A/N: The Blue Canary is stuffed to near-bursting with delicious cupcakes (gifted by Gladoo!). There are crumbs covering my laptop, now… *brushes them away with a wry smirk*
New fans, new readers… hurrah! Thank you, everyone! Of course, special thanks to my reviewers GregsMadHatter, Ruairi, Barbed Wire, jaymzNshed, deanandhisimpala, MistakenMagic, MotherMountain, Gladoo89, dojoson41, and my guest reviewer Death to elves (read my closing note for an answer to your question, friend!).
Arc I: Growing Pains — Chapter III
"All the world's a stage,
and all the men and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances;
and one man in his time plays many parts,
his acts being seven ages."
– William Shakespeare, "As You Like It"
Wet ink dribbles from the idle quill pen in my hand onto the loose parchment below. With a low hiss of annoyance I quickly wipe the black spots away with a gum pad. For several minutes I have been staring at the calculations before me with a mixture of fascination, bewilderment, and loathing. Even now I am leaning my forehead into my hand, elbow propped up on the table, while frowning down at the stubborn little figures scratched onto the paper. Math has always been my strong suit but not without great toil and frustration—Balin discovered years ago that I could gain mastery in practically any subject if I pushed myself enough, which I always did, just short of beating my own brains out. I flip my attention back to the weathered book for the umpteenth time and thumb through the same five pages yet again.
"Not quite, Kíli; you skipped a step," I can hear Balin murmur nearby. "Try it again, laddie."
My little brother groans. "What step? What am I missing?" His voice is somewhat high, reedy, a sure sign that he is at his wit's end. As intelligent as he is, Kíli holds no great love for calculus. He huffs in frustration and slaps down his piece of chalk with finality. "I can't do this problem anymore, Mister Balin," he declares. The sound of his elbows clunking against the table indicates that he is holding his head in frustration. "I've had enough of this."
Our tutor sighs and seems he is about to argue when he suddenly addresses me, instead. "Fíli! For heaven's sake lad, why are you using the calligraphy parchment?"
Hunched over my work, I can't bother myself to look up at his exasperated tone. A fresh candle of inspiration has suddenly lit in my mind and I am scribbling work down furiously. "Ran out of room on my slate and then ran out of scrap paper," I mumble absent-mindedly. My pen scratches away noisily and I am so focused that I don't notice Balin's approach until he lays his hand on my shoulder; I jerk in surprise and look up.
"Goodness. You have been busy, haven't you?" he says, eyebrows raised sky-high and a small smile peeking out from beneath his bushy white beard. His eyes rove around the space around me, and I follow his gaze. Papers are strewn all about the floor beneath my feet, around the chair, on my lap and cluttering the table. I hadn't realized how carried away I got. Turning back to Balin, I smile sheepishly.
"Well… I guess I have. But it's this formula, it's fascinating—I don't understand half of it, but Balin—" In my excitement I forget myself and address him without the appropriate title; neither of us seems to take much notice of my indiscretion. "—this part here, look." I scrabble at the old book and flip back to earlier pages. "I haven't seen the looks of it before. You've never taught us this method. Look, look here…"
The questions on mathematical theory fly eagerly from my lips and Balin listens. I show him my progression from the careful chalkings on my slate all the way to the haphazardly inked calculations on the parchment. As I wait for his response to my questions I study his gentle face, now wrinkled with his white eyebrows scrunched in thought, and I smile softly to myself. Balin is the wisest dwarf I know, aside from my own mother, and most certainly the most knowledged. From the history of our people to the science of chemistry, he is a true wizard, brilliant in every way. It is no question why Thorin entrusted us to his old friend's care long ago.
