Jokim marched straight for the back corner of the carriage, concealed in the dark just outside the strips of light that shot in through the barred windows. He could already feel it coming on, the pressure gradually mounting on his skull. It always began slowly. The
dwarf imagined his head on a metalworker’s press, with each beat of his heart bringing a turn of the crank. He no longer felt himself solidly planted on the dusty floorboards below, but lurching unevenly into a heavy fog. Jokim pressed a gloved hand against the wall to keep himself steady, but could already sense his knees starting to buckle.
By now, Ollie had turned his massive form away from the outside world and lowered the carriage flap. He saw Jokim doubling over, suddenly looking crippled and helpless in the corner.
“Jokim?” he said softly, fearing for his companion’s health.
“Not another word,” uttered Jokim in a hollow gasp, as if the words had been torn from his lungs. The dwarf had now slumped to his knees, sweat oozing trails along the soft lines of his face as the skin flushed red. His hands were fast becoming unreliable, weakening and trembling like an invalid’s.
Ollie placed one of his dirty paws over his mouth instinctively. The giant always feared the worst when the ill
spirits took over Jokim’s body. That was the only way Ollie could conceive of the monstrous headaches, those unwelcome guests that had long ago become too familiar to the dwarf. They were never far away. Often enough he could sense them dully, like a storm gathering at the back of his skull. But he never knew when the clouds would burst and the thunder quake his entire form to the ground. Usually they came after bouts of heavy activity, but even then they were unreliable. And sometimes they struck seemingly without reason.
With an awkward, staggering turn, Jokim fell upon the pile of straw that usually cushioned Ollie’s body. He was dimly aware of the giant’s aroma invading his nostrils, but it was perhaps the least offensive sensation he had to deal with at the moment. Jokim shut his eyes tight and began to make his stand against the deadly press. With great effort, he stabilized his ragged breathing, drawing his lungs full and exhaling in even time. Images of
the Grey Mountains shot through his head, as he imagined the endless expanse of the Northland’s rocky spine, free from any crowding or pressure. In his mind, Jokim was alone, floating through the mountain mist. He breathed the cool, wet air that surrounded him in a gentle cocoon. The throbbing pain lay far outside of him now, dropping over the far horizon like the setting sun.
All the while, Ollie hunched over Jokim, cautiously leaning in and trying to read the dwarf’s condition from his facial expression alone. The dwarf's features began hardened and strained, the brows knit and quivering and the jaw clenched like a vice. But by degrees Jokim’s face relaxed, the lines that creased his forehead faded and his mouth drifted open. After a few minutes, his breathing deepened, and deepened some more, to the point where Ollie felt compelled to lean in even closer.
“Jokim?” he asked, trying to soften his mighty rumble of a voice to a mere whisper.
There came a silence... and then a snore. The giant leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. Ollie thought for a moment, and then took up a flowing blue sheet from the floor. He used it to cover himself up on the colder nights of the year. As tenderly as his oversized hands could manage, he used the sheet to dab some of the lingering sweat off of Jokim’s forehead, and then covered the dwarf with it.
Quietly, ever so quietly, Ollie crawled to the opposite corner of the carriage. He sat facing Jokim and took up the watch, resting his chin in his right hand.
---
Jokim’s sleep was dull and dreamless. The vision of his childhood home soon departed, and in its place a void dark and deep came to envelop him. A loud knock on one of the carriage windows jostled him awake.
“Wha...? By
Durin! Some... quiet!” The sounds tumbled out of Jokim’s mouth thoughtlessly as he sat up, perceiving himself entangled in Ollie’s bedsheet. His gaze stumbled to the opposite window, toward the source of the offending noise.
There, framed by the vertical window bars, hovered the gaunt face of Domo, the troupe’s contortionist. He had seen perhaps thirty winters, but still had that sly, childlike air about his manner. “An over-stretched imp,” Jokim had once called him. Indeed, Domo had a history of troublemaking. He hailed from a distant village out in
the East, not so far from the
Lonely Mountain, in fact. However, his sordid antics with the village chieftain’s wife had earned him a summary banishment to what – the villagers assumed – were the harsh and inhospitable lands of the West.
