Mothers of Durin (Sequel to Malin Fundinul)

Chapter 1

Spring had come to the Lonely Mountain, but little change could be noticed. Dwarves, whether in winter or summer, live far below the ground in fortresses of stone, laboring by the firelight and usually by large, flaming forges, unaware of changes in the world above. Coal, gems, gold, and minerals were mined daily, and under the skilled hands of dwarves, the mountain flourished and yielded its bounties. The gold of the mountain, stored in vast treasure-houses and guarded carefully, still smelt of dragon. The king, Thorin, still suffered from the after-effects of having the gold-sickness purged from his system. The ringing in his ears and the hollow of his heart had not mended. Years he had spent pining after the mountain and its gold, and now, having both of them regained, but having painfully lost his desire for them, his mind lingered in the corridors between sanity and madness. These corridors sang of emptiness.

Yet in spite of his difficulties, Thorin was king. He threw his energies now into reviving and restoring what the years had cruelly wrenched from the hands and hearts of dwarves - their culture, their crafts, their reputation, their magnificence. The gold had no meaning to him, but his people did. Thorin had only one aim, now, and that was to secure Erebor's defenses, build its economy, and ensure stability for his nephew and heir, Fili son of Dis. At his right hand stood the dwarves of his company, ever unwavering in their proven loyalty.

Amongst the notable dwarves of the reign of Thorin II Oakenshield stood the precious jewels, the dearest of their hearts, the dwarf-women. Some were taller, some were shorter. All were bearded (more or less). Each of them were fierce in heart, noble to the point of a fault, tough as iron and fiery as the forges of Mahal.

Tales of dwarf-women are rare, unheard of and unspoken in the towns of uncouth men or haughty elves. But the dwarves of Durin's Folk would remember well the ones dear to their final king, Durin the Last, whose strength remained until the fading of the dwarves, whose reign seemed to stretch on for more than an age. Durin the Last never allowed his people to forget the ones he called his "mothers".

This is the tale of the mothers of Durin the Last. At the last, Durin could not bear to have their bodies scattered over the plains of Middle Earth, in Erebor, in Moria, Ered Luin, and in the Iron Hills. He prepared a tomb for them, in the tomb of the dwarf-kings of Khazad-Dum, and did not rest until they were returned to the stone they had longed for but, all except one, were never able to touch. And when he awoke in the halls of Mahal, who were the ones who greeted him - not the Durins of old, who had to wait their turn, not his father, Thorin, nor his uncles, nor his cousins, but his mothers.

TA 2945 - Springtime Under the Mountain

The King's Council meetings were always so long. Dis grew tired of them quickly. As a child, she, sensibly, had never envied Frerin or Thorin's duties. She envied Malin, who like some of the council members (Ori especially) chose to engage in handicraft during sessions. Malin had finished the warm (but predictably dull-coloured) piece that she had made for Pearl, and was now going on to make a set of baby clothes for her little future niece or nephew in a ugly shade of dark, greenish brown that no one dared comment on. Poor dear, thought Dis, I suspect she may be colour-blind.

Dis preferred to crochet, but she had no time. In-between study-sessions with Malin that consisted of readings, discussions, cooking and leisure activities such as nude swimming in the last hours of the night, long debates with Dori on the plans they were (still) drafting for the Royal Quarters, and lending a hand in the infirmaries, Dis had barely any time on her hands to remain still or mope. Instead, she volunteered to make and wind cotton bandages and did so during council meetings.

Today, Dis sighed as she observed her sons. Fili looked tired, almost overwhelmed by his many duties. Kili looked serious, but weary as well. Kili was not one for drawn-out discussions, but Thorin had observed how visiting dignitaries (such as elves or men) seemed to warm to Kili faster than with other dwarves, and was personally training him as an ambassador or sorts. This made Dis pleased and proud.

As if he has any talent in that regard, Dis thought bemusedly of Thorin.

She liked to sit in a corner with someone to make comments to. Malin always seemed excited by every motion of the council, whispering to Dis the implications and meaning of everything, unable to engage in any sort of interesting small-talk, until Dis surreptitiously arranged for her to sit between Balin and Dwalin. Now Ori sat beside her, and Dis enjoyed whispering snide comments into his ears. The poor lad did not look comfortable; Kili had avoided his mother after one sitting, and Fili somehow always had the seats next to him occupied.

