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 8: Many sorrows I have seen

Second Age, 629

Blain sat on a rock ledge to the left of a side entrance to the underground city, knees tucked to his chest with his arms curled tight around them as he recalled that horrible day when his world had caved in about his ears. In the years since, his life had become a jumble of contradictory roles that he was forced to play just to survive. To his uncle, he was a prince, no different than any of his cousins, with all the rights and responsibilities of the rank. He could be called upon to run errands, greet an arriving noble visitor, or act as his uncle's scribe, just as any of his cousins would. Those were the days that he loved as his mind became caught up in the intricacies of the diplomatic chainmail weave his uncle fought to forge, to keep his kingdom safe. His uncle would urge him to ask questions and express his own opinion, explaining even though it was unlikely Blain would ever need such skills.

Unfortunately, the king was busy, often absent for days or even weeks as he oversaw the steadily growing city. He was also required to lead their army into battle all too frequently, most often against the goblins and trolls who tried to take possession of the mountains. His aunt never missed those times as opportunities to remind him of how much less he was than the others, and how grateful he should be for what they gave him. He never told her to her face, for that would be unforgivably rude, but he would trade it all in a heartbeat to have his parents back; to be free of the constant torment his aunt subtly heaped upon him at every turn under the guise of aiding the 'poor, misguided miner's son.'

It had been okay, at first. Except for that one overheard comment from his cousins, they had at least refrained from teasing, showing a rough sympathy in their own ways. Dain had even unbent enough to allow him to trail after him, to see what the duties of a younger prince were, and Thain had softly told him stories to calm him at night when he woke sobbing for his parents. He had begun taking his meals with his uncle's court, which could have been a disaster, but his fumbling was shrugged off as the products of grief and age. It had been embarrassing to have his meat cut for him by a servant, but they also took the time to quietly coach him in the proper etiquette. Even his aunt had refrained from her usual cutting remarks, limiting herself to disdainful looks that made Blain feel uglier than a troll. Kain, he avoided completely, but as the crown prince was usually away, that was not hard.

That lasted until the winter snows returned to the low lands instead of just the mountain tops. The second and third search teams returned after a full moon of searching the snowmelt with only his father's pack and his mother's King's stone as evidence of their fates. It was then that the king had regretfully told him that they would not send anyone else; his parents must certainly be deceased, but no bodies were likely ever to be found. Tears in his eyes, his uncle had pressed his mother's stone into his hand, curling his fingers around it as he pulled the sobbing lad to him. The milky rose quartz, originally gifted by the king to his sister at the ceremony of ascension, sat in his hand even now, worn smooth by the touch of a grieving son.

Traditionally, such things would rest in the tomb where a dwarf was returned to the stone, even if there was not a body with it. His aunt, however, had insisted that such things were not done among her people, the Broadbeams. After all, there was no proof they had not simply abandoned their son and old life. To mourn those not truly dead was an insult, so there were no tombs and no ceremony was held to bring closure for a bereft son. Virfir, a Broadbeam himself, had been livid, but as his own ancestors had migrated to Khazad-dûm with the destruction of their ancient capital at the end of the First Age, he could not swear that traditions had stayed the same. Nor could he take on the queen. Things had only come to a head when the king had stepped in.

It was the one time Blain had ever witnessed his uncle seriously argue with his domineering spouse. The king had actually been on the verge of ordering the ceremony when the queen sweetly informed him that doing so would be considered an insult to her, and by extension, her mother's people, the Blacklock clan. Though the reasoning was highly suspect, the king felt he could not risk war over such a thing were he to prove wrong. He had taken Blain aside, explaining to the lad as gently as possible, leaving the grieving dwarfling no choice but to acquiesce. That had ended the issue, but led to the king spending as much time away from his wife as possible, and turned the lady's anger on the next closest target- Blain.

Caustic remarks aimed at him were replaced by outright yelling, and verbal reprimands by swats and extra chores, some almost impossible for a dwarf his age to do. In fact, it would not surprise Blain at all to learn that his aunt purposely assigned them so he would fail and she had another excuse to punish him. Except all the princes had taken their turn at such menial tasks as aiding with the laundry, at the insistence of the king. He believed that knowing what the servants' lives were like would make his sons, and nephew, better rulers or masters in their turn. The queen had objected furiously to subjecting her sons to such 'humiliation and drudgery', or so the story amongst the servants went. Oddly, she was almost gleeful when it was Blain's turn, and he could not understand why.

