Chapter Three
What Was Before

It was a cold night. Fall was creeping closer, and Fíli was hauling an armload of sticks destined for the kindling box when the front door swung open without warning. Víli emerged, his face a black cloud. Fíli froze, but the older dwarf didn't even look in his direction. Instead, he stalked into the woods and disappeared under the branches. An owl hooted as his boots crunched on the fallen leaves, and then there was nothing.

Fíli edged toward the cottage and stepped inside. The common room was empty. Kíli was asleep at this hour, and the only movement was the banked fire crackling in the hearth. Fíli put away the kindling but couldn't bring himself to leave.

A screen separated his parent's bed from the rest of the room. With hesitant steps, Fíli peeked around the corner. He saw his mother, whose loose hair hung around her neck like a black curtain. Fíli recognized the comb she was using. Its surface was inlaid with intricate designs, and without being told, he knew it was something she'd brought from her ancient home, from Erebor.

The comb meant this moment was private, but when Fíli saw her hand tremble, he moved without thought.

"Mama," he murmured, touching her arm. "Are you okay?"

She lashed out so quickly he didn't have time to move, and the comb's heavy edge raked his jaw. He fell back, but the worst pain didn't come from the comb. No, that came from her face, which was twisted with some complicated emotion.

"You're the cause of this," she snarled. "If not for you, it would have passed into shadow, a figment only. You're the reason I cannot forget."

Backing away, Fíli saw the glassiness of her eyes, the anguish. This was what he had wrought. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry will not heal this," Dís said bleakly. She looked down at the comb, now lying in her lap, and clenched her hand around the tines. "I was a princess of Durin."

Having no answer for her pain, Fíli pressed his hand to his cut lip and put himself out of sight to spare her grief.

Fíli was sharpening a hoe when the miner came into their blacksmith shop. He was wearing heavy canvas clothing and boots that were black with water damage. His skin looked blackened, too, and he was carrying a pickaxe.

"Give it to the boy," Víli said, barely pausing mid-swing.

Fíli found it hard not to shrink under the miner's scrutiny. Men were so tall. Even the shadow they cast seemed to cover the whole floor, and Fíli didn't like being near their big hands. Still, he knew better than to cower.

"A bit young for this kind of work," the man commented.

Víli huffed, a sound that might have been a laugh had there been less contempt in it. "Make your own judgment."

Knowing better than to involve himself in byplay between the two adults, Fíli directed his attention to the tool he was handed. It was of typical make with a spiked head and a chiseled counter weight. The wooden handle was in good repair, but the head had taken damage. Fíli smoothed it with his thumb, letting the metal speak to him. His movements were sure as he secured the pickaxe and carefully removed the nicks with a file. One in particular was awkwardly placed, but Fíli's deft strokes soon removed it. Finally, he smoothed and sharpened the edge with a whetstone.

He handed the tool back to its owner, who checked it before offering a begrudging nod. "You do fine work." A coin was laid down, and the man hefted his now-repaired pickaxe over his shoulder. Instead of leaving, though, he glanced at Víli. "He your boy?"

Fíli felt the hairs on his arms rising. He could see Víli tense, even with his back turned. The older dwarf grunted. "What business is it of yours?"

"He's small but strong. Good, tough hands. We're always looking for extra drammers down at the mine."

The suggestion sent a thrill of fear through Fíli. The mines outside of the village were as unlike the glistening, great tunnels of his mother's tales as it was possible to be. They were filled with foul and noxious odors. They caved in and flooded regularly. It was true that the coal dragged up from their wet, black bowels fed the town. Even Fíli, since much of their earnings came from mine work. Shoes for mules, nails for shaft frames, repairs for tools. But to be swallowed up by the earth, to drag carts through the dark with a chain around his belly…

Fíli looked toward the forge, wordless but beseeching.

Víli might as well have been chiseled from stone. "I wouldn't condemn a dog to one of those squalid pits. Now get out."

When the miner was gone, Fíli steadied himself against the anvil, feeling a flicker of shame that he had believed, even for a moment, that Víli would condemn him to such a fate. Grateful, he looked toward the forge. The hammer paused, its staccato sounds hushed for a single moment.

"You're still a dwarf," Víli spoke, and then the pumping bellows covered any other chance for talking.

As the fall passed on into the first crisp notions of winter, there was less to do at the forge. The farmers brought in their late harvest, travelers grew rare, and the village settled in for the long, cold months. Without steady work, less and less found its way to their table, and tempers began to grow shorter.

