She was walking through fire and the feeling was familiar. Her life had been engulfed in flames before. Back then she had been desperate to survive. Today she was indifferent.
She was swimming through ice and that feeling too was familiar. Her life had known so much cold, whether it was during their winters on the road, or in the clutches of her duties as a royal. Jóli had warmed her.
Now Jóli was cold, was nothing but a shrouded figure carried upon the shoulders of his friends. Dís followed, walking slowly, her shaved face covered by a mourning veil and her gloved hands clasping those of her children. He had given her two boys, the mithril of her heart, the mithril of their hearts. Not any longer. It was just Dís now and the world around her had turned to fire and ice. There was a fire burning inside her, consuming her in its wrath, but at the same time there was ice, an ever-lasting winter gripping her heart. Her face did not betray the battle inside; her face remained impassive as the very stone of her soul was torn asunder.
She had lost her keystone and the arch of her life was tumbling down, falling and falling, endlessly falling into an abyss darker and deadlier even than the ire of the dragon. There was nobody left to catch her now. She had been here before, so many times, and yet the feeling was new and alien to her. She had never attended a funeral for one of her family before, even though she had lost them all. There had never been a body brought back to her to bury, not when her mother had been taken from her so early, so violently; not when her grandfather had been slain and fed to the crows; not when her father had disappeared. And Frerin, oh Frerin! Frerin had been lost far away, in a battle so dreadful that the survivors still breathed nary a word of it. A battle so bloody that they had been unable to even bury their dead. Frerin had been burned. At least Jóli would not be a burned Dwarf. She tried to cling to that shred, that slight sliver of positivity.
She clutched her sons' hands. They were real, they were here, they were alive and breathing beside her. They were fine lads, Fíli with his father's golden hair and Kíli with his infectious joy. They were fine lads, and they were the only reason that remained for her to stay alive. Fine lads that would not grow up as orphans. She had to hold onto that determination, had to make sure the fire and ice did not consume her. She had to live for her sons, bare-cheeked and broken though she was.
They stood in front of the tomb now, the cavern lit by many flickering torches. The whole town was here, their friends, their co-workers, their neighbours and cousins. Kíli tried to withdraw his hand from her grasp, obviously growing bored with the solemn occasion and intimidated by the many eyes that rested upon them. Dís rested her hand upon his curls, his braids crooked and loose as usual. He looked up at her, with those wide, expressive eyes that were so much like his father's that for a moment her breath was taken away. She leaned down and whispered a few words into the fidgety boy's ear.
She stood straight, as if she was naught but a statue hewn from the stone, cold and unmoving, the ice winning the battle against the fire in that moment, but her boys bowed low when their father was laid to rest in the slate-grey tomb. Her brave little boys, who barely had time to tell their father hello, now said goodbye as their people watched and wept. At her urging, the children — dressed in their best clothes, far too cute to be attending a funeral — gave a final salute to their dead adad.
They sat on low stone benches, cowering in front of Mahal's might. At some point an antsy Kíli was spirited away to a quiet room by her friend Rúna; Rúna who had buried her husband just a few years ago and had since been raising fatherless children of her own. Dís felt naked and exposed. As a daughter of Durin she had always been a public figure, but less so in recent years as the wife of a lowly workman. In many ways she could ignore her heritage and be just one more ordinary dwarrowdam in a growing town full of hard-working people, but there were small signs of her superior lineage. Her sons had always been known as the sons of Dís, not Jóli, so there would not even be that small reminder now.
The ceremony washed over Dís like the mighty waves of a great river. Chants echoed in the cavern, multiplying and growing stronger, reaching out to Mahal, maybe to be heard all the way to the Halls of Mandos. Thorin spoke of life everlasting, of joining Mahal in the other realm; he spoke of respect for the deceased and of comfort for the living. His words were hollow like the tomb in front of them. Dís sat still throughout it all, naught but a marble figure in the mass of mourners.
"May your spirit, dear Jóli, join Mahal swiftly when he calls you by your name, when he calls you..." Thorin proclaimed, his deep voice rising above the murmured prayers and stifled sobs of the assembled Dwarves. Dís had learned to be strong, to meet the death and despair thrown at her so frequently with the sharpness and force of an iron-forged sword. But she crumbled when Thorin spoke Jóli's inner name, his true name that long ago he had whispered to her on their wedding night. It was a secret so deep, so personal, and it should not have been revealed for many long years to come. All stoicism forgotten, Dís surrendered to her feelings. She made no effort to wipe away her tears, nor to hide the shaking of her shoulders.
