Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Chapter 10: There hammer on anvil smote

Second Age, 629

When Blain woke, it was to the sound of his own breath whistling in and out of his throat, as if through the hollow reeds that grew along the Great River. His head pounded in time to his heart, and much of his body ached. His face and mouth felt puffy, as if he had been beaten, but without the sharp sting of bruises, his skin tight and stretched instead. Everything itched, but someone was holding his hands down at his sides, and he squirmed, his arms, neck and head hot. Eyes squeezed shut, he tried to swallow, something heavy and cold pressing upon his throat, and choked instead. What was crawling on him? Why would they not allow him to swat it away?

He wanted his mother! Where was his mother? She would make it better, make it go away as she always did-

"Blain!"

Hands were lifting him into a seated position, something soft positioned behind to keep him upright, and a sliver of ice passed quaking lips to melt against his too large tongue. A hand ran gently through his hair, soothing, as cool water was patted on his face.

"Shhh... it's alright, you're alright. Just let the ice melt and trickle down your throat."

It was a dwarrowdam, fooling him into thinking she came in answer to his wish for long enough for him to begin to calm before memory dumped its brutal truth upon him once more. This was not his beloved mother, but at least it was a friend. Lani, the young healer's apprentice whom his cousin Thain was smitten with.

"That's it. Deep breaths, lad, as deep and slow as you can. It's alright, you are not alone. It's alright to cry if you feel you need to."

Someone else was in front of him, but he did not open his eyes to look, merely allowed a single tear to trickle down his face. He had been so afraid, so certain that he would not wake again! The wet thing about his neck was unwrapped and he shuddered, grateful when it was replaced by a fresh, dry cold instead. The air felt good as it rasped past tender tissues, filling his lungs again and again, though each breath was still a struggle. He wanted to suck it in as fast as possible, but Lani's coaching in his ear forced him to control the impulse. It was hard not to give into the panic, to lash out at what choked him. Another ice sliver was offered, which he immediately accepted, delighting at the faint traces of honey someone must have poured on the snow to freeze. Opening his eyes, he met the kind eyes of the royal healer.

"That's it, lad, now a little swallow."

Blain frowned, unwilling to subject himself to the pain sure to come, but obediently did so as the healer's eyes narrowed warningly. Surprisingly, the cold kept the discomfort at bay, though when he opened his mouth to say as much, the other hushed him.

"No talking, lad. I think you're over the worst of it now, but we'll watch you for a bit longer. Lani will help you with some more ice, then I want you to rest again. You gave everyone quite the scare."

His eyes widened at that, darting to the door of the healing chamber and the older dwarf nodded.

"He's out there pacing, along with Reglin and Master Nyrath. Would you like to see him?"

When the king came to call upon someone, it was not exactly a matter of 'if you would like', nephew or not. Blain gave a short nod, grimacing at the renewed pain in his head as the dwarrowdam slipped another ice piece into his mouth, giving him a smile before rising.

"No lying flat for now, Blain. To aid your breathing. I'll go give Thain and the others waiting the news that you're awake so you and the king may have some privacy, then I'll be back."

Being alone with his uncle was about the last thing Blain wanted at the moment, but he obediently nodded, knowing how much trouble he had already caused. The young dwarf was not certain what to expect as his uncle entered, but it was not what he received. The distraught older dwarf was still in fine robes, obviously having been interrupted at court, but there was absolutely no trace of anger in his eyes.

Instead, the king seemed to be noting every feature and part of his young nephew, as if mentally tallying the hurts, deep sorrow and guilt growing with the list. Hitting his knees by the bed, for the first time since his sister's death the king wordlessly hugged his nephew and allowed the tears of shock and sorrow to flow. The king's eventual murmur was the best comfort that Blain could have received.

"My lad... My precious sister-son... We will make this right. I swear to you. No more."

Six Days before Durin's Day

Walk of Remembrance

"He couldn't eat eggs, could he? Like me."

