The King of Carven Stone : Part II
Shades and Flames on Marble Walls (Erebor)
9.
Water.
Shadowed by clouds of dust, yet holding the toxic fumes at bay, its soft roaring barely audible among so many distressing sounds: screams, moans, shouts, running feet clashing on pebbles strewn across the riverbank. Creaking branches – blazing branches, sending glowing embers into the air that would fall on us like burnt stars or fire-flakes, making us flinch and twist, always wary. Afraid of fire for the very first time in our lives. Yearning for water.
I was swaying when I finally reached the river. I felt streams of water pooling around my legs, breaking against my thighs – I had got in up to the waist, and Dís' legs were still locked around my midriff, her arms clutching my neck painfully. And I suddenly realized it was the first time she was out of the Mountain. She could not swim, and the water terrified her.
"It is alright, Dís. I am here. Don't be afraid. I am going to kneel down, but I am holding you. We have to get all wet, there are still too many embers in the air."
She was still clinging to me when I knelt down, her eyes wide and her face pale under the soot. And it was only because I could not let go of her and had to reassure her that I managed to hold back my scream when the water touched my left forearm. I jerked it out of the river, holding Dís with my right arm only, shaking with pain in the cold water.
She let go of my waist, slowly, and tentatively tried to stand up in the water, her arms still grasping my shoulders. She was so small that my face was still above her even as we were, and she looked up at me, her eyes clouded with worry.
"It hurts you...", she whispered, and I did not try to deny it – I was still striving to keep my arm out of the water's bite, my position awkward and twisted, the pain so sharp that I could not speak.
"Put it on my arm, Thorin."
She had extended her own, tiny arm, her hand still resting on my shoulder. I can still picture it – the water pooling around us, its course unmoved by our small, still bodies, and her bare, honey-coloured skin, so soft and cold, so steady. My own arm, heavy, wrapped in burnt garments, what was left of my arm guard biting my skin, and the shake of my forearm when I rested it on hers.
There were tears in her eyes but her voice was steady when she spoke.
"I will put water on your hair and face. The embers won't harm you, I will not let fire touch you again."
She cupped her fingers and put her free hand in the water, and then she gently rinsed my hair, on and on, bending softly before stroking me, always careful not to touch my wound, and to keep my arm out of the stream.
"Do not move...", she whispered when I tried to help her, loosening my grip around her waist, and I circled it again, still shaking.
I closed my eyes when she bathed my face and it felt like tears, the water running down on my cheeks, Dís' touch so gentle, her fingertips stroking my face, brushing back my half-loosened braids, and then caressing the hard metal shielding my chest.
"You are so pale..."
I looked at her then, and saw her gaze, the pain in her eyes, and above all, the care and love she always bore within. I pulled her against me, briskly, almost making her trip, and then I began to shield her from fire as she had done for me. My moves were rough, I could not be as gentle as she had been, and I poured water on her until she was completely soaked, just to make sure she would never be harmed. Shielded, protected, out of evil's reach.
There were hot tears streaming down my face now, I could not hold them back, not anymore, and I just went on drenching her hair, her face, her back, with fierce, brisk moves, until she gently laid her face against my shoulder.
"It is alright, Thorin. I am safe now."
She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I stood up, slowly, pulling her against me, wanting her on my hip again, just as she was when I had faced evil, and she understood instantly.
She had left the sweet, innocent child I had loved so much behind her in the cold, struggling water, we both knew it, and yet she wrapped her legs around me once more and let me lift her. There I stood, in the river, just like moments before, but now I was drenched and broken and I was the one whose face was buried in her hair, my arm resting lifelessly against her back.
"Thank you", she whispered, as my tears were mingling with the water drenching her locks.
I shook my head, trying to fight back grief and pain, trying to find the strength to leave the water, to face fire and ashes once more.
Endure. We have to endure.
"No", I finally managed to answer, my voice broken and hoarse. "Thank you."
We faced each other in silence – our eyes a mirror, our souls mingled, a brief respite before we would be hurled again into chaos and hell. And then she gently brushed my tears away.
They were private, they belonged to us and to the water, and she knew I could not allow them to fall again, not anymore, for I was the King's grandson, perhaps the only male of Durin's line still alive, and I had to be strong and unwavering so that our people could survive.
"I will follow you wherever you lead us...", Dís whispered, and I closed my eyes, briefly, painfully, before I nodded.
