A/N : And another re-edited part of Thorin's life, this time in the Iron Hills! Thorin is still twenty-four here, which makes him about twelve in human age - teetering between childhood and grown-up issues. Thank Mahal for Dwalin :)... As usual, the story is told from Thorin's point of view, as he remembers it lying on Ravenhill.
Thank you so much with (re)-reading and - should you be following me - my apologies for the incessant alert-messages in your mailbox, especially if you already know the story and are waiting for a real update... Just three more parts to edit (and they are easier, not much to change) and we will get there!
In the meantime, take care! Much love, Meysun.
The King of Carven Stone : Part IV
Who Our King Truly Was (Hills of Iron)
1.
Coming back to life is a slow and painful journey, each step a struggle, each day a small victory. Such a strange battle to fight, between two worlds, one full of hardships, and the other a blank, a void only filled with questions... I guess the Soul clings to every sensation, magnifies every feeling, after facing death and pushing it temporarily away.
At least this is what happened to me, that winter in the Iron Hills coated in ice and snow, where I recovered slowly and found my way back to my exhausted body.
Strange that it all happened away from my family, away from Dís and Frerin, away from my father, away even from Dáin – I should have been with them, they were my closest kin and I was still Thráin's son, and Thrór's grandson, even though I was reduced to a mere shadow of my former self.
But when I collapsed they had taken me straight to Dwalin's room that was nearest, and I had been too weak to be moved afterwards. And so it happened that, during the first week, while my family was taken in by Náin and Grór, I lay in Fundin's house, lost in fever dreams of snow and fire.
They told me later I stopped breathing for some seconds, that night where I saw the white bridge for the first time. It happened twice in my life afterwards, and every time coming back was excruciating, leaving me broken, without any strength.
I was a shadow in the darkness, and my only light was Dwalin.
He was there. Always there.
He smiled at me when I woke, his fingers enclosing my wrist, making sure I remembered where I was – safe and sound, away from the snow. He held me when I tried to sit and he made me eat – he would frown and scold me softly when I would drop my spoon, unable to finish my small plate, but he never forced me. He noticed that often, the main fact of sitting was too much, that I had no strength left to do both, and so he would make me lie down again and try to give me the rest later.
And I would reach out for his hand, always, wrapping my fingers around his thumb and fall asleep with the promise that I had reached him – that no matter where my dreams would carry me, he would stay there and bring me back from cold and death.
I never asked for anyone in my illness – not my father, not even Dís and Frerin, and least of all my grandfather. I had been told they were well and resting, I had secured my mind about that at least. They could not help me. I was so far away from them anyway.
I just wanted Dwalin.
He talked to me, quietly. He told me my lungs were inflamed, that I was fevered and breathless because my body was fighting infection. I was not even coughing that much... or perhaps I did and it mingled in my head with the ash and dust the Dragon had brought upon us.
I was having nightmares, about Fire mostly while I was fevered, but the worst were set in the snow – I would wake up drenched in sweat, my tunic damp against my chest. My chest where Svali had lain, where I had sensed him breath, until he left me. I did not moan, I did not make a sound, yet Dwalin seemed to feel it.
Every time I would wake, wondering why Mahal did not take me, why I was still there, shivering and weak, so useless, there he was. I could feel his arms around me, circling my chest, and his warmth on my back as he would make me lean against him. He let me sleep curled up in his embrace like a Dwarfling, and I never even considered not doing so.
I needed him too much. Cold, snow and death were still so close.
That day, however, I had woken without the feeling of dizziness fever always gave me. The pain in my chest had receded slightly, and my dreams had not been as vivid as before – my sight was clearer and I felt able to move, sitting myself against my pillow.
For the first time, I truly looked around me, wondering where I was, and the first thing I noticed was that I was alone. The day was late already, I could tell it from the fading light that was still shining through one of the small windows on my right – a lamp was burning on my left sight, the flame bright and cheerful, lighting the room.
It was Dwalin's room, of course.
It was just like him – warm, safe, and mostly unadorned. You had to look harder to find out who was living there, a quick glance was not enough. And I... I was still weak, but I was biased, I knew my friend – we might have spent only several weeks together, but we had talked and practically not left each other, even afterwards.
He was my best friend. He still is.
And I recognized him in every corner. The bed, of course – it was simple, without any flourish, and the blankets were of warm, slightly rough wool. Then there was an iron chest, thrown open, and inside I could see several pair of boots, carefully cleaned, a folded chainmail, and a helmet. His shield was just behind the chest, the adorned part turned towards the wall – he would not show it, he did not really care about that.
A shield was a shield, what mattered was the person behind it. Friend or foe. With Dwalin it was always simple.
He kept his other weapons on a low table next to his desk: his sword, sheathed in its scabbard, his axe, blade turned down so as not to damage the wood, and a mattock also – this was new to me, I had never seen him fight with that weapon before...
