A/N: Greetings, friends. For those of you who have been following my writing since the release of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, welcome back. For you newcomers, hello and welcome!
As promised to my loyal fans, I present to you a Fíli-centered story. I've had a complete 15 page outline for this story sitting on my computer for 8 months now... FINALLY I get to bring it to life (with much thanks to my friend Italian Hobbit, for bullying me and helping me get two-thirds of this written in a single day)! My architecture major has just kept me far too busy to write. I managed to do a bit of dabbling in my spare time on Thanksgiving break (when I was too dead to concentrate on anything), and I polished a couple super-short chapters for an equally short Fíli/Kíli series, published under the name 'Grab My Hand' … A couple chapters have been posted, so take a peek!
For those who have happened to have read my story 'A Private Little War', this takes place about five years later. Fíli and Kíli are now the dwarven equivalent of human adolescents aged 16 and 14 years old; their 'actual' ages are 25 and 20 years old. As usual, when I refer to ages in-text I shall refer to their 'actual' ages (for an explanation of my age-conversion system, please check my profile).
Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you 'The Mark of Gideon'.
Enjoy.
Gid·e·on /ˈgidēən/ • Destroyer, Feller, Mighty Warrior
Arc I: Growing Pains — Chapter I
"Some are born great,
some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them."
– William Shakespeare, "Twelfth Night"
Maybe now they'll stop comparing me to a peach.
That's what everyone called me for a while—my friends, and even my own mother: Peach. They teased me about the rough golden fuzz on my face, though nothing unkind was meant by it, of course. Some of the older lads took to saying things that were rather less than proper, making dubious references to my being ripe for the picking by the young dwarrow-dams, and other similar comments. I had the good grace to blush and I bore all else patiently, waiting for my silly stubble to grow.
When the little prickles first appeared I am not certain who was more excited: me or my little brother. He was the first to make the prodigious discovery. It had happened literally overnight, the small hairs liberally appearing beneath my nose and on my chin; I opened my eyes in the morning to Kíli shrieking with childish delight and poking at my face in a most undignified fashion. When I roughly shoved him off my bed and hastily stumbled to our dresser mirror he dashed off, seeking out Mum and Uncle Thorin and babbling to them excitedly. The fuss he made was rather silly, and the way our mother blithely snatched my face for a closer look was more than a little embarrassing. Uncle Thorin had simply smiled, but I could tell from the sparkle in his eye that he was quite pleased. In truth there was little to see—there was but so little fuzz—and as a result I gruffly brushed it off as an occurrence hardly worth noting. Unlike Kíli I was not going to bounce around the house like a rogue jumping bean; I accepted the welcome occurrence with a little smile and a nod, accepting Mum's and Uncle's congratulations with mild enthusiasm. Little did anyone know that I later sat alone in the broom closet with a candle and Mother's hand mirror, gleefully running my fingers over my face and snickering to myself like an idiot. Finally, I'm beginning to look like a grownup!
That was almost two years ago. Now the infantile peach fuzz is but a distant memory, real hair now in its place. It'll be a long time before I can braid my mustache and even longer before I can comb a nice long beard, but I have a mustache and beard nonetheless. They are quite small things, clearly the facial hair of a young dwarf and not an adult, but they are there nonetheless— I am no longer a bare-faced child. Thank Mahal and all the other omnipotent beings of this world that I am finally past that dreadful stage.
I stand in front of the mirror now, meticulously combing my mustache with a tiny brush. It really is but pointless preening because my facial hair is so short, yet it pleases me to do it anyway. I purse my lips as I attempt to get one small lick of hair to lay just right. My little brother is sitting on his bed with one leg tucked beneath him, the other swinging carelessly over the footboard, and he watches my morning routine with keen interest. I pretend not to notice his revering gaze but secretly enjoy his youthful admiration.
"It looks fine to me, Fíli," he eventually chirps.
I chuckle. "'Course it does. Everything looks fine to you. Thankfully this is on my face and I am accustomed to investing some care in my appearance."
From my view in the mirror I can see the familiar, pouting expression brush lightly over Kíli's face. "I care about how I look," he mutters, feigning hurt.
Chuckling some more I temporarily ignore him as I try to tame a few stray hairs on my beard. Soon enough my brother pipes up again.
"Really, you look good," he says with more seriousness. "I mean it." He kicks the footboard idly. "I can't wait for my beard to grow in." His voice carries the smallest hint of envy.
I glance at him through the mirror, catching him as he ruefully strokes his smooth chin. My little brother and I look more different than we ever have before: where I am developing evenly into a thicker, more adult frame, he's all legs and arms, lanky and awkward. My muscles are hardening and I'm filling out nicely; he's awfully slim, just as he has always been, but his growing body is more disproportionate than ever. My golden hair is always wild and unruly in its natural state, as is Kíli's, but mine is thick, coarse, and easy to braid. Kíli's hair is thick and wavy, but its texture is comparable to corn silk, braids slipping apart and refusing to stay put. I blink now, pleasantly surprised as I notice that his hair is actually braided today, and quite nicely too, though it appears one of the delicate plaits is already threatening to come loose. Kíli puffs a strand of hair out of his eyes, interrupting my thoughts when he speaks again.
"I look like a baby next to you," he complains lightly, "With this dreadfully bare face of mine."
I put my brush down and wriggle my nose a bit, examining my face from several angles. "You'll just have to be patient, squirrel. It'll come, but you've got a few years yet."
Kíli sighs long-sufferingly, a wry smile on his face. "Don't remind me. It's bad enough that you're so much taller than me—again! It's just plain unfair," he whines, his youthful voice cracking awkwardly for the umpteenth time.
