At Your Service

During the ceremony today, Thorin and I made more promises to each other. He promised to continue to care for me and be my home, and I promised I would follow him to the ends of Middle-earth, and that I had, in fact, actually done that already. There were some snickers from the Company at that, particularly from Nori. 

Also, since it wouldn’t be a Dwarvish wedding without some crafting, Thorin took my pen and wrote the last sentence in my book — my account of the Quest. When I saw what he wrote, it really took all I had not to start weeping like a fauntling right on the spot. 

The world lies ahead of me, and all the Roads I could ever follow are laid out before me. But I no longer believe that when I set out on adventure, I leave my home behind. My home travels with me, in the books I carry in my pack, in the oak that has grown in my heart, and in the warmth of Thorin’s hand in mine.

I’m going on another adventure, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me.

Gandalf will be accompanying us to Dale, where he’ll take back the devices once more. When we told him we were headed back to the Shire for a bit, he chuckled and said for us to take care of the treasures we hid away in Bag End. I told him he was being ridiculous, as the spoils of the troll hoard had long been used to get my old furniture back after they got accidentally sold at auction. He tapped at his nose in that infuriatingly Wizard way of his and said, “All that is gold does not glitter.”

The older I get, the less Gandalf makes sense. His firework show tonight, however, was spectacular.

As ready as I’ll ever be, my love.

Lady Dís came to say goodbye to me, accompanied by well-wishes for our marriage. I thanked her, suddenly reminded of the taste of honey and the smell of straw. 

Beorn hadn’t come — some Goblin patrols were keeping him busy — but he did send us some honey cakes for the occasion. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the ones my husband makes from scratch taste much better, though. He probably wouldn’t even believe me.

Got my device back from Fíli and Kíli. They seem unrepentant about having taken it in the first place. Glad to see that their responsibilities haven’t stopped them from being, in their words, ‘fearlessly stupid.’

Cousin Gimli is now insisting on teaching Prince Prissyhair some Dwarven dances. The alcohol has truly made him fearless! And stupid. Fearlessly stupid! 

Apparently Prince Prissyhair is not that elf, because he has yielded the competition due to hating the taste of ale! Our cousin Gimli is triumphant! This is a great day for Dwarvendom!

I mean, there’s gotta be at least one Elf that likes beer better, right?

They’re both well into it. Gimli’s going strong. Prince Prissyhair matches him, but seems a bit disgusted by the taste. Well, we can’t all be snobby wine-drinking Elves!

So how did we get here, you might ask? 

Well, in short: Tauriel and I actually enlisted Cousin Gimli and Prince Prissyhair to help with the inoculation efforts last year, which is also how they met. They… made this game out of who could inoculate more people? Which was pretty nice. And then they started competing at other things, too. Which was not as nice, because for an entire week no Durin could eat an apple without the risk of Prince Prissyhair shooting it down. 

What with the size of his bow, you’d think he was compensating for something… 

Anyway, the competition of the day appears to be drinking. As in, who can drink more flagons of Harnkegger. The original wager was for Dorwinion, because of course Thranduil would consider that a reasonable wedding gift, but Bilbo insisted that they switch to something less mayhem-inducing, because — and I quote, “if Dorwinion can make Elves fall asleep, what’s that going to do to poor Gimli?”

They’ve both finished their first flagon. Gimli is insulting Prince Prissyhair’s hair again. Something about how his braids are too thin? Prince Prissyhair seems undaunted, though.

Mr Boggins — though, since he finally married Indâd in Dwarvish fashion, does that make him Mr Durin-Boggins? Much to think about — has gone off to do something sappy and gross with Indâd. Probably dancing, since someone’s convinced the band to play Hobbit music. In the meantime, we’re going to cover what really matters: Cousin Gimli’s No Holds Barred Ultimate Showdown against Prince Prissyhair Greenleaf of Mirkwood. 

What? It’s not a fight! They’re having a drinking competition!

Mr Boggins shouldn’t have left his device lying around like that. 

I’ve been waylaid by the Laketown kids and Súna, who insist on telling me about all of the interesting things they have been doing since the inoculation regimens against the King’s Pox have enabled them to travel and see one another again. Apparently Elena and Súna went East together to the Orocarni Mountains to visit Súna’s extended family. I got the feeling that was quite a big deal for them! Elena said she had fun, and that the mountain goats there are much more adorable than their cousins here at Erebor. Considering how there were basically no goats here up until about five years ago, I think she’s being unfair.

The younger kids, all of which have never known the days of the Dragon, told me that trying not to fidget during such a long ceremony was the absolute worst thing that had ever happened to them. I laughed and said that they all did a good job, since the whole wedding went exactly as planned. 

One boy, though clearly self-conscious about his pockmarked face, told me that he wanted to come with me and Thorin to see the Shire. I laughed and said he could try to go, but if he stomped around and breathed too loudly, all the Hobbits would go running off to hide in their hidey-holes! He tried to demonstrate just how quietly he could walk after that.

I’ve managed to find a moment to catch my breath. What a wedding! The one I had in the Shire wasn’t this tiring. Us Shire-folk aren’t well-suited for the ceremonies of the Great and Grim, especially when they include interminable speeches from “all the Lords of the Dwarves” (which includes Fíli, but thankfully he knows when to keep things short). Apparently I myself hold some sort of record in Hobbiton for the longest birthday speech! 

Anyway, no time to talk. Out of the Durin blue outfit and into something a bit more comfortable for dancing and eating. Thank Mahal and the Giver!

The contract-signing went off without a hitch, though I would have been surprised (and superstitiously alarmed) if there had been problems with it. Fíli — the proper King Under the Mountain now; Thorin is just his Guardian — took me aside afterward and thanked me for being by his uncle’s side. I tried to point out that there were times when I couldn’t stand the sight of the old lout (you know, because I needed to keep things light or else I’ll start crying) and he laughed, saying that I had returned to Thorin in the end, and I had stood with him and vouched for him when it mattered, even when he thought he didn’t need it. 

I could feel the weight of the mithril beads in my hair, but I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and I looked at my husband and took his hand. 

It’s been a long and strange road to this very moment. I might as well see it through.

Well, it’s time. The actual important legal stuff has to get squared away first before all the pomp and ceremony. Balin is bringing over the wedding contract, the zurbarub, detailing our duties to one another.

I mean, it is simply putting into writing the things we already do for one another, but leave it to Dwarves to turn love into a bureaucracy! 

Estel, the little Dúnadan, is here — though he’s not so much a small blossom as he is an ungainly weed, with all the growth to account for it. How the Men are so quick to mature, I have no idea. 

Estel was looking for Thorin and Kíli, having just arrived from Rivendell in time for the wedding. (Elves! They are either punctual to a fault or they lose all sense of time; there never seems to be any in-between with them.) He also said that when he grew up, he would like to get married during Midyear’s Day, too. I asked him who he had in mind to marry, and he turned very bright pink and said nothing further. I suspect there must be some elleth he fancies in Rivendell, Giver rest her. 

(I am told that Lord Elrond has a daughter who bears the likeness of her ancestor Lúthien the Fair — the same Nightingale most beloved of the Kingslayer Beren. But the Lady Arwen resides currently in the woods of Lóthlorien with her kinsmen, and apparently a Dwarvish royal wedding isn’t enough to tempt her out. Shame.)