"Fine work," Dwalin praised. "Now focus on the tip. You want to round it off a bit more so it doesn't tear your clothing to shreds."
The lad beamed up at him and carefully took the tooth back. Dwalin had taught him how to file and polish the warg's teeth that had been removed from his bones. He had no special attachment to the nasty things. They served only as reminders of his great failure, his failure to protect those dearest to him as well as his failure to just finally give in and die. Estel on the other hand regarded them as his most prized possessions.
"How old are you?" the boy asked, not even looking up from his work.
"I'll be a hundred and seventy this summer," Dwalin answered. He was still a dwarf in his prime and not precious about such information.
"Oooh," Estel exclaimed. "We are almost the same age! I'm eleven next week!"
Dwalin was about to point out that his arithmetic was a bit off and they were nowhere close to being the same age, but the youngster did not give him an opportunity to speak as he once again launched into incessant chatter.
"You are the youngest person I have ever talked to! Except for my mother of course, she is very young as well, but all the others here are at least two thousand years older than me. Even my brothers – oh you haven't even met them! Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, they look a lot like me, but they are two thousand eight hundred and eleven. They are great, but sometimes they tell me I'm too young to do things, like ride out on patrol with them or attend a council meeting. It's really fun to meet somebody who is my age!"
Twin brothers, apparently, though they did not seem to be any more mortal than the Elf the boy called Ada. Dwalin filed that bit of information away. At least the boy's mother – from what he had said his actual mother! – seemed to still be alive. A mother, no father, but a father figure who was also the ruler of his home. The parallels between Estel and Fíli and Kíli were astonishing.
Just as Estel was telling him about a secret council meeting that he had managed to overhear by hiding up in the rafters above the meeting hall – yet another thing he had in common with Kíli – a sharp knock on the door interrupted them and the Elven guard announced Balin. In the blink of an eye, the boy had hidden the teeth and tools and was refilling a mug of water on the nightstand.
"I was just seeing to your brother's comfort, Master Balin," he said with a low bow and left the room. Dwalin did not want him to leave, much preferred his easy companionship over his brother's looming presence.
"Oh Dwalin, what have you done," Balin said, looking him up and down. Dwalin did not reply, but attempted to look dignified even though he was tucked into bed like a dwarfling and wrapped in bandages like an invalid. Next thing he knew, his brother was embracing him fiercely, half lifting him from the pillows and pressing their foreheads together. Dwalin hissed in pain, partially from his broken rib and aggravated wound, but mostly from the realisation that reality had caught up with him again. His brutal reality had walked in the door hand in hand with Balin, had been waiting for him all this time even as he recuperated in the company of the regal Elf lord and the delightful child.
"What were you thinking, you silly boy, you never are going to grow out of causing me no end of worry," Balin chided, but his tone was gentle and Dwalin let himself relax into the embrace for a moment. This was reminiscent of better times, this was what their relationship had been like before any of this had happened, before the quest for Erebor and its aftermath had destroyed everything, or at the very least before it had destroyed Dwalin.
Balin told him that he cared, Balin told him that he worried, Balin told him that he loved him despite everything. It was good and it was comforting and really, Dwalin knew all of that. But it was not enough, not enough to make up for his failure to protect those who had been dearest to him, not enough to allow him to live with what he had done. He didn't say that, but he did not say much else either when Balin asked about how he was. He was, that should be enough. Yes, there was pain, but it was inconsequential. Yes, he was healing, he would be ready for duty soon, whatever duty might mean now. Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were dead and Dís ignored him. Balin praised the Maker for keeping Dwalin alive, but Dwalin silently questioned His wisdom – to be alive was one thing, but a dwarf needed a purpose in life and he had lost the last shred that had remained of his. There was only Balin now, Balin who wanted him to live for whatever reason.
"I've not done a very good job of being your older brother," Balin said with a sigh.
"You are a great brother," Dwalin answered without even thinking. He really was a great brother. They had had many good years together, but now that did not seem to matter any more, it all paled in comparison to the blackness that was on his mind. But Balin was here. He had to hold on to that, Balin was here with him and Balin still cared for him. He had to hold on.
"I can never hope to be what Thorin was to you," Balin said. "Nobody will ever replace him. But maybe... maybe I can help to keep his memory alive, to complete what he has started..."
Dwalin looked at him, saw his brother eager to make it all better, to make some sense of their situation. Unquenchable Balin, always scheming, always finding a way out, a way forward. But nothing that Thorin had started could be completed. Erebor was reclaimed, the line of Durin was destroyed. Thorin had done a pretty thorough job of both.
