A/N : Hello again dear ones! I am so sorry to do nothing but editing these past days. I promise I will start to write new things very soon.
Small note : in this part, Thorin has just turned twenty-four. In my own headcanon for Dwarven age, he's about twelve years in Human age.
Warning : these four chapters of Exile taking Thorin from Erebor to the Iron Hills are probably among the saddest and most gut-wrenching I have ever written. I know my fics often challenge your tear-production (yes, I love you too) - but this Part III and its four chapters are a coming of age. Thorin's. And mine, as a writer. I still recall the feelings they raised as I wrote them, and the clear, sharp apparition of Itô, and little Svali. It sounds terribly vain, but these are still the chapters I love most in Thorin's fic, the ones who never failed to make you react - the ones that flew so much easier than Thorin's life in Dunland, probably because they were written at a time where I, too, was struggling with "exile" and was saved by a wonderful friendship. I hope you will like those, and as usual, be thanked for (re)reading and take care! Much love, Meysun.
The King of Carven Stone : Part III
Through Ice and Fire (Exile)
1.
Dís' weight upon my hip, the warmth of her body against me, fumes and fire and that voice – roaring and cracking like burning logs...
"Do not tell me you have not thought of doing it, Thorin son of Thráin."
"Thorin, lad..."
We would all burn.
Balin's touch on my shoulder was gentle, yet I jerked up, my breath short, my lips dry and my heart racing. I had reached for his wrist in an instinctive gesture, my nails digging deep into his skin, awakening the pain in my forearm.
He did not wince, he did not stir – he simply looked at me, his kind brown eyes full of grief and sorrow. And I knew then that it was no dream, no terrible nightmare. The Dragon had come, and with him fire and destruction – home and shelter were lost forever. I let go of Balin's hand, slowly.
I was still lying in the tent, Frerin and Dís stretched next to me. The Dwarflings were all asleep, except for a baby that was sitting in Itô's lap, sucking at her little finger, moaning slightly.
"I am so sorry, lad. You are needed."
I nodded, and freed myself from the embrace of the chestnut-haired Dwarfling – he was the one whose weight I had felt in my sleep, and he let out a groan when I gently laid him on the ground.
My bones were aching and my body felt stiff and bruised, but the worst was my arm. I closed my fingers upon the bandages and got up, silently, half-giddy with the pain but determined to get out without awakening anyone – they had strived enough, they deserved some rest, and the later they would wake up and find themselves deprived of everything, the better.
I followed Balin outside – it was still so dark, so silent... The air however was hot, and the river was covered with a film of ashes, its waters grey and turbid.
I looked at it, struggling to recognize the crystalline river in which Frerin and I had bathed so often, and I felt Balin's hand on my shoulder again.
"Your skin is burning."
He pushed back my damp hair, feeling for my cheek with the back of his hand, but I pulled away, staggering slightly.
"It's just the heat. You said I was needed..."
Balin nodded, and then he took my hand and led me away from the river, to what had been a clearing and was now an empty space with burnt, black pine-trunks. He was limping, and I frowned in concern.
"How is your leg, Balin?
- Mending, lad."
He had answered with a wink, but I could see his jaw tighten as he walked, and slowed my pace, determined that he should not damage his leg further.
"Where are you going?"
Frerin's breathless voice echoed behind us and I turned. He looked battered, his hair dishevelled, his face pale and his eyelids still heavy with sleep, but his gaze was aware, bright and intent.
"To your grandfather. He has called a meeting – you might as well come too, we need every mind in this."
Balin had spoken with a sigh, but Frerin just nodded. He came up to me and linked his arm with mine, tightly – and it was when I caught his alarmed glimpse upon the soot-stained Mountain that I understood what he had feared.
"I'm not going back there, I promise...", I whispered.
Frerin nodded again, and I felt him relax slightly – I knew his body language so well... I gave him a little shove, and the ghost of a smile.
"You look terrible...", my brother said, and he earned another shove.
"You are not better."
I had answered quietly, because we were reaching the clearing and the assembly of Dwarves seated there. Balin overtook us, and suddenly I was glad, so glad that Frerin was there, right by my side, and that I did not have to face this meeting alone.
I could not see my father, there were only some elder Dwarves – two of Thrór's counsellors, three goldsmiths, Óin and Balin. And my grandfather.
He was sitting on one of the scorched trunks, his grey eyes bright and glaring, his mouth tight and his fists clenched. He seemed unable to keep his hands still though, flexing his fingers, stretching them, and balling them again. His face was pale and hard, and when he saw us arrive he snarled:
"About time. I was wondering when you would choose to wake up to deal with the issues we are have to face, thanks to your father's carelessness."
His words hit me full in the chest and I could only gaze at him, struck mute by his spiteful anger and the injustice of what he had just said.
"Do not be so harsh upon the boy...", one of the counsellors said, gently bending towards Thrór and raising his hand slightly to prevent me from answering.
"He has strived hard, and so has his brother."
Nár was the name of the Dwarf who tried to put in a good word for us – he was old, older than my grandfather, at least he seemed so to me because his grey hair was lighter than Thrór's. He had piercing eyes, though, emerald eyes that had lost none of their sharpness – I saw repressed anger in the gaze he cast upon my grandfather, and sadness in the lines of his face.
