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 5: A promise lives within you now
First Age, 531
Durin met the eyes of his fellow dwarf fathers around the stone table, the prescience he had had on that long-ago day coming back like a rock in the pit of his stomach. There were no cheerful hellos or calls for beer today. No one teased, or tried to start a belching contest. Instead, Stonefoot shifted restlessly, while Blacklock leaned back, arms crossed and a scowl firmly in place. Stiffbeard fiddled with a small dagger and the Firebeard lord spun a glittering gold coin on its side like a child's top.
It was odd, seeing the son here instead of his red-bearded, flush faced father. Firebeard had fallen in battle, sacrificing his life to end the scourge of the dragon Glaurung in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears almost fifty years ago. The Firebeards had been allied with the elves, then, willing to take on the darkness that was the true enemy instead of squabbling over pretty baubles. Maybe if the Firebeard Father had lived, they would not now be faced with such a crisis.
For one who was the direct cause of the meeting, the other dwarf lord sat calmly enough, fiddling with his cursed gold. As if such could buy the lives of their kin! Durin felt his temper rising, but before he could make a move, one of his brothers did it for him. Unfortunately, it was not one who was blameless in this mess, either. As the coin started to clatter to the table top once more, Broadbeam's hand darted out, palm slamming down over it.
"Enough! If you spin that infernal thing one more time, I'll-"
"What, Broadbeam?" Blacklock scowled, leaning forward intently. "My mystics all agree that the signs say it's you at fault for this whole mess in the first place. You and Firebeard over there! My kingdom has not seen the birth of a girl in almost thirty years! And those under the age of 100 have all died of accidents or mysterious illnesses!"
"'Tis twenty-five years for us!" Stonefoot slammed a fist down, making even the solid stone quake. "What of you, Longbeard?"
"Seventeen." Durin stated solemnly, knowing that this had hit his kingdom last. He still had a sizeable population of dwarrowdams between the ages of thirty and one hundred, too. "I petitioned to Mahal, and he sent a vision of the cause. 'Twas a curse, cast out upon Thingol's dying breath with all the magic of his people and the Silmaril behind it."
The silence that followed stretched, unbroken and heavy as the tension built in the air. As Durin cast about to see the reactions of his fellow dwarrow, he noted the blanched face of Broadbeam with satisfaction, though young Firebeard was turning as red as the beard that gave him his name. That one would be the most trouble, followed closely by the scowling Ironfist. None offered suggestions on what to do. The magic of the Eldar was potent beyond anything possessed by the Second-born, even the dwarrow.
"Are we fated to watch our race shrivel and die, then? Cannot something be done?"
Stiffbeard finally whispered. Durin shook his head, being no closer to an answer than any of them, then winced as Blacklock shot back to his feet with a bellow of rage.
"Aye! There is something to be done, my mystics say! We appease blood with blood!"
Durin almost groaned aloud at that, especially when Ironfist added his voice to the call. It was too easy for the seers to claim what their king wished to hear when no real answer had come, and no way for an outsider to tell the fake from the true.
"Broadbeam and young Firebeard caused this! Why should they not pay the price? I call for death!"
Well, that was enough of that! Next, the fool would believe the insides of animals could foretell the future the way some Men did.
"There will be no blood shed. Are we Melkor's creatures, to believe that only death may answer for wrongdoings? Do you truly thirst so, to bath in the blood of your brothers?"
They at least had the honesty to looked somewhat shamed. Durin shook his head, lips pursed in disgust and disappointment.
"What has been done cannot ever be completely undone, but there is one action that Mahal has told me will mitigate it. You will not care for it."
The king did not bother to cloud his words, knowing that his brothers would do best with unworked truth. Better to see the raw ore, with all its dirt and blemishes, then be handed a shiny gem that turned out to be deeply flawed.
"I'm sure we won't." Stonefoot snorted, "But I would imagine we would like to preside over the death of our race even less!"
"True." Durin gave the other a nod, "You all know that we were made directly from the stone of the mountains we woke under, and are as enduring. Had Firebeard faced anything other than one of Melkor's lieutenants, that dragon, he would still be with us as well. We who are left must be willing to sacrifice that long life, to limit our time and allow our bodies to crumble as sandstone instead of hard granite to blunt the power of the curse. Our people, too, will face a shortening of their years as they will be required to sustain the power so long as the curse may last."
