Chapter Text
My woolly feet break the surface of the snow with a crunch. The blizzard has finally passed, leaving drifts nearly up to my knees. I clutch my cloak, more for comfort than warmth as I trudge over the Tower Hills in the waning moonlight, home leagues behind and wind whipping my dingy scarf. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. I simply needed to escape.
Seeing Khamíd in the village today—or rather, yesterday—was unbearable. He couldn’t meet my eye. He looked awful, like he hadn’t slept since Yule—and no wonder: I kissed him, broke his heart, and ruined one of my oldest friendships. I never meant to, but in a reluctance to know my own feelings, I trampled on his. Now he must hate me. Things will never be the same.
I curse myself a hundred times over. How could I do such a thing? I swear I’ll never flirt again, never encourage affection unless I’m certain of my heart.
Tall trees loom before me with silver bark glinting under the stars. I trail my hands along the trunks, savoring the roughness scratching my palms. A penance. A plea. I walk, aimless, until loneliness cripples me, and I wrap my arms around a trunk. Breathe in the resinous spruce. Nana taught me how to smell trees, to embrace them and savor their aura. It calms me.
“At least there’s nothing I can do to make you hate me,” I sigh to my wooden friend.
A soft light catches my eye—a train of starlight processing through the brush. An ethereal song wafts my way. Curious, I creep closer, peeking out from trees before proceeding. I finally come upon the source: a band of golden-haired Elves glide atop the snow. I gape. Their serenity eases my spirit, remedies my guilt. I pinch myself, but it’s no dream.
One woman turns—beautiful, youthful, yet wise beyond reckoning. I freeze. She regards me for a moment, then calls in a kindly voice, “Avo ovro estel, dúlin! Sevin oer laew gell a linnas horol len. Sílo lim an i-lî lín, ve de i-amarth lín. Hí veno a lhoro; ah i-eliad Elbereth ‘u len.”[1]
Some blessing; some measure of goodwill; some hope to light my way. Do not lose thy spirit. I still have a purpose—I just need to find it.
I curtsy low. She smiles, raising a hand as I turn homeward, the snow shifting beneath my steady steps.
~
I slip through the side door just before dawn. Warmth crawls back into my limbs as I wash my feet and change my dress. There’s no time to make up for lost sleep. Instead, I make for my harp in the parlor, clinging to the hope I found in the woods, plucking out the melody the Elves were singing.
“There you are!” Opal bursts in, her pale worry sharpening. “Where were you all night?”
I shrug, still playing. “Couldn’t sleep. I rose early to practice.”
“I don’t think so. You woke me up when you left our room at ten o’clock. Do you know how worried I was when you didn’t come back?”
My limbs stiffen. “I just got a glass of water.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Diamond! You snuck out!” She narrows her eyes and plants her hands on her hips. “What, were you with Khamíd or something?”
I strike a sour note. My heart weighs me down until I want to sprawl on the floor. Opal softens. I lean into her embrace.
“Are you all right, Di?”
I shake my head, tears welling.
She gives me a long look, then helps me to my feet. “Come, let’s go upstairs.”
Back in our room, she strokes my hair until I calm down. “I think you should tell me, if you can. Where did you go?”
I whimper, hesitating. “I just… went walking.”
“During a blizzard?”
“Da…” I tell her about the forest on the northern slopes, and the Elves I saw.
“That takes hours to walk to,” she says. “What were you thinking? You could’ve frozen!”
“I didn’t think—I never do.” I hide my face with trembling hands and tell her about my fallout with Khamíd, why I rejected him, and how seeing him again yesterday was too much.
She’s quiet for a long time after I finish. “So… that’s why you cried when you got your necklace.”
I groan. “I’m so mortified about that!”
“Sha, don’t be,” she coos. “I just thought you were drunk.”
My arms clutch her close. “He must hate me. Our lifelong friendship was destroyed in an instant.”
“Diamond, I’m so sorry you’re going through this… I can see that he wasn’t a fit. But, there’s a difference between hurt and hate, you know.”
“You didn’t see the pain in his eyes yesterday, or how he slumped against the railing at Yule.”
She rolls her eyes. “So you decided giving yourself frostbite would fix it? A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
I burst out laughing. Hugging her tight, I go on for a time about my thoughts and fears and shame.
“I feel so powerless sometimes,” I conclude. “I really tried to stay friends with Khamíd, but he didn’t want to—it makes me want to run away and start over in Tuckborough. But Pim and Vinca didn’t send a letter this month. What if I don’t have any real friends?”
“My stars,” she mutters, “you certainly are twenty-two. Everything is the end of the world.”
