A/N : And here we go, the almost-last re-edited part of Thorin's life! For those joining the journey here, the story is told from Thorin's point of view, as he lies dying on Ravenhill and remembers. In this part, he is still twenty-four - about twelve in Human years.
Thank you so much for (re)reading - one more part to go and then, I promise, I will only write new stuff! Much love, take care, Meysun.
The King of Carven Stone : Part V
A Craft In Itself (Journey To Dunland)
1.
No belongings. Almost no belongings. At least packing was easy – I kept repeating those words silently, trying to lull my thoughts to sleep, that last evening in the Iron Hills. Our last sheltered night, in walls of stone, among people we knew and called our kin.
I was standing in our room, facing our bed where Frerin had spread our clothes, our weapons already cleaned, carefully sheathed in their scabbards.
"Dáin said I might keep my bow...", my brother voiced, looking at the small bundle displaying what we still owned.
Tunics, breeches, some underwear, a pair of warm trousers. And socks – without holes, speaking of love and care.
"Won't it be too heavy?", I asked, my voice low. "You will have your bag, your sword, and your axe...
- I'd rather leave my axe...", Frerin answered, and I looked at him – he was fingering his bow, running his hand along the rich wood where Dáin had carved ornaments for him.
"Don't say that, kudz... You know you can't say such things..."
I had spoken gently, reaching out for him, circling his waist.
"No Dwarf ever leaves his axe behind. For now, you might only find it heavy – a burden, a weapon you dislike because you cannot wield it properly yet... But you will need it soon. Be it only for firewood, you will be glad to have it on your back. Your axe... It is home, in a way, Frerin..."
He leaned against me, his cheek finding my shoulder.
"It is home for you...", he whispered. "You are not afraid to wield it...
- Neither are you...", I answered, but Frerin shook his head.
"I don't manage... Fighting with an axe... it is too close, it is too... too violent, Thorin."
I pondered his words for a while. It was true – there was violence in everything this weapon implied. Well did I remember my fight against those Orcs, where I had dealt blows that had cut through their foul beings as if they were made of wood, drawing dark blood... They had been so close indeed – it had been either them or me, and I had acted instinctively...
The sword was a completely different weapon – speaking of close combat as well, but where each blow had to be dealt with a precision the axe could not achieve, and required less strength...
And the bow required even more skills, a sure hand and keen eyes, killing from the distance, long before foes could reach you...
"It is a wonderful training weapon", I said, in the end. "It allows access to others – you don't need to be perfect with an axe, Frerin. But if you know how to wield it, you will be strong with a sword, as well as a bow. I do prefer the sword, I should think... But I would not be as deft with it, had I laid down my axe..."
Frerin shifted slightly so as to face me, drawing his arms around my chest, his gaze bright and full of fondness.
"Oh, but you are such a fighter, Thorin..."
His words were warm, and he touched foreheads with me. I closed my eyes, feeling his soft skin against mine. And words left my lips before I really thought about them.
"I would rather not have to be...
- And what would you like to be...?"
Frerin had kept his head against mine, and my eyes were still closed. It was late in the afternoon – we were supposed to finish our packing, but somehow I clung to that moment, that last moment where we both could still pretend to have dreams...
"A goldsmith...", I whispered. "I would have that forge, and carve necklaces, rings and bracelets, with stones I would have brought back from all around the world, and I would display them on black velvet, so that they could shine like stars... The most beautiful I would keep, for Dís... and the others I would show, for my friends to see...
- And me...?", Frerin asked, softly, and I could hear the smile in his voice, so close to me, so close...
"You... you would be the most renowned Dwarf in Middle Earth – the Dwarf with the magic toys... Every child would have heard of Frerin, and yearn for one of his horses, music boxes and drinking glasses... There would always be noise at your working place, some mechanisms chanting, hopping up and down... a small world hidden behind your door..."
I could almost see it – the image was so vivid, my brother standing there, surrounded by toys in being, smiling, whistling a song before carving the box that would shelter that tune...
"Then let's just do it...", Frerin whispered.
I rubbed my forehead against his – looking one last time at that dark-haired silhouette, bent upon a shiny necklace, at that other golden-haired frame, smiling among toys...
