The King of Carven Stone : Part III
Through Ice and Fire (Exile)
3.
Days had turned into weeks, and weeks into a month. It had been one month exactly since the Dragon's attack, the moon was proof of it – I could see its rounded shape high above me, crowning the dark sky and softly shining down upon the tents. Yet this month had seemed like a decade to me.
How cruel time can be, running like sand grains between our fingers when we desperately want it to stand still – and seeming endless when we dream to call it past... Even now that my moments here are numbered, time remains ruthless. I fell only seconds ago, I am sure of it, the clouds above have not even stirred, and yet I have gone through endless memories, almost forgetting the searing pain in my chest, the weight of all those years of care and hardship...
I was standing outside the tent, that night, looking at the moon, remembering what I was doing the last time I had seen it like this – I had been sitting on my bed, close to the windowsill, using the moonlight to finish the chapter I was reading. I had raced through the accounts of Borin's travels, fascinated by that Dwarf who had been so far away and had returned with so much knowledge. And then I had rested my head against my pillow, looking at the shapes the moon was weaving on my blanket, dreaming of the day I was going to travel too – and perhaps write about what I had seen.
How innocent and treasured I had been...
It had been four weeks. Four, hard weeks on a seemingly endless road, and I did not feel like writing anything down, not even if I had been gifted with ink and pen. This luxury was not even to be thought of, and my tale was a plain one: a tale of hunger and exile.
We had followed the River, and there had been days where we had found some work indeed – in forges of Men mostly, for there was always a blacksmith in their towns, and hard work to do.
I would go with the other Dwarves, every time, because I could not bear to stay in the camp during the day – there were too many sorrows to be witnessed, too many sick, weak, exhausted Dwarves, too many hungry Dwarflings...
I could not handle this, I was not like Frerin or Dís – where they gathered their strength and their kindness I did not know, they managed to find a gentle word for everyone, to comfort those who were ailing and the Dwarflings that were crying. They were so full of light, such a treasure to their people, I saw them summon smiles on faces that had forgotten they could shine...
Where they passed, sorrow seemed to vanish for a moment – they were the sunshine of our kin, so loving and so loved. But I... I had no smiles to bestow, no light to give. To see how they all suffered – old warriors and Dwarrowdams that should have ended their days in peace and were now struggling with endless miles every day, Dwarflings that were too young to speak and who were already starving – it tore my soul apart, it drew me close to frenzy.
I could not find anything to say to them – I had no solace to offer. I could only work, trying to bring back some food to them, trying to ease some of their pain, but it was never enough.
It was just never enough. The food we brought back – I always thought it would last a week, the sacks were so heavy, they looked so full... and yet after two days they were empty, and none of us had ever been able to eat his fill at least for one meal.
And sometimes there was no food. Sometimes there was no village next to our camp – and then we went to sleep with empty stomachs, clinging to the hope that next day, it would be better. Next day, there would be work, plenty of work, and we would eat – but I do remember that one week there was no food for three full days.
That week we buried our first dead – Dwarves that had already been injured or ill, and had no strength left to starve. There was no Dwarfling among them, thank Mahal – I had made sure of that, I was rationing the food carefully. They were our treasure, they were our hope, they would be the last to starve – it was cruel for the wounded, but I knew it had to be so, and so did they. We had always placed children first in the Mountain, it would not change in exile.
We had buried the dead far away from the river, marking their tombs with stone. We had promised we would come back to them one day and make a proper tomb for the all the Exiled that had fallen. But their deaths weighed heavy upon me, and never left my thoughts.
The only way to forget about it for some hours lay in the forge – and to the forge I went, with Dagur, Hergíl, and Balin sometimes when he could leave my father, for Thráin was another cause of worry.
He was still beside himself – he did not seem to recognize anyone, and though he never attacked anybody after that terrible night where he had almost choked me, he was unpredictable. He would sit still, letting Dís and Frerin embrace him, braid his hair and help him fasten his arm-guards, but suddenly his gaze would change and Balin would have to hold him back, trying to calm down his anguish, and they would have to leave for fear of unsettling him.
I was the only one that could spend more than several minutes with him, except Balin and Óin – I never knew why. Perhaps it was because I was his eldest child: he remembered my mother, that was plain enough, so maybe he recalled his first-born child too... But I could never be sure, and Thráin never gave me any proof of recognizing me. He would sit close to Balin and watch me approach, kneeling next to him, trying to reach him somehow.
I did not dare to touch him – I was still feeling his hands around my throat, and Mahal forgive me, I was still scared. But I tried to reach him with my words – usually I would tell him about my day, about what I had done in the villages of Men. How Dagur had thrown himself into a temper once more, how Hergíl had braided the horses' manes in Dwarven fashion to tame them – he was not scared by their height and they loved him, it fascinated Men to see how they would bend towards him to be stroked...
