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 9: Believe and you will find your way
Six Days before Durin's Day
Walk of Remembrance
Thorin paused at the tomb of an ancient Warmaster, noting grimly that the battered stone hands had held up against attempts to take the mithril dagger with a King's stone on its pommel. His newly surfacing memories of Blain's life told him that it was the work of Mastersmith Nyrath; one of the few pieces still in existence today. If so, the work had been sorely undervalued in the smith's lifetime, it was exquisite.
The wonder of it was that it was still here. Too many of the stone effigies had been plundered of such treasures in the long years Khazad-dûm suffered the residence of the filth from Mordor in its halls, and what had not been taken was defaced. This particular tomb was missing both the top of the head and the feet. Anger burned deep within at the sight, but Thorin had been forced to put the needs of the living before the restoration of the tombs. Even now, most were still visibly damaged, though the insulting Black Speech had been covered or removed, at least. Thorin sighed, reflecting on how much had yet to be done before leading the way into the next small room, dominated by a statue of marble.
"Uncle, why is there no tomb here?"
The king smiled sadly, boosting young Filan up into his arms. This would normally have been a question for the lad's father, but while Kili was physically here, he walked in a daze, steered along by a worried Fili. The healers had a difficult time waking Vestri this morning, and now feared bleeding somewhere inside her. They had tried to put this as positively as possible to the dwarf prince, but he had seemed to hear only the possibility of her death, something that they definitely had not told the lads.
Would another royal tomb soon grace these halls?
The very thought made the king pray to Mahal with all his might that it not come true.
"This was where Blain's parents' tomb would have been. The statue was placed here to remember them after he became king."
Thorin struggled to keep the golden-haired lad in his arms a moment longer, then let him slide down. Filan's head was almost to his shoulder already!
"You're getting too big," He told the lad, ruffling the silky hair affectionately. "Maybe I should tell your father to stack rocks on your head, stop you growing."
There was a weary chuckle from just behind them as Kili put his free arm about his son's shoulders.
"You leave him alone," There was a desperate edge to Kili's forced cheer that made Thorin long to take him in his arms and make the pain go away, though he knew it was well past the time when he had that power. This was no scraped knee or unkind words hissed at a fragile dwarfling. "You tried that with me, uncle, and all it did was m-make Mother f-furious."
Kili swallowed hard, turning his face away as the words brought too many thoughts and feelings back to the surface. Despite his affinity with the stone, the younger prince of Erebor had never developed the disregard of feelings that characterized so many other dwarrow. Stepping forward quickly, as alert as ever to his brother's needs, Fili slapped him good naturedly on the shoulder.
"Wasn't that the time she threw the biscuits at you?"
Thorin snorted, unable to suppress the mirth the memory brought. He had been young still, and though the years of exile and deaths of so many had weighed heavy on his shoulders, his little nephews had been able to lift that sorrow with their foolishness. Young Kili had been terrified that the stones in the basket would actually shorten him, running to Dis in tears, which, of course, brought out the instinctive protection of the mother whose child has been harmed.
"Almost knocked me out with one. She never did manage an edible batch."
Kili broke away from them without answering, running a finger gently over the white marble of the ancient miner.
"Poor lad… To lose them both too soon. I know how he must have felt." Turning to the king, his brown eyes were more alive than they had been all day. "Did he ever find a new home and family, Uncle?"
"Of a sort…" Thorin waved them on to the next set of tombs, including one with the image of a hammer and anvil on the cover. "Let me tell you of Mastersmith Nyrath…"
Second Age, 629
Master Smith Nyrath was the most massive dwarf Blain had ever seen. He had to be almost five feet tall, if not more, with shoulders over two feet across and biceps as big around as tree stumps. The drafting stick in his fingers looked like a tooth pick where he sat hunched over a tilted design table.
"Nyrath! I brought your new lad!"
Blain's courage almost failed him at that point, for the master looked up with a ferocious scowl, examining him with the same regard one would give a foul substance spilled on the floor. Only the thought of betraying his heritage as a Durin kept him rooted in place.