I took a deep breath, and then I turned, leaving the cool, appeasing water where everything had seemed so silent, reaching for the riverbank and the nightmare that was still raging there.
A nightmare of heat, never-ending screams and hateful fumes. Between the swirls of smoke, I could see my people running, calling to each other, trying to find back to their families. And sometimes sitting, their shoulders slumped, arms wrapped around each other, their eyes lifeless in faces turned into masks of soot.
Dís gently freed me from her embrace, getting down, and it was then we heard it. The terrible scream, a Soul torn out of someone's body. We both turned, and saw a Dwarrowdam kneeling beneath a small, lifeless frame. She was rocking herself on her heels, still screaming, her fingers clutching the tiny silhouette at her feet, shaking it fiercely.
Shaking it in vain attempts to bring it back to life.
"I brought you out! We both ran out!"
Her voice was so hoarse, her face so desperate – I can still see her before me, I can still hear her. An old Dwarrowdam had stepped up to her, trying to embrace her, but she shook her off, still yelling.
"He's not burnt! Why won't he breathe?! Why don't you breathe – why would you... after everything..."
She started to sob after that, terrible, loud, heartbreaking sobs, and it was then Dís let go of my hand. I watched her walk up to the Dwarrowdam, slowly, her wet dress plastered against her tiny frame, and I saw her wrap her arms around her neck from behind, softly, drawing her distraught kinswoman against her.
She flinched and turned, and perhaps she recognized Dís and did not dare to shake her off, but I think not. For my sister's eyes were full of compassion and sadness – she knew that the deadly fumes raging inside the Mountain had killed the small Dwarfling, choking him before his mother could get him out, poisoning his lungs. And she was aware that she could have shared his fate, and that there were no words of comfort strong enough to be uttered here.
I turned from them – not because I did not care, but because I knew that staying there and watching such tremendous grief would break me, would tear my soul apart and send my mind raving.
For I do not have the strength that steels our women's hearts. All these years I have witnessed it, the way they would handle the most dreadful events. Crying loudly, screaming perhaps, not afraid to acknowledge the raging feelings in their Souls so that the world could see their grief and try to make amends. But never scared of so much pain, never hiding it away, and always sharing it between them, for there is a bond between women that is stronger than what we warriors could ever achieve, even on the battlefield.
It is the bond of blood. Blood flowing every month, unmentioned, hidden for fear of scaring us away – a secret between women, a private conversation each one of them could share, something that would always bind them. We warriors never talk about our injuries, we wear their marks on our bodies but do not evoke them once battle is over. Women talk – they help each other with the pain, with clean shreds of fabric, they are not afraid of handling blood as we are. For it means life to them, when it means death to us – I know that, though I cannot understand it. My sister told me so, years ago, after her second son was born, when she found out I would still turn pale when she mentioned his birth – I saw only blood, and the terrible risk of losing her, but Dís, she laughed. And then she put her arms around me, circling my waist, and whispered her secrets to me, trying to explain, trying to make me see and to take my fear away.
How I loved her. How I love her still.
My brave, wonderful sister who would face grief and pain where I could not. I turned from her, and then I searched for the place where they had brought the wounded – they were the first to attend to, and to be sheltered. I stopped close to every bent silhouette along the riverbank, and these words I repeated so often that I did not even have to think about them anymore after a while:
"If you can stand, follow me. If you are hurt, stay here, we will come back to you, I promise. Do not give in to despair, help will come."
And some followed – Dwarves and Dwarrowdams, wiping their faces, blinking at me as if waking up from a nightmare, and then nodding and standing up, following me along the riverbank. I was searching for Óin, for the women and the Dwarflings, for I knew that they must have gotten out, Frerin had made sure of it.
Frerin...
I was trying to help a Dwarf on his feet – he was not old, but his face fell when he tried to put weight on his injured leg and I gently made him sit again, promising him I would come back to him, when I suddenly heard a hoarse voice call my name.
"Thorin!"
I did not even have the time to look up. Suddenly I was in my brother's arms, feeling his tears on my shoulder, so overcome with relief that I barely had the strength to hug him back.
Frerin soon pulled away from me, wiping his face roughly, and then his eyes fell on my arm that was hanging limply against my side. He frowned, but I cut his words sharply.
"It's nothing."
