((A short short I wrote while trying to get a hand for Rokra's character))
Occasionally, there would be single days with only a few lazy inches of snow would drift from the sky. Only to be followed by months upon months of Mountain upon Mountain of cold.
Rokra had a feeling that the Witch's mood had something to do with it. Or perhaps, it was some twisted game; giving the people of Narnia a taste of warmth and hope only with rip it away. A cruel reminder of her hold over them all.
Regardless, all it meant for Rokra was how much snow she had to shovel off her garden.
Well, if one could really call it that. In reality her 'garden' was nothing more than a mount of snow with the odd stick of skeleton-like branch, most stripped of everything but a few muted leaves. They were bitter, but they were something at the very least.
An owl liked to watch her work sometimes, though it never spoke. Not even a whisper.
On the day of the harshest snowfall of her long life, Rokra looked up from her work to see that quiet owl sat atop a large oak. Just watching.
"Well met!" Rokra called, leaning on the handle of her shovel.
The owl's head moved a little, but other than that it quite rudely ignored her.
Rokra cleared her throat. "Well met!" She said again, a little louder this time.
The owl plucked idly at its feathers.
"You shouldn't be out here," the owl croaked, sending a icy shiver down Rokra's spine.
She scratched her beard (for it is a little known fact that all dwarves, male or female, have some degree of a beard). "What else should I be doing?" She asked it.
The owl cocked it's head curiously. "There is....someone."
"Someone," it nodded, "Inside." It lifted its wing, gesturing to the entrance Rokra's cave, a little ways past her garden.
She turned and looked over her shoulder. "Oo-aye," she nodded. "Me nan."
The owl clucked and ruffled its feathers before jumping from its perch and flying off.
"What a queer little thing," Rokra hummed to herself.
In the time she'd been talking to the owl her garden had been almost completely covered in snow. So, disheartened and tired, Rokra sucked in a breath, picked up her shovel and headed back towards her cave.
It wasn't a cave in the usual sense of the word—all harsh sone and jagged rocks. Rather, it was a homely little room, with soft rugs and plush sofas. Shoved into the corner of the cave were two snug cots, both covered with thick fur blankets.
In one of these cots, propped up on a pile of feathered pillows, was the frail form of Hilra. Like her granddaughter, she had the blood of red dwarves in her, though she was a good deal older and greyer. The kind of old and grey that only comes when one's skin becomes as crumpled as paper and their beard as white salt itself.
Any dwarf in good health and mind would never dare be caught in bed during the middle of the day. But, much to Rokra's dismay, Hilra wasn't good in either. In fact, she was rather terrible.
Her hands had been the first thing to go. Taken up by and unending shaking and shivering that made any kind of metal work impossible.
So—with a heavy heart—Hilra had moved on from metal work to flowers and herbs, where her jitters didn't cause quite as much of an issue.
Her legs had been the second thing to go. Lost to a right ache in her knees and hip that made any kind of movement impossible.
So—with a heavy heart—Hilra had moved on from flowers and herbs to books held between her knees.
Her sight had been the third and final to go. Snatched from her by the cruel and calloused hand old of old age that made doing anything impossible.
So—with a heavy heart—Hilra had moved on from books held between her knees to nothing much at all.
"You're home early, Rook," she said as Rokra stepped inside.
"Oo-aye," Rokra nodded, hanging her furs on the coat hook by the door. The furnace in her basement forge made the cave a great deal hotter than the forest outside. "Too heavy for gardening."
"Mm..." Old Hilra's pale eyes shifted around to the rough direction on the door. "No good," she said. "No good at all."
Rokra couldn't help but agree. "I think the plants might drown."
"I'd eat me hat if they didn't. Perhaps we could move them all inside."
Rokra winced. They'd both tried growing plants inside the cave many times throughout their lives. Each time all that's happened was a short wait to watch them die. Either the cave was too dry or too dark, perhaps a little bit of both.
"Are any of them blooming?" Hilra continued.
"No, nan." None of the plants had flowers to begin with.
"Aaah. Someday. Someday soon, me bones say so."
"Your bones have been saying that since I was small."
Rokra rolled her eyes and settled down on the bed beside Hilra's own.
"Do me a favour, Rook," Hilra said the moment her butt touched the mattress.
Be a good dear and fetch something for me."
Rokra gave a loud sigh and stood up again. "Aye. What do you need?"
"Under me bed there should be a box, only a little'in." She held up her shaky hands and measured a ruler's distance between them. "Fetch it for me."
Rokra raised an eyebrow curiously, for it was the first time in her hundred-and-six years that she'd heard of such a box. But, sure enough, shoved right at the back, near the wall, was a little, wooden chest.