Even as he said the words, the king could feel a shudder go down his spine. None of them had ever thought to face such a thing, at least not for a thousand years or more, for they were not truly undying, as the elves were. To have that long span suddenly shortened to mere decades or a century was disconcerting, to say the least. Who could he possibly trust to lead his people well besides himself? His son was a talented warrior, aye, but to hand over responsibility for their entire race-
"How long?" Young Firebeard finally whispered as the silence stretched into minutes.
"Half their normal life." It hurt Durin just to say it, bitter pain burning in his heart and soul that could too easily turn to rage. "They will live to be only two or three hundred years, not six. Melkor's taint lent power beyond comprehension to the curse. One of his lieutenants, Sauron, once acted as aid to Mahal and know how to make such a thing binding upon even us. We believe it was he who taught Thingol such evil, and fostered the insanity in the throne room that day."
They had all been complacent, believing that the true power of Melkor and his foul lieutenants was in the armed might they had bred. None had seen the treachery fostered within, cleverly preying upon the weaknesses of each of the races. Pride and gold; those were the flaws that could shatter the dwarrow as easily as they split the seemingly impenetrable rock. How could he possibly protect them from themselves?
"Why should I give up my life for his idiocy?!"
Someone snapped, breaking Durin from his bleak thoughts. He closed his eyes, intuition whispering truths he knew he should voice, but dearly wished to ignore, instead. Yes, this had been the fault of two, directly. Yet, all those who had actually participated in the slaying of the elf lord were already dead. Was that not vengeance enough?
No, he decided, for it had been their failure that allowed it to happen. All the fathers had seen the greed growing within their people; the urge to gather more and more to themselves. It was their failure to stop it that they would now pay for. Sighing, he leaned forward heavily on his hands, waiting until the conversations and side arguments ceased, all eyes returning to the eldest.
"We are the Fathers of our race, charged to guide and protect them. Have we not failed in that duty? And should we not therefore bear the price? We live upon the sufferance of the other Valar, do not forget that! If we refuse to do this, are we not as selfish as those whose actions caused this tragedy? What say you, my brothers?"
"Aye."
Six voices spoke as one, for there was little else they could say after being so deftly chided for negligence, ignorance, and selfishness all at once. Durin was swiftly chosen to petition Mahal upon their behalf on the eve of the dwarf new year, the day when the last moon of autumn shone in the sky along with the sun.
This time, it was a relief, but also a feeling of failure, that greeted Durin as he opened his eyes to find himself once more in the Great Forge of Mahal.
*"You did not tell your younger brothers what this would mean for you, my son, strongest and most complete of my forgings."
Durin winced at the mild rebuke in the Valar's voice.
"They have never chosen to see how different I am from them. Besides, do I not share responsibility that this has come to pass? I am the eldest."
Mahal smiled, pleased.
"In recognition of that, I must ask you to make a further sacrifice, Durin. You will not join you kin in the Halls of Waiting when your time is done, but instead be sent back six times to lead your people through the darkest of days. Each new vessel for your spirit, however, will be imperfect, as I will choose one already born of your bloodline. Your memories will be incomplete, personality a melding of yourself and the other if they, too, accept the sacrifice asked of them."
He could not help but wince, everything within shrieking in dismay at the idea of giving up even a portion of himself, not to mention the agony of living so many lifetimes. Six lifetimes, one for each of his younger brothers whom he had failed to adequately guide. Durin squeezed his eyes closed, bowing his head, but before he could speak, Mahal's deep rumble cut through the silence.
"I ask this not as a punishment, for you have done all that I asked, but as the best hope of survival for the dwarrow race. The taint has sunk deep within Middle Earth and all who dwell there. It will not be easily undone, no matter how much it saddens my heart. Will you do this, Durin, first of my sons? Will you accept yet another sacrifice?"
He knew there could be but one answer.
