Drink

He does not want Balin to worry, but he cannot tell him either. He is going to hold him back; he is going to insist on talking. Talking does not help. Maybe this will.

Bofur opens the door and greets him joyously.

"I'm going to Dale, won't be back tonight," Dwalin says without preamble.

"Has something happened?" Bofur asks, a slight frown on his face.

"Naw," Dwalin says impatiently, turning away from him. He wants to leave before his resolve leaves him. "Just going to the tavern."

"Alright, let me grab my coat," Bofur replies, waggling his eyebrows. "I quite fancy a pint or two myself."

"I'm going alone," Dwalin growls and regrets his tone immediately as he watches his friend's face fall. "I just need to..." He stops, then raises his fist as he tips his head back slightly.

"Ah, fair enough," the former miner replies reasonably, nodding his head in understanding. "You need to get shit-faced."

"If Balin... just..." Dwalin cannot find the words and curses himself. He is no dwarfling who needs to make excuses to his older brother.

"Don't you worry, mate, I'll take care of things here. You go and do what you've got to do," Bofur says earnestly. He is trustworthy.

The guards let him pass without question. He is well known among the inhabitants of Erebor. He has not taken a coat, but the cold night air feels good after the perpetual warmth of the mountain. He is well known in Dale as well. The tavern is comparatively empty, but a few drinkers look up at him and there is recognition on their faces. A few start to whisper. The one who came back from Ravenhill, the one who can snap your neck between two fingers; they say he has gone soft in the head now. He does not need to listen. He knows he frightens the younger bar maids, so he picks the oldest tavern wench and slaps gold coins on the counter in front of her.

"I'm going to sit there," he growls, pointing at a table in a dark corner. "Nobody is to disturb me. See to it that I have a tankard of ale at all times. These coins are yours."

She nods and there is no fear in her eyes, just a silent challenge as she seizes him up, trying to decipher his motives.

"I'm not out to cause trouble," he declares, showing his empty hands, bare except for his tattoos. "Just get me an ale."

"Certainly," she says and fills a tankard from the largest barrel. Cheap ale, he knows, but that does not matter.

After the third tankard, she has learned not to talk to him. Dwalin drinks deeply, but methodologically. There is no rush. He is no unforged stripling any more and he knows the value of a slow, steady pace. After every fourth ale, he gets up to relieve himself in the back courtyard. When he gets back to his table, there is a full jug waiting for him. He drains it sip by carefully paced sip. He loses count after the first dozen drinks.

Thorin would be snoring under the table by now; he always has been a lightweight. Not so light to carry home though. Dwalin remembers many nights of trying to get his king into bed when he had had a few too many. After Dís had smacked him around the head a few times for waking up the lads, he had simply taken Thorin to his own house. Balin merely shrugged and rolled his eyes when he found Dwalin asleep in an armchair once more, knowing full well who occupied his bed. Only the best for their king.

The drink is clouding his vision by now, but not his thoughts. As he rises from his seat once more, he has to grab the table for support. He watches his slow and clumsy movements like a curious onlooker, detached from his body. He is certainly not in prime fighting form now, but it matters not. His thoughts remain dark, turning in the same old circles, never stumbling, albeit moving a little slower than usual. Fíli, Kíli, Thorin, the ones he should have guarded, the ones he has lost, the ones he has not been able to save. What's the point of you now, old guard? The cruel voice mocks. Three kings and three princes dead on your watch while you go on living. Are you going to get Dáin killed next? Or are you just going to lose him the way you lost Thráin? He attempts to shush the voice, to chase it away with his hands, but it does not leave, so he decides to drown it in the fresh tankard of ale the wench hands him. He empties the man-sized jug in one huge gulp, all restraint forgotten. They used to cheer him on for that feat, in those rare carefree days when he was at an inn that felt safe enough to allow him to drink as he would.

The voice does not drown.

Time does not stop for him, it never does, and as he looks up after draining yet another mug, he realises that the tavern has emptied, the few oil lamps burning low. It's just him and the wench now. She is washing dishes. Brave woman, to stay here with him, all alone in the middle of the night. He has been a guard for long enough to know that women are seldom safe, certainly not in the settlements of Men. He waves his tankard at her and receives another, full one immediately. He contemplates the dark liquid. He should probably stop, he knows he is beyond drunk by now, but then again that is the entire point of this quest.

A quest for forgetfulness.

