When Dwalin was a tiny dwarfling, he stood in the crowd between his Amad and Balin, not able to see anything of the ceremonies taking place because of all the other dwarves standing around them. Still, he could hear everything that was happening.
The slow thump of the drums and the clang of the anvils became a heartbeat, connecting all of the dwarves in the dimly lit hall, making them one with Mahal. Their voices painted caverns beyond measure, reaching back before time. They anchored them in the lines of their ancestors, giving them a place in the world, making them a part of a great whole.
Single voices lifted above the group, playing with it, a part of it but still distinct. Bridal couples sang their vows, joining their voices in a single melody, two together in the endless music of the universe. They sang of faith and loyalty, of joy, hope and the new voices that might one day join them.
When a child was born, it was presented to the community and Mahal. The parents and siblings twined their voices around the crying of the infant, connecting it to their ancestors in a weaving, soothing song, the entire kingdom joining in.
And when a dwarf died, they guided his voice into the chorus of ancestors, sending him to Mahal's halls and the rock he had come from. The quiet, haunting dirge of a few voices grew into a great stream, powerful enough to sweep all dwarves away eventually.
Dwalin listened, his eyes wide and his ears open, wrapped in the history of his people and eager to sing his part in it.
There was just one problem. Dwalin could not sing.
When their teacher began teaching them the ancient songs, Dwalin stood in the front row, opened his mouth and, full of enthusiasm, began to sing. Except that it was not the deep, clear melody of the other dwarves that poured from his mouth but croaking dissonance. The teacher stopped the chorus and asked Dwalin if he was feeling quite well or whether he was coming down with a cold. When Dwalin insisted he was perfectly healthy, the look of concern on the teacher's face grew.
"Perhaps you could just hum for now," he said quietly.
The other dwarflings began singing the chorus again. Dwalin hummed, his face burning with shame. The others averted their eyes, only Thorin stepped closer to him.
Dwalin's parents were called to see the teacher and came back with grave faces. His Amad hugged him.
"We'll find out what is wrong," she said, blinking back the tears.
Dwalin could not count the healers that stared into his open mouth. There was private teacher after private teacher, trying to coax melodious sounds out of him with a variety of methods. One after another, he saw them wince at his efforts, make him practice harder and in the end admit defeat.
"I don't understand it," Dwalin's Amad said, despairing. "He sounds perfectly normal when he is speaking."
"Well, when he sings, he sounds like a duck with a sore throat and a stomach ache," Balin said dryly.
Balin was confined to his room for a week. Dwalin felt he was only saying the truth.
Dwalin watched as his classmates began learning the more complicated songs. He learned all the words and hummed.
Sometimes, Thorin hummed with him. It earned him disapproving looks, but he would not be deterred. Dwalin did not know whether to feel embarrassed or grateful. Instead, he hummed.
He hummed when the kingdom gathered, celebrating the turn of the seasons or the rising of a new moon.
His Sigin'amad was taken back to the stone, his family singing the dirge and the kingdom guiding her voice to the halls of her ancestors. Dwalin hummed.
Dwalin hummed when little princess Dís was introduced to Mahal and the kingdom.
He hummed and hummed, the stump of his voice disappearing beneath the other voices, not rising and intertwining with them, taking his place in the community.
He did not sing during the services, nor did he sing by the campfire or when little Dís needed to be sung to sleep.
"She won't mind, she is young," Thorin said softly when he returned to find Dwalin humming at her. "She just wants to hear a voice to know she is not alone."
"I don't have a voice," Dwalin replied, handing Dís to Thorin and leaving without another word.
The dwarves Dwalin had grown up with began singing songs of courtship with each other, trying out the melodies that had come from the dawn of time. Dwalin bit his lips, stuffed his ears and tried not to look at Thorin.
Dwalin was almost glad when Thorin left to the Iron Hills for an uncertain amount of time. He stayed aloof, not attempting to befriend anyone. Instead, he spent his days practicing with his axes or working at the forges.
When Thorin returned one and a half years later, Dwalin did not attend the welcoming ceremony. Thorin deserved someone he could sing with.
There was a knock at the door the next day. When Dwalin opened it, Thorin was standing there, shuffling his feet and holding a large, lumpy case.
"I brought you something," Thorin said, giving Dwalin the case.
Dwalin opened it and looked at the carved piece of wood in it. "What is this?"
"There was a wandering musician in the Iron Hills, a man. He had one of these and could make it sing with the most beautiful voice by stroking this bow across it. I have never heard an object sing as dwarf-like as it. He said it is called a viol."
Dwalin experimentally drew the bow across the viol and cringed.
"It sounds worse than I do."
Thorin laughed. "He says it always does at first, but with practice, it becomes more melodious until it can sing in perfection."
Dwalin furrowed his brow skeptically. "Have you tried it?"
"This is supposed to become your voice. Using it wouldn't have been right."
Dwalin nodded. "I'll give it a try, but I have difficulties imagining it will work. But thank you."
"I hope it does." Thorin took a deep breath. "I would sing with you. I would sing with you regardless of your voice or lack thereof, but I know you want to do this properly. I hope this will become the voice you wish to have."
Dwalin opened his mouth, then closed it again. By the time he could do anything more but gape, Thorin was gone.
Dwalin put the viol back in its case and carried it inside. He set it into a corner of his room and went to the forges.
The next day, Dwalin opened the lid of the case and examined the viol carefully. The six strings ran along its length like a promise and the little knobs on the neck seemed to challenge him to find out what they were for.
He lifted the viol from its case. It was too large to hold comfortably, so he rested it between his knees. It fit perfectly. Bracing himself for the sound, Dwalin ran the bow across a string.
It sounded horrible, but not quite as badly as he had expected. Dwalin tried the next string, then the others. On a whim, he pressed his finger on a string as he drew the bow across it.
It was a good thing Dwalin was used to cacophonies from the years his private teachers had tried to teach him how to sing, he decided. The discordance was not quite as painful to him anymore and as he practiced, he imagined he was beginning to sound slightly better. Just to give it a try, he attempted to figure out how to play the little rhyme Dís was fond of singing. After a while, Dwalin knew how to place his fingers and draw the bow to make it work.
He put the viol away just before his family was due to home. He couldn't help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.
Dwalin practiced whenever he had a free moment. Soon, he knew it wasn't his imagination he was getting better but still, he kept it secret. Thorin didn't ask him whether he was attempting to learn it, but Dwalin knew he was waiting for Dwalin to say something.
Afraid to fail, Dwalin practiced until he could play all the songs he had learnt in school. The age-old melodies began flowing from the foreign instrument as though it were made for them.
Then, on the turning from winter into spring, Dwalin carefully polished his viol, tuned it and carried it to the great hall in the depths of the mountain. His heart racing, he endured his family's questioning glances.
Thorin's eyes met his as he walked towards their usual place. Thorin's face split into the widest smile Dwalin had ever seen and Dwalin couldn't help but return it.
As the mournful melody rose from a thousand throats, Dwalin put his bow to the strings and joined them. The voices rose, the gloomy chorus growing like a mighty stream until first voices lifted in careful hope. Thorin's voice deep and certain beside him, Dwalin drew the first notes of the new theme from his viol and heard Thorin's voice join him. Together, they twisted and turned, joyous and bright as they wove together, separating briefly only to intertwine again. The music poured from Dwalin's viol as the spring rain and Thorin's voice joined it as the grass unfurling from the mountain.
Dwalin finally had a voice to join to Thorin's.