"So be it."*
When word came that a girl child had been born within each of the seven kingdoms at dawn the following day, there was great rejoicing, and the dwarf New Year was forever after renamed Durin's Day in recognition of the guidance and wisdom of the eldest dwarf father. Furthermore, Durin and the Kings of his Blood to follow would be forever acknowledged as the High Kings of the dwarrow, after the manner of the elves. Female births, however, would never again total more than one third of the total number, a stark reminder of what folly and greed had brought to their race. And the beloved Queen of Khazad-dûm, wife of Durin, slipped away to Mahal's Forge in the night, her strength sapped by the bargain her husband had made to save their race.
Durin alone did not rejoice, instead secluding himself in his great forge deep within Khazad-dûm, pouring out his grief upon the glowing metal before him. There, he wept both for his lady and for his race, but most of all, for himself, for he must continue alone, bereft of the one who had been his partner in all things. Legend would whisper forever after of how the crystalline tears mixed with the blood of this, the first and greatest of the dwarrow fathers, to change the strong iron into a new metal, even sharper and stronger, able to hold some of the magic of their people within. It gleamed with a silvery light, similar to the moon metal of iron and mithril used to make the legendary blades of Gondolin, but not nearly so rare or difficult to forge.
Seven Days before Durin's Day
Feast of the Children
"Durin named it 'steel' as a reminder of how it came to be and what he and his brothers sacrificed to atone for the misdeeds of a few. That is why a smith who forges a weapon as a gift must always add a drop of their blood and a single tear to the waters in which the work is quenched, lest the steel cut the ties between friends and slake its thirst in blood and tears."
Thorin Oakenshield, King Durin VII of Khazad-dûm, smiled at the continuing rapt attention of his audience as he waited for the soft scratch of Ori's quill to cease. The heavy tome of dwarrow history still rested in his lap, though he had ceased reading from it long before, where the true history differed from that passed down through the ages. Not one child shifted restlessly or allowed their eyes to drift to other things, even those for whom this was not the history of their race. How long had he been reading and then speaking from memory? Two hours? More? And not one little one grew bored, even the youngest!
This night was the Feast of the Children, a much more enjoyable evening then the Feast of Lords in Thorin's opinion. Back in Ered Luin, this had always been the favorite night for Fili and Kili, who were permitted treats they received only once a year, not to mention the stories.
Thorin blinked, holding back a yawn, but he could not escape the headache from all the ale and wine last night. Normally, the feasts would never be held on successive days like this, but spread out instead over a fortnight, giving everyone a chance to recover from one hangover before beginning on the next. Of course, parties were not all there was to this, the most important of the dwarrow holidays. The more somber ceremonies, however, would be done in the mornings, at least this year, a fact which had already set some of the more traditional dwarrow to grumbling. Not that the king cared. If they did not like having everything condensed into seven days instead of spread out, he wished them joy in taking it up with Thranduil, if the elf even bothered to come!
It was the cessation of the low, deep words that finally penetrated and broke the spell after perhaps half a minute. One coughed, while another looked around, blinking owlishly at suddenly noticing that their parents were waiting along the side of the ancient study to escort them to the games. Thorin smiled, for that was as it should be.
"I do not think any among them will soon forget such tales. Nor will I."
That last was added with a rueful smile, as it was well known that the hobbit never forgot such things, anyway. Thorin snorted in amusement, placing the heavy volume in Ori's capable hands before turning back to his friend.
"It was your idea, Frodo. I merely said yes."
Frodo Baggins rolled his eyes before shaking his head chidingly at the king, one of the few in Middle Earth who would be so familiar with the gruff dwarf. A red-haired hobbit lass insistently lifted up her arms to him wordlessly, and he swung her up onto his hip with a smile. The girl nestled her head into Frodo's shoulder, warily peeking at the gruff king when she thought he was not looking.
"It was nothing more than idle talk until I had your support and participation. I heard about the incident last week. It's partly why I was so surprised to see you reading again today, even if this feast is supposed to be for the children."
Thorin snorted, an ancient grief still glinting deep in weary blue eyes. Dwarrow children, or so the more conservative lords had tried to insist when Thorin had announced his plans to open the celebrations to all races within the kingdom.
"Do not allow it to concern you. Tirik is a fool and I have more reason than most to know how grief and hatred can twist the soul. I was not aware that you were such a scholar, though."
"I have always been interested in history and why our world is the way it is. I was often confined inside by ill health as a fauntling, with only books for company."
Thorin did not hide the smile as those words evoked a particular memory.
