each time he heard Orla coo at a babe, or laugh at the bubbles blown by another, or when she sang songs in her nonsense tongue to the wee treasures.

She would make a good mother, one day, in the very distant future. Bifur considered for a minute before dismissing the thought that any dwarrow would be worth his salt enough to possibly tempt Orla. Sheer nonsense.

"Bifur!" Dis called out through a laugh. He glanced over his shoulder and found Orla lying on the ground, all five of the babes kneeling, their heads leaning against her torso. Orla was beaming at the little ones, and struggling not to laugh so she didn't jar the wee gems. Bifur felt something in his heart melt. His daughter, though she had not been his her whole life, was a gift of Mahal, from the hands of strife. He would not let any ill befall her.

He turned back to face the treeline just in time to cut down the orc charging for him, the babes, and the lasses.

Chapter Text

The roar startled Orla badly. "Khazad ai menu! Baruk khazad!"

Bifur moved like a cat, she noticed, quick, fluid movements brought his spear into the chest of the nearest... What the fuck was that?

Orla grabbed two of the smallest babes, an afterthought guided by Dis' own arms reaching for two herself. The remaining child blinked up at Orla from the ground between Orla's knees.

In the chaos of the snarls and shouts as more dwarves broke through the foliage behind her- most wearing only their hair, weapons hefted high-Orla moved without thought, bowing low to the ground, head pressed into the grass. She laid the three babes side-by-side and planted her forearms along either side.

As the noise and heat and breeze of the battle stirred all around her, Orla felt the tiny hands gripping and grabbing at her tunic, and small whuff's of air leave the rosebud lips against her collarbone. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes. Prayers tumbled off her lips in emotion older than memory: "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle..."

Thud. Orla forcibly ignored the noise of a body-dwarf or not she wouldn't look to learn-and kept on, "... be our protection against the snares and wickedness of the devil..."

A blow across her back winded her, spreading her hips and pushing her knees further out to either side from the force. A voice or growl of indecipherable sounds flashed against her ears, as she struggled to breathe.

A roar in a familiar voice cut through the gnashing voice and a swift movement over her back removed the weapon.

"Orla?" Thorin's voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. She opened her eyes and stared out of the corner of her eye, through a break in her hair.

Thorin and two other dwarves stood between herself and the attackers. She chances a glance around and saw Dis closer to the tree, babes pressed between two large roots and covered with her body. Orla stared at Dis in fear until she noticed her friend's breathing movements.

Orla glanced up at Thorin once more, but his focus was back at the battle once more, a sight Orla's mind refused to process. So, she buried her head against the ground once more and began murmuring meaningless coos to the little ones.

The noise of the battle moved away and then died down. Orla's arms were shaking from how tensely she was holding her muscles. Tears tracked noiselessly down her forehead, and the babes moved restlessly below her.

"Dis!" Thorin's voice called from behind Orla and she froze.

"Orla!!" Bifur's voice relaxed her tense muscles almost instantly and she pulled her self up onto her hands and knees.

As Orla dazedly watched Bifur approach, she heard Dis and Thorin speaking animatedly, alongside the other two dwarves: Frerin and some Mohawked dwarf. Was punk a thing for dwarves?

"Orla?!" Bifur said, surprising Orla by being suddenly in front of her. She choked on a gasp and coughed for a minute to clear her throat.

Bifur's hand settled gently on her shoulders and held her upright, careful of the babes.

Dis moved over to Orla, her own charges safe in Frerin's arms. "Orla?"

Orla continued to pant, struggling to inhale properly before she slumped against Bifur.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

"She was struck by one of the orcs, across her back." Thorin supplied as Bifur carefully moved his young daughter to lay out beside the whimpering little ones.

"They came out of nowhere," Dis murmured, her hands visibly trembling, the skin around her lips white, but no other sign showed her own fright. His sister was already stronger than she should have to be. "I only managed to grab Hith and Kit, but Orla..."

"She laid over them," Thorin whispered.

"Brave lass," Dwalin grunted, appreciatively.

"The parents should be fetching these gems soon enough," Frerin added, shifting his little charges in explanation. "Will Orla need a healer?"

True to his word, four distraught mothers and a terrified father came running for their babes, and held them close in relief.

Frerin stepped in to explain the actions of his sister and Orla in the defense of the youngest members of the caravan.

Thorin moved to bring Groin over to tend the unconscious young dwarrowdam and left to seek out his father and grandfather. The caravan would need to move on again, and soon. They were clearly far too vulnerable here.

"She has some slight bruising, but she'll be fine with some rest and a little more water than her ration serves. I'll make sure the water wagon knows to send more for our little heroine."

