Among the Fallen – Part Two
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.
The massive characters are seared with scars.
- Khalil Gibran
T.A. 2868, Fall - Rohan: Edoras
It has been almost two days since the battle with the Dunlendings on the borders of Rohan and Thorin has not regained consciousness. Dwalin refuses to leave his king's side; he rides in the back of the wagon just watching and waiting. Lörwid is driving the wagon they ride in. Lörwid has the greatest knowledge of the healing arts among them – something he was passing on to his son – and if anything should change then Dwalin and Lörwid will switch places without slowing down the caravan. For now, however, Dwalin just watches.
He rises and paces as well as he can – the wagon is four steps from one end to the other – to stretch his legs. This waiting is killing him. They did what they could for Thorin and continued to do so but they did not have the means to properly care for any wounds that were beyond the minor scrapes and cuts. He growls with impatience as he pushes the covering open to see Lörwid and the road ahead.
"How much further?" Dwalin demands of the elderly dwarf.
"See that hill, laddie?" Lörwid points straight ahead down the road. "That's it. That's how much further."
Dwalin squints but he cannot see the 'hill' that Lörwid is talking about. He snorts before entering the dark, covered part of the wagon again. The light breeze moves the canvas covering. It would have been peaceful with the flaps opening and closing gently with the soft noises of slapping fabric but for the uncomfortable and oppressive feeling. Dwalin drops down on the bed across for Thorin.
He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and watches his king. His fingers twitch with the desire to check to the status of the wounds. Lörwid had yelled at him for doing that earlier. 'The wounds won't heal faster just because you keep looking at them!' had been his words. 'They'll take two fortnights to heal. . . . If everything goes as well.' Dwalin knew what would happen if everything did not go well. Everyone in the company knew what would happen.
Dwalin runs his hands over his face roughly. "Dammit, Thorin. You cannot do this. Dís'll kill me. She might kill me as it is for letting you get injured." He snorts in amusement remembering the years that he and his brother had spent growing up with Dís during and after the War. She had been older than both of them are and spent a lot of time bossing around the two of them. Things got messy after the war and a bunch of the younger dwarves who had not yet reached their majority were placed together. Dís used to wallop him on the head for fun when they were both little. She had a right hook punch that he still thinks about as he rubs his jaw.
"But even if she doesn't I don't want to be the one to tell her about this mess. She does not care for me the way that she cares about you, you thick-headed dolt."
:::
They reached Edoras early the next morning. Dwalin scowls at the men, women, and children who gave them odd and curious looks. They are stopped at the gates by austere faced guards.
"Halt."
Dwalin frowned at the man. Since he was standing on the wagon, he was the same height as the guards who watched the small caravan nervously.
"What is your business in Edoras?"
Dwalin took a deep breath. He was half-tempted to box this guard's – he was barely hold enough to have any hair on his chin – this boy's ears for being rude and disrespectful but Lörwid spoke up first.
"Our king, Thorin II, son of Thráin has been gravely injured. We seek aid from Folcwine, Horse-Lord." Lörwid speaking was probably best in the long run.
The guard's eyes narrows. "You'll have to wait here. We'll send someone along to hall to see if he is willing to see any dwarves."
Dwalin is about to open his mouth to speak when Lörwid elbows him hard in the shin. He curses down at the older dwarf as he reaches down to massage his injured limb.
"Sit," Lörwid hisses.
Dwalin scowls. He hates waiting. He always had. All of those years that the Durins, his father, and many others spent fighting the War from Gundabad to Moria had been spent chaffing at the bit as they were all forced to wait with little or no news. He had only been twenty-seven at the time, more than a decade short of his maturity. He had raged at Balin when they heard of Dain's feats at Azanulbizar. The boy was only five years older than Dwalin – a boy just the same as he was a lad – and he had turned the course of that battle. He and Balin had waited all of those years to learn of their father's death. Years that were far too long for Dwalin's liking. He could not sit still for very long. He had always been that way. Fundin had often scolded him for squirming at the dinner table.
A lad runs down the hill and whispers into one of the guards ears. "You can proceed. Alan here will show you where to park the wagons," the guard gestured to the lad whose helmet was far too big. It wobbled around his head when he nodded his head in agreement with the other soldiers.