Thrór shrugged, suddenly indifferent, and we sat down on the ground, Frerin and me, close to each other, silent yet wary.
"So...", Thrór began briskly, and then he stopped – as if words failed him, as if he had forgotten what he had in mind.
He frowned, and then he gestured impatiently towards Nár.
"Tell them why we are here, Nár."
The elder Dwarf looked at the rest of us and I could see him hold back his grief and despair, searching for words my grandfather clearly could not find.
"The Mountain is lost", he began, struggling to keep his voice even. "We cannot stay here, and we will soon run out of food and supplies. We need to decide where to go, and how we can lead to safety those among us who are injured and weak."
His words echoed in the clearing, and my chest tightened painfully when I realised he had spoken those words looking straight at me, his gaze grave and sad.
"Nobody has to drink from the water", Óin intervened, temporarily saving me from answering. "It is full of ashes, and of poisoned fumes – we have to boil it first, I already told the women...
- Then in Mahal's name boil it!", my grandfather growled, and I felt Frerin flinch next to me.
I reached for his hand and brushed his knuckles with my thumb, soothingly. His face was aghast and betrayed his fear – he was so young, so terribly young...
"Do not bother us with such details...", Thrór said, his voice thick with contempt. "We are talking of serious issues here."
Óin shook his head silently, and did not talk until the end of the meeting, his arms folded and his face closed – anger was clearly pouring from his body, but he managed to keep it down.
"I think we should head for the Iron Hills as soon as possible", Balin said calmly, his face gentle and thoughtful as ever.
"I was expecting that from you...", Thrór said, letting out a brief, cold laugh. "To you, the Iron Hills may look like home – the mines, the dust, after all, what else have you seen of the world...? But I shall not go there – who would want to soil his hands with iron, when we could have silver, gold, and even míthril...?
- What do you mean, uzbadê?", Balin asked, and Thrór was probably the only one who did not feel the sharp, biting contempt in his last word.
"I mean we should reach for Khazad-Dûm, you fool. There are enough caverns and shelter for all of us, enough wealth to be found in the mines, and even a lake so that our dear friend here won't need to boil his water..."
My body had stiffened when he had insulted Balin, and tensed even more when I heard him abuse Óin. Surely this was not my grandfather speaking – some evil spirit had taken control of his mind, twisting his words so that they bit and hurt...
"Khazad-Dûm has fallen into darker hands. Udûn's Flame is roaming its depths – the gates of Moria are no more open to our people."
Balin had answered with the same even tone, and yet Thrór tensed.
"It was eight hundred years ago", my grandfather said, clenching his fists. "Do not tell me you are afraid of a mere myth – the shadow of a Balrog, really... It only serves to scare Dwarflings, just like that one, sitting here wide-eyed like a frightened doe!"
He had a depreciating gesture towards Frerin and this time I drew him against me, shielding him from my grandfather's gaze with a fierce, angry move.
"This is madness."
The deep, growling voice that put a final stop to my grandfather's ramblings belonged to Dagur – a tall, broad, fierce Dwarf whose face was deeply scarred from battle wounds. He was the one who taught us how to fight, Frerin, me and all the young Dwarfs, and he certainly was not one to rush blindly into pointless death – he knew the risks of battle and war too well.
"I am not leaving one Fire for another. I am not going to Khazad-Dûm, and never will. You keep your míthril and your dreams of glory – they are not worth a copper coin to me."
Thrór glared at him, and yet he did not dare to challenge him – Dagur really looked too formidable, his blond hair stained with soot, his blue gaze proud and fierce.
"I am with Balin on this. Let's make for the Iron Hills – for the sake of the women and children, if not for ours.
- I agree too", Nár said, and then he looked at me.
I was still holding Frerin, and held Nár's gaze for a second, before I finally said, in a voice that I desperately wanted to sound firm:
"I also think it is the wisest thing to do, grandfather. We have family here, they will help us and welcome us in these hours of need."
Thrór shook his head, his eyes narrowing.
"How naive you are. So you think they will welcome us, right? I will tell you what they will do – they will rejoice to see us brought so low, they will smirk and chuckle to see us come to them like beggars, and I won't bear it, do you hear me? I won't bear it!"
He was clearly shouting now, and had risen from his sitting position, taking a menacing step towards me.
Dagur rose too, and this simple gesture was enough to stop Thrór. I slowly let go of Frerin, and then I stood up, facing my grandfather and the rest of the Dwarves.
"I will take everyone to the Iron Hills, if you won't do it, grandfather", I said, my voice resolute, even though my legs were shaking. "There is no other way, no other possible course."
Thrór opened his mouth – and seemed again at a loss for words. We faced each other for what seemed an age, before Balin's voice broke the silence.
"And what of supplies? We have very little – we will soon run out of food, and the journey is a long one."
We fell all silent again, and it was Frerin who spoke at last, rising slowly to his feet to stand next to me.
"We have to get to Dale. They are in need of help too – the attack on the City has been terrible, their houses are burnt to ashes. We are strong, we can help them to secure their remaining homes, and to bring their wounded to safety. If we help them, surely they will help us too... They are our allies, our friends..."