Fílan's eyes were wide in realization of a common trait with one of his ancestors, fork poised halfway between plate and mouth. It was an odd place to have a meal, deep within the tombs, but it was necessary, for the walk would last at least two more hours. Some of the older nobles could not tolerate such a long time between meals when coupled with the physical exertion, so they stopped for a simple repast.

"No, he could not." Thorin acknowledged, gladly handing his own off to Fíli.

The mere sight of hard-boiled eggs had always turned his stomach, though he liked the taste of them. Now he knew why.

"Thankfully, Master Nyrath was an intelligent dwarf. He immediately sent someone to the tanneries for linseed oil, a remedy for such thing, and added some Elgaran, an antitoxin, for good measure. He also forced Blain to vomit and monitored his breathing, but it was too close for comfort. Reglin knew the queen would not relent, so between the two of them, they conspired to have the king grant a full apprenticeship, which meant Blain would live with Nyrath. It wasn't actually hard to convince him, given the quality of Blain's work already and the suspicions the king had about his spouse, especially when Prince Thain interceded to support the whole thing."

The simple gratitude of an innocent child unable to believe he was finally delivered from his daily hunger stoked Thorin's anger again. No child of Durin should ever have known the pinch of the empty stomach, especially in the midst of the plenty that was Khazad-dûm at its height. The fact that little could actually be done about the queen made it all worse, as she simply said her sons ate the same meal during their training. No one bothered to point out that the princes had been doing mostly sitting work, reading law, history, and other such subjects, not hot physical labor.

"I thought dwarflings were the most precious of treasures. How could the queen treat him in such a way?"

Frodo sounded ready to find Sting and stick it in the long dead queen were Thorin but to point her out to him, and the dwarf king would be hard pressed not to join him. A muted noise from over Frodo's head distracted him. On the hobbit's other side, Aragorn was covering his laugh while his wife, Arwen, looked on with exasperation.

"And I thought Pippin was the one we would have to watch on this trip." The King of Gondor remarked lightly. "I think this one, like the three trolls, will evade your righteous indignation, Frodo."

"I do not care to see or hear about others treated so, that's all, Aragorn." Frodo was high on his dignity, frowning at the former Ranger. "Especially a child."

"Peace, Ringbearer." Thorin smiled at the hobbit. "I did not tell these tales to upset you, but to remind us all of how precious every child of any race is, for we do not know what they might become. I almost wish the queen had lived to realize the depth of her mistake, though Blain did get a revenge of sorts."

Second Age, 699

Blain swung down from his pony with a weary sigh, casting a glare up at the overcast sky that threatened to dump yet another cold spring rain on the travelers. To his left, the trees of Lindórinand were a dark smudge in the distance, while the mountains ahead loomed ever larger before them with every hoof beat. At least they had forded the Anduin before the spring run-off made it completely impassible without a boat!

"Shall we camp here, or do you feel able to push on to the city? 'Tis almost dark already."

The question was addressed to his wife, a lovely dwarrowdam with iron-grey hair, though she was barely past her fiftieth year. Frey was of the Stonefoots, an eastern clan known for their odd hair colors, including a black so dark that it was almost blue, stone grey, and a blonde that was almost white, mimicking the rock they were made from. Frey, who had never been all that comfortable riding, slid from her own pony with a heartfelt sigh, glancing up at the towering mountains before them.

"We are almost there, aye?"

Blain could not help smiling at that, knowing exactly what was running through her mind.

"Aye, and that means you can get off that beast all the sooner."

"Good!" The lady planted her hands on her hips. "Dwarrow feet were meant to be planted on stone; dense, immovable, solid rock, not dangling in the air atop an unruly creature!"

The glare she gifted her mount with was returned by a wet sneeze directly into her face, provoking an aggravated moan from the dwarrowdam.

"You see, my husband! It is not I alone who harbor such feelings!"