But Thráin never answered, and it hurt. I knew he probably could not help it, but it hurt so much to see his unfocused gaze, to feel like I was speaking to a ghost – and my heart when wounded has always raged. I made myself believe I was angry at him, resenting his weakness, so as not to acknowledge that pain, and in the end I forgot about my own ruse.
I stopped coming to him – it had been a week since I had entered his tent to talk to him, because I had begun to hate him, hate him for the fact that he had left me alone when I needed his support so dearly.
"You are getting thin, and full of shadows...", Dís had said to me moments before, when I had refused the plate she was handing to me.
"I am not hungry", I had repeated fiercely, and she shook her head with a sigh – but what did I care, I could not eat knowing that the little ones next to me were yearning for that food, longing for more yet never daring to ask.
My grandfather had laughed at me, the other day – he had mocked me when I had come back from the forge, tired and spent, my face smeared with soot. And I had not managed to keep silent, my voice fierce and my eyes burning – his words had simply been too much.
"As long as it will bring us some supplies and some means to keep on going, I will keep humble and swarthy, grandfather, whether you like it or not."
He had caught me by the arm, I had felt his iron grip around my bones but I had withstood his angry gaze. Until he spoke, hissing the words like a curse:
"I suppose you think you are acting nobly... A true protector of Durin's folk, bringing back food, caring for everyone... But you will see their looks, you will feel their hatred, once they will starve. Kindness, selflessness, that's the surest way to lose your crown. They will feast upon you, they will break you – it has already begun."
I had freed myself from his grasp, horror-struck by his words, and had staggered back.
I had not eaten that day – I just could not bring myself to eat after those terrible words, and today I had also refused my share. I knew it was wrong, I knew I was losing weight, I had just carved another hole in my belt that was getting loose around my waist – but I could not eat. I simply could not, anxiety tightened my stomach too much.
I had left the tent and my gaze had met the moon – a full, shiny, bright moon, so unmoved by our struggles. I sat down close to the tent's entry, gazing at the sky, my arms around my knees, thinking that it had been a month, and that we had several more weeks to go.
In the end it was Frerin that coaxed some food into me. He got out of the tent, crouched in front of me with a half-filled plate and threatened me, his grey eyes ablaze:
"If you don't eat it straight away, it will land on the ground. I'll smear it, and it will be wasted. I am not joking. You should mark this day, Thorin, that's actually the first time I ask you to open your mouth."
I laughed then, briefly, despite myself – it sounded rusty even to me, it had been days since I had smiled. And Frerin watched me eat, his arms folded, his gaze stern.
"There...", I said, handing the empty plate back to him. "Done, zirak, no need to scowl like that.
- I wish you would hear yourself...", Frerin said, his lips twitching slightly. "You just don't deserve me, I already told you so. Your gaze is the one full of clouds."
He had spoken the last word in Khuzdûl – shathûr, and he smiled, eventually, when he saw his wordplay hit home. What a word-smith he was, that little brother of mine, what a sunshine in my clouds…
He sat down next to me and I drew my arm around him, pulling him close, for the night was cold.
"Dís is right...", Frerin said after a while, poking me in the ribs and earning a shove. "You are getting thin.
- I always was...", I replied, looking at him, my face earnest but my eyes playful. "You are the fat one among Thráin's sons, remember?"
This time I was the one getting a shove and I let myself fall flat on my back on purpose, while Frerin sat himself on my chest, his knees digging in my ribs and his hands enclosing my wrists.
"So I'm fat, right?", he asked, pretending to be upset, and he lifted his body slightly before letting himself fall again on me with all his weight – and Mahal, it was not much, but I kept up the game.
"Ugh, can you tell me how I am supposed to keep food down with your Royal Fatness sitting upon my stomach?"
I grinned at him and he grinned back, his teeth pearl white in the moonlight.
"Oh there he is...", he said, sounding surprised. "I thought we had lost him, but Prince Cheerful is actually back... We have all missed his wonderful good humor, his generous smiles and the way he always manages to point out the brighter side of life..."
He was laughing softly, his hands still around my wrists, and I smiled at him, lifting my knees so that he could rest his back on them.
"I know where that one is. He's sitting on my belly, making me wish I had not eaten so much – a whole meat pie, roasted potatoes, an entire loaf of bread, and then...
- Stop it, Thorin...", Frerin sighed, and I had to laugh – I would never have thought it, but it felt so good, joking about the food that was never going to be there even in our wildest dreams.
He freed me from his embrace and I sat up, feeling lighter in a way that had nothing to do with Frerin's small weight. We were both smiling and I was about to thank him – for having brought me food and some joy on a night where I thought I could not get any.
But I never had the time to mouth those words, because that is when the shrieking suddenly began.
Suddenly there was chaos and panic where there had been silence and peace – and the anguished cry that echoed both in Khuzdûl and Common Tongue made our limbs turn to stone for some seconds.
"Orcs! Rakhâs!"
They were coming. They were attacking the camp in packs, screeching, yelling, having got past our guards – they had been strangely silent, or perhaps our warriors were simply exhausted, half-starved and weary, and had missed their scouts.