His voice was so unsure, he was so innocent, so gentle... And my grandfather laughed – a hard, mean, dreadful laugh.
"How my son could father such a weakling I do not know – but then, Thráin is a weakling too. He fled from the Dragon and left our Treasure to him, and you, you stupid, little...
- Enough!"
My voice echoed in the clearing, causing some of the elder Dwarves to flinch. I had spoken fiercely, without restraint or respect, because I could not summon any in my heart, not after I had heard Thrór abusing my father, and my little brother who had so much more sense and goodness in him.
"It's alright, Thorin, I don't mind...", Frerin whispered, but I ignored him just as I ignored the incredulous glare of my grandfather.
My blood was racing, I felt its pulses in my chest and wrists, making me sweat – my back and armpits were soaked, and my face felt hot. I was so angry I was shaking, and I clenched my fists as I spoke.
"Frerin is right, it is the only thing we can do. We have no supplies, no food, no means to carry what we have left. We have to get to Dale – it is our duty, we swore to protect them. We have to help them, and ask for their help too, there is no other way – and you know it."
I had hurled those words at him, and then I just grabbed Frerin's arm and left – Thrór did not even deserve to be spoken to, not in that mad, bitter and hateful state of mind.
I was walking quickly, with broad, angry steps, and Frerin struggled to keep up with me. I was still holding his hand, and it was when I heard a small, muffled noise that I slowed my pace and finally stopped to look at him.
He was crying, trying to stifle his sobs and to check his tears, but it was not in his nature to withhold his emotions, and when I dragged him against my chest his tears broke free. I placed my hand upon his locks, stroking his hair, trying to soothe him once more, and Frerin buried his face in my neck, still sobbing.
"He hates me, Thorin. He really hates me, because I am so weak. I am... I am not like you...
- You are not weak", I said forcefully, pulling up his chin to make him look at me. "You are brave, and kind, and strong – never let anyone make you think you are not, because that's a lie."
I brushed his tears away with my thumbs, and Frerin drew a small, shaky breath, his sobs ebbing slowly.
"And thank Mahal you are not like me, otherwise I think we would have forgotten ourselves and slapped our mighty King..."
I had whispered those words with a half smile, and Frerin laughed, briefly, the pain of my grandfather's words temporarily forgotten. He wiped his eyes and let go of me, and it was then we heard loud, heavy steps heading towards us.
"I am with you on this...", Dagur said, boxing Frerin's shoulder.
My brother staggered slightly and Dagur grinned.
"Hold your ground, lad. You certainly don't lack ideas, behind that shiny face."
Frerin beamed and Dagur winked at me – he liked all of the Dwarflings, but had a soft spot for my brother, because Frerin was never hiding anything from him, confiding completely in him, even when Dagur would pin him down on the ground or make his wrists and shoulders hurt with his iron grips and hard blows.
Frerin was never afraid of strong people, the only thing that could unsettle him was malice... and madness. He never was the same with my grandfather after that day, and I could not blame him.
We left the camp shortly after, heading for Dale with a dozen of Dwarves, Dagur among them. I had asked Balin to stay at the camp – partly to rest his injured leg, but also because I did not want to leave my grandfather alone. He was not in his right mind, and after what he had said about my father I wanted to be sure that he would not get to him and harm him.
We reached the City as the morning sun grew warmer – or perhaps it was only because the fire raging there was barely quenched. The houses I had loved so much were maimed and scorched – their white marble had fallen to dust, and the gilded domes had all crumbled, adding more rubble to the streets, killing some of those who had dwelt under their golden tiles.
We entered Dale in silence, and with silence Dale's Men met us – not a word of reproach was voiced, they were too desperate, too hurt, too stunned. Their lord was dead – Girion had fallen from the watchtower, where he had tried to fight the Dragon. The tower was destroyed, and the lively, proud City-lord was no more.
His son was mourning him, they told us, and when we asked what we could do for them they just shrugged. But slowly, we managed to find out which part of the City had endured the worst of the attack – in which part it was still dangerous to walk, and where our skills would be welcomed. For we Dwarves are used to handling weights and levers, and know how to stop the stone from crumbling – the galleries and halls in our Mountains a daily proof of that talent.
That day we secured the stone walls of Men and put levers against their houses. We worked hard and in silence, thinking of the walls and galleries who had crumbled in the Mountain – of all the lives that had been taken, by smoke, fire, stone or lack of air.
And when the houses were safe enough to begin the search, we entered them. I wish I could forget what we found there – death and tragedy in every room. Crushed bodies, lifeless frames that had long finished bleeding. Children, women and men – none was alive, there was no one to save there.
I flinched when I heard Frerin moan, bent upon a tiny frame. My brother was stroking the hair of a child – a small, dark-haired girl that could have been Dís. She looked asleep but she was not, the strange angle of her neck told another story. She must have fallen from one of the houses storeys, breaking her spine and dying instantly – at least she had not suffered long, but that thought gave me no comfort.
"Lena...", Frerin whispered, his grey eyes empty as his gaze met mine. "Her name was Lena. She was my friend – she was afraid of the dark, and I made her a music box to help her fall asleep..."