And on his desk were his books – not so many, not because he didn't enjoy reading, but because there were few in the Iron Hills. The treasure of Erebor had not only laid in gold – the libraries had been as valuable, probably even more, for we had gathered books not only about our own knowledge and history, but also from entire Middle Earth. Now it was lost, burnt down to ashes, fuel for the Dragon's fire... I shuddered, and looked at the wall.
There was a map hanging there, a map of Middle Earth, with pins on the Iron Hills, and on the Lonely Mountain. He had attached them with a small dark thread and it moved me – I knew he had done that because of Balin, they did that each time they parted, giving each other a thread of their favourite tunic.
They were always apart... Balin was so much older, he had been forty when Dwalin was born – an unexpected blessing, he always said, looking at Dwalin who would grumble and blush. He left for Erebor when Dwalin was still not much more than a baby, and for what...?
They did not see each other so often – I think Balin knew me better than his own brother back then... But a brother is a brother, and Dwalin would tie the thread between the pins that held them apart, while Balin kept it carefully with his writing tools.
Both so different. Both so similar in their faith and love.
My gaze left the map and then I saw it. A small, colourful drawing of a tall, sharp Mountain, the sun bright and everything but round, with a hundred rays at least spreading from its orb, and six little figures with big heads and small bodies, holding their hands. I knew what was written below – she had begged me to write it down, before Dwalin had left.
Dáin, Dwalin, Balin, Dís, Thorin, Frerin.
Dís in the middle of course, and the heads of the figures red, brown, dark and golden. All linked – Durin cousins, tiny links of the same chain.
I swallowed, hard. It seemed ages ago, and I still remembered her small weight on my lap as I had held her, writing down our names in tiny runes – her gift for my best friend.
He had kept it. He had pinned it to his wall and looked at it every day. He knew what a fragile treasure this chain was.
The sun had set and the room was getting darker, the light of the lamp flickering and drawing shadows upon the ceiling. I lay back against my pillow, suddenly feeling cold again.
I was always cold. I was so thin, even the flesh between my fingers seemed to have vanished, and my ring would have fallen long ago if Dwalin had not put it around my thumb, always mindful and caring. My ribs and my hipbones were standing out sharply under my skin, I could feel them under the heavy fabric of my tunic, under the woollen blanket that still was not enough to warm me up.
"How could you leave him?"
The voice that had let out those words seemed to come from far away. It was muffled by the stone wall and the door, and by the way Dwalin always spoke when he was angry – he barely ever shouted, on the contrary, his voice tended to soften alarmingly.
I rose again, wondering what was upsetting him and who he was talking to, and I soon had my answer.
"It always sounds so simple with you. Life is not black and white, it is much more complicated than that..."
I recognized Balin's voice and it sounded tired. Tired and hurt – I pulled back the blankets and sat up, my palms leaning upon the mattress as my head started to spin.
"Don't start lecturing me. I don't care for what you will say. You should have noticed, you should never have left him. You should never have let him push himself so far."
Slowly now. I put my bare feet upon the ground and then I rested, already breathless, already clawing for air. Useless – I was useless, not even properly dressed. They had stripped me off everything but my tunic and breeches, trying to make the fever abide.
Yet the clothes I was wearing were of a soft, warm fabric, rougher than Erebor's elaborated tissues, but carefully woven and neat. They were Dwalin's. They had been his, and his mother had been attentive and kind enough to alter them and make them fit my body.
"What do you know of what I did, or did not do?"
Balin's voice was wounded and angry, I had never heard him so upset, so vulnerable – he sounded so young...
"Do you think it was easy, to turn my back on him, knowing that I was letting him alone to face the snow?"
He slammed his hand on something and I flinched, still sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling my body begin to shake.
"Do you think it was easy, to see him cry, to hear him beg me to stay with him – he's even younger than you!"
There were tears in his voice and I could not bear it – I reached for my boots that were close to me on the ground, worn out but clean and still not falling apart. I pulled them on and had to rest my head against the wall when I recovered. The room was spinning around me, but I still could hear them.
"Then why did you leave him? Why did everyone get saved but him? Why did nobody notice he was fading away – dying, for Mahal's sake!
- Dwalin, that is enough..."
The calm voice belonged to Fundin, and I could hear the noise of a chair drawn back.
"Let him speak his mind, 'adad", Balin replied, his voice very low. "He is young, he doesn't understand yet...
- Of course I do! There is nothing to understand, this is about keeping your eyes open and...
- And what? Don't you think Thorin had open eyes, ever since we had to leave Erebor? Dwalin, believe me, he kept them wide open, he's not like you, racing away and just following his heart without..."