"Under his leadership we reclaimed the home of our fathers," Balin continued. "And even though it ended disastrous, his quest has shown that it is possible, that we have the power to reclaim what was once ours. We could do it again and we could do it properly! We have learned our lessons from this. Once Erebor is stable and prospering, let's apply ourselves to a new task to honour Thorin's memory and to restore the Longbeards to their proper place just like he wanted to – let's go out and reclaim Moria!"
Dwalin lurched upwards at that, pain be damned. He shouted, could not believe his brother's stupidity. But Balin remained adamant. Think about it, it is an opportunity to leave our mark, an opportunity to prove our worth, you are a great warrior, honour Thorin by applying your skills to an even greater task. Dwalin tried to dissuade him, but Balin would not budge. He had a counterargument for everything Dwalin could think of, and finally Dwalin gave up, he just stopped, he had nothing more to say, there was nothing left for him to say or do. The last one who cared about him was desperate to throw himself down the throat of a balrog for some stupid notion of honour and some calling that apparently came with their lineage. A calling to die, nothing else!
"I'm tired," Dwalin finally said, turned his head away and closed his eyes. He knew he could not sleep, but he had to get out of this somehow. He really just wanted to run away, or to knock Balin's head against the wall until he saw some sense, but as appealing as these options were, neither one was possible at the moment. The only way out was to feign sleep. Balin sighed, remained perched on the edge of the bed for a good while longer as Dwalin tried to even out his breaths, but eventually he gave up.
Was his only purpose in life to watch those around him perish? Was he to be the one to record the deaths, to carry the bodies, to stand guard next to the dead forever? Was the only thing that came from loving another the excruciating pain following their death? Who else was he destined to fail? His kings, his princes, his queen, his brother... he had failed them all, he was still failing them now. He seemed to love only to lose.
Small hands were on his and he realised that he had covered his face. He moved his hands and found himself looking into very young and very concerned grey eyes. He had not meant to upset the boy. He was still so young, so innocent. Just like Kíli was before you cut his throat. Dwalin closed his eyes and drew up the blanket to cover his face. He could not look at the boy right now. Soon, so soon he is going to die, or worse he is going to watch those he loves die. Estel busied himself in the corner where the Elf had prepared his healing supplies. He was so young, but so kind, so helpful, so caring. How long until those he cares for die? Until it's not just a matter of changing bandages or fetching soup? Until he has to make decisions over life and death? Until he is broken and crushed? The lad poured water into a metal basin. Not another healing drought. There was nothing to be healed here, this was just reality that had barged back into the room.
Suddenly, the air seemed fresher, brighter somehow, like dipping into the cool water of a clear mountain spring after a long, hot day in the forge. A special smell spread through the room, one that Dwalin could not quite place, but it reminded him of coming home from a journey, of walking across the meadows by the river on a summer's day when the sheets had been washed and lay spread out on the grass, gleaming white in the sunshine. He felt at peace, unburdened by the cares of the road. In his mind's eye he saw the young dwarflings chase after each other, watched some stop in their play as they spotted him, and then Kíli was calling him.
Only it was not Kíli. Dark hair, but grey eyes and features more delicate than any dwarf. This time, Dwalin felt no disappointment, he merely felt content to be here with Estel, that gentle, caring boy who was smiling at him. Dwalin took another deep breath and miraculously it did not hurt his abused ribs. He could feel the fresh air flood through his body, renewing every part of it and for the first time in months he felt truly alive.
"What is this magic?" he asked.
"When the Black Breath blows and death's shadow grows and all lights pass, come athelas! Come athelas," Estel replied in the sing-song voice of a nursery rhyme. "It's good, isn't it?"
Athelas. The name and that smell, that smell that was as unique as it was familiar. So was the name. Athelas. That was what those rangers had called their healing herb. It had had the same effect all those years ago; it cleared and calmed the mind, and could also be applied directly to wounds if he remembered correctly. He had asked them about it then, had asked why it was nothing but a weed to the Dwarves and the Hobbits, but among the Men it seemed a most potent remedy. Their leader had told him, had explained to him about the power that lay in their lineage, about the connection they had with the Númenórean plant. He looked at Estel with renewed interest, saw the boy in a completely different light now, and did indeed spot the bearing of those rangers in him. His eyes... his eyes were those of the young captain who had come to the Ered Luin to ask for aid. Many years ago... maybe three decades, long before Estel was even a thought on his parents' minds. The young captain, his brother maybe? Or given the short span of years that were allotted to Men – his father?