And then I opened my eyes, and met my brother's gaze.
"In another life, Frerin..."
He did not let go of me at once. I had spoken softly, and we both watched that dream spin one last time around us, before it shattered, leaving us as we were, facing the bed and the small bundle of clothes scattered upon the quilt.
"Socks and breeches it is, then...", Frerin said – and we both smiled, taking our bags and piling the clothes in them, without another word.
It did not take much longer, after that. It was not our home we were leaving, after all, there would be memories, but we did not have to choose between objects we held dear, or among clothes...
But Dwalin – my heart bled for Dwalin, my chest tightened every time I imagined him, facing his bag, his mother helping him to pack, probably rolling one last warm cloth to keep her son warm, on dreary nights, and stuffing it between others...
He did not have to leave all this behind him... He had never been obliged to leave shelter – as a matter of fact, he was the only Dwarf in the Iron Hills leaving home for uncertain roads...
It did not make sense. It was so unfair for him. And it was so generous, so selfless – and so heartbreaking for his parents, especially for his mother, who would see him go tomorrow, while Fundin at least had some time left, escorting us until we reached the Brown Lands...
I did not want to intrude, that last evening with his mother. The last evening they would be all together, him, Balin and their parents... Perhaps he would be able to return, every now and then – but Dunland was miles and miles away, the journey would take months... And Dwalin was my mamarrakhûn now – we had been mad enough to seal that oath, he was doomed to stay at my side, and I doubted my steps would carry me back to the Iron Hills ere long, perhaps never...
We stayed in Náin's sitting room, Dís on my father's lap – for Thráin had understood we all had to leave, had obeyed his father and packed his belongings as well, helped by Náin. He had not really spoken, ever since his latest outburst – he was grieved, and drained of every will, simply obeying, finding his only solace in keeping us close.
And we all let him hold us, because we loved him – it had been so clear again for me, the day he had hit me instead of my grandfather... Just like that night in the tent where he had almost choked me – somehow, it just made me see how much I loved him, because of that terrible ache I could see in his eyes right afterwards, showing plainly he could not help it, that he had only felt threatened and abused...
I would rather be beaten by him every day, than to stay sheltered while he strived. And so, when he searched for me the morning following his fight with Thrór, I let him pull me against him, stroke my bruised ribs with his palms, trying to atone for the pain I felt... His touch was so gentle, so caring, it was hardly believable it came from the same Dwarf whose fist had crashed against my bones...
I had leant against him, sitting on his lap like a child – I did not care what others said, I just wanted him soothed... And his touch was wholesome, somehow, I never could explain it, but it felt different, when it was his hand stroking my skin – probably because I had known it ever since I was born...
That day I was seated at his feet, leaning against the armchair, my head resting against his knee. Frerin was seated cross-legged in another armchair, looking at the fire, absent-mindedly undoing one of his braids and humming a tune. My father was rocking Dís gently, and every now and then his hand would also touch my hair.
And we heard a soft knock on the door, looked up – and Dwalin was standing there, as well as Balin.
"Would you... would you care to join us?"
It was unlike Dwalin to stutter, but he was not used to my father yet – and his brother added, in a more composed voice:
"Thráin, my parents would appreciate very much to have you with them this evening. You, and the lads – if you feel like it..."
I had risen to my feet, slowly, while Dís had turned, staying in my father's arms. I looked at my father, and Thráin seemed surprised, but not unsettled – he soon turned his gaze towards me.
What should I answer, dashat?
I was becoming so used to reading the thoughts he was not voicing...
"Do you want to go, 'adad? You do know Fundin – Balin's father, he is often staying with Náin, and his wife used to... used to be 'amad's friend... You do remember, do you?"
We all had got used to repeating names and special details to him, always the same one detail associated with a person, so that he could remember more easily. And it worked, most of the time – reassured my father... And then, there was also the magic key held by my mother's name...
So Thráin smiled, and got up slowly, letting go of Dís who jumped down the armchair, running towards Dwalin who crouched to catch her in his broad arms, smiling as she kissed his cheek.
