A/N : Hello my dears... A heartfelt thank you to those who have endured incessant notifications in their mailboxes, without reading nothing new about "The King of Carven Stone", you are angels! And even more thank you if it has made you re-read my stuff, especially to those who left reviews!
At the beginning of this, Thorin is twenty-six, about thirteen in human age. Afterwards, you can divide his age per two to get its Human equivalent. The story is as usual told by elder Thorin as he lies dying on Ravenhill.
Dear readers, the editing is done! Hurray! I promise that from now on, the only notifications you'll get should you still be following me will be about *new* chapters! Enjoy, feel free to leave a comment (even to complain about incessant editing) and take care! Till soon, much love, Meysun.
The King of Carven Stone : Part VI
Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)
1.
"Thorin, you go and fetch Dís, I'm fed up with her."
Frerin was pulling me by the hem of my shirt and I let out a groan. I had just rinsed myself from the soot I was always bringing back from the forge, had barely had the time to pull on a clean tunic and was basically just yearning for a moment of peace and silence, where I could be alone – not thinking, not even moving, just watch the sun set on the Dunland hills after another hard day of working.
It had been two years. Two years since we had crossed the Misty Mountains, and entered this broad, savage lands – the carts full with the few belongings we still had, pulled by grim-faced Dwarves who knew they had nothing else left to lose. Not in this land where there seemed to be no King, and no God – only black-faced, swarthy Men who had sworn everlasting hatred to Helm's descendants, ever since they had been defeated by the troops of both Rohan and Gondor, pushed back in Dunland and left there to rot.
Or so they said, snarling the words, their eyes wary, always narrowed in suspicion, even as they watched us carve whatever they asked of us – arrow-heads, flails, knives, asking us to make them sharp and light, and making me shiver as I obeyed, wondering in which bodies these rough, savage hands would bury them.
"Animals", my father said softly, one day, as he noticed my uneasiness, watching the three Dunlandings walk away, shouldering heavy bags, turning from the smithy we had rented for the day in one of their settlements.
"We help them to hunt, dashat. Their war ended long ago.
- What war?", Dwalin asked, for he was there as well.
Following Balin in the forge, pursuing the apprenticeship he had begun in the Iron Hills, getting used to these limited tools, furnaces and metals swiftly, trying to make the best of it, as usual, while I usually worked with my father.
His hands enclosing my wrist, helping me to bend the metal while it was hot, showing me the exact spot to hit so that it could be done in a few, swift moves. Teaching me how to master the fire, adapting it to the work that was required – and never scolding me when I failed to repress a start, as the flames would leap up higher than expected, bringing me back to a greater Fire I would never be able to forget.
"This fire is ours", he would say softly, taking the bellows from my hand and showing me how it was supposed to be done. "It only dances the way we blow it."
I would nod, my throat dry, so relieved that he was there.
Because he was.
Had been, ever since that day I had felt his hand on my neck, the morning after that Wolf had almost killed me. Not in the obvious, harsh and resolute way my grandfather was, appointing tasks and deciding, every evening, what was to be done the next day.
Not in Balin's way, smiling, explaining, making sure we could learn something in every village we crossed – be it the settlement's name, or getting a closer look on agricultural techniques while we forged ploughs and scythes.
Not in Dagur's loud, thundering way – making sure we kept trained, didn't lose our sparring and fighting skills, prompting us to practice, almost every day. Even Frerin – and I can still hear Dagur's laughter as he wrestled with him, allowing him to spend all his energy and frustration at being so young and small still. And Dwalin and me, of course – and we would, facing each other even as our muscles ached from our day, determined to remember that we were both more than smiths-to-be.
Both sons of warriors. Their kingdom lost, but their blood still flowing.
And so we would fight, and spar – and how strong he was, Dwalin, how strong... I had to spin and shift like the wind, to use my lighter weight as a tool and to give up the axe for the sword if I ever hoped to defeat him, and even then, I would often bite the dust, pinned down, his broad hands upon my shoulders, my breath short and my locks plastered to my head.
