The King of Carven Stone : Part V
A Craft In Itself (Journey to Dunland)
4.
Many battles I have faced, against evil creatures – Goblins, Orcs, Wargs, Spiders... The Dragon, twice. And the Pale Orc, three times – there he lies, on the ice. That evil is silenced, unable to harm, at last – I made sure, I made sure this time, I watched him die, his limbs slackening and his breath dying in his foul mouth...
He is dead, and it does not matter that I am dying as well. All that matters is that I made sure this time, so that he will never rise through ice and fire again.
I faced Men, as well – Men who did not believe in anything anymore, who were cruel and blood-thirsty, but sometimes only desperate and starving... Some I have killed, and it was because I had to – I never relished in that, for Men are different... Men have faces like us, breathe and love like we do – and though they are tall, their bones break easily, their muscles are soft, they often seemed made of clay to me, and I never could rejoice in their deaths...
I hope he is not dead, the Bargeman I will never be able to meet again, to tell him how I wish we had had more time, that circumstances could have been different – I wish I could tell him about Cillian, and about those I loved among his kin, but I cannot. I can only pray that no arrow broke through his lean frame, that no sword harmed him, that he still stands tall on Dale's shattered walls...
But that day, so long ago, we did not face creatures twisted by evil, and we did not face Men... That day it was different – for the first time in my life, I faced raw instinct, where no feeling could prevail, neither hatred nor fear...
For these wolves were no Wargs. They had been drawn from their territories by starvation and savage hunting, and their number in itself was unusual. I had read about wolves, and I knew they were generally moving in smaller packs, that they would even rather hunt alone so that they could be faster and deadlier...
Forty wolves – it could only mean they had been forced to flee and regroup, that they would not recoil from attacking us, for we were made of flesh and blood, and they were starving... And when I recall that day – I think it stands out so clear in my mind because in a way, the wolves and us, we were the same, we were all fleeing, trying to survive, and ready to die trying...
Of course they found us. It did not matter that we moved at once, regrouping the carts in the middle of the warriors, the women and the elderly sheltered between them, and Dís secluded in my father's iron grip, while we boys had pulled on our chainmail and our arm-guards without a word.
We walked swiftly – and I remember the awareness in my grandfather's gaze, for Thrór knew wolves, and how to face them.
"I want every man and boy able to hold a sword to be ready. The warriors in the outer circle, and don't you dare to utter a sound – I want you to walk silently, and swiftly. If they approach, stay still – let them come, don't rush towards them, this is what they seek, to chase you, we won't let them make us run."
His eyes were shining – and I suddenly realized he relished in that perspective. Thrór never shrank from battle, and though he had not fought for many decades, he had faced the Orcs in our exile just as if he was still a young warrior. The wolves did not frighten him, and I even wondered if he did not look forward to an attack.
We moved, we walked fast and swiftly, and the night was dark when we heard the sound we had all dreaded – causing us to freeze.
A howl, shortly followed by another, its low moan stretching and echoing against the forlorn hills, making my flesh creep.
The carts were instantly dragged together, the women and those unable to fight regrouped in the space thus delimited, and the warriors formed the outer circle, while the rest of us stood between the carts and them.
"No", my father simply said, when he saw Frerin ready to take his place at my side.
Thráin did not care for Dís' small arms clinging around his chest – he simply kissed her tiny brow, and then he placed her in my brother's arms, his grey eye commanding.
"You guard your sister, dashtith...
- But..."
My father did not even let him finish, he simply pushed him back among the carts, and then he moved them so that the protection ring was closed, before turning towards me.
He wavered for an instant – but I was ready and so were Dwalin and Dáin, we had all pulled our weapons, and the days were long gone where he would have had the right to forbid me to fight: I had already fought, we had even fought each other...
Náin and Fundin did not waver – they both clasped their sons' shoulders, quickly touched foreheads, and I think Fundin whispered something into Dwalin's ear, but I was looking at my father, waiting for him to do the same.
Thráin only bowed – a small nod of the head, not even touching me. And now I know why – I know that had he touched me, he would not have been able to let go, that he would have me there behind the carts with the women and my siblings, sheltered and safe.
And this could not be.
"Maimhid, dashat", he only said, and then he left.
It was the first time I stood next to Dwalin in battle – and it was not even a real battle, at first, we just held our ground, the night around us a single black void, where no sound was uttered anymore and where the only shape we could discern was the even line of the warriors' backs.
There he stood, next to me – he was so tall, almost as tall as my father, and I remember hoping I would soon grow, that Mahal would please make me as tall, that I would soon grow out of the child I felt next to him, despite my battle gear...
