“Thibbledorf Pwent is with Moradin now,” Bruenor said, more to himself than to the others. “Got to be. But why ain’t meself?”
He hardly noticed the growing sound of music behind him, but when he looked up, he saw Wulfgar looking past him, an enchanted expression on his face. Regis, too, stared over Bruenor’s shoulder. The halfling motioned with his chin and Bruenor glanced around.
His gaze went across a small and still pond, to the trees across the way.
And there she danced, his beloved daughter, dressed in a layered white gown of many folds and pretty lace, and with a black cape trailing her every twist and turn.
“By the gods,” the dwarf muttered, so completely overwhelmed.
For the first time in his long life, and his long life was no more, Bruenor Battlehammer fell to his knees, was literally knocked from his feet by overwhelming emotion. He put his face in his hands and he began to sob.
And they were tears of joy, tears of just rewards.
R A Salvatore
