The Shadow Walker

81. Coronation

A knock came to the door in the wee hours of the morning. I sat up from my snuggled-up position on the couch and groaned. I'd apparently fallen asleep, waiting for an answer.

"Amariel!" Dwalin's gravelly voice was even grouchier than usual.

"Ugh! Just come in!"

The door swung open, and Dwalin stomped in. He didn't look like he'd gotten any sleep at all. "Get up," he growled. "You have less than four hours to prepare for your coronation."

I groan and slowly stand. "My...what?"

Dwalin gives a frustrated growl. "Come with me. You have to get fitted for a dress, and you are in desperate need of a bath."

I froze. "You aren't...?"

Dwalin scowled. "I am certainly not bathing you! What disgusting thoughts have those pointy-ears filled your head with?" He grabbed my elbow and dragged me out of the room. "There are maids waiting for you. They'll—" He waved his hand vaguely, "—get whatever measurements they need and make you a dress while someone else will make sure you're presentable."

"Oh..." I didn't try to resist his pulling me along, even though my brain was still fogged with rudely interrupted sleep. "Um...I didn't think you'd reach any decisions this quickly?"

Dwalin gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "It's been five hours, Amariel, any decisions we reached were argued over extensively."

"Oh...okay."

I let him drag me down multiple corridors, until we reached a room I'd never seen before. Inside, a dozen or so Dwarf maids scurried around, already working feverishly to get ready for my coronation. In one corner sat a steaming bathtub, in another corner sat a massive vanity table, and the whole opposite side of the room was a series of tables and work spaces, where the majority of the action seemed to be.

"Here you are," Dwalin said, pushing me into the room. "Do whatever they tell you to, and don't you dare be stubborn. We don't have the time." And he shut the door.

The maids descended on me like vultures, and before I could blink twice, measuring tapes were being wrapped around my waist and hips, and numbers were being shouted out. Then I was being ushered over to the bathtub.

"Wha—no! Not with you in here!" I squawked.

They completely ignored me and started pulling my clothes off. I tried to struggle, but in my still-mostly-asleep state of mind, I was hardly any trouble for the hoardes of maids. I was reduced to crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at everyone and everything in sight.

The maids dedicated to my direct torture proceeded to scrub me "clean of years' worth of pointy-ear influence". I wasn't sure if they used sandpaper or steel wool, but by the time they moved on to my hair, my skin stung like nothing in Arda. But the worst was yet to come.

They combed my hair.

Mercilessly.

When my bath was over, one of the younger maids brought a fluffy towel for me. I was wrapped and marched over to the vanity, where they proceeded to style my hair while I glared at myself in the mirror. Every inch of my skin was a healthy shade of almost-not-there. I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. This was not what I wanted to be doing at two or three o' clock in the morning.

A comforting hand on my shoulder made me open my eyes. The maid that had brought the towel for me, smiled at me through the mirror. "Take heart, melady. It'll all be over soon enough." She picked up a comb and began gently parting a section of my hair at the top of my head, then started a tight braid—presumably the first of many.