"Thorin, I'd feel better if you would just use your other hand..."
He would always release me instantly, taking no pleasure in victory – while I just felt glad, glad that he was not letting me win, glad that I could trust him so as to see where I was still weak, and in need of more training.
I would sit up, my heart racing in my chest, shaking my head.
"No. Tie it back, please, it slipped."
And he would, his brown eyes somewhat dark – tie back the small rope that was restraining my right hand against my back, forcing me to fight with the left. Until it would become as natural to use that hand than it was for me to breathe. Until I could face him with both arms, as an equal.
"It's hurting you. When I pin you down. I don't want to break your hand.
- You won't. It doesn't hurt."
And we would resume our fighting, sword against sword, our bodies dancing in the twilight, colliding, avoiding each other, falling down in a wrestle that was almost an embrace. Only stopping when I was the one seated on Dwalin's chest – not because I had won, not really. Because the rope had slipped, had gotten loose, because we were both tired, and sweaty, because my hands were around his wrists, yet had no strength left to restrain him.
He would drag up his knees and let me rest my back against them, closing his eyes while I desperately tried to gather my breath again.
"Enough?", he would ask, his fingers following the bruise the rope had left on my wrist – and I let him, still leaning against his knees.
I always let him, especially these moments where I was so exhausted I could have laid down on the ground next to him and fall asleep at once.
"Yeah...", I would whisper, finally, forcing myself to free him and to get up, drenched in sweat and so, so tired. "Enough. For today.
- You'll be the death of me. You know that."
I remember that smile, that way he had to get up in a single move, shaking himself like a fierce dog so as to get rid of the dust, and picking up the swords we had both discarded...
"Yeah. Have to keep you entertained."
He would drag me against him, then, still carrying the weapons, leading me back to the tent he was sharing with me, Frerin and Dís, while my father occupied the other with Balin, leaving the largest to my grandfather.
Tents were our home, these two years – because we were roaming Dunland, settling close to a village for a while, buying food and using the smithies they let us work in to forge our own weapons and tools, as a matter of payment. Trying to see where it could be possible to settle down into harder walls, and always finding it would have to remain a wish.
Because there was not enough work, or food – and often, because there was not enough goodwill, for the Dunlandings were a fierce and distrustful folk, wondering who we were, this sparse troop of Dwarves that had come out of nowhere, just as if earth had spat them out, or so they said...
"What war?", Dwalin asked, and my brother came closer as well.
He had swept the forge, had gathered the dust with a broomstick and a shovel he had emptied endless times, only stopping when he had finished. I had seen him bend upon the soot with a grin, dipping his finger into it – but then the Men had come and we had all resumed our forging, and I had forgotten about it.
"That war!", Frerin yelled, hurling himself at him – and it startled him, before he burst out in laughter, because my brother's faced was smeared.
Covered in black drawings that didn't really help to make him look fiercer – and neither did his small, pearl-white teeth he was still determined to bare.
"Look, 'adad, I have the same tattoos as you! I'm going to win, I'm going to pin you all down and they will all be afraid and beg me to be as merciful as Mahal..."
I do remember him, that day, in the forge, so determined to make us see he was also there, worthy and willing, even though he was too small to help us with the heavy tools we forged and carried, even though he would often fall asleep in my father's arms as we walked back to our settlement, spent by his efforts and his striving...
And I do remember that sound – that amazing, blissful sound that never failed to fill my heart with wonder: my father's low, deep laughter, filling the forge with more love and warmth than the fire, as he scooped Frerin up to hold him against him.
"Let them all tremble...", he whispered, and Frerin anchored his legs around his waist and settled against his shoulder, pleased beyond measure.
"Do they look like yours, 'adad?", he asked, turning his face towards him, smearing soot against Thráin's working shirt, and causing my father to smile.
"Almost", he answered, searching for a clean spot in my brother's face, finding one close to his eyes and kissing him carefully there.