I grin at him through the mirror. It does seem rather unfair to my young brother. Poor Kíli; after an entire life of being significantly shorter than me he slowly but surely caught up to my height, only to be left behind when I suddenly had a major growth spurt. Over the course of several months I grew quite a number of inches: I now stand at my uncle's shoulder and a whole head taller than my unfortunate brother. This renewed height difference between us aggravates him to no end but I can't help admitting it rather amuses me.
"I am your big brother, after all," I remind him teasingly.
"You're only five years older," he retorts with amusement, "Hardly that far ahead of me. And just you wait," he says, waving his finger at me before launching his age-old threat, "Someday I am going to be taller than you, and everyone will think that I am the elder brother."
"Kíli," I guffaw, "Even if you were as tall an eight-foot beanstalk nobody would ever make that mistake." My little brother splutters indignantly as I continue with a tone of mock superiority. "It takes more than mere height to distinguish a dwarf. It takes a certain measure of… poise, and majesty—" I rise slowly out of my chair and regard my reflection with a grim smirk; "—and no small degree of charm."
"Well, guess that rules you out, then," snickers Kíli impudently.
"What was that?" I cry laughingly, rounding on him suddenly. Grinning evilly I loom over him and trap him in place before he can scramble out of the way and to safety.
"I said it rules you out, you puffed-up old rooster!" he crows with delight, even as he tries to wriggle away. He knows he has just sealed his fate.
"Puffed up? Old?" I bellow. "I'll show you a thing or two, you smart-mouthed whippersnapper!" With that I gleefully begin an aggressive tickle assault that quickly turns Kíli's squeak of fear into shrieks of laughter. This continues for several minutes, even when Kíli's relentless squirming and flailing sends us both rolling onto the floor. Though he puts up quite a fight I am still larger and much stronger than he; Kíli is all but screaming for mercy when our glorious battle is interrupted.
"By Durin's beard, what on earth is this racket?" Mother blusters into the room and stands over us with her hands placed on her stout hips. "Fíli! Kíli! Get your sorry selves off that dirty floor this instant or Mahal help me, I swear I'll. . ."
By the third word of her motherly tirade Kíli and I are already scrambling to our feet and straightening our rumpled clothing, smiling sheepishly. She strides over and spins me around, vigorously dusting off my back and adjusting my collar before attending to Kíli. Her long-strung tirade is mostly lost on us but we offer apologetic mumbles and demure smiles at all the right places.
". . . and wearing your blue jerkins too," she continues, grumbling fiercely. "Your royal clothes! I thought you two knew better but it seems I was wrong. On such an important day, too—oh, boys— honestly!"
I chuckle, knowing that she is not really cross with us. "Cheer up, Mother; these things wear like iron. Anyway, you habitually scrub our floor within an inch of its life," I soothe with my normal silver-tongued efficiency, "And I'm sure a bit of straw or dust bunnies will not harm such versatile material."
"There are no 'dust bunnies' in my halls," she mutters, pausing long enough to glare at me from over my brother's head. She continues to fuss over the rich fabric. "Like iron, indeed."
"Quite so, Mum!" Kíli pipes up, a gleam suddenly entering his brown eyes. He smiles innocently. "Uncle Thorin once told me that your blue clothes survived well enough, even after you went rolling around in a muddy pig pen before a royal event."
I am unable to suppress my guffaw of surprise, and our mother's expression is priceless to behold. Her eyes widen and narrow several times in quick succession while she splutters, her cheeks flushing momentarily. Kíli takes one look at me and it's all he needs to descend into a fit of giggles.
"Of all the impertinence!" Mother sounds severe but there is a distinct trace of humor in her voice. Her hand descends swiftly to the seat of my brother's trousers and he yelps, springing immediately out of her reach before he starts chortling in amusement. She places her hands on her hips and sends Kíli an imposing glare, even as I cover my grin with my hand. "It may interest you to know, young man," she declares, "That I was a dwarfling of four years, not twenty. I didn't know any better. You, on the other hand… Oh, what's the use? Shoo." She takes a few steps toward him and waves her hands at him dismissively, "Shoo. Out. Let me fuss over your brother. Out, I say." As Kíli scurries out of the room she turns to me, catching my grin before I can swallow it. She shakes her head. "It seems I must have a talk with that brother of mine concerning his choice of stories," she declares dryly, "The big oaf."
I clear my throat. "And yet you always wonder," I solemnly say, "Where Kíli and I got our mischievous streaks."
Mother fixes me with a steely stare before she begins chuckling softly. "Indeed."
Smiling at her, I wordlessly take the chair in front of the mirror as she picks up a comb and starts running it through my hair. Normally I fix my own hair—or let Kíli do it, because the little rascal loves braiding everyone's hair but his own—but since this is a special occasion my mother prefers to do it herself. I sit patiently as she runs her fingers through the shining strands, parting off sections and weaving delicate plaits with both speed and ease.
"How are you feeling, my lion?" she eventually asks.
The butterflies flair up again and I sigh slowly, deeply. "Fine," I answer honestly. "I'm a tad nervous, but not much. I know what's expected and what I'm to say, and I'll say it, so it's not a big deal, really." I look up at her through the mirror and give her a rather cocky grin. "I've got this covered."
"'Not a big deal,' my eye," she tuts, raising an eyebrow at me. "Reciting twenty passages of ancient Khuzdul is hardly an easy task—and it's an important part of the ritual, nothing to shake a finger at."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I laugh softly. "I know, Mum, I know."
