The King of Carven Stone : Part III

Through Ice and Fire (Exile)

4.

Snow – its coldness, its inexorable falling, burying Nature, rocks and mountains under its white cloak. Every winter I would watch it fall and feel