"Hey, sarnûna, what are you up to, eh...?", he asked tenderly, and Dís beamed at him, bending slightly so as to kiss Balin.
"Everything is packed! And I'll have a bag to carry too...", she said proudly, and my friend nodded.
"Good. Very good, Dís. It will strengthen your back, and your arms", he answered, adding in a lower voice: "Good for training..."
She smiled, and I looked at him, searching for his face above my sister's locks – was he really so calm and content, or was he only pretending, hiding his sadness away...?
"Hey there, you plague...", Dwalin smiled at my brother, boxing his shoulder as my father and Balin began to walk away. "Didn't forget your underpants?
- Nope", Frerin grinned. "And just in case you might forget yours, they are not for sale.
- Heartless little rascal..."
He let go of Dís who took Frerin's hand, following Balin, and I could face him at last, asking him silently one last time if he was really sure, if he still wanted it – it was all right to pull back, I would not resent him, I would understand...
"Don't you dare...", Dwalin said simply, entwining his arm with mine.
There was so much surety in his voice – and I was so glad to have him at my side, so glad... I yielded then, dragging his arm against my chest, my throat too tight to speak.
"Dáin is coming too...", he added, his voice even as we walked. "He asked Náin to accompany us, and he said yes.
- Good...", I said – the word was so shallow, compared to what I felt, but what was there left to say?
"Your chest...?", Dwalin asked, softly – and I would have to get used to him asking, it would not do to hide injuries away from him anymore, I had to learn to rely upon him...
"Fine. No pain."
Almost no pain – the bruise was still wide, but nothing of consequence, I would be able to carry bags and weapons alike.
"Good."
It makes me almost smile, now... I certainly was not, back then – I was struggling with so many emotions: guilt mingled with grief because I tore him apart from his family, relief because he still wanted to come, gratefulness because he was there, and love as well, something close to what I felt for Balin...
It makes me smile because we still felt obliged to discuss things – it made everything more official, more serious... We were only boys, back then... Afterwards there would be no need for words. I would look at him and always guess it, when he was hurt or tired, and so would he. There would be no need to ask – how often has he simply stepped behind me, taking some of my burden away...?
Even during the quest – Mahal, how exhausted I have felt, so often, without being able to rest, it was never safe, there was never enough time... There was only Dwalin, removing some of the weight crushing my back when he saw my face getting too drawn – Dwalin, quietly undoing the straps of my sword belt so as to spare my damaged ribs, without doing me the dishonour to take my weapons from me... Helping me out of my chainmail every night, after I faced that Orc, because I was not able to do it alone – never asking, only coming back quietly after me, and helping me...
But back then we both were still awkward... Yet we both trusted the other – there were no more secrets between us, and his family knew about my father's madness, I had allowed Dwalin to speak of it now that he was coming with us, they deserved to know…
I do remember that evening. I remember it, because it was so quiet, and peaceful – because everyone knew we were going, yet nobody spoke of it.
We all just tried to enjoy it – had a meal together, sat quietly with each other, and I could see some of the grief in my father's eyes fade away as he sat there, close to Balin, facing Fundin and his wife...
They were both so kind, so thoroughly reliable... He was brushing her arms sometimes, never obtrusive, well-knowing what Thráin had lost yet still speaking to him naturally – about the furnaces, about the way they had improved isolation lately...
Themes that were safe, and interested my father, making him open up. And her... The former friend of his wife, he knew her well, remembered her at once, said her name softly, gently clasping his hand around her forearm...
He did not speak about my mother – he just looked at Dís every now and then, and there was always love in his gaze. My father never resented her for our mother's death – he only hated himself for it...
"Hey, relax...", Dwalin said softly, squeezing my arm. "He's fine. Your father won't break down because you are not there to look at him..."
Frerin was in the kitchen with Dís, helping Dwalin's mother with dessert, and I was in Dwalin's room – that room I knew so well, in which I had almost died...
The desk was cleaned of parchments and quills. The books were still there – he would not need them on the road. The map pinned to his wall had vanished, however, as well as Dís' drawing. His bags were packed – two small bags, containing clothes and some food, while his fur-coat was hanging on the back of a chair, his weapons lying ready on the closed chest.