"What war, Balin...?", Dwalin whispered, still determined to get his answer, and yearning for some respite, I could see it in the way he leant against his hammer, and in the hunched set of his shoulders, for the day was late already.
Balin saw it too – as well as my brother's heavy lids, who had grown still and silent against my father as Thráin had begun to brush his back. And I believe he also guessed it from the way my gaze kept searching for the sky, yearning for the sun to set, finally, so that we could smother the fire and go to whatever place it was we called home.
He looked at my father, and Thráin nodded, discreetly.
"Right, lads. Gather the tools. Leave that place as clean as it was before we came, and make sure not to forget anything. I'll tell you about war while we get done..."
Dwalin smiled, and Frerin slid down my father's arms, determined to act his part as well. And as we obeyed – washing our tools carefully, piling them up in the cart my father would push back, making sure the fire was dead, we listened to Balin's tale, our shadows getting longer in the setting sun.
"It was not so long ago... The year where open war between Dunland and Rohan begun. The Rohirrim fighting from the kingly place they call Meduseld... and the Dunlandings from the fortress of Isengard. Fighting each other for land.
- When?", Dwalin asked, and Balin smiled.
- In the year 2746 of the Third Age. A year that was fantêrâs, for us.
- But that was long ago...", I muttered, frowning as I wiped a stripe of leather across the anvil, and Balin chuckled, because it was actually the year I was born.
"So... They fought each other and the battle lasted years. And there was this Man, Wulf... They say here he had Dunlandish blood, for his father was dark-haired and shorter than the Rohirrim, who have golden hair and clear eyes...
- Just like me", Frerin whispered, making a few dancing steps around the broom he was sweeping on the ground.
"Aye, laddie, just like you. So, he was the son of a Horse-lord too, but Wulf's father had defied their King, Helm – coming to his court with armed men, asking him to wed his daughter to Wulf. And the King refused, striking him down with a single blow – that is why they called him Helm Hammerhand, ever since that day... But Wulf never forgot, and years afterwards, he took his revenge with leading the Dunlandings against his own King and kin, determined to get the throne by force, since he could not get it by marriage.
- Traitor...", Dwalin grumbled, wrapping up hammer and thongs in a cloth and tying the knot in brisk, fierce moves.
"About twelve years later he fought King Helm's men at the crossing of the river Isen... And he was quite successful, actually, for he forced the Rohirrim to abandon Meduseld and to withdraw to a fortress named Hornburg – a place they now call Helm's Deep...
- And that's where they are now?", Frerin asked, frowning at the injustice, while my father gently ruffled his hair, taking shovel and broom from his hands.
"No. For that year, Nature stepped into war – inexorable and not caring about King, traitors or children. That year, the winter was hard and so cold that everything was buried under snow. Meduseld, Isengard and the Hornburg. Cold, and starvation – hitting both sides alike."
I paused in mid-move, my fingers frozen around the knot I was trying to bind. I paused, and as I listened to Balin's voice, taking in the tale, I was also dragged back. To that hard, cold, white world that always meant so much pain and fear... That terrible morning where I had felt a soft breath against my neck and known that it meant death. The day I had lost Svali, close to a white tomb of ice and snow...
"Wulf was sitting on the throne in Meduseld, but the true King was holding the fortress in Helm's Deep, no matter how hard and terrible his losses. They say he lost both of his sons. One in battle and the other in the snow, but that he still went on fighting and raging. Warning his foes sounding the great Horn, deep into the Suthburg, and then setting out in the snow to slay them with his bare hands... They were all so afraid of him, so afraid... They said he died in the snow, as well, that one day he set out, never to return, and his sister-son took up his throne instead."
Balin quenched the fire, slowly pouring water upon the embers, unabashed by the smell, and then he went on, quietly.
