And Peace among my Children

Mahal had blessed them. Twenty years of blood, sweat, and more tears than Thorin cared to admit after they had first celebrated Yule at the pithead, their mines were providing a steady yield and a measure of industry had been developed around them. Trade income was still vulnerable, but slowly, very slowly, they were building a reputation based on the quality of their wares. Many of their neighbours were still slow to trust them, falling victim to age-old prejudice between the races, and Thorin had had to learn to adapt his negotiation strategies to the faster pace and smaller span of the lives of Men. Mistakes had been made, and many dire winters had been suffered, but of course giving up had never been an option. He would lead them through any hardship, had indeed lead them through many, but today Thorin actually felt a modicum of optimism about their future. It had been a good celebration and it wasn't just the mulled cider putting a spring into his step. It had been a fitting tribute to a successful year.

They had erected a collection of small stone cottages over the years. Proper underground dwellings would follow in time. For now their labour was more valuable in the mines. The settlement lay in silence now, covered in a soft blanket of snow, faint candlelight indicating where families and friends were sharing a quiet dinner. He stopped at their rickety outbuilding to collect some firewood before heading for the house he shared with his family.

A few strides from the door, he heard his sister scream. He dropped the wood and ran, not stopping for even a fraction of a heartbeat as he came crashing into the kitchen.

He reacted purely on instinct, without a conscious thought interfering. It had served him well in battle and carried him somewhat gracefully through the drunken punch-ups Dwalin seemed to attract. The scene in front of him was all sharp outlines and colours so much brighter than they should have been in the dim light. The intensity of it was jarring. Dís was backed up against the far wall, an odd combination of terror and defiance in her eyes, struggling against their father who had her pinned against the rough stone. Dís was a tall dwarrowdam in her prime, but she did not stand a chance against a highly-trained and battle-hardened warrior. She didn't, he realised, because she did not want to hurt him, even though his weight on her wrists must have caused her pain.

"Forgive me!" Thráin shouted into her face. He kept repeating it, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, even as Thorin dragged him off, as Thorin pushed his own father as far away from his sister as he could. What had Thráin done to her that required forgiveness?

Thráin drifted back like a pendulum, like Dís was a magnet, continued to strain towards her even when Thorin grabbed him by the shoulders. Struggling to hold his father back, Thorin turned to his sister. Dís was still leaning against the wall, though she had sagged slightly, her chest heaving.

"You all right?" he asked and hated the words as soon as they left his mouth. Of course she wasn't.

Dís nodded her head jerkily, staring at him unseeingly.

"What's going on here?" Thorin asked, shaking his father. "What's happening?" Thráin looked up it him, his eyes wide. "Speak!" Thorin demanded.

"She's dead," Thráin said, his voice airy. Thorin wheeled around again, looking at Dís. Had he tried to...? If he... he couldn't even finish that thought.

Dís was slowly composing herself and waved away his concern. "'m fine," she said, but it came out tight and terse.

"She died," Thráin said, but he seemed as calm as if he were talking about the weather. "She died and now she has come back for me."

"What are you talking about?" Thorin asked, staring at his father, unable to place his words. "She's here."

"She has come back for me," Thráin repeated.

"She has been here the whole time, she stayed home with you because you didn't want to attend the celebration," Thorin said. "Father," he added pleadingly. "She is just taking care of you. Father, please."

"Father," Thráin repeated, as if he was trying the word on for size. Then he suddenly shrank away from Thorin and his voice was a pitiful whimper when he continued. "No, father, I tried, I tried, father, but she wouldn't... I killed her children. I killed them, father..."

"I'm not your father," Thorin shouted, shaking him roughly, trying to shake some sense into him. Had he been on the drink?

Thráin dodged his grip and retreated to the fireplace, leaning his forehead against the mantelpiece. Thorin allowed himself to breathe for a moment, although thoughts were still whirling in his head. He startled when Dís put a soft hand onto his forearm. She was still wide-eyed, but seemed calmer now that Thráin had settled somewhat.

"I don't know what happened," she said very softly, leaning into him as if she needed him to stay upright. "We were just talking... I was preparing the bread and he was telling me about Yule in Erebor. I don't know what triggered this..."

Thorin didn't know what to say, so he just put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her lithe form against himself. She was so strong, his little sister, so strong...

"They died, they all died," Thráin said, his voice flat and so removed that it made Thorin shiver. "They burned. We are all burning, burning, always burning. They all burned..."

He was viciously stabbing the fire with the iron poker, sparks flying everywhere. Thorin swallowed hard and gave his sister's shoulders another squeeze before he approached his father again.

He kept his voice as calm and even as he could. "We are all safe, adad, nobody is burning. Everybody is safe now."

"They all burned. The fire. The fire ate them. The dragon, it breathed fire and they burned, they all burned and then they burned again, the ones that fought, they burned..."

"We are safe," Thorin repeated, not knowing what else to say.

"We are all going to burn," Thráin said, not threatening, just observing, and his eerie calm made his words even worse. He held the poker like a sword, had it sheathed deep into the fire.

"But it's Yule, adad," Thorin said and felt like a young boy again. "The fires give us light, the fires are good tonight."

For a moment all was quiet except for Thorin's blood pounding in his ears.

Thráin wheeled around so fast, Thorin barely had time to react. He jerked back as the heavy iron poker was drawn towards him in a vicious arc, but the tip still landed on his unprotected wrist. He hissed in pain and surprise, taking another step back and cradling his hand against his chest. He was a smith, he got burns, he got burns all the time, he had scars up and down his arms, he was a smith and this was nothing unusual, but this was no careless gesture, this was no mindless scrap of metal, this was an attack, this was his father attacking him and that hurt more than the angry red mark on his skin.

The smell made him cringe, the smell of singed hair and skin so close to his nose. He hated that smell because it took him back, right back to... oh. Suddenly he realised where his father's mind had been and it took his breath away. They all burned.

He wanted to run.

He wanted to hide.

But he had to be strong and unbroken.

He had to.

My love, my dear, my darling thou;

Dís was singing, her voice wavering slightly, but still high and clear.

My joy, my fine young treasure thou;

Thráin's features, clenched in some mindless fury softened.

My splendid little child art thou;

Thorin wished they were still splendid little children

And blessed am I to tend thee now.

Dís slowly approached their father and gently took the poker from him, he gave it willingly.

May Mahal guide you;

Dís started the chorus.

May Mahal guide you;

Thráin's voice joined in, slowly, haltingly.

May Mahal guide you;

Dís smiled at him encouragingly and Thráin's voice grew stronger.

Let Him be your light.

Thorin fervently hoped that He would be their light.