We were both sitting on his bed, not facing each other – sitting next to each other, looking at that room where he had lived, and dreamed, and grown up...
"I am so sorry...", I whispered, my throat sore from repressing what I felt – and Dwalin got up swiftly, closing his door quietly and coming back to me.
I could not speak, I had a lump in my throat and my eyes burned: I knew what it was to lose a room, and memories, and the shelter of a long-known home, I had been through it, I had learned I could face it... But to see Dwalin go through the same ache – it was unbearable, suddenly, I could not deal with that pain anymore, it just yearned to break free.
He circled my shoulders and I realized my body was so rigid my back hurt. I had clenched my fists – I had to brace myself, he was the one to be comforted, not me...
"What is it, eh?"
He had asked softly, was pulling me against him with a gentle move – not rough this time, knowing I would tense even more. And I yielded – almost brutally, hugging him so fiercely he could barely breathe, wanting him to feel that I knew exactly how much he was giving me.
I must have hurt him, with that embrace; I have never been able to be only gentle when feelings overcame me like that – when the dam just broke, my arms could only crush at first...
But Dwalin was strong – and he knew me. He crossed his arms on my back, in that special embrace that was as close to safety as I could ever feel... And he just waited for me to speak, for my embrace to soften, for my body to feel alive again, not made of steel and stone...
"I am so sorry..."
I had repeated it, feeling so unworthy... But Dwalin just brushed my back, holding me against him – so calm, so gentle...
"There's nothing to be sorry for, Thorin..."
He had spoken quietly, in that earnest tone he would employ, sometimes – when I needed him to oppose me, to be as strong as I had to be, and even more...
"It is not – your – fault. No need to burden you with that. Please, stop believing you should feel sorry for me – I chose it, alright? I won't ever feel sorry for it – and I don't want you to be.
- But what if... you feel sad, and all alone – and..."
My voice choked then – it just choked. I was still holding him tightly, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, clenching my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as my heart broke.
- I won't be", Dwalin answered, and I could barely believe he was smiling – I could feel it in his voice...
"You will be there, and Dís, and Frerin... And have you forgotten that Balin is coming as well? I will have my big, annoying, fastidious elder brother to look at everything I'm doing, make sure I'll change socks every day and that I am speaking proper Khuzdûl and not misbehaving – how else do you think I would have been able to go, eh?"
Somehow, his words lessened the hurt in my chest, freeing my breath again as I was becoming fully aware of their meaning.
It was true – I had forgotten it. Not that Balin was coming, and that he was Dwalin's brother – but what it implied. They would go together, Fundin's sons, and Balin was reliable, Balin loved his little brother and would be able to understand some of his grief, he would be able to talk about home, and his parents, and his friends, with someone who could rely to his feelings, because they shared the same blood and the same roots...
I pulled away from him, slowly, meeting the soft half-smile on his lips that lightened his eyes.
And in the end I voiced it – that crushing doubt I felt, every time I looked at him, every time I was thinking of him at my side, leaving his home to follow me...
"And... when I will disappoint you – what then...?"
My voice was so tiny, hardly above a whisper.
"I am nothing special, Dwalin. They all think I am, but I am not... and – when you will find out, when you will realize that you have just left everything for... someone who is not even what you believe him to be, you will..."
I had to stop, had to draw a shuddering breath – oh Mahal, we were both so young, so young still... And I was so scared – I was so afraid to let him down, to be unworthy of his sacrifice...
Please, Mahal, tell me I have only be unworthy these last few days – that he is not resenting me for this life of hardship, that I still gave him a reason to go on, that following me has not been the worst decision of his life...
My chest hurts. It hurts – it's the only part of my body I can still feel, somehow, the only part that is still warm, because of the blood, there's so much blood soaking my side... It's getting so hard to breathe – just as hard as it was that day...
I wish I had him here – I wish I could hear him say the same words he used that evening, easing my pain, taking some of that burden away and locking forearms with me.
"I don't need you to be special", he answered, quietly. "I just want you to be yourself. At least when you are with me – because you know what...? I am nothing special either.
- Not true...", I whispered, and Dwalin smiled.