“I think I need a distraction—a change, more say over my life.” I sigh heavily. “Something to prove I’m capable of more. There’s not enough to do here, and I’m left to just… spiral.”
She taps her chin, considering. “Well… I know you can’t take the flocks grazing in this snow, but you could do my chores for once.”
I chuckle. She helps me under the blankets and tucks me in.
“Keep up that song were playing earlier,” she suggests. “Have Papa teach you some swordplay like you’ve been wanting. But for now, I’ll tell Mamma you’re ill so you can sleep.”
My chest clenches as she kisses my brow. “Thank you. I love you.”
“Love you too, Di.”
But as she turns away, I reach for her hand. “Opal… I miss Tuckborough. Is that bad? Would Mamma be upset?”
“No.” She pulls back. “I miss it too.”
“And I’m afraid Tuckborough doesn’t miss us, or want us—though I don’t know why I care so much…”
She pauses for a long moment in the doorway. “Me too.”
~
In a dim stone chamber, a tall Man paces, his hair and robes white as fresh snow. The boundaries of the scene waver like mist. My mind is shackled—I can only watch. He circles a pedestal draped in a cloth, muttering to himself as if locked in some fierce debate. He closes his eyes in apparent meditation. I hold my breath.
He rips the shroud off of a black orb. His hands rest on either side of the stone, and it comes alive with a flaming light. He peers deep into it. His countenance contorts—curious, fearful, greedy, haughty and enraged in turn. My stomach writhes. Finally, the wizard wrestles his attention away and covers the orb again, chuckling darkly and without mirth.
“Curse those Rangers!” He turns to the window where a crow alights on the sill. “Always intercepting my Men. What is Gandalf hiding in the Shire?”
I wake with a start. What on earth was that? I search the room for specters—but the angle of sunlight shows it’s not yet midday. Maybe if I can pin down the dream in my notebook, I’ll relax. I reach for the bedside table, stroke the painted Tuckborough ornament and chipped teacup that live there, then grab my journal and graphite tube. A leaf of tattered paper falls onto my lap as I open it. Cormac’s poem. I unfold it and read:
In fields of green where dusk unfurls,
I found a muse, a bewitching girl…
I savor the rhythm of the verses, reminisce in the memory of my first Musings Monthly. But the ink is fading like my hope. Aubrey and Cormac might not be able to afford the postage, and perhaps we should write to Liam before expecting a note from him—but nothing from Pim and Vinca? Though the weather delayed him, Toby brought the mail earlier this week, and there was only a letter from Ruby and Rosalyn.
I clutch Cormac’s poem to my chest and fall back onto my pillow.
~
The next day, I take Opal’s advice and beg Papa to start training me with a blade. We clear a space in the common room while Granddad and my siblings crowd around to watch.
“All right Di, you want to grasp the hilt here.” Papa places his sword in my hand. The steel handle is surprisingly comfortable—but the tip droops and lodges in a floorboard as soon as he lets go. I have to strain my forearm to hold it aloft.
“Sha, it’s much heavier than I thought,” I pant, arm quaking.
“You’re doing wonderfully, mo taz.”[2] Papa beams. “Why don’t you use both hands and try a few swings?”
He beckons Malachite to move a straw mannequin to the room’s center. With the weight of the steel, even my weak slashes sink into the dummy. I chuckle, giddy with the power in my hands. Then Papa has me thrust the blade through—but with my shaky hold, it glances off the straw. My siblings snicker and snort.
I slouch over my useless arms. “I can’t even do the simplest maneuver…”
“Don’t worry,” Si teases. “Mal and I were just as lousy—when we were five.”
“Oy, thanks.”
“Go on, give it another go,” Granddad prompts.
As I heave a sigh, that dream of Elbereth echoes in my head: Take up thy blade; hold out ‘til the last. I level the sword, concentrate, and thrust again. This time, the blade sticks in the dummy’s torso—proof I might become something more. I brighten.
“Well done!” Papa pats my back. “You want to try, Opal?”
“Nope!” she chirps. “But I’m glad for the entertainment.”
“Very well. Now Diamond, I think that’s enough with the sword for today—the weight will take some getting used to. In the meantime, you can work on technique.”
“Really? How?” I ask, eager for more.
“This!” Mal trades me for a wooden stick. It’s light as a feather, about the length of the sword, and much easier to maneuver.
Papa grabs his own dowel and faces me. Jaden stands opposite Si to follow the lesson as well.
“Swordplay begins with your feet,” Papa says. He guides me through the en garde stance, advance and retreat for a one-handed weapon, and the square stance for a two-handed blade. “When you move your feet, mind your balance. A heavy sword can throw you off. Now, advance and deliver a cut.”