Today is the festival of the Summer Solstice, one of the most important days on the dwarven calendar. Just as Men attach sentimental value to the first day of spring, so do Dwarves treasure the first day of summer. Of course we welcome spring, for spring means the end of winter, the end of the earth's sleep and its bitter cold, frost, and deep snows. It means the earth softens and the first seeds may be sown. However, spring also means storms and rain, making our halls in the mountains damp, humid, and uncomfortable; traditionally, it is not as celebrated a time. By culture, dwarves are not tillers of the earth—we are miners—but exile from Erebor has forced my people to become more self-sufficient in that area. Since we can no longer remain holed up in our stone halls and must grow our own food, my people are more aware of and thankful for the coming spring. Still, by age-old tradition, the arrival of summer is what we hold most dear. Summer means that our stone halls are blissfully comfortable, constantly teetering between sweetly cool and restfully warm. It is the only time of the year that we don't have to keep the fires burning. The days are longer; stronger sunlight filters through our light wells and fills our homes. It is a happy time for our race. Thus, the summer solstice—the day that has the longest period of sunlight all year round—is seen as a sacred day, and it is celebrated with a special festival.
Like any festival there are endless activities and fun events for young and old alike, but the festival of the summer solstice is also heavy-laden with religious symbolism, rituals, prayers, and so forth. There is one ceremony of particular importance, however: the final ceremony of the day. It is traditionally led by a lead citizen or political figure, and the first half begins with a series of short rituals directed first to Eru,thanking him for his pity and mercy on the Dwarves, and then to Mahal—Aulë the Smith—for creating us. It is very solemn, deep, and sometimes long-winded as such things tend to be, but it is all considered sacred and must not be taken lightly.
The second half of the ceremony demands the participation of two brothers from the community that have not yet come of age. Together they perform a libation and an additional ritual while reciting a short traditional prayer to the gods, praising them and asking Mahal for his continued favor and protection of our people. Afterwards, the younger brother must stand silently with a lit torch of fragrant agar wood—a rare strain of tree grown specifically for this purpose—that represents the first smith fires stoked by the dwarves. Meanwhile, the elder recites a complicated series of religious passages in the ancient tongue, the conclusion of which also marks the conclusion of the ceremony and the festival rituals. The dwarflings are selected for this ceremony at random, and while they may honorably decline the offer no one ever has, for their participation is seen as a great honor to their family. Once they agree, they are bound to perform the ceremony for ten consecutive years, after which time the position is passed on.
Mother was absolutely thrilled when the scented note arrived one day, announcing my and Kíli's selection for the role. Uncle, too, was simply bursting with pride. I had mixed feelings about the whole ordeal but Kíli positively whooped with excitement upon hearing the news. His enthusiasm kept me going when we were subjected to relentless practices of the ceremony and drilling of the verses. At first, Kíli was rather envious that I was to have the more prestigious role in the ceremony. As soon as Balin opened the well-worn book of Khuzdul prayers, however, and showed us the intimidating lengths of passages I was expected to memorize, my little brother was immediately content with his lot. For weeks I studied and gradually memorized the tricky Khuzdul verses, rolling my tongue around the heavy words, reciting line after line until I was sure I knew them backwards and forwards in my sleep. The ancient text is so different from the Khuzdul I know, there are entire sections I don't understand from memory—and Kíli can barely translate any of it—but all that matters is that I know the words by heart.
"I know you'll do splendidly," Mother says presently, sounding cheerful and very happy. "There." She attaches the last hair clasp and then pats my head shoulder fondly, looking into the mirror and observing my pleased reaction. "All finished."
"Thank you. T'is very nice, Mum."
She smiles warmly, watching as I turn my head one way and another to get a better look at her handiwork. With a slow, deep sigh, she places her hands on my shoulders and squeezes them slightly. "You look more and more like your father with the passing years. Sometimes…" A soft look of pain pulls at the corners of her mouth. "… There are times I look into that face of yours and it's as though Jóli was staring back at me. Then I see those blue Durin eyes, and I blink, and once again I just see my bright Fíli—" Mother pats my shoulders as the sadness evidently fades, "—Just as it should be."
The familiar twinge of sadness echoes in my chest, and I find myself swallowing the familiar lump that has surreptitiously settled in my throat.
"Do you… do you think he's proud of me?" I ask timidly.
"Oh, Fíli." She bends down and kisses me on my forehead. "Of course he is. I know he is." She strokes the side of my face gently as she continues to look at me through the mirror. "You're everything he had ever dreamed of and hoped for. You're an accomplished lad, upright and good-hearted with a good head on your shoulders. That's all he could've asked for and you've far exceeded his expectations."
I smile weakly at her words, fingering the chain links of the necklace hidden beneath my tunic. It is a while before I can speak again. "He would've loved to be there today, wouldn't he?"
Mother runs her fingers gently through the unbraided portions of my hair as she blinks rapidly. "Yes. Yes, he would have," she murmurs. "More than anything."
It's a cacophony of the senses, this festival. There are hundreds of smells—sweet spices, sharp spices, cheeses, pastries, all manners of ale and pipe tobacco—and just as many sounds—flutes and lutes, recorders and fiddles, children's cries and squeals of delight. The visual noise is incredible as well: bright, colorful streamers strung up at every tree, post, and stand, whipping and flapping in the warm breeze; dwarrow-dams in their best dresses, ribbons and bows in their hair, the few bright jewels they own adorning their necks, wrists, and fingers; dwarf men looking the most well-groomed they've been in a year, with clean clothes and beards combed and braided to their finest. Feminine giggles and titters filter through deep throated guffaws and belly laughs. Perfume and cologne rises in the air in a cloud of clashing scents and the little ones sneeze and wrinkle their noses with distaste. Through this crowd Kíli and I run, dodging chatty mothers and slipping around wide-girthed elders and tripping over the occasional small child. We earn ourselves a few remonstrative glares and clucking tongues for our trouble, but mostly good-natured smiles and chuckles. Kíli dashes ever ahead of me and it's all I can do to keep him in my sight through the crowd; Mother told me specifically to keep an eye on him, to keep him out of trouble until the ceremony later that evening. With Kíli's boisterous nature and odd sense of luck, he would surely find a mud puddle on even a dry day as this and soil his clothes, or fall into a lone rabbit hole and break his ankle. That thought in mind, I hasten to keep up with him.
