Many thanks to Alfirineth for beta-reading this story!
Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.
AU: this story takes place after BotFA, none of the heirs of Durin are dead.
Chapter 1
Sleep my little baby-oh
Sleep until you waken
When you wake you'll see the world
If I'm not mistaken...
Kiss a lover
Dance a measure,
Find your name
And buried treasure...Face your life
Its pain,
Its pleasure,
Leave no path untaken.
Neil Gaiman
oOoOoOo
- Mîm -
Mother clucked her tongue approvingly as the servants presented her with dress after dress. From time to time she would jerk her head, and the offending garment would be set aside. The pieces that deserved her approval were folded with care, wrapped in muslin for protection with a few sprigs of lavender on top, and lain in one of the vast coffers that stood by the bed.
Mîm watched the contents of her wardrobe disappear into their depths with a mix of dread and resignation. She'd found refuge on a chair, in the corner of the room, her legs tucked under her in a manner Mother wouldn't have approved of, hadn't she been so busy sorting Mîm's clothes.
In her hand, the letter bearing the royal seal of Erebor glittered with gold, the delicate letters shimmering in the light of the lamps. She knew the words by heart, but the contents didn't spark any more joy at the third reading than the first time she'd read it.
"His Majesty, Thorin son of Thráin, King under the Mountain, sovereign of Erebor, hereby informs you of his decision to…"
She sighed. Her parents had said that she'd been granted a great honor, the chance of a lifetime, but all Mîm saw was the end of the dreams she'd so carefully treasured. They were modest dreams, true, but she'd cherished them all the same.
Mother heard her sigh and motioned for the servants to pause. "You shouldn't droop your shoulders so," she mentioned, "It's bad for your posture. And smile, honey. It's not a death warrant you're holding."
"I know, Mother. But… It's just that…" Mîm shrugged.
They'd been having the same conversation for three days now, ever since the letter had arrived. The messenger had received a royal welcome, as though he were Thorin himself, and a small feast had been thrown to celebrate the news.
Her mother rubbed her temples, her bejeweled fingers casting glimmers onto the walls. "Mîm, my sweet, I thought we were in agreement."
"We were. I mean, we are. But you can't begrudge me for grieving for the life I wanted."
"Grieving. Such a strong word." Her mother pursed her lips. "Do you realize how lucky you are? Do you?" As Mîm didn't respond, she insisted. "The king of Erebor himself has picked you, of all people, for his nephew to marry. Not Eíli, not Nárvi, but you."
Mîm bit her lip. "I wonder why that is, too. They're both older and better born."
Both her cousins belonged to families closer to the oldest branch of the line of Durin. Eíli was also known to be a beauty, with her curly hair and luscious beard, while Nárvi's father could provide her with a dowry worthy of a princess; not that such a thing would matter to a king whose mountain was filled with gold, if the rumors were to be believed.
"Better born? Pfft." Her mother shooed her concerns away with the flick of her hand. "Nobility doesn't matter, dear, if you cannot perpetuate it. Our family is known for its fertility, it's a fact. No doubt that Thorin wants to be sure that his nephew's wife will produce offspring in sufficient number."
A blush crept up Mîm's neck at the mention of her supposed breeding abilities. She'd always known that she'd be expected to marry, and of course someday there'd be children. Yet she'd hoped that her womb wouldn't be the sole thing her husband would treasure. Mîm believed that her gentleness, her amiable character or her curiosity about the world outside - no matter how small her experience of life was – were so many true qualities he could admire.
Still, she knew that her parents only had her best interests at heart, and when the letter had come, Mîm had agreed to the marriage without a fuss. Such was her duty as a daughter, not to mention her obligation towards the dwarven race. She would have to find contentment in the raising of children and caring for her husband.
Yet she was everything but satisfied, her heart heavy and her mind disquiet; there was only one dwarf in the world who knew she had more to offer than offspring, and she had yet to tell him of her betrothal.