"His name is Fréaláf, but they call him Hildeson, for that was his mother's name. Hild, sister of Helm, who gave birth to the first King of the second line of Eorl's house. And he managed it, as soon as spring came. Took back Edoras and killed Wulf, avenging his uncle's and his cousins' death, and driving Dunlandings away from Rohan, with the helps of the troops Gondor had finally been able to send to them... And so – Dunland is no longer considered part of the realm of Rohan, despite its fertile lands. The Rohirrim will not forgive the Dunlandings for their deeds, just as the Men in Dunland vowed they would always seek to avenge the slight done to them with Wulf's death – the only lord who remembered them, and fought for them and their rights... Or so they say...
- This is sad", Dwalin said, simply, and his brother nodded.
"Aye. Like every tale of war."
Balin sighed, and his eyes swept across the place, searching for tools we might have forgotten, and finding me still kneeling on the ground, my fingers numb around a knot I did not manage to tie.
"You are all right, lad?", he asked softly, stepping up to me and finishing my knot for me.
Dwalin was already outside, helping my father to load the cart, and hoisting Frerin up with the tools – I could hear my brother laugh, that tale of blood and snow seemingly forgotten as soon as the words had been spoken.
"Yes...", I said, trying to steady my voice, and to banish those raging images from my mind.
Of snow, covering everything. Of dead bodies of Princes, fallen in battle – lost in white nothingness. Of a King – so fierce, charging out in the snow after a final blow of his mighty Horn. Of starvation. Of cold, cold, cold...
Just as I feel it now.
"I am fine...", I whispered, though, that day, forcing myself to get up.
It was warm, it was summer, it was Dunland, and I was alive. Alive, with Balin, Dwalin, my father and my brother. No need to be afraid of snow, or fire. Heading to that place we called home, that tent where my sister was waiting for us, where I could lose myself in her soft, childish world...
"You go and fetch her, this time."
And of course I went, as soon as Frerin released his impatient grasp on my arm and ran away, searching for Dwalin instead. I knew where I would find her – in the small tent she had built close to trees, a week ago, using our winter-scarves and old fur-coats, spending her days there, since we were all gone, since there was no other Dwarven child to play with her.
Not bothering anyone, only coming out to eat, and often taking her small ration there, the old Dwarrowdams in our settlement too weary to scold her.
Waiting for our return, yet hiding as we would come back, trying to shield herself against the ache of having to see us go, every morning, without being able to follow. She had cried, at first, but gradually she had found another way. Built herself a dream-world where she pretended not to need anyone, making us fight hard for one of her kisses – since we were going, always going and leaving her behind.
"Dís...", I called, softly, crouching in front of the tent's narrow entry. "It's me, mamarlûna.
- Come in..."
Her voice was soft, and sounded far away, I got down on my knees and pushed the fabric aside so as to cast a glance into my sister's small haven.
She had spread one of my father's old fur-coats on the ground, and was sitting backed up against the trunk of a tree that served as a pillar, her knees dragged up, the small iron figurines Dwalin and me had made for her with scraps of iron from the forge carefully displayed at her side. There were empty nut-shells she had placed between daisy-heads, forming a decorative border on the ground beneath her, and she had also gathered pebbles she was currently sorting out, frowning as her fingers pushed them back and forth before her.
It was hot in the tent, and her locks were plastered against her forehead, but she didn't seem to mind – just looked at me and repeated her offer.
"Come in.
- I can't, Dís. I'm too big.
- Not if you lie down..."
Her eyes met mine and I nodded – knowing there was no other way to coax her out and bring her back to us. I lay down and carefully made my way in – half of my body still outside, yet managing to squeeze in up to the waist.
I folded my arms and rested my chin upon them, and just watched her sorting out the pebbles. She had made several piles, and I noticed she had picked up only black, green and grey ones, and that she never wavered in placing them in the right pile.
"Onyx... Emerald... Moonstone... Emerald... Emerald... Onyx..."
It was hot, in her small tent, yet her voice was soft and had a soothing note. It always had. I never could get enough of it – never. Not her voice, not her touch. And so I just stayed there, and watched her, until she finished.
"You like it, Thorin?
- Very much."
She smiled then, and her fingers brushed the corner of my eye.
"There's something black here. It's all smeared now.
- Soot", I said. "I must have forgotten that part when I washed.
