Emptiness.
I feel nothing. I feel as empty and listless as the dead autumn breeze that blows across the moors. Even now I can hear it whistling through the stone tomb, accentuating the hopelessness of the mournful dirge plaguing my young ears.
Dead. Da is dead.
The deep-throated words of song reverberate on the walls around me, deep and grieved. The richness of the sound envelopes me like a soft, heavy, suffocating blanket, yet still my heart will not stir. Why don't I feel sorrow? Why don't I feel pain? Why don't I feel anything?
I can just barely see into the casket. Had it been a mere few weeks ago, I would have been too short; I've grown. Da was proud. He laughed, boasting that I'd grow another six inches before I reached my eighth summer. He picked me up and swung me around and laughed some more, his eyes glittering and his smile wide and care-free as it always was. His wild lion's mane flew about as we spun and it tickled me.
Da is dead and his face is white. His eyes are hidden beneath closed lids and he does not smile. His golden hair is a dull blond. His hands are folded neatly over his chest, fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, as is the warrior's tradition. I haven't seen my eight summer.
I touch the casket—and still, I feel as cold as the stone beneath my fingertips.
There is crying, soft and restrained. I look up; it's Mum, and she's shaking badly. I cannot see her face, for it has been hidden by black locks of hair as she bows her head. Uncle does not cry, but his face is drawn tight as he looks into the casket. His eyes seem a little red as he puts his arm around Mum's shoulders.
Kíli is at Mum's hip. He doesn't understand all the crying, all the singing, all the sadness. I stare at my feet, shaking my head; he isn't three winters old, yet. I don't think he knows what's going on.
I hear a sniffle, and I look up once more. My little brother is staring down at me, lip quivering, brown eyes shimmering. He looks afraid. He doesn't understand but he is fearful, and he is sad. Confused, tearful eyes bore through mine as he stretches out one pudgy hand, but he is too high up to reach me. He struggles slightly; Mum utters a soft wail and places Kíli on his feet before she melts into Uncle Thorin's arms.
Kíli totters next to me and stretches out his hand again, this time more insistently.
Quietly, I take his small, soft hand in mine, and watch as he sighs a little and leans against me, upset but somehow reassured.
Only then do I feel something. I feel everything.
I cry.
But I am not alone.
Fullness.
A/N: This will be a series about ten chapters long of short scenes in various lengths. My muse, the Blue Canary, struck me with inspiration after we saw The Desolation of Smaug at the midnight premiere. I shall post this in between packing for Christmas break...