A/N: I realize that it took me a very long time to get this chapter out but I hope that does not dissuade you from liking, following or reviewing! Thank you all for your support!
As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked.
A Breath of Air
Thorín leaned heavily on the stone balustrade, staring down the open shaft into the depths of Erebor. Countless bridges spanned across the levels between and dwarves from every walk of life milled below without a care in Arda about him. He was one of several thousand beneath this mountain and the warmth of that anonymity eventually eased his angry shaking. If ever he had been in a dark mood, this was one of them. He had no intention of letting himself continue, though, and had walked, no, stormed to his usual parapet of solitude to calm himself.
Dwarves took to jeweled colors in their wardrobes, clothing and accessories alike. Golden fabric was prized as well as silver, when it came to it, but due to the rarity of such an opulent material there were few dwarrow that could afford to dress in it daily. It was rare to see such richness on a passing day, yet the varied colors of their clothing swam beneath him like a sentient prism and he regularly found himself entranced by it. Today's undulating procession, though, held no sway over his brooding and, after finding he was unable to coax himself into a relaxed state, he decided he needed to occupy his mind with something else. So, he began to walk.
Thorín was still agitated from the meeting and he tried to hold onto the pride and affection of his father while ignoring the ire of his grandfather. He could not puzzle out the reason behind the King's sudden anger when everything had been going so well. His father's words returned to him, again and again.
"He cannot go on like this..."
He had realized after a short time pondering that his father had been hiding something from him for a long while. Something to do with his grandfather and his irrational change in moods. It irked him that he could not know for how long he had been in the dark. He forced his fists to unclench and finally shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from repeating yet again. Having delved into the safety of his outer coat, his fingers found the other part of his stolen lunch and he removed it in a sudden hunger, biting off as much as he could fit into his mouth. Though, as he had wrenched it from his coat, a small cloth drifted to the floor behind him and caught his eye with its fluttering dance.
Thorín looked at it with curiosity, for a long moment unsure of where it had come from but, as he bent to retrieve it, the previous evening came rushing back with an intense clarity. Frerín's handkerchief had stayed with him, another reminder of the weaver he had not expected. Though it belonged to his brother, he could only associate the sight of its plain thread with the length of her arm. The feminine movement of her wrist as he had turned it to press his lips against her knuckles. The fire in her brown eyes when he had caught them with his own, her mouth slightly open as she held her breath. The color their cheeks as they had turned away, neither of them intent on further embarrassment. A shiver ran down his spine and he took a moment to regain himself.
He ran the hem through his fingers as he continued on, wondering for no good reason where the chocolate-haired dam would be at this time of day. He shook his head, dispelling that thought thoroughly, and shoved the cloth back in his pocket where he would not be vexed by it. It did remind him of Dís, though, and he changed his direction to make his way to her rooms.
He was still very frustrated and Frerín was most likely the best dwarf, besides his father, with whom he could speak in regards to the meeting. His brother was the only other person with whom he felt he could discuss such matters but he found he could not muster the desire to seek him out yet. Dwalin and Tormûnd were busy, his father and Balin were still in council and his list of possible company was down to two. Dís was the only option he was willing to pursue, cursing that the weaver had been in his mind at all.
He reached her quarters before ever wondering if she would be in but knocked firmly on her door, swallowing the last mouthful of bread just as it was opened. His sister's smiling face greeted him, followed by a warm embrace and much squealing, "You came to visit!"
Thorín felt himself smile at her arms lingering around him, his mood improving greatly at her reaction, "Is that still acceptable? Am I some harbinger of bad news, that my presence should be so surprising, naneth?"
Dís bantered playfully, narrowing her eyes, "That, I cannot say, nadar. Did you bring trouble with you?"
She peered cheekily around his shoulders, as if expecting something behind him, before raising her eyebrow for his response. He sighed, feeling himself relax, and told her plainly, "Not today. I left him in the bathhouse."
He joined her in laughter, unable to stop himself at the sound of her merriment. She embraced him again, looking into his face when they broke apart, "Is everything alright, Thorín?"
"Why would it not be?" He replied with a slight frown.
She gave him a stern look that belonged so much to his mother that his heart ached and said, "I would have to be blind to see otherwise. Did your presentation go well?"
His frown turned suspicious. "How did you know about that?"
All her seventeen years were contained in the roll of her eyes. "How are you even so daft? I had to hear of it from Trouble himself!"
He took her hands in his larger ones, lowering his face to hers as he had when she was a dwarfling and asked in a most serious tone, "Are you spying on me, sweet sister?"
She betrayed her age again by sticking out her tongue and replied, "Those are the lengths I go to in order to know how you are!"