He was not crying, this time – his grief was too strong, and it made my own throat tighten. Inwardly I wept, for that poor, little girl that would sleep forever now, for the fact that it could have been Dís, stretched motionless on the ground, and for my younger brother that should never have had to witness such a dreadful, meaningless death.
Frerin gently placed an arm around her shoulders, and another under her knees, and then he carried her out of the house. He held her close against his chest, his face pale but upright, and he walked up the street, slowly, respectfully, carrying her to the place the Men were watching their dead. And many were those who saw him walk – the young, golden-haired Dwarven prince who had once filled their places with their children's laughter, his mind full of stories and his hand full of toys. And they wept to see him like that, a child carrying another child, sharing their grief without a word – because there were no proper words.
Frerin laid down his small, frail burden close to the other bodies that were stretched here, and I heard him voice our prayer for the death, before he bent and kissed Lena's forehead.
It made my chest tighten and hurt with unshed tears and suddenly I was afraid to scream out loud – I could not watch this, I could not handle this, it was too awful... But I witnessed it, nonetheless, my body drenched in sweat, shaking with grief in the morning sun.
When Frerin came back I had taken my resolution. We would not ask anything of Dale's Men – it would be a disgrace, an insult to their grief that would only bring us lower than we already were. We had helped them to get to their dead kinsmen – dead because of the Fire my grandfather's greed had called upon them. And we had done so because it was right, not because we expected something in return.
I put a hand on Frerin's arm and looked at him. And my brother understood without a word.
"Let us go, Thorin...", he whispered, and I nodded.
We left that sad place then, facing Dale's destroyed, dusty streets again, and we had almost reached the marketplace when a voice made us stop.
"You are leaving."
We turned to see a thin, dark-haired boy – not a child anymore, but not a Man yet. His eyes were bright and red-rimmed, his features pale and drawn, and I recognized Cillian instantly. Girion's son. Mourning.
His voice was cold and hard, just like his face – he was tall, I had to look up at him but I withstood his gaze, even though my vision seemed strangely blurred, all of a sudden.
"There is nothing left here for us", I answered softly, and Cillian laughed, a brief, mirthless laugh.
"You have taken everything from us. Our City is in ruins, our lands are burnt and barren, our people are slain or injured... and my father died trying to defend what you should have guarded."
His words hit me as if he had smacked me, yet I did not answer, because there were no proper words to apologize.
"Come, Frerin...", I said, laying my hand upon his arm, turning away from Cillian, ready to leave.
We had done our duty, we had helped Dale's survivors, I had made sure our conscience would at least be clear on that point. We had not done it for help, we had done it to ease the guilt we felt because we had failed, and there was nothing more we could do.
"Wait."
Cillian's voice stopped us as we began to walk away – my hand was still on Frerin's arm and I had to lean upon him, the fire in my arm and blood becoming hardly bearable.
"That wound on your forearm – how did you get it?"
I turned, slowly – the street and houses around us were distorted, an indistinct mass of brown, black and grey. The air was so hot, so oppressive, suddenly I just wanted to get out of the City.
"He faced the Dragon. He saved our little sister.
- Frerin, mahimdin gal'mezû!", I hissed, but my brother would not be stopped nor silenced.
"We loved this City too. We never wanted it to burn, never wanted your children to die as ours did. There was no time to get to you – those who have survived did so thanks to your Men, and we will never forget it. We are so sorry."
There were tears running at last on Frerin's cheeks, and I could not bring myself to order him to pull himself together. He had just voiced my thoughts, avoiding me the humiliation of excuses, assuming it alone – almost childish in his acknowledgement.
And perhaps it was because we were actually no more than children – Cillian a child of Men, and Frerin and I far from grown-up Dwarves – that the son of Girion softened.
He came up close and bent upon my wound, feeling for my fingers that were still clenched in a fist, and I let him. He touched my skin, forced my fingers to loosen their grip and then he looked at me.
"That wound is poisoning your blood."
I shook my head, trying to ignore the dizziness this simple movement caused.
"No. We are used to the fire, it doesn't harm us."
I was lying, of course. I had felt feverish ever since Balin had made me leave the tent, and it had worsened every hour – my whole body was aching and my lips were so dry I could barely speak.
Cillian raised his eyebrows, and then he made up his mind.
"Stay here. Don't move."
As if we could. Frerin made me sit on the ground, leaning me against the remains of a house, and I only remember the hard, dry ground against my thighs and palms and the hot, sticky air around us – then I passed out.
I regained consciousness minutes after, feeling water on my lips and on my face – the delightful coolness of it, quenching that terrible thirst that had plagued me... I opened my eyes, yearning for more, and found Frerin and Cillian bent upon me – my brother's face ashen, and Cillian frowning.
"He tells me you haven't drunk anything the whole day – why is that? Surely there's enough water for all of you in the river...
- It's poisoned...", I whispered. "Full of ashes and fumes."
I recovered, leaning against the wall – I felt a little better, less dizzy but still terribly hot and thirsty.
"It has to be boiled to be drunk, and we did not have the time..."
Cillian wordlessly handed me the hip-flask he was holding, and I was about to raise it to my lips when I suddenly thought about what I had just said.
"Does it come from the river?"