"Hmm... So this is the lad who supposedly manipulated mithril as if he'd years of experience."
Blain sucked in a hard breath, shocked. The last month of lessons had been given over to testing in different trades, but he had not thought he excelled in any of them. The smith took one of his arms in his huge hand, squeezing the bicep experimentally.
"Humph. Well. If he's Amur's boy, he should at least have a head on his shoulders. The rest will come in time. Come, young one, I'll introduce you around. Leave your lunch pail here."
Since all it had was a hard-boiled egg, Blain did so gladly.
"Y-yes, Master Nyrath."
If anything, the smith's frown deepened.
"At least he speaks, even if he sounds like a tiny little mouse. Come retrieve him at the third bell, Reglin, I should be done by then."
Blain's heart sank even further at that. Since Khazad-dûm was underground, they went by three bells that broke up the day into eight hour chunks. At least part of the city's population was at work, asleep, or on free time at every bell. Unfortunately, the Court ate an hour after the third bell, about seven in the evening, which meant Blain would have no choice but to continue the nightly ordeal under his aunt's eye. As if in agreement, his stomach rumbled uneasily and he grimaced, glad that the hammering nearby covered the sound as the master steered him toward the back.
"You'll be expected to spend half of each day pumping bellows for Gil, my stryker, and I. Mithril requires delicate work and precise temperature controls, so no machine driven contraption will do. It'll put some muscle on those scrawny arms of yours, as well. The other half of your day will be spent learning about the different metals for now. What they are used for, melting points, what tools work best; take plenty of notes, a good smith adds to them his whole life."
Staring around in awe, Blain nodded absently, eyes taking in the slush tanks and two great anvils in the center of the room, with a furnace beyond. To one side sat a long workbench with finer tools and molds lying about, coils of wire in every type of metal gleaming in the light of the lanterns.
"Mithril shares many properties with steel, so we often work it as a blacksmith does, but white smithing techniques can also be used. There's a small apprentice anvil behind the bench that you will be using for now. When we're forging, we break every half hour for water; every other time its salt water, keeps us healthy. We start at morning bell and end at evening unless I tell you otherwise. I do not tolerate tardiness, so do not dawdle about your breakfast or I'll make you eat here, instead. Now, this is the way you pump the bellows…"
As his hands were placed upon the smooth wood and leather handle of the mechanism, Blain felt his head begin to spin a bit from the heat. The smith's last admonishment had given him a faint glimmer of an idea, but before he could tease it out, all his attention was caught up in the work and the steady voice of the smith telling him each step.
*****888******
The days that followed were both the most intriguing and the most frustrating of Blain's life so far. The work was utterly fascinating, watching as the mithril and steel turned red, then white with the heat of the fire, only to be shaped and melded together under the deft hammers of the two dwarrow. He also had a hand in smelting down the raw ore to extract the individual liquid metals, something he intellectually had known was done, but never thought he would see.
It was amazing to see the raw ore poured in the top of the enclosed furnace, watching as bursts of flame came out around the heavy lid, then the iron bar was tapped into the rock pieces blocking the lower spout and out flowed glowing yellow liquid metal! It could then be poured into troughs to be formed into iron stock for the smiths to use. And he wrote down his questions, such as why that furnace did not have to be as hot as one that liquefied the resulting bars. Over time, or so Master Nyrath promised, he would have an opportunity to observe every type of smith, even the tinkers, though now he concentrated on the two related most directly to his work with mithril weapons - iron and steel.
The first actual attempt he made at smithing himself, however, was an utter failure. The iron nails were too thin or so fat no one could pound them, and overworked to the point where the metal became brittle. It was so frustrating, and humiliating, that hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He could do this, he knew he could! But when he tried to follow Master Nyrath's instructions instead of his own instinct, it all just fell apart. The huge smith just clapped a hand on his shoulder, however, giving him a commiserating smile. To make matters worse, other masters had come to take stock of Nyrath's new protégé, so his failure also reflected badly upon his master.