Balin's quiet sob tore my heart as efficiently as the mention of my own name. Me. They were arguing about me. Fundin's sons – one against each other. It had to stop. I could not let another family fall apart because of me.
"So you are telling me it was his own choice to keep there in the snow, to exhaust himself like that?! He's dreaming of it, Balin. Every night. It's eating him away."
Dwalin's voice was fierce, and I almost moaned, clenching my fists fiercely on my knees – it had to stop. It had to stop. I rose and steadied myself with one hand on the wall.
"Why did it have to be Thorin?", Dwalin went on. "What did Thráin do? Where was Thrór?"
My breath was short, it was wheezing as I followed the wall, pausing after each step I took.
"He has a point here, Balin", Fundin quietly said. "I understand from Náin that Thráin has been... quite shaken, and that the loss of Erebor weighs heavy upon Thrór's mind, but still – surely it was not Thorin's burden to bear...?
- Of course not."
Balin's tone was desperate, but it was calm and firm and sounded more like himself.
"It was not Thorin's burden to bear."
I was standing against the wall, my legs shaking, waiting for his next words. I do not know what I expected.
But he did, because his father and grandfather both lost their minds?
But he did, because he had sworn to protect Erebor and its people, and that there was no one left but him?
Balin just said:
"Believe me, I have never forgotten who our King truly was."
He had spoken quietly, and yet his words hit me full in the chest. He had not told his family a word about the dreadful state of mine. He had kept Thrór's madness secret, had not breathed a word about my father's ravings – he had kept them a King and a Prince to every Dwarf of the Iron Hills, including his own family.
He had fulfilled his oath to his King – he shielded him to the end, and I was a disgrace to my own line to have thought about sharing that burden with anyone, forgetting about every oath that truly mattered.
My knees gave way then and I slowly slid down on the ground.
There would be no relief from madness, and from what I had lived on that exiled road. I could never ever talk about that with anyone. That tent of ours had crumbled, anyway – Itô was dead, they did not tell me but I knew it in my heart, what else could that white dream mean? The Dwarflings were too small to talk, and Dís too smart.
And Frerin... I did not know about his reactions anymore. Once I would have been sure that I would have to silence him, but now... He had not talked to me ever since he had chosen to stay with my father, he hated me for hitting him, for holding his madness at bay with my violence. He would not have talked of what I did, because it hurt him, he wanted everything hale again, as it was before...
Still... He might talk...
I did not hear Balin leave but he did, and an animated discussion followed, but I did not listen anymore, I could not listen anymore.
I flinched when I sensed hands on my shoulders – Fundin was crouching in front of me, his brown eyes he had passed on to his boys eyeing me with worry and concern.
"Thorin, what are you doing here?!
- I have to... I need to see my brother."
I had whispered that sentence and it ended in a cough – I was breathless once more, shivering between Fundin's hands.
"What are you talking about? You should be resting, boy, Mahal knows you should!"
He steadied me as I got up, still leaning against the wall that felt so cold against my back.
"I need to see my brother", I repeated, softly, my face raised towards Fundin, wishing I was strong enough to break free from his embrace.
He frowned and felt for my cheek, testing my forehead with the back of his hand – he had warm and strong hands, just as gentle as Balin's, and yet I flinched again. My own skin was icy – the effort of getting up had drained everything from me.
"Come...", he simply said, and then he led me towards the kitchen.
He placed me on a chair and sent Dwalin to fetch a blanket, then he wrapped it around my shoulders. I was tense, so tense, but I let him rub my skin gently to warm me up.
"I have to see Frerin", I repeated, feeling my body begin to regain some heat between his hands.
"Drink this, boy", Fundin answered, thanking his wife with a nod as she placed a steaming cup in front of me.
I looked at Dwalin's mother – she was a tall, stout Dwarrowdam, with luxurious brown hair she braided into a bun that almost covered her neck. She had brown eyes too, their shade ember, lighter than Fundin's, and her collar beard was carefully trimmed, freeing her cheeks, looking so soft. She had no beads, only two small pearls that were adorning her ears, shining softly as she recovered.
"Thank you", I whispered. "For the clothes and... everything."
My breath hurried and I struggled to fight back another coughing fit.
"I am sorry to be so..."
My voice hitched and the hollow cough searing through my lungs shook my entire body.
"Hush now...", Dwalin's mother said, circling my shoulders and rubbing my chest with her fingers.
"Don't talk, love. Just drink, get some warmth into that warrior's body."
I would have given anything to lean into her embrace, to feel her arms around my waist and to rest my head on her breast. I had been motherless for so long, but I could not. She was not my mother, she already had two sons and they had just been fighting because of me...
She left her hand on my chest until my coughing ebbed and then she ran her fingers through my hair, gently pulling back my locks – it was unbraided, they had taken off my hair clasps and beads during my illness when they had washed my hair.