- Wait..."
She licked her thumb and went on brushing my face, and I closed my eyes, wishing I was small enough to fit in that tent as well – to be able to think of rough pebbles as emeralds and moonstones, to see flowers and nuts as magical adornments, and to wash soot, weariness and memories away.
"There. All clean. Now you can meet Lela.
- Lela?
- Yes. She's there. Sitting next to me. She thinks you are handsome. She says she wants to hear your voice."
I opened my eyes and looked at her – and there must have been fear and worry in my gaze, because I knew there was no one else in that tent... But then I remembered Frerin shouting at Dís a few days earlier, mentioning that name and calling her a liar.
I looked at my sister, who was looking at me defiantly. Daring me to tell her there was no one, that she was feeling so lonely that she was actually imagining her – that friend sitting in the tent next to her, keeping her company.
"Hello, Lela", I said softly, and Dís smiled, radiantly, almost giggling as I went on: "Moonlight upon your eve.
- She says the same to you. She asks you how you find her…
- Oh, I find her... Forgive me, I find you very agreeable, Lela. These silver ribbons are very fitting, very fitting indeed...
- They are blue", Dís giggled. "She says they match your eyes. She's so stupid..."
I smiled, taking in my sister's flushed cheek and damp hair. It was too hot here, and she was getting over-excited – but she was happy, and eagerly waiting for my next words.
"Now that's not a very nice thing to say to a friend, is it? See, she's all sad, chewing her lip, trying not to cry... She didn't mean it, Lela, do not worry, she is just hungry...
- I'm not!
- But I am. And so, dearest Lela, I wish you a pleasant evening and an even more pleasant night. If you meet my sister, would you be so kind to tell her I came, and yearned for one of her kisses but had to leave, for I am expected at dinner. Thank you very much..."
And with these words I slowly crawled out of the tent, hearing Dís' sounds of both laughter and begging.
"Thorin, she wants you back...
- Goodbye..."
I dragged myself up, brushed my hands against my trousers and turned, pretending to walk away slowly. Repressing a smile when I heard the fierce way the heavy fabric was pushed aside, and when a hot, small body crashed into my side.
"Oh, hello, mamarlûna...
- Bend down..."
She was pulling at my arm, and I gave in, feeling her lips press themselves fiercely against my cheek, making me laugh as she finally pulled away with a grin. I brushed her hair, putting back a loose strain behind her ear, and Dís leaned into my embrace again.
"It's beautiful. Your tent. What you did inside. It's beautiful.
- Frerin doesn't like it.
- Frerin is jealous because you don't let him in. But I'm sure he'll love your precious stones, and the flowers you picked.
- No. He makes fun of Lela. He says she's in my head. She's not in my head. She's there, and she's my friend. She picked up the flowers.
- Beautiful flowers...", I simply said, and then I picked her up, like a flower indeed, hoisting her on my hip, slowly walking back towards the tents.
My sister rested her head against my neck and I could breathe in her sent – she smelt of fresh sweat, of earth, of daisies and of the honey-flavoured soap we all used, and I loved it.
"Are you leaving tomorrow again?", Dís asked, and I shook my head.
"No. Tomorrow we rest, remember? Every seven days. Time to wash the clothes, and to hang them, and...
-... to mend your socks. They all have holes. I'll show you.
- All right. Show Dwalin as well, remember? His socks are worse than mine.
- Maybe...", Dís voiced, slowly, and I had to laugh.
"Will we read tonight, Thorin? There's almost no light, it's late...
- There will be time tomorrow. Do not worry, mamarlûna. We will read a bit tomorrow, and then you will write and count with Balin, will you? It's important. I want you to learn everything we were taught, Frerin and me, so that everyone knows how smart my Dís is."
She smiled then, and we both walked back to the fires where dinner was being cooked. There was no time to read that night – it was late, and she was exhausted, almost falling asleep above her soup, such as Frerin was. My father had to carry them both into the tent – neither of them was willing to walk, and when he came back he simply looked at Dwalin and me, leaning against each other, our lids heavy and our eyes lost in the fire.