My brother's eyes were wide with horror and I could see the clear marks tears had woven on his soot-stained face. He looked so young, so terribly young, but I could not allow myself to dwell upon such thoughts, not now, not until I was sure everybody was safe.
"Did you manage to get them out?"
There was no emotion in my voice, no wavering – nothing. I had asked as if it was just a simple question, a small business matter, not something that concerned the whole future of our race, and Frerin was taken aback by my coldness. Very well – it would not do for him to cry now. Not now, not today.
"Yes. All those who were in the upper halls. But the others...
- Frerin."
I cut him again when I saw tears welling again in his eyes, when I heard his voice break – yes, it was heartless, for I had cried too, but now was no time for it. He looked at me, and then he took some steps back, trying to fight back his grief.
"They are with the women. Óin and me, we made them regroup over there, away from the trees. There are mothers without Dwarflings, and Dwarflings without mothers, but some are still arriving.
- Good. And the wounded?"
His eyes still searched mine, he could not understand why I was speaking so calmly, why my tone remained so even, as if I barely cared.
"Still arriving. They are countless, Thorin.
- They are not. They will be counted, as will the dead, and we will forget no one. And now we go to them, and we try to help."
I had clenched my fists, both of them, and the pain in my arm shot through my elbow and shoulder. Nonetheless, I thanked Mahal for the rage and anger he must have poured in my soul, long before I was born. For rage was the fuel that kept me going, right now and for the next awful hours – I forced myself to think about the Elvenking, blessed with eternal life, never in danger to die and who still had not helped. I pictured him, on his big-horned beast, looking coldly down on us while our Dwarflings died inside, while our guards were slain by the Dragon, while Dís was going half-mad with fear and shock in my arms, and then leaving us to our fate.
Endure. We will endure nonetheless.
My brother and Óin had managed to lead at least two hundred of our women and Dwarflings out, and they had lost no time in trying to build a small camp. I could only admire how every single Dwarrowdam that was there had managed to keep calm enough to bring what was most needed: blankets, and the huge folded tents every family possessed – never needed since Thrór had entered the Mountain, yet still carefully kept and stored away.
The Dwarflings were around them, some of them crying or too stunned to stir, and the oldest among them trying to help our women. They were assembling the tents, silently, with swift, efficient moves, as if they had done it all their life, and yet most of them were born in the Mountain and had never dreamt to leave it.
I wish the Elvenking could have been there to see how they strived, our women, how despite tears running down on their cheeks they never paused until the tents were all mounted – until the symbols of every family in our clan that still had a living Dwarrowdam among its members were displayed on the riverbank, against the dark, heavy fabric that shielded both from cold and heat.
A mute proof that we could not be swept away so easily. The Mountain was ablaze, and the small, dark tents stood close to the river like tiny hills – dozens of them, each one promising shelter.
I helped them with Frerin, we gathered heavy rocks to pin the fabric to the ground, make sure the wind would not whirl them away. We did not speak, we barely touched, but sometimes our eyes would meet, and we both gathered strength from each other's gaze.
Óin had started to bring the wounded in one of the biggest tents, and we soon understood that we would need more than one for every injured Dwarf to be tended to. There would be wounded Dwarves in every single tent that night, and we tried to bring them all there, away from the trees, away from the burning Mountain that lighted this cursed evening like a second sun.
"Have you seen Balin?", I managed to whisper to Óin as I helped him to lay down the injured Dwarf whom I had promised to come back.
The healer shook his head silently, his gaze dark, and I felt grief tightening my throat and chest. I left the tent then – the wounded had all arrived, slowly, and the chaos had turned to a mournful gathering of Dwarves, around the tents and on the riverbank. No fires were lit that night, we had no need of it. No words either, except this one, anxious question, unspoken yet hovering like a ghost across the dark, roaring water.
Where was our King?
"Thorin..."
Óin had stepped out of the tent, trying to hold me back, but I was already walking away from the river, heading to the trees that lead back to the Mountain.
"Lad, please don't..."
But I could not – I could not listen to reason and abandon hope. I wanted Balin, I wanted my father, I could not bear to think they had fallen, and were left to decay in the Mountain's heat. It was a desperate attempt, but if I could try to get back inside and find them, if they were still alive...
But Mahal spared me that day. For I had barely reached the first trees when I saw them arrive. Their beards singed, their faces hollow. My father, shoulders slumped, his feet dragging on the ground, leaning on Balin who was limping himself. And my grandfather walking behind, alone, seemingly unharmed, his gaze wild and bright – our King, without crown or Jewel, yet alive.