Cillian shook his head.
"The waterfall...", he answered, and I could only curse us for not having thought about the cascade before – but then Ravenhill was far away, and so close to the Mountain...
Again I raised the flask to my lips, and again I stopped, noticing Frerin's parched, dry lips.
"Take some...", I said, handing it to him, and I watched him drink – only one or two gulps, before he handed it back.
"I'm not thirsty anymore...", I lied, and Cillian shook his head again.
"I have brought more. Just drink, there is enough for both of you – no need to die of thirst."
His face was grim, his eyes dark – I knew he was thinking of his father, of all the dead Men the Dragon had taken in his wrath. I bowed slightly, thanking him, and then I drank, trying to regain some strength – enough to get back to the camp, enough to move on, enough to keep everyone going.
"Your brother told me your father is injured too..."
I almost dropped the flask in surprise – Mahal, was there no ending to Frerin's chatter? Had he really no sense of pride and privacy at all? I glared at him, too furious to find my words, and Cillian spoke again.
"They all rely upon you then – how can you bear it?"
There were tears in his eyes and they quenched my anger, suddenly. That child of Men was barely older than me – and he had been thrown into that mess and desolation just as I had been. Men or Dwarves, we were all sad and terrified. Homeless and lost.
I rose to my feet, slowly, leaning a hand on the wall, and I handed the flask back to Cillian, my gaze full of unspoken sympathy.
"I bear it because I have to. There is no choice in that, is it? We have to move on, all of us..."
He took the flask and I lay my hand upon his arm.
"Thank you for the water. I won't forget."
Tears were falling on his cheeks and he brushed them away as I gently dropped my hand, ready to leave.
"Wait – Thorin, please..."
He brushed his eyes again and took a deep, shuddering breath.
"My father is dead. I don't want yours to die too. His kindness has helped us this spring, and we – we promised to remember."
His lips were quivering and he bit them, trying to fight back a sob.
"We can't offer you much food. There is not enough left, but I can let you take some wheat, and also blankets. I'll ask the men to load a cart for you... and I can give you some carts for the injured too..."
I looked up at him – that young boy, not a Man yet, so generous and kind despite his grief. And then I embraced him, not bothered by the fact that he was so much taller that my head barely reached his chest – I had never felt small among Men, they never frightened me. They had been my friends, and it warmed my heart to see that it was still the case.
"Mahal bless you, Cillian.", I whispered, and when he started to cry I just held him close.
He was true to his word, that young lord of the once mighty City we had all loved. The cart was filled, and several others handed to the dozen of faithful Dwarves that had followed me that day and had strived among the ruins.
"This is for you...", Cillian said as we parted, and he handed me a small parcel. "Some herbs to ease the pain and abate the fever, and a balm for fire-wounds. Take care of him, Thorin. Take care of your father, for he was a friend of mine."
He had tears again in his eyes and I struggled to fight back mine – I knew I would never see him again, and yet I would remember his kindness all my life.
"Mahal bless you, Cillian", I repeated, and then we left.
I could not drag the cart myself – the pain in my arm was too intense, I almost passed out again when I tried, and Frerin just pushed me away with an exasperated move, before he gestured the other Dwarves to come and take my place.
"Will you stop trying to kill yourself?", he hissed, putting my arm around his shoulders.
Frerin was the one who led me away from Dale, the other Dwarves following slowly, pulling the chariots behind them. He did not turn once, but I saw him brush away his tears with his free hand, the other still supporting me.
"You have to learn to keep silent, Frerin...", I chided him – because I had to, and also to keep him from his thoughts.
"You cannot just tell everything about us like that."
He stopped and had a brief, joyless laugh, his grey eyes ablaze in his pale, drawn face.
"Right, Thorin. I should just keep my mouth shut like yours – never ask for help, never complain and never confide in anyone, so that I can remain an honourable Dwarf and die of thirst and fever!"
He let go of my arm and pulled away from me, shaking with anger – I had never seen him like that, he was always so calm, playful and gentle while I was the one who was boiling and angry.
"Do you realize the state you are in? Do you realize what I might have felt, when you chose to pass out in that dusty, smoky street? I thought I was losing you! And you... the only words you can think of are mahimdin gal'mezû – keep it shut, then, Thorin, and see how far you can go without asking for help!"
He gave me a brutal shove in the chest and watched me stagger, his eyes bright and glaring. And then he let out a stifled sob and turned from me, with broad, angry steps that soon broke into a run. I watched him dash towards the camp, his golden hair flowing as he ran, too stunned to move.
And then I slowly resumed my walk – one step after another, it could not be so hard, the camp was not far away, I could already see the tents, tiny black spots close to the riverbank...
I barely remember getting back, but I recall the small weight of Cillian's parcel I was pressing against my chest.
My father. I had to get to my father.
Balin and Óin met me at the camp's entry, and I do not recall what I said to them either – probably that there was food on one of the chariots, as well as blankets and a barrel of clear water, or maybe I just pointed to the carts, too exhausted to speak.
But I clearly remember enquiring after my father, and asking Óin to take me to him, despite his frown and his repeated advice that I should rest first, that it was unreasonable for me to go to him in that state. I just waved his objections away, and when he still did not move, I felt my anger rise once more.