The wagons follow the boy to an open space near the bottom of the grand, wide steps that lead up to the palace hall of the Rohirrim. The dwarves begin to assemble themselves.
"Only two of you can enter the hall. The rest of you will have to wait down here," the boy pipes up with his high-pitch voice.
Dwalin frowns at the boy. The boy's arms are thin and his clothing hangs off a thin frame. 'Young. Too young. So why a soldier?' There is not discussion of who will be talking to Folcwine. Dwalin and Lörwid follow Alan up the steps where they are forced to remove all of their weapons. It takes Dwalin several minutes to hand over all of his knives, he does leave the one that is strapped to his inner forearm in place. Being without a weapon makes him feel like he is naked. Fundin had given Dwalin his first knife when he was fifteen and he had not been without some sort of weapon since that day.
Dwalin stops to look in the darkened back of the wagon where Thorin lays wrapped in blankets. His cheeks glow red and are shiny with sweat. A twinge of worry passes through Dwalin as he looks upon his king and shield brother. He had sworn to protect his king, but from this, from fever and infection there is little he can do and he feels useless. He would prefer to be dealing with whatever this was partially because it would mean that he would not be incessantly worrying.
The 'golden' hall is dark with deep shadows. Light that normally might be streaming through the upper windows are dimmed by the clouded sky. A fire is lite in the center of the great hall, but the far edges and corners are still shroud in darkness. The smoke from the fire fills the rafters and the room is hazy. It those dark shadows Dwalin can see the figures of men pacing. He watches them for a few brief moments before turning his attention back to the man who is lounging on the throne on the other side of the fire. The bright light of the fire blocks the king's face until the two dwarves circle around the large, circular fire pit.
Dwalin has seen the kings of Rohan before, but this one looks far more haggard than his predecessors. His long blonde hair looks like it has not been cared for a quite some time and deep creases line his face despite his fairly young age.
Both dwarves bow to the king when they stay in front of him.
"Dwarves from Ered Luin," Folcwine sits up from his lounging position so that he can get a better look at Dwalin and Lörwid. "What brings you here?"
Dwalin takes a step forward. "We were coming her for trading. We encountered brigands on the road. Our company took some injuries and some loses. Our leader, Thorin Oakenshield, took injury during the struggle and has taken ill. We are hoping for aide and a place to stay until he is well enough to travel." 'Blunt, but . . . that's everything that needs to be said.'
Folcwine leans forward resting his elbow on his knee and resting his chin in his hand. "If we were to extend help to you and your leader what will you do for us? Times are hard everywhere, we cannot freely give."
Dwalin does not answer. He resists that urge to snap 'Well, what is it that you want?' He can hear Balin's voice telling him that it would not be diplomatic to do so. Lörwid steps forward in Dwalin's silence.
"What services would you require of us, sire?"
"I'm sure that you have brought some weapons that you have forged with you. I have heard of the renown of dwarven forging. However, we need more than a few swords. We need a great number of swords, other weapons, and armor. We've been having great problems with orcs on our borders. They have been bothering our people for over six decades. But in the past few years they have come over our borders in great numbers and killing a great many of my people. Our skirmishes with them led to the death of our previous king, my father several years ago. Our soldiers are not nearly as well-equipped as I would like.
"I would ask that you sell me and my armor your swords and forge more for use in payment for the aide that we will give you."
Dwalin exhales loudly through his nose. 'The help that we will receive will be only worth a small fraction of what our skills are worth.' He wishes that he could deny the king's request, but if he does, what does that mean for his liege and king.
'Offer him a gift, you numbskull!' He hears Balin's voice demanding in his head. Dwalin quickly runs through the inventory of their wagons. There was a sword in the wagon that Vrílí was particularly fond of, he had shown it to Dwalin glowing with pride. Thorin's fallen brother would want that piece to be used to save his brother and king.
"Let us offer you a gift. One of our best smiths forged a sword of special excellence, and I would like to give it to you in our gratitude."
A fierce smile spreads across Folcwine's face at the mention of a particularly well-made blade. "Enemy of my enemy is my friend." He stands. "We are a bit short on space with the influx of people coming into the city. We can put Oakenshield up in a room here in the Hall – I will send my personal healer to him. However, we can put the rest of you in the loft of the stables."