Such were my thoughts – what a child I was indeed, so worried to be worthy, not realizing it did hardly matter, that Dwalin did not even care...
I grew as tall, in the end – it took me five years, for five summers he had more than me. By then of course, he had grown himself, and in the end I never fully reached his height – his forehead he always kept above mine, but I never cared, and neither did he.
Other howls scarred the night, and my fingers tightened around my sword, but nothing happened. My grandfather had been right – the wolves were reluctant to attack as long as we stood our ground, and it took them a while.
But in the end they did – attacked us in groups, and soon we could see frames fighting through the night, three warriors for one wolf, in a fierce and ruthless embrace.
The first circle broke between minutes – the warriors spreading through the lands, still fighting, but some had remained and they urged us to stay still and hold our ground.
A strange night it was – broken by sounds, yet without any battle-cries... And we could only watch, it was forbidden to move, we had to be ready should there be another attack.
It was still dark and cold, dawn was not yet reaching us. I could feel Dwalin breathe next to me, we stood so close, both ready, our bodies tense and wary...
And suddenly they came, breaking through the warriors who were still fighting – three tall, fierce, hungry wolves who came running towards us, each one hurling itself at one Dwarf.
I could hear screams behind me, and next to me, and then we both saw it approach. We reacted instantly, not even having to talk. As the wolf jumped, we both shifted, Dwalin on the right and me on the left, and we hit the wolf's flanks, causing it to run back with a whelping sound.
"It's gone...", Dwalin whispered, and I nodded.
"Wasn't too difficult...", he added, and I turned around to make sure no one was injured – it did not seem so, the three wolves had withdrawn and suddenly I felt uneasy.
"They might come back...", I whispered, and I was right.
This time there were more wolves – or so it seemed to me, perhaps they were only five, and just seemed many to me. They came, leapt at our ranks, tried to snatch one of us away – yet always failed, because we stood so close to each other, because no one ran, everybody holding his ground...
It happened ten times at least – and it was unnerving, the endless waiting, the sudden attack, and the fear, for the wolves were tall compared to us, and their fangs razor-sharp.
The night was withdrawing slowly, and we could finally see – see that the warriors were still fighting against twenty wolves, five of the beasts already dead, while no Dwarf seemed seriously injured: it was a fight of both strength and nerves, but Thrór's experience had led us safely until dawn, and the battle would probably soon be over...
And then he came.
A huge wolf, running fast, his grey fur almost white in his speed – he had golden eyes, savage and unyielding, that only spoke of raw force, unleashed, drawn by hunger... I know he had no feelings, could not have any feelings, that the only thing drawing him was instinct, and yet – it did not seem entirely natural, that run, that determined leap, for he hurled himself straight at me.
He jumped at me, because the odds stood very clear for that instinct-driven creature: I was the smallest, the tiniest, yet I stood in the front – and somehow I did not shift, this time, it just happened so fast, and the golden eyes were telling me so clearly that I didn't stand a chance, that I was just too small, not fierce enough, and afraid...
He leapt at me – and suddenly I felt pain, so much pain, his fangs had buried themselves in my right shoulder, he was dragging me back, running away from our lines, and I tried to pull free, tried and only felt more pain in my shoulder, making my vision darken for precious seconds while my sword fell from my hand.
I know Dwalin hurt him – I know he thrust his sword, that it hit his flank and caused a deep, gushing wound, for I have seen it afterwards.
But the wolf had already drawn back, his bite around me deepening, causing me to moan – I could not even scream, I just could feel these fangs, and the ground against which he was dragging me: my head, my back, my legs, even my left arm, they were scratching against earth and stone, and I tried to lift my arm, tried to hit him with my axe, but I did not reach him, I could not see, and it hurt...
I could hear the wolf's hurried breathing, feel it against my face, he just kept running, his paws inches from my body – I tried to hit him once more, found his ear somehow, heard him howl without releasing his bite...
And then – just as I was feeling my body getting limp and numb, because I could not stay conscious, the pain was too sharp, I could not even feel my arm anymore, I just hung there while he dragged me away...
Then I suddenly heard him howl, loudly, with such rage and pain that his jaws parted, his fangs releasing my shoulder.
I fell on the ground, hit it with a thump that seemed to echo through every bone – and I instinctively drew my knees against my chest, I still had enough wit and strength to do that, I had been well-trained...
I wore my chainmail, but it slips in battle and even our bodies have their weak points – where there are no bones, only muscles that remain flesh, and where nearly every wound is deadly... I had been trained to shield my abdomen, dragging my knees against my chest, and it saved my life.
As I lay there on the ground, my right arm useless and my vision darkening, I saw the wolf bend upon me – saw these golden eyes once more, and that grey, luxurious fur that was stained with blood, an arrow pointing out of his left flank...