"Does that mean you miss me?" He frowned again, pretending to pout.
If Thorín was fast, Dís was faster, for he could not defend himself from the palm she laid against the side of his head. "Of course I do, you half-wit!"
"Aah, sisterly love!" Thorin exclaimed, working his jaw as he rubbed his ear with a wounded, but pleased, glower.
Had her guardian, Mergda, not entered the room with an armful of laundry he may not have been saved the wrath his sister was prepared to unleash upon him and he scooped up the aged woman, lifting and turning, bedsheets and all. "My savior!"
The maid croaked in shock, turning to pin him with a stare that should have left him quaking at the knees once she was on her feet again, "Master Thorín! I am a dwarf! I prefer to be on the ground or in it, thank you very much! Any more of that and you'll be sending me to an early grave."
He laughed, knowing she was happy to see him despite her affront. Having had her hand in raising him since his birth, followed thereafter by his brother, he still cared for the crone nearing her two hundredth year and found security in her now safe-guarded the young Princess, as well. The old woman glared keenly in his direction and turned back to her task but Thorín did not miss the wink that she sent him before shaking out the linen over the bed.
Grinning, he went to ruffle his sister's hair. She swatted his hand away with a dangerous look in her eye and he then noticed that it was already styled for the coming celebrations. He motioned to it again, gesturing as he spoke, "I see the weaver has worked her magic?"
"The spell is complete." Dís curtseyed prettily, a smug smile on her face.
He nodded in appreciation. "It is quite the enchantment for a Princess."
She smiled back, glowing with the compliment even as he leaned forward to kiss her brow, calling her an enchanted Princes in whispered Khuzdul. She looked at him in adoration, "Will you walk with me, nadar?"
He bowed low over her hand, murmuring as he did, "It would be my pleasure, naneth."
She nodded to Mergda and then looked at him, pointedly, after he had risen from his gesture. "Do you have bread in your pocket?"
He shook his head in confusion. "No. Why?"
She shrugged and lifted her skirts to move around him. "You have crumbs in your beard. You must be hungry."
His mouth opened and closed for a moment while his cheeks heated, caught in his embarrassment. He hastily wiped his chin, grumbled an apology and gratefully accepted two freshly baked buns from her cupboard. He chewed happily while she spoke to the old woman, not bothering to listen to what was said, and wandered contentedly after her when she opened the door. He held out his elbow, which she took, and let her choose the direction they went.
Their walk was set at an easy pace, their conversation flowing without effort and, the longer they spent in each others presence, the less and less a burden their time apart became. Dís was overjoyed when he offered to escort her to her birthday celebrations, having reached an age where she could choose with whom she went. She mentioned how jealous all the other dams would be, having such a handsome dwarf at her side.
He chuckled, good-naturedly, but still shrugged off her compliment with unease, "I think you give me too much credit, Dís."
"Why would you say that? I know many dams who would trade their limbs for just a dance, nadar." His sister rested her head on his shoulder and he slowed his pace to accommodate her affection. He scowled at her, fondly, remembering how much he loved her strength and determination regardless of how trying she was at times.
Thorín took a deep breath and asked, "How many legless partners do you think I should be willing to dance with, exactly?"
Dís laughed at the thought but Thorín worried at the change of subject. Only the previous day had her manipulations of Frerín's social life come to light and suspicion began to grow in the back of his mind that their conversation was on the verge of a dangerous turn.
Dís justified his concern with her next words, "I am quite glad but...surprised that you have asked me. I had thought there would be another that you would have offered to take, by now."
He raised his eyebrow, looking down at her as he would when she was being mischievous, "I believe I sense a scheme, naneth."
Her hair swayed with her as she waved her arm, displaying her worst impression of innocence, "Whatever could you mean, dear brother?"
He turned his eyes away from her, choosing to ignore her rather than condone her words, but it was not for lack of effort on her part, "I only refer to your behavior this past day, Thorín. You seemed...how shall I put it? Enamored?"
He closed his eyes, willing patience to come to him, "First, Frerín, and now you..."
Her brows jumped in surprise, "Our esteemed brother noticed something like that? And mentioned it to you?"
He gave her a sharp look but said nothing, waiting for her to realize he was through with the subject. She declined, "Why do you look at me so? I am only impressed that he was so considerate of someone else."
Thorín reluctantly agreed with her on that point but remained silent. Despite feeling like a pet project rather than an elder brother, her pride of him and concern for his happiness made him warm with gladness. He considered possibly taking more of her advice, as she was showing herself to be wise beyond her years.
Dís continued, mostly to herself, "He has far too much interest in her, as of late. I thought he had taken up with that blonde twit...oh, what is her name?"