I had stopped walking and just stood there, too haggard to feel relief, too exhausted to find words to ask how they had managed to get out, how this miracle was possible.
I just remember thinking that I was saved now. Thrór and Thráin were alive – injured perhaps, but alive. I could lay down this terrible burden, there was no need to lead anymore, I could rest now – my father was there, and my grandfather. We had a King again, and thank Mahal, thank Mahal it was not me – it did not have to be me.
My grandfather walked briskly, and he soon overtook Balin and my father, without even looking at them. He reached me but did not speak to me, giving me only a clouded look, and then his gaze fell on the camp stretched onto the riverbank.
He froze then, and stared wide-eyed at his people. He listened to the moaning and crying, soft yet worse than any Dragon roar, and then he just fell on his knees and rocked himself, on and again, lost to anybody else.
I would learn later from Balin what happened. My grandfather had been in the Treasure Hall when the attack started, and once it became clear that the Dragon had entered Erebor his only thoughts had been about the Arkenstone. He had rushed to the Throne, had unfastened it from the stone and had returned to the Treasure, determined to face the Dragon and defend his gold.
But Thráin knew his father well. Both him and Balin had endured the Dragon's attack, first on the ramparts, and then close to the main door. A falling pillar had been close to crush Balin's leg, and my father had been hurled against the wall, several of his ribs snapping as he hit the stone. But they were both warriors, and the oath they had taken to protect their King was above any pain.
They both made for the Treasure Hall, my father leading, and it was there they found Thrór, only seconds before the Dragon entered it himself, crushing down the last wall. Thráin grabbed his father by the waist, trying to drag him out, and then it happened.
My grandfather dropped the Arkenstone, and watched it fall down the steps, burying itself into the hills of gold he had guarded so jealously – he tried to reach for it before it vanished, but my father was holding him firmly, pulling him back. He was stronger than Thrór that day, and he shielded him when the Dragon drew out fire, pinning him to the ground just as he had done for me. The rest of his life he would bear the marks of the Dragon's breath, on his chest, his thighs, his arms – tiny marks where his mesh coat had left its prints. Balin helped him to get Thrór out, and they were struggling through the staircases, had almost reached the main Hall when suddenly my father stopped.
He did not say a word, he just let go of Thrór's arm and started to head for another staircase. And Balin was left with his struggling, shouting King – for Thrór only thought about his gold and his stone, and was trying to break free from Balin's grasp – torn between the duty to his King, and the friendship and love he had for my father who had vanished, returning to the fire.
He chose duty – Balin always chose duty.
And it was when he had abandoned all hope, when he had thought that Thráin was lost forever, when they had left Erebor already, that he suddenly saw him. Climbing down the Mountain, something heavy fastened on his back, his beard singed, swaying, his face drawn and his eye bright, yet unfocused and haunted. Balin just had time to let go of Thrór to catch him in his arms – he never asked anything of my father, never, and I wish he had, but Balin was a true friend to Thráin. Never forced his confidence, and never judged him – just like he did for me.
How we must have hurt him, though.
I ran up to him and to my father when it became clear that no help would come from my grandfather, and when he recognized me Balin had a gasp. He let go of my father, softly, and then he raised a hand to his lips.
"Thank Mahal...", he whispered, and I saw him avert his face, biting his knuckles so as to avoid weeping.
He walked to Óin who embraced him, silently, and I was left with my father who staggered slightly without Balin's support, his gaze still unfocused and restless. He was breathing heavily, and when I stepped up to him, calling him gently, he flinched and searched my face. And suddenly he grabbed my arm, his look wild and desperate, and I almost doubled up in pain, for his fingers dug deep in my burns.
"He is inside. He is with her."
I laid my hand on his, gently, trying not to wince as I made him loosen his grip, stroking his fingers.
"I know, Father. I have seen him."
Thráin grabbed my hand then, crushing my fingers, seemingly forgetting who I was.
"He – is – defiling – her – grave."
He had howled the words, like a madman, and I stared at him in shock as he started to weep – horrible, silent tears only drenching half of his face. He was still wringing my bones, as if I was an enemy he tried to fight, and suddenly he broke down against me, his heavy frame against my chest, and I struggled to maintain him.
"Somebody help me."