And I... I did not... did not understand how this arrow could be there, because no one... no one used arrows, and I... I was far away from the other Dwarves, I was... so far away and the wolf, he was... breathing so close to me... he was...
Pain, reaching through the thick fabric of my trousers, his fangs had found my leg, and I moaned.
Pain... and no weapon, my axe... I had let go of my axe... I was going to... I was going to die... I was too small, not fierce enough, I did not deserve to survive, I had lost, I had failed...
A strange wheezing noise, and suddenly – suddenly the wolf's head reached my chest indeed, causing my breath to leave my lungs and my whole body to quiver, it hurt and I was so afraid...
But the wolf lay still. His fangs had released their grip around my leg, and as I looked at his head, searching for that golden, unforgiving gaze, I realized his eyes were closed.
An arrow lay deep in his head, and the great wolf was dead.
I pulled away, tried at least, I could not recover, my arm hurt too much, I just writhed my body and kicked myself free, I dragged myself away from the wolf's fangs, my body shaking violently and small, strangled moans leaving my lips – I did not understand, I couldn't move, I was so afraid, I could barely move and there were more wolves, I could not recover and yet I had to, they would leap at me, bite me, I had to fight them...
I struggled and kicked indeed, as my body met another, I even tried to scream but only managed to let out the same choked sound – and suddenly voices reached through my pain:
"Thorin, it's me. Thorin, don't struggle, it's over.
- You are safe, he's dead – he's dead, I made sure of it."
I turned – and it was Dwalin, holding me upright, and it was Frerin, gazing at me, cupping my face between his palms, brushing my skin to calm me down, because I was shaking, and not able to breathe properly – not even able to ask how he could be there, he was not supposed to be there...
"It's all right, Thorin, it's all right, he is dead, he is dead. He is there, lying on the ground, he won't reach you, he won't harm you, just breathe, listen to me – listen to me, Thorin..."
Someone was moaning, someone was breathing like a frightened, injured child, and it took me a moment to realize it was me – I was just gazing at Frerin, my body still rigid with fear, my face between his hands, unable to understand what he was saying...
But gradually his words got through my fear – and my breathing calmed down, I was not making these terrible sounds anymore, I was just looking at my brother who had killed that wolf somehow, who had saved my life, and I could not understand.
"I shot him", Frerin said – he always read my eyes and Soul, and his voice was calm as he went on:
"There was no way I would stay there, shielded and hidden away while you all fought! I climbed on the carts as soon as I could, I made Dís promise not to move, and I was there the whole battle. I saw the attack, and I had my arrow ready, but somehow it was not needed, you were all pushing them back... And then I saw that wolf arrive."
A painful, shuddering breath left my lips, and Frerin brushed my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
"Shhhh, Thorin, it's all right. It's all right. I told you, I shot him. In the flank first, so that he could let go of you – I could not risk aiming for his head, your own face was too close, and we don't want you scarred now, do we...?"
He smiled at me – I could not believe he was so calm, that he had managed to keep his nerve so as to act...
"But once he let go of you – I shot him straight in the head. I tried to be quick, Thorin, I just had to place the next arrow, I tried to be as fast as I could...
- Maikhmin..."
My lips were so cold and numb I barely managed to speak, I think I even stuttered, but I had to say it, I had to say it again and again just to make sure he heard it, and to make sure I was alive indeed.
Maikhmin. Maikhmin. Maikhmin.
My kudzaduz, my brave brother, my treasure, my little archer, for you it seemed a game, you were so proud, you did not waver, you killed that wolf because he had me, and yet you never liked giving death, except for saving a life...
"A craft in itself...", Frerin said softly, his eyes shining with love.
And I buried my face in his chest, Dwalin slowly letting go of me so that Frerin could embrace me. I breathed in his scent – it smelt faintly of earth somehow, fresh earth after an early spring rain...
"I... I can't move my arm..."
I had let out the words through my gritted teeth – I wanted to wrap my arms around him and I couldn't, and now that fear let go, slowly, I was struggling to keep upright. The pain was washing out everything in my mind – I could barely see, I just knew something was wrong with my right arm, I could not move my shoulder, it did not even really feel like my shoulder, and this was terrible.
It meant I could not fight, not work, it meant I was a burden, a failure, a dead weight – I had to be able to move again, I just had to, it was nothing, it could not be...
"Don't move it, Thorin..."
My brother gently supported my arm, his hand getting under my elbow, and I let out a groan. My left hand moved, clutching my wrist – I stirred at last, letting go of Frerin, dragging my arm against my chest and doubling up in pain.
"Let go, lad."