I take a step and swing the stick cross-body. Papa blocks it.
“That’s right! Don’t swing too wide, though, as it leaves you open. Now I’m going to counter, and I want you to retreat and block my attack.”
He lunges. I step back and stop his gentle blow with my dowel.
“Da, very good! Malachite, come drill this motion with her for a while, lad.”
Malachite and I take turns advancing, blocking, retreating. Jaden is much better than me—having play-practiced for years already—but soon Mal and I gradually catch up to their speed, our sticks tip-tapping and smacking.
“This is amazing!” I gasp. “Now I see why you boys always play swords as children.”
“He’s going easy on you,” Si sneers from my side. I stick my foot out to trip him; he stumbles—but while I’m distracted, Malachite whacks my thigh. I yelp.
“Pay attention!” he laughs. I glare at him. “Never take your eyes off the real threat.”
I press him, reminding myself that as fun as this is, training isn’t a game—there are real threats in the wastelands. And after a few more exchanges and a few more bruises, Papa yawns. “All right, very good. Di, Jaden, we can pick up tomorrow.”
“But Papa, we’ve hardly been going for an hour!” Jaden complains.
“Da, and I have to make Malachite pay for besting me,” I add. Jaden nods fervently.
“Well, you can all thump each other ‘til midnight if you like, but don’t forget the village chores tomorrow!” Papa chuckles, handing Si the dowels and heading to the kitchen to whisk Mamma to bed.
“I’m proud of you, Di,” Malachite says as he sweeps up the mannequin’s straw. “It’s not easy trying something new—especially when Jaden has the advantage.”
I stand a little taller. “I want to make sure I’m not helpless when we travel to the Shire.”
“Well, I’ll practice with you—after tending livestock tomorrow, if you’re keen.”
I gleam. Papa learned to fight from the Dwarves, but Malachite is the only one of us who’s faced a fatal foe. Last summer, he killed a wolf while out grazing the sheep. Our border collie Runner was his only ally for miles—he sleeps in the barn or by the hearth now, his leg shattered—but while Mal would’ve lost without the dog’s help, he still slew the monster himself. The wolf’s tail and a paw still hang in the barn as trophies. With Mal’s help, perhaps there’s hope for me—and hope for a distraction from my mistakes.
Weeks pass in a blur of communal chores, birthing lambs and goats, playing my harp, riding Telumendil, and sparring with my brothers. I reread favorite books and try to write, but every page reminds me of love scorned and unreciprocated. Khamíd’s absence gnaws at me—guilt that we haven’t made peace, longing to escape him in Tuckborough so he’ll feel comfortable coming home, fear that my Shire friends forgot me and I have nowhere to belong—especially when Toby comes again without any letters. And besides all that, the old wizard plagues my dreams, cursing Rangers and brooding about the Shire.
Swordplay is the best distraction. I drill with a dowel—lateral maneuvers, pivots, lunges, crossover steps. I trip often. I fail to disarm. I parry, feint, and suffer a hundred bruises. But it’s better than spiraling heartbreak. At least bruises heal.
“I want to move onto something you can put to use, since you aren’t strong enough to lift a sword yet,” Papa says one day after I’ve sweat through my brown frock. “A stick is better than nothing, but not much better if someone comes at you with steel. You should carry a good stone or two when you shepherd—I know you’ve got a fine arm—but just in case, it’s time you learned to use a knife.”
He produces a dagger with a wicked double-edged blade. I gape as he presses it into my palm. “Is it good for throwing?”
“It can be,” he admits, “but knives are nothing like stones—I don’t know enough to teach you. For now, let’s worry about using it in the hand.”
“Knives are small, and best for taking another by surprise,” Si adds.
“And I wouldn’t advise throwing away your only weapon,” Malachite says. “Make it count if you must, for you may not get it back.”
Papa smiles faintly. “What you lack in strength, you must make up for with strategy. There are places on a man—or a beast—that even a small blade can turn in a fight.” He gestures to his eyes, throat, and wrist. I imagine trying to reach the neck of a Big Person, or the eyes of a wolf with its teeth bared, and shudder. Papa nods, following my thought. “Unlikely, da. We’ll focus on tendons.”
He explains how cutting the arm will force an enemy to drop their weapon. When I look at him dubiously, he takes my hand.
“Make a loose fist.” He squeezes the soft part of my wrist, and my fingers uncurl.
“Gross!” I laugh. “All right, I see it now.”