"We'll have to do something about that Raven mane...", she said with a smile, but her eyes were clouded as she watched me wrap my fingers around the cup.
I loved the heat, I loved the steam that was rising, promising warmth, I hated the cold so much...
"Do you want some honey?", she asked, and I looked up at her, unable to answer.
Honey. It had been weeks since I had taken something sweet. I had even forgotten it existed.
"Dwalin, sweetheart, get him some honey, would you? And a slice of oatcake too, I am sure you will love it..."
She was spoiling me just like a treasured child and I could not find the strength to fight back my feelings anymore. I leaned against her, I drank that sweet honey-flavoured tea and ate the cake, slowly, relishing every bite – I had forgotten everything except that warmth, that sweetness and those arms around me.
Honey. Ever since that day, Dwalin's mother was always mingled with its sweet softness, its golden colour, promising better days.
"There is more if you want...", Fundin said, his voice and eyes kind.
I shook my head – it still felt like a precious treat, not to be abused of.
"Maikhmini...", I whispered, and I felt her grip tighten around me and her kiss on my temple.
"Just eat your fill. Put back some roundness around those skinny bones, so as to fill your clothes properly..."
She was smiling again, brushing my collarbones – I was so tiny back then, it seems hardly believable to me now...
They have called me a warrior, a King. Thorin Oakenshield, the Raven-haired warlord – and I have led, I have fought, I have been strong... But that winter the proud Raven was reduced to a small, famished sparrow. And I could have died – I was so close to dying that winter. But I did not, because Fundin's family watched over me – warming me up, feeding me... and loving me.
They made me sit close to the fire after that. Dwalin smiled at me but did not talk, he just made sure I was wrapped tightly in my blanket and then went to sit with his father. I was feeling sleepy, all of a sudden – the tea, the cake, the warmth of the fire...
Fundin and Dwalin had sat around the table, sipping their tea quietly, and my eyelids were getting heavy and heavier. I could hear Dwalin's mother humming, and her gentle tune lulled me even more.
I fell asleep looking at the flames, curled up in the armchair, feeling more relaxed and shielded that I had in months. There was no madness, no violence in that abode... There was no death, no snow, no struggle, no fight...
"So strange that he never asks for his father..."
Fundin's voice roused me from my sleep but I kept my eyes shut. I did not want to wake up, I was feeling so protected and warm...
"So strange that Thráin never asks for him... Something is wrong there, Fundin. Trust me. I have never seen Balin so worn out, and starvation does not explain it alone.
- The boy is worn out too..."
Fundin spoke softly, echoing his wife.
"Mahal, he really broke my heart, sitting on that chair, clinging to his cup. If he is better tomorrow we have to get him to his family. The little ones keep asking about him...
- I don't know, Fundin... Look at him – he's just beginning to rest, it's the first time I see him at peace ever since he is with us...
- His fever has broken, thank Mahal. You are right, I don't understand... Thráin was clinging to him when he reached us, and yet – he never came to him, and neither did Thrór... He's the heir, Durin's beard!
- He's his son."
Her tone was earnest and adamant.
"Dwalin was not entirely wrong in what he said. The boy broke down not only physically. His siblings were as famished as him and they are recovering, while he's just beginning to lose that haunted look... He keeps flinching, he's always wary, and he's frightened at your touch, Fundin.
- But – why would he?
- Why would he indeed, my love?"
I could hear the smile in her voice as she bent towards him.
"Something happened between him and Thráin, of course. Something so serious that it shattered the boy's strength, and Balin's also. And I won't raise any scandal, Fundin, but I'm with my boy on this – we have to find out. We have to help Thorin, because I won't bear to see him again the way he was when we took him in...
- Amrâl... He's the King's grandson... You cannot just pry into their family affairs...
- He's a child. He's just a boy. He could have been my boy, just like Balin is – and Balin knows about their family affairs, be sure of that, and it makes him suffer. If you don't do it for Thorin, do it for your own son. Find out what is wrong, Fundin."
I heard Fundin sigh at her words.
"You seem to be much more clear-minded than I am... I – amrâl, I don't like this. I never was close to Thráin. I always found him difficult to draw out... I was so relieved and happy when he chose your friend as his Own, and not you.
- As was I...", she answered quietly, and I could tell from the silence that fell that she either kissed or embraced him.
"I have always pitied Thráin – such a hard, demanding, distant father, and alone, without any siblings, his mother's shadow weighing upon his life, always feeling guilty. And he's such a handsome Dwarf – this black hair he has, and those grey eyes... She was so in love with him, as was he. They both found each other, and she steadied him. But I – I would not have dared to try to repair what was broken in him... There are waters in which I'm afraid to drown...
- You, amrâl? Afraid...?"
Fundin's voice was playful, he sounded exactly like Dwalin – trying to cheer her up, knowing however how earnest the matter was.
