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 7: I hope that you'll remember me
Six Days before Durin's Day
Walk of Remembrance through the Royal Tombs
The next morning, Thorin passed the blue granite statues at the entrance of the catacombs, silent warriors guarding the stone slumber of their brethren until the day that Mahal remade the world. The work was excellent, but they lacked the age of the originals, which had been destroyed by the last inhabitants of the great city, foul to their core. The king had commissioned the work done six months ago, but had been too busy with other concerns to approve the finished pieces, relying upon Ori's assurances that they were worthy.
He willingly paused to allow the others in the party to examine the workmanship, in no hurry to set foot within the catacombs once more. He had not been down here since the fateful day that they searched for a captured Kili, some instinctual part of him more uncomfortable with the dead then dwarrow traditionally were. Beyond, a lad awaited their arrival to tell the first tale of Durin II, when he was but a child of nine.
The Walk of Remembrance, traditional in the kingdoms of the dwarrow since the time of the first Durin, was made by the nobles first, a way to remind those who ruled of the price their decisions too often carried. Tales of the deeds of the dead, both common and noble, would be told throughout by dwarrow stationed at the relevant tombs. After Thorin's court had passed, the other residents of the kingdom would be free to make their own way through, bringing children to hear the histories and to leave tokens at the tombs of family members.
Second Age, 609
The day that Blain's life crashed down about his ears was a beautiful one; bright, sunny, with just a hint of a breeze bearing the scent of spring flowers. To all sides, dwarflings aged four to twenty shifted restlessly. Few were pleased with the necessity of being in basic lessons on such a day. They were required to attend until the age of twenty, when those pursuing the life of a scholar would be given individualized instruction and the others would move to five years of intensive weapons training before starting apprenticeships. It was an odd system, unique to Khazad-dûm, but it worked, producing a more literate population able to raise their social status according to merit, not just birth. That was what his father always said, though Blain only understood that it meant he must suffer the daily lessons without complaint.
Today, the dwarfling instructor had brought them all outside for a history lesson on the shores of the Kheled-zaram when the shadow fell over the nine-year-old. Old Narin stopped in the middle of his sentence about Durin, rising only to bow as low as his creaky bones would permit.
"My Lord King, it is an honor. Children-"
Blain scrambled to his feet with the others, avoiding Bri's attempt to trip him, the ritual greeting rolling off his tongue automatically as he tried to regain his balance. A shove from the other side, however, ensured that the last syllables were cut off in a grunt as he hit the ground, anger and fear warring within. Could they not leave him alone for once? Being seen as clumsy in front of the king was humiliating enough, but for it to happen here, in such unusual circumstances...
The King of Khazad-dûm did not casually drop in to speak with a class of children, even when his nephew and youngest son were included in that group. Thankfully, his cousin Thain, a thin young dwarf eleven years Blain's senior, pulled him to his feet before they garnered the lord's attention. The older dwarfling looked as if he wished to question his father as to why he was here, but restrained himself.
Then his uncle's eyes were upon Blain, and the youngling could feel himself blanch. The king's face was solemn and drawn, red-rimmed eyes and white complexion testifying to the distress the older dwarf was in. Even his light brown beard was showing its bushy tendencies, escaping the usually immaculate braids and golden clasps, as befitted the most powerful of the dwarrow kings.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Master Narin, but I must borrow one of your pupils for a time. Blain, come with me, lad."
Blain forced leaden feet to move and almost added to his bruises by sending himself back into the rocky ground. Fortunately, his cousin had not yet let go, keeping him upright. He seemed to always be tangled in too long limbs lately, which made him a prime target for his peers to tease. The youngest dwarf of the royal family tensed, expecting a rebuke for his clumsiness from one or both adults, but his uncle merely sighed.
"Thain, perhaps you had better come, too, son."
That was all the invitation the nineteen-year-old needed, a warm, steady arm encircling his little cousin's shoulders. Thain was a good dwarf, Blain decided, when he was not trying to impress his older brothers; especially when Blain had to stay with his aunt and uncle because his parents were away on another trip. The king looked about for a moment, then waved a hand at the ancient stone bench near the shore closest to the doors. Legend said that it dated back to Durin, providing a place for him to rest and keep vigil.
For a moment, Blain would have sworn he could see a dwarf there, great black beard woven with mithril and sapphires that matched the deep blue of his eyes. Upon his head was a beautiful mithril crown, and at his side a gleaming battle ax made of the same metal. He looked sad, as if his heart were about to break in two, and Blain felt an answering tug in his soul, a tear welling in one eye.
