Chapter Text
Mur sighed as she served out the stew, helpers (mostly pebbles) running around with the tireless energy of the young bringing back empty bowls, washing them for the next round, and generally getting underfoot. The group had been straggling along for what seemed forever before she finally told the Longbeards that they needed to stop and rest since nobody else seemed inclined to do so. They were tired, oh yes. She could just see the way the other Broadbeams were stumbling along staring at the ground to see that! But the bloody Longbeards apparently felt it was appropriate to march this exhausted and frightened group of refugees along like a bloody army. Ridiculous.
She had sorted out the food situation as best she could. While the Children of Durin were content to live on cram indefinitely, she was able to assure them that the children of Azaghal were not. Once they got a group of hunters out looking for game and she could turn some of the onions and potatoes the refugees had brought into a stew, even the Longbeards decided that maybe stopping every few days for a proper rest and some actual food wasn't a bad idea. Idiots.
Later, once all the fires were properly banked and the kitchen packed away for the night, she heard a sound she hadn't expected at all off in the distance: music. One of the soldiers must have brought a flute, and one of the Broadbeams had brought a fiddle from the ruin of their city. The sound chilled her because it made her remember how much she had loved to dance when... She stopped and hung her head for a moment. No, she thought. Time for bed.
"Mistress Mur?" She looked over to the sight of one of the Longbeard soldiers... Pim was his name, she knew by now. He'd been more helpful than most, if she was honest. He was very attentive, attentive to the point that she suspected he might want more than friendship. There's nothing left, she could have told him. I'm empty. Go find someone else who is still alive. I'm just a corpse too stubborn to lay down. "Care to dance?" He smiled, and oh he was handsome in the torchlight, wasn't he just? His dark beard was braided nicely, though dusty from the march; she was no treat of cleanliness herself, she knew. She smiled and shook her head, as though at a joke, and turned away. He could do better. "My apologies then," she heard behind her.
"It's kind of you to ask," she said, before she could control her mouth. "Only the serving took it out of me, you see," she babbled, cursing herself for a fool. "I'm just headed for some rest." With a bounce and a hop, he was suddenly beside her and smiling over.
"Of course," he said, relieved at what he thought he heard. "Then I'll bid you goodnight, and hope your dreams are pleasant." Ach, she thought sourly, though part of her was flattered enough to raise a flush on her face. I'll dream of the stewpot, my lad, not of you. But that was a lie. In her dreams, she danced.