A Better Place - The Hobbit Fanfiction

Alternate Entry Thirty - Ambassador

"Red or white?" I asked Dain, trying to plan what to pour and what to prepare for the meeting he was attending in an hour. In the last several years we'd worked together I'd been gradually allotted more responsibility, raising me from a paper-pusher and –organizer to someone who routinely waited on him in meetings of various kinds, sorted and attended to his mail, drafted and wrote replies on his behalf or from his dictation, and frequently held onto or memorized useful information for him to have on hand at any given moment that he might need it. We'd had to work on my penmanship, since I'd had to learn to write with a quill pen, but once it had improved enough I was permitted to write things which other people would be seeing.

"Red, please. How's your da getting on? I hear he tried to cut his foot off."

"More or less." I slid down three dusty wine bottles from where they were nestled in their shelves and whisked a rag from underneath to wipe them off with. Three bottles for five men ought to do it. I could always fetch more. "He's as bored as a horse in an attic, but that's what you get for being clumsy with items that have the potential to cause you harm."

He chortled. "And I take it you've told him this?"

"Oh multiple times. I make his food look as fun as possible though since it's about the only thing he can enjoy at the moment. I offered to teach him to knit."

"Pray tell me he turned you down."

"The look on his face was eloquent enough." I twirled a dark green bottle beneath my hand as I wiped it. "Can't say I blame him."

"How have you been getting on lately? Still doing the exercises?"

"Ugh, not you too. Yes, of course I am. When I stop doing them I start aging prematurely."

He snorted. "Table's set already?"

"Yeah, got it."

"You eaten lunch yet?"

"The fact that you didn't even miss my absence strikes me to the core, it truly does."

"Saucy wench."

"No better kind. I wonder if I could juggle these...." I regarded the wine bottles thoughtfully.

"I forbid you from trying—that's quality wine. Either drink it or leave it."

I shook out the rag and threw it back under the counter. "Leave it. Goblets are out and so's parchment, quills, ink, blotters and pencils. Anything else I've missed?"

"Nope. You've got it down, lass."

"All right. I'll grab the water cask then be back."

My job as attendant to King Dain didn't mean that for meetings I simply stood in a corner and waited for someone to beckon me over to fill their goblet with wine or their cup with water. I had my own desk in the corner, where I had stacks of paper and several sharpened charcoal pencils, and I primarily took notes. Along the way I'd learned shorthand, so I documented the gist of what each person present said (for other people, thankfully, to later copy out in longhand and in ink) in case anyone ever wanted to review these meetings, many of which were open for the public to peruse if they so wished. This particular meeting wasn't, at least not yet, but we transcribed the meetings for more than just the benefit of the average curious citizen.

This particular meeting concerned the sudden presence of wildlings north of us, who seemed to take enjoyment from snatching what dwarves they could find, doing foul deeds upon them then leaving their bodies for others to find. I had already been warned—by multiple people—not to venture to the northern parts of our properties unless in the presence of no fewer than four burly lads to protect me.