He pushed me on the bed, lying down next to me, so that we both faced the ceiling, our arms still entwined.
"Alright. We are both amazing Dwarves. The most amazing Dwarves that ever roamed the Earth, and they will sing songs about us – Thorin son of Thráin who was nothing special, and Dwalin son of Fundin who wasn't either and did not give a damn..."
I gave him a little shove, but I was smiling actually, my fingers tight around his arm. I felt lighter than I had in days, somehow – I would still feel guilty, all my life it has both warmed my heart and made it ache, to have him at my side, him who gave me everything when I had nothing... But that fear of breaking down in front of him, of letting him down and disappointing him – it had gone.
I had broken down, had shown him clearly I was not that cold-headed, brave and strong Dwarfling, not deep inside, not when no one was looking...
And it had not made him look down on me or turn from me – and it was such a relief, such a relief...
"What are you up to, in there? Dessert's ready! And we won't keep your share if you don't hurry!"
Frerin's voice was cheerful, mocking us on the other side of the door – we both smiled, and then got up. He caught me, though, before I reached the door, preventing me to move, pretending to wrestle, his brown eyes sparkling, his arms around my chest, just for fun, to show his fondness...
I resisted him for a while, I was not facing him, my back resting against his chest. I put my hand on his wrist, and then I ducked under his arm, getting past him with a swift move, hiding my smile as I heard his laughter.
And then I left his room – not looking back, aware that he was following. And so glad he was.
They gave it to me then – Dwalin's mother and Dís. Once we had all pushed back our plates, I saw my sister fidget, and Dwalin's mother smiled and whispered something to her.
"Thorin, close your eyes...", Dís said, her voice commanding, and I looked at her, puzzled – almost frowning.
She got up, circled the table and climbed on my knee, her small palms shielding my eyes.
"Just close them...", she repeated, smiling, almost laughing, and I obeyed, still backed up against my chair, feeling people move around me, hearing them push away plates and glasses...
"I'm sure you won't guess", my sister said, her small body quivering with anticipation – how happy she sounded, how sheltered we all were, sitting there around the table...
"Ready?"
I nodded – I still could not see, and had no idea what was going on, I just wanted to please her. Dís removed her palms from my eyes and I blinked, feeling her slide down, freeing my sight.
And I blinked again, my body freezing against the chair, my hands clutching the wooden edge as I realized what I was seeing.
It was my jerkin.
The dark, so well-known leather jerkin I had brought back from Erebor, that had been covered in dust, soiled by Orc blood and drenched in snow. That had shielded my chest until I had reached the Iron Hills, that had been declared damaged beyond repair.
But it was not. Dwalin's mother and Dís had taken so much pain – to treat the leather so that it became supple and strong again, to undo the embroideries that had half-vanished, and to weave them again, taking care to respect the initial pattern – craftsmanship from Erebor, almost lost, and yet...
I kept it all my life. It stopped fitting me, after several years – I had not reached my full height yet, and after a while I had to fold it, but I never gave it away. Frerin did not wear it – he was too close in age. But Dís... Oh Dís...
She was the one packing our clothes, after all. Those years where we had to move, all the time – she was the one who wrapped it up carefully and made sure it stayed with me, knowing what it meant to me, and probably wishing it would make me remember that some things could be mended, even when there was little hope...
I do remember the day I saw it again – on that small body that had no idea the terrible things this jerkin had witnessed. He had rummaged in our cupboards and found it, thought it pretty – he just liked its smell, because it smelled of me, that's what he said, standing there and beaming at me, unaware of my shock, unaware of anything but his childish pride...
My boy – my little boy, my Fíli, standing there dressed like a living ghost...
I could not move either, the day they gave it back to me. I just stared at it – I could only stare at it, realizing just how well Dís and Dwalin's mother knew me... They must have spent hours, trying to mend it so that I could wear it again – so that I could be pleased...
"Don't worry...", Frerin said – I could hear his voice from far away, I was still looking at that cloth, speaking of home, and shelter, and memory...
"He's happy. He's really happy. He just doesn't know to deal with it, does he, 'adad?"