"Yes, Fundin. Afraid. And worried."
Her voice was soft and silence fell once more. When Fundin spoke, his voice was lower and I knew he was holding her against him.
"It does upset you, doesn't it, love? That boy – he got to your heart just like he got to Dwalin's, didn't he?
- Of course, Fundin. He's her son. He has her eyes, and the shape of her hands. And he saved my boy's life. Of course I love him. Of course I want him shielded from any further harm. As she would have wished it."
They stopped talking, after that. They gathered their things and went to check on me – I had not moved, I had managed to keep my breath even, I would not have known how to face them had they noticed I had listened to their conversation. They wrapped another blanket around me and Fundin carried me back to my bed, his moves gentle as usual, while his wife made sure to kindle the fire in Dwalin's room and to leave the lamp burning at my side.
She bent down and kissed my forehead, brushing back my hair.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart. Rest."
She left me and went to Balin's room, where Dwalin was sleeping – I could hear his soft sores, he was resting too after those nights spent next to me, and she kissed him just like she did for me.
I waited until every sound stopped, until I was sure they had all gone to bed, and an endless time after that. And then I allowed myself to recall those words – my life, the life of my parents, quietly discussed over... It could all have been so different...
I let every sentence hit me once more, and when that blow was dealt and began to ebb, I curled myself up in my blankets, looking at the small fire, its light blurring in front of my eyes as my tears fell.
It was like an endless mourning, such an ache...
Erebor and Dale. Lena, and Cillian.
Itô, Hergíl, and Svali – Svali...
My father and my mother...
There was no possible solace to that grief. What was lost was lost, and what was left soon would be...
I was just a boy. I could not keep Thráin's madness secret. I would not breathe a word, though. He was my father, despite everything that had happened, and he had saved my life twice, shielding me from the Dragon and carrying me away from the snow.
But I could not face him alone anymore, the mere thought made my heart race and freed my tears even more.
I wanted my brother, I wanted Frerin's smile back, I wanted to see his face shine again when his eyes crossed mine. I wanted Dís, her embrace around my waist and the soft, silken touch of her hair against my neck.
But most of all, that night – I wanted my mother.
I wanted her steadiness, her kindness, the way she had to touch me, cupping my face between her fingers – she had loved me so much. She had loved us all so much. And now, now that I was finally able to rest, to think about the horrors that had happened, now that I could finally give in to my feelings and acknowledge them...
I just wanted my mother, even after so many years.
I wanted my mother, and I wiped my eyes again and again, trying to calm myself down, but the fire was low when my tears finally stopped. I raised my knees and drew my arms against my chest, just like I did when I was a child, and frightened of the dark.
I had faced so much worse than the dark...
Slowly, my breath became more even. I watched the light of the lamp on the wall, small and steady, and as it faded away I fell asleep once more, curled up in Dwalin's bed, his mother's kiss still lingering on my forehead.
The next morning Óin came as he had done every day, even though I had not been able to remember him. He sat himself on my bed and pulled the blankets away, mercilessly exposing my frail body, his eyes black behind his thick eyebrows, the two braids of his dark beard carefully woven once more – yet his face was thin and he looked tired.
He had strived so much, during our exile, and it struck me suddenly that, though he was a cousin of ours too and actually belonged on Dís' drawing as much as Balin or Dáin, we had never really considered him as such. He was a healer, he was the one we never hoped to need, the Dwarf that would come and make us swallow bitter potions, rub our bruises with unguents and reduce broken bones. He was not tender, he did never really share his thoughts, and he was so much older... Or perhaps not.
He was older than Balin, true enough, but what really made him look aged and distant was his knowledge of suffering. Óin knew about agony and death, about pain and blood, about the terrible injustices of life, and he had long stopped to rage against them. He did not cry, not even when the Dwarflings died, and he never was afraid of Thráin, even though he sometimes needed Balin to be able to restrain him.
It struck me, suddenly, that Óin and Balin were actually close, though they never really showed it. Both were from the Iron Hills, both had a much younger brother – Óin's was called Glóin, and he was even smaller than Dís.
And I wondered if it was him that had kept him moving during our exile, if he had thought of his baby brother waiting for him where shelter lay, to be able to bear what he had witnessed...
"Take deep breaths, lad..."
He was listening to my chest, using a wooden tube he pressed to his ear, holding me upright with his left hand – I could feel his hard grasp around my hip. He frowned when I coughed once more, but I managed to breathe deeply, trying to make it easy for him, trying to show him I was stronger.
Óin pulled my tunic down on my back, with a rough move, and then he faced me, shaking his head.
"It's better, lad, but you are still far from hale. That cough is nasty, it will cling to your lungs for a while."
His hands felt for my ribs, brushing down my waist.