Óin's gruff voice reached through the hurt – somehow he was there, though I did not remember him coming. I could feel his hand against mine, trying to undo the grip of my fingers.
"Let go, I'm holding your arm."
He was there, kneeling next to me, black-eyed, grim-faced as ever, and I let go, slowly, my breath uneven as I felt his other hand search for my shoulder, feeling for my bones under my chainmail. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, sweat drenching my forehead – but I let him.
"It's not broken. But your shoulder's out of place. Have to push it back."
I nodded, my eyes still shut. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth and I could not speak.
"We have to remove your clothes. No matter how, it will hurt, lad.
- It's all right..."
I did not recognize my voice, it sounded choked and tiny. I opened my eyes and my vision was swimming – Frerin was still close, only inches away from me, while Dwalin knelt behind me so that I could lean against him.
"I'd rather have you drink something first. To knock you out a bit.
- No. We have to move on... just do it without.
- Thorin, take it."
Frerin's voice was earnest, he felt for my hand and squeezed it gently.
"Please."
I looked at him – saw worry in his eyes, he looked nothing like a child, suddenly, and I did not know how to oppose that earnest plea, he had just saved my life, had not wavered, had not missed his target despite of the danger... I was the failure, I had no right to protest...
I nodded again, and a flask was raised to my lips – and I swallowed fire, or so it seemed. I coughed, averted my face, meeting Dwalin's strong arm, but Óin clicked his tongue.
"One more...", he said, and I obeyed.
Soon my vision began to swim for good, and I felt light-headed, leaning deeper against Dwalin. Óin's voice seemed far away when he spoke once more.
"Right, lads. Dwalin, you hold him. Frerin, you help me remove his clothes and chainmail. No matter what he does, you keep pulling, got it?"
My brother nodded, and suddenly I felt pain again. They were moving my shoulder, they were pulling my chainmail from me, and Mahal it hurt, causing me to moan despite my gritted teeth, beads of sweat reaching my eyes. I was shaking when they finally tossed my chainmail on the ground, along with my belt and jerkin, and Frerin whispered:
"Can't we just cut his tunic and shirt?"
But I shook my head. I only had three shirts, and as many tunics, I could not afford to lose them, I would have to endure.
"Just get them off. I am fine."
Yet I moaned again as they freed my arm from my clothes, and when Óin touched my shoulder again, I grasped his hand, holding it at bay. I stayed like this for several minutes, my jaws fiercely clenched, sweat clouding my vision, shaking against Dwalin who was holding me steadily.
"I am sorry. Go on. Just do it."
I did not look at my shoulder, I simply could not. I could feel it was out of place, causing my arm to hang limply at my side, sending off searing waves of pain engulfing my chest.
But it was nothing compared to what came next.
Óin made Frerin hold my valid arm, while Dwalin was asked to restrain me, maintaining me firmly against him. And Óin pulled, and turned, and pushed, and he did not care for the quivers that went through my whole body – he simply went on pushing.
And suddenly I heard an awful noise – a clunk of bone meeting joint again, and pain washed through my body, so intense that I gladly would have fainted, but I did not. I just sagged against Dwalin, felt something hot rise in my throat, and gave back some of the strong, burning drink I had just swallowed.
"Well, that went fine...", Óin said almost good-humouredly, patting my knee as I wiped my mouth, my face ashen and my body drenched in sweat.
"That went quite fine..."
I stared at him, watched him get up, telling me he would come back to dress my shoulder, his black eyes serious once more.
"Don't let him touch me again...", I whispered.
Dwalin laughed, I could feel his body shake against mine, and Frerin smiled too, brushing the back of my hand.
"He patched you up alright", Dwalin said.
It was paining me, though. The wolf's fangs had dug deep into my chainmail, and had left huge bruises that spread on my chest and back. My shoulder was swollen, and the rest of my body was grazed where I had been dragged against the ground.
There was blood on my trousers as well, where he had bitten me, but I did not feel anything, and I looked at the crimson patch spreading slowly, thinking again and again that I had failed.
Óin applied ointment upon my shoulder and then bandaged it tightly. He made me pull on my shirt and tunic and then he placed my arm into a sling, maintaining it against my chest with another shred of fabric he tied around my arm and back.
"Thank you", I whispered once it was done.
"Don't lay any strain upon that shoulder for a week", Óin simply said.
He bent upon my leg then, removed my boot and sock, pulled up my trousers, his large hand behind my knee. There was blood everywhere, trickling down my knee, reaching my foot, and Óin wiped it away silently, looking at the wound I owed to the wolf's fangs.
"Looks worse than it is...", he let out at last, bending my knee and tensing it, unmoved by the fresh gush of blood his movement caused.