Forgetfulness that does not come as he recalls Thorin's outrage upon seeing how little regard Men have for their women. A drunken Thorin who more than once started a tavern brawl over such matters, leaving them with bloody noses and no shelter for the night more often than Dwalin cares to admit. After a few years of traveling together, they had agreed that Thorin would make sure the woman in question was safe, while Dwalin sorted out the perpetrator out on the streets. They'd work together seamlessly, a smooth system, too smooth for many a man who would never father a son now.

He drains cup after cup, never faltering, never slowing his pace. He gives up his quest for forgetfulness in the early hours of the morning. Now he just drinks to complete his mission. He is a warrior, he fulfils his duty, and he does not turn back when there is work to be done. Even if the work involves nothing but drinking.

This far north, the light penetrates the darkness late and slowly, but eventually the town awakens. The woman has retreated to a bench near the fire some hours ago, but still delivers him fresh ale whenever he signals for it. She looks tired, her face pale, but his gold has paid for her exhaustion many times over. A man bursts into the pub with a crate full of eggs, a ray of light and a cheery greeting. She silences him quickly and he stares in alarm at the glowering dwarf in the corner. Dwalin snarls at him and watches him flinch, almost dropping his precious cargo. He's still got it, then, he still looks menacing enough to make a simple-minded farmer piss his pants. Now there's a relief.

He should go. The city has awoken around him if the level of noise is anything to go by. He probably should have left before now, should have left before all of Dale saw him, but it did not feel right to cut his mission short. It will be a long walk back to Erebor today, but he does not see any shame in it. He empties his aching bladder in the courtyard once more. The early sunlight feels like daggers straight to his brain, but unfortunately there is no hope that it is just going to kill him. Dwalin gulps down deep breaths of the crisp cold air, willing it to clear his mind and steady his gait just enough to allow him to not make too much of a spectacle of himself. It does him hardly any good and he knows he is weaving as he marches in the back door, out of the front door and straight onto the street. The noise alone is torture, a horse cart clattering by, a woman screeching, and dogs fighting over discarded scraps of food. Dwalin groans.

He decides against the noisy main road and opts for a lesser-used footpath instead. It meanders across the battlefield, indistinct in places, often covered with ice. It won't make him any more unsteady than he already is. Dwarves are of the earth; they certainly know how to keep their footing on it. He has walked back from Dale many times over the past year, but every time he covers the short distance, he is reminded of the battle and its aftermath. He had walked back to Erebor twice that day, each time with a heavy burden and a heavier heart. Bright sunshine and blue skies just to mock him and his grief as he made his way through fields strewn with corpses, Dwarves, Men, Elves and Orcs. The first time he had been with all those who remained alive of their company and in his arms had been his king; the second time around, he had been on his own as they all stayed in the mountain to fuss over Thorin and their own injuries, but all those who saw him stopped and lowered their heads when they laid eyes upon the blond prince he carried.

There looms Ravenhill, a cruel reminder of his failure every time he steps foot outside the mountain, as if he needs a tangible embodiment of his guilt. It is still too fresh, too raw, and part of him already recognises that this particular wound will never heal, not until he is finally allowed to pass into the Halls of Mandos. Oh how he wishes for that moment!

Then, suddenly, a dagger to his throat. Sharp blade, pressure applied just shy of strong enough to break the skin. Dwalin growls and jerks backwards, intent on unbalancing his attacker, but a second blade pricks the skin right above his kidney, piercing his clothes, demonstrating just how sharp and potentially deadly that little point is. He stills for a moment, lets his assailant relax. It's a dwarf judging by the angle of the blades. He has no reason to suspect any dwarf in Erebor of wanting to kill him and would very much like to capture this bastard alive. Not that he is going to be overly bothered if he kills the fool. Dwalin twists and lashes out with his fists. He spins, throwing out his hands and elbows, but he is too slow, too clumsy and the assassin dances out of his way nimbly, always staying directly behind him, not giving him a target, not even giving him a glimpse of his identity. The motion makes Dwalin nauseous. He stops, breathing hard and desperately trying to focus his thoughts, willing his body into obeying his commands. A fruitless effort. His knees buckle and he staggers forward, directly into the curved blade. His skin offers no resistance to the razor-sharp edge and he feels a fine line of warm blood stretch across his throat.

Dwalin is curiously disinterested in his own end. Thorin, here I come, at least you did not have to wait for too long, he thinks and lets his body fall to his knees, knowing full well the effects that dagger is going to have on his throat. He has seen it before. He has done it before. It seems only fair that he is on the receiving end this time. So be it, Halls of Mandos it is then. At least it will be quick.

"Oi, watch it, ye cave troll!"

Not the final words he would have chosen. But that voice... that voice... it does not matter. Darkness takes him.