A small, warm hand wormed its way into hers, gave her something to hold on to, something to anchor her in this world when all she really wanted was to return to the stone, to be with her beloved husband once more. Fíli's other hand came to rest on top of hers as he gently stroked her fingers. His eyes remained fixed upon Thorin who stood in front of the tomb, intent to commit every moment of the ceremony to memory. Tears were streaming down her young son's cheeks, but he made no noise, his pain so overwhelming that it found no sound.
"Umhûdizu tadaizd ku' adrûthîzd, Mahal, murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur," Thorin intoned and the whole congregation repeated the Words of Mourning after him, Fíli's voice rising above all others, high and clear as a bell. Bless those who mourn, Creator, shield them from the pain with Your hammer and guide them to a new day.
Fíli was too small for her to lean upon him when Thorin beckoned them forwards, but nonetheless she felt like he was supporting her, that his mere presence was banishing a little of the heavy weight that had settled upon her shoulders. Together they stood in front of the tomb, still unadorned while the mourning period lasted. Jóli's friends would see to it that he received an inscription worthy of his memory eventually. If anything could ever be worthy of Jóli's memory. Nothing hewn of rock or cast in metal could ever hope to come close to the love and warmth he had shared not just with her, but with all those whose lives he had touched. Nothing could ever replace Jóli.
It was clearly Fíli holding her hand now and not the other way around as they knelt next to the tomb. They touched their foreheads against it, sharing that tender gesture with their beloved husband and father for one last time. There was little tenderness in the cold and unyielding stone. This was not Jóli any more, this was just the mountain, remote and aloof as ever, indifferent to the plight of her children.
"Umhûdizu tadaizd ku' adrûthîzd, Mahal , murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur," the words echoed behind them again, repeated again and again, seven times seven times repeated in mourning for a dear friend and neighbour. Dís did not feel blessed by Mahal, felt crushed by His hammer rather than shielded, and she certainly could not see the new day He was supposed to be guiding her to.
Fíli's hand was resting on her spine now, his thin arm stretched across her back. He looked up at her, his blue eyes still brimming with tears, but his glance earnest and mature far beyond his years.
"I'll shield you, Amad," he whispered. "I'll make sure that you never have to cry like this again."
She drew him against her body then, breathed in his sweet scent and kissed his golden hair, so much like his father's she could not deny that part of him was still with her. It was a promise he might not be able to keep, but she could not fault his ardour.
They stood again as they watched Thorin put Jóli's tools and weapons in his tomb. A Dwarf entered the Halls of Mahal with all his treasures. Not that there would be any jewels to be placed on Jóli's breast. A Dwarf that had died in the mines of the Ered Luin was unlikely to call precious stones or metal his own, even if he had married a daughter of Durin. They had been poor by anyone's standard, but so rich in love that Dís never regretted it for a minute. He in turn had loved her so much that he never once complained of their sons being called her descendants rather than his. Now there would be little left of that love that transcended the barriers of class except for memories. Jóli's smell on the pillows would fade and with time his clothes and few possessions would wither and decay, and by the time their boys were old enough to start their apprenticeships, there would be nothing left except for the stone that held their father. It was a poor memorial to one so vibrant and full of joy.
Amidst the funeral chants, Thorin reached into the tomb for one last time before a dozen Dwarves hoisted the heavy lid on top of it. This time he did not deposit anything, but withdrew a small dagger that had accompanied Jóli wherever he went. It was not particularly beautiful, the sheath plain and the metal tarnished in places, but it had been a much-valued tool to his bearer. Thorin sank to his knees in front of Fíli so they were about the same height. He held out the knife to his nephew and waited for him to grasp it.
"May it be a memory to you of your valiant and beloved father," Thorin said, helping Fíli fasten the dagger to his belt. "May it serve you well in all your future endeavours, Fíli son of Jóli."
Author's Note: I'm sorry. Yes, these are my cute, fluffy little one-shots. I feel somewhat guilty for having written this.
Let me know what you think, please!
Funeral customs and Words of Mourning courtesy of The Dwarrow Scholar.