I manage to grab him by the elbow and redirect him from his blithesome gallop to a weapons' stall. It's a regular gallery of all manner of arms, with swords, war hammers, and armor from times gone by; it's not meant for purchase, but for display. A dense gathering of admiring men blocks our view, but dragging my brother along behind me I manage to skillfully squeeze my way towards the front.
"Egad!" Kíli exclaims softly, "What a collection! It's even grander than last year's."
"Quite so," I marvel, gazing softly upon each weapon in turn. Kíli and I look on quietly, saying nothing, until I find myself reaching out to reverently touch one of the sword hilts. It is wholly encrusted with more jewels than I can name—startling rubies and glowing amber, sparkling garnets, tracings of gold and sharp glints of diamond are just some of the precious stones that glitter on the weapon.
"And that's just the hilt," Kíli breathes in awe. "Look at the sheath. It's inlaid with spessartite garnets and sphenes."
"Close, but not garnets, Brother," I correct him, whispering with veneration. "Those are sphalerites. Look at the shape and dispersion." The spharelite gem looks like a living flame trapped within a capsule, glowing and radiating, while a sphene is yellow or yellowish-green in color with an intensive fire-like glare. The theme of this sword and its sheath is clear: with its gold, yellow, and red gems, it is obviously a weapon of flame.
"You know your precious stones well, young Master Fíli," inserts a voice. "You do our people proud." Kíli and both turn as one at the approach of the newcomer.
"I have excellent tutors, Sir," I respond with appropriate modesty, inclining my head in a gesture of thanks as I mentally scrabble for the stout, elderly dwarf's name.
"This is an amazing collection, Mister Noran," Kíli chirps enthusiastically. I mentally thank him for his superior ability at remembering the names of people over stones. "We've noticed that you've got new weapons this year. Where have they come from?"
"Oh, laddie, all over," Noran replies, an amused smile spreading across his grey-whiskered face. "Some are from my extended family across the mountains, others—well, like this one; let me show you…"
As Kíli follows the elder aside and become engrossed his tale, a particularly aggravating scent of perfume enters my nostrils and my heart immediately clenches with dread. Oh for goodness sake not today, not now, Mahal please not now I'm supposed to be relaxing.
"Yoo-hoo, Fíli!" a shrill voice erupts suddenly. The sound of it sends shivers down my spine. "Why, fancy my bumping into you!"
Sighing, I plaster on the most polite smile I can muster before turning around to face my formidable foe. What meets my eyes is a sight that would possibly rival the ferocity of Smaug himself: women.
I attempt to sound pleasantly surprised and not incredibly annoyed. "Hello, Lacla. Yes, fancy meeting you here on a day such as this."
Clasping my hands gravely behind my back, I try not to quaver as the somewhat plump dwarrow-girl approaches, her black curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face. Her colored lips spread into an intimidating, flirtatious smile as she aggressively waves a small fan by her powdered nose. Her makeup is quite overdone, and she is dressed with rather inappropriate extravagance for her age. A dwarrow-girl in her mere twenties is still viewed as a child and should be dressed more plainly, upgrading to a higher class of style when she reaches her late thirties. Lacla is but twenty-three but she carries on like a grown young lady of forty-six; I blame her overly ambitious mother.
"I haven't seen you in a long while, Fíli," she begins, her face descending into a poor attempt at an adorable pout. Too bad she doesn't know that my brother has her beat by years of superior experience. "We ought to talk more often."
"Ah… Mm-hm," I reply, non-committal. Stealthily, I scan the area for an avenue of escape, but notice with dread that some of Lacla's friends have accompanied her and now look on from a few feet away, effectively blocking any route of hasty departure.
She bats her excessively-painted eyelashes. "There's to be dancing later this eve, and I shall be in need of a partner."
"I am sure," I answer carefully, "That you shall have no trouble finding an appropriate candidate." Victim is the word I would have preferred to use.
Lacla blinks, smiles brightly, and starts giggling in a manner I find most distressing. Then, before so much as a by your leave I find myself surrounded and all but carried off by the chattering flock of girls, who are all as interested as my current predator but none daring to intrude on her choice of prey. I find it all impossibly annoying, yet my strict upbringing prevents me from being anything but well-mannered and agreeable. Unfortunately, it seems that too many of the females in these parts take my kind civility for closeted flirtation; too bad for them that I'm not the least bit interested. I find that this is most definitely one of the negative results of my growing older; more than ever I find myself being the target of seemingly every single dwarf lass who is within five or ten years of my age. They practically throw themselves in my path, begging to be noticed by the golden-haired, lion princeling of Durin. My uncle is amused, my mother is delighted, but I find the unwanted attention rather frustrating.
I converse with them for as short of a time as I can without being perceived as rude, then excuse myself and practically hurtle myself into the sanctuary of the crowd once more. When I return to the weapons' stall I see that Kíli is no longer there and I begin an extensive search. I needn't look far, however, for he is at the corral set up in the auction area. He sits on the wooden rail, eyes riveted on the large herd of ponies roaming about, waiting to be bought.
