A Kind of Homecoming

Dora stood in the great hall. The torches along the walls had long since burned to embers and the tang of the smoke burned her nose. The darkness could have been soothing except for the feeling of expectation for the morning that sometimes night can bring. Dora could feel the earthen floor stretching out in either direction, reaching the stadium platforms and up to ceiling. She knew that if she pushed a little she could feel past this great chamber and into the city itself, being the Hammer Wielder had given her an understanding of that power.

   Thousands of Dwarves could fill this hall, indeed, had filled it just an hour past. They had assembled for a feast, a celebration - but also for a curiosity. A woman, a woman hill-dwarf, but also the Hammer Wielder, would be there. A woman in the great hall?. Dora Axewielder, Who? The Hammer Wielder! Oh!

   "Who am I?" The question echoed against the stone, receiving no answer. "What have I done?" The whisper was too small to even be recognized. Who am I to argue with kings? Who am I to propose this? "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," she thought. It was a human saying but perhaps fit all too well. Humans…

   There was a time when she had thought that she was almost too human. Yet the more human contact she made, the more Dwarvish she felt. A new thought occurred to her as she stood in the dark, or maybe it was the Hammer. She shrugged, who knew. It was all too much a part of her to untangle.

   In the beginning it had all been so simple. There were no thoughts of changing the world, just my world. There was no grand vision of how things could/should be. Yet now…

   You could hear how old the stones were if you listened. The dust was falling back to the ground after the stomping of many feet, the stones shifting slightly back into position. To the way they had lain, always had lain, it seemed. Yet they seemed to be waiting, waiting for something to happen, to change. Yes, the stones spoke to her of change, and in that speaking was a heaviness. In their silence they watched her, judged her and tasked her.

   The understanding of her belief had become her. Slowly it had shaped who she was, and now that belief was the core of her life fire. No! It had not shaped her, Dora believed too much in self-will to allow that thought, she had accepted it, embraced it and made it hers. "I could be mad," she thought and quietly chuckled to herself. "Ach, mad is really just an opinion anyway - who is to say. However, is it sane to be so sure?"

   "Where had it started?" The question rose to the surface of her mind. Her mother. Dora felt that answer long before her brain registered it. Not just physically, but something else.

   "Mama! Mama! Look what I found!" she cried as she ran into the kitchen, pigtails flying. Raised high above her head in her waving hands she carried what looked like an axe head.

   "Where did you find that Dora?" I said, taking it away from her before either of us got hurt.

   "I found it in the road, Mama! One of the tradesmen must have dropped it on his way to the city. Can I keep it?" The axe head was on the small side, but it was double-headed, and very heavy, but then again, Dora was always stronger than most.

   "Your father will not let you, Dora," she said sadly, wrapping her arms around her most-favored child. Dora and her father were always at odds. Dora wanting to be involved in craftwork and in arms and not baking bread with her mother. Dora's breath caught and she snatched the axe head out of her mother's hands.

   "Do not tell him, Mama. Please do not tell him. I will do hearth work with you all week if you can please not tell him. He will take it away." Her eyes filled with tears and with such longing that she had to break down.

   Holding her daughter close, she whispered "Ok, my Dora. I will not tell, but what do you plan to do with it?"

   "I need a haft, Mama! What can I make a haft from?" Her eyes alight with energy she wiggled out of my arms and ran to a corner of the room. "The broom! Oh Mama, may I have the broom?"

   "No, Dora - I need the broom for sweeping, or should I say you need the broom for sweeping. I think it should be a test. If you can make a shaft to fit the axe it shall be yours; otherwise, it will lay lifeless and will be given to the next tradesman passing through. Now run along - but I expect you back here to fulfill your promise one candlemark before dinner."

   "Oh yes, Mama," she said and raced for the door. Ralla was sure Dora would succeed. Whatever she did, she did with her whole heart. "Don't forget to hide it somewhere your father will not find it!" she called after Dora.

   Dora spun in the doorway clutching the axe head. The sunshine beaming into the door framed her in shadow. Ralla's breath caught in her throat. She saw Dora standing in the doorway, older now with a backpack on, tears streaming down her face holding that axe with a haft. She seemed to be saying goodbye. Ralla shivered as if a cold wind passed through her yet it was the middle of summer. Dora broke the spell yelling, "I will, Mama, and thank you. I love you!" and ran out the door.

   Ralla leaned against the table and thought a quick prayer to the hearth protector that her family would be preserved. These "insights" came more and more as Dora got older. Always quick and always disturbing. Since she carried the child in her womb Ralla had had these images. Dora was special, she knew, but with the insight of a mother Ralla also knew that whatever lay in Dora's path would not be easy for Dora. Or for her. "May Moradin protect you, my child."

   The years passed and Dora grew. She started to grow strong, uncomely strong for a woman. She refused to learn the hearth skills as much as Ralla tried. Ralla knew of the secret training that Dora was giving herself with her axe and how she would goad Grom, her older brother, into "mock" battles to practice sparing. Ralla never said a word because she knew her daughter was driven to this and there was nothing she could do against it. So Ralla watched and protected her daughter against her father's anger as much as she could. Kadre knew he would fetch no brideprice for a daughter who looked like some patched together version of a warrior and a woman. He punished Dora and yelled, but to no avail. His impotence against her angered him even more. It tore at Ralla's heart to see her family torn in two, but there was a deep understanding that flowed through her, to see it to the end and hope that what would come would eventually heal.

   The day came, as it inevitably would, when Dora was discovered practicing with her axe by one of the tradesmen who had stopped by the tradeshop. He was outraged and stormed at Kadre that Dora was an abomination and that he would be telling the council about this. Kadre and Ralla both knew what must happen.

   The night was dark and had a fall chill to the air. Ralla railed against Kadre and the fate she knew had to be. If the council heard, then Dora would be cast out. They were only hill-dwarves and had to obey the law. Better to have her family disown her than have the council proclaim any official fate. There was no yelling this time. Kadre stood in the doorway, his face still as carved stone, and cut his skin to seal the old words of disowning. Dora was no more part of the family; it was as if she never had been born. Ralla cried at the death of her family and her dreams while Grom looked on astonished. Dora stood in the doorway, as in the vision, with tears streaming down her face and turned to start a new life. Ralla felt her walk away, without family, without a name and her heart wrenched inside of her. Her only solace was knowing, as only a mother could, that Dora would prevail, she would be well and she would be whatever it was that she was driving herself to be.

   Against tradition and her husband's wishes Ralla walked to the window. At that moment, when Dora had reached the crossroads by the place she once called home, she turned to look back, just once and never again. At that moment, in a flash, Ralla saw her daughter, with gleaming chainmail, and a beautiful axe standing in a darkened hall, looking very alone.

   "No matter the fates, my child, I will always love you" she whispered in the dark. "Find your way back to me in triumph."

Dora stood in the middle of the great hall. Her chain mail gleamed as if it had its own light; her axe, as much a part of her as her hands, stood tall at her side.

Ralla stood at the entryway of the hall looking in at her daughter. She understood the burden her daughter must bear, understood her joys and fears. Ralla smiled and whispered in the darkness to her daughter, her light, her joy "Welcome home, my child. Welcome home."

I chose Dora because even though Kilsorana is definitely a part of me it is the Dora part I am most proud of. Besides, she was the first. You have provided years of joy and creativity to me and to the whole group. Your creativity and dedication has helped to build a community and also to help us explore who we are. At times you have helped us to escape into a world better than our own. I so enjoy your world, I appreciate your dedication and I love you!

Happy Birthday!

Lara