"We should not disturb him."
The statement was thankfully murmured too low for his uncle to hear as the next moment, the strange dwarf was gone, bench empty except for a single spring flower that must have floated down on the breeze.
"Who, Blain?"
Thain's question was a soft buzz in his ear, puzzled and a touch concerned.
"T-the dwarf on the bench. He was mourning something. He's gone now."
As with every other time Blain saw something that was not there, his cousin gave him a wry smile and shook his head chidingly. At least Thain did not tease him, as the older two princes did. His uncle beckoned from where his longer legs had carried him to the bench before them, but a wave of dizzying foreboding swept through Blain, and he found himself on his knees once more. Thain was urging him to get up, but Blain could only stare up at the high mountain peaks towering over their underground home. The left side of Baranzibar, called Redhorn by some, was oddly flat and bare to the rock, not snow covered as it had been just two days ago.
All at once, the dwarfling was doubled over, spewing his breakfast on the rocks as a chill swept through him, making his body tremble as it settled into his soul. He knew why his uncle was here, looking so distraught. His parents were supposed to be on their way home from a trading and diplomatic mission in the west. They had promised to be home for his tenth birthing day feast, on the spring solstice, so they must have been on their way by now! Without a path into the kingdom from the west, however, they would have had to cross-
The tears started in earnest, then, great wracking sobs that could not be easily stopped. Hands supported him, drawing him into fur, heedless of the mess the water would make of the fringe. The king pulled him into his lap, rocking them both back and forth as his cousin's hand rubbed his back.
"Oh, lad... I should have known you would need no mere words to know! I grieve with thee..."
The choked quality of his uncle's voice reminded the little dwarfling that it was not he alone who had suffered such a loss. His mother had been a sister and aunt long before he came to lay claim upon her also.
"W-when?"
The question was forced past the lump in his throat and the raw burning ache in his soul, grasping any hope he could find. Perhaps his uncle only feared the worst right now! Maybe they had gone home another way, or-
"Early yesterday morning. The watch in the tower spotted the avalanche, and sent out search teams immediately. They found what was left of your father's pack this morning."
Tears still rolled down his face, but the overwhelming tide had momentarily stemmed, allowing him to pull back shakily and peer into his uncle's face.
"Then they might still be alive, only trapped!"
Even as hope flared once more, his uncle's grave shake of the head buried it again. A large hand cupped the back of his head, pulling Blain's forehead in to press against that of his uncle.
"No, lad. It was at the top of a thousand foot cliff. Even dwarrow cannot survive such a fall, and even if they somehow did, the snow buried them. They are not likely to be found until the midsummer melt reaches high upon Baranzibar's craggy head. I only thank Mahal that I prevailed upon them not to take you with them."
Blain could only gape at the king as his mind fought to process the words, then two tiny fists began to pound on his uncle's chest.
"NO! I should be with them! They'd not have died if I was with them! They're not dead, they're not! I hate you! I-"
His screams descended into nonsense, a noise to match the pain in his heart. How long the fit lasted, he did not know, nor care. All he knew was that someone stayed with him, strong arms supporting his body as he finally collapsed into exhaustion, voice long since gone hoarse.
When he woke the next morning in the royal nursery, he lay still, unwilling to stir and risk discovering that it had not been a horrible nightmare. Perhaps, if he just wished long enough, his cheeks would not ache with the burn of tears long dried and his nose would be unstuffed; perhaps Mama and Papa would walk through the door with hugs and presents from the far off places they had visited. The Isle of Numeanor or the Queen of the Shores this time, and maybe the Wilds of the West the next. Oh, how he loved those evenings before the fire, sitting upon Mama's knee and leafing through the pages of her journal, rich with the ink drawings of things they had seen! They would tell him of the sea, and laugh at his tales of mischief, hug him and never let go again.
His eyes burned as he flushed with anger, hands curling into fists. That was what they had promised him! One last trip leaving him behind, then he would be allowed to travel with them, always together. They would not break that promise, they could not!
A few more tears leaked down raw cheeks, burning on his skin with a physical pain that was but an echo of the emotional firestorm within. He sniffed, then froze, listening intently to try to determine if any of his cousins were still in the large room, unwilling to pull the wool blanket from over his head and risk letting them know he was awake.
The oldest of the princes, thirty-two-year-old Kain, had his own suite of rooms, but Dain and Thain might still be around. Thain would understand the tears, but his brothers... Sure enough, there was a soft thud and a hiss from the other side of the room.
