Today marks the one year anniversary of my first Hobbit fanfic. It was meant to be a brief glimpse at that fandom, but it turned out to be my very own unexpected journey. And although there will be no more movies, the journey doesn't end here.
BOFA spoilers below!
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I watched BOFA three times now, and if you've read "The last goodbye" you know that I wasn't satisfied at all with the deaths of the Durins after the first time. Well, I would take back my words and deeds at the gate, and... wait, no. Wrong line. But I really want you to know that I've come to actually love the movie, with all its flaws and needless action scenes, because there are so many wonderful scenes in it as well. And I've also come to like Fíli's death. It's brutal, it's over too soon, without slow motion and meaningful last words - and although I would have prefered other versions, I can't help but think that this is exactly how Tolkien himself must have experienced death in war when he fought in WWI.
The only thing that still bothers me is that nobody really cared about Fíli in the end. It makes me really sad to think that he has been forgotten, and since I'm unfortunately quite sure that even the EE won't change that I decided to write down my own version. So this is basically a missing scene between Tauriel crying over Kíli (I will not start a rant about THAT cut after Thorin's and Bilbo's last scene...) and the dwarves gathering around Thorin.
Well, enough with the talking, I hope you like this, and even if you don't, please let me know what you think.
All shall fade
Dwalin has always been brave. He has been raised a warrior, strong as all dwarves, maybe stronger than many. He has fought in battles that still bring tears to the eyes of those who were there, he has seen things so horrible that others would run screaming, and never has he turned his back.
But now he can't go on.
He has run after Thorin, after what seemed like endless fighting against the hordes of orcs, and he has found him now on the edge of the frozen waterfall. He doesn't see him at first. All he sees is Bilbo, the Halfling, the burglar, the friend. He spots him from afar, and his cry dies on his lips as his eyes perceive his hunched form. His face is buried in his hands, his shoulders are shaking. It is then that Dwalin knows. He doesn't need to look at the still form beside Bilbo, but he stares at it anyway, frozen where he stands just like the water beneath his blood-stained boots.
The truth crashes down on him as he gazes towards where Thorin is lying on the ice. He can barely see him, let alone recognise his face, but of course it is him, his king, his leader. His brother in arms. His friend.
He can't move, his feet are like lead, and cold seeps into his bones that has nothing to do with the winter chill. It is fear, he realises, fear of what he will find when he goes nearer, and he would laugh about the ridiculousness of it. He is a warrior, courageous and strong, and it's just a dead body. But he cannot laugh, because the pain is taking his breath away, a pain he has felt before, not so long ago. He has seen Fíli fall, and he cannot bear to go through it again. Not yet.
In that moment Bilbo looks up. He must recognise him, but he doesn't lift his hand or calls out to him. The hobbit just remains where he is sitting, and although Dwalin knows that he can't make out his face from the distance he nods, hoping that Bilbo will somehow understand. And he will, like he always does. He will look after Thorin like he has done many times before, times when none of them, least of all Thorin himself, even knew about it.
Dwalin turns around; the wind bites at his face, letting unshed tears freeze in the corners of his eyes. He can hear the ice crunch underneath his feet, yet it doesn't break. It is a lonely road he walks, and he can feel the absence of his friends with every fibre of his being. He has never been one for huge crowds, he has always liked a bit of solitude from time to time. But now the empty, vast land around him rivals the emptiness in his heart, and he wonders bitterly how much more he can take before this warrior's heart will shatter.
He walks almost blindly, not looking to his left or right until he reaches the place where everything started to fall apart around him. He can hear the echo of Fíli's desperate scream, the vain attempt to keep his family safe against all odds when for him all hope was already gone. Dwalin chokes as he perceives the body, cold and still at the foot of the tower, and slowly he stumbles closer until he falls to his knees beside him. The young dwarf's body is already covered with a thin layer of snow, it sticks to his blonde hair and his torn armour, and he would look peaceful if it wasn't for the bead of blood that has run down from the corner of his mouth and which has frozen in his once neatly braided moustache. His blue eyes are wide open, but no light is in them, and with a shaking hand Dwalin closes them while the other hand he presses onto Fíli's chest as if he could find a sign of life against all odds.
"I am so sorry, Fíli," he whispers. His voice is raspy and strangely small, it doesn't sound like him at all and maybe it's because he doesn't quite feel like himself at all, either. Something in him has died with the one he has sworn to protect so long ago.
"You didn't deserve this, laddie. You of all people didn't deserve this."
He wants to say more, but his voice fails him and he wouldn't find the right words anyway.
His gaze falls onto the Durin crest on Fíli's armour, and suddenly Dwalin can't breathe, he gasps and clenches his fingers around the fabric of Fíli's coat, for it is in that moment that he realises what he should have understood immediately.
He shouldn't be sitting here with Fíli. Kíli should.
But Kíli isn't here, and the painful truth hits Dwalin with such force that he thinks his heart will explode. He knows, in that moment, because if Kíli was alive, if there was only the tiniest rest of Mahal's breath in him, he would be at his brother's side.
It reminds him of his own brother, which is a thought he tries to banish but to no avail. He hasn't seen him since he followed the sons of Durin to Ravenhill. He can't be dead, though, he would know if his brother had set out for the Halls of Mandos, wouldn't he? It is foolish to deny the possibilities like a stubborn dwarfling, he knows that, yet he also knows that the sheer thought of losing his brother, too, will break him.