"Either you take me to him, or I will search every tent until I find him! Just show me where he is, Óin!"
He shook his head but then he bowed, a stiff, curt nod, and took me by the arm to guide me toward one of the tents. I remember the dust that rose and fell on my boots with each wavering step I took – the earth was so dry, dry as my mouth and my eyes.
He stopped close to the entrance and looked at me earnestly.
"You are sure about this?"
I nodded, and Óin let out a sigh.
"I will be right behind you."
And with these words, we entered the tent, and I felt my courage and strength falter as the heavy folds of dark fabric closed behind us.
I only wanted to lie down. I wanted to feel my father's arms around me and be able to tell him about Dale – the horrors I had seen there, and Cillian's kindness. I needed him to comfort me, to assure me that I had taken the right course, to take some of this terrible responsibility off my shoulders.
But I could not.
As I advanced towards the massive yet motionless figure of my father stretched onto the ground, I knew that my hours of comfort had been spent long ago – they were a vain hope, nothing more.
I knelt next to my father, casting a look upon his battered face, at the old, pale scar that had damaged his left eye, so familiar... I had run my fingers upon that mark as a Dwarfling, those mornings where my father would allow me to climb in my parents' bed, and Thráin had always let me, holding me against him, allowing me to discover alone what blades and battle could cause.
His eyes were closed now, and the raven-black hair that he had passed on to Dís and me was damp with sweat where it was not singed. There were knots and tangles everywhere, even in his beard, but what made my chest tighten was to realize for the first time that there were grey threads in his mane.
He was asleep or unconscious, I did not know, and when I reached for his hand I felt the heat of his skin. My fingers closed upon his, entwined themselves with them, and I held his hand close to my chest, suddenly overcome with grief. We were both burning, we both had endured Dragon-fire, and we both could not afford to be injured.
I felt my father's fingers tighten around mine and stroked the back of his hand, still kneeling. He opened his eyes, turned his face towards me – his gaze was unfocused, the grey iris bright as a moonstone, full of pain and anguish.
When he finally spoke, uttering only one, half-whispered word, I had to close my eyes to hide my own pain.
My mother's name. Always my mother's name.
He whispered it repeatedly, like a child calling out for help. So much anguish and suffering in a single word – I knew then that he must have woken like this every single night of the past ten years. Her name on his lips, emptiness beneath him, and the balance of his mind and soul more fragile every day.
I bent upon him, and tentatively touched his forehead with the fingers of my injured arm, stroking his hair. Thráin flinched at my touch and his body stiffened.
"It is me, Father. It's Thorin...", I whispered, trying to soothe him.
"Careful, lad."
Óin's voice echoed from the tent's entry, but his warning came too late. Suddenly Thráin reached for my wrist, his burning fingers crushing my bones. Pain and surprise made me release my own grip, and my father jerked up, reaching for my throat. His broad fingers closed themselves around my neck and he nailed me to the ground, despite his weakness and his injuries – for I was weak and injured too, and did not even think of defending myself.
I found myself lying flat on the ground, his thighs crushing my chest, his hard, strong, deadly fingers choking my throat. What foe he saw in me I never knew – I just remember the fierce, desperate expression of his face as his grip around me tightened.
I could not breathe anymore, and tried to loosen his fingers with my free hand. And as I struggled and strived under him, our eyes suddenly met. He was a formidable Dwarf, strong, fierce and ruthless, and I can recall him so clearly, bent upon me, his raven mane brushing my chest and face, his teeth gritted in rage.
I was looking at him, wide-eyed with pain and fear, my gaze beginning to cloud, and suddenly his fingers released their grip. He let go of my throat, panting, and I drew a deep, wheezing breath, desperate for air, before I started to cough.
He was still weighing me down, and I felt his hands as they brushed my chest, taking in my frame – I was still wearing my chainmail, had never had the time to undress ever since the Dragon's attack, but I must have seemed so slender to him, so light and easily crushed...
I never stopped to look at him. I could not bring myself to use his confusion to strike back – he was my father, had been my rock and my Mountain for years, I could not hit him or defeat him, I could only look at him, trying to fight back fear.
Thráin's face fell and he let go of me, freeing my chest from the iron grip of his thighs, moments before Óin hurled himself at him – for our terrible struggle had only lasted seconds.
"Let go of him!", he shouted, and as I saw him drag my father back, I realized that he might be a healer, but that he was as trained for battle as any Dwarf.
"Do not hurt him... please... Óin..."
I had recovered, reaching for Óin and my father with staggering steps – Thráin was not even struggling, he was just breathing heavily, shudders running down his spine, his gaze confused and afraid. I fell to my knees next to him and embraced him, my heart still pounding with fear and dread.
"Do not hurt him..."
I felt the hot breath of my father on my cheek and I bent to touch his forehead with mine – our sweat mingling, the same fire burning in our veins, the same soaked, black locks pressed against each other.
"It is alright, 'adad. I am here. I will always be here. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you."
My voice was hardly above a whisper – I was so scared, so terribly scared. But I did not let go of him. Not even when I felt him sag against me, exhausted by this outburst and by the fever setting his blood ablaze – I would hold him, I would help him.