"I once made the mistake of scorning your uncle for his love of such things. It was not long before I deeply regretted doing so."
"I know." Frodo gave a half smile, bouncing his little niece in his arms as she continued to hide from the gruff king. "Bilbo wrote about it."
The king watched for the little girl to peek at him again, then quite deliberately crossed his eyes. There was a moment of stunned astonishment from both hobbits, then Ruby-lass burst into giggles, tiny hands trying hard to stifle them as her mother and father had taught her. Frodo rolled his eyes, shifting his squirming youngest 'niece' to a better position, then chuckled to himself.
"For all your protestations of innocence, it is easy to see where your niece and nephews get their streak of mischief. Dis had very little to do with it, I think."
Thorin snorted at some of the memories that statement brought up, even as he winced at hearing his sister's name. The grief was still too fresh, too raw, right now, for all that she had been ready to go. Especially when Therin had shown up, but refused to speak with any of them, and left before Dis was properly returned to the stone. In the almost seven years since the destruction of the cult, the youngest of Dis' children had been conspicuously absent, making no moves to even attempt to bridge the gap that had been created by his actions in Khazad-dûm.
The family's only word of him since had come from the hobbits he stopped to visit and others who encountered him during his wanderings. Last Thorin had heard, the lad was serving as lead guard and guide to a traveling trade caravan. A worthy job, and one Fíli and Kíli did in their turn in their youth, but not one likely to lead Therin back to the path of a prince.
"Is there any word of how Vestri is doing today?"
Frodo interrupted his dark thoughts as Sam's youngest daughter reached out to the king, cuddling into him with none of her previous hesitancy around the moody king.
"There has been no change. She is still bedridden and weak, sleeping much of the time, and the healers still worry for the child. They have heard an echo to the babe's heartbeat."
"Could it be twins?"
Frodo sounded hopeful, but Thorin grimaced and shook his head in answer to the hobbit's question.
"No, such things are not as common among dwarrow as hobbits, and the beats would be distinct, they tell me." Eager to push his mind from the maudlin topic, the king caught the eye of his little passenger, surprised by her insistence upon his company. "To what do I owe this honor, lass? Would you not rather go to your 'Uncle Frodo'?"
Little Ruby Gamgee shook her head, nestling into the king's velvet and fur robe with a soft sigh, and promptly fell asleep. As a single tear managed to escape, rolling down the king's cheek, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the feel of the child in his arms. His nostrils breathed in the scent unique to little girls, no matter their race, bringing him back to a baby dark-haired dwarf who would not sleep without a hug from her 'Broter Torin'. Or the flame haired lass who had become so dear to him in these last twenty years, lying still between life and death with the new babe within also barely holding on.
"I am sorry, Thorin. I had no intention of reopening old wounds."
"It is fine." He murmured, one cheek resting on the fine red curls that gave Ruby her name. "The deaths of those we love has been a situation Durin has too much experience with."
Deep within, he felt the ghost of a last, tender kiss, the lax hand slipping from his grasp as he roared out his pain and rage at the death of the one Mahal had meant to be by his side throughout life. The first Durin's grief was as fresh and raw as if he had just lost her, only compounding Thorin's own, but the mithril hard will of the ancient king suppressed the feelings. Gravely, he met Frodo's sympathetic eyes, not needing to ask whom the hobbit referred to.
"She wanted nothing more than to end the flow of tears caused by the petty misunderstandings and ancient enmities between the races. It is for Dis that I agreed to allow all the children in Khazad-dûm to be taught the histories, no matter their race. It is a lesson long in the learning for the adults, however."
Frodo rolled his eyes in shared misery, having been present at some of the council meetings in which Thorin ground out the details of the new lessons that the children would be taught, not to mention the plans for the holiday. That, it turned out, had been the piece of ore too heavy for the cart to bear. Such celebrations had been strictly for dwarrow since just after the time of Durin IV. Many of the older and more conservative dwarrow had been outraged, of course, and by what Elladan had told the king, so had some of the other races. Thranduil, true to form, had forbid his ambassadors from having family with, for fear of 'contamination.' Idiot.