"Thanks for abandoning me," I grumble good-naturedly as I sidle up beside him.
"You're welcome," he retorts, glancing down at me for but a moment. He wrinkles his nose with disgust. "I can't stand 'em dames. Do they even know how ridiculous they look when they're fawning all over you?" He sticks his tongue out and points to his open mouth, making me snigger.
I gesture to the circling animals beyond. "Admiring the scenery, are we?"
"Gosh, yes." He sighs wistfully. "I wish I had my own pony. Old Biscuit is getting on in years and I can't ride her too hard." A particularly striking pony with white socks and a black mane trots by and Kíli follows its every move with his eyes. "How I would love to go racing with the lads."
"Oh no—" I burst out laughing as a memory surfaces, "—No more racing for you, Brother. Remember the last time you attempted such a venture?"
Kíli quickly looks elsewhere. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles, but his cheeks flush with obvious recollection.
I grin at him wickedly. "Sure you do. Remember, seven years ago? You were thirteen winters then. You stole a Man's horse in town on a dare, partook in a race—"
"Borrowed, not stole," he interrupts in dismal protest.
"—and got arrested when you tried to surreptitiously return the creature to the livery. Uncle had to leave work to come and rescue you, and once he dragged you home he whaled you within an inch of your life, as I recall correctly," I chortle.
"That was a long time ago," Kíli mumbles, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. "I was pretty dumb back then."
"As compared to now?" I playfully needle.
"What is this, Pick-On-Kíli Day?" my little brother finally snaps, jumping off the rail before pinching me none-to-gently. I slap his hand away and he smiles, my offense obviously forgiven. "C'mon," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me along, "Let's see what else there is to see."
We spend the afternoon pleasantly enough, scampering about from one stall to another and taking part in a wide range of activities. Kíli behaves himself and I'm able to experience some mental calm. Occasionally I mutter sections of the Khuzdul passages under my breath like a song, to keep it fresh, and Kíli offers me a sympathetic smile when he notices. The day wanes, the sun begins to shine its dying light, and Kíli and I take a few minutes to dart into an empty booth and rehearse our lines one last time. We go through the motions of the libation, I recite my passages in rapid whispers, and we both nod at one another in approval as the first drums begin to sound. We raise our heads as one with a small gasp.
"It's time," I hiss, grabbing his arm. "Hurry."
We emerge from the empty booth to see that the sun is slowly setting, rich purples and oranges filling the sky, and a change has come over the crowd. Dwarves who were boisterous and cheerful now grow quiet and somber; some of the men begin to hum under their breaths, deep-throated sounds that murmur in tune with the drums steadily beating out the ritualistic summons. The people move in shuffling herds toward the main square and Kíli and I anxiously hurry along. Desperate for speed, we squeeze out from the mob and clamber onto the short stone walls that follow our path, scampering and scrambling along atop them in an effort to bypass the heavy foot traffic. Bits of dirt and pebbles slide from beneath our moving feet and sprinkle onto some passersby below. There are a few gasps and grumbles but we take no notice as we race along, unwilling to be late to our first major community performance.
We arrive just in time.
"Where have you two been?" Uncle growls with obvious annoyance. "You're almost late."
"'Almost'" being the key word, Thorin," Dís soothes him, bright-eyed with excitement. "They're here, now."
"Sorry Uncle," Kíli pants, hardly noticing as Mother straightens his tunic collar and smooths his hair, "It is such a large crowd, and we had trouble getting through—"
"Well, never mind," Uncle interrupts, looking about him in a distracted manner. "You'd better go sit down. And both of you—" He looks back and grips both of us by the shoulder with a stern expression, "Behave yourselves. This is a big deal."
Kíli and I glance at one another and nod at our guardian. "Yes, Sir; we know," we reply in unison.
Thorin nods tersely. "Good. Alright, then; go."
There is a large stage set up in the square, an elevated platform with a series of stairs snaking up to its top. The crowd gathers in front and partially around the stage, holding their breaths expectantly as the drummer continues to sound out the call. Uncle Thorin and Mister Balin are among the handful of elders and community leaders who are leading the ceremony, and they now make their slow ascent to the stage with two others to begin the opening prayers. My little brother and I have a while to wait before we are to take part, so we must sit in a designated area with the other awaiting participants. Moments pass, and soon Balin turns to the crowd, raises his hands high in the air, and the drums abruptly silence. There is a pregnant pause as one of the elders begins a high, melodious chant in Khuzdul, incense filling the air…
My mind begins to buzz and my focus on the scene before me slips, falls away.
"Are you alright?" Kíli suddenly whispers in my ear, jolting me back to the present. I nod my head mutely in reply, and Kíli tugs my elbow. I turn to look at him. "You're looking a little pale, Big Brother," he tells me with concern.
I smile shakily at him. "I-I'll be fine. It's just these last-minute jitters, is all. Silly thing, really."
He squeezes my arm. "Hey. You'll do great."
"We both will," I mutter with a wink, elbowing him gently. "Don't forget you have to say something, too."
He laughs quietly. "All of three lines; that's easy, even for me."
"Don't screw up, then," I tease, "Or you'll go down in history as the dwarfling who messed up the easiest role in the Summer Solstice Festival."
"Boy, that's what I get for trying to be nice to you," he grumbles, but his bright grin betrays him.
"Shhh, laddies," a voice behind us hushes. I turn my head and see a well-dressed dwarf—a merchant named Dori, I believe—looking at us with mixed amusement and disapproval. "You must pay attention."