"Best way to learn is to try, lad, even if you fail a hundred times. I would never have discovered how to blend steel and mithril so effectively had I not done so. Here, let's give you a try at shaping the mithril wire into rings for the chainmail Gil works on."
That had turned out to be successful, even garnering praise from both older dwarrow, boosting Blain's confidence as he was set to more tasks. His failure rate, though, stayed at an appallingly high rate for any dwarf, let alone one supposedly possessing the makings of a master. Each afternoon, Blain stood in dread of being dismissed completely from the apprenticeship, but Nyrath just sighed, giving him a pat on the back and bidding him to be on time in the morning. It frustrated him almost to the point of tears. He knew he should be able to make it work, listening carefully to the big smith's instructions, but it just...didn't. Finally, Blain was bent over his latest work on the small anvil, trying to blend steel and mithril, when the shadow of the master fell over him.
"Hmmm..."
The noise at his shoulder made the young dwarf startle, the hammer missing its swing to clang against the anvil instead. Blain felt his shoulders tense, waiting for the harsh criticism of the smith. It was clear that the two metals were not becoming one, no matter how he tried. In fact, the steel was so badly mangled by now that it would be useless for anything else until re-smelted. Tears burning in his eyes, Blain swallowed hard, looking up at the smith.
"Master Nyrath, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
The huge smith waved that off, settling his bulk onto a nearby stool.
"'Tis not you who owes an apology, lad. Tell me, are you doing your best to follow my directions?"
"Yes!"
Blain avowed fervently, hoping to convey his sincerity through the passion.
"And the pieces where you failed; would you have done it differently had I not given you instruction?"
The younger dwarf flushed, knowing how it would seem; him, a new apprentice, presuming to believe he knew better than one of the most accomplished master smiths alive.
"Y-yes." He whispered, then stared up at the master with wide eyes. "But I'm sure I must be wrong!"
A slow smile spread on the smith's face.
"I'm not. I want you to take another piece of steel and mithril, but this time don't pay attention to my previous instructions if you think it should be done another way. Let's see how it turns out."
"But Master Nyrath, the waste-"
"What waste, lad? Even should it not work, mithril and steel are both easily returned to stock bars. You've been shown how to start a basic dagger blade. Just relax and let yourself work."
It was with shaking hands that Blain set diligently back to work, setting aside his failure to begin again. This time, he did not mutter the smith's instructions to himself, cautiously allowing his hands the freedom to do as he would. And something strange happened. Where the hammer blows had often been scattered and lacking in rhythm previously, the ringing became a much beloved music to his ears. The metals blended and folded as he wished, staying hot just long enough for what he wanted to accomplish. Time lost meaning and it became only his hands, his skill, and the metal before him. The hiss of the slacking tank not only brought him back to himself, but also caused Master Nyrath to come over, taking the freshly finished item in his scarred hands, regardless of the residual heat.
"Hmmm..."
The smith hummed again, examining closely not a dagger core, but an almost finished blade, lacking only the finishings of pommel and sharpening. Blain held his breath, waiting for the bellow of dismissal and the snap of badly forged metal in Nyrath's hands, but instead the smith turned back to where Gil continued to work at his own anvil.
"Gil!" His bellow brought the stryker's head around. "Come look at this! By Mahal, we've an instinctual smith on our hands!"
"A what?"
Blain dared to question, only to have the master grin at him, the stryker joining them to hold the piece in awe.
"A smith who can manipulate metal by sheer instinct, needing only the most basic of instructions. 'Tis a rare skill indeed, lad. There's not been an instinctual smith in Khazad-dum in over four hundred years. In fact," Nyrath's eyes narrowed, raking the young apprentice with a penetrating gaze. "In fact, the last would have been your great-great grandfather, who taught the dwarf who taught me."
"So I'm not just messing up?"
For some reason, Blain's meek question had both the older dwarrow roaring with laughter. Finally, Nyrath smacked his back so hard he almost pitched forward into the slacking tank.