Frerin had grabbed my arm, in an instinctive, frightened gesture – and that was when I moved. I could see frames fighting: the small, stout silhouettes of Dwarves again tall, dark, deathly shadows. Orcs were invading the camp, so far they had not reached our tent for it was in the centre, in the safest place, but it would only last minutes until we would be ourselves under attack.
"Frerin, we have to fight them."
I did not let him speak, I did not leave him any choice, I dragged him back into the tent where the Dwarflings had woken up, afraid by the noise and the panic outside.
"Orcs!", I hissed to Itô who had risen, always watchful, and the old Dwarrowdam tensed, her gaze bright and her face grim.
One of the Dwarflings began to cry and the others shortly followed, but I did not bother to try to comfort them, I dragged Frerin to the corner where we kept our weapons and made him pull on his chainmail, thrusting his sword into his palm.
"Thorin, I...
- Not now, Frerin...", I replied, pulling on my own chainmail, grabbing my axe and sword and dragged him out of the tent.
"Where are you going?!"
Dís' anguished cry echoed behind us but I did not turn, I did not answer. My body was tense and wary, my heart raced but I was not afraid – not anymore, I was aware of every move and every sound around me in a way I had never experienced before.
I could hear the screams, the clanging of blades and the anguished cries – the cries were the worst, my hands balled themselves around my weapons, and it was then I saw them.
They were coming, they were running right towards us – heavy, tall Orcs, their faces horribly distorted, fierce, like demons, dressed in iron breastplates and armed with daggers, swords and axes. They were growling, their eyes bright in the moonlight, baring their teeth as they did so, and I could hear Frerin's gasp behind me.
"You guard the tent's entrance, Frerin. You don't stir – do you understand, you don't move, you don't let them get in. They won't get past you, I'll make sure of it – I will shield you."
I whispered those words to him and then I raised my weapons. I screamed, too, a hoarse, terrible scream to give me courage, to give me strength, to frighten those beasts away...
I pictured Frerin behind me – my tiny, golden-haired brother, guarding the tent that shielded my sister – and anger rose, setting my Soul ablaze, fuelling my body with a fire that was stronger than any fear.
My blade met theirs with a clanging sound, and after that – after that I have no precise memory. I remember their faces, plainly enough, the foul stench of their bodies and the terrible smell of their blood – because I made them bleed, I made them bleed so dearly, hitting them with axe and sword.
I was small compared to them, I was light and swift – and I had been well-trained in Erebor, despite the fact that I had never fought for real after that day – that day with Dwalin.
I was avoiding their blows, they were dreadful aimers and I knew how to shift my weight so as to avoid their blades – I would turn aside and hit them, aiming for the weak places in their breast-plates: the armpits and the groin.
And I killed several, but they were so many, and I was small, weak and ill-fed – I could not hold them all back, and soon enough I heard a terrified cry behind me that made my heart stand still.
Frerin was standing where I had left him, both hands clinging to his sword, facing two fierce-looking Orcs that were aiming straight for him. He was staring at them wide-eyed, and I heard him whisper:
"Please don't do that. Please go away..."
What was he thinking of, he had to raise his sword, he had to fight them, he had to defend hims-...
A thump, and a sickening pain in my head. The second where I had turned to look back had been used by one of the Orcs I had been facing, and the blow on my temple kicked me off my feet.
I fell to the ground, hitting it with my back, and I heard Frerin scream – but Dwarven skull is thick and it was long past, the time where a single blow could knock me out...
"Frerin, you have to fight them!", I yelled, and then I thrust my sword deep into the belly of the foul Orc that had bent upon me, thinking he could finish me off when I had my Frerin to shield, my little brother to save – how dared he think he could just get past me like that...
The fierce Dwarven battle cry that echoed behind me made me flinch and wonder how Frerin could have voiced it – I avoided only by inches the dead Orc's body that was oozing foul blood, and some of the black, foetid liquid fell upon my chest and legs. I pushed the corpse away with a kick and got back to my feet, using my axe to hit the next one, in the arm, in the thigh – whatever my blade could reach, and I dealt each blow with another scream.
And when I finally got rid of the group that had attacked me, when I finally could turn safely, dreading what I would see... It was then I saw her, and I would never forget that sight.
It was Itô who had screamed. Itô who was wielding a broad, battle axe I had never seen before, Itô who was fighting like a Dwarf, despite her old age, despite her robes that swirled around her ankles and must have restrained her in her moves.
Her hair flew around her as she fought – she had already loosened it for her night rest, and it was still a mane, a proud, beautiful white mane that reached to her waist. Her eyes were bright, her mouth grim and I could see the tattoo she had between her eyes – a tattoo that attested she was a warrior's wife and widow, and even more.
She was a warrior herself. She wielded her axe in a way I had never seen before, she wielded it as if it was a shiny torch, weaving curves and lines for Durin's day – Itô fought just like she danced.