"No fever though, that is encouraging. But you need to put on some weight. Eat, lad. That's the best way to recover.
- Is there enough...?"
I had whispered that question, not wanting Fundin's family to hear, and Óin's gaze clouded. He pulled the blankets back on my legs, resting one hand on my knee.
"Of course there is. There is enough to eat for everyone, until spring – then we will see to it. Grór and Náin will see to it. Don't you worry."
He looked at me and saw my gaze – so full of anguish despite his words.
"Thorin, lad, listen to me. I don't want you to worry, do you hear me? Issues about food, and shelter... they are none of your concern. Can you try to leave them to others – can you try to do that?"
I felt tears rise to my eyes once more – I hated that weakness, I hated the way my feelings just seemed to burst out, crashing down every boundary I had tried to build around them.
"And how do I do that, Óin?"
He knew. He had seen me leave the camp, come back with food, standing by Nár's and Balin's side, deciding with them how to ration it. He had heard me ask about safety issues, every night, ever since the Orc's attack. He had witnessed me as I discussed with Balin which road to take next, and we had buried many of our dead together. He had bandaged the wound of my arm, so many weeks ago – the burn I owed to the Dragon's breath.
He knew how these nine weeks had aged me, how old I felt inside, despite my young age, despite being only a boy.
He had long been forced to age the same way.
"You place your trust in others, Thorin...", he answered, and his hand brushed my knee, in a shy attempt to be gentle.
"You let those who are reliable act their part, now that you have support, now that you can be sure they will act wisely. And you rest. You deserve it, lad. You have strived more than enough. We all know it – we might be silent, but believe me, lad, no one has forgotten who led us here. No one has forgotten who our King truly was."
He whispered those words still looking at me and I froze, gazing up to him, my face pale. The same words Balin used. The same quiet statement. Not the reminder of a grim oath, but a calm acknowledgement.
I started to shake then. I reached out for Óin and he held me, somewhat awkwardly – he was not used to it, especially not from me, I was no hugging and loving Dwarfling, except with my siblings.
But that day I clung to Óin – my cousin the healer, whose words threw an appeasing balm on my mind and soul. I was not alone. It would never been forgotten – I could share this suffering with him, with Balin, with every Dwarf that had strived with us in our exile.
I did not have to speak about my father or grandfather in the Iron Hills – if no one asked, there was no use talking about it. But I could rely upon Óin, upon Balin, upon Nár... I could let things take their course quietly – I did not have to face madness alone, because I actually never had. They had been at my side, all these weeks, and they would stay at my side.
"Maikhmin...", I whispered, my arms wrapped tight around Óin's chest, and I felt his hands on my back – shy and awkward, so unsure when it came to emotions...
"No, lad. Thank you. Stay a boy a little longer, will you?"
I nodded, my eyes closed, burying my face in his shoulder.
"Come, lad, stop it, there are others who need me..."
His voice was rough and I knew he was just fighting back his own feelings. I let go of him and he looked at me, his black gaze soft and somewhat bright.
"Fundin told me you want to see your family. Do you feel strong enough? You could use a few more days of rest...
- No. I want to go. I have to see them."
My voice was tiny but unwavering, and Óin nodded.
"Take Balin and Dwalin with you. And don't exert yourself. If you feel tired, you rest, if you feel breathless, you pause. I will make sure you are alright this evening, so mark my words, lad."
He left me, then, and I spent the rest of the morning getting ready, because everything required an effort – yet I was determined.
I bathed and washed my body carefully – and what a delightful feeling it was to feel the warm water on my skin, to feel the steam around me, watch its droplets on the bathtub's edge, knowing that I was safe again, between walls of stone...
And then I dressed, and Dwalin and his mother helped me look as I should, making sure I would keep warm, wrapping me in several layers of clothes that also helped to hide some of my thinness away.
She adjusted the grey woollen tunic around my waist and then she made me pull on a black leather jerkin. It had belonged to Dwalin some years ago but he had outgrown it, and it fitted me, making me look more like myself than I had been in days.
"What did you do with my clothes...?", I asked, shyly, as she helped me to adjust my belt around my waist.
It was the belt I had brought back from Erebor – somewhat faded and old, but still fit to be worn. I brushed it with my fingertips – it was a small reminder of home.
"I washed them. The tunic is old, so are the trousers, but they are there if you want them."
I nodded – it was silly, I knew, but still... I could not bear to throw them away.
"The leather jerkin however is lost, I fear. The snow damaged it too much, I'll see what I can do but I don't have much hope...
- It doesn't matter...", I whispered. "It's just a jerkin."
She brushed my cheek and Dwalin said:
"I have your axe, your sword and your chainmail. I cleaned and sharpened them. They are in Balin's room.
- And you will get them back another day", Dwalin's mother said. "You know where they are. Just make sure you come back.
