One Last Yule

"Pass the potatoes, please."

"Thank you."

"Some carrots?"

"Sure. Thanks."

"You?"

"No, I'm fine."

They commenced their meal in silence. It was so quiet that the clatter of the cutlery and the occasional shifting in their chairs seemed to echo around the small room as if it was a great cavern.

"There's not much snow this year," Fíli said in an attempt to start a conversation.

"We might still get some; last year the biggest storm came a few weeks after Yule," Kíli added, also eager to end the eerie silence.

"Hopefully there won't be one like it this year. The earlier the roads are clear, the better," Thorin said, keeping his eyes trained on the meat he was cutting. Dís glared at him. She had told him, had made it very clear for all of them that they were not to mention that accursed plan over Yule. She wanted one day, just one day of peace, of not discussing that harebrained idea, of not hearing anything about Thorin's suicide mission.

They continued to eat in silence. The silence grated on Dís' ears. She often ate alone, when they were all traveling or working or out to eat with friends. She didn't mind the silence then, actually quite enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet every now and again. Somehow this was different.

"The venison is excellent," Fíli said. "Thank you, amad, you outdid yourself."

"It's great," Thorin confirmed.

"And I shot it," Kíli added, using his knife to gesture towards himself. "And a mighty fine shot it was, could have easily gotten away that doe. But I'm good like that. Very handy with a bow and arrow, very handy to have around if you want to eat well on the road, yep."

He looked at his uncle, but Thorin, who had found something very interesting to investigate somewhere between the carrots and the potatoes, only gave him a non-committal grunt. She had pleaded with him, had begged him to not take her youngest, to not take her baby anywhere close to that ill-fated mountain. That mountain had shattered her family the first time around. Not again.

That mountain. It was worming its way into her mind even when they didn't mention it, it was driving deep mineshafts into her conscience, delving deeper and deeper, making her feel hollow. That mountain had destroyed her family once, then the war had done it again, and then the mine. What now? The mountain again, then another war, and then another mine until she had nobody left to be taken from her? Thorin wanted to go back, but what was going back to her if not asking for a repeat of all that pain and suffering?

The room felt too small, the walls were moving in to crush her. She got up suddenly, and walked straight out of the kitchen door.

"I'll get some firewood," she said. They had lived in this cramped little house for so long, getting some firewood had become their code for needing some space. All four of them had a temper, some more than others, and sooner or later, one would disappear for some firewood when there wasn't enough space for all of their egos in one small cottage.

She did not even bother with boots, but walked straight across to the little outbuilding in her socks. She didn't care. She picked up the axe, but didn't chop any wood; she just held it, feeling the weight in her hands, letting it ground her a little in this whirlwind of memories. This was not the Yule she had wanted. She had wanted a good Yule, a happy Yule, because they were happy here, they had a good life, maybe not a rich one, but a prosperous one, one that gave them shelter and food, and cheer and song on occasion. That in itself held great value, greater perhaps than all the gold in Erebor.

She heard the kitchen door and then approaching footsteps. Fíli. It was always Fíli.

"Amad, may I come in?" he called softly. She knew he had once spent an hour waiting in the snow when Kíli wouldn't let him in, so she opened the door.

He smiled at her, that dazzling smile that was so like his father's, making those moustache braids dance. The light from the house made his blond hair shine like gold.

"Oh amad," he said, suddenly serious, and to her surprise she found that she was crying, tears running down her face in rivulets. He crossed the space between them immediately and pulled her into a bone-crushing embrace. She just cried even harder, great, ugly sobs that seemed to be wrenched from the very rock of her soul. They stood like this for a while, but somehow she found herself unable to stop. She just stood there, her head resting on his shoulder, feeling safe in his embrace, knowing that he was still here, that she had not lost him.

He began to sing, very softly, slowly swaying in time with the tune. It had always been one of her favourite Yule songs, but that day the last verse seemed to be particularly apt for the situation they found themselves in.

Oh fair white sun of shining face;

Whose ray the darkness does efface;

From sadness saves the Dwarven race;

Sheds life and light in ev'ry place.

She quietened somewhat and joined him for the final chorus, voice muffled by the fabric of his tunic.

May Mahal guide you;

May Mahal guide you;

May Mahal guide you;

Let Him be your light.

It was not just a song, it was her fervent prayer that night and every night that followed. May Mahal guide them. May He be their light.

"Oh amad," he said when they had finished. "I made a promise once, that you would never have to cry like that again. I made that promise the day we buried adad and I'm so sorry I have broken my word like that."

"Do you have to go?" she asked when she trusted her voice again.

"No," he answered. "You have raised us better than that. We do not act out of blind obedience; we do things because they make sense to us and we want to do them."

"But why? What sense is there in that accursed mountain?"

He still held her tight, his hands rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back.

"Erebor is a hope and a promise," he said slowly. "A promise to our people that we never give up, that we will never be content before the last of them is happy and healthy, and as successful as he possibly could be. We will soon reach our limit here in the Ered Luin. Thorin's Halls prospers, but it cannot continue to grow for much longer, not with the resources available to us. I would give our people that promise that I will keep striving for their good."

"Why is everything about the people? Why isn't anything about yourself?" she asked before she could stop herself. Even to her own ears she sounded like a petulant child, but Fíli did not seem to mind.

"This is not about me," he replied. "But it is about Thorin. That flame, that little flame inside of him that has been our light and shelter for so long, that flame is guttering, and it will go out if he doesn't go on this quest, and he will die and fade away, and our line, the line of Durin, will never again claim this kingdom. Let us keep this flame from going out. Allow us to give him that small hope, amad. He has done much for us and I would dearly like to give him that in return."

She held him at arm's length then, her hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes, his Durin blue eyes, so much like Thorin's and her own. And she looked at his hair, shimmering golden around his head, and she looked at the slight smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth even after that impassioned speech, and then she sighed.

"Why did you have to grow into such a fine young Dwarf?" she asked, brushing her hands over his braids.

He smiled in earnest then, a smile so much like his father's.

"Because I learned from the best," he whispered, holding her close once more.