Gently he scoops Fíli up in his arms and carries him a few feet, so that he can lay him down beneath the roof of the lower level of the tower. It is here that he has last seen Kíli, it is here that the youngest Durin has witnessed his brother die, here he has cried and sworn to avenge Fíli's death. It is a sight Dwalin will never forget, and the memory brings tears to his eyes as he glances at Fíli's still form.
"I will find him," he says quietly, trying to ignore the fact that he has made a promise before, which he has now been forced to break.
It doesn't take long. Maybe it is instinct, the experience he has from decades of searching for Dís' sons when they had been out to long, back when they were but dwarflings, eager to discover the world and not understanding the worries of the grown-ups.
Someone is kneeling by his side, and Dwalin can feel the blood boil in is veins when he spots the red hair and pointy ears of the woman. He doesn't know her name, but he clearly remembers her from back in Mirkwood. What she is doing at Kíli's side he doesn't know, but he will find out, he decides as the grip around the hilt of his axe tightens. No elf should be this close to a fallen dwarf prince, no one should see him in his vulnerable state and mock his fate. A guttural growl escapes his lips as he approaches her; the anger feels good, for it distracts him from his grief.
But she notices him as he comes closer. Swiftly she gets to her feet and, after one last glace at Kíli, leaves before Dwalin has the chance to stop her. He could follow her, of course, but then he decides that it is not his task. He is here for the youngest prince, even though the prospect of facing him brings back the cold fear he has felt before.
He takes in the sight before him, the still body that will always look just a tiny bit too small for the armour that was supposed to offer protection, the snowflakes on the raven hair, the silvery trace that reaches from the corner of his eye to where the tear has frozen on his skin. There is a subliminal smile on the young face that was once vibrant with life, and he would look almost peaceful if it wasn't for the blood on his chest. His fist is clenched around an object. Carefully Dwalin moves his stiff fingers, only to gasp in shock as he finds the stone in Kíli's hand and reads the runes that are engraved in it.
"Oh, Kíli."
It is all Dwalin can say. He can't even apologise, although there are so many things the older dwarf feels sorry for, starting with his broken promise of watching over the line of Durin until his dying day. But his throat is restricted and no words leave his mouth. Mechanically he puts the rune stone into Kíli's pocket, picks up his body, the body that once was a person with dreams and fears and love, and he staggers across the stony, snow-covered ground.
He finds Fíli where he has left him, of course he does, he won't go anywhere. Never again will the two boys be found sparring in the training ground, with the clattering of swords mingling with their laughter and cheeky remarks. They will never explore the halls of Erebor, the home they set out to reclaim and which they will now never know.
Dwalin can feel his eyes start to burn as he lowers Kíli's body next to Fíli's. There they are lying side by side, like they have done so often during their journey. But they have never been so still, so ghostly pale, and it is a sight that burns itself into Dwalin's mind and that he will take to his grave.
"You belong with your brother," he whispers, and it's these five words that strike the final blow to his already battered heart.
The son of Fundin is a warrior, he is strong and enduring and brave. But nothing has ever prepared him for this, for the gaping hole in his heart, for that overwhelming emptiness in which the cry for a reason to this madness fades away unanswered.
He weeps for the young lives that are now lost forever, for the children who will never again laugh away the worries of the world. He weeps for his friend who gave everything and lost it all, that one friend who has ever been at his side and who has now gone where Dwalin cannot yet follow.
He doesn't know how much time has passed when the tears finally cease. And only then he feels the presence of someone behind his back, someone who hasn't said a word but has offered comfort by simply being there. He turns his head slowly, almost scared that it might have been his imagination.
He looks older, much older than before, and his red-rimmed eyes are filled with tears. One of them rolls down his cheek and into his white beard. Balin knows. He knows everything, and that is why it is no joyful reunion, not at all like they would have imagined it. Hesitantly Dwalin rises from his kneeling position. He should cross the distance and pull his brother close, reassure himself that he is indeed alive, draw comfort from his presence because that's what little brothers do, but he can't even move.
It was never supposed to end like this.
Suddenly he feels hands on his shoulders. He hasn't even noticed that his vision is blurry again, but it doesn't matter, not here. He allows Balin to pull him close, surrendering to the burning sensation in his chest as his body trembles against Balin's firm hold.
The brothers remain like that for a moment, foreheads pressed against each other's, and not a sound can be heard in the silence of Ravenhill. But they can't stay. Dwalin takes a shuddering breath as Balin pulls away and looks at him with sad eyes.
"We must go, brother," he says, his voice laden with sorrow and grief. "He needs us."
Dwalin stiffens and wants to protest, for surely Thorin doesn't need them, not anymore. He knows, deep down, that it is his fear speaking, and that he mustn't let that fear control him. But he can't find a way to overcome it, not this time.
His gaze falls onto Fíli and Kíli, daring and brave and young and forever united in death, and then onto his brother who will walk the lonely road for his friend.
Loyalty. Honour. A willing heart.
"Aye," he answers hollowly. "We must go."
And thus they walk, side by side, away from the place where it all started to fall apart. Dwalin doesn't look back.
I will return for you, he promises silently, and this one promise he will keep.
And as he stands beside Thorin, his weeping brother kneeling next to the fallen king, his comrades gathered around them, he stands tall and rigid, and not a single tear he sheds as the icy wind finally eases. There will be a time for tears, and for a last goodbye, but it is not here and now.
He puts a hand onto his brother's shaking shoulder.
Here and now he will be strong, for those he has lost and for those he has got left.
"You were always my king." (Dwalin to Thorin, in: The Hobbit – The Battle of the Five Armies)