“And besides being a mighty pain-point, a cut to the back of the knees or ankles means a person cannot chase you. Mind, you’ll need to slash with all your might to cut through leather boots, but it is the simplest way to slow a larger foe—or a faster beast—so you can run.”
I swallow hard but step up to the straw dummy. Papa shows me how to dash forward, drop low, and sweep at the ankles before rolling back to my feet. The first few times I miss completely; the next few, the blade barely scratches the straw. Finally, I land a solid cut. It feels brutal. Powerful. It could be necessary someday—Elbereth forbid—but perhaps taking up my blade has more to do with wielding influence, the way Papa leads Long Cleeve, and our family: not by force, but by giving others hope.
Papa nods in approval. “You’re getting it, lass. Again.”
Opal and I spend many luncheons calling on family and friends. I love the contrast between the hobbits (comically well-mannered, but genuine) and the Dwarves (brusk and blunt). A wooly-footed neighbor may say, “My darlings, have some cinnamon buns—a hobbit needs a good double-chin for the winter!” Whereas an iron-shod durâna[3] prefers: “Dear tchivas,[4] you’re withering away! Eat—a fine woman needs volume!” Either way, we never refuse the food.
But as the weeks wear on, cousins from Hilltop and more distant relatives from surrounding homesteads lament our upcoming return to Tuckborough.
“Convince your grandfather to stay—he’s already comfortable here!”
“Why do you need the big town? Everything worth having is right here in the country.”
“Those Shire Proper folk never give a rat’s foot about us out here.”
Their talk disheartens me. I hear echoes of Tuckborough parlors in every word, and I wonder if all along, the hobbits in the Tower Hills and the Shire were more alike than not. And yet I worry that Tuckborough doesn’t give a rat’s foot about us, since it’s been two mail cycles without a letter from Pim and Vinca. Perhaps their memories are short when we aren’t right in front of them. Perhaps I’m a fool to hold out hope until we see them again.
With the snow still too deep for grazing trips or tilling, my siblings and I all have plenty of time to play Dangers and Dragons with Khalíl. It’s a welcome adventure in the warmth of one of our homes. But Khamíd never joins, and his brother worries frequently over him.
“He pretty much sleeps in Bata’s[5] shop when he’s here—and he’s coming less often than normal,” Khalíl says. My heart twinges. There’s so little time left to see him before we leave again; so little time to make things right. “Something’s wrong, I think, but he won’t talk about it.”
“Maybe we can help,” Obsidian suggests. “Stage an intervention, remind him he doesn’t need to work himself ragged.”
I bite my lip and shrink into the floor. Khalíl gives me a curious look.
“Do you know if anything happened, Diamond?”
I gulp. Khalíl will hate me too if he finds out this is my fault—and if Khamíd wanted him to know about Yule, he’d tell him. “It’s just—I spoke to him a few months ago, remember? About overworking? If he didn’t listen to me then, why would he now?”
Khalíl studies me, suspicious, concerned—compassionate like always. Part of me wishes he’d get angry. At least I’d get what I deserve. But while he knows I’m holding back, he doesn’t press.
Combat with my brothers comes easier every week—more with a dagger than a dowel. By Rethe, I nearly win several duels with a short blade. I haven’t bested Mal or Si yet, but at least I can make them sweat.
“Shouldn’t I be able to swing a real sword by now?” I complain.
“We’ve been training your skill, Di, not your strength,” Si says.
I point a finger at his nose. “Aha! You’re keeping knowledge from me so I won’t surpass you!”
“Strength is never as important as skill,” Malachite laughs. “Soon you’ll be able to do a number on the Big Folk even with your little branch.”
I stamp my foot. “Tell me how to get stronger, then.”
“You’re not going to like it,” they taunt. I dig my heels in.
“Fine,” Malachite says. “On the ground. Ten pushups.”
I regret asking, but I drop anyway—and barely finish five before collapsing. My brothers howl with laughter and drag me to the barn. Opal and Jaden trail us through the snow, eager to watch.
“See that crossbeam?” Si asks. “Grab hold of it and pull yourself up.”
He gives me a boost so I can reach. My arms quiver as I hang. I manage two pull-ups before falling flat on my bum, grunting as I hit the ground. Jaden and Opal giggle.
“Wheesht!” I wave them off, grinning. “How many can you all do?”
Si scrambles up and pulls twelve. Malachite jumps after and hits fifteen without pause. My jaw drops.
“We’ve had contests since childhood,” Si says as he lifts Jaden up to give it a try. “And you always would shepherd instead of working in the fields, until last summer.”
“Da, your arms are much less practiced than your legs, Di,” Malachite adds.
“Even I can do five,” Opal boasts, pulling her chin up before dropping. “All that baking and fiddling.”
