A/N : Hello laddies! I know, it has been ages - more than six months as far as this fic is involved, and I am truly sorry for those who have waited so long, and truly amazed by those who still have the patience and will to read the update I give you now :)!

Thank you so, so much for not letting Thrain, Bara, Thror and Arnora down. They are my pride and joy, this fic being the one where I truly set headcanons loose, and get such interesting feedback it gives me faith again in the world (much needed today).
Good news : I have finished my studies! Residency, guards, exams and PhD! I have crossed the country and am back home now... meaning : drastic changes, many options and... more time for fanfiction. I do not dare to promise fast updates but honestly : the odds should favor it now.

I just want to thank you again for your reviews and your support. You have no idea what a coping mechanism it has been - and still is - for me. I would definitely not have made it as hale through these nine years of studies (like the Fellowship) and three years of residency (like the Elven rings), so, at least seven times (like the Dwarven families) : thank you !

Dashatê

(My Son)

Chapter 7.

His father's hand is rough against his cheek. It always was. Thráin knows these callous palms, the cool touch of the rings circling these fingers. He knows them from childhood – his small hand clinging to Thrór's, anchoring himself to him even as he struggled to keep up with his brisk steps. He also felt their blows, later… and their hard grasp on his forearm or shoulder, over and over again – they have crushed him more than once, dragged him down inch by inch, along with the decaying mind of his once-mighty father.

Thrór's hand is a stern, unforgiving one. It slaps. It pushes away. It grinds bones, will and hopes to dust. It does not caress, does not stroke, does not really touch, and yet…

Yet this time, his father's hand quivers. It feels fragile, beneath the strength of the heavy bones and able muscles, and as it curls around his cheek, cradling it, almost hurting him, Thráin feels his father's thumb around his left eye, feeling for his eyelid, his cheekbone, his eyebrow, and his temple.

It almost hurts. It is so brisk. Thrór does not know how to touch properly, he almost grazes Thráin's skin, and then his fingers bury themselves in his hair and he pulls, pulls his son's face towards him, feels him, his eyebrows and nose and beard and ears and hair, and Thráin's shoulders and chest and stomach and hipbones, his waist and his spine and his shoulder-blades and his arms – and it hurts, it almost bruises, and yet…

And yet it feels like Thrór's hands are mapping him. Tracing his very shape, making sure he is whole, hale, there, unharmed and unscarred. Thráin would never have dreamt to feel softness under callousness, fear beneath hard bones, and hushed, never-to-be-voiced sobs beneath his father's ragged breath – and yet he does, and his quiet tears fall softly against Thrór's hands, as he allows him to trace and draw him.

Since his father does not know yet how to embrace him.

"That day", Thrór lets out – and his voice is just a heavy, painful breath, rough from hurt, and rage, and unvoiced feelings. "That day they told me your eye was lost…"

His hand crushes his cheek and Thráin looks up, searches for his father's gaze, but Thrór has closed his eyes, has averted his face, because even here he hides, buries it deep down, refuses to bare his weakness, still thinking it's a threat.

"I could have screamed", Thrór whispers. "I could have screamed and filled every mine, every chamber, every dell and gallery with the sound, and still have air left to scream again. I watched them burn your wound, close your eye forever, scar your face – your face, Thráin… But I… could not afford to scream. They would have known. How to hurt the King, to bring him on his knees, to have me begging and pleading, anything to save your life, to keep you there… You remember, Thráin, do you? That the seven families were not always behind me, that even there in the very walls of Erebor I still had to watch out… That it took many battles, many victories, many treaties to have them fear us, and rally to our strength because they knew we were mightier… And so… When the healers took the light from your face, half of your face, just like that… I learnt to bury that scream deep inside, and pretend it was nothing. That it was your fault. That every warrior was responsible for his life, and body. That my own son's wound was nothing to me. That I could look at your face – that face – and pretend it did not crush my chest, every single time, to see that you had lost an eye for my battles while I was left unscarred.

- Gladly, 'adad", Thráin answers, and it is true.