Were we in Erebor, Kíli and I would've most likely had all manners of teachers and instructors at our beck and call for all subjects, each dwarf specializing in one area or another. We would've had Erebor's vast library at our fingertips, hundreds to thousands of tomes ready for our absorption at any given time. Living in exile as we do, however, such things are a mere fantasy, the ghost of a life lost along with our people's wealth and home far away. There are no great dwarves of learning any more—they are dead, moved on, or else hidden from our sight, fighting for survival along with the rest of us. We have no library, and books are hard to come by; the ones we do possess have been paid for dearly, all in sacrifice for the education of two princelings. I once overhead Thorin comment bitterly that we live not as princes but mere paupers, with no advantage or hope for a better life near in sight. Such nonsense. I would take our Balin and his travel-stained books over an entire army of Thorin's childhood tutors any day. If anyone can prepare me and my brother for our future, he is the best candidate.
"I must confess, young master Fíli, that I can make neither head nor tail of this." Balin shakes his head with apparent dismay, but when he turns to me his brown eyes are positively dancing. "It seems… you have surpassed my knowledge." With a muted sigh of contentment he scans the tome once more and flips a few more pages before he shakes his head once more. "These are incredibly complex, more than those I have examined in many a year. I regret I cannot answer your questions on these old gems. I am, however, impressed that you explored these on your own and worked your way so far through them." The dwarf turns to me with a warm, almost doting smile. "You are becoming quite the scholar, my boy."
I can't help my astonishment; I must look like a gaping trout because Balin laughs and ruffles my hair with great amusement. I force myself to put my jaw back into place before staring blankly at my quill.
Balin knows everything about anything! Surely surpassing him is an impossible task.
As shocked as I feel my chest suddenly swells with pride and I look down the table at my brother, grinning triumphantly, but he only stares back at me blankly. Just as it happened several days ago, some uncertain emotion flickers on Kíli's face and is gone before I can identify it; his gaze sinks down to his own slate as Balin returns to his side. With Kíli's complete lack of enthusiasm my own fades almost instantly.
Of course Balin can't know everything. Uncle Thorin has said so himself. It's common sense, for Durin's sake. Yet, the thought of it makes me suddenly all choked up and I do not know why. I have to swallow a couple times to get rid of the feeling.
Balin has always known more than me.
"Raise your arm! Higher! Higher, I said!"
I grunt in pain from the blow I receive and resist the instinctive urge to withdraw my sword arm. Dwalin is a tough instructor, almost as hard to please as Uncle Thorin, and twice as rough; he will have us learn. He comes at me again, sparring rod swinging, and we go through the sequence again. Just as before he leans in for a blow and I swing my rod around, but despite my concentrated effort my reaction time is too slow; Dwalin's rod cracks down on my arm a third time.
"For goodness sakes!" he exclaims as I inadvertently hiss in dire discomfort, "This isn't a namby-pamby pillow fight with your brother; raise your arm and defend yourself, curses and confound it all, boy!"
Kíli chuckles on the sidelines and I clench my teeth, aggravated. I double my efforts in obeying the dwarf's instructions, for my repeated mistake and Dwalin's repeated correction has left my arm sore… as well as my pride. This time I am successful and Dwalin grumbles his approval as I correctly counter his move.
"Need a break?" he asks me with gruff concern. When I shake my head firmly a sly grin sneaks onto his face. "Alright, then we'll end with our free-fight. I know you've been waitin' for this." He tosses aside the rod and picks up a practice sword, a glint in his eye. "You're cross and you want to get even."
"Not cross, just impatient," I assert firmly, picking up a pair of twin swords and twirling them experimentally. About a month ago I began training in two-handed combat, honing in on my tendency towards ambidexterity. Though I am still quite new to this style of fighting I already find that I am favoring it.
Dwalin nods at my weapons. "Sure you want two?"
Cheekily, I grin at him. "Why?" I ask him sweetly, "Does it worry you?"
The dwarf snarls dangerously in response and I smile all the wider; Dwalin's like another uncle, and I know his limits to teasing as well as I know Thorin's.