"Can't stitch it up, lad. Would only cause infection. You'll be fine – we're used to wolf bites, I don't think it will swell. You have a family heirloom there to keep you from harm – King Thrór, and Thráin, their blood's immune, that's for sure..."
He grinned – he was in a good mood that day, Óin had been no serious injuries, no deaths. Several Dwarves had wounds similar to mine, but nothing vital, nothing that could prevent us from moving on. The fight had not lasted long after my fall – the great wolf was the leader, as soon as he was brought down, the rest of the pack had dispersed, fleeing from us, withdrawing.
Following instinct.
"Now let's clean it, laddie, and bandage it, and then you'll rest a bit. That drink was strong..."
I winced when he cleaned the wound, using the same liquid I had swallowed – and I did not wonder anymore at my spinning head, for it burned my skin like fire.
"There you go, lad."
He had bandaged my knee quickly, and he actually patted my foot once, smiling at its size, still smaller than his hand – and he was still smiling as I tried to draw it back with a fierce move.
"Wait, laddie..."
His chin pointed to my shoulder – and I had to let him put my sock back on my foot, but then I grabbed my boot and pulled it on myself, and covered my wound with my trousers, my eyes glowering.
"Thank you, Óin.
- Rest a bit", he repeated, still looking amused, and then he left.
And I leant against Dwalin again – my head felt light, but my heart was racing. I still could feel the wolf's fangs around my shoulder, I remember the terrible fear I had felt as I had hung between those mighty jaws, I still could see these golden eyes, so full of raw force. There had been no pity, only hunger and determination.
And then blood, and death.
My fingers tightened around Frerin's once more, and I clung to his hand – his able little hand that had saved my life. Alone in the wild, I would have died – Nature's laws were raw, and ruthless. But I had not been alone, not that day...
"Maimhid, kudzaduz."
He just entwined my fingers with mine – and he did not let go. Not even when my grandfather came, and ruined the peace that had finally got through my pain and fear.
"What happened here?", Thrór asked, and I recovered, breaking free from Dwalin.
"He was injured, uzbadê, Dwalin answered quietly. "His right shoulder was dislocated."
The cold gaze of my grandfather met mine – and I could read displeasure in these icy orbs, causing me to rise to my feet, staggering yet able to stand.
"Well, it looks back into place now", Thrór said, his broad hand actually clutching it, while I repressed a start.
"My grandson is tough, he does not sit idly while others strive, he fights, always, and he knows no pain. Get your weapons and your bag, Thorin. Come on, I want you at my side today..."
I nodded wordlessly, repressing a shiver. I was without chainmail, I just had my tunic, and I was feeling so cold: the wind was icy and I was still drenched in sweat. My head was spinning, my knees felt weak and I cursed Óin's drink silently as I bent down, gathering the sword Dwalin had brought back to me, searching for my axe.
"Grandfather, he is hurt...", Frerin said, and there was a challenge in his voice. "He can't carry his weapons, he has to spare his shoulder.
- Of course...", my grandfather said softly, and there was such contempt in his voice that Frerin took a step back.
"You would have him curl up like a Dwarfling, nursing his little grazes... Sometimes I wonder if you realize who we are – have I really passed on nothing to all of you?!"
Frerin swallowed hard, but he only grabbed my chainmail, holding it against him – his own, silent way to tell me there was no way I would carry this burden, not while he was here.
"Grandfather...", I whispered, having found my axe, holding both of my weapons with my uninjured arm.
"I will join you. Lead on. Let me just clean my blades."
He smiled at me, then – and it did not warm my heart, it was a hard, cold smile that only spoke of misplaced pride. He wanted me at his side as a proof that his line was still strong – that he led in battle and that I followed, that we both were unbreakable, defying death just like Durin had done. There was no room for hurt and weakness in his mind – and I knew I would have to strap my weapons on my back, and lift that bag with Mahal's help, because I had no choice.
I had already failed, had already been a disgrace today – I would not fail again, I could not bear the shame of it.
"Thorin...", Dwalin whispered once my grandfather had turned his back, but I cut his speech at once.
"Please. I will be fine. It doesn't really hurt anymore."
I was lying, and the three of us knew. But I did not let them voice their thoughts, I just asked Dwalin to help me, silently, and I remember how dark his eyes looked as he lifted my bag and watched me hoist it up on my back.
I looked at Frerin, giving him a sad little smile – it was lighter than it should, he must have removed some items, but my brother only looked at me, his grey eyes bright and full of grief.
Then Dwalin helped me strap my weapons on my back, taking care to fasten the leather-band around my left shoulder. And I left them, trying to walk evenly, to ignore the crushing weight of my bag upon my injured shoulder, and the throbbing pain in my knee.