He has wept for his eye and struggled to adjust to that loss, having to learn how to move and to fit into space again, but he was not alone. He had his One and love and Bára helped him, lead him to the light again, fought against him in the secrecy of the training rooms until his battle skills were fully honed again, and Thráin scarred but upright once more…

"You were the King. You had to stay unmoved.

- I wish I had screamed", Thrór chokes out, and this time it is Thráin who reaches out, shyly, touches his father's hair, and skull, and gently pulls him closer.

Until their foreheads touch.

Their foreheads touch, and Thrór's skin feels cold, almost like marble, but it is strangely soft, and familiar, because there had been touches like that, once, stolen in hazy moments of childhood, and Thráin shivers and closes his eyes, because it feels right.

And Thrór… Thrór presses his face close to his son's, and his hands find his back, clench around his shoulders – and it feels like he's both clinging for support and trying to shield him, and his eyes are still closed and the line around his mouth hard as iron.

"I cursed the Maker endless times, Thráin. For each and every one of my failures. Each and every one of your scars. The way He let me crush you. The way He carved so much goodness into my son, and still let him suffer, and get hurt, and lose his strength, his mind and his blood in that forsaken place, for nine endless, accursed, and unforgivable years. I cursed the Maker, and still do, I do not believe in Him anymore, Thráin – because He made you and was still mad enough to entrust you to me… Because He let you break, when you were His treasure to keep and mine as well… Because He claims to be the Maker and yet knows nothing of justice, nothing of what is right, and let my son suffer and die…"

He breathes and it makes him shudder, and then Thrór whispers :

"I may not have screamed in life. But believe me, son, I have screamed in death. I have screamed at Him – He has heard me roar, and will again, and again, and again. Until He is the one hurting, until He weeps and tries to atone for what He did to you. I will make Him scream. I swear I will make Him scream."

His father is so fierce. He is so ruthless. He bows to no one, he is hard and spiteful and proud and unforgiving, and yet…

And yet he breaks. His hands still cradling him, his forehead pressed against Thráin's. His sobs are quiet, and fierce, and angry – laced with vows of revenge, of deeds to be paid…

And of love – of violent, rough, seething love, bleeding like the core of the Mountain when it spills, bursting through after decades of missed encounters, of hurt, of madness and of grief.

They have lost so much time. Almost a lifetime. But here they are now, facing each other, touching each other, and Thráin is beginning to feel what it means to heal.

"I seek no vengeance. I seek no blood-price. I did not come to claim, to curse or to gloat, 'adad."

His voice is deep. It is rich, full and as warm as it should be. It covers the steel Thrór is made of with velvet, engulfs him deep in his son's love and new-found wisdom.

"Half of my bone's marble. Half of my blood's ore. Half of my hair's silver. Half of my mind's blade. Half of my Name's runes. Half of my Soul's míthril."

Thráin quotes the sacred words quietly, his palms engulfing his father's hands – and the grey in his eyes is almost golden, because he is mending. Bringing the wild, chaotic waters he is made of back to the spring they come from. Hard rock, icy water, cold snow and warm blood.

Thrór and Arnóra.

"Khalel", Thráin whispers, closing his eyes, his forehead still pressed against his father's.

"Khalel, 'adad. 'Amad. Naikhlî."

Peace. Make peace with each other.

His father's hands tighten around him, fiercely, protectively – a mute statement of his fear, his helplessness, and Thráin leans against him, allows him to cradle him, to show every Soul that he has him, will always have him and shield him.

"Hu ya dashatê", Thrór whispers, in a broken, broken voice – and this time he is not talking to Thráin, he is addressing Arnóra, face averted, gaze bleeding into the dark lake's waters.

"Say I have hurt him. Say I have broken him. Say I have crushed him, been unworthy of him. Say I have wronged him, failed to understand him, to shield and protect him. To show him how I treasured him, him and his children, the gold of my late days..."