She uttered her battle cry again and it was high – it was a terrible, threatening screech, and I could see some of the Orcs draw back. She was shielding Frerin with her body – he had not stirred, he still stared at the scene wide-eyed and pale, so helpless, so shocked.
Itô snarled and the Orcs drew back straight towards me – and Mahal, what a glorious feeling it was to be able to finish them off. I thrust my sword, I wielded my axe – I was no dancer, I was a killer, fierce and ruthless, drenched in sweat and foul black blood.
I do not remember when it stopped. I had forgotten about everything else except my axe and sword – I was not thinking about Frerin anymore, I knew that Itô was shielding him, I knew I could give in to battle's rage without restraint.
But somehow it stopped, and we were left standing while the Orc pack fled. Our warriors had fought bravely, though several had fallen, and what remained of the Orc pack ran away screaming in fear, and as dawn rose we were left standing in the camp, gazing at what was left after the battle.
There was blood everywhere. Foul, black blood covered the ground, had splashed upon our tents, and there was Dwarven blood also, for some of us had died, and Hergíl among them.
There would be no more horse braids to be woven – no more quiet talking and gentle smiles while fastening the shoes we had made together on their hooves...
I would learn later that he had died – I would learn later that they had all fought, my grandfather, Balin, Dagur, Hergíl... and above all my father. For Thráin's memory was not shut to Orc cries, and he had reacted as soon as he had heard them utter their first shriek. My father had grabbed his axe and had run out to fight – our victory belonged also to him, for there was no fiercest warrior, and that night Thráin ran berserk.
But of all this I heard later. As I was left standing, my hands still gripping my sword and axe, my breath short and my body covered with blood that was not mine, I only knew it was over.
The terrible foes I had faced were dead on the ground, their faces lifeless and their eyes dull – I had killed them. It was over, and as that realisation kicked in, I suddenly felt myself stagger. I thrust my axe in the ground and leant upon it, my breath heavy and my body sore.
A soft moan made me turn, and I saw Itô holding Frerin. He had dropped his sword and was throwing up, his small body heaving violently in her arms, and Itô had gathered his hair, her hand upon his chest, her moves gentle and soothing.
She saw me advance towards him and shook her head with a warning look, and I realized then how frightening I had to seem, covered in blood, reeking with sweat... I turned, I ran to the river, taking my weapons with me, and as I did so I saw how many wounded there were, how terrible the raid had been, leaving us victorious yet broken.
I pulled off my chainmail, I rinsed the blood from the meshes and from my blades and dried them carefully. I took off my jerkin too – the leather was bloodied, but it had not reached my tunic. I pulled it off nonetheless, I washed the whole upper part of my body: my face, my hair, my chest, my arms... I rinsed the blood away and then I pulled on my tunic again – only my tunic, the rest I carried with me, I would see to it later, there were other priorities.
The Dwarflings were huddled together when I came back into the tent, my hair drenched and my lips blue with cold. Some were crying, but most of them were silent, looking at Itô who still held Frerin in her arms, and at Dís who was gently stroking his hair.
"Thorin...", he kept whispering, his face pressed against Itô's chest. "I want Thorin... I want Thorin... I want Thorin..."
Dís looked at me and there was so much despair in her gaze, so much sadness – what was there left to do or say? I laid down my weapons and my heavy chainmail, and then I joined them. I reached for Dís' face, caressing her cheek with my hand. I looked at Itô, our eyes locked – we gazed at each other silently, knowing that there had been a special bond between us, the bond of those who fight together – and I bowed, thanking her silently, before I lay my palm on Frerin's back.
"I am here, Frerin. I am right here."
Itô gently let go of him, she and Dís withdrew to the other end of the tent, trying to give us some privacy, and Frerin reached for me, desperately, clinging to the back of my tunic, almost tearing at the fabric. He was shaking – he was so young, and he was breathing so fast, I could feel his chest quiver against mine.
He was not crying – he was not making a sound except hurried, shallow breathing noises, and they broke my heart. I held him against me, I brushed his soaked, light locks aside, trying to make him look at me, but his face was averted, his cheek pressed against my shoulder.
He was not even twenty – he should never have had to draw a sword, to fight like that, especially not there, in cold, foreign lands, half-starved and afraid. He was still a child, and I had made him act like a warrior – I had made him face things he never should have seen.
"Kudzaduz...", I whispered, using the fond word I only called him when he was ill or low. "Please, look at me."
My hands brushed his back, the curve of his spine, the muscles of his chest and waist – he was so tiny, so slender... I bent towards him, and kissed whatever I could reach of his face: his ear and his cheekbone, burning hot and sweaty. It had been years since I had done that – we embraced each other, we grasped each other's arms, we pushed each other, earned shoves or blows, but Dís was the one getting kisses and bestowing them.
Yet that night, that terrible night, I bent towards my brother and kissed him, because he had no one else to cling to. There was no one there to try to remove his fear. There was only me, and I had been the one who had placed him in this terrible situation.