"No, indeed, lad! Far from it! But it does mean that we need to alter your lessons. With you, Gil or I will show you how we do something, then I want you to try it. If your gut tells you to do it differently, listen. Experiment. And don't hesitate to tell us if something just isn't right. I've a feeling we'll learn as much from you as you do from us."
While Blain was trying to absorb that extraordinary statement, Gil added to it.
"There's another lad that Anri, the builder of secret doors, took as an apprentice last year, who's instinctual. You should get to know him, he might be able to help you understand your instincts. His name's Narvi."
*****888*****
The next weeks passed swiftly. The more time Blain spent on his own, exploring and adapting what he was learning to his own methods, the greater his skills became, progressing at what the smith said was an astonishing rate. He and Narvi not only were able to aid each other in learning to trust their instinctual knowledge, they became very close friends. And Nyrath not only approved of his work; some of it was already in the shop, for sale beside that of Gil and the Mastersmith, an unheard-of privilege for a new apprentice. Everywhere he went, Blain was greeted and included in discussions with craft masters, invited to see how they worked. For the first time in a very long while, he was trusted, included, and praised, with others keeping careful watch on his development. All of this would have made Blain a happy, content dwarf were it not for one crucial part - his meals.
He had made sure to dawdle just enough over his breakfast the first few days to have Master Nyrath insist he eat with them, as planned. The smith also sent a terse note with Reglin saying that the meals Blain was bringing were not enough for him. The cook had then added a hearty piece of meat between slices of bread and fruit, so for a month, the young apprentice was eating better than he had in over a year.
What had not worked out so well was that his aunt found out when she paid an unannounced visit to the kitchens one morning, supposedly because she was appalled by the state of her meals the previous day. However, no one truly believed that, as the cooks would sooner starve themselves than send an inferior meal to the queen. More likely, she had heard the talk of young Blain's progress, and decided upon a petty revenge.
Blain was told that she took one look at what was being packed for him and instructed the cooks to provide him with only an egg and a crust of bread for the morning, and two eggs for lunch. Which actually would have been barely adequate to the physical labor he did were it not for the fact that eggs made him itchy and sick to his stomach, the reason he was trying to avoid them in the first place.
Under Master Nyrath's watchful eye, he had been forced to choke down the dreaded things, then excused himself as soon as possible to hide in the latrine, inducing himself to vomit his meal back up. It left him feeling shaky and weak, and the heat of the forge area soon set his head to swimming. On the fourth day of this, he passed out while working the bellows, waking to find himself being fed water by the giant smith. Even worse, he was given a task to do sitting down for the afternoon, with Nyrath constantly checking upon him, and could not escape to rid himself of the lunch he had choked down. It was less than an hour before he was squirming with discomfort.
"Blain? What's wrong?"
The lad silently cursed as he startled, staring dumbly up at Gil, who was standing there with a cup of water held out to him. In his head, the words of the treatise on properties of metals he had been reading swam and merged into nonsense, distracting as a roar also filled his ears. His skin was hot and so itchy he wished to dig in his nails and scratch until it all came off.
"W-wha?"
His mouth opened and the sound came out, but it barely resembled the word he had meant to speak, his tongue was so thick. It felt as though it filled the entire space, threatening to choke off all air, and dry. So very, very dry. Blain never realized he dropped the precious scroll, hands abruptly everywhere, digging, even at his eyeballs. Vaguely, he heard cries of alarm, and felt the hands fighting his, but his sight was almost gone now, face swelling until it felt as if his very skin would split open like an overripe tomato. Breath stuttered in his throat and he bucked, trying desperately to throw off whoever was choking him. Liquid, on his face, down his throat. Foul tasting, warm, were they trying to drown him? Broken bits of words came through, sharp and senseless in his fear.
"He's panicking! You fool, give him-"
"-can't be because of-"
"-sickens some. Should not have-"
"Reglin! The king-"
A sickly sweet odor invaded his nostrils, and his head grew even foggier as his senses faded, body falling limp to the cold stone, and he embraced the black of unconsciousness.