Rajani Milton
With a grunt, Hjalmarr hefts the largest of the wooden boxes onto the table in the front chamber of his cousin's residence. He slings the empty pack on his shoulder down onto the table next to it, nudging aside the carefully-wrapped packet of jeweler's tools. Sighing, he begins to go through the box. He must decide what to take with him and what to leave behind to moulder in the ruins of what had once been bright Gamilfûn.
Clothing and more clothing, most of it useless to him. Too large--his cousin had been taller than him by several inches, and larger around--or too small--his cousin's sons had been but children. He takes a warm grey cloak, folding it and placing it in the bottom of the traveling pack. A pair of pants only slightly too large go in as well. How he wishes for his own closets, with his well-tailored, comfortable clothing! But his own dwelling is cut off from the upper levels by fallen rock and a great chasm in the floor, so he has been reduced to "borrowing" what he can from the dwellings of those who no longer need their goods. Scavenging from the dead, he thinks morosely, but what else can they do? Refusing to take what he needs will not bring his loved ones back.
He works his way through the other two boxes from his cousin's storage room, saving what looks useful, packing away what does not. From his cousin's kitchen he takes a knife and two small bowls, then as an afterthought a spoon and a flask for water. In the bedroom he finds a soft blue shirt that fits only a little snugly--it had belonged to his cousin's wife, he thinks. A pair of boots with beautiful detailing in the leather work lean up against the sturdy bed, but they are too small. Socks are in one of the chests at the foot of the bed, and he takes those: one can never have too many socks.
When his pack is nearly full, he walks slowly through the rooms, touching small items and remembering other visits to these chambers in better days. Truth be told, he had not been very close with this cousin. They passed each other in the halls and supped together at feasts, but they did not share confidences. Hjalmarr spent far more time with his sister and her sons: the elder, a bit dim in Hjalmarr's estimation and not at all interested in jewel-craft, and the younger, who followed Hjalmarr everywhere and would be apprenticed to him in a year or two when he was old enough. Already his younger nephew had been developing a clear eye for quality gems. But sister and nephews alike have fallen to the dragon, whether burned in fire or fallen into some dark pit, or crushed beneath stone, Hjalmarr knows not. In the last terrible days since the first dragon attack, Hjalmarr and his cousin had depended on one another: they were all that was left of their kin. And now the old jeweler is alone.
He runs his fingers along the spines of a small collection of books on a high shelf. He picks up a small leather-bound tome and flips through the pages. Ah, yes. His cousin, the historian in the family. Here are all the names of his clan, his great-grandfather and his great-grandfather's great-grandfather many times removed. Hjalmarr reads the names one by one, from the most recent--his nephew, the one who would have been his apprentice--back through the centuries to the first dwarf of his line to settle in Gamilfûn. There will not be room in his pack to take items of sentimental value; Hjalmarr is spry for an old man, but he will still have to carry on his own back everything he choses to bring. But he cannot bear for all his folk to disappear without so much as a whispered name. He pockets the book.
He packs away his cousin's storage boxes, sealing them carefully so that rats and other vermin will have trouble climbing in and nesting amongst the valuables. Then he sits at the table, wishing for a mug of Adelsteinn's best ale, and draws from inside his vest a sizable leather bag.
Along with the packet of tools, this is the fruit of his journey to his workshop the day of the second dragon attack. He lights a lamp and lays a soft cloth upon the table, and carefully spills the contents of the bag across it. He picks up a ring and tries it on his smallest finger: this was a piece commissioned by one of the now-lost elders for his grandchild. He had not liked that elder much, but it is excellent work, and may fetch a fair price among Elves.
He sorts carefully through the precious stones and metals, and sort them into several smaller bags. One bag goes in his vest pocket, another is tucked inside a pair of socks, a third nestles with his tools. He hopes he will not be robbed, but if he is it will be good not to have all his valuables together.
Hjalmarr fastens the buckles on his pack and slips his arms into the straps. With a grunt, he shoulders the pack and casts one last look around his cousin's home. Then he blows out the lamp and shuts the door behind him. He does not look back as he makes his way along the corridor and up the stairs to the main level to meet the others and begin their journey.
> Next