:::
The healer was an elderly man with an assistant. The assistant was very young. Dwalin had a feeling that most men of a certain age were far off in patrols or dead. The old man was poking around at the deep wound in Thorin's shoulder muscle. Thorin was lost still to the fever; his eyes were roving under his eyelids. Dwalin flinches as the old man pressed on the inflamed, red flesh around the wound. 'At least he cannot feel it.'
The healer presses on the wound to force out yellowish pus from the wound abscess. Dwalin snorts at the smell. It was a familiar smell, 'Death, decay, battlefields.' It just was not one that he was used to encountering in situations involving his shield brother.
The healer then started smearing a goopy substance onto the wound. "What's that?" Dwalin demanded, stepping forward watching the man's hands with suspicion.
"The weapon that was used for this wound was dirty and not very sharp at all. It has caused an infection. This," he lifts his hand with the goopy substance on it, "is rosemary, garlic, and marshmallow root. Rosemary to promote healing from the deepest point outwards. Garlic to fight the infection. And marshmallow root for the pain that accompanies and infection of this sort."
Dwalin grunts. "How long until he can travel?"
The man's faded hazel eyes flick in Dwalin's direction. Normally with a wound such as this it would take nearly two fortnights to heal, but this infection will lengthen that progress. I would say two fortnights at the very least if not longer." He speaks as he bandages the wound securely.
'Two fortnights . . . There will likely be snow in Ered Luin by then. It will make the journey home that much more difficult.' Dwalin looks at his king. 'But if we must wait then we must.'
:-:-:
White snow lays upon the ground. None of the snow is undisturbed; it has been churned and trampled by boots of dwarves and orcs. Snow that is not white in most places. The tussled snow is mixed with dirt and blood. He stares at the ground and around him. The battle is over and he feels lost. The physical chaos has given way to emotional chaos. He wants desperately to hit something and to scream at the sky.
He feels like he is containing a violent spring storm inside his chest. He needs to do something with his hands. He needs to do something to release the energy that is threatening to tear him apart. His breath is coming hard and fast. Each breath seems to fuel the fire in his chest. He cannot hear through the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, and the wind roaring through his body. Everything about his surroundings feels like it is coming from a great distance.
A single thought breaks through the storm, 'Frerin.' He has not seen his baby brother in quite some time. He has not seen Fundin either. His father had placed Frerin with Fundin in a rear vanguard by Mirrormere. Fundin had not been pleased to be placed so far from the side of his king. His brother's name is now running through his mind. His name is simply added to the storm inside of him.
Then he is kneeling in the blood stained snow holding his brother's body. He had found Fundin first, but he had just passed over his father's friend – the panicked storm only increasing in intensity – only to see his brother's copper hair spread on the snow. Crimson blood mixes with copper hair. Crimson blood stains his fingers as he brushes Frerin's hair back from his face – a face that is far too pale under the brilliant red – to see his baby brother's face.
The pressure in his chest keeps mounting. Until . . . there is nothing . . .
:-:-:
Dwalin watches his king as he sleeps fretfully. The sheets wrapped around Thorin cling to him with sweat. Thorin wakes with a violent start. His eyes are wild with fever and sleep. His chest glistens with sweat and heaves with gasping breaths.
"Thorin?"
Thorin's blue eyes – brighter than normal due to the fever – turn to Dwalin. He does not respond but his breathing softens and the panicked edges on his face become less pronounced. Dwalin has seen fever before in some of the men that have come through their settlements over the years but he was sure that not all of them bore crazed expressions.
He scoots his chair closer to the side of the bed and places his hand heavily on the blankets. Dwalin does not look away from Thorin's face. He does not need to speak his eyes repeat the question for him.
"Azanulbizar."
The one word answer tells Dwalin all that he needs to know. 'Battle sickness.'
"I was there again. I've been there before, but it was only feelings and sensations. I never saw the battlefield. I never saw my brother. I never saw your father. I never saw the snow, the blood, the . . ." his voice hitches and makes a choked noise.
Dwalin does not speak. 'What could I say? Nothing . . .'