Domo had gotten along well enough with Astoundo, however, joining the Associates shortly before Jokim arrived with the group. His natural ability to twist his reedy figure into a variety of different forms earned him a permanent spot in the traveling stage show. He still spoke with that peculiar Eastern dialect, wielding his
Westron as a child might handle a wooden
sword: recklessly.
“No point hiding these two, the way they snore,” he said, before making a crude imitation of the noises that the giant and the dwarf made in slumber. “Piggy! Piggy!”
Ollie had nodded off during his vigil, and even Domo’s knocking hadn’t stirred him, as his head continued to bob about like a cork at sea.
Jokim rubbed his temples with a sour expression. He could still feel the lingering
sting of his headache, and Domo here wasn’t doing him any favors.
“We’ve little else to do, ” grumbled Jokim, “reined up in here like a pair of
Rohirric mounts.”
“Little
Khoozd needs to wake up less grumpy,” said Domo. “I bring to you news this evening.”
Domo was the only Man Jokim knew of who had picked up more than a word or two of
Khuzdul. It must have stemmed from Domo’s village being so close to the Eastern Clans of the
dwarves, who were evidently less secretive with their tongue. Out of curiosity, Jokim had tried carrying on a conversation in Khuzdul with Domo on at least a couple of occasions. But the fellow mangled the grammar structure so badly that it made his Westron sound eloquent. Mostly, Domo knew the naughty words, and could always conjugate them perfectly.
“News, eh?” Jokim stood, checking as he did to make sure that his hood hadn’t slipped off of his head while he slept. “Half a moment... it’s evening already?”
“Aye, much so!” said Domo, letting one of his pale and lanky arms dangle through one of the gaps in the window’s barring. “
Khoozd sleeps like one of his Seven Fathers, eh?”
Jokim gave an amused grimace, but spared Domo a retort. Instead, he corrected the man’s pronunciation. “
Khuzd, not
Khoozd.”
“
Khuzd,” repeated Domo with surprising obedience. Evidently he didn’t want Jokim to think that he couldn’t grasp the dwarvish tongue.
“What news, then?” asked Jokim briskly, reaching over to nudge Ollie awake so he could hear the message, too.
“Ah,” Domo nodded, his eyes sparking as he remembered his purpose. “Astoundo says we perform in the late of night.”
“Why the delay?” asked Jokim, assuming his familiar stance with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Rohirrics are having wild wrestling contest,” said Domo with a shrug. “Every of our comrades has coin riding upon it.”
“Wrestling,” Jokim repeated.
That word brought with it sudden flashes of memory and meaning in the dwarf’s head. He saw himself a century younger, on the slopes of
Erebor with the other foolish dreamers of the Grey Legion. Under moon and stars they would tangle in savage acts of camaraderie, slamming each other down into the dirt and stones, grappling for supremacy, each combatant trying to prove to the others – and to himself – that he was a worthy opponent. Jokim burst into a smile, unconscious of the expression as it lit up his face.
“When shall this contest take place?”
“Few minutes,” said Domo, turning about to glance in the direction of the improvised wrestling ring. The crowd surrounding the center of the square had grown far too thick to see if the festivities had commenced, however.
“Mmm...” Jokim stroked his beard. “And where has Astoundo got to?”
“He says he will spread words about our performance.”
“I fancy a peak at this contest, Domo,” said Jokim, with a strange air of solemnity. “You would not alert our employer were I to slip out to watch?”
“And what if’s I told?” Domo pressed his face tighter against the bars, looking ghoulish and predatory in the light of dusk.
“Then I would twist that overgrown body of yours into a position that not even
you could get out of,” said Jokim with a grim smirk.
“Mmm...” Domo didn’t have to consider long. “Not a word from me.” He retreated from the window swiftly.
Jokim glanced at Ollie, who had listened to the whole exchange attentively after being roused. The dwarf started to make for the carriage flap, but reconsidered, pausing before the giant.
“You need not nurse me, Ollie,” he said.
“Are you...?” Ollie began.
“Fine, perfectly fine,” cut in Jokim. “Well capable of handling my own health.”
Ollie fell silent, feeling chastised. As Jokim began to make his exit, Ollie suddenly glanced up as if inspired.
“Did you have good dreams?”
Jokim paused, halfway out the flap. His head popped back into the carriage. “I do not dream, Ollie.”
He ducked out swiftly, leaving the giant to his own devices.