- I promise..."
I could not have carried my weapons anyway, and they all knew it. I had to rest for an hour after that, they forced me to lie down despite my protests. And I slept – quietly, dressed in Dwarven clothes again.
When I woke up it was late, much later than it should, but I felt rested and walked without help to the kitchen.
"Look at you...", Fundin said with a smile. "It is good to see you like that, boy, don't you agree, Balin?"
There he was, sitting next to Dwalin yet not touching him. His gaze was tired and there was sadness in the lines of his face – he looked so worn out, so worried...
He nodded, but he did not really met my gaze and I suddenly understood that he felt guilty, that Dwalin's words had reached him deep and that he had been torturing himself ever since.
I stepped up to him. I was almost as tall as him, and he was sitting anyway, resting his arms on the table, too shattered to stir. I made him turn, and he only yielded because he knew I had barely the strength to do so. I stood in front of him, I forced him to come closer, to put his arms around me, and then I drew his head against my chest, just like he had done for me on that stone wall behind the forge.
I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair and held his head against me, not speaking, not moving, only breathing, and I could feel his warm tears against my chest when he finally relaxed against me.
I was not crying. I just brushed his hair, and I looked at Dwalin, telling him silently that what had happened between Balin and me was not to be judged. It had happened, and it had been hard, and there had been death, but we were all alive and together, and it was the only thing that mattered.
And Dwalin understood. He reached out for his brother's shoulder, brushing it shyly, and at his touch Balin had a sob. He turned from me then, leaning into Dwalin's embrace instead, and I took some steps back, breathing fast, my heart racing.
I had done something good. This time I had not shattered anything.
I asked Balin to braid my hair, afterwards. I did not have the strength to hold my arms up for such a long time, and I did not want my braids to be messy and crooked, for it was the first time I would have to face Náin, and I owed him respect.
He put all his love into those braids. It was not very hard, it was not the complicated pattern that adorned my father's hair, and certainly not the rich net of braids that was displayed in Thrór's hair and beard. He gathered some of the locks around my temples and braided them on the back of my head, carefully, weaving Durin's pattern into my hair, and fastening it with my hair clasps.
And then he circled my face with the two, thin, tree-threaded braids that I had always woven, every day, since I was a little boy.
Endure, treasure, protect.
Balin's fingers were nimble, as always, and the braids were perfect – regular, shiny, raven-black. He knew so much what it meant – he had done all that, he could have woven them into his own hair, he had endured so much, and he had treasured and protected us all.
He fastened the carved silver beads at their ends – silver from Erebor, carvings from the Lonely Mountain, and then he looked at me, his brown eyes meeting mine at last.
"There you go, lad..."
He bowed his head slightly and I smiled at him. He circled my waist and led me to a mirror, and I faced myself for the first time in weeks.
The Dwarfling that was looking at me – was it really me? Blue eyes that looked so bright in my hollow face – I was so young, so young still, but my face was so serious, the expression in my eyes so much older...
My hair fell in long raven waves upon my shoulders, circling my face and my neck, and it matched my jerkin and my trousers. Black, dark, sheathing that body I barely recognized.
I drew a deep breath and turned from that image.
"Let us go, Balin..."
They were walking at each side of me, Fundin's sons, Balin on my left and Dwalin on my right, as they led me to Náin's house, deep into the Iron Hills, across endless corridors.
There were no stairs here, only long passages and thick stone walls that muffled many sounds – they used iron wool here, I would discover it later, and it was a wonderful isolator, keeping the warmth inside and giving every family its privacy.
It was a long way and that day I had to focus on walking – I did not really bother to ask where I was, and to look around me. After the second corridor I felt cold sweat starting to drench my forehead, while my breath was getting short. Balin put his hand on my arm, making me stop, and I leant upon Dwalin, heavily.
"You want a ride?", my friend said playfully, once I had recovered a little, and I gazed at him, my face grim.
"Go on dreaming...", I whispered, still clutching his arm.
It was a matter of pride and honour not to stop again until we reached our goal, and we did not. Minutes after I was facing Náin's door at least, hearing Balin greet the guards – I could not greet them, I could not talk yet, my lungs were burning too much.
They looked at me, their gaze curious, and I gave them a small nod as we passed them. Once we were inside, there still was another corridor to cross, and this time Dwalin stopped.
"Hold on a little. Let's give him a break."
He grinned at me – I drew a deep breath and started to cough, unable to quench the fire in my lungs.
"Spit it out, sparrow."
I shook my head, I couldn't believe he dared making fun of me, and yet it was what kept me going.
"Get lost", I whispered, once I had enough breath again to do so, and he laughed, quietly, knowing I didn't mean a word of it.