Her older two sons had taken their mother's actions as freedom for them to also begin treating him as a nuisance, or worse, a pells. Blain had begun to ghost about the royal apartments and nearby tunnels, finding any crack or private crevice in which to avoid his family. It had been a shocking experience, to find himself in the midst of such feuding. In public, and even around Blain's parents, the king and queen seemed to be fond of one another, the best one could usually hope for with an arranged diplomatic marriage.

That union had ended a decade's long war between the Longbeards and the Blacklocks with their Ironfist allies. It had been an elegant solution, to marry the granddaughter of both the Blacklock and Broadbeam kings, the product of a previous alliance marriage, with the king of Khazad-dûm. It had tied the three families together in what were hoped to be unbreakable bonds. Too bad the queen had inherited more of her Blacklock mother's temperament than her Broadbeam father's, and that the Blacklock king doted on her, though her family had only stayed with him every other year when she was much younger. It made for an even pricklier diplomatic situation than the one it was supposed to solve!

An end to that truce now, especially because of such a personal insult, would have been devastating to Khazad-dûm. So much of their food was dependent upon trade relations with their neighbors that severing the link during the war had almost defeated the mighty Longbeard kingdom, a weakness his uncle was not finding it easy to block. Blain had a few ideas, mostly involving the mountain valleys, but no one would listen to the advice of a dwarfling.

Eventually, the queen's feud had been washed away with the slag, and the abuse aimed at him by much of the family had eased, but Blain's avoidance behavior had become ingrained. It was much easier to depend only upon himself, rarely speaking to anyone outside of his duties if he could avoid it. That way, he would not give offense. He even took to avoiding his old protector, Thain, for fear of the older lad tiring of it and turning on him, too. It was lonely, but he survived.

Such gloomy thoughts, however, did nothing to relieve the situation, any more than tears did. It had been twenty years today that word had come of the avalanche that claimed his parents' lives. Also today, at his own request, he would begin an apprenticeship, though he had been apprehensive to learn that it would be to one of the greatest weapons smiths Khazad-dûm had ever produced. It was an honor to have been given the opportunity, even if only because he was a member of the royal family, but also worrying, as the dwarf who mastered the forge was notoriously picky and short-tempered. Hence, his hiding high up on the wall instead of waiting in his room to be taken to the smith as he had been told. Well, no matter how irritable the smith was, he was certain it could not be worse than living with his aunt!

"Blain!"

The dwarfling startled, flushing when he saw his uncle's newest advisor standing below his perch, head craned back to stare up at him. How had the dwarf found him? Hurriedly, he stuck his mother's stone back in his pocket and scrambled down, uncertain of this new advisor's temper. Just as he came to stand before Reglin, though, his stomach gave an embarrassing rumble, cramping with hunger. The young lore keeper raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Did you forget to eat this morning, lad? Or are you still in the stage where you eat your weight thrice daily?"

He was just sensitive enough not to take kindly to the implication that he was not at full growth. Blain examined his feet, mind racing to come up with a suitable excuse. He certainly could not tell him the truth! He also wanted to avoid meeting those penetrating silvery grey eyes, afraid that if he were to look up, Reglin would see the lie in his face. The older dwarf had only been serving the royal family for two months and had already proved to have an uncanny ability to see through the politics and mischief surrounding them.

Eventually, Reglin would take over for the old Lore Keeper as the chief advisor and historian for the king, but at barely sixty himself, he was still in his apprenticeship. Mostly, that meant he was tasked with badgering the various errant members of the royal family into being where they were supposed to, from what Blain could tell.

"Wasn't hungry, sir." He mumbled, "It was twenty years ago today that-"

Involuntary tears pricked his eyes and a lump in his throat choked off his words. Before he could compose himself, a gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. Unfortunately, it was his bruised one, making him hiss in discomfort.

"Blain?" Reglin repeated, though this time his voice was laden with concern. "What's wrong, lad? Here, let me see."

Blain squirmed, but he could not disobey a direct order from his elder. Fumbling hands pulled his tunic loose and away from his shoulder. The bruise there had been larger than his hand this morning, a dark bluish purple, swollen and sore. The lad felt his face turning pink in embarrassed discomfort, knowing what was coming next. At the sight, the other instantly hissed in dismay, probing the edges gently.

"What happened?"