As if she'd read her mind, her mother went to sit on the bed, facing her. "Did you write to Fráin yet?" she inquired in a quiet voice.
Mîm shook her head. "No. I…" She wrung her hands. "I don't know how to voice it."
She guessed his reaction already, both bewilderment and anger. Fráin would be hurt, she knew, and disappointed by her meek compliance with her parents' wishes. Life was easier for him, though. There were few expectations for the son of a miner with not a drop of noble blood in his veins. Mîm herself had never minded – her blood was as red as his – but not everyone was of the same opinion.
Her mother lay a hand on hers and squeezed gently. "It's hard for you, my sweet, I know. You are very brave." She hesitated, glancing towards the servants who busied themselves with Mîm's clothes. "Father and I are proud of you, it's true, but if you believe you'll be unhappy with Fíli…"
Mîm's parents had always been quite clear on the expectations they had about her future: a comfortable marriage and a comfortable life, sliding seamlessly from one loving home into another. She'd been sheltered without being spoiled, free without being left to roam as she pleased, with the unfortunate consequence of nurturing dreams of adventure while she learned how to run a household.
Unlike Fráin, it was not in her nature to rebel or disobey. Mîm had never chafed against the rules that others saw as restrictions, and considered obedience and respect towards her parents to be one of her chiefest qualities, and an appropriate mark of gratitude for the cozy life she'd been given. When the time had come to repay her parents' kindness, she'd done her part, but it didn't mean that renouncing her impossible dreams didn't cause her any pain.
"I heard he's a good man and I trust your advice, Mother." Mîm sighed again. "Only Fráin'll be so sad…"
"He will understand." Her mother caressed her cheek. "If he loves you and wants what's best for you, he will accept your choice."
Mîm doubted that, but kept her opinion to herself.
oOoOoOo
"My dear Fráin."
Mîm contemplated the words before crumbling the parchment and tossing it into the fire. Such a beginning would only lead him to believe in her sense of ownership over him, a belonging that she had no right to encourage.
"Dear Fráin."
That was better, except that now she was stuck two words into the letter, hesitant about how to break the news to her childhood friend about her impending marriage. Would an explanation about how she felt about the matter help him understand her decision? Or should she be brief and risk to hurt his own feelings in the process?
"I hope all is well with you. I've received news recently that I wanted to share, since you won't be back for another month."
Did that sound as an accusation? Would he believe she'd forgotten him in his absence? Mîm chewed on her lip before deciding to leave the sentence as it was.
"I've been chosen as a wife for the eldest nephew of king Thorin, Fíli."
She worried about his reaction when he'd read those words, and about not being there to console him. Mîm and Fráin had been friends since childhood, and she loved him dearly, while not being entirely sure it was the kind of love that people wrote songs about. Still, she cared about him very much, and there was no-one in her life she trusted more.
There was the matter of the promise, too, but they'd been so young…
"My parents believe it is in my best interest to accept this offer, and I trust their love for me."
Fráin wouldn't understand. His parents had no plans for his future, making him free in a way she couldn't imagine. He earned his living through honest labor and relied on no-one for subsistence, travelling the world from one job to another, and while sometimes Mîm found such a boundless freedom awe-inspiring, most often it terrified her.
Her own dreams had been modest: to see the world that lay beyond the walls of her city, to walk the forests and the plains of Rhovanion, and marvel at what life had to offer before becoming a wife and a mother.
Mîm had thought she had some more years before her, and even dared imagine she may be free to choose her husband and her fate. Her suitors so far had been few, which only served to encourage such hope. Perhaps even Fráin… And then the letter had arrived, the heavy golden seal weighing her down and crushing those dreams.
"This is why I've decided to agree to this proposal, and I hope you will be as happy for me as I am now."
A tear ran down her cheek. It made a splotch on the parchment, narrowly missing the last letters of her previous sentence. Mîm wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, as gracefully as Mother had taught her.