Soon, however, the meeting was over. Gloin had brought it to an end because his wife had sent in a message saying that she needed him for one thing after another (and dwarves knew better than to not accommodate wives with newborns). Everyone seemed to take Gloin's departure as a signal to get on to the midday meal.

"Will you eat with us, amad?" Fili asked dutifully, Kili looking up as he heard the question.

"No," Dis said, ignoring the thinly veiled look of relief on her sons' faces, "I promised Oin I would have a quick sandwich and then sit by one of the patients. He's an old dwarf and I don't think there are many days left for him."

"I understand, amad," said Fili, "Will you join us, Lady Malin? It will just be my council, it seems."

"I would ask about the beer," Malin replied, "But I know you lads better that that. I would, yes. Grof has yet to tell me how she's getting on."

"Well enough, I hope," Floi jumped into the conversation with Grof hooked onto one arm.

"Let me escort you, Lady Malin," offered Frar.

And then the party set off for lunch.

Dis hesitated by the passageway to the infirmary. It had a perpetually open door that allowed for emergency entrances. She usually loved the smell of the infirmary with the strong, potent herbs drying or infusing, the bits of steam or alcohol that wafted about, and the hot soap mixture that was scrubbed onto the stone floors and walls almost every day to keep it clean. For the past few days, Dis had spent several hours with Gryel, a mysterious and frail-looking dwarf who did not look as if he had many days left. Oin had always said Dis has a way about her with ailing or dying folk. In actuality, she was a good listener, which he was not. Gryel, in-between gasping for breath, had many, many things to say. He made all sorts of observations about the people about him, and was very cheeky. Dis came in the afternoons, where he lay alone in the bed in the corner (his daughter visited in the morning or evening whenever she was off work). Sometimes he told Dis about his early life, which was very exciting and fascinating, but no doubt, Dis thought, completely fictional. No one could be that much of a rascal, thought Dis, rolling her eyes. The things he claimed to have done, to have seen!

"At your service!" Oin beamed cheerfully when Dis entered. Gryel's bed was empty. Dis's face sobered.

"At yours... where is Gryel?"

"Who?"

"Gryel!"

Dis pointed urgently at the empty bed. Gryel's coat still sat, folded, on the side table made of one of his barrels.

Oin turned about.

"Oh, that fellow. Sneaky one, he is. Crept out of the ward at daylight whilst I was busy making a tonic."

"Why aren't you looking for him? What if he collapses somewhere on this mountain and..."

Oin held up his ear-trumpet. It would not do to anger the princess by ignoring her obviously excited conversation.

"I checked his vitals myself last night," Oin protested, "The tough geezer is not dying anytime soon, at least not this week. Who knows what he'll be like next week..."

"He said he was dying!"

"He thinks he's drying," sighed Oin, "Has a bit of breathing trouble and a weak heart, but one really can't tell. But a feisty body, he has. Feels better when he feels like it, too. Most troublesome patient I've ever had."

"Oh."

"He'll be in here by supper," Oin pointed his finger at the bed, "Moaning and complaining as usual. Can't make up his mind to be sick or well."

Dis shook her head. She could imagine. She set the basket of cotton bandages down and asked,

"Anything to do?"

"There's a lass," Oin pointed to the adjoining room, "Came in this morning with bad burns on her face and hands. Hysterical. Elekh and I saw to her, but she needs her bandages changed in half an hour. Cries a lot."

"I'll take a look in. Is she sleeping?" Dis signed the last sentence as Oin had put his trumpet down and was using it to funnel rosehips into a bottle.

"Won't sleep." Oin said a little loudly.

Poor thing, thought Dis.

The lass was distraught. She curled on the bed, crying, the salty tears running her cheeks and soaking the face-bandages, causing her wounds to sting. She looked like a really bad case.

"You need some drowsing-tonic, lass," Dis commented when entering the room. The lass look up at her miserably.

"Don't want some," she murmured, looking back down at her bandaged hands, "Amad says you could get addicted."

"Only a little," promised Dis, pouring some from a bottle by the lass's bed which she had obviously refused, "And it will help you sleep."

"Don't want to sleep," came the muffled complaint.

"Drink up," commanded Dis in her sternest voice, "Stop talking, it hurts your wounds."