“And you’re a short little runt, so it’s easier,” Jaden says. Opal smacks him.
“Well,” I sigh, “at least I’m good at practicing, if nothing else.”
Growth certainly doesn’t come easy. I start with ten pushups and pull-ups a day—and for weeks it’s slow, sore work. But just like with swordplay—or music, or hope, or heartbreak—time and effort hearten me.
And in those remaining idle hours each day, I sit at my harp and return to that ethereal Elven song. The melody alone doesn’t capture the wonder, so I layer strange chords, develop the themes, sink into creativity until my fingers move without thought. I surrender to the sensation. I weave darkness from my dreams into it. But some days I fall into a trance, as if something greater than myself composes through me; when I emerge, I write down everything I can remember.
And each day, I feel a little stronger, a little braver, and a little more myself.
~
A week into Rethe,[6] when patches of snow lie half-melted on the ground, Toby finally brings three long-expected letters. The first is dated just before my birthday—must have gotten lost in the mail—the second, a reply from Great Smials answering the note we sent a couple weeks ago, and the third from the Goodbodys. Relief washes over me. We weren’t forgotten.
“Opal!” I yell, barrelling through the house.
She peeks out from the kitchen. “Letter?” I nod, and we sprint up to our room to devour Pim and Pervinca’s words.
There’s news about our friends, their holiday festivities, and a little gossip. “Ooh, a dear acquaintance of the Brandybucks didn’t show up to their Yule party, and everyone was furious,” Opal reads. “It caused quite a scandal until it came out that their entire household was ill.”
“Sha, I knew refusing an invitation was considered rude in the Shire, but not that it was a serious affront,” I mutter.
After Opal and I pen quick replies, I dash into the dusk to catch Toby before he enters The Frothy Foxhole—the only inn, tavern, trading post and communal building in Long Cleeve.
“Wotcher, Diamond! Something off?” Tobold asks.
“Letter—please, take it with you?” I hand it over, shivering as I realize I forgot my coat.
“I’ll not head out ‘til morning,” he chuckles. “Most folk just leave their replies at the Inn’s desk for me to pick up a’fore I leave.”
“Oh. Right,” I mutter.
He winks, taking it anyway, and I turn homeward. I’m halfway down the avenue when I nearly bump into a Dwarf heading toward the Khôrun Luin mines.
“Oh, pardon me, I’m—” I stop. “Khamíd.”
“Hai, Diamond.” The dark circles around his eyes are faded; his hair is trimmed and neat. He studies me for a long moment—and grins. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
I never expected our next meeting would feel so… calm after our last. I stammer about the mail. He chuckles, unclasping his cloak to drape over me.
“Don’t worry—I’d do this for anyone half-naked in this wind.” His smile flickers with a hint of weariness. “I’ll walk you home.”
I nod. We continue in silence, keeping a little distance. I take a deep breath. “Ehm… so how are you? Still overworking?”
He sniffs. “Just doing what I need to get by.” There’s a long beat. “Anything new with you?”
“Training with Papa. Building these rippling muscles.” I puff my chest out. “Didn’t you notice?”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Ah, you’re right. You look as menacing as my durâna.” His durâna is beefy and intimidating and has a beard. “What is your father training you for?”
“Swordplay. Self-defense. In case any Big People come upon us on the road.”
“He wants you to fight?”
“I wanted to learn.”
He nods slowly, surprised. “May your training never need to serve you.”
Almost home, the stars emerge and the wind bites. I clutch Khamíd’s cloak, storing up one more memory of his kindness and warmth.
“Why aren’t you wearing your necklace?” he asks suddenly.
I falter. “I thought—I wasn’t sure if I should, since… the engraving, you know…”
He sighs. “It was a Guild apprentice piece. I helped Jasper get it for a steal, and I engraved the back, but I didn’t make it.” He scratches his head. “You should wear it—if you want. It isn’t mine to claim.”
I bite my lip. I’m not sure I could forget he had a hand in the gift, but I shouldn’t scorn such a nice present from my parents. “You’re… sure it wouldn’t be strange?”
“Not to me.” His smile is tight and a little sad, but earnest. I return the look as we step onto the wrap-around porch.
After a pause, I hand over his cloak and meet his lovely black eyes, grief and love still flickering there. Maybe it will never leave. I know I will always feel a bit sad that things didn’t work out—but there’s something beautiful in that. I hope he thinks so, too.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words bearing the weight of a thousand memories and a thousand apologies. “For everything.”
“My pleasure, Diamond.” He bows. I smile and head inside.
Things will never be the same. But, they will be.