That bait he could not resist, though he tried to sound aloof, "What do you mean, 'interest in her'?"
The young lady did not seem to notice anything amiss, instead tossing her head and rolling her eyes, "'Interest' meaning 'a slight form of obsession, usually romantic in nature'. This is Frerín we are speaking of, after all."
A knot formed in his stomach at her definition, his focus no longer on the direction they were taking but on the strange feeling of anger and vague jealousy that had come over him. The more he tried to push it away, the worse it became.
Dís sighed, oblivious, "He jumps from fancy to fancy like a child between feast tables. He prefers to think I am 'meddling' when, honestly, I only wish to help him find a decent dam instead of the string of...karhasalûna he has been parading around. I had spoken with Thríva to aide in that effort but it seems to have had an...undesired response."
Thorín considered that carefully before he replied, "So, this is a passing interest?"
Dís replied instantly, her voice lacking all surprise, "Are you interested?"
Thorín snorted, trying in vain to cover for his slip up, "Do I need to be? I was merely asking your opinion on Frerín's choices! The weaver? Is she taken with this...interest?"
Dís was not fooled, "'The weaver'? Mahal save us, Thorín! You were introduced. You are allowed to say her name."
He was beginning to lose the calm he had developed, irritated by his own behavior, "I will say what I wish. She is a weaver, it is not an insult."
He was not expecting his sister to laugh at him but she did, quite loudly. He did not know whether to smile or frown and so found himself stuck somewhere in the middle, the two of them having stopped completely to allow Dís to clutch at her waist with both hands. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked around them with his back to her, as if that would block the sound of her unguarded giggling. Luckily, no one was wandering in this area so the humiliation that reddened his face would go unnoticed for now.
It was embarrassing, to say the least, that he was so transparent. He worked with great difficulty to control his emotions and facial expressions, having believed that he had achieved complete stoicism through his years of practice. His siblings, however, seemed to be able to read him as easily as a scroll and he could not describe the annoyance that it caused him.
He scowled, waiting for his sister to begin breathing again, and finally decided he had suffered enough. He wrapped his arms around her and tickled her ribs, mercilessly, threatening to cease only when she offered an apology. He let her slip from his grasp and scamper up a nearby set of stairs, laughing madly over her shoulder as he pursued. He let go of his irritation, allowing himself the joy of the chase as they dodged around corners and sprinted down empty hallways, laughing as they had when they were both much younger. She disappeared up another set of stairs before he realized where she was leading him.
A stone archway led out onto one of Erebor's few balconies, open to the elements through another series of styled arches and pillars that allowed a view of the vast grassland between the mountain and the Mannish city of Dale. Hundreds of years before, a radical architect had decided that the mountain should have such views of their surroundings and had created a handful of areas that were rarely used. Dwarves preferred the protection of the mountain and had little interest in the outer world. There were tradesmen, hunters and diplomats, of course, that regularly traveled out the front gates but there were also children that had never seen the world of Men with their own eyes and that was how the Khazad wanted it.
When he had stumbled to a stop just inside the entrance he paused to catch his breath and used the time to look around him. The arches that held up the side of the mountain were more like windows, a thick stone wall supporting them and creating an uninterrupted bench-seat that ran the length of the area. It was large, the doorway well back from the openings to allow for use even in inclement weather. The afternoon sun shone down between the wide pillars, lighting the area so well that there was no need for a torch or lantern. He found himself glad at the sight and took a deep breath of summer air. It had been far longer than he had known since he had felt sunlight on his skin or a breeze through his hair. The reason for it brought him into a somber mood like a bucket of water dousing a fire but he did his best to leave it at the door.
He raised an eyebrow when he noticed Mergda sitting peacefully on the stone bench only just joined by her charge, who was red-cheeked and grinning at him. She patted the bench next to her, allowing him the entire corner against the wall, and he halted to eye her suspiciously. She needed no words to explain his actions or thoughts, she only rolled her eyes and beckoned him again. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, looking down his nose to observe the two dams through narrowed eyes.
It was Mergda that eased his mind, "Oh, will you sit down, you stubborn boulder, and put some food in your belly."
He upheld his air of mistrust, even as he seated himself next to his smiling sister, playing as if he accepted the cheese and fruits Mergda had brought only begrudgingly. He even went as far as sniffing them tentatively before tasting anything, which had his sister clutching her sides again and Mergda glaring in amusement. Finally, he gave up the farce and bit into the soft cheese he had been offered, humming in satisfaction. They ate quietly for a few minutes, allowing the three of them a sense of peace in the whirlwind of their lives.
