The Feast of Darkness
The fireplace provided the only light. They had sat here so long that even the long-lasting Dunland sun had set. They were all just dark shapes in the gloom, the red glow of the flames dancing across their faces, casting shadows upon them, painting strange, flickering silhouettes onto the walls.
They had eaten, apparently, as there were dirty plates and cutlery on the table, but Thorin had no memory of the meal, could not recall taste or consistency, knew only that whatever he had eaten now lay as a lump of lead in his stomach. He had no memory of cooking either, so it must have been Dís' turn and her cooking was always impeccable, but he still felt bile rise in his throat.
The only noise was the grating scrape of the spoon that Dwalin was absentmindedly spinning on the tin plate in front of him, and the soft crackling of the fire. Thorin looked up, but nobody met his eye. Dwalin was staring at his spoon like it was all that mattered in his life, spinning it round and round without pause. Balin was resting his elbows upon the table and had placed the tip of his nose on his folded hands. He was chewing his knuckles, a nervous habit Thorin had noticed a few times by now. Thorin's father occupied the head of the table, slouched down in his chair, his arms hanging limply at his side and tears streaming from his good eye into his beard. Dís had drawn her legs up onto the bench, curling herself into a ball, but she seemed to be the most alert out of all of them, looking at him with a steady gaze even as the red light seemed to make her form shift and shiver.
There was a silent negotiation. They had gotten good at these. Then Thorin and Dís both stood at the same time, Thorin mumbling something about the fire while his sister started to gather the dirty dishes. Dwalin jumped up so quickly his ridiculous crest of hair swayed like trees in a hurricane, and trailed after her, carrying plates into the kitchen. Thorin looked at Balin and received a short nod from him, confirming that he'd stay at the table while they all went about their business.
To the sound of splashing water and the soft clatter of dishes, Thorin stoked the fire and added some more wood to it. It was a cold night. He watched the flames lick along the edges of the logs, embracing and then devouring them. Dís did not like the fire, so Thorin usually took care of this. None of them could afford to be afraid of fire, but it was only natural to be hesitant. Fire devoured, had devoured all that Dís had loved. Her mother, her home, her brother, all claimed by the flames. It was only natural to be afraid.
Thorin pushed the images to the back of his mind, images of that dreadful morning in the vale of Azanulbizar when he had watched the flames. He could banish the images, but the smell always lingered. Angrily, he stoked the fire, causing a piece of wood to crumble, sparks spraying everywhere. He put the poker aside and turned back to face the table once more. Balin and Thráin still sat in silence. Thorin took a deep breath before he sat down again, followed shortly by Dís and Dwalin.
Thorin could not keep his thoughts from straying. His fingers brushed the knobbly scars on his shield arm. He had been lucky, they had told him, lucky to keep his arm, lucky to be alive. That was luck, apparently. He could go about most of his daily tasks by now, and if it still pained him that was nothing to bother anybody with. The scars were just another kind of memory.
Suddenly, Dís' small hand was on his leg, rubbing slow circles again the muscle. Dwalin had stretched his long legs out underneath the table, one on either side of Thorin's feet, squeezing gently, grounding him. Neither one of them looked at him or gave any indication of what they were doing at all.
The scrape of his father's chair being pushed back startled Thorin. Thráin stood, slowly, but with determination. Thorin was instantly alert, but his father only shuffled over to the cupboard, and after a brief rummage around, he retrieved a stack of mismatched little cups —all made from scraps of metal or in some way damaged during production— and a glass bottle. Thorin recognised one of the distilled spirits the Dunlendings made of the fruit that grew in such large amounts under the hot sun in these parts. When his father put five cups onto the table, he had to interfere.
"Just three, adad. Dís and Dwalin are too young."
He could hear a soft noise of protest from his friend, but mostly he was focussed on the clear, hard look his father gave him.
"If they are old enough to fight in the greatest war of our time, whether in battles or in defending our livelihoods, then they should not be treated as children," Thráin said with a sigh. "You could all use a good sleep tonight."
There was no arguing with that.
They each grasped one of the tiny cups, the smell of alcohol heavy around the table. They all stood and raised their cups as Thráin delivered the toast.
"May Mahal's light shine upon us once more and may our next Yule be happier," he said, his voice steady.
"May Yule be happier," they all echoed and drank.
The strong liquor burned Thorin's throat, but it also warmed him in a way that no fire could. Dís, who to Thorin's knowledge had never tasted such a thing, shook herself like a wet dog, but it was Dwalin who made them all smile as he suffered a coughing fit, turning bright red and spluttering as his brother thumped him on the back.