This is my first contribution to the 2016 HobbitCon Fanbook-Project (organised by nelioe on Tumblr, check out her site!). The book focuses on fanarts, but there are fanfic slots for every character, too. :) This time every character gets two fixed themes that should be adressed in the art or fic. One of the themes for Dwalin was "Teaching".
Some lessons come harder than others
The clattering sounds of metal clashing against metal have become the steady background tune of his life. Every day he watches the young dwarves assemble on the stony training ground; he barks orders and occasionally rewards them with a compliment, and when he looks at their bright, eager faces he sees uttermost respect reflected from their innocent eyes.
They respect him, maybe they fear him, too, but that's alright. The things he teaches them need to be trained to perfection, for anything less will be fatal. Once they march into battle, their lives will depend on the lessons he taught them. He won't fail them. Not again. He is a good teacher and most of his lessons are easy to learn, if one only listens and watches.
"Mister Dwalin, look!"
It is Fjallar, of course. He likes the lad, who is a natural when it comes to sword-fighting and who often surprises even his teacher with his skills. Now he holds the sword high, spins around and lets the weapon come down in an arc; he falls to the ground, rolls to the side, gets back up and with one fluid motion he stabs the air with a small knife in his left hand and buries his sword in the straw-filled puppet before him.
"Die, filthy orc!" he yells, followed by an even louder "Du bekâr!"
He flashes a proud smile at the older dwarf, who acknowledges it with a court nod.
"Well done, Fjallar."
He won't tell him that, in real life, orcs don't stand still. Fjallar knows that, they all do; they know the stories by heart.
But to him, they are more than stories. They are his past, a part of him like the ink on his skin, and he wishes he could bury these stories and close a heavy stone wall behind them like they did when his friend was laid to rest and took a piece of his soul with him. He isn't granted that kind of peace, though. They always come back, these stories, and he knows he deserves the memories. He mustn't ever forget his past, for it is a reminder of the cost that another failure will bring.
It's not like he didn't try to forget. He barely remembers the immediate aftermath of the battle. The Battle of the Five Armies, they call it, but it's only a name. Only a few words that don't even come close to describing the day that made his world crumble like the cave-in of a mine. He remembers the funeral, of course he does, every second of it. He remembers every word, every sound, the crying and the silence and the vacant faces of those left behind. But the days and weeks that followed are mostly a blur.
He truly regrets it now, because he knows that his brother would have needed him then, but the only company he sought during these long winter's nights was the bitter taste of ale and the burning sensation of whiskey in his throat. He had used to be a warrior, fierce and strong and invincible, but he found that against some demons he was helpless, his only means of defence the sweet sensation of blissful oblivion. It became a routine, though one that he knew even then he shouldn't fall into. Sometimes oblivion didn't come, no matter how hard he tried, and he would find himself with his head in his hands at a wooden desk inside the tavern, desperately trying to defend his mind from the darkness and haunting voices that tore at his insides.
You deserve this. We died and you live. We died. Why did you let us die?
The voices differed in tone and volume. Sometimes they were loud, screaming, shaking with rage. Other times they were quiet, heavy with unshed tears and despair. But they always found their way into his very heart, ripping it apart in a way no axe or sword ever could.
And he knew he deserved that pain.
He never talked to anyone about it, for what was there to say? After the battle, they all had their own demons to fight; they all had to learn to find their way in the new life, in their new home. And if some looked in his direction, wishing for him to guide them, they soon turned their heads and let him be. Those who didn't were met with a grim look and harsh words he regretted later, and learned their lesson.
It was too easy. He slept, he ate, he drank to live another day. It was the wrong kind of routine, but it was easy to follow. For the first time in his life he took the easy way out, the one without any obstacles to overcome or fears to face.
You're a coward. You were a coward when you abandoned me in battle, and you are a coward now.
The sneering voice, so full of hatred and blame, never failed to reach him even through the deepest of alcoholic mists. It didn't sound like the voice he used to know, but he recognised it none the less. And it didn't matter that it was all in his head. It was the truth, after all. There was no escaping it but through the glass, and Mahal knows he took that exit without a second thought. For the first time in his life he didn't fight.
He doesn't know when Bofur sat down beside him at the tavern for the first time. He didn't talk, and more surprisingly he didn't even seem to want to. He only sat there with a tankard of ale in his hand, his grip a bit too tight as if he was grasping the hilt of a sword, and when the time came to leave he made sure the older one found his way home.
Another day it was Nori, of all dwarves of Erebor it had to be Nori. Normally they would have ended up quarrelling, but none of them found the energy to begin, and after a while they even greeted each other with the ghost of a smile that others probably didn't even recognise as such.
Dori and Ori followed after their brother, and then Óin, and Bombur.
And then, one day, he heard the footsteps he had known all his life and felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. Sometimes it is the simple words, not the long, complicated sentences, which have the power to make people see. One only has to learn to listen to them.
Please, brother.
Of all the things that happened, all the words that were spoken, these two words pierced through the shield-wall of his demons and lifted the fog.
They are gone, but we are still here.
And when Balin left the tavern, his brother followed and didn't return for a long time. There would come a time when he'd drink with his king again, someday in Mandos' halls, but not yet.
He used to be a warrior, and a warrior he is still, he knows that deep inside. There is peace within the realms of dwarves and men now, though. No need for a veteran to pick up a weapon and get lost in the fray, no need to watch young soldiers march into battle and find their broken bodies littering the bloodstained ground. There will be more battles, for peace never lasts, but they won't be for him. He will do what he can to keep them alive, the young ones with their bright faces and gleaming eyes, but he will be of no use on the battlefield. They say they understand.
He gets up in the morning, he eats, he enters the weaponry, he hands out weapons and takes an old axe and a rusty sword to the training ground. It is a good routine. He never touches his battle axes, but he likes the ones he takes to the lessons. They have seen better days, they are old and dented, but they are still sharp. They will last for many years to come.
Sometimes he calls Fjallar by the name of a lad he used to know. Sometimes he hands the raven-haired Sváfnir a bow and a sheath of arrows instead of his beloved axe. Sometimes, when he talks to Balin, he turns his head to speak to someone who isn't there.
They pretend they don't notice.
He pretends it doesn't hurt.
For he is a warrior, a son of Fundin, and he will be strong for those he has got left. He will teach them, guide them, always knowing that it might not be enough, always praying that Mahal will spare them this kind of pain that he has yet to learn to live with.
"Stand your ground, Karr!" he shouts. "Watch your footing, Idun!"
Life doesn't always turn out the way you want it to. It's a hard lesson to learn and even harder to accept. But it is a good life, despite everything, and those who stand before him now will teach him to embrace it. And someday, Dwalin hopes, he will find his peace again.