I nod to him and smile apologetically before glancing at Kíli and rolling my eyes. My little brother quickly leans forward and breaths the word "Busybody" in my ear before settling back in his seat with a satisfied smirk.
The ceremony goes on in a hazy, noisy blur. I'm normally not one to daydream at a time when paying attention is so strictly required, but the more I sit there the more butterflies join the party of dread being hosted in my gut. I hadn't been all that nervous to begin with, not really; but as the mystical chants and long-winded prayers fill my ears and float about my head my discomfort grows. I have known and understood intellectually for weeks what a "big deal" this is, as Uncle had said, but only now can I fully, emotionally comprehend the sheer magnitude of the role I am to play. Mine is the final part in this entire assemblage; my words are the final words spoken; my prayer the last to be heard by the gods. In summary, my performance will be the one last remembered. Only now do I realize how much responsibility has fallen to me, and all this time I had treated it as just another big task that I was expected to do well. Only now do I realize. . . well, everything.
This is also the first time that Kíli and I are participating in any major event alongside our uncle; an event of such magnitude that concerns the community as a whole. A deeper understanding settles within me; this, then, is why Uncle Thorin seemed nervous. Kíli and I are on parade. We are under public scrutiny: 'how well have those two scruffy rapscallions done under Thorin's guardianship?', everyone is wondering. 'Are they fit for a finer future, fit to be leaders? Do they have poise, breeding? Come, let us see our princely specimens; put them on the auction block of The People, and let us see if they have meat on their bones and a glint in their eyes; let us see if they are worthy of our praise or ridicule'. I find myself wondering if we were truly picked at random as is tradition, or if someone had an extra hand in our selection. The odds of it being the latter seem startlingly clear.
My hands grow cold and I clench them firmly in my lap. I can feel them begin to shake and tremble against my will; I feel lightheaded. This is so dreadfully important. I need to act perfectly. Perfectly.
I become aware of an insistent tug on my arm.
"Fee, come back to earth and join us," says the impudent voice of my little brother. My head swims as I mentally awake and look up; Kíli is already on his feet, his hand pulling on my arm. "We have to go up, now."
Up to the chopping block, up to the shooting range, up to the gallows. Up to the stares, the questions, the glares. Up, up, up. Step right up, folks; step right up—come one, come all, come see the show. Come see the little child who would be king.
Cold little fingers wrap around mine, and I realize that Kíli has taken my hand. The cloud lifts from my eyes once again and I realize that he's studying my face, so I offer him an easy smile, squeeze his hand briefly and then let go. Reassured, his eyes sparkle once more and he smiles back at me; stepping aside, he allows me to walk up the stairs in front of him as I'm supposed to. I square my shoulders, tilt my chin and hold my head high. Up, up, up.
Balin is beating out some obscure rhythm on a small drum; it's just the three of us onstage. Kíli and I move in perfect synchronization through our shared part of the ceremony—I know it so well that I am hardly aware of what we are doing. It all goes by like a hazy dream, where one is not sure whether or not it even happened. The only clear picture in my mind is when Kíli and I hold a golden goblet high in the air and slowly pour its honeyed wine onto the platform. Splish-splish-splish. Kíli's youthful voice is raised high in a sing-song exultation, a three-line Khuzdul chant. Splish-splish-splash. My own, deeper voice harmonizes with his as I hum a deep, almost tuneless series of notes. Splash. Splash. Drip. Drip.
The libation is over. I take a deep breath; so far so good.
A hiss, an explosion of fragrance, and I know without turning my head that Kíli's torch has been lit. The bitter-sweet aroma of the agar wood immediately fills the air, thick and smoking. It fills my nostrils, heavy and sharp, indicating Kíli's close proximity to me. I know from practice that he is standing behind me on my left, just out of my peripheral vision, but I find myself wishing that he could step just a tad bit closer so I could see him.
The drum stops. Silence reigns.
"Oh mighty Mahal," I intone clearly in Khuzdul, my voice ringing out over the staring crowd below, "Hear clearly my cry; turn not a deaf ear to your children…"
After the first verse of the first passage is spoken, Balin begins beating the drum once more. It has a simple beat now, echoing ominously behind my words like a steady heartbeat. As soon as I begin speaking my nerves melt away, all dark thoughts far from my mind as I concentrate on the recitation. The heavy language falls from my lips as naturally as Westron; my elocution is flawless. Line after line slips away, floating off on the summer breeze as the smoke from the agar torch. I can feel the knots in my shoulders fade, and it doesn't hurt to stand up straight any more. Tension remains but terror is gone. I venture a glance into the crowd below. Mother stands in the very front, her face bright with joy. I feel proud.
Five long passages gone. Seven. Twelve. My most difficult one, passage fifteen, flows on without a hitch and I breathe a quick, silent sigh of relief. Sixteen. The last verse of seventeen fades…
… And that is when my mind goes blank.
Eighteen… eighteen... Mahal help me, I can't remember how passage eighteen begins. My mind races desperately and the drum continues to sound.
Boom.
Oh, Mahal. Maybe I can skip those lines. Maybe no one will notice. I know the rest of it, I remember verses fifteen through thirty; maybe I can just start at verse fifteen and keep going?
Boom.
Of course I can't skip those lines. The rest of the passage won't make sense. It'll be a glaring mistake and I'll look foolish.
Boom.
How did it begin? 'Verily, verily…' No, that's from passage nineteen. 'We feel your presence in…' No, that's verse twenty-three… 'Through the storms of our sins…' No, no—
Boom.
Sweet Eru, I can't think! I can't think with that blasted drum! What's the first line? What's the first filthy stupid son-of-an-orc god-forsaken verse of this accursed passage—Mahal, have mercy! I know the rest of the entire thing I really do I know everything else please help me, please—
Boom.
