The King of Carven Stone : Part II
Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)
4.
Rock, stone and gems. I remember how astonished I was when I was told that the precious and glittering stones our goldsmiths used for jewellery had the same essence and core than the hard rocks of the Mountain. I could not believe it at first, it was too strange an idea. But I did not dispute it – an elder Dwarf had told me so, who was I to doubt him?
It is not in my nature to trust blindly without asking questions, it never was. But when it came down to crafts and knowledge, to shaping metal and stone, I knew to hold my tongue and listen eagerly to everything I was fortunate enough to be taught. I was curious, but above all, I knew I had to learn and be among the best, since I was the King's grandson.
Not so Frerin.
He had grown, my sunny little brother, but the science of crystals and naming stones, of learning how to shape them was boring him to death – to the great damn of our teachers, who often swore that if they would turn out hair- and beardless, it would be Frerin's fault.
Neither did he enjoy the work in the forge, because weapons interested him barely more than jewels. He found it smoky, hot and crowded, and he was never happier than when he could leave work, steal to the kitchen, snatch some food away and run out to Dale.
Dale.
We both loved the city, each one in a different way.
Frerin loved the people, he enjoyed to hear their new songs, and to see the children of Men play in the beautiful carousels: he had many friends among them, and I wished sometimes that our teachers could take a look on the marvellous and interesting toys he shaped for them with what he had scraped from the forge.
Riders on small-wheeled horses that would hop up and down if you made them roll on the floor. Boxes that would start to play music if you turned a secret key on their sides. Once, he even created a drinking cup for two people at the same time: it had the shape of a woman with a broad adorned dress, and her arms held above her head carried a small basket that could spin on itself. It was hard to drink from it, and one of the drinkers had better be shorter than the other, but it was possible – and Dale's children spent an entire afternoon trying it.
They kept talking of the golden-haired Prince, of his incredible toys and his wonderful stories – because Frerin never created anything without inventing a whole context for it, and I sometimes wondered what first came to life in his mind. As it was, Frerin just had to whistle a tune when he came down the marketplace, and the children of Dale would come running, beaming with anticipated joy.
As for me, I loved the knowledge, this eye Dale held wide open to the world. Boats from entire Middle Earth sailed up the River Running, both to Dale and Esgaroth. The men arriving had seen places unknown to me, they talked of cities and harbours far away, of landscapes and Mountains so savage and broad that my mind struggled to conceive them.
I would come back and search for the maps in our libraries, trying to find these places on old, half-erased drawings, and sometimes I had to seek help. I asked my father, trying to make him talk to me – he had seen much of the world, fought many wars, known many Men, and I was sure he must have been to every place they spoke about in Dale.
I wanted him to talk to me, to share his knowledge with me, to be smiling and happy just as he was before my mother's death. But Thráin had grown silent and thoughtful, and though he was always patient with me, his words were ever scarce and his smile even rarer. I soon understood that he was not enjoying my questions, since they brought him back to happier times, where he was still young and full of hope, where my mother still lived.
He was always thinking of her, I knew it, and often would go down to her tomb and sit there, quietly, resting in the shadow of stones, his tattooed face dark and his remaining eye closed. And no one save Dís would dare to fetch him there – often we would go down, carrying her through the staircases, and then make her go the last steps alone.
"Go, Dís.", we would whisper. "Tell him to come up, dinner's waiting."
And my little sister would go, walking on unsteady legs with her arms outstretched, reaching for Thráin's dark and massive silhouette, unafraid of the cold and mighty tombs around her.
"'Adá..."
This was her way to say it, back then, and it never failed to make Thráin stir, getting up and hoisting Dís on his hip.
"Thorin says come up. He says we're hungry."
I would flee up the stairs as soon as I saw him moving towards Dís, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to be among the tombs – I was sick of his grief and felt guilty about it. He had loved my mother and loved her still, and so did I, so why was it I could not understand his sadness? Why was it I refused to grieve, had I loved her less? Was it making me a cold-hearted and selfish son, only dreaming to go away...?
So I sought the Men, the Guards and the travellers in Dale, eager to hear their news, to listen to their adventures, to look at their weapons and the wares they brought with them. And I think they liked to show them to me and talk to me.