Frerin's breathing hitched when I touched him, yet slowly became more even. He was still shaking, but his hands were loosening their grip around me.
"Look at me, Frerin..."
He shook his head, his face still hidden in my shoulder, and I felt my throat tighten.
"Please forgive me... I know I asked too much, I know I had no right to push you like that. You should not have had to fight, I should have made sure... Please forgive me... Frerin... please... Don't turn your face from me..."
A sob escaped Frerin's lips – a sound at last, and I held him while he cried, and terribly silent tears they were, so quiet and desperate.
"Why... are you... so kind to me?"
His words took me aback – I froze, still holding him.
"I failed, I am so... so weak. I am useless... I cannot... fight, I am so... I am such a failure. You should be... ashamed of me..."
My grasp around him tightened – I could hardly believe what he was voicing.
"I will never be ashamed of you. You held your ground, you did not stir. You were the one guarding the tent's entrance, and they knew it. I was supposed to shield you. I am the one who failed.
- They... they struck you down because... because you looked at me. If I had... If I had been quicker... stronger... But I was so scared... I could not move... I was so scared to lose you... I don't want to... lose you..."
He was crying so hard now that I could only hold him tighter.
"They were so many, Frerin, and it was night... Of course you were scared... I was too – I was terrified. I was as scared as you.
- But you fought well... You were so fast, you did not look afraid..."
He raised his face to look at me – he lifted his face at last and I met his grey, clear gaze, still bright with tears. He has stopped shaking, he was calmer now, and it was all that mattered to me. Calming him down.
I could not tell him about that rage that had spread through my limbs like a glowing torch – the hatred for those foul beasts born and bred in the shadows, only raised to kill and pillage. That anger that had given me so much strength, quickening my pulse, and in which I had revelled because it had fanned my courage – it had to remain unvoiced. It was the darkest and the most blazing part of my Soul, and I could not share it with Frerin.
It would only frighten him, he would not understand. He was thinking too much, caring too much – his soul was like a crystal lamp, its light clear and pure, without any room for hatred and wrath. And I did not want him to change – I loved him, I loved him so dearly that it hurt to look at him.
"I was fast because they were heavy. Those breastplates and weapons they carry, they are ill-made and only slow them down. Their bodies are not swift, their brain is sluggish and they only think about their own safety – they do not care for each other, they do not regroup, so it is not so difficult to break through them, actually.
- You are so brave...", Frerin whispered, and he felt for the bruise on my temple, his fingertips brushing my skin.
How little I deserved both his praise and his concern – and yet I managed to smile at him.
"I have a thick skull. You are the smart, inventive, kind, wonderful one among Thráin's sons..."
His gaze clouded and he let go of me.
"Do not say that. Don't lie to make me feel better.
- I don't. I am not lying to you..."
I was speaking so low that he had to stay close to me to hear me.
"You have so much more goodness than me. That's what held you back, even with those creatures, and it does not make you a coward at all. Don't lose that treasure, kudzaduz."
He did not answer. He laid his face against my neck again, his arms circling my chest. And I brushed his back with my palms, gently, feeling my own tension ebb slowly.
"You are shaking", Frerin whispered after a while, and I was indeed.
I always have, after battle, after those raging hours where my body fought and my mind only followed instinct. Never before, or during the fight – always afterwards. Like a flame suddenly extinguished once danger is past, for Mahal does not bestow His blessings freely. I learnt to hide it quickly enough – no one would have followed me had they witnessed that, and it never lasted long.
I would make sure to go away or to keep to myself while the battle's aftermath was taking its toll, and no one ever saw me like this.
Except Frerin, on that cold, forlorn night. I went on brushing his back, holding him close, but I was shivering – not with cold or fear, but with the awareness of being alive still.
He did not breathe a word, he did not even move. We both stayed as we were, knowing that we were exactly as afraid and helpless, that we were the same deep inside, despite our differences. And Frerin knew that I could never, ever allow myself to show the fear I had temporarily held at bay without conquering it, so he held me as I held him, until my shivers ebbed.
Weary. I was so weary, and yet I could not rest. There were so many to tend to – the dead and the wounded, and those who were too afraid to stir, for we had to move on.
But we Dwarves know about battles, and facing Orcs. There were many who had fought endless times in their lives, and they knew how to take care of the dead and wounded, how to handle the terrible situation that follows every battle.
Everyone knew what was to be done. The Orcs' corpses we piled, leaving them to the crows – and may they have feasted upon their rotten flesh. The injured we gathered in a tent once more, and how hard Óin and our women strived that morning to tend to their many wounds so that they could keep moving...
And the dead we buried – because once more there was no possibility to offer them a proper tomb. There was no cave, no stone, only a few forlorn rocks... and there was no time.
I had pulled on my jerkin and my chainmail once more. The air was biting cold, and it did hardly matter now how dirty and stained my clothes might be – they were shielding me from the icy wind, as I stood there in the silver mist that had risen after that deathly night, clouding the hills with grey.