"To bed. Both of you. You have strived enough."
Neither of us tried to argue. We just stood up, slowly, and as we passed him he brushed our arms – both Dwalin's and mine.
"Maikhmini."
The soft word was enough to fill us with pride, and we both lay down, so tired that we fell asleep before reaching our pillow, ready to sleep heavily until sunrise.
Yet that night, I woke up with a choked scream, shaking and struggling to breathe. There was lead on my chest, and ashes in my mouth – ashes or snow, I did not know, I did not know...
"It's alright... It's alright... It's just a dream, sparrow, it's just a dream..."
And a dream it had been. A dream of snow, and war, and fierce deeds in a world that snatched children and warriors away – no matter how worthy and brave they were... A dream that came shattering my peace, unwanted, unexpected, without any reason, leaving me breathless and covered with cold sweat, huddled against Dwalin, exactly like two years ago.
"I'm sorry...", I whispered, as soon as I was able to frame the words. "I'm sorry..."
He just held me. He knew it was pointless to ask me to stop apologising, that it was just my way to realise I was back. In a tent, yes, but not that tent. A tent where he was too, where it was warm, because it was summer, because we were sleeping in green hills, forging and fighting, until we would be wealthy enough to build a true home.
"What was it about?", he asked softly, but I just shook my head, burying my head in the crook of his shoulder.
"Nothing..."
He sighed, simply holding me close. That night he slept next to me, unwilling to release his embrace, determined to shield me even from my dreams. And I did not lift my head, did not move, my arms wrapped tightly around him, even as I felt his breath getting deeper and began to hear the familiar, soft noise of his snoring.
I did not lift my head, not even as I felt tears begin to stream down my cheeks, falling softly against his tunic. Tears for Itô and Svali, even here, in green lands and summer, where war was supposed to be only a memory, but seemed to be ever-present.
Tears of fear – for that King charging out blindly in the snow, after he lost everything, his Horn a last warning of his cold, wild wrath...
Just as I did, in the end.
And tears of relief. For the snores so close to my ear, telling me I was not alone, no matter how afraid and lost I felt. For the sound I had heard, the day before – my father laughing, his grey eye full of love and awareness. For my little brother's soot-stained face, that looked anything but fierce, and that was now clean as he slept soundly on his roll next to me. For Balin's twinkle, and the quiet way he seemed to guess each of my father's thoughts, easing his burden and anchoring him to us. And for my sister, so sweet and yet so full of temper, who saw moonstones and emeralds where there were only pebbles, and whose voice always meant home to me...
I had heard my father speak to Balin and Nár, these days. I had heard them discuss the option of staying here – for that spot offered the shelter of trees, and clean water. It was also close to three villages, only half a walking day away, and would allow us to run our own forge, should we decide to fold the tents and build more solid houses instead.
"No stone, except for the forge", I had heard him say. "There are not enough guaranties. But wood. It could be wood. Try and bring it to my father, Nár. I think it would be good to settle down, be it only for a while."
They had nodded, and I had felt some hope – because I wanted it so badly, to know that I wouldn't have to pack my bag once more, not for a while, and to leave that tent that only brought me back to the road, even in my dreams...
A house of wood. Where there would be a room for my father, another for Balin, one for Dwalin and me... No, we could not afford that. One for my father, another for Balin, and another for the rest of us. And my grandfather... He would have a house of his own, probably. He wouldn't want the noise we all made, wouldn't want to deal with my siblings and me – yes, he would have a house of his own and we would all stay together and my father would go on laughing and smiling and working and teaching me how to rule the fire...
A house of wood. And pebbles, and daisies on the windowsill – and a place to put down my mother's harp, as well...
A house of wood was enough already. Enough to lull me back to sleep, still tangled in Dwalin's embrace, forgetting about snow, war, Kings and weapons.
Letting dreams chase old nightmares away.
Neo-Khuzdul translations:
- Maikhmini: thank you.