When Thorin does continue speaking, his hands are balled up in the bedding, and there are tears brimming on his eyelashes. "My brother . . . my fault. I haven't relived that since, well, you know . . ." He trailed off.
Dwalin does remember those days, those long years after Azanulbizar. Dís had sent him to drag her alcohol soaked brother home too many times for Dwalin to count. Thorin had been a different man during those years. He and Dís spent a lot of time discussing about how to drag her errant brother out of the battle sickness. She had always been more knowledgeable about it, Dwalin was better at implementing those plans. He remembers the day the finally broke through to Thorin with startling clarity. That day was a day that Dwalin was proud of; Thorin had stepped up after that day. He had stepped up even with the black eyes that Dwalin had given him.
Dwalin placed his large paw over Thorin's clenched fist and squeezes. "Frerin wasn't your fault. Vrílí isn't your fault either. You're our king, but you're not responsible for everything that happens to us." Dwalin looks down at his hand that is covering Thorin. "I'm damn well responsible for my behaviors and mistakes." Thorin chuckles – a choked and sad sound – at that.
Thorin lays back on the bed and closes his eyes.
"Thorin?"
No response. Dwalin shakes his head. 'Asleep. Already. He probably won't remember this tomorrow.' Dwalin wishes that Balin or Dís were here rather than all of those miles away in Ered Luin. They knew so much more about battle sickness. Not all dwarves that went through the War or other battles ended up never being able to leave the field of battle, but some, like Thorin, kept returning to the battlefield in their dreams.
Dwalin sometimes sees that men that he has killed in his dreams, but they are just dreams that never affect him the way that Thorin's affect him. 'He takes responsibility for everyone. He's just too hard on himself most of the time.´ He remembers his father's words about Thorin when they were all just lads with fathers to take care of them. Now, they are the ones who take care of everyone else and one another.
Dwalin squeezes Thorin's hand again before letting go and leaning back in his chair. He shuts his own eyes. Folcwine had a guard stationed at Thorin's door. That might not be enough, but he is tired as well. Here might be the only place that they can all sleep in peace until they are back home in their mountains with their kin.
:::
Dwalin is woken up by a kick to his arm. He grabbed for a knife on his belt. He startles – panicked – when he comes up empty handed. He hears a weak chuckle and turns to see his king.
Thorin has pushed himself up to a seated position and he has a grin spreading across his face. Dwalin has not left the room that Thorin was given. He has spent the last several days sitting in the chair by the bed. Sleeping there was less than comfortable, but it was doable and that was what he had been doing when Thorin had kicked his arm.
"Nice nap?"
"Can't complain. What about you, princess? I think you need more," Dwalin teases, "several days wasn't enough to make you beautiful."
"That's fine. It still makes me prettier than you," Thorin retorts.
Dwalin grins. It is nice to see and hear Thorin behaving normally again. It is a relief. The thought of having to tell Dís about his screw up was scarier than having to fight a legion of orcs on his own. The pair sit for several moments and Dwalin's smile fades and the atmosphere in the dim room becomes far more serious.
"How long have we been here and when can we leave," Thorin demands as he rolls his wounded shoulder and winces.
"It's been about half a fortnight and we have to stay for at least another one and a half."
Thorin frowns. "I can go now," he moves to get out of the bed.
"Even if you can leave we cannot."
Thorin pauses and looks at Dwalin. His eyebrows draw down into a frown, "Why?"
"Folcwine paid us handsomely for our goods but in return for that and his extension of his hospitality and his personal healer we agreed to perform work in their forges for them."
"Why?"
"Orcs."
Thorin grunts in response as he lays back onto the bed.
"They've been facing raids since shortly after the end of the War."
Thorin makes a sound in the back of his throat. "Anything else?"
Dwalin frowns. There is more. "Yes." He stands and picks up the oblong bundle that he had slid under his chair. "I saved these. For you and for Dís and the lads." He place the bundle next to Thorin's leg.
Thorin does not respond he just looks down at the bundle. There is a lost expression on his face that Dwalin has not seen in many years. It was on the young king's face often after Azanulbizar, but since then it has made fewer and fewer appearances. "Was he buried?" The words are whispered so quietly that Dwalin almost does not hear them.
"Aye," he nods his head, "I made sure that his grave was lined with stone. It is not nearly what he deserves, but it is better than just the earth."