He flinched at the anger in the lore keeper's voice, still refusing to look up.

"Was playin' with my cou- the princes." He winced, his aunt's shrill tone yelling about proper titles running through his head. It was always a trial to keep straight, as his uncle was equally adamant when he was there that there were no such titles among family. "It was rough."

It certainly had been that, but the only ones to find it amusing had been Kain and Dain. This was not the only bruise left from the wooden practice weapons, only the worst. That had been the other reason for his urgent request, nay, outright begging, to his uncle to be granted a crafting apprenticeship. Dwarrow apprentices in crafts were normally excused from weapons practice beyond the basic skills with ax, hammer, or sword that he already possessed. Were he to venture out of the kingdom with his master, he would receive more, but Master Nyrath was not one to travel. Customers came to him, not he to them, even kings.

"Did you have a healer look at that, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

Blain answered quickly, though untruthfully. It was not that he was being purposefully neglectful, but it was only a bruise. Besides, the healers would have felt constrained to report it to the king, which would have started more trouble with his aunt when the princes were disciplined. No, far better to allow it to heal on its own.

Reglin's fingers lifted his face up, breaking his thoughts, and Blain began to shake at the anger in the older dwarf's eyes. He knew that look, and it meant only trouble for him. He shrank into himself as much as possible, tears pooling despite knowing it would likely only make the other angrier. That was always how adults reacted. Well, except old Virfir, but he had faded and returned to the stone three years ago. Why were his answers to even simple questions always wrong? Instead of lashing out at him, though, the advisor merely sighed, deep and sad, before gently replacing the hand on the prince's unbruised shoulder.

"'Tis just as well you'll be starting your apprenticeship, then. It will be a better situation for you; trust me, lad. Come on, I'll introduce you to Master Nyrath. Here's the lunch pail you forgot."

Blain flinched again, having left it on purpose, but there was no help for it. Sweaty hands gripped the metal handle tightly, the coolness conducted up from the ice packed in the bottom feeling good. It was certainly not enough to relieve his nerves, of course, but it helped. He had been so anxious to start this apprenticeship, counting the days, but now… Now that it was actually happening instead of just being talked about, Blain's stomach tightened in fear. He could think of at least twenty things he would suddenly rather be doing, all rather urgently, but his feet stumbled along behind Reglin anyway.

The advisor led them through the drying areas for treated skins and the huge, smelly vats where the leather soaked to be made into parchment and vellum. Next, they passed by the dyeing area, and the gem cutters, but Reglin did not pause, even when hailed. Soon, they were in the great forges, not even stopping when two of the huge hanging hammers slammed together nearby, making Blain jump and yelp. As he staggered, several nearby dwarrow laughed, calling out good-naturedly to Reglin about the young tagalong he had acquired. Blain flushed, glad when they did not linger there, but hurried through to a small stair that was almost hidden in the back. To his surprise, it led to the cavernous market concourse, coming out next to the area where the master white smiths each had their own small shop and work area.

"Didn't know that led through, lad?" Reglin grinned, clapping him on the shoulder then grimacing when Blain winced again. "Sorry. Makes it easier for the smiths to bring larger items up from the forges, or to consult with their fellow masters. Few works consist solely of steel, iron, gold, silver, or mithril, you know. Most of the shops here sell the works of more than one smith, grouped by item rather than master. The one who specializes in that product, or is most senior, has his or her work space in that shop."

"Master Nyrath specializes in mithril weapons and armor, doesn't he?" Blain dared to ask.

Reglin grinned, stopping to look at him with a gleam in his eye.

"Oh, aye, but such weapons! And the armor! Ahh! He makes the like of which kings will fight over! He takes only one apprentice every ten or twenty years, and this time it's you he wants. Even your aunt could say nothing against such an honor, though it surely soured her day!"

To Blain's utter astonishment, the older dwarf seemed delighted at the prospect of a cranky queen. Then, the true import of what Reglin had just told him sunk in.

"So Uncle didn't-"

He broke off in disbelief, staring hard at the advisor as he nodded.

"Nothing could make Nyrath take on an apprentice he didna want, lad, not even the king. Now, chin up and let's go. T'wouldn't look good to be late the first day."

Stomach a lead weight, throat bone dry, and sweaty hands clenching the metal lunch pail so tightly the metal bit into his skin, Blain resolutely stepped forward to meet whatever fate planned for him now.