I slowly laid him back on his blankets, and with Óin's help we removed his tunic. There were bandages everywhere on his chest and his arms, and I shuddered when I saw the rusty pattern blood had left on the white shreds of fabric.
"You don't have to do this, Thorin."
Óin's tone was gentle, but I just shook my head. I thought of Cillian who had just lost his father and who had been kind enough to give me something to help mine – a son's gift to another son. It was my duty, no one else could do it. The lower part his body I would let Óin handle, out of respect. But my father's chest, his face, his hair – they were mine to take care of.
Óin helped me to remove the bandages and there they were, the marks of the Dragon's breath on Thráin's body, barring his tattoos, half erasing them.
I washed my hands with care and then I started to clean his wounds, with gentle, careful moves – I was not afraid to look at them, I had the same marks on my arm. And once I finished I applied the ointment Cillian had given to me, on the edges of every wound, praying Mahal to quench the fire in my father's body.
Óin was doing the same with the wounds on his legs, and then he helped me to treat his back. It was when we sat him up that I saw the broad, purple bruise stretched upon his ribs. His breathing was shallow, even unconscious, and it made my own chest hurt. We bandaged his wounds again and made him put on a clean tunic – black, without adornment, the way he favoured.
We laid him down again and I looked at him, almost numb with grief. He was lying there, so close that I could touch him, and yet I could not reach him – I could not reach him.
His face was pale and looked calmer now, but his hair was still untidy and wild, and it seemed so wrong. He had never looked that way, every single day he had tried his best. Always dressing with care, always mindful of his duties, his grief unhidden yet unvoiced. He was a Prince too, had served his King and father and had almost lost his life trying to save him, earning only contempt in return.
It was so wrong, so sad, so unfair. Death had broken his heart, fire had scorched his body, and now his mind was crumbling too – the Dwarf I had depended upon was no more.
"Thorin, you have to rest."
Óin's voice echoed next to me and I realized I was barely able to sit upright. I also noticed that for the first time in my life he was not calling me lad anymore, and it strengthened me somehow.
"There is something I have to do first."
I had spoken softly, and my elder cousin did not argue with me when he saw me bend upon my father once more. I removed the silver clasps and beads from my father's hair, carefully – I knew every braid and every pattern by heart, I had watched him plait his hair every day as a child, and he was the one who had taught me to braid mine.
I laid the clasps and beads on the ground next to me – Thráin's private, carefully kept treasure – and Óin handed me a clean basin, his eyes full of understanding.
He left me then, giving me this one moment of privacy, and as my eyes fell on the basin I realized my cousin had also left me his comb. It was a family heirloom, centuries old, made of a light, hard material – ivory, only found in the South, rare and precious because it came from the tusk of gigantic, ferocious animals. The symbols of Borin's family were engraved upon it – Borin the Fearless, Balin's and Óin's great-grandfather, who had travelled far and taken back trophies and healing secrets from entire Middle Earth...
I let out a deep, shuddering breath, and then I gently began to bathe my father's hair. I rinsed dust and ashes away and did the same with his beard, careful not to hurt him, not to pull hair out, yet singed curls would still fall and stay in my hands. And when it was clean and smooth I began to comb it, my moves cautious and slow. It took me so long to get past the tangles and knots, just as if I was carving silver. But in the end Thráin's hair and beard were spread against his chest, unbraided yet long and luxurious again.
I stroked it with my fingertips, feeling some peace invade me at last. My body ached and exhaustion made my eyelids burn, but my mind and heart were at peace – I was not afraid anymore.
"If you do not remember, 'adad, I will remember for you."
I whispered these words like a promise, as my fingers began to braid Thráin's hair. The moves were so intimate, so familiar I could do it even with an injured arm, even through the haze of fever. My fingers ran nimbly through my father's damp locks, weaving the symbol of our clan into his braids – Durin's folk braids, fastened with a silver clasp. And then I braided the locks on his temples the way he had taught me to do with mine – the simple, three-threaded pattern of our family line, the line of Thrór, who had strived, fought and reclaimed our kingdom, only to lose it again.
Endure, treasure, protect.
I would not let our family forget, I was still there to keep these proud values upright – may Mahal forgive my weakness as a King... May he forgive my folly when he gave me back what the Dragon took, because while I had nothing I never forgot the oath I took that night, weaving those words into my father's hair.
I finished with his beard, and as I fastened his braids, I realized that the beads he placed in it every day were my mother's. He must have woven his own in her hair before he laid her into her grave, and it struck me that I had never noticed it before – perhaps because it was long past, the time when he would hold me close enough to do so...
When I sat up, I felt as if I recognized him at last. My father, whom I had loved so deeply and still loved, for what he had been and still was. He had given me life and deserved to live, and as I looked at him I swore to myself I would take care of him every day, not only seeing to his comfort, but making sure that his dignity was preserved.
"Sleep, 'adad. Rest."
I whispered those words before I touched his temple with my lips, and then I rose. The ground was unsteady under my feet and I was swaying as I left the tent, pushing back the heavy folds of tissue.
"Foremost rule to be able to protect others..."
I had almost tripped upon a silhouette keeping watch at the tent's entrance, and the Dwarf rose swiftly and caught me in his arms.