I whispered the words as I was trying to keep my father from falling down and crushing me.
"Please."
And thank Mahal, help was near and help came. Balin and Óin dragged my father from me, and he howled and tried to hit them as if he was going mad, and mad he seemed to me, as I saw him struggle while they led him to the tents to tend to his many wounds.
I was left there, standing, my world burnt to ashes and smoke once more. And it was then I saw the heavy burden my father had carried, abandoned on the ground during his struggle with Balin and Óin. I stared at it, recognizing the black and soft velvet, the graceful curve.
My mother's harp. Out of everything, out of every soul trapped in Erebor, my father had brought back her harp only.
Something hot rose in my throat and I fell to my knees, slowly, trying to fight back the image of him racing past the staircases, the panicked Dwarves, the screaming Dwarflings, just to get the instrument. Wasting precious moments, almost losing his life, oblivious to the distress around him, just for her harp. It was awful, it was horrible, it was mad and wrong, and it made me sick.
I bent forward then, finally giving in, finally breaking down. Ashes and bile I threw up, for there was nothing left in my body – the attack had lasted for hours, almost an entire day, and it was night now.
It would always be night now.
I shivered as I wiped my mouth, feeling cold sweat drench my body. And then I rose to my feet.
I looked at the harp – and then I walked away. It would be there tomorrow, nobody would bother to take it, and I had no strength left in me to carry it.
I was walking slowly, my legs heavy and my arm ablaze, and almost stumbled into Frerin.
"Óin wants you...", he said, and I just nodded.
My brother took me by the arm and led me to the tents, and I tensed when I heard the moaning grow louder, when I heard the screams of pain and the sobs. I did not want to hear, I did not want to witness, I just wanted to lie down and cover my ears – but I could not.
Endure.
So I walked into the tent, expecting it to be my father's, to see his massive frame stretched on the ground, reaching out in frenzy as he struggled and screamed.
But Thráin was not there. There was only Óin, and Dís, the old Dwarrowdam that had tried to comfort the poor, childless mother and several little Dwarflings that were huddled together, their faces white and emotionless, while another Dwarrowdam tried to hush them with appeasing words.
"Sit down, lad."
Frerin made me sit on the ground – I had no strength, no energy left to move, and when Óin knelt down next to me I could only whisper:
"Where is he?
- We took care of him...", was his only answer, and then he gently took my injured arm and laid it in his lap.
"You have faced him, right? The Dragon...", he asked, as he considered the wound with a frown, his face darkening.
I nodded, and Óin shook his head.
"Damn him. Damn his folly and selfishness, leaving the lads to take care alone...", he muttered, and I did not dare to ask who he meant. "You should have come long ago."
I just turned my face from him. I could hear one Dwarfling cry, and the soft song the old Dwarrowdam had begun to sing, trying to calm him down – it was a sad, wordless chanting, the melody repeating itself endlessly, like a mournful lullaby.
Frerin was still holding my hand, his fingers entwined with mine, and at a sign from Óin he circled my waist with his other arm, drawing me close to him.
"It is going to hurt, lad...", Óin warned me, as he started pouring water on my wound, slowly.
My breath choked and I instinctively tried to snatch my arm from him, but Frerin's grasp was firm and so was Óin's.
"Easy...", he muttered, still soaking my forearm, and as racking waves of pain went through my body, I finally dared to look at the wound.
My tunic and arm-guard had burnt under the Dragon's breath, and the molten leather had pressed the cloth deep into my flesh. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, but the throbbing only grew worse. Óin gently removed the burnt pieces of my arm-guard, and Frerin pressed my face into his chest, his fingers still around mine.
"Just hold tight...", he whispered, and I clutched my brother's hand – my brother, the youngest Dwarf of Durin's line, yet the only one who had not lost himself in grief and madness.
Óin pulled the shreds of fabric from the wound, and my skin with it, or so it seemed. I was so curled up in pain that I could feel my own body heat, and the sweat that drenched my chest and forehead, but I did not moan. I just buried my face deeper in my brother's chest, breathing in his scent – even through the smoke, there it was, the faintest trace of sun-baked earth, and I clung to it.
I felt Óin's deft fingers on my skin, and then the biting of cold water around my arm as he plunged it into a basin. The pain worsened if possible, and I felt the world getting duller and silent around me as consciousness was leaving me. But just before I could give in to darkness and oblivion, the throbbing began to recede. Slowly, the fire in my arm started to ebb, and my fingers relaxed slightly around Frerin's. I opened my eyes and turned to Óin, cautiously, wondering what he did and wary lest the pain shot up again.