I watched our fallen warriors being laid close to each other in the earth while a huge rock was being dragged above their tomb, so as to make sure they would sleep under stone until we could come back and build them a proper grave.
And as I watched Dagur and Nár carve the sacred runes into the dark, hard stone, I suddenly heard my grandfather's voice.
Not shouting, not even speaking – so low, so soft. His lips moved and I heard him sing for the first time in years, his gaze upon the dark rock that covered the twenty Dwarves that had fallen, his robes still slick with Orc blood he had drawn, for he had fought among them:
.
"The world is grey, the Mountains old
The forge's fire is ashen cold
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls..."
.
His blue eyes were lost to the world and I know that he was not thinking of Durin – he was seeing Erebor, Erebor that he had strived so hard to rebuilt and that was now destroyed, in ashes, leaving our people exposed. Vulnerable. Dying.
.
"The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-Dûm..."
.
Thrór's voice broke and I saw him stagger – and suddenly realized that he was grim, hard, spiteful and proud, but also old, weary and desperate. He had been through that before, a thousand times, and now that his hair was grey and should have grown white in peace and wealth, there he was, standing once more before a grave, without shelter – without anything.
I stepped up to him – I knew I could, I knew he would not push me away this time, I knew he would not harm me, because of the grief that bound us that day.
I came close to him and took his hand – his broad, strong hand that still knew how to wield sword and axe when it came to defend his people, and how slender did my fingers look in my king's grasp...
Thrór turned his face towards me, and I saw doubt darken his gaze – what was I doing, what did I want, why did I touch him, who was I to him... I saw all this, in his clouded eyes, and I softly ended the song for him.
.
"But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere
There lies his crown in water deep
Till Durin wakes again from sleep."
.
He looked at me – pale dawn meeting night-blue, recognizing each other at last, and then he smiled. A soft, sad smile that was heartbreaking but made him look more himself than in years.
"Not my crown, Thorin... Not mine..."
He brushed the back of my hand with his thumb before letting go, turning his back on me, walking away quietly – no hard words came from him that day.
I watched him go, knowing exactly how desperate he felt inside. And it was then I felt Dís fingers on my arm.
"Thorin... You have to come – it's 'adad."
I tensed, dreading the worst, and she quickly added:
"He's not injured – he is over there. He won't drop his weapons, we all tried, me and Frerin, even Balin, but he doesn't listen and he's... he's frightening everyone.
- Mahal…!"
The anguished cry that had escaped my breast hovered for a second between us and Dís knew then. She knew how close I was to break down myself – I could not be everywhere, shielding the Dwarflings, comforting my brother, standing by my grandfather, and mastering my father's madness.
"I know...", she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes. "I am so sorry. We tried, we all tried, but he's not to be reasoned with – and you are the only one who manages to speak to him."
I shook my head, my breath getting shallow as I tried to fight down what I felt – and failed. I raised a hand to my mouth, pressing my knuckles against my teeth so as not to scream aloud.
"I know, Thorin...", Dís said, circling my waist with her arms.
"Mahal, Dís...", I whispered. "I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate what he is doing to us."
She did not answer, she did not judge, she only held me tighter. And after a while I dropped my hand, gazing down at her, my eyes still burning with unshed tears.
"Where is he?", I asked, and Dís took my hand to lead me to him.
A frightening sight it was indeed. My father was standing on one of the hills, his gaze fierce and his hair loose in the biting wind. His grip around his sword and axe was firm and he was facing those I held dear, his posture wary and his gaze bright and mad.
Frerin, Balin – even Dagur, they had tried to reach him and he had dragged his sword, wielded his axe, baring his teeth at them, threatening them with both his weapons and his glare.
"Don't go there", Dagur said. "He's raging, he's mad. We'll have to wait until he gets exhausted.
- We don't have the time", I replied.
I whispered something to Balin, and then I walked up the hill. I went empty-handed, but not unarmed – my axe was fastened on my back and my sword hung at my side.
Thráin watched me arrive, his breath getting quicker, and I saw him shift position slightly – not defensive anymore, but ready to attack.
"'Adad, if you hit me, I will hit back."
My voice rung clear and I saw him blink, taken aback by my resolute tone, and probably wondering who I was, and why I kept walking straight towards him.
He bared his teeth – what a fierce warrior he looked, his tattoos changing shape as he growled, but I was not afraid, I was just desperate and so, so weary.
"I won't warn you again, 'adad."
I was only several steps away from him when he moved. He ran towards me, raising his blade, and I parried his blow, drawing my sword with both my hands.
He had struck so fiercely that I felt the blow reverberate through my whole arm, reaching my shoulder. But he had not aimed, not really, he had only lashed out, probably because I was puzzling him, while I definitely wanted my blow to reach him. I parried his attack, and while my sword was still against his blade, my foot reached out, hitting his stomach with all my might.
