In this fanfic, Mîm is marginally OOC in order to fit in with a story of repentance and possible redemption. It doesn't say for sure what happened to Mîm, but I like to think that his ending was happier than in the Silmarillion. Decide for yourselves what happened to him according to your philosophy, and God bless you!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion or its characters or places, J.R.R. Tolkien and his son Christopher do.
Title: Repentance of a Petty-Dwarf
Summary: Mîm the Petty-dwarf's life is coming to its end, but he wonders if it's at all possible for someone like him who has hated so much to be at peace with Middle-earth and himself before he dies.
Language: English
Genre: Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort
Characters shown: Mîm, Khîm, Ibûn, Húrin (cameo)
Characters mentioned: Mahal (Aulë), Mandos, Túrin, Andróg, Beleg, Mîm's wife, Vairë
Location: Nulukkizdîn (Nargothrond)
Rating: T for Teen
The time had almost come for it to happen.
Mîm the Petty-dwarf felt old age creeping up on him, and he knew he couldn't live much longer. And his two precious sons, Ibûn and Khîm, were dead, as well as his wife and the rest of his family, and every other known Petty-dwarf that had lived and he had loved.
He was the last of his kind.
Khîm, his baby son, had been shot by a foolish outlaw named Andróg, whom he had subsequently cursed for the deed, and he still had never gotten over it. Ibûn was murdered by Orcs when he and Mîm were captured outside their home Amon Rûdh. And now he sat here in the ruined halls of Nulukkizdîn, one of the Petty-dwarves' grand realms, or Nargothrond, as the blasted Elves preferred to call it.
Why, oh why, he thought, did the accursed Sindarin Elves have to hunt my people like animals? Are they some sort of big game hunters, or should I say, little game hunters? The 'ordinary' Dwarves cast us out of their homes, simply because we are diminutive, we are not very sociable, and are more open with Khuzdul, our language. We had to survive somehow, and now we're virtually extinct. And there's little to do with this treasure hoard I now have; for when I die, what use will it be to my kind?
He wanted more than anything for life to be fair. Why were the Petty-dwarves destined to die out? They had not done anything to deserve this, so far as he knew. The whole world hated him and his kind, so he and his sons had naturally hated them all back. But he then remembered, as he gazed at a ruby in his right hand, that his sons were not as hate-filled as he was, having lived shorter and not experiencing as much of life. Khîm, the younger of the two, had retained some child-like innocence, meaning that he was more willing to see the good in those around him than just the evil, even in the face of prejudice and Orcs, and now he was reminded of something he had said to his father several days before the outlaws found them and he died. Mîm had been talking about how he would never relinquish his grudge against the Elves, Men, or 'ordinary' Dwarves as long as he lived.
Father, Khîm said then, you should know that Mahal the Maker of Mountains made us, just like he made the taller Dwarves in the beginning, and he wants his creations to be proud and strong, but also indomitable, forgiving, and joyous. We were put on this earth to fulfill ourselves as miners and craftsmen of the mountains and the earth, and while I cannot make you or Ibûn forgive those who have wronged us, we must not die in an evil mood of unforgiving hate and malice, or the dreadful Master of Doom, Mandos, may punish us with the darker and more terrifying Dwarvish Halls of Awaiting after we pass on.
Are you saying that we should just let the Elves and Men off easy, as if they deserved it? Mîm asked indignantly, but was immediately ashamed for talking so harshly to his little son.
Not exactly, father, replied Khîm, but we cannot afford to pass away with darkness in our hearts, like all of the Orcs always do. It is your choice whether to forgive them or not, but I want to be ready when Mahal and Mandos call me, and that means letting go of grudges that wear us down in this life. I do not want to see you, Ibûn, or myself, wallowing in self-pity in the darkest corners of the Halls of Awaiting until the end of the world. And to avoid that, we must fight the darkness within ourselves!
I agree with my brother, said Ibûn. I have seen more than he has, but I think it is in part due to that fact that I know a Dwarf, petty or not, must not die with hatred in his heart.
But how could he forgive anyone when absolutely no one other than his own kind had cared about him?
Then, another memory arose in his head.
Túrin, the outlaw.
Túrin, the outlaw who had openly repented of Andróg's cruel misdeed and offered to help and support Mîm and Ibûn in their dire situation. Yes, Túrin had shown them mercy and pity, and Mîm had even grown to like Túrin. If he hadn't been so consumed with anger and hate for his whole adult life, Mîm almost could have loved him.
Loved him? That sounded like a foreign word to Mîm whenever he talked about anyone other than a Petty-dwarf. But it was true. He had almost loved Túrin. And Mîm was no coward, as was popularly believed by scoundrel Elves like Beleg, Túrin's friend. The orcs that captured him and Ibûn killed his son for resisting the torture of the cruel orcs, and Mîm had to betray them in order for the Petty-dwarf race to live just a little longer. What else was he supposed to do? Besides, he wanted to see Beleg, one of the Elves who once persecuted his kind, to get a taste of his own medicine, which unfortunately did not quite happen. But at least Mîm had vouched for Túrin by begging the orcs to let him live. He hadn't really betrayed Túrin, now, had he?
It was then that Mîm realized that not everyone in Middle-earth were indifferent to the Petty-dwarves. And then he realized that, perhaps, he could make peace with Mahal and redeem himself in the Maker's eyes. He dropped the gold and gems he was holding and offered a prayer to Aulë the Smith.
I am sorry, my Maker Mahal, he said in Khuzdul, for all the lingering resentments I have held onto against those who have persecuted my kind. The world just does not understand who we are, and they never did. I wish to come to the Halls of Awaiting at peace with myself and the world so I may sit with my beloved fathers, brothers and sons instead of alone in a dark corner with no one but Vairë as company. I cleanse my heart of all hate and excessive anger, and I hope you can forgive me. And as I am the last of my race, if anyone should come and murder me violently, for I will offer no resistance now, and take over the treasure that once belonged to the Dwarves, may you and Mandos properly punish them and curse the treasure for my sake, and that of my two sons. May I see you soon, my revered Maker of Mountains.
No sooner did he finish his prayer than he heard footsteps outside. He went out and noticed an old, fierce-looking man walking toward the entrance of the halls, by himself. He wielded a sharp sword. It appears my fate is coming sooner than I expected, he thought, knowing that this man was nobody to be trifled with. He walked out and barred the man from entering.
Mîm introduced himself, and told the man that he was the last of his people, and that he had come to take what was his. Then in a proud stern voice, the man introduced himself as Húrin, father of Túrin (the father of my friend! he thought), and that he knew that it was Mîm who had betrayed Túrin to orcs and played a part in his tragic fate. Bewildered, Mîm begged the man to have pity on an old dwarf with nothing but his treasure left, a Petty-dwarf of a near-extinct race, but evidently Húrin had no intention of showing any mercy, and hacked and slashed at Mîm's legs and body, and looked down on him with utter contempt, saying nothing.
Mîm knew he was dying, but he had enough strength of mouth and voice to say a few final words to his murderer.
"I see that you are no different than anyone else who has seen my kind in person," he muttered, "always seeing us as stupid beasts. You are certainly nothing like your son when it comes to mercy. But I see no more point in spouting curses against the other Free Peoples of Middle-earth, for I now go to the Halls of Awaiting to be reunited with my family and fathers. I hope even you learn a lesson from our extinction someday."
"You know nothing!" Húrin yelled. "My whole family is 'extinct,' and you helped it happen!" He raised his blade and then swung it downwards to decapitate the Dwarf.
Mahal, Khîm, Ibûn, I am coming…
And so died Mîm.
And with him died the genocide of the Petty-dwarves.