My grandfather smiled at me when I met him, and his hand searched for my left arm, squeezing it almost with care. He entwined his arm with mine and dragged me along, his steps wide and brisk as always, and I followed.
"I am happy to walk with you, Thorin. I have missed you at my side...", Thrór said, casting a side-glance at me.
It took me a while to answer – my teeth were clenched and I was struggling to keep up with his pace, but I was determined to achieve it, he wanted me at his side, where I had sworn to be...
"I was not far away, grandfather...", I whispered, and Thrór smiled.
"I know... You have always been reliable, Thorin. You are strong. You are brave. You make up for everything... everything my son is not."
His voice had become colder, and my throat tightened. My father did not even know I was injured, everything had happened so fast – he had fought as bravely as ever, at Náin's side as so often, he had not failed, he was not the one who should bear shame...
"Grandfather... He is brave. He is strong. He is... he is my father."
I had spoken in a faint voice and my grandfather's hand brushed my arm, once, almost gently.
"See, that is why I want you at my side. Loyalty, Thorin... This is what a King needs most, and loyal you are, always were and always will be. You won't fail me, Thorin. You are not like your father, not like your brother, you know where your duties lie..."
I did not answer, this time. My gaze wandered around – I could only see dark, burnt, barren land, and the curves of that forlorn landscape seemed to waver before my eyes, it looked so desolate...
It was such a lie, such a lie – I wished I could scream out what a lie it was, they were both brave, they both knew their duties, I was the unreliable one, not even able to fight and save my own life...
"I need you to listen to what I have to tell. I want... There are things I need to pass on to you... I tried with your father, but he did not listen, somehow it was lost to him, I failed to..."
And there his voice trailed off.
I have never seen my grandfather cry. Not even when Erebor was lost – I have seen him rage, spit out his scorn like curses, but I never witnessed any tear. I guess his eyes dried once and for all when he was very young – when he saw his father and brother slain by Drakes, and was forced to lead on, forgetting he had the right to shed tears as well.
Thrór hated tears, just like every form of weakness – just as he hated himself for not being able to finish that sentence.
His grip tightened around my arm, he drew a deep breath, and then he asked me:
"Are you listening, Thorin?
- Yes, grandfather.
- Will you remember it?
- Yes, grandfather.
- Promise you will, Thorin.
- I promise."
My breath was short – he was working so fast, with such rage and urge, dragging me along like a helpless bundle... and suddenly he slowed down, gazing down at me once more. His broad hand found my face and he cupped my cheek, brushing one of my soaked braids aside with a move that was almost tender.
"You remind me of him, you know... Your father used to walk at my side just like this. I told him to come and he came. I told him to go and he went. He was always easy to deal with, often I even wondered what was going on in his mind, he was always so calm... Sometimes he would get angry, though – but he knew it annoyed me, he kept it low, he was a sweet lad, Thorin... And yet I wish he had been born with more strength, more strong-will. I wish he had been more like you..."
The sorrow in his voice was deep, but it was nothing compared to the pain I felt, for his words cut through me like knives.
"Please, grandfather, do not say such things... He is your son. He has served you well and loyally. He is worthy of your love...
- Oh yes, I suppose so, but Thorin... One day I won't be there anymore. One day he will have to be King. And I do not think he can be – and it... it grieves me beyond measure."
He spoke so calmly... I think that is when I realized how terrible his grief and disappointment actually was.
"So I have to plan, and act. I have to explain it to you, what it means to be King. I have to help you realize how you have to behave, so that you know how to rule and lead... So that you can do it when and where your father cannot.
- Grandfather..."
There was a desperate plea in my voice, and Thrór's hand left my cheek as his gaze hardened. And I swallowed my words, and just bowed my head.
"I am listening...", I whispered tonelessly.
And when he began to walk again, I followed – when he began to speak, I stayed silent, not cutting his speech a single time, letting every word meet me fully, for I owed it to him.
Yet how it hurt.
"Golden Stair, Thorin... Zeleg'ubraz... I haven't told you about that place yet, have I? Stairs covered with golden engravings, leading into the Mountains – you could see them shine in the morning sun, ablaze in the snow, they were so bright, Thorin, so bright... I used to play there with my brothers, we would chase each other along the stairs, running down the steps – we were foolish, I know, but we enjoyed to see them shine... Erebor was nothing compared to that glow, I wish you could have seen them, Thorin... The Grey Mountains..."
He had a dreamy look in his eyes, his hand had slackened around my arm, slid along my wrist so that his fingers entwined themselves with mine – and I held them. I held them, my throat tight, watching his gaze cloud and his face darken again.