When the food was gone and Mergda's elderly hands had tucked the cloths out of sight, Dís gave a loud sigh, her eyes looking out into the blue sky, "This has been a wonderful day, nadar."
Her tone was wistful but belied a sadness he could not ignore. Thorín studied her face, so close to joyful as she leaned her cheek against an arm she had draped over the top of the wall next to her. His own hidden sorrows mirrored the expression she held, looking over their grandfather's kingdom. He wondered how she must see it - was it just grass, trees and hills to her? Or perhaps she could see it for its true value but knew it would never be hers to harness, cursed to only observe as others changed it at their whim. It made him consider that she might feel that same way about other aspects of her life, never able to make her own choices or changes. Denied the will to take chances and make her own destiny, that ability robbed from her before her birth. He chewed the inside of his lip, both their gazes caught by a passing raven in flight, and asked himself if he was empathizing with her, or merely seeing his own feelings in her.
Dís sighed again, lifting herself from contemplation and rest in one motion when she straightened, "Enough of that, brother. There are other times for reflection for it is not every day we can spend together. Let us make this count."
By the time he had turned toward her, she had handed him something he had not seen in a very long time - his harp.
He felt an overwhelming wave of melancholic nostalgia at the sight of his greatest treasure, lovingly dusted and polished as if he had never hidden it away. The wood was a rich oak, carved from neck to foot with Dwarven runes, knotwork and ravens as the sigil of his line. Thorín fought the tears that came to his eyes as he ran his fingers over the familiar designs, breathing as evenly as possible through the recollection of every scratch and dent he came across.
Thorín should have scolded himself for the tightness of his chest but the exhaustion of such an emotional day had worn through even his most stalwart defenses. His fingers trembled over the strings, hesitating to truly touch them lest he waken the suffering that lay waiting within him. So many memories...
"It has been too long since you have even held it, magabshûn," Mergda croaked. Her ancient eyes were filled with warm concern, a small smile molding the wrinkles in her cheek. He tried to laugh but covered his mouth to disguise a sob instead.
Dís inquired naively, "When did you last play, Thorín?"
His eyes did not move from the instrument in his lap and his voice was no louder than a whisper, "The funeral for amâd."
Silence weighed down on them, enveloping the sweetness of the gesture like snowfall over the last reminders of summer. Thorín ran his hand over his beard before replacing it on the strings he so longed to play, brushing them as tenderly as one would a sleeping babe. He could not ignore the tension his admission had created but knew little how to ease it, his own pain a sensation he was keeping under control with rising difficulty.
"I never have heard you play, Thorín. Would you, now, for me?" Dís' eyes were as gentle as her words and she watched him with well veiled unease.
He merely exhaled, not finding the strength to speak, "I do not think I know how anymore, naneth."
"Much like a weapon, an instrument is not something the hands forget how to wield, my Prince."
He looked up, allowing Mergda to pierce him with her gaze. Without a blink of her wizened eyes she continued, "You were well trained, dashtul. Too well, I expect, to ever forget."
His lip quivered and pressed into a sad smile that lasted the length of a breath before he looked down at the gift from his mother. Tentatively, he plucked a string and winced at the dissonant sound of long disuse. He cleared his throat and began painstakingly tuning each string by ear, unsatisfied with his progress until Mergda produced a small flute from the folds of her skirt.
She played an even note, drawing out the reedy tone until he matched it. From there, his task went more quickly and, before he knew it, his fingers were creating a music he thought he no longer possessed.
Thorín started slowly, working first on reacquainting himself with the feeling of the strings against his fingers but, when his eyes drifted closed, he began a faster, more intricate piece he had learned from his beloved teacher. His hands moved on their own, his mind adrift on the long lessons spent sitting before the fire in his father's study as his mother gently corrected his mistakes and smiled tenderly at his passion for song.
When it finished, he looked around him in slight confusion when he did not see the fire-lit rug or solid stone mantel he had expected, his mother's smiling face nowhere to be seen. Dís was staring at him with her mouth open and her delicate hand over her chest. Mergda looked to be wiping her eyes as discretely as she cared to, which is to say only enough not to upset him, it seemed.
"Oh, Thorín!" Dís moved to wrap her arms around his neck, her embrace as welcome as the sun after a cold winter. He held her with one arm, tucking his face into the crease of her neck, and gripping the harp in the other. After a long moment, they separated and smiled at one another. He could see that she wished to say something, whether to praise or soothe, he would never know because she kissed his bearded cheek instead.