That thought made Thorin pause, trying to pin down just when he had become so open and accepting of those who had so often beaten down and sneered at his people. A part of him still snarled at the very idea, even as Durin spoke, telling him that this is the way things must be. The past must be both forgiven and forgotten.
"Your Majesty, the tourney awaits your presence to begin. The noble and worthy warriors participating grow restless."
Dwalin teased from the doorway, bowing them out with a flourish worthy of Balin or Dori, drawing the king from his introspection. Thorin rolled his eyes, but practiced the best method for dealing with his friend in such a mood; he studiously ignored him.
"Is it true that you are considering asking some hobbits if they wish to settle in the mountain valleys?"
"Why am I not surprised word has already spread of that?" Thorin retorted to the ceiling, weary of the inability of his current council to keep anything confidential. "I have plans to meet with Merry, Pippin, and Samwise after the celebrations are done. You are by all means welcome as well. I believe that it could be a fruitful partnership, and hope they do, as well. Even with our kingdoms restored, we cannot close our doors and ignore the rest of the world."
It did not need saying that they had tried before, both hobbits and dwarrow being notoriously insular races, but if the great battles of the War of the Ring had proven anything, it was that this was no longer possible. Handing the little hobbit girl off to her grateful mother waiting in the corridor, the dwarf king slowly made his way through the shining halls of his city, passing by a council chamber where the first of his lives had once faced that very problem.
First Age, 538
"There is someone to see you, Sire. He was most insistent."
Durin rolled his eyes impatiently, wishing that just once things would not be 'urgent'. That was all he dealt with any more, it seemed. One catastrophe after another, all day. Sighing, the king wiped a weary hand over his sweaty face, not caring that soot was streaked down it. If his visitor did not care for a disheveled king, he should not have come when the chimney of the great central furnace was clogged!
Weary steps guided him to the council chamber as his mind once again returned to the puzzle of making Khazad-dûm self-sufficient. Melkor was overrunning more lands that edged ever closer to the great dwarrow stronghold, the southern bands of Men but the latest victims. Melkor and his foul hordes to the north, the dragons, and Sauron, his lapdog, to the south with an army of vile werewolves from the Isle of Minas Tirith… their options were growing thin.
As much as it galled Durin to even consider it, he might soon have no other choice but to shut the great doors and hope they could hold out alone. With that thought firmly at the forefront of his mind, the king pushed open the door and walked into a blistering verbal explosion from his unwelcome and unwanted visitor.
"Durin, you cannot hide in your underground tunnels and ignore this any longer! Do you not know what has happened beyond your walls? Do you not care for the suffering?"
Frustrated, the man ran agitated hands through his dark hair as he snarled at the king, revealing delicately curved ears. Not a man, then; half-elven. Durin ground his teeth at the presumption of this upstart young lad, daring to lecture him! It took a further moment for the king to put a name to the presumptuous bugger, than he grunted in irritation.
"You presume much, mariner! Of course I care, but there is nothing I can do beyond providing safe haven for those able to make it. I will not see my people slaughtered!"
Eärendil snorted contemptuously, waving away the words as if mere babble.
"The people are already being slaughtered – elf, dwarf, Edain, it matters not to Morgoth or his minions!"
"Melkor."
"What?"
The tall man-elf turned to gape at him as if he had spoken a tongue foreign to Middle-Earth.
"I said that his name is Melkor, not whatever you lot have labeled him. Use it, or get out."
The words were grudging, but necessary. Durin was so very weary of such conflicts, longing only to be left in peace. This stubborn child, however, was not to be so easily put off.
"Do you side with him, then? Truly? Do you have any idea what he means to do to this world? What the taint he fostered has already done to my wife and children?"
Durin finally met his gaze, blue to blue, both too stubborn to break and look away. Seeing the sincere desperation and emotional pain there, the dwarf finally nodded, sighing heavily. Small wonder the man came to them hidden in layers of cloaks, identity closely guarded. It was with the empathy of a father that he answered.
"Aye, lad, I've heard, and I'm sorry, but I cannot ask my people to stand with you."
That broke whatever control his visitor had exhibited up until now. With tears in his eyes, Eärendil swept his arm across the table, sending metal goblets bouncing off the council room walls hard enough to dent them. Chords stood out in his muscular neck as his face reddened and twisted with the force of his grief-stricken rage as he bellowed at the king.