"Water."
He smiled at me, still able to marvel at Nature's powers despite everything he had been through that day. He always found his treasures there, even in old age – healer in body, mind and soul.
"Nothing better against Dragon-fire, once you are past the first ache. I wish I could find some herbs to ease the pain, and something to dress the wound. But I fear I can only offer you water, lad.
- It... it feels better. Thank you... Óin."
He bowed as I whispered his name and I sat up to bathe my wound myself. Frerin let go of me but stayed close, and it was then we heard Dís speak.
"Take this. You use it, for everyone needing bandages."
She handed her under-dress to Óin, wearing her dress onto the skin, and he blushed – despite the fact that Dís was a ten-year old Dwarrowlass with narrow hips and a flat chest.
Her blue eyes were bright, decided, despite the weariness and despair in her childish features, and when he did not move she shoved the cloth in his chest.
"I don't need it. No Dwarrowdam needs it. They will all be glad to give it away, and they are cleaner than Dwarven clothes anyway."
As incredible as it might seem, in the midst of all this despair, I heard the old Dwarrowdam chuckle, softly, in a cracked voice. And the younger one smiled too, hiding it quickly by bending towards a Dwarfling.
"You take it, Óin...", the old Dwarrowdam said. "Don't be such a prig. She could have offered you mine."
Frerin gasped close to me and suddenly I had to laugh. I bent towards the basin, ashamed, trying to repress it, but I could not. My nerves had given way after so many horrors, and I laughed until my ribs hurt, silently, my hand pressed to my lips. Óin's grumbling and huffing did nothing to help, and when he finally began tearing Dís' cloth to make bandages of it, I was almost choking.
There was certainly no reason to be laughing on a day as desolate as this, but I couldn't stop. I laughed like others cry, not stopping even when he bandaged my arm – and he did it somewhat roughly, clearly annoyed by the situation, struggling to maintain his dignity.
Everyone in the tent was smiling once he finished with me, even the small, orphaned Dwarflings, some of them giggling as they saw me wipe away tears of laughter.
"You crazy pack of youngsters... ", Óin huffed, getting up with a groan. "And with due respect, you are no better, batshûna Itô. No better at all."
He left the tent then, shaking his head, and slowly, our laughter ebbed. The old Dwarrowdam – Itô – bowed her head towards me, offering me one last smile, and then she resumed her singing, as if nothing had happened. Dís came close to me and Frerin and I embraced them both, feeling exhaustion invading my body.
I closed my eyes then, unable to fight sleep anymore, and I was beginning to drift off when I suddenly felt a shy tug on my leg.
"Shhhh..."
I opened my eyes and saw the young Dwarrowdam hold back a small, chestnut-haired Dwarfling. She looked at me, her eyes apologizing and her face drawn and sad.
"I am sorry, my lord. He doesn't understand. I think he liked to see you laugh, and he keeps trying to get to you."
Frerin and Dís were both asleep, their bodies huddled in my arms, and I blinked, my own lids heavy with sleep.
"Just let him. I don't mind."
She let go of the Dwarfling and he staggered to me, his small face beaming. I felt him bounce against my leg and then he lay down on the floor, hugging my knee, his face pressed against my thigh.
"Sleep, nadnith.", I murmured.
For you survived.
I don't remember stretching on the ground but I must have, for when I woke up I was lying in the tent and it was still dark. I had felt hands and feet against my body during my broken rest, and thought it must have been Dís or Frerin. But when I recovered slightly I noticed that the little Dwarfling was not the only one who had sought us. Half of them were stretched next to us, their little bodies entangled with ours. Dís was holding one of them, Frerin two others, and the chestnut-haired Dwarfling slept curled against my chest.
The two Dwarrowdams were also asleep, I could hear their breathing and saw that the rest of the Dwarflings was huddled against them. Silent and peaceful. Resting before the horrors of the following morning.
"We will endure...", I promised myself, breathing the words into the curls of the little one sleeping against me.
We will endure.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations :
- batshûna : literally "old silver-lady", but in my headcanon a battle-distinction for Dwarrowdams who fought the Drakes in the Grey Mountains when Thror became King. Itô is one of those.
- nadnith : young boy.