Erebor was only a name, a scribble on a map. Mîm had no friends there, no family, and somehow, she doubted that Fráin would be welcome, considering his status and their relationship. Propriety demanded that she leave him behind, along with those dresses Mother had discarded that same afternoon, deeming them too drab for the court.
"Please write soon to tell me about your life in the Misty Mountains. Are there truly so many orcs around? Please be careful, and keep your bow by your side at all times."
She signed the parchment and sealed it, embedding the sigil of their house into the melted blob of wax. The messenger would leave in the morning, which meant that Fráin would still get her letter before she left for Erebor.
Maybe she would even get the chance to read his reply, though Mîm feared she would find it too scathing for her taste. Fráin was a dear, but he had a fierce temper which had often caused him trouble in the past. Ofttimes, he would act or speak before thinking, and then struggled to repair the hurt he'd caused. Yet Mîm knew his heart was gold, and she would break it with the news. She never should've made that promise, but her regrets came fifty years too late.
They had only been children playing together without anyone finding it odd or inappropriate. A boy and a girl, plucking out daisies in a garden on a summer day, counting the petals at the sound of an old rhyme. Loves me, loves me not…
He loved her, Fráin had declared solemnly, and he always would. Her almost ten year old self had found it romantic and oh-so-sweet, and professed her love in return to the friend she cared about most in the world.
"Promise me," he'd told her, "That when we grow up, we'll get married."
Mîm had laughed. "I can't promise, silly, you know that. Mother and Father will choose someone for me and I'll have to marry him."
Fráin had frowned. "But doesn't it bother you, not to know who it'll be? And what he'll look like?"
The younger Mîm had thought it over, toying with the flower in her hand. When he put it like that, it did seem awful to marry someone she might not like. Only Mother and Father loved her. They'd never choose someone ugly for her husband, would they?
"Promise me that if someday you have to marry someone you don't want, you'll let me know. Then I'll come and marry you instead."
His hand was warm on hers. The sun glinted in his black hair, and he was everything a young girl could want in a future husband: he was kind, he made her laugh, and he knew where to find the sweetest wild berries, which he kept only for her.
"I promise," she'd beamed.
They'd entwined their little fingers and sealed their vow with a shake.
With time, Mîm hadn't given much more thought to that day, as the prospect of marriage was still so distant that it was purely theoretical. She'd grown, and suddenly found that she couldn't enjoy Fráin's company as easily as before. A governess had moved in to watch over her education, and sometimes Mother supervised her lessons herself, teaching her to manage servants and keep count of the money, while reminding her that a good marriage was the best thing she could hope to achieve in her life.
As for Fráin, he'd started to work alongside his father, mining for ore and gems from dawn till sunset, though the sunshine didn't reach the depths where he earned his living. Mîm rarely saw him until her coming of age, but the few times they'd met their bond remained unchanged, or so it appeared at first.
As the years went by, he grew ever more reckless and protective, making his jealousy clear whenever she met other people or made new friends, no matter how scarce they were. Mîm had strived to reassure him, spending time alone with him as much as she could without starting any unseemly rumors, but none of her efforts could quell his need for her attention.
Fráin was in love with her, Mîm knew, but neither of them had yet voiced that certainty. She'd often wondered whether she felt the same, stealing glances at his familiar face and his strong hands, questioning her own emotions. All she found was confusion and guilt at not being as sure about him as he was about her.
When Fráin accepted a mining job in the Misty Mountains, at the end of the past winter, Mîm had been both sad and relieved to watch him go.
Author's note: as mentioned in a review, Mîm is indeed a male dwarf's name from The Silmarillion (he lived in Beleriand during the First Age).
However, considering that Tolkien didn't provide any rules about the naming conventions of dwarves, and the fact that he explicitly stated than dwarven women were very alike to dwarven men in appearance, it can be supposed that many dwarven names could be gender-neutral to reflect this similarity/ambiguity.