They knew who I was, the Raven-Prince they used to call me, and I did not mind, because in their mouths it was no jest. They could see the tower of Ravenhill high above Dale, they knew how skilled our warriors were and had heard of the Drakes our people had slain and of the Orcs our armies had killed. And they knew we liked Ravens, using them to adorn our shields, so that the name they gave me could only please me.
I went unarmed to Dale of course, save for my sword, just to assure and remind them that I too had just taken my oath to defend Erebor and its lands. Though I had not seen battle yet, I knew how to wield sword and axe and was strong enough to carry my own shield. Young and inexperienced as I was, Men welcomed me among their circle, and it warmed my heart. I was glad to be noticed and accepted, though it made me sad to think it was easier with them than with my father.
I did not actually talk as much as I listened, and their words brought me far away from Erebor, to landscapes, Men and cities with strange and beautiful names. Cities of Men – I wondered if their Kings were as powerful as my grandfather, and thought it unlikely, after all Erebor was the mightiest kingdom of Middle Earth.
Or so I thought, fool that I was.
And fool that I was, I dreamt of the days my path would lead me beyond the Mountain and the Lake. I dreamt of journeys and adventures, not knowing they are nothing like the tales shape them – polished and smoothed, looking bright and shiny, just like jewels are made of stone.
Jewels and stones. Precious gems. How we Dwarves love them, and how many aches and sorrows it brought us.
It was about this time, I think, that it happened. The day we found our Treasure and our Bane – our Bane, yes, I see it clearly now, when it is almost too late.
I can see us both, Frerin and I, coming back from Dale late in the afternoon, the last rays of the sun warming our backs as we went down to Erebor, crossing golden barley fields, listening to the river's murmur. What we discussed I forgot – no doubt Frerin did the main talking, or perhaps he was singing. Yes, I think he must have been singing, his voice mingling with the river's silvery tune, as he often did... And then he bade me to sing with him...
What a strange book memory is, flipping long forgotten pages open when we expect it last...
"You have a deeper voice than me. You do the back vocals, Thorin. Make it Dwarven, and I'll just make it beautiful."
I laughed at him, stopping close to the golden fields, my eyes narrowed, blinded by the last rays of the sun.
"Do you realise it means the same?", I asked. "If I make it Dwarven, I already make it beautiful. I don't need you for that."
I was jesting, of course. Frerin had a good voice, and what was more, he knew how to shape words – even better than toys. But then, he almost talked as much as he breathed.
"Right, you overbearing Prince of a Dwarf. Come on then. Sing. And don't you dare ask me for help."
He sat himself on a flat stone, cross-legged, shielding his brow with his hand, looking at me with shining grey eyes, his hair as light as the fields behind him.
I sighed and shook my head.
"There is no time for this. We are already late, the sun is setting.
- Getting cold feet, uzbad-dashatê?"
He had not moved a bit, and still looked at me defiantly. Of course I could not let it stand.
"I would sing anything, if it makes you move.
- Alright", Frerin said. "You don't lack songs, when it comes to Dís, do you?"
I smiled then, and cleared my throat. I looked at him, my brother, so happy and merry on his stone, and at the dark grey walls of Erebor with the giant statues of our Dwarven Guards.
Then I sang. Very quietly, very deep, as Dwarves sing when they want to make it meaningful.
.
"There's gold in the valley, silver in the mines
On fair fields of barley, the setting sun shines
Grey walls of the Mountain, the treasures you hold
Are mightier even than silver and gold
.
The great doors are open, the evening calls
It's time to find shelter again in your walls
My Treasure is waiting, in her shining eyes
The most precious diamond of Durin's folk lies
.
I may dream of going, reaching horizon
That place where the sun turns slowly to crimson
And maybe one day, I'll find out and see
These places they talk of where I long to be
.
Yet now I am home-bound, like you, brother-love,
The first star has risen in the sky above
We may dream of journeys, of tales to be told
But now we'll go back, as this day grows old
.
We'll go back, our hearts warm, turning home once more
Keep watching, my Treasure, we'll be at the door."
.
I repeated the last words, softly, and then was silent again. My gaze fell back on Frerin and I was surprised to see his smile had vanished. He was sitting very upright on the stone, his feet on the ground, clutching the edge with his fingers, his eyes burning and intent.