"Yeah, it worries me," Dwalin grouches. "I worry that you'll slice your own arm off in an exuberant show of over-confidence. Take care," he snaps with finality. "You're still learning the feel of those things."
My impudent grin remains intact but I nod at him grimly. "Yes sir, I know."
And so we begin.
It's a typical way to end our training with Dwalin; he often allows us to have a free fight with him or each other. By free fight, of course, I mean that we have our choice of weapon and the match itself is essentially a free-for-all. There is little correction of any kind and it serves mainly as a reward, allowing us to have a little fun while still getting some practice. I enjoy fighting with my brother but I almost always win—Kíli still has some growing to do before his strength and endurance can equal mine—and though he doesn't admit it, I know it smites his pride every time. Fighting with Dwalin is always a daunting challenge; it's never a matter of winning—for beating my instructor is next to impossible—it's a matter of seeing how long I can last before I am forced to yield. It's like a game.
Only once was Dwalin defeated during one of our training sessions, and that was when he agreed to allow me and Kíli to team up against him. We were extremely pleased with ourselves that day and we still won't allow our favorite instructor to forget it, either. Yet, it doesn't really count, at least not to me. Neither Kíli nor I have ever been close to defeating the mountain of a dwarf on our own, and I doubt we ever will. I think we derive a strange security in knowing that Dwalin will always be stronger and more cunning than either of us.
That last thought is just flitting through my mind when I suddenly realize that we have stopped...
… and my blunt blade is hovering at Dwalin's shoulder. We stand there, he panting, I desperately heaving for air. Then come the words I thought I'd never hear.
"I yield to you," he says quietly. When I continue standing there and staring like a simpleton, he glances at my sword and then back at me, smirking slightly. "I think it's safe to remove that now, laddie."
Quickly I pull back the weapon and continue standing there, shocked and dazed and thoroughly out of breath, unable to think coherently. From somewhere far away Kíli cheers loudly, Dwalin murmuring some words of congratulation. In the next few moments I am vaguely aware that a body has collided with mine, enthusiastic arms draping themselves around my neck and a familiar laugh of delight ringing in my ear. Dwalin replaces the sword in its bin, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and looks down at me with the biggest smile I have ever seen grace his face. He is practically glowing with pride.
I have just conquered the unconquerable. I should be bubbling over with joy, like my little brother is doing right now. I should feel giddy beyond all belief!
Yet, I feel great sorrow.
Another protective layer has just crumbled and fallen away, leaving me feeling more weak and vulnerable than ever before. Defeating Dwalin feels like such a hallow victory, another reminder that things are changing, that they cannot remain as they once were.
I am only half paying attention to the dwarf's words. Every time he stops me with a harsh voice and critiques my work, I find myself gazing vacantly at him, not really seeing or hearing him. His lips move, for I can see them moving, but the words that come forth are garbled or else completely voiceless, lost in the haze of my clouded mind. At some point I catch the exasperated exclamation of "You know better than that—you haven't made that sloppy a mistake since you were your brother's age."
At the mention of my brother, my barely-suppressed temper flares like a fire under a hot wind. How dare he call Kíli sloppy? What does he know of his worth, his mettle? What does anyone know, for that matter? Thorin says Kíli has behaved disgracefully. Mother says his actions are shameful. But they don't know the truth, only the feeble lies and excuses my brother provides. Only I see the extent those dark bruises go, only I see all the cuts and marks when Kíli changes into his nightshirt. These so-called "matches" he's been mysteriously committed to mean something terrible. I knew it even before I got him to confide in me last night, when he lay on his stomach sobbing after mother's swift but stern chastisement.
Oh, how I want to rip his tormentors limb-from-limb, but the little idiot won't let me! "I have to do this my way," is all he says. It leaves me feeling helpless… and I hate feeling helpless. It makes me so angry.
"Enough of this!" Dwalin suddenly bellows, knocking me sharply into cold, crisp reality. He fixes me with a steady stare, his eyes dark but not with anger. He knows there is something wrong. A full minute passes before he takes a deep breath and adjusts his weapon. "Alright, little lion, attack me!" he roars, "Hit me with your best! C'mon!"