"... take care of yourself first.", Balin whispered, and then he carried me back into the tent because my legs would not support me anymore.
He made me sit on the ground and then he made me drink. The water was cool, soothing and tasted of thyme and sage – I knew then that he had given me some of Cillian's precious herbs.
Thirsty. I was so thirsty.
I drank almost an entire jug, leaning into Balin's embrace, too weak to thank him and to move. And Balin held me, until I felt the heat in my blood abide slowly, until my vision cleared up again – these herbs were priceless indeed.
"We have to treat that wound of yours, lad."
Lad.
My last pretence of strength just vanished with this fond word, and I slumped into Balin's arms.
"I can't do this, Balin."
I whispered those words as he removed my belt and my jerkin, and pulled my chainmail from my body, freeing my chest and shoulders from its weight.
"Of course you can...", he answered gently, and I did not have the strength to tell him I was not talking about my wound.
My tunic was soaked and plastered against my chest and back. I pulled it off myself, with clumsy, tired moves, and Balin's eyes clouded when he saw how bruised my skin was, and the red, terrible marks on my throat I owed to my father.
"No one has to know."
I looked at Balin, beseechingly, and he nodded, sadly, before he removed the bandages around my arm. He helped me to wash, without a word, the water cooling down my skin, and then we bathed my wound again. I did not feel the pain as acutely as before, and did not even flinch when he applied the ointment on my wound before bandaging it.
He made me raise my arms and put on a clean tunic – I realized with shame I had no strength left to do so alone, I could barely apologize for my weakness.
I am so sorry. I should be stronger. I am unworthy to be called a Prince, a lord or a leader. I am so sorry.
Balin shook his head at my words – they were leaving my lips unchecked as exhaustion and fever were finally taking their toll. He held me against him once more, resting my head against his shoulder and rocking me slightly.
"Mamarrakhûn.", he whispered, stroking my hair. "Do you know what it means, Thorin?"
I looked up at him, trying to keep focused and awake. The Khuzdûl word he had softly spoken out hung between us in the tent like an incantation, and I was struggling with my answer.
"A shielder... a shield-man...?"
Balin shook his head again, almost smiling.
"You are close, lad, but not quite. Shielder would be umrakh, and shield-man markhûn. Now, mamarrakhûn is an even stronger word than that, it means 'he who continues to shield'. Every King and Prince is mamarrakhûn to his folk. You are. Frerin is. And Dís is mamarrakhûna too."
His hand went on stroking my hair – I was feeling so light, so relaxed in his arms, it was almost as if we were back in Erebor, where his wonderful stories would gently carry us to sleep.
"But it is such a weight, such a burden to bear – to shield, to protect, always striving, never allowed to break down. That is why every true leader – everyone, Thorin – also has his mamarrakhûn. A person that he trusts, in life and on the battlefield. Someone he confides in so much that he can lower his guard, show his weakness and be comforted, and cared for if needed. Nobody can lead relying only on his own strength. It would be too hard, too cruel to be so alone."
As Balin words reached me, I felt as if some of the weight crushing down my shoulders was slowly taken from me. I buried my face into Balin's chest, unable to speak for a while, and when I did my voice was thick.
"You are my mamarrakhûn, Balin."
He laughed then, a soft, deep, fond laugh, holding me closer and kissing my forehead.
"No, Thorin. I simply love you, lad, that's all. Besides, I cannot serve you both."
I stiffened when I heard him voice these words, and when I pulled away to look at him I noticed his gaze had shifted to my father. It all made sense, suddenly – all these fond moments with Balin when my father had closed himself up in grief. The reason why Balin was always there, with us, so much more than a cousin or an uncle...
I embraced him tightly, nestling against him. I loved him too, I had loved him ever since he had found me crying and sulking against that stone wall, and had taken me back home.
"And grandfather?", I asked, feeling sleep invade me slowly. "Who is mamarrakhûn to him...?"
Balin had begun to stroke my hair again, and he took his time to answer my question – a rightful one, since my grandfather seemed to confide into nobody lately.
"Nár is. Nár has been Thrór's mamarrakhûn ever since they fought the Drakes in the Grey Mountains, long before they came back here."
I shuddered – I did not want to think about Drakes anymore, I just wanted to sleep, and in Balin's arms it suddenly felt possible.
"You will keep watch – you will not let Frerin or Dís get inside?
- I will."
I let out a deep, painful sigh and then I finally closed my eyes.
"Do not let me sleep too long", I whispered. "I have to get back to them... they will worry... Frerin is already upset..."
My thoughts had begun to drift and fall apart, the only thing that kept me awake was the gentle stroke of Balin's fingers.
"They know where you are."
I sighed again, struggling to voice my last doubts.
"Balin, I cannot lead... I have never been to war..."
He had begun to rock me again, slowly, and he gently laid his hand upon my mouth to silence me.
"This is war, lad...", he whispered, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. "And now, just sleep. Sleep, Thorin. Have some rest."
Balin's words swirled and spun around me, and I took them with me in my slumber, still sheltered in his arms.
Shielded.
At peace.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations :
- uzbadê : my King
- mahimdin gal'mezû : shut your mouth.