The lass obediently opened her mouth while Dis fed the strong syrup, and followed it with a hot tumbler full of lumberberry tea.

Grof and Floi are going to have a houseful, Malin thought, laughing quietly.

Grof was used a big family, and she kept telling Malin that cooking for two and cleaning for two was so... boring. Already two weeks married, Floi could not stop cheekily flaunting his bride and engaging in public embraces, to the other dwarves' disgust. It didn't help that Grof, though she only inherited a small fraction of the culinary talent of her forebears, Bombur and Iga, had served a dark, juicy pair of roasted legs of lamb for their midday meal. It had been stewing in the oven whilst she attended council. Floi's eyes were practically rolling at into his head with all his happiness. It was as if his beard had grown two inches in a week.

Fili closed his eyes for a brief moment to dispel the thoughts that threatened to race into his head at the sight of Floi and Grof's display. Frar poked his brother Floi and told him to shut up. Kili made a snide comment - he did not keep his comments to himself. Malin tried to change the subject, and Ori tried to help her. Poor Ori - he and Grof had shared many interests, but Ori could blink twice, or get to know the lass better, Frar had snagged and married her in a short period of time. That was often the way with dwarves - lasses were few and in high demand. Then again, half of dwarf lads wouldn't blink twice a lass, what with their love of gold and gems, minerals and other gifts of the mountain.

There was no conversation at lunch - any subjects Fili tried to introduce were ignored, as the dwarves were busy indulging their sense of taste beyond what their minds were capable of processing. Therefore, Malin made her move to leave soon afterwards. The engorged party of dwarves had decided to part ways for an after-meal snooze.

Pearl, the newly-married wife of Dwalin, was busy. She always was. Dwalin loved to have her with him throughout the day as he went about his business, and other than cooking and giving orders to the capable servants, she found herself with him half the time. When Malin came home for a nap, she could see Pearl in the kitchen. Pearl did not simply cook, she worked magic, or so the family believed. No one could cook a scrumptious meal and then leave a spotless kitchen after it. That was simply not dwarf-ly possible.

Nevertheless, Pearl's mind was not in the food but in an notebook she had borrowed from Oin, a treatise on dwarven backbones and ailments related to it. Dwalin's spinal cord worried her, and he always seemed to be rubbing bones as if a pinched nerve disturbed him. He had not been like that before the Quest, or Pearl would have noticed. Now, Pearl's eagle eyes caught Dwalin discomfort and her brow frowned in worry. Oin's advice, and the book, spun in her mind as she contemplated how to broach the topic without Dwalin becoming defensive.

Spring in the Iron Hill

Dain watched from his sister's lofty balcony as the continuous spring rain lessened in its intensity ever so gradually. Soon, it would be clear and bright enough for them to set off on horseback. During his grandfather's reign, the road between the kingdoms of the royal brothers Gror and Thror had often bustled with activity in the spring. Many hadhad become accustomed to watching the downpour lessen, and now, in very recent times, it had resumed.

He had made all his arrangements, now it was only a matter of time. Still, he had come to see his sister after a council meeting. Ever since Malin had left for Erebor, Dena had become lonely and restless, which meant that she attended many of Dain's council meetings. Of course, she was clever. She was brilliant, and sound in her advice. She was mature. But she also could be sharp, and the council did not relish being told off by a female. Dain always took a softer approach with his rulers and nobles, Dena did not. Dain had always been the calmer, more reserved and diplomatic one. She had been a fiery lass, and now, a just-as-fiery matron.

Dain had loved, some say spoiled, his sister. An unmarried female, no matter how rich and powerful and high-born, was, still, an unmarried female. Dain did not pay heed to any convention in that regard - he loved her as much as their grandfather and father did, and gave her every freedom, every advantage, every luxury, every opportunity. The council had urged him over and over again, egging him to push for a suitable match. Years had passed, and they had advocated for one eligible and rich dwarf after another, but Dena had not fallen for any their wooings. Dain would never allow his sister to marry if she did not wish to. Even Dena herself grew restless and lonely, and more willing to "settle", but Dain would cut right to the heart of the matter and insist that she was happier alone than she would ever be with someone who did not suit her or really love her. So she remained a spinster.

Once, there had been that young, penniless, stable-boy, sincere in his love, and Dain had approved of him, but he had died shortly before they were to be engaged. Offers aplenty she had had since, but, notoriously, no dwarrow had succeeded in winning her heart or hand.