He shudders – he is cold in Thráin's embrace, and he looks so, so young, suddenly, because Souls are changeable, especially when they still seek peace, when the parts shaping them are not fully mended… He shudders, but he still has enough strength to add :

"I have tried to raise him. I have fed him. Clothed him. Held him when he was ailing. Taught him how to fight. Made sure he was warm. Rebuilt a Mountain around him. Tried to shield him. From murder and conspiracy, from jealousy and plots. From his own feelings, because they always were so deep, far too deep… Say I have failed. But do not… Do not dare to say I did not try."

And there Thrór's gaze leaves the lake at last. Facing Arnóra's – her grey eyes bright and scorching, his full of repressed tears.

"I did not leave", Thrór whispers. "I did not leave you in a cold mountain-cave, with a year-old little Dwarfling, a tomb to carve and a life to take care of. I did not push you away – eyes full of hate and disgust, and fear… Your hand barring my chest, your teeth bared, making me feel like a criminal, like the bearer of some… evil curse…"

He is crying quietly now. It has taken him so long, so long to let the words out, and he has to carve them out of his chest himself – he is still embracing Thráin, his arms wrapped around his back, and Thráin does not move, because he knows that doing so will deprive his father from the sole shield he has left. From the solace he deserves.

"I have not left you with more regrets and questions than shared memories… Had I just fought against yearning and loneliness once more, had I just never yielded, sat myself at your side and taken that night watch with you... Had I just sent you to your cot and coat, when I felt you shiver, and not offered you my furs, wrapped them around you and…

- Looked at me with those eyes…"

Arnóra's whisper is low, but it still makes Thrór flinch. The light the torches throw upon the scene is scarce, drawing shadows on their faces and softening them. Thrór's hair looks more golden than silver now, and though the pearls in his beard are still tightly woven, it seems shorter to Thráin – his gaze less stony, and his face softer. Younger.

"A glacier. Cold. Almost unbreakable. Yet still able to catch sunlight and blind us all. You were the King – the Drake had made a King of the young Prince you were, but doubts and fear there seemed to be none, you led us through Mountains and ravines, through hunts and camps – unwavering. Not losing a moment in useless grief or mourning.

- I was mourning."

Thrór's arms release Thráin slowly. His breathing is uneven, there are unshed tears in his eyes and he is shaking, but he is looking at her, looking only at her, and Thráin knows he can withdraw now, silently, take a few steps back and lean against a pillow. Not leaving – only allowing his father to stand and face his mother on his own.

"I was mourning with every step I took, every ice axe I buried in the snow, and every fire I lit. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see ashes and blood on the golden stairs I had trod upon, and loved, thinking nothing could outshine them… But you cannot… You cannot wake up screaming, and… waste your breath sobbing, choking with tears when you have… when there is a little brother to take care of, and an old uncle, and everything that is left of your people – what would they think? And who would care – who would respect such a King…? Not you. Certainly not you."

He has a soft laugh that is void of any joy. His cheeks are wet and yet, Thrór's tears do not unman him, they just make the angles in his face stand out even more – he is a tall Dwarf, a fierce Dwarf, a Dwarf who has loved long ago and struggles to remember.

"I would not know", Arnóra answers – upright and proud in her white furs, but truthful and honest, even when it scorches and whips. "I have not met that other King you speak of. I just saw you, that night. Ability. Courage. Ferocity. And warmth. Despite the glacier.

- Why did you let me kiss you…? Why did you not push me away…?

- Because I wanted you."

Thrór laughs again and his eyes spill, because no matter what he does, he cannot make hurt look like scorn any more.

"Just for one night, Arnóra? Just this one night? Because of the cold – of loneliness? A small print in the snow, buried under the next fall?"

Arnóra's eyes burn and she lifts her chin.

"If a man does so, he is a hunter. If a woman does, she becomes a harlot… does she not, uzbadê? Would a yes make me a harlot?"

She bares her teeth, facing him, upright on the last stair, and her hair is dark against her white furs, and her face seems cut into ice – she is beautiful, she is mighty, strong as a warrior, able as a man, and graceful as a dancer.