"It's not even midday," Dís accused when they trudged into the clearing.

"There aren't any commissions left to fill," Víli snarled, drawing up a log and searching for his pipe. "Everything's done."

Dís clasped her hands. "We're down to the last of the barley."

"Impossible."

"I just put it in the soup, Víli."

The older dwarf made an exaggerated sound of frustration. "We need what coin we have left for fuel. Otherwise it won't matter what repairs they bring me."

Kíli chose that moment to come barreling around the corner with two handfuls of wild mushrooms. He stopped short when he saw his father, then edged toward Dís to offered up his bounty. She took them with a sigh and went inside. Afterwards, Kíli ran to his brother. "Want to go?"

Cutting his eyes to Víli's sullenly averted back, Fíli nodded.

These stolen moments were Fíli's happiest times. Without any judgmental eyes, it felt like they were able to truly be themselves. Kíli scaled trees in his bare feet and pelted his brother with acorns from on high. Fíli was more cunning, hiding until his brother ventured down with a puzzled, "Fee?" before dragging him out of the lower branches and tickling him into submission. Afterward, they rested under the canopy. Kíli had some bug or rock or bit of leaf to entertain himself, while Fíli laid back and closed his eyes.

Eventually Dís announced supper was ready. Reluctantly, they looked at one another, but both knew better than to make her call again. Back at the cottage, Fíli was barred from the door. "Take this to the miller," Víli commanded.

The miller pressed his lips together when he read the message. "You know what this says?"

Fíli made a guess. "Asking for more grain?"

"Barley and lentils," the man agreed. "Well, you tell you papa that he's down to the last of his credit. I can't fill this until we've settled."

In his mind's eye, Fíli could see the strained faces at home. He gestured toward a broom. "If I sweep out the shop, could you give us enough for tonight?"

The miller wasn't a hard man. He had several children of his own, and though it wasn't much of a bargain, he offered, "My boy Bren has gotten too big to get down into the pit wheel. You squeeze down there and clean out the debris, and I'll give you a few handfuls to tide you over."

It was the best deal he was going to get. By the time he returned home, suppertime was long past. As Fíli got closer to the cottage, he heard his parents speaking. Mother's voice was low and insistent, like air from the bellows. "There has to be another choice. I can't do this alone, Víli."

"We'll do as we must."

Fíli knew he shouldn't eavesdrop. Nevertheless, he was compelled by the urgency in their voices. Peeking above the casement, he saw Víli sitting at the table with his fists in his lap. Dís was standing opposite him.

"You don't know what it's like, being here all alone. Please, we can last a few months until the work comes back."

"And how do you suggest we feed ourselves until then? Even if I stoop to going door to door as a tinker, it will never be enough."

Dís hesitated as though she knew her words would be unwelcome. "As I understand it," she said, "there was another offer put on the table."

Víli's eyes flashed, sulfuric. "I already told that damn miner no."

Mother's lips thinned. "It could mean a winter without famine."

Víli brought down his hand against the table with such force that a piece of crockery fell to the floor and shattered. "Hells, Dís, the boy is your son!"

Dís swung around, face hot with emotion. Soon the only sounds were the scrap of her spoon against the pot and the sound of Víli gathering the broken dish. Throat tight around a painful knot, Fíli went to the door and lingered, uncertain whether to enter. However, when Víli saw him, he moved his chin.

"Come in."

Fíli offered the mostly empty sack. "The credit is gone."

Víli pressed his fingers into his temples and closed his eyes. "I'll go speak to him."

Fíli was hungry. He hadn't eaten yet today; however, when he looked at the partially cleared table, there was nothing left out for him. His mother stood at the stove, moving the dishes around in an aggressive way like she was trying to keep her feelings inside. She pointedly did not look in his direction. Víli glanced up from kneading his forehead.

"Feed the boy," he barked.

Dís's head jerked up, defiance written in the tense muscles of her face, but in the end she relented. Scrapping the very last of the soup from the bottom of the pot, she ladled it into a bowl and set it on the table with such force that some of it soughed over the sides. Fíli's outstretched hand flinched.

Víli didn't look up, yet his voice wasn't harsh. "Take that outside," he said, and Fíli was quick to obey. As he stepped out the door, he looked back and saw Víli approach his wife's averted back. He laid his hand gently against it. Dís shuddered.

Feeling like an intruder, Fíli closed the door.