He huffed, his breath failing him, and I heard someone scream behind me – Dís, or perhaps Frerin, I would not know. I turned down Thráin's blade and then I took some steps back.
"How dare you...", I said, my voice still loud, and unwavering. "I am your son. Thorin."
He was still searching for air and his grip tightened again around his weapons, but he suddenly seemed confused.
"Dashatzû", I repeated, and as I switched to Khuzdûl my voice suddenly broke – it was too intimate, too close.
"I don't want to hurt you. But you have to stop. Drop your weapons, 'adad. Don't force me to make you drop them, because I will."
I sheathed my sword again, still facing my father. We both were breathing fast and our eyes were locked, and I could see him waver, frowning slightly, his fingers slackening slightly around his weapons.
"Thorin..."
Balin's voice echoed softly behind me and I let out a deep breath.
"Put it down there."
I did not turn to see if he obeyed – I knew he would, and I could not leave Thráin out of sight. It was cold, so cold – there was frost on the ground, and my breath swirled before me.
"'Adad... Drop your weapons. It is safe. Come and look, come and listen – there is no need of blades for that..."
I took some steps back and there it was. My mother's harp, wrapped in faded black velvet that still smelt of smoke and ashes. I slowly extended my hand and touched the fabric, my gaze still fixed upon my father. I started to remove one of the laces, my moves cautious, and I saw my father take a tentative step towards me.
"Come, 'adad..."
The fabric fell to the ground with a soft move and the harp was bared. Its beautiful, dark wood had withstood Fire unharmed, and the silver runes that were carved upon it shone as if it had just been polished.
My hand felt for the wood and I followed its graceful curve, stroking the harp as if to tame it, and I saw my father shiver slightly. The fierce expression had left his face and he looked guarded, yet unsure. I put one knee on the ground and drew the harp against my shoulder, watching him approach.
"Come, 'adad. You can hear the wind playing in the strings. It is just as she said, 'adad – the wind never howls, we simply do not understand his words..."
My body tensed when he came close enough to touch it – he was still armed, but his weapons were facing earth and he did not seem to think about them anymore. I was holding the harp against me like a bow, my fingers not touching the chords, resting on the wood.
Thráin stopped and endless moments passed before he dared to move. I heard the dull thud of his axe when it hit the ground, as he extended his hand to touch the wood, caressing it just as I had done.
"Come closer, 'adad. Listen..."
I bent my head softly – I could hear it indeed, the breeze's soft, strangely harmonious lament, going up and down the tone-ladder.
Another soft noise, metal hitting stone. Thráin had dropped his sword and came even closer. He rounded me, standing right behind me – and though I was frightened, so much more than when I had faced the Orcs, I did not move, I just turned to look at him.
"You have to bend..."
His eye searched mine, and then he bent, slowly, his face inches from mine. One of his dark locks fell upon my shoulder and I could feel the heat that was radiating from him – he was so strong, there was so much fire in his soul still... He bent, and then suddenly his body tensed, for the wind had risen again, breathing his song on the chords once more.
I heard him exhale, painfully, and then I watched him come even closer, until his forehead touched the wood. He stood like this for minutes, not moving, only listening. And then he stirred again.
His hands that had been clinging to weapons, sowing death and wrath – his hands searched for mine. He laid his palms upon my forearms and it was all I could do not to flinch, then he enclosed my wrists with his fingers, cautiously.
His skin was so warm – it had been weeks since he had touched me like this, gently, aware of his moves. He circled my wrists and then he placed my hands upon the strings, one after the other.
"Ilfim... Play..."
I had a start when I heard him speak – he had not said a word for so long, and nothing coherent ever since the Mountain fell.
"Ilfim, magabshûna."
Magabshûna... Magabshûna, not magabshûn... I closed my eyes, I rested my head against the harp, well-knowing who he was confusing me with. The dark, rich wood met my bruise, and the pain was welcome.
His palms still rested upon my wrists, and his fingers brushed my forearms again, getting up to my shoulders, gently gathering my hair.
I shuddered – I wanted to believe he was caring for me, touching me, loving me, but he was seeing another frame, looking at another being, and I was lost in his embrace.
My fingers found the chords, somehow. The strings were not in tune, and my hands were frozen, for they were bare and I had not moved them for minutes.
But I played, a fragment only, the one that came to my mind, my left hand striking two deep chords while the right one slowly ran through the notes that matched the words.
.
"No harp is wrung, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls."
.
After that my hands fell to my side. My head was still resting against the harp, but I could not play anymore, I could not move. I felt my father's embrace being removed gently, Balin was taking him away from me and he was not struggling. He was walking away, still looking at me, while I was left kneeling next to the harp, listening to the wind's moan upon the strings.
"Come, Thorin. Get up, lad. Let us leave that wretched place."
Dagur was crouching next to me and was gently shaking my shoulder, his blue gaze sad and dark. I looked at him, but I could not move – I could not even remember how it was supposed to be done.