I can hear the faintest murmur in the crowd; they are confused at my inexplicable silence. I'll be a laughingstock. I am a laughingstock. Poor Uncle Thorin. Poor Mum. I'm sorry.
Boom.
"Look down now, o Father of Stone," a young voice cries with confidence, "Shine the light of your grace upon this earth…"
Kíli. Oh, sweet Eru, it's Kíli. How is this possible? How does he know it?
The murmuring below increases tenfold, others being evidently as shocked as I feel. Breaking all tradition, ignoring all rules concerning this ritual, my little brother has come to my aide and is reciting the passage with all the correct pronunciations and articulation. It takes every bit of my remaining nerves to school my features into calm, to prevent my turning around to look at him in slack-jawed surprise. I feel light-headed. I mentally scream my thanks to the almighty Eru for my brother's sudden and utterly unexpected rescue. Meanwhile I discreetly take several deep breaths, trying to regain my composure as I prepare to intercede when Kíli gives me a chance.
Kíli recites exactly the first fifteen lines and then pauses, evidently testing to see if I am prepared to continue. I do so, immediately.
"In times of poverty or times of wealth, we shall remember your name…"
All is silent once again save for the sound of my voice and the everlasting drum. My pride is gone. I feel so terribly embarrassed; I can only hope that my face is not flushed. The last of that dreaded passage eighteen disappears, followed by nineteen… and finally, twenty. I made it, not unscathed, but I made it. As my last words evaporate into the air, the drum's beats increase—boom, boom-boom, boom, boom-boom—and then cease. The ritual is complete.
The crowd explodes into applause, but I scarcely hear it. My eyes cloud over—I messed up. Father would've been disappointed, if he were here.
When we walk down the stairs Kíli grabs my shoulder from behind, stopping me before we can reach the bottom.
"Fee—"
"You did well." I reply huskily. I glance over my shoulder, smiling wanly. "Thank you."
"So did you," he adds hastily as I begin walking again. "You really did, honest. It's all alright."
I want to tell him exactly how much it's not alright but I don't get a chance, for when I reach the last step I find myself all but swooped off my feet by our mother's embrace.
"Fíli, Fíli, well done!" she gushes, crushing me to her bosom in an over-enthusiastic hug. I smile despite myself—I can always count on one loyal fan. "You were wonderful, sweetheart; great job. What a difficult performance—oh, Kíli," she says, reaching out her other arm and pulling my little brother close. "You were splendid—and what a surprise!" She kisses us both. "My boys, always sticking together."
Eventually she releases us, and Kíli and I stand by with sheepish smiles. Then Uncle Thorin appears and we both automatically straighten up, smiles fading as we take in his stern expression. He turns to me, and my gaze immediately falters and falls to the ground.
"What happened up there?" my guardian demands.
"He was nervous, Uncle," Kíli quickly asserts, rising to my defense in the wake of Uncle's impending temper. "That's all; he just—"
"Quiet!" Kíli falls silent and I feel him shrink back slightly. "I asked your brother. Fíli, what happened?"
My throat feels so painfully tight I can barely speak. "I forgot the opening lines for passage eighteen." No excuse, no defense, because I know that's not what Thorin wants to hear.
He gives a short sigh; he's angry. "And why did you forget?" he snaps. "Did you practice? Fíli, look at me—" The last line is an order and I quickly obey it. "Didn't you practice?"
"Thorin, please," Mother begins, but without as much as a glance her way my uncle raises his hand for silence.
I clench my teeth as I fight down the nausea of anxiety that suddenly overwhelms me. Didn't I practice? I can feel that tears are humiliatingly close. What an insulting question.
"Yes, Uncle," I answer simply, quietly. "I practiced. I've practiced every day for five weeks."
"Did you practice today?"
"Yes, Sir."
"While you were running wild around the festival grounds with your brother?" he growls. I can't meet his piercing gaze and I stare at his jerkin laces instead.
"I practiced, Sir," I answer miserably.
"Thorin, stop it." My mother sounds angry herself, now; she steps forward and glowers at her older brother. "Why are you doing this?"
"Why am I doing this?" Uncle echoes, looking back at her now, a dark storm cloud brewing on his face. "Because this was your sons' first major obligation to our people, Dís, and evidently one of them did not take it seriously enough to be sufficiently prepared. He had time, he had help. There is no excuse for this."
"Oh, for pity's sake, you're being outrageous!" my mother exclaims. "The boy had a case of nerves; there is nothing shameful in that! It happens, Brother. Be thankful it ended as well as it did!"
"That's the point, Dís, it should not have 'happened' at all." Uncle Thorin turns back to me. "If you had taken a little extra time to refresh your memory today instead of fooling around all afternoon," he insists, "You would not have forgotten. Am I right?"
I swallow hard. "Perhaps, but Uncle," I protest meekly, "I-I remembered everything else, I knew all of the rest—"
"Fíli," he interrupts quietly, taking my shoulder firmly and trying to catch my gaze. He seems less angry now, but no less stern. "Am I right?"
I bite the inside of my mouth, feeling absolutely ashamed. There is no escaping his gaze and I am forced to meet it. "Y-Yes, Sir," I eventually concede.
Uncle pauses, looking at me for a long moment before he releases my shoulder. His temper appears to have evaporated and his posture relaxes. "This was your first time. You did well," he says matter-of-factly with a small nod, "An admirable effort. Next time, however, I expect you to prepare better. And you—" Here Thorin raises his voice slightly and turns to my brother, who hiccups with surprise. "I believe that you know the rules as well, young man; do you not?"