"Quiet, you fool! Father will have your head if you wake the baby!"
Blain almost groaned, biting back a scream of frustration, and not just because he was being referred to as an infant. Was it not bad enough that his younger cousins were here? Did Kain have to be, too? Crown Prince of Khazad-dum or not, the plain truth was that Kain was a bully. He lorded his rank over anyone he could, wheedling and threatening with equal abandon to win free treats from merchants, preferential treatment from his instructors, and his own way with any dwarfling unlucky enough to catch his attention. Worst of all was that none dared to tell the king, the one dwarf who could and would correct his eldest son's behavior, for fear of the queen's reaction. Unfortunately, Blain was a favorite target.
"Why must you call him names, Kain? The poor child just lost his parents! You would cry, too, we all would."
Surprisingly, Thain sounded absolutely disgusted with his brother, openly scolding him for the first time in Blain's memory. Usually he stayed silent or walked away if his brother's words offended him.
"Mother says he's better off, anyway." That was Dain, being his usual sanctimonious, know it all self. "After all, now he gets to live like a prince off of us instead of being stuck as the miner's son he really is."
Blain clenched his eyes tighter, stifling the sob at hearing his father referred to so callously. No one else in the kingdom would degrade the Head of the Mines so. In fact, Amur was highly favored, having won title, council seat, and the hand of a princess in pledge before he was a hundred years old. Old Virfir said it was because Father was honest, hard working, and had an uncanny ability to read the stone, even for a dwarf. Mines Father planned never collapsed or flooded, producing almost double the other, more established, ones.
"He is a prince, you half-wit. Rank follows the higher parent, and his mother was Father's sister. Now, if you've got what you came for, let's go and leave him be."
Thank Mahal Thain seemed intent on getting his brothers away from here! Was! Not is, but was the king's sister. One mere word redoubled his anguish even as new fears sprouted like moss on a rock. What was he to do now? Go home to an empty house? Would his uncle allow him to stay there alone? Or-
Cold shot through him at the thought of impersonal servants stacking his parents' things into crates without a care for who they had been. He would not let that happen! The moment that he heard his cousins leave the room, he shot out of the bed, stumbling a little in his haste. He was not certain what to expect when he cracked open the door to the hall, but silence greeted him. Blain took his boots from the nearby rug, but did not put them on, slipping out into the corridor in his stockings.
To the sensitive little dwarfling, it was almost as if the very air reflected his sorrow, still and heavy, with a faint hint of lingering herbs. Somewhere nearby, someone was crying, and adults stood in his uncle's study, whispering. He paused for a long moment before daring to tiptoe past the open door, then out the family's entrance to breathe a sigh of relief against the wall. Making his way through the royal complex unseen had been easier than he feared, but he was small, and few paid attention to children.
He crept down a secondary staircase, one level, two, three- there! That was where his father always swung him up onto his shoulders so the little boy would not be stepped on by miners too weary to watch where they went. Blain bit back a sob, almost feeling his father's hands on him, the booming laughter that not even a full day of work could lessen sounding off the rock walls. It was not fair! Why did his parents have to be gone? Why not someone else? One arm came up to swipe angrily at the tears trickling down his face.
"Blain! What's wrong, laddie? What are ya doin' down here?"
Blain started, head whipping around to stare at Virfir, one of his father's close friends, in astonishment. Had his uncle the king not made the announcement yet? It had been a day since they learned of the snow slide! Did that mean some believed his parents to be alive? Was that why the adults in the royal wing had all been huddled together like that? Hope, confusion, anger, it all warred within as he stood there, starring at the older dwarf.
"I- Mum and Dad- They-"
Tears were pouring down his face, unstoppable, making Virfir instantly crouch down to rest a large, scarred hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Breathe, lad, c'mon now… Breathe, Blain, and tell ol' Virfir what's happened."
It was then that old Grannir, the eldest dwarf Blain knew of, stopped, whispering for several minutes in Virfir's ear as the younger dwarf grew visibly distraught and angry by turns.
"Oh, lad…" Abruptly, he was in Virfir's arms, strong hands more accustomed to a chisel and rough stone cradling him so very gently. It reminded him too strongly of his father, the tears already falling redoubling in their intensity. He was barely aware of being picked up and carried to his old home, where Virfir and Grannir easily chased off the palace servants who indeed were already packing his parents' things. They sat with him, sharing memories evoked by the objects they slowly placed in trunks, holding him as the grief poured out anew with each piece that was packed away. And when he insisted upon sleeping that night in his old quarters one last time, they gladly stayed with him.