She is honest, always has been, and her words slice through Thrór's chest like a blade.

He lowers his gaze. Shakes his head. He has always known. Always known it was just a night, just a youthful mistake. Causing a life to begin and another to end.

"It… explains", he lets out, painfully, because he bleeds, here and there, still bleeds, two hundred years afterwards.

"What does it explain?"

Arnóra's voice is hard and Thrór shakes his head again. Too weary. Too broken. He has not enough strength left, and there is no use, no use to cut his chest open even more. He has his son back – his wonderful son, the gift he never deserved, who has given more sense to his life than any battle or hard-won treasure. And this is enough. Enough to face eternity and its endless taunts.

"I never meant to hurt you", he lets out, and he feels himself waver, his Soul flickering like a light on the verge of extinguishing himself – fine, it is fine. He is so weary, he has spent it all, let it vanish, loose itself into nothingness for a while, this is what always happens afterwards, for a small, merciful eternity…

"No, 'adad, no… 'Adad, please, no, don't go… Tell her, please tell her… 'Adad..."

His son's voice keeps him there, for a while. It is full of panic, full of so much love, and Thrór cannot bear to scare him – finds enough strength to raise his arm and circle his shoulders, drawing him against him.

"I am not leaving. I just have to… go… for a while."

I have to mend.

Thrór does not say it aloud, but Thráin seems to hear it nonetheless.

"Where?", he asks, and his eyes are full of fear, because Thrór is clearly struggling to stay there, his frame shivering, suddenly looking more like air than stone.

"I do not know", Thrór whispers. "I melt into ice and light, I see high peaks and gilded staircases, I become rock and stone and gold, I am nothing and everything, and when I wake I am with them – my brothers, my father and my mother, all my cousins… Sometimes we speak. Often we don't. They have learned now that I like it best here.

- You did not tell her..."

Thráin's face is buried into his chest – like a very small boy, and this time Thrór allows his hand to card through his locks, brushing them back. He bleeds, he bleeds and yet his son is still there to ground him, to remind him he owes himself the truth.

And so Thrór breathes. His face white as marble, his eyes empty, but meeting Arnóra's.

"It was not just one night for me."

He longs for emptiness. Nothingness. Air against cold mountain-peaks, and him melting with stone, so that he can begin to forget he bleeds, always has and always will.

"I dreamt of you every night for months. You replaced ashes and blood. You were my northern light, the dawn of my nights, my secret and my pride. I wanted to do it right. To court you. Offer you everything I had. Begin to know you. Ask you to be my One and Queen – not out of duty, out of circumstances, but out of love and will. I never meant to make you scream, and bleed, and become someone you could not recognise."

Thrór faces her, and he knows he has to say it all, he does not mind tears anymore, they slide down his pale cheeks anyway – is this what expiation feels like? Is it enough to help him vanish…?

"I loved you. I made love to you. I never meant to tear you apart, treat you like a prey… I was young, foolish and rash. But once, Arnóra, long ago, I promise... I did truly and wholly love you."

He has a small, joyless laugh – because her face is aghast, and frowning, so far from expressing pleasure that Thrór sees once more how unfit they are for each other. Eternity is full of taunts, this is just one more. He is gone anyway.

And so he cards his finger one last time through Thráin's dark locks, presses his forehead against his head and whispers to him he will come back soon.

To Arnóra he says nothing more. His heart is empty, and it is bleeding.

But he will mend. He always mends. He always comes back full of scorn, and anger – it is just a taunt, just a ridiculous little taunt, and his son is waiting for him now…

Thrór leaves, and this time it is just darkness for him, unseeing, unfeeling… Comforting, for a small, merciful eternity.

He just has to mend. And so he leaves.

Neo-Khuzdul translations :

- Hu ya dashatê : He is also my son.

- Khalel : peace of all peaces

- Naikhlî : make peace with each other.

A/N: Blame today's events and my characters' strong will for the angst, but do not worry : it is not over :). Take care, much love, Meysun.