"What is there is no one good enough for me?" she had cried at the grand old age of a hundred, having refused a handsome, young, but insincere and foolish suitor.

"Then you are better off alone," Dain had comforted her, with determination in his voice, "I will not see you unhappily wedded, sold off to gain alliances or wealth."

And now, Dain had no other motive in bringing her to Erebor than to make her happy and busy and get the council off his back. With Dena temporarily relocated, the council would be able to breathe a sigh of relief, that is, if they weren't tied up in knots about hoping she would get married (and be permanently relocated). The council members were over the moon with Dain's new move, thinking and not-so-vaguely hinting that Dain should arrange for her to wed the King Under the Mountain himself. Dain recoiled at the idea, and he told his council so firmly. In his mind, the Lord of the Iron Hills was rather afraid of Thorin and his instability. Such a moody, bad-tempered dwarf was no match for his sweet sister. Even if Thorin Oakenshield personally demanded his sister in marriage, Dain would not give in. He would rather surrender his kingdom than to sell his sister like a cow at the market. No, not for all the gold in Erebor, declared Dain to himself as he stood on the balcony.

Dain rather fancied a match between Balin son of Fundin might be ideal. Balin was kind, understanding, wise... a perfectly noble and honest dwarf. He hoped Dena might find a soulmate in him, and looked forward to their introduction.

Dena was humming as she packed her bags. She missed her Malin and was furious when Malin was sent away. After all, she had fumed, Malin was ours. She had been raised by us, fed by us, with nary a word of coin from two gallavanting brothers for a more than a hundred years... why did they have a right to send for her? Take her away?

"She is their kin," Dain had said soothingly.

"She is ours too," Dena nearly cried. Dena did not like seeing her "baby" taken away. They had become so attached. She did not feel safe sending her on a journey, not after their last, traumatic separation.

"Her brothers will protect her," Dain insisted, "They are fierce dwarves, not ones to be toyed with. And my men will guard her on the journey. They will see no ill happen to our Malin."

"What if she is lost? What if she is separated?"

"Hush, dear," Dain said, "It will be good for Malin to be on her own two feet. Be on her own."

And that was that.

Now Dena couldn't wait to be reunited with her. And Dena would greatly enjoy the journey by horse, rains or no rain. Even as a young lady, she had taken to riding so quickly. Her grandfather Gror had had a track built inside the mountain just for her, so that she could ride in the wintertime. It had completely flabbergasted her so when Malin screamed and cried every time she was placed on a horse. Dena would never understand how anyone could dislike horseriding. They had a stable, of course, of horses that belonged to the royal family (but mostly to her). Windy, the strong young male pony, would be her ride to Erebor. He had black hair and fur (Dena's favourite colour because it had been her father's and grandfather's) and white star-like markings on his body.

"I am as yet unsure as to how I am to pack... What am I to bring..." mused Dena out loud. She knew without turning around that her brother had reentered her rooms from balcony. Her balcony had the best view in all the hills. Two servants had just been dispatched to fetch bedrolls for the journey.

"Prepare for a nice long stay with Malin," Dain said innocently, capturing his sister in a playful hug from behind.

Dena wriggled free, laughing a little.

"My days of wrestling you have long since passed, Lord of the Iron Hills," she protested.

"Besides," continued Dain, "You should not worry at all for your return. I can promise you that the beauty and grandeur of Erebor will sweep you off your feet. I fear you should never wish to return."

"How are you so certain, nadad?"

"Because, namadith, I know you well. And yes, bring a satchel of healing herbs. The lands betwix here and Erebor are harsh and wild; it is always best to be prepared..."

"Very well," Dena replied cheerfully.

AN:

So here's the first chapter of the sequel! I couldn't get all the ideas off my mind. Updates depend on... varying factors. They won't be every day, at any rate. I'm trying to bring my writing up a notch and appeal to wider audience by writing longer chapters and including more interesting elements besides my usual Fantasy!Mundane. Of course, my personality won't allow it to stray very far...

Feedback much appreciated. This will be a female-centric fic, and, for the first time, have an actual, long-term P.l.o.t.. If you haven't read Malin Fundinul and would like a summary of it instead of reading the entire 100 chapters, do go ahead and PM me.