"What is the matter?", I asked, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "You promised to move, remember?"
He shook himself then, getting up with a shudder, and I took his arm, taking him back on the road. He did not speak, and I did not like it at all, it was so unusual, so I ended up stopping and gave him a little shove.
"What is it? Am I really such a terrible singer? You might as well say so, I don't care."
I grinned at him and he shook his head, still earnest and pale.
"It was beautiful. But it made me sad. I don't know why, Thorin. You made it sound as if... as if everything you loved was already gone. As if you had lost it and yearned for it."
He had tears in his eyes – my soulful and unique brother, what a strange mind of yours... That he should have said so, years before his words came true, that this song made him weep from the very first day, long before it would become a lament in our exile... I cannot explain it, not then, nor since, and that day I just waved his sadness away.
"What nonsense, Frerin. How should I lose this?"
I made a broad move with my arms, encompassing Erebor, Dale, the sky and the Mountain, and I smiled.
"Even if I tried to lose you, I could not. I've learned this lesson long ago, I've tried everything to get rid of you, it just would not do."
He grinned then, at last.
"Serves you right.", he grunted, and then he grasped my hand and pulled me behind him. "Come on, we're late.
- What the..." – my voice choked with indignation, for it was him who had kept us on the road all this time.
Frerin laughed and I let out my breath, exasperated.
"The nerve you have...", I growled, and then we both began to run, for it really was late and we did not want to beg the guards to let us in – it amused them too much.
We arrived at the door moments before the sun disappeared behind the Mountain, and the guards, instead of giving us a hard time, barring our way with their spears as they usually would, waved us in, in an excited and urgent way.
"Come on, quickly! You have been expected long ago! The King wants you both with him, you are to go immediately!"
We looked at each other, puzzled, and they pushed us in.
"What's the matter?", Frerin asked, and as if to answer his question, Balin came running down the main staircase.
Well, not running down, he had too much dignity for that. But he definitely came down quickly, and smiled at us.
"Lads, you will want to see that.", he said in his warm and mysterious voice. "Come and see the King's new Treasure."
And though Frerin would ask and beg, trying to find out what it was, Balin would not answer him. He took us straight to the gallery of Kings, where the throne was and where all the guards seemed to be assembled.
"Finally", Thrór said, his voice vibrating through the hall, full of glee and pride. "Let my grandsons step forward, and see what we found."
I looked at my father, standing close to the throne with Dís on his hip. His face betrayed nothing, as usual, but my grandfather's was shining, his light blue eyes sparkling.
"Step forward", he repeated, and Frerin and I climbed the stairs as quickly as we could, standing breathless and wondering in front of the King.
Thrór smiled, and removed a velvet cloth from the small table before him. It was then we saw it. The Treasure and Bane of Durin's line. White, sparkling, dazzlingly beautiful, almost alive.
The Arkenstone.
I remember my breath choked when my eyes fell upon it. It was perfect, without the impurities so frequently found in white gems. Not transparent, yet full of light that changed and shifted, every time you would move it even so slightly.
"Who made it?", I whispered, amazed by the quality of its shaping.
"No one", Thrór answered. "It was found, in the heart of the Mountain itself. There it lay, only waiting to be discovered, and now that it is we will praise it, honour it and cherish it. I will make it the King's Jewel, a symbol of the blessing of Durin's folk and the might of Erebor, for everyone to see."
He smiled, and all the guards cheered. It was hard to take my eyes away from the stone – it was so perfect, so beautiful, I longed to touch it and yet I did not dare, it looked too sacred. It was the King's Jewel, and I was not the King.
There was a great feast that night, and everyone was merry, listening to Thrór's plan to carve the stone into his throne, as a symbol of his might. For little did we know what power we had unleashed in our never-ending quest for jewels and gems.
The only one that did not care for the stone was Dís. Its light blinded her and she buried her face in my shoulder, displeased, when I carried her to the Arkenstone so that she too could see it.
Perhaps I should have felt dread, that day, just as my brother and sister had felt it, each one in their own way. But I was blind, as we all were, and when my vision cleared – alas! – it was too late.
The King's Jewel. Treasure and Bane of Durin's line indeed.