"Why?! You tell me why!"
The guards were quick to crash into the room, but Durin only waved them off, going around to the other side of the table with a heavy step, the weight of his years dragging upon him today. The boy flinched from his first touch, but gave in when the king persisted, gently pulling downward on one overly long arm.
"Sit down, lad. Such anger will harden the heart and damage the soul. No one blames you for not being there when your home was attacked. Elwing managed to escape, did she not? And your twins?"
Eärendil slumped, one hand that had been clenched in fury moments before now cupping a head that was lowered in defeat. Durin was quick to pour him some malted cider, waiting patiently for the man to gulp it down.
"That was not Melkor, but Maedhros and Maglor, fulfilling their cursed oath. I have been told that the boys were spared and are being treated with kindness within their captor's household. I can do nothing more for them while Melkor yet lives to rain his fire and darkness down upon this land. So long as he holds the other two Silmarils, they have no other enemy, for the third was borne to me by my lady wife, it is beyond their ken." His gaze snapped up to once more bore into the king's. "We have our best chance now, while all are united against a common enemy, the kin slaying momentarily forgotten, but to have any hope of victory, I need the armies of the dwarrow!"
Durin sat down heavily, wracking his mind to find a way to explain the predicament Eärendil's request placed the dwarrow in. He wanted to help the boy; the darkness overtaking their world sickened the dwarrow further, but there was little he could do. It was well over a hundred years ago now, but he remembered the beauty of the great western cities of the elves and those he met there. His next words came with the heaviest of hearts.
"And I wish my people to live, Eärendil. You ask that I take up arms against one of the Valar when the Khazad only live on the sufferance of those very beings! You forget that we are not like you. We were never meant to be, and that gift of life can be as easily stripped from us if we dare to raise a hand against them!"
"Yet your brothers in the west led their people into two of the greatest battles!"
Durin grimaced, having known the other would bring this up. The actions of his brothers, the fathers of the Broadbeams and Firebeards, were often whispered as justification for why they should risk the very thing the mariner now asked, but as with most things in life, it was more complicated than they realized.
"Aye, against Melkor's lieutenants only, and both nearly paid with the lives of all their people! I cannot, I will not, ask my entire race to march to their deaths! Which is what it would be without the permission of the other Valar! "
Eärendil's eyes narrowed, a calculating look coming into them that Durin did not care for at all.
"And if I were to win the hand of the Valar themselves to our aid? Would you then stand with us, Durin King, High Lord of the Dwarrow?"
Durin recoiled, horrified at the realization of what the young mariner proposed.
"You are mad, boy! The punishment for setting foot upon Valinor is death! Would you leave your children orphaned?"
"They will be cared for by kin if we cannot. I see no other path to end this madness! Now… Will you pledge to me the might of the dwarrow if I succeed?"
Durin sighed, standing strong even as his heart whispered that he would not see such foolish bravery again. And wondered if Middle-Earth would prove deserving of the sacrifice.
"Aye, you have my word. Should you bring the Valar to aid us, every dwarrow of all seven kingdoms who can bear arms will stand with you, Eärendil the Mariner."
The man nodded, satisfied, weary steps a bare whisper on the stone as he left the room. Durin stood for a moment in the silence, wondering if he would ever see the fool again, and praying that he would.
"The blessings of Mahal go with you, lad. You'll need it."
Durin slumped in his stone chair, fingers idly tracing the fancy carving on the edge of the table.
"We'll all need it."
When word reached the dwarrow six months later that the mariner had disappeared into the West, no trace of his ship to be found, Durin sadly made the announcement. It had been a desperate gamble, the king knew that, but he also secretly felt guilty that he had not been able to restrain the rash youth. He was older, wiser... and had not been willing to even consider being so daring.
Alone, the eldest dwarf slumped wearily at his desk, one hand shoving aside the latest patrol reports and the list of those fallen or wounded. So much blood, so many of his people never coming home! Did he make the correct choice anymore when he pleaded caution, refusing to throw his force of arms with those of the other free peoples? His people were dying anyway, just slower. What if his refusal was what tipped the balance in favor of the Dark Valar? Did he condemn them instead to a short life of slavery? Without the tender reassurances of his beloved, he lay his head down and wept.