Something in his manner ignites the flame within me and I immediately comply with his order. I let loose on him completely, striking him with my blunt sword as swiftly and strong as I possibly can, confident in the knowledge that I can't hurt my trusted instructor with even my best shots. Eventually I grab my blade with both hands and hack away in a blind rage, yelling incoherent battle cries and some curses at the top of my lungs. Style and method are thrown by the wayside as I simply throw all my fury into my attacks, uselessly clashing with Dwalin's sword again and again. It is no matter, however. I'm not trying to win, and I know what Dwalin is trying to do. He's simply popped the bottle cork and is allowing its seething contents to explode and fizz away.
I fight, and fight, and fight. Finally I realize the ground has reached up to meet me and I sink to my knees, exhausted and totally spent. Tears I hadn't known I possessed spill over my cheeks; I shudder, feeling as though a painful weight shifted off my chest. The weight is there but it's been broken up, shattered to ground meal and pushed aside. Dwalin crouches into my vision.
"Feelin' better, laddie?" he murmurs.
A great sigh escapes me, and I nod weakly. He offers me his tattooed hand and I take it gladly; he pulls me to my feet. He gazes at me thoughtfully for a long time while I collect myself, and afterwards he concludes the session complete for the day.
I am not a small child anymore. If I want to tear someone limb-from-limb, I can do it. If I want to hurt someone as strong as Dwalin, there is a chance that I could do it. For all intents and purposes, I possess the ability to end a life.
Despite practical knowledge and understanding, up until now I have managed to retain a sense of security in the thought that my elders are invincible. That youthful illusion has just been shattered before my very eyes. With the realization that I, a mere dwarfling of limited experience, can beat a warrior as mighty as Dwalin, I am forced to realize that he is not infallible, and I am not helpless. Neither can I be as reliant on those stronger than I to protect me; I have a responsibility to take care of myself.
The world suddenly seems a lot more dangerous, and a cold shiver runs through me, rattling my nerves and settling in my bones. My happy, naïve little brother hangs on me cheerfully, and I suddenly feel so defenseless against the evils lurking out in the world, waiting for the both of us.
Kíli retires for the night, feeling unusually tired. He falls asleep within minutes but I am far from ready to turn in; a fruitless search for my whittling knife eventually leads me to the great room, where I am certain I last used it. It is warm in the halls so the large hearth remains cold, but candles are lit all across the mantelpiece, bathing the dark room with gentle circles of light. Pipe smoke rises steadily from Thorin's favorite sofa chair, filling the air with a heavy scent.
"Evening, Uncle," I greet him politely, approaching from behind. He peers around the wing of his chair at me with the ghost of a smile, settling back as I come around into view. "You were missed at dinner."
"Hmm; I doubt that," he grunts around the pipe in his mouth. "I think your mother was relieved that I wasn't underfoot for once."
Thorin is rarely absent at dinner. Sometimes he has to work late on orders at the forge, but in those cases he normally will sup with us and return to work afterwards. I am tempted to ask him his reason for not joining the family this time, but Mother's somewhat testy mood indicates they may have had some sort of an argument and I know better than to pry into their affairs. Instead I offer him a sly smile.
"There was more food to go around," I quip innocently, "Even Kíli left the table without complaining."
My uncle doesn't smile; he looks away, sobering further, and takes a long puff on his pipe. I wince slightly; I should know better than to joke about there being enough to eat. There have been enough times growing up where the table was more bare than it should be, and Mahal knows Thorin and my mother both have suffered hunger in their youth. I mentally kick myself for my stupidity and despondently turn away to search the mantelpiece for my knife.
"Dwalin tells me that you did exceptionally well today," he says after a moment of silence. "He says that you managed to beat him in a match, in two-handed combat, no less." There is the unmistakable note of pride in his voice, with a trace of amusement.