When we entered Náin's home at last and went into the main room, the first thing I remember was the fire, where I could see Frerin's golden hair bent upon a table, his arm drawn around Dís' waist that was sitting next to him. He was facing Dáin – they were playing a game, black and white marbles facing each other, and my cousin had tried to amuse them with it. He always was close to Frerin, and he had taken pains to make him smile, to occupy his mind, never asking anything from him but keeping him from brooding thoughts.
Dís was the first to spot us and she jerked up with a swift, fierce move that made her hit the table and caused several marbles to fall on the floor, but she did not care.
She ran towards me, her small feet making no sound on the carpet, her cheeks red, her eyes bright, and I took some staggering steps to meet her, putting one knee down on the floor when she reached me – I could not lift her, but I wanted her against my chest, I wanted to feel her small body against mine...
She hit my body with a hard thump, almost knocking me down, she was so desperate to reach me, and when she drew her arms around my neck she almost choked me. I circled her waist with my arms, she was so thin, so slender... I wrapped her up in my embrace and pulled her close, so close, burying my face in her hair, kissing her again and again, whispering her name.
I was shaking, I could not withhold the tremendous relief I felt in finding her alive, unharmed, and still loving, still so close, still breathing...
"Dís...", I whispered, on and on, brushing her back with my hands, and her own small fingers found my face, touching my forehead, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips...
I could not get up, I could not even look up – I wanted that moment to last forever and I dreaded what would come next, what I would read in Frerin's face. Fear, hatred, anger, resentment...?
So I stayed keeling on the floor, holding my sister against me, hiding my face in her hair, and that is why I never saw him approach, never knew what emotion was dominant in his expressive features, in that face that had always been so easy to read...
Suddenly I felt other arms around my back, another warm and tiny body against mine, his chest against my shoulder blades and his cheek meeting mine. Golden locks found their way into the raven ones and as I leant at last into my brother's embrace, feeling my body sag against his, feeling my breath choke and my chest quiver because I was fighting back my sobs, I heard his voice, so earnest, so fierce.
"What in Durin's name took you so long?"
The sound that escaped my breast was strange – a cough, a sob, maybe the beginning of a laugh, too, it was so like him to scold me, to direct me, and I knew he was not angry, he was just pretending...
I turned my face a little bit and there it was, that clear, loving grey gaze that also looked so much older, so grave, so understanding... My breath hitched and Dís released me slightly from her embrace, always worried, always careful, but Frerin bent his face and touched my forehead with his, drawing us both against him.
"Just breathe."
They were both holding me upright, Dís against my chest and Frerin against my back, and they felt me shake, they heard me cough – I had no air left, I did not really know if I was breathing, coughing or crying, it suddenly seemed the same...
But in the end it stopped, and I was just there, kneeling between them, their arms around me, feeling whole again, at last. My eyes were closed and my heart was full – I was alive, and for the first time in days I could rejoice to be so.
"'Adad?", I asked, my voice soft, because I had to, because right now I had the strength to ask.
"He's better", Frerin whispered. "He's spending much time with Náin... He likes to be with him, his face shines when he sees him. And he recognizes us. He likes to hold us, Dís and me, even if he does not talk. I think he's happy to be in a Mountain once more..."
I nodded, I could not answer, there were still so many bad memories associated with Thráin...
"He misses you, marlel..."
Dís' soft voice came close to my chest and she raised her face towards mine, her gaze so gentle.
"He holds me against him, and sometimes he touches my hair and I know he asks for you. I told him you would come. I told him not to worry... Was it right, Thorin?"
She was looking at me, so anxious, so faithful, and I nodded again.
"Yes. It was right. I will see him as soon as I can..."
I was still leaning against them and they understood. They saw my drawn, pale face and knew I was still not ready. Frerin helped me to get up, and I suppose I greeted Dáin, but I only remember his firm embrace and the warm smile in his eyes as he led me to his father.
I greeted Náin then, thanking him for taking care of my siblings, thanking him for his hospitality, but he just waved my words away, crushing me against his chest, his bulky frame a rock against mine.
"Don't waste your breath, lad. You are all so, so welcome."
We sat down together after that, but I do not really remember that evening, or what we discussed. I think I was just sitting, never letting go of Dís, and feeling Frerin's presence around me, sometimes searching for his gaze and always finding it, a mute support, a new-found form of love in his grey eyes.
Dáin, Dwalin and Balin were all so close – I remember their touch, if not their words around us, and when Óin joined us, his stern face lightening up as he saw us together, that is when I thought about Dís' drawing once more.
For we were eight, not six cousins, and we were all together save Glóin who was still a baby – and it was such a treasure, worth a thousand times more than all the gold in Erebor.
Durin cousins. Tiny links of the same chain.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations :
- maikhmini : be thanked (plural form), singular form : maikhmin
- 'adad : father
- amrâl : love
- marlel : love of all loves, Dis' nickname for Thorin.