Thorin gives a miniscule nod. "Dís will appreciate that." His eyes have not left the bundle since Dwalin produced it. His eyes are tight and he says nothing more. Finally he lifts the bundle and unwraps its contents. The green cloak falls away to reveal Vrílí's double swords. Thorin lifts one experimentally. He gaze travels down the blade to top and back to the leather wrapped handle in his hand. Dwalin can see memories flashing through Thorin's blue eyes as he looks upon the blade.
'Good memories or bad?' he wonders.
Thorin heaves a heavy sigh and he carefully place the sword next to him upon the bed. Next he finds the small pouch that was wrapped with the swords. He dumps the contents of the cloth pouch into his open palm. His hand drops when the contents spill out as if they carry a great weight. Thorin rolls the objects with his finger so that they are all facing upwards. Dwalin had gathered the items before they buried Vrílí for his wife and sons; the beads from his hair, the rings from his finger, a necklace, and a stone. The stones from the rings flash in the light from the fireplace. Thorin rolls the items around in the palm of his hand for several long moments before quickly placing them back into the pouch and tying it securely. He tucks the pouch into the bundle when he wraps the swords again – his fingers linger on the tooled leather of the scabbards.
Dwalin watches as his king handles the personal effects of his dead brother with care. "My liege." He says as he moves to kneel by the side of the bed – in front of Thorin.
Thorin's blue eyes flash and go wide with surprise. While he is the king of his people he is never treated in the same way that other kings are and he has never demanded such treatment. He much prefers the quiet respect of his kin without the pompous affairs and unneeded ceremonies.
"Yes?"
Dwalin bows his head. "I wish to ask your forgiveness."
"Forgiveness?" Thorin asks in a puzzled tone, "Forgiveness for what? You have done nothing wrong that I know of or can see."
Dwalin does not lift his head. "For my rash, thickheaded behavior before the fight. If I had held my temper all of this may have been avoided. I reacted when a peaceful resolution may still have been reached. Dís will have my beard for the death of her husband since it was my actions that brought about his death. If I had waited for your instruction, Thorin, then Vrílí may still be among us and you would not have taken such injury." He does not move from his position. He waits listening to the heavy breathing of his injured king.
"Dwalin . . ." Thorin breathes. "No forgiveness is needed. Without you, I would not be here to issue any forgiveness. I owe you my life many times over. I trust your decisions, as does my sister . . . as did Vrílí. At the time, you had no understanding of the situation and your reaction is and was appropriate. If it is my forgiveness that you want then you shall have it even if you do not need it."
Thorin's hand – calloused from long hours of labor – grasps Dwalin's chin and lifts his face so the two dwarves are eye to eye. "Khâzash, there is nothing to forgive," Thorin says firmly pressing his forehead to Dwalin's. Dwalin grips Thorin's shoulder firmly and presses back.
:::
A fortnight later Dwalin walks into Thorin's room to find his king on his feet and struggle with a clean tunic. His armor is laying in a heap on the bed. "Mahal take it," Thorin swears and throws the tunic on the floor as he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed making the ropes creak.
"What are you doing?" Dwalin demands, crossing his arms.
"We're leaving." Thorin does not turn around as he speaks.
Dwalin grunts. "You need another week. That old man said you need that at least otherwise you might tear up your shoulder. Even if we are done with the work Folcwine gave us."
"It's already torn up," he growls. "I cannot sit here any longer. I haven't left this room. I just sit here and think about Vrílí. I think about my sister. I think about his children." His hand curls into a fist as he talks. "If I don't have something to occupy my mind I am going to go insane. Plus," he turns his head to look at Dwalin, "if we don't leave now we might get stuck in the snows and be unable to make it back to Ered Luin." He sighs and pauses. "After all I've done to my sister . . . I have to try not to do anything worse than is necessary. I cannot bring Vrílí back . . . but I can at least make sure that she hears it before the spring thaw. I can make sure that she does not spend months fretting. I can make sure that I do everything I can for my nephews."
"I'll tell the men to ready the wagons then." Dwalin turns on his heel and strides down the hall, his heavy steps echoing in the empty hall.
A/N: The herbs that the healer uses are used for those purposes.