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Rajani Milton and Lihan Taifun
Aztryd returns to the kitchen work area, her arms loaded with soiled linens from the pantry-turned-sleeping hall, Nizl strapped to her back. Nearly all the survivors are injured in one way or another. Broken bones have been set -- or at least bound up -- she hopes competently. Today, she thinks with a resigned sigh, a dwarf who survives, with a crooked limb, might still count himself or herself fortunate. Cuts have been sewn up. Those will probably heal well enough, as long as the wounds are kept clean to prevent the rot and the fever. It is the burns that look most worrisome. A number of people have serious burns. Burns need to be kept coated in salves, and protected by clean wrappings. "Clean wrappings" means laundry -- what seems like a never-ending pile of linens in need of washing. At least, she thinks, as she dumps her armload next to a waist-high iron cauldron, it is work done mostly in the kitchen, and not in the pantry. The air out here is cleaner and more wholesome. And, she thinks with a twinge of guilt, she hears less of the heart-rending moaning of the injured as those tending their wounds peel caked bandages from raw burnt flesh.
Hjalmarr bends over the fire and pokes at it with a frown. The cauldron is boiling away merrily, ready for the next load of washing, and oh, how he wishes it was meant instead for a bath! Grit and dust from the rockslide he had been trapped under had made their way underneath his collar and cuffs and scratched with a vengeance. At least he has been able to wash his face and beard. He tried yesterday to navigate the tunnels to his home to find a clean set of clothing, but had been stopped by a great fissure in the cave floor before he had even gone far enough to feel his aches and pains. So he is wearing a shirt from his cousin the baker, who lies with a broken arm and leg in the pantry, and whose home is near enough that Hjalmarr was able to bring him extra blankets for the cold nights. Hjalmarr may have his aches, but he is far, far better off than many. He has been trying not to think of all the neighbours whose condition he does not know, because they are missing.
He hears Aztryd's boots on the kitchen floor and looks up. The young mother and her charge are a bright spot in the day. "Is that the last of the linens for this morning?" he asks. He stands up with a grunt. "And how is the little one?"
Aztryd grunts, as she bends down to pick up the jar of soap. Nizl, tipped on her perch on Aztryd's back, kicks and wiggles. "The little one is fine. Fidgety, she is. She's had too much soft living." Well, the living wasn't soft now. Now it was survival. Easy enough for Elwing to go home again -- that island was her home. Though Elwing need not have slipped out so sudden and mysterious. The elves hadn't seemed like panicky sorts, while she was with them. And what did Elwing mean about getting help from Olwe? There was nothing the king, nor any of those elves, could do to help. Wearily, Aztryd prods the pile of linens with a booted toe. "No doubt there will be more bandages that need washing before these are dry." She scoops a dollop of soft soap into the cauldron.
Hjalmarr limps over to the drying racks to make sure they are properly set up. He pulls a sheet from one of them and lays it out on a table to fold it. Blood does not come out entirely, not with the hot water they are using, but at least the linens have been boiled. He is no healer, but he has seen over the years how keeping things clean makes a difference. He watches Aztryd deftly balancing soap and baby. "Would you like another pair of hands to stir the washing? Or to carry the young one? The floor is not clean enough for crawling upon, but you must have had her swaddled on your back for some time." He folds a second sheet as he speaks.
The pungent herbs in the soap scent the steam from the cauldron, blotting out for a moment the mundane odors of grime and blood and soot. The smell reminds Aztryd of other laundry days, as a child, when she carried small bundles of clean clothes, while her mother and her gammy and their clan sisters bent over the steaming, soapy cauldrons. Where is her mother now? Where is Azagak, her gammy? The teams searching the tunnels have brought in another survivor this morning, battered and hungry but alive, so she tells herself that hope still remains. Perhaps in some other hidden corner of the tunnels, another cluster of dwarves huddles around another fire, fearing they are the only survivors. But cold leaden doubt grows in a knot under her stomach. The burst of steam passes, leaving her hair and her face damp.
To Hjalmarr, she forces her face back to a cheerful smile. She nods in the direction of his folded sheets, saying, "Thank you for the help. It is appreciated. And I am sure little Nizl would be most happy for a change of view." With a practiced motion, she unties the strap holding Nizl to her back, brings her to her hip, carries her over toward the old man. "What do you say, magpie?" she coos to Nizl, "Would you like to sit with the grandpa for a while?"
"It is no trouble," says Hjalmarr gruffly. "Better than sitting about idle and worrying."
He holds out his arms to little Nizl. "Aye, little one, let us give your mother a rest." He carries her over to the table and sets her upon it, letting her kick her small legs and arms, which have been wrapped too closely in one position for too long. "Oops, don't chew the sheets, young adventurer." He pushes the stacked sheets out of her reach with one hand, while keeping her from scrambling off the table with the other. He sees rather quickly that more direct action is needed if she is not to crawl precipitously over the edge of the table and injure herself upon the floor. He picks her up again and sits down himself on the bench. He bounces her on his knee. "Would you like a song, brave Nizl?"
Aztryd smiles ruefully at the old gentleman's efforts to keep up with Nizl. Oh, the little magpie is a handful, she is! Well, let her be Hjalmarr's handful for a few minutes. She stretches her arms, relaxing the muscles in her freed shoulders. Then, picking up a pair of buckets, she tromps over to the kitchen's well. Endless piles of laundry require endless cauldrons of hot water.
Hjalmarr hums to the bright-eyed young child. It is good to spend time with someone who is not weighed down by the cares of survival. Nizl knows nothing of dragons or cave-ins or death. He remembers his nephew at this age, and sighs. Where is his nephew now? Surviving, somehow, he hopes, but there is no way to be sure. He takes Nizl's small fists in his hands and begins to wave them in time to an old ballad about Durin's folk when the world was young. The tune is simple and the words are brave, an old song that everyone on this side of the mountains knows. Soon wee Nizl is cheerfully gurgling along with his chanting and interjecting her own pointed exclamations at appropriate moments. Hjalmarr smiles freely for the first time since the dragon attack. Well, he thinks, we are not all dead yet, and we can still make a child laugh. The Maker may have mercy on us yet.
Does the bucket on the well needs more rope to reach the water level, with each cauldron of water Aztryd has drawn today? Or does it only seem so to her tired arms? No, it is true. She can see that the rope is now near its end. And these latest buckets of water look a bit cloudy, as if a fine sediment had been disturbed by the splashing bucket. But that would only happen very near the bottom of the well. Aztryd bites her lip in worry. This is not a good sign, not a good sign at all.
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