My father was sitting close to me, and he was smiling, I saw it as I looked up, trying to hold back my feelings, to find back my voice. He smiled, as he bent towards me, and undid my belt gently. He was the one removing the jerkin I had got from Dwalin, the one I would also wear, on the road, and like just as much...
He wrapped the cloth around me carefully, adjusting it on my shoulders, and he clasped my belt around my waist, nodding slightly as he did so – because it was right.
"Thank you...", I whispered, once I was clothed again – and I felt both weak and strong, wrapped in those garments that were truly mine...
"Thank you..."
I could only repeat it, on and on, letting Dís come back to me and embracing her closely, and finally getting up, reaching Dwalin's mother, my arms around her waist and my face against her breast.
She was so loving – so generous, and truly loving. She is one of the women I loved most, in my life – I never forgot her, or her scent, and the soft caress of her hands against my hair. I took everything from her – and yet she only ever gave, always, so much, her goodness warming me like a second sun...
"You keep walking, sweetheart. Don't you worry. Just because it winds and turns doesn't mean you are taking the wrong road..."
She was with us every day, on the road – and just like she had said to Dís, she was there through small, seemingly unimportant things, yet so crucial...
She was there when Frerin unpacked his bag, the first evening on the road, and gave a cry of delight in discovering a small parcel full of butter cakes.
She was there every morning Dís awoke – sleeping close to my father this time, and so proud to show us she knew to braid her hair alone. She had left her tiara in the Iron Hills – she did not want her crown to be seen, and had made Dwalin's mother promise she would keep it safe. After all, she was the one who had taught her how to tame her hair, using the same woman-braids my mother had used before she wed my father...
She was there, that famous first evening on the road where I saw Dwalin unpack something, and freeze, his tall body getting still close to me.
We had left the Iron Hills early in the morning – and I do not want to try and remember how it felt exactly. What is there to be said, when parting is so hard, so full of uncertainty? What words could possibly describe how it felt like, to walk away, turning our back on those proud, red Hills, knowing that there was a Dwarrowdam grieving silently, yet standing tall, erect and even smiling against the stone door, waving us away until the last moment...?
What words can describe the heaviness there was in every step, in those early hours where the sky was still dark, and the road barely visible, winding among the rocks, and leading to the woods...?
And how is it to be explained, that strange, almost indecent transition between a state of grief so crushing that you cannot even look around you, and that shy, yet unbending curiosity that will make you lift up your gaze eventually, look at the woods around you, discovering that the sky is getting clear and blue above you, and that you are eager to find out what could be hidden behind those pines...?
We were a small company, heading out for the Brown Lands. Náin, Dáin, and about twenty of his warriors, including Fundin. My grandfather and Nár of course, my father and Balin, Dwalin, Dís, Frerin and me... And Dagur who had followed as well, several former guards from Erebor, their wives, and then mostly families with elder Dwarves and no children, that had not found a better way than following us...
We must have been a bit less than a hundred – and Dís was the youngest. There was no Dwarfling save us, on that road, and I could only feel relief – it removed some of my fear, to know that I would only have to take care of my siblings, that there would be no second Svali this time...
The Hills soon vanished behind us – and I did not look back, I knew how it had to be done, one step after another, following the road, making sure I kept walking so that I could stop thinking...
The pine trees were so high, and the smell so intense – and yes, I remember that moment indeed, when I truly looked around me and felt that small spark of curiosity, that desire to explore...
And it was wonderful – truly wonderful, to have Dwalin walking at my side. It made the world around me look... simply so full of promises, not only full of obstacles to overcome, but worth to be explored, and commented...
"See – those woods we kept, they are a good fence against foes. Grór never touched that forest – the wood for the furnaces comes from trees further north...
- What foes?", I asked – we had not come from there, we had only followed the River, and I did not remember any trees, just a white, barren and hostile landscape...
Dwalin shrugged his shoulders, smiling at me.
"Lost Dwarflings with shiny jerkins?"
I poked him in the ribs – but I was so relieved he was there, completely himself, full of genuine pleasure, showing those landscapes to me while he still knew them...