Bifur nodded, shoulders drooping in relief. From relief and a little weary from the sudden skirmish. He hefted Orla into his arms, and managed his spear under her. He walked over to their wagon and sat on the bench with her cradled across his lap, her head against the hollow at the front of his shoulder. His fingers trailed through her tangled braids and loose hair to keep from trembling.

He had not realized how quickly he could lose his daughter. But she was well, and had bravely stood as a dwarven shield for those three babes. He was proud of her: to react so well to the first conflict she witnessed.

Unless, she retained any memory of the other attack? Had she passed out due to some returning memory?

The thought plagued him as she slept during the first several hours of the move onward.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Orla groaned herself awake, wincing at the pinch and ache of her back. Had she slept on a rock?

Bifur's voice rumbled immediately behind her, and she sat up quickly, glancing around at the moving landscape.

The caravan was moving again.

Then she remembered.

"Bifur!" she exclaimed fearfully. Moving quickly in spite of her injury, she began moving her hands over Bifur's arms and back and head, feeling for an injury.

Bifur smiled down at her happily. "Bifur well," he signed once he managed to get a hand free from holding her. "Orla well?"

Orla exhaled heavily. She made a so-so motion with her hand as the twinges in her back clamored for attention.

Bifur pointed at her abused back and made the sign for "not well" and the sign for "question".

Orla nodded tiredly.

Bifur passed her a waterskin, and mimed drinking, prompting Orla to notice just how parched she actually felt. She signed her thanks before taking long draws from the skin.

As she returned the waterskin to Bifur, she noticed a hazy purple shape over the distant tree line. She pointed to it, and signed "question".

"Urd?" Bifur asked. "Ered Luin."

"Oh," Orla sighed. That was a mountain range in the distance, of course! She felt foolish for not figuring it out, and by the time they camped that night, they were close enough that she could see it more clearly. The mountain were bluer now and less purple. If she recalled correctly, Ered Luin meant Blue Mountains.

She sat through dinner staring at the mountains without speaking. Bifur pulled her aside for a healer to inspect her back, and she allowed her new father to lift the tunic over her head, her hands instinctively moving to conceal breasts she no longer possessed. It was very disconcerting, waking up a book character.

"Hergu shallanth!" Bifur exclaimed, causing Orla to crane her neck over her should trying to see her injuries. The healer ran soft hands over the mottled skin, inspiring hisses and winces from the bruised girl.

Apparently it wasn't too bad; the healer handed Bifur a tin of lotion or cream or oil to rub into her sore muscles and walked away. Orla struggled not to cry as Bifur rubbed the cream onto her skin, each bruise deeper than she would have thought, but she made sure not to complain even as the tears fell.

Dwarves were strong, and while she hadn't always been a dwarf, she had always been stubborn. If the medic thought she needed this treatment, she'd take it and heal. No matter if it hurt.

Once he had finished, Bifur resealed the tin, and helped her don her tunic once more. They moved to sit closer by the fire, and he took out his combs with care, before focusing on detangling the mess of snarls on her head. Braids redone and hair combed smooth, Bifur tucked a barely conscious Orla into her bedroll for the night.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

In the early morning light, a short breakfast was taken before the host set out once more. They only had another three days journey before they reached Ered Luin and all were anxious to get there and be under good stone once more.

Orla rode in the back of the wagon, muscles stiff and sore despite the salve Bifur had massaged into her deep tissue. His daughter's back had been yellow and green, horrid vivid colors which the healer said were an indication of deeper bruising.

Bifur knew he would face his own ghosts from this battle, but worried that the damage Orla bore might be worse than he could see. Already communication was difficult, but with such a sensitive topic he feared waiting too long. Perhaps when she wasn't so tired or in so much physical pain he could ask after the nightmares he was sure this would bring, as well as inquire after the memories the encounter may have knocked free.

"Bifur?" Princes Thorin and Frerin stood behind him with several Dwarrow stood at a slight distance.

"Your Highnesses?" Bifur inquired with concern.

"We came to express our thanks for defending our namadith once again, and to escort these families to you. They are the parents of the children Orla was injured defending. They wish to thank her, if they can."

Bifur smiled and bowed to the princes before replying, "I'll see if she is awake." Moving to the rear of the wagon he saw Orla curled up on her side, eyes shut. He said her name in a low voice and her eyes opened to look at him. He signed for her to join him and she sat up gingerly.

Once on the ground, she noticed Frerin and Thorin and greeted them with a sweet smile. As she noticed the other dwarves she signed "question" to Bifur.

His response was a mixture of Ingliskmek gestures and Khuzdul to say, "They wish to give you thanks for shielding the babes."

Orla's eyes went wide and she looked at the parents, mouth open in surprise.