It was not until much later that afternoon when Estel had left him to begrudgingly attend one of his lessons that Dwalin realised what that meant. If Estel was indeed the son of that young ranger, Arathorn had been his name as Dwalin now remembered, then Estel was no mere boy, no foundling in the House of Elrond, Estel was born to be the leader of the rangers, and from what Fíli had told him afterwards, the leader of much more than just that wandering folk[1].
Dís was in the room before he could do anything to stop her, surprising him, as he had been deep in thought and unprepared. Maybe that was a good thing, as he was still not sure if he desperately wanted to talk to her or never wanted to lay eyes on her again. She sat on the chair next to his bed and apologised with such sincerity that he instantly forgave her. Or maybe he had forgiven her long before then, maybe there had never been anything to forgive at all. Dwalin was not sure.
"I'm so sorry for the way in which I have treated you," she said. "I should have noticed just how much you were toiling on our journey, what it took out of you to travel at such speed day after day. I apologise for my appalling behaviour towards you. I should have taken better care of you. Above all else, you are still my friend."
Dwalin looked at her, took in her greying hair, the small wrinkles around her eyes, the tiredness and suffering that had been chiselled into her face, the worry and kindness in her gaze, but also the steel that was at her core. She wore a long tunic, simple, but clearly of Elvish make, soft and flowing like a dress. A rare sight indeed, particularly on the road where Dís, in the manner of their people, usually preferred to be dressed as a male.
"Are you?" she asked in a small voice and it took Dwalin a moment to remember her earlier words.
"Aye, that I am," he said and reached out a hand, which she took gingerly.
"The way in which I..." she started, trailed off, then cleared her throat before trying again. "In Bree... I... I should not have spoken the way I did, I should never have... I had no right to assume, to make you..."
She was tugging her braids, a nervous habit that he had not seen in her for a long time. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and that seemed to steel her somehow, to help her say the words she wanted, needed to say.
"My apologies Dwalin. I treated you unfairly. It was my grief that spoke, my grief and... my frustration, my frustration with my own powerlessness."
"You are never powerless," he assured her without even stopping to think.
"You say that... but I cannot move in this world like a warrior could," she replied. "With Thorin by my side I was respected and my council was valuable. Without him..."
"You are still exactly who you were before," he told her.
"I'm not though," she said. "For all that our race treasures its women, we are not valued very highly. We might be able to own property and to run a business on our own, but to be taken seriously, we need a dwarf to support and protect us. No matter my experience or my status, I'm still just as dependent on the males around me as the young daughter of Men who resides here."
Dwalin wanted to tell her that support and protection were not as bad as she made them out to be, that there was no reason to face everything on her own, but he knew that she would not take that remark well, so he kept his silence. Dís grabbed his hand in both of hers and said:
"I would much rather depend on you than on anyone else."
The words hung heavily in the air.
"Aye," Dwalin finally confirmed. "And I will support and defend you for as long as I live."
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, which earned him a rare smile.
"I rushed..." Dís said. "I shall give you more time, give both of us more time, to adapt and to heal. You are a special treasure to me, Dwalin, especially now, and I have learned now that I could not bear to lose you as well."
"You won't," he reassured her. "I shall be by your side wherever this quest takes you."
He had sworn this to Thorin and he had accompanied him to the very end. He would see to it that it was a better end for Dís. The old reasonable Dís had returned, the diplomat who took her time to come to well-considered conclusions. He felt much more comfortable with her now than he had in Bree.
The door flew open, clearly having been kicked, and Estel edged into the room, eyes fixed on the over-sized wooden tray he was carrying.
"I hope you like potato soup, Dwalin, 'cause I'm not to leave you until you've eaten it all. I did snatch a sausage from the pantry though, so that should..." he suddenly stopped talking as he spotted Dís in the room, but recovered with remarkable speed and without spilling a single drop of soup. For a moment he seemed to consider bowing, which probably would not have been good news for the soup, but then he merely nodded his head as he greeted Dís.
"Good evening, Lady Dís, my apologies for barging in and interrupting your conversation. I shall return later," he said, now in a much more formal tone.
"Good evening, dear boy," Dís replied kindly and motioned for him to set down his burden. "Please stay. Your care for Dwalin is much appreciated. It is high time for me to join the others for our tea."
With that she stood and their conversation was over just as suddenly as it had begun. She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss on Dwalin's brow.
"I shall be honoured," she said. "To bear you such a lively son."
[1] References a story I have yet to write. My next big project after No Sacrifice is going to tell the tale of how Dwalin came to know Arathorn and the other rangers. About 7,000 words in notes already!