We had not even crossed Dwalin's private boundaries when we stopped that night. We all carried bags, but there were also carts we dragged along us, where we had piled tents, and blankets, as well as some goods...
And I did not have to worry about safety issues this time – Náin was still there, as well as his warriors, and it felt completely different... I could think about what I had seen without torturing myself about a place of rest that was truly safe, without even sharing night-guards, without being scared to light a fire...
I was still marvelling at that strange, carefree feeling as I put down my back and stretched my roll on the ground – no one really wanted to fold out tents that night, we were still so close to the Hills and the fires were warm...
Dwalin had already done the same, had begun to unpack his bag – and suddenly he froze, close to me. I looked up, and he was staring at a small, leather-bound booklet he had found between his shirts, and opened. He did not move for almost a minute – and I watched him, kneeling close to my own bag, my hand still resting upon it.
He gave a painful breath – and then he got up, silently, taking the booklet with him, leaving the fire's light and warmth...
I would have hated it, to be followed in such a moment – I have run away so often to hide my feelings, and yet, if I am truly honest, I am not sure I have resented it, every time there has been someone brave enough to go after me...
For a while I just stayed as I was, unfolding my blanket yet only yearning to assure myself Dwalin was all right – I did not know what to do… Frerin was unpacking his bag too and had just discovered the cakes – and suddenly I decided I had to try.
I got up, and walked towards the edge of the trees where I had seen Dwalin disappear. He had not run away, not really – he never was ashamed to acknowledge his feelings, there was always so much constancy him...
He was happy to be with me on the road – he truly was. And he was also distressed because he had had to leave his mother behind – and for him, there was no problem in dealing with both feelings at the same time, he did not even see how hard it was to live through all this, he was just feeling it...
He had sat on a trunk, and was staring at that little booklet, brushing it every now and then with his thumb. He was not crying, he was only breathing unevenly – I could feel it when I sat down next to him, circling his waist with my arms.
"Hey, you...", he just said, his voice thick – and then he wiped his nose, only once, with the back of his hand.
I did not say anything, I just held him, and this time he was the one leaning against me.
I did not ask about the booklet, either. It was so private – I had no right to ask, I just wanted Dwalin to know that I was there.
"You know, my mum...", Dwalin began, and then he drew a shuddering breath, before turning towards me – and that grin, that wonderful, strong smile he managed to summon...
"She's completely, completely crazy, but I love her."
And then he stood up, just like this. He was still smiling, despite his bright eyes – no conflicted feelings in his heart, no bitterness, and so much courage...
"Come. Let's get some cakes before Frerin just eats them all."
We both returned – and I still had my arm entwined with his, not knowing if I was truly leading him back or if it was him dragging me back to fire and light, and what did it matter...
He showed them to me, though, years after – the words his mother had written on the first page of that small leather booklet, well-knowing which son she was addressing, and loving him just like she loved Balin...
So strange that I should recall them now, so strange that, though there is no one next to me now, I feel as if she is addressing me as well, trying to soothe me just as she wanted to comfort her son...
.
"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams."
.
She had quoted sacred words I had never really noticed and understood before – but after them she had added words from her own heart, words that did not speak of universality, but of that very special and unique love of a mother towards her son:
"Write to your old mother, if you feel like it. Dream and live always.
You are my blessing, as is your brother, and will always have mine, no matter where you go and when we will meet again."
She did not sign – she did not need to. And I do not know what Dwalin wrote in that booklet – I do not know how many letters found their way to her, before they met again at last...
All I know is that she was there. Always there, with him and also with me, no matter how crooked and twisted my road might have been... And I hope – I hope she will not judge me too harshly, when I will have to look at her, when I will have to answer for what I put her sons through...
I hope she will still embrace me, in the end, just like she did the day she gave me back a part of my Soul, and enough strength to face the road once more.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations and notes :
- Kudz : short for kudzaduz, tiny golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin.
- Sarnûna: dancing-lady, Dwalin's nickname for Dís.
- Mamarrakhûn : "he who continues to shield", a shield-brother.
- The text Dwalin's mother quites is actually a fragment of what Khalil Gibran wrote 'On Children' in The Prophet - a truly wonderful book.