Dís asked for more and a laugh escaped him. Shying away from another emotional piece, he played an upbeat dance that was common in most of the alehouses of the mountain. He had not played it before now and he was rather proud that he was able to pick out the tune from memory and add his own personal flare to it. He did not wait to be asked for another, smoothly transitioning into a tune that sparked in his mind, followed seamlessly by another until both he and Dís were singing merrily and Mergda joined in with her flute.
He did not realize that the sun was near to setting until the sounds of heavy footsteps caught their attention. The entrance of a well armored guard shattered the small world that they had created and Thorín knew he was not alone in that feeling.
The guard bowed deeply, addressing each of them in formal Khuzdul, before speaking directly to Dís, "My Princess, a raven has arrived to announce the arrival of your cousin, Dain, and his sister tomorrow morning."
Dís, still in high spirits, clapped excitedly and thanked the solider profusely before turning to her brother, "It has been so long since Nain has been to visit! I cannot wait to see her!"
Thorín grinned at the thought, Dís and Nain having been close since their births, which were only months apart. He nodded, saying, "It would do you good to spend time with such a close friend."
She smirked. "Which only means you will be left to deal with Dain."
He let out a bark of laughter, tilting his head far enough back that it rested against the stone wall behind him with a loud thud. Even as he rubbed it, he chuckled, "I will save all from the travesty of his company and take on the responsibility of keeping him entertained, have no fear."
Mergda snorted, "Come now, Thorín. He was never as troublesome as your brother."
"Aye, he was never that." He winked at the guardian, "But he came quite close."
She snorted again, crossing her arms, "Never yet have forgiven the little brat for catching my skirts on fire."
Neither of the royal children could remember if the incident had been caused by Dain or a young Frerín but they both laughed at the memory. Dís had not yet been born but she had heard the story often enough that she could tell it herself as if she had been there. Thorín had, unfortunately, been alive to experience the wrath of Mergda on his cousin and brother for years after and had come to the conclusion then to never cross the woman.
Thorín sighed, taking note of the darkening sky and said, "The moon will be up soon, little Princess. I think it well that you see yourself to bed."
Before Dís could reprimand him, Mergda rose and brushed her skirts down, agreeing, "Aye, youngin', a dwarfling like you needs her rest before the morrow. Get on, ye!"
With a last glare, Dís, too, rose and pressed her forehead to Thorín's, placing a kiss there before she made her farewells. He watched their retreating forms until they could no longer be seen. He leaned his back against the wall, his eyes on the horizon and his fingers idly plucking the strings of the harp still in his lap.
He could not place exactly when the song began to take shape but it was a long while before he sang along,
The solid stone, grey mountains cold
and richest earth their arms unfold
They beckoned thee to Mandos' hall
No ear can hear, no eye can see
But comes a day when we must leave
for all must heed the Maker's call.
In ancient times blessed Durin's line
Came forth to be and yet survived
The crushing blow our Maker dealt
Our kith and kin, our blood and heart
Beneath these mountains far apart
At the Maker's word have ever dwelt.
Thorín shut his eyes, gathering himself to continue the verse in which his voice had failed him during his mother's internment ceremony. None had faulted him for it but it still felt as an offense to her that he had not remained strong. His breathing evened as he played on, watching the stars appear above him rather than the strings. His voice still shook when he started up again, though somewhere, in the back of his mind perhaps, he heard a sweet harmony join his roughened baritone.
With heavy tolls the bells will ring
And many join the songs we sing
Thy worldly vessel laid to rest
Mahal shall judge with clarity
Both fair and ill deeds equally
Thy cares now ceased at his behest.
May thy worthy soul e'er carry on,
May thy family line ne'er be gone
Peace find you in the silent stone
Thy heroic feats and stories told
Forever as the world grows old
'Til the Maker calls his people home.
He ended with a long and beautiful flourish, wishing his mother could hear him that night for he was sure he had heard her. It had strummed through him, raising the flesh of his arms beneath the fabric of his coat, the haunting concordance of his voice and hers that felt so true, so honest, so right that it left him drained.
Unshed tears clung to his lower lashes and his throat jerked when he swallowed his heartache but he knew sleep would elude him, again, this night. There was no escape from the weary sadness inside him and, perhaps, it would be easier to give in instead of waste his energy fighting that unending battle with himself. He was close to drifting into his memories when he was brought to a startling wakefulness by a woman's voice.
"Do you only play funeral songs?"
Words of use:
karhasalûn - she who desires being used
magabshûn - he who is treasured
dashtul - son-like or as a son
The song is a poem that I wrote myself. It is more or less the Dwarven version of "Amazing Grace" which is rather popular at funerals, no matter who they are. I see it as something like that. Someone hears it, they can at least hum along. Thanks again for reading!
-L-