"Mahal, laddie, say something."
But I stayed mute – I could not speak either, there was nothing left in me. I could still sense my father's touch, so intimate yet never meant for me. It had felt so wrong, so forbidden – he should never have touched me like that, gathering my hair, stroking my skin like a lover... We were both tainted. And I felt so soiled, so broken.
I had faced battle's horrors, I had been drenched with foul blood I had drawn, but it was my father's touch who broke me.
Dagur hoisted me up, wrapping my arms around his neck, and carried me down the hill. He took me to the riverbank and bathed my face, and the water's icy bit on my skin made me flinch.
"Feeling alive again, lad?"
I was – if you could call that alive. I raised a shaky hand to my face, feeling for my bruise, still bent upon the riverbank. I had committed something unforgivable, hitting my own father – and Dagur had witnessed it.
I knew how it must have looked, the way Thráin had touched me – he had spoken softly, perhaps they had not heard and thought he had recognized me, but I knew better.
I pulled up my sleeves, despite the cold, I thrust my arms into the River, desperately trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his hands, and my skin was red and sore when Dagur pulled me away from the water, his broad arm around my chest.
I struggled, I lashed out and hit his breast with my fists, I threw my body against his massive frame, trying to break free. I never let out a sound, and Dagur did not defend himself, he only held me, trying to keep me from hurting myself – but I was bruised and my body ached when I finally stopped struggling.
My arms were dragged against my chest, a screen between Dagur's body and mine. And yet there was no way he would harm me. I had sparred against him so many times – he had trained me, he had taught me how to rely upon my body. Never would he have dared to cross that boundary my father had crushed down in his madness, in this insane delusion that destroyed everything around him.
"Come now, lad...", Dagur said gently, his arm still around me. "Come now... You will be fine. You will be fine."
He repeated the words several times, like a promise, and I – I just gave in to exhaustion, finally leaning into his arms. I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to believe Dagur who had never betrayed my trust, who had always clearly voiced where he stood, what to expect of him and why. There was not an inch of insanity in him, and I clung to it, I clung to his words so as not to drown.
"Come, lad. I'll carry you for a while. Look at you, haven't I taught you not to waste your strength like that? You should have known better, laddie – I would never dream of hurting you.
- I know...", I whispered, and when he lifted me I did not struggle.
He placed me on his back – I could feel the broad blade of his axe against my face: it was no safe place for a Dwarfling, but it was the safest for me. I rested my cheek against it, my arms around Dagur's neck, my fingers closed upon the broad braids of his beard and my thighs on his strong forearms.
He lifted me just like that, and had a low grunt.
"Mahal, laddie. We really have to get some food into you."
I could have told him to remember we hardly had any food left, but I did not. I closed my eyes and just let myself be carried – I would be fine. I had to be.
I have only scarce memories of this day – the hard, cold touch of the axe's blade against my cheek, and Dagur's hair, smelling of leather, of iron dust, of hard work and steadiness.
I remember looking at my boots, at the tarnished silver on its tips, at the leather that was faded and worn-out, I remember thinking how small they looked compared to Dagur's, and how incredibly tiny Dís' must actually be.
Those few impressions never faded, yet the rest of the day has vanished in my mind. I must have slept, I probably slumbered most of the time, my fingers buried in Dagur's hair – it was so cold, so cold outside, and my chainmail felt icy against my back.
I do remember wondering – dreading when it would come, the moment where Dagur would be fed up with carrying me, when someone would come, asking something of me once more. But no one came, and he never put me down, giving me these hours of respite, allowing me for a single, short day to be what I really was back then – a Dwarfling dealing with issues that were far beyond my age and strength.
And when he freed himself from my embrace, putting me down on the cold ground, he did so gently. He wiped off the frost that had begun to cover my chainmail, and then he took my fingers into his own and rubbed them, for the blood had frozen in my hands.
It was time to unfold the tents again, it was time for everyone to try to get some rest – and for me to leave the shelter of Dagur's arms. I don't recall what gave me the strength to do so, I just know that I did it somehow, because I had to – because I had no choice.
But I do remember the soft, cold touch that met my face when I finally rose to my feet, walking up to my people again.
Snow. Snow had reached us at last.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations:
- The world is grey, the Mountains old... is the last part of Song of Durin's awakening, a poem written by Tolkien.
- zirak: its first sense is 'spike' but it's also short for Zirakzigil, one of the three Mountains of Khazad-Dûm. Thorin however uses the word in its third sense: 'master, presiding officer' to mock Frerin.
- shathûr: it means 'clouds'. But it's also short for Bundushathûr, another of Khazad-Dûm's Mountains – so Frerin is turning back his jest to Thorin.
- Rakhâs: Orcs
- kudzaduz: tiny golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin
- dashatzû: your son
- Ilfim, magabshûna: play, you who are treasured. And there Thráin is addressing a woman – for a boy it would have been 'magabshûn'.