"But we were fools. I have learnt my lesson there, Thorin. You cannot display gold the way we did, for everyone to see. This world is greedy, this world is mean – some will tell you it is not true, that there is kindness and love and mercy somewhere, don't believe them. Don't let their words fool you, grandson, there is no safe place, no one you can trust but yourself – hide your treasures, Thorin. Don't share them, don't let anyone see them, otherwise they will be taken."
His face was grim, he was crushing my knuckles, and I could only gaze up at him, my body meeting his hard, mighty, imposing frame, his bones even harder than his chainmail...
He looked down at me, and I must have looked as small and tiny as my nephews always seemed to me as children, for he released his grip and stopped, for a while. He crouched – his move was supple, he still was strong and able, despite his age – and then he faced me, his gaze searching my face, his broad palm brushing my cheek.
"Am I scaring you with my words, grandson? Your skin is cold and you are pale... I have to say such things to you, I have no choice, you have to understand, I cannot let you cling to pointless dreams, I have seen what dreaming led to, just look at your father..."
I shook my head – I did not really know what I was doing anymore. My injured arm rested against my chest and I could feel my own hurried breathing, but I still faced him. And when Thrór dragged me against him, when my cheek met the pearls adorning his magnificent beard, I let him – I leant against him, for a while, while my grandfather's chin rested against my head.
"The Drakes came because we displayed our gold like fools, and there was blood and fire everywhere..."
My grandfather's voice was calm, his words meeting my braids – and I shivered, thinking of my own Fire, of my own, dear Mountain where there had been no golden stairs, where beauty lay inside, dark and secret, where wealth could be seen yet where treasures kept hidden...
"They all died. My father, and my brother. Everyone but Grór, and me, and some warriors. I was forty-seven years old – I was barely of age. And Grór, he was... I think he was barely older than you. That winter, Thorin, we fed ourselves with bats. We chased them, in every cave, and we ate their wings. And we fought wolves, as well – the dogs we have faced today, they were mere puppies compared to those we faced..."
He brushed my hair, then – I think that somehow he tried to reassure me, for my body was tense, I was so full of dread, imagining his despair, his hunger, his fear...
"Don't be afraid, son, they all died. We made ourselves coats out of their furs, and they kept us warm... Borin, my uncle – he had travelled, he knew how to skin them so that we could use both flesh and fur to keep alive... And when spring came I knew. I knew I would have to search for another Mountain, a place where I could try to make us mighty again, and feared... I wanted a strong place, Thorin – a place where no one could get in uninvited, and Erebor... Erebor lay there, abandoned, forgotten... I did not really choose it, you know. I had no choice in that, Thorin, it was the only Mountain left save Khazad-Dûm."
His voice was so hard – and it was then I realized it, when it suddenly became so clear to me why I was feeling so estranged from him, and sometimes even from my father: they did not love Erebor the way I did. Thrór had returned to it guided by reason, not by love... and he had grown to be proud of the Mountain again, but love it – no, I could hear it in his voice, his heart still lay on those golden, shiny stairs, somewhere in the Grey Mountains, buried under ashes and smoke...
And my father – my father drew his first breath in dreary times. There still was so much to do, so many mouths to feed, and battles to lead – and he was the only child, because just like Dís, his birth had also caused his mother's death. He was unhappy in that Mountain, always had been – and I had only realized it in the Iron Hills, when I had seen him with Náin and Grór...
"I knew it was a hard path, and many doubted me. Borin – he said I should heed for the Iron Hills first, and Grór liked the idea, ever was one for forges and furnaces, that one... It was safer there, Thorin... So I made my brother go, but I did not want that road of dust, and iron, I wanted something better, something mightier, and so I headed for the Mountain, and some followed me..."
He smiled then – and I knew he was thinking of Nár, the friend that had never left his side, that I could see walking close to us, not listening to our discussion, he ever was discreet, but never far away...
Thrór brushed my hair, and then he pulled away from me, resuming his walk, keeping his hand upon my forearm.
"A hard road it was, Thorin, and even when we reached the Mountain... As long as there was food, my nights were safe – but remember my words, grandson... People will stab you without a second thought, if they are starving and hold you responsible for it... The ones you led, who would not have survived without you, they are always the first to bring you down... Several times, I almost got killed – Dwarves thinking I was unfit to rule, that I was leading them to death... They got death, Thorin, I killed them all, ruthlessly, I did not show any mercy to them, I drew their blood and broke their bones, and I still do not regret it..."
His face was grim, his eyes were icy – and I could see it was true, I could see how fiercely he had fought for his own life, for his power, how he had been forced to put kindness aside forever...