I venture a glance at Kíli and he looks up at our Uncle with wide eyes that could melt an icicle. He swallows nervously. "No, Sir—I mean yes, Sir—I'm supposed to stay silent after my chant, Sir."
"Indeed," Uncle Thorin intones, raising an eyebrow. "A rule you willfully broke." Kíli visibly shrivels. "In this case, however, though it is decidedly against protocol and not entirely proper—" He reaches out and wraps his arm around Kíli's shoulder, "—I think that it can be forgiven for the good that was done. It was fortuitous that were able to step in as you did, and I am impressed that you took the time to memorize something that was not your responsibility to learn."
Kíli's expression morphs from one of fear, to surprise, to bright-eyed pleasure so quickly that it really is quite laughable. He smiles tentatively at our guardian, receiving a softened expression in return, but upon glancing at me my little brother's expression falters. He immediately begins a hasty explanation as the two turn toward the crowd. "I-I'm not that grand at all, Uncle," I can hear Kíli say earnestly, "I just inadvertently learned a few verses here and there while helping Fíli prepare these past weeks; that's all. It was just a lucky thing."
"A very lucky thing, then," is the quiet reply. His next words are lost to my ears as they approach the noise of the crowd.
"Don't mind your uncle, Fíli," my mother grumbles, linking her arm around mine as we follow them. "He's just cross and stressed out from the way some of the elders were talking today… and in any case, he's just a crotchety old goat, anyhow." She turns to me, smiling that sun-and-butterflies smile of hers, blue eyes dancing. "You did an excellent job, even if you did forget a few loathsome versus of that silly passage. I'm very proud of you—" Here she tweaks my nose. "—And I mean it."
I summon enough strength to give her a bright smile, even if it doesn't reach my heart, and she squeezes my arm tightly. I look a few yards ahead to where Uncle Thorin and Kíli are walking, and despite myself I feel a pain of jealousy.
I should be the one over whose shoulders Uncle proudly drapes his arm, not him.
By the time Kíli finishes washing up and returns to our room, I've already dimmed the lamp and climbed into bed, curled on my side with the blanket pulled just below my eyes. At the corner of my vision I watch him enter and close the door, looking at me with a perplexed expression. I mentally will him to go away while wishing for the umpteenth time that I had the bed further away from the door. At least he has a blank wall to turn to when he wishes to be alone.
Of course, like a typical little brother, he doesn't go away. He comes and sits on the edge of my bed, close to my huddled form.
"You're cross with me."
He says it not as a question but a quiet observation. I sigh deeply.
"No, Kíli, I'm not." My voice is slightly muffled by the blanket, but I know he heard me. Yet, he continues to sit there, watching me. I glance over at him. "Really, I'm not."
"You haven't said all of ten words to me the entire evening," he persists, "Ever since the ceremony. It's because of that stupid verse isn't it?"
I snuffle slightly beneath the blanket and say nothing in response.
"Fee, please." He lays a hand on my hip and leans forward, looking at me earnestly. "I didn't do it to get Uncle's praise, or to steal your moment of triumph, or anything like that. I wasn't trying to get attention at all."
"I know," I mumble.
"I did it for you, to help you—" His voice takes such a plaintive note that I turn and gaze upon him fully. He looks so ridiculously guilty that I feel sorry for him. "—I couldn't think what else to do. I thought to whisper it to you, but—"
"I know, Kíli; I know." I pull the covers down from my face as I smile at him fondly. "You were splendid. I promise I'm not angry at you; I'm thankful for what you did. I just…" I sigh despondently, and turn my face away. "I'm just disappointed in how things turned out, is all."
I close my eyes, effectively ending the conversation, and after a minute or two Kíli stands up and walks slowly away.
The light goes out; the room falls completely dark. I breathe a shuddering sigh—and my eyes fly open with a start of surprise when I feel Kíli climbing in bed alongside me.
"Go away, you persistent twerp," I mutter, a catch in my throat.
"Never, you grumpy crosspatch," he pipes, laying down behind me and pushing his forehead against my shoulder blades. He throws his arm over me in a kind of half-hug and sighs with contentment.
"Grow up," I mumble hoarsely.
"Let go," he whispers. "It's only me."
There's a long pause as I bite my lip hard and squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I shudder slightly and Kíli tightens his arm around me. We lay in silence for a long while.
"I… I worked so hard, Kee." My choked voice breaks the stillness like a cracking plate. I realize my pillow is damp, and a childish sniffle escapes me before I can stop it. "It's not fair."
It takes him so long to reply that at first I think he has fallen asleep. Finally, though, he replies.
"I know, Big Brother," Kíli whispers shakily. "I know."
To be continued…
A/N: The Blue Canary—my muse—is very excited about The Mark of Gideon. He's been tweeting and twittering about it for months, simply bursting with ideas. Please let him and I know what you think by leaving us some reviews! :)
My current forecast for this story is that it will run 18 chapters long. I will attempt to post a couple chapters before school starts up again, but just to warn you, once the semester begins I may not be able to update for a while. I may disappear for a length of time, but fear not: this story WILL be finished. Any absence will NOT be permanent. I have this story planned out from beginning to end, with thick and juicy story outlines to back me up. I just need time to get the words on paper.
As a rule, I think that these chapters will generally be shorter than my average 4500 words. I predict that on average they'll probably be about 2800 words long—rather short by my standards—though some chapters will likely be quite a bit larger or a bit shorter. It will depend on the content. This first chapter is a monstrous size—the largest I have ever written, to date—and such a size shall not likely be repeated. Take it as a special treat!