I perk up at his approval, and when my hand closes around my knife it is with a heart-felt smile that I speak. "Yes sir, I did."
"Well done," he says firmly. When I turn around he appears inscrutable as ever to the untrained eye, but I can see the way his eyes crinkle around the edges with pleasure, the slight turning of his mouth. He is well pleased. "Dwalin said you were rather quiet about the affair. You should have rubbed it in a bit; the old geezer could've been taken down a few notches."
I can't help but bark a laugh of surprise at his sudden show of good humor. "I-I don't think that would've been right, Uncle. It is enough that I won."
He smiles outright at that comment, and my heart warms at the sight. Thorin smiles all too infrequently these days. "You are modest," he replies quietly. "It is good." He continues to eye me thoughtfully, pausing to think before continuing. "And the swords—are you considering making a twin pair your chief choice? You seem to favor them as of late."
Sighing, I nervously glance down at my whittling knife and fiddle with it slightly. "I'm not sure. I had always thought that I would make the war hammer my primary, like my father, since he passed his hammer to me. I enjoy wielding it, but ever since Dwalin had me start in with twin swords I've been unsure." I raise my head, frowning uncertainly, almost afraid to admit my thoughts. "It seems to feel more natural in my hands, though I have just begun learning."
"Dwalin has said the same," Thorin says, nodding in agreement. "Do what feels right to you, Fíli, not simply what you think you ought to." He seems to consider something deeply, then raises his piercing blue eyes and holds my gaze. "Your father would not be slighted. You honor him no matter your choice."
A slight weight slips from my shoulders at his words and I sigh deeply. I didn't realize how badly I needed to hear it from my uncle's lips. Doubt remains, but a confirmation from my uncle is a fair substitute to that which I can never receive from one who is long gone.
"You have been troubled as of late, lad," Uncle says suddenly, rough voice softened. "What is on your heart?"
I startle at the question. "M'fine," I reply automatically, even before I have a chance to think about my answer. After a pause, I slip my knife into my pocket and clasp my hands gravely behind my back. "There's nothing, really." My guardian's searching look makes me uneasy and my gaze falters. "I guess… I'm just thoughtful. I don't know."
There are a thousand things I'd like to say to Uncle Thorin, thoughts to discuss and a mind full of doubt to confess, but all words escape me. It is like something inside of me clamps shut at his question and refuses to budge. Just leave me be, whispers my heart. The dwarf grows solemn at my silence and sticks his pipe back between his teeth with a sigh.
"It seems that you have been disturbed, Uncle," I blurt out without thinking. "And it worries me."
Thorin raises his eyes to mine briefly before he returns to staring off into space. "Never you mind, Fíli," he murmurs. "Do not concern yourself. My troubles are my own."
I recognize the brooding mood that my uncle has slipped into and I know it is best to leave him be. I quietly bid him goodnight, but as I leave him I can't help feeling that we both have been left feeling dissatisfied.
To be continued…
A/N: Feed the handsome canary and his author! We're always hungry for feedback! Fíli's flashback is a blatant reference to the events of "A Private Little War". I couldn't resist throwing it in there.
Sadly, I fly back to university on Sunday the 19th. From now on, updating will be extremely difficult with 18 credit hours plus archi studio, but I will do my best!
To my lovely guest reviewer Death to elves: I apologize for not addressing you in the previous chapter! You asked about Fíli and Kíli's father: yes, Tolkien never refers to him by name. As a result, writers have had to invent their own name(s) for the character. I have seen a number of convincing choices—I invented "Jóli", which my friend Italian Hobbit accepted as head-canon (and anyone else is free to use it as well). I must say that I am thrilled to hear how much you love "A Private Little War"! I can't tell you how happy it makes me when someone tells me how they've gone back to read and reread my work… it's so wonderful! Of course, you can expect that I shall do my best to continue to "feed" you. :-)