"You don't have to show any doubt, if you want to rule. Mark my words, Thorin – don't let them see you waver, don't let them see you hurt. Stay strong, no matter how deep your wounds reach – I know it is hard, I know you yearn for some rest and that you are in pain, I'm not blind... But you are brave, and I can't let you, they will think you weak, they will seek to break you, and I don't want you to fight for your life, grandson, I don't want you to live through that fear..."
His voice was firm, he kept walking, not even looking at me – and yet I think these were the most loving words I ever got from him.
"I'll tell you how I did it, when I was injured and still had to lead. I spent a whole winter on battlefields with three deep, gushing wounds on my back. They opened every day, and every night Nár had to dress them again, change the bandages and try to patch me up... I breathed in, and breathed out. And every time I did it, I thought that if I had done it once, I could do it twice. Just breathing, in and out – hah! I wish they knew, Thorin, sometimes I wish they all knew, I hated them all so much, with their whimpering and whining, and I pushed them hard, I did not care for the blood on my back, I just pushed them, and we won that war, we fought these Orcs back and finally earned Men's respect..."
And though I had promised him to listen, though I had given him my word I would not forget – I cannot recall more today... I know that every single word he said reached me, that on this terrible, forlorn day, there was a bond between us that never was as strong again, and that I always thought about his words, about this terrible life of hardship and war, where mercy and love had no place anymore...
I know he spoke for hours more, that he disclosed memories and feelings he had long forgotten, that I learnt more about him that day than I had in the twenty-four years where I had known him.
And I remember how he urged me to stay strong, to stay grim and fierce, to show no mercy, no kindness, no doubt – to use fear to be revered and to rule, to hide every deep feeling away. To be careful with my trust, and even more with my love – for these were weaknesses a King could not use...
And I breathed in, and breathed out – I stayed at his side, hurrying along, my arm prisoner of his mighty grasp, and my shoulder hurting so much that my face was grey. I breathed in, and breathed out, and every now and then my grandfather would stroke my cheek, brushing my sweat away – I was learning my lesson well, I was making him proud, he loved me in his own, hard way, and I breathed in, and breathed out.
I could not even feel my body anymore when we finally stopped, when I finally let down my bag, my weapons, and watched my grandfather walk away, leaving my side at last.
Fires were being lit – we had covered several miles and the lands were safe, Roäc had assured us of it, taking shelter upon one of the heavy rocks that were barring the landscapes.
They offered protection against the wind, and the tents were not needed that night. My back met hard stone, I let my bag and weapons slide on the ground, and for a while I just stood there, feeling nothing, watching the flames, not even able to think.
And then I let myself down as well, sliding slowly against the rock. My left hand felt for my shoulder, acknowledging the pain at last, and I raised my knees, resting my face upon them, closing my eyes.
"Thorin..."
A whisper, and a warm arm around my waist – I was so cold, so tired, I could not even look at Frerin, I just stayed as I was.
"Is there anything –
- No. I am fine. I just want to... I just want to sleep."
I knew it was unfair. He deserved more than this – but I could not tell him the truth, tell him I ached, inwardly and outwardly, that I ached so much that I actually wanted to scream out loud, hit the rocks with my fists, and weep.
Instead I just stretched myself on the ground, turning my back on him, letting my cheek meet the cold earth, not even bothering to undress, curled up against the rock, my eyes shut.
And I drifted off almost at once – I only remember feeling something soft and warm against my skin, someone was probably spreading out my blanket, but I could not open my eyes, I just wanted to be gone, to lose myself in sleep, the only place where I could still escape, where I could still afford to whisper that I would never be able, never be strong enough...
That I had failed, that it was all a lie, that these golden eyes had been right in telling me I was too small, not fierce enough, that I did not deserve to survive...
That I had not even been able to speak up to Thrór, tell him he was wrong, that my father had every right to be King, that the true hero that day was my brother...
That the only weak blood here was mine, that I hated myself so much for it, hated and despised myself.
For the grief I felt, for my grandfather's life and for my father's. For the fear I could still feel somewhere in my body. For the weakness that was spreading in my limbs, making me unable to move. For the tears that were choking my breath but that I would not shed. For the pain that was burning in my accursed shoulder, because I had failed.
I had failed, I had failed, I had failed, I was weak, a burden, a dead-weight, a disgrace, and I kept whispering it deep in my heart, my eyes shut and my body huddled against the rock, until darkness mingled with sleep, and pain with oblivion.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations :
- Dashtith: little son, Thráin's nickname for Frerin.
- Maimhid, dashat: be blessed, son.
- Maikhmin: thank you.
- Kudzaduz: little golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin.
- Uzbadê: my King.
- Zeleg'ubraz: Golden Stair, Dwarven city in the Grey Mountains where Thrór grew up.