Blain laughed at that, planting a kiss on her nose as he helped her remount before swinging back aboard his own pony and kicking the shy beast into another ground-eating trot. He could not help it, he so loved her clipped eastern speech and occasional odd phrasing! Her people were historically more isolated, he had learned upon their visit to her home, traditionally speaking only Khuzdul until the age of forty or fifty when they would begin to learn Westron, Middle Earth's common language. This was the exact opposite of their current practice in Khazad-dûm, where Khuzdul was jealously guarded for use in private or in rituals, not taught to the young until they were old enough to respect the secret.

Of course, the kingdom under the Misty Mountains was also fast becoming a center of trade, with up to four or five different languages heard in the great market on any day, even elves being tolerated. The merchants and diplomats had both recently petitioned the king to bar the teaching of Khuzdul to any outsider, no matter how much a part of the city they became, without the express permission of the King's Council, preferring to have one language that others could not overhear and understand. Of course, the priests of Mahal had been quick to seize upon the excuse, suddenly citing previously obscure texts as saying that Mahal meant the language for dwarrow alone, a sacred gift of their creator.

"Aye, and I know the Stonefoot opinion on ponies, too, so you needn't say it! One end drools and bites, the other stinks and kicks, and the middle is none too comfortable, either!"

Frey's answering laugh was a full-throated expression of joy that echoed back from the nearby rocky cliffs, not some nervous twitter or tiny squeak that was all the rage with the ladies of men and had recently jumped to dwarrow as well. As Blain's own mirth bubbled over, unable to be contained any longer in the presence of his lady's own, he could only wonder at the good fortune that made this dwarrowdam his wife. Who would have imagined that an arranged marriage, sought to mix blood ties with those of diplomacy, could turn out to be one of deep love? After witnessing his uncle's sham of a marriage, certainly not him!

He had grown up knowing that the nephew of a king, no matter how far down the line of succession, had value, especially for Durin's Folk, the most prosperous of all dwarrow, and that it would almost certainly mean he would not be free to choose his own mate. Resigned to the sacrifice, he had thrown himself into his craft, gaining master status before his eightieth year, hoping to use it as an escape from what would be a loveless alliance with a much younger dwarrowdam. The only satisfaction he had derived came in the form of subtle revenge upon the queen, aided by the king!

The pledging was in the halls of the Stonefoots, but the marriage a year later, by ancient tradition, took place in Khazad-dûm, forcing the attendance of his aunt, much to her disgust. In an attempt to outshine the bride, the queen had insisted that she and her sons needed new crowns, as the tasteful small circlets they had previously worn would never do; they matched what Blain and Frey themselves would wear as members of the royal family. The king, desperate to keep the peace in his household, had given in, but then she demanded they be done in mithril and gold, and of course, only the finest smith would do. His uncle had grit his teeth, smiled, and commissioned them – from Blain, the acknowledged master of such fine mithril work. Not that he had told the queen that until after she had approved the final work and praised it publicly; ostentatious, but as tasteful and elegant as Blain could possibly make them. Now the queen fumed every time they were required to be worn.

Blain had gone into the marriage intending to make the best of it, and perhaps find a solid friendship. Instead, he had not only found his match in love, but also in craft. Frey's etchings added beauty and style to otherwise functional weapons in a way that made even the master smiths of the elves take notice, and her fine work with wire, when added to Blain's base, was exquisite. Orders had come from as far away as the elven high king's court in Lindon and the Isle of Numeanor itself, notoriously isolationist. With their return to the city, both he and his wife were to accept apprentices, an unheard-of achievement, for it meant all other craftmasters in the kingdom had judged them worthy. Now, at ninety-nine, the only thing lacking in his life was a child, but there would be plenty of time for that!

The months at the Stonefoot halls, Ardâmbarg-dûm, had been both long overdue and surprisingly pleasant. While not of a scale with Khazad-dûm, the halls had been beautiful in their own way, carved into the deep red stone for which the mountain range received its name. Frey had certainly been happy to be home, and Blain had found several new smithing techniques he was eager to try adapting to mithril. The only other time he had been there, for his and Frey's pledging, he had been too nervous to appreciate the caverns. Those contented thoughts were enough to distract him as the landscape became more and more familiar.

An hour later, as the gloom of twilight settled around them, heralding the swiftly approaching night, they paused, and Blain's stomach knotted in a way it should not for one upon the threshold of home. Below them, the dale that usually rang with hammer and chisel working on the monument to Durin I, and the shouts of dwarrow, men, or elves lining up pack ponies and wagons sat oddly silent. A light rain pattering on the stone was the only sound, even the mountain lichen that should be a riot of color in the spring a dark, burned black smear upon the rocks.

He had known something had to be badly amiss, of course, or his uncle never would have ordered him home before the six-month long visit to his wife's kin was complete, but what could be so drastic that it would require his presence instead of that of his three cousins, the king's own sons and heirs? The order had borne the seal of his uncle, which meant the king himself had not unexpectedly passed, so why else-

A jolt between his shoulder blades knocked the air from his lungs as he was pushed hard into the pommel of the saddle, the arrow, oddly shortened, making a metallic clank as it bounced to the rock of the roadway. Even as the dwarf struggled to turn, and regain his breath, more arrows whistled through the air, deflected by the hasty raising of shields by the two guards who rode at their sides. A moment later, though, one of those dwarrow went down, limp body sprawling to the earth with an arrow protruding from his eye.

With a roar of outrage for this attack upon the very doorstep of his home, Blain kicked his feet loose of the saddle and leapt to the ground, planting himself as he swung the great war ax off his back. A goblin, face and body twisted by disease, shrieked as his weapon bit deeply, black blood flowing from a mortal wound. Nearby, another of the creatures was wrestling with an odd weapon that looked as if someone had taken a child's toy bow and mounted it crosswise on wood. With another guttural bellow, the dwarf ensured that the thing could not be used again, even if its bearer had lived beyond the next moment.

The smith smiled grimly as he caught a flash of silvery-white out of the corner of his eye, Frey undoubtedly making short work of her own attackers. The mithril blade she bore would easily slice through the few bits of shoddy armor that their foes wore! Two more goblins crowded in, probably hoping to force him into leaving himself open to one while defending against the other, but dwarrow, unlike these dark creatures, were not so easily taken down.

A swift elbow knocked one aside while the blade of his ax separated the other from its head, but before he could return to his first opponent, the goblin sprouted a sword blade through his chest. Frey's smile as she kicked free the body was feral, daring him to object to her unsolicited aid. He contented himself with rolling his eyes in annoyance as he tossed a small dagger from his belt at the foe attempting to take his wife from behind, not interested in earning another landing on his backside during their next sparring session by saying more. He had not known how truly he wrought when he decided upon the mithril weapon as a pledging gift!

"Blain! Behind!"

The quick shout had him spinning before she completed his name, though he almost missed when the goblin was shorter than he expected. As it was, sparks flew as his ax was stopped short by the rough blade of the twisted little creature, then the shoddy iron forging gave way, spraying both combatants with shards of metal as Blain ended its life. Silence; only the harsh breathing of the three surviving dwarrow gave life to the dale. The cuts on his face and hands from the fragments of his foe's former weapon were beginning to sting and burn, blood and water running into his right eye momentarily blinding him.

Where were the guards of Khazad-dûm? Even if they had not been able to see the fight through the rain, they surely should have heard it!

"Blain? You are well?"

"Just a few cuts, Frey. We need to move. Now."

"Aye," The guard, an older dwarf who normally oversaw the weapons training of the youngest children, sounded grim, eyes meeting that of his charges with a deep unease. "I've never heard of goblins this close to the gates of the city before. Something is badly wrong here."

"I know."

Blain's whisper held all of his own dark fears and nightmares as he grabbed the reins of his pony and pulled his wife up before him, glad at least two of the beasts had not bolted, though their baggage was long gone. With the click of hooves on stone the only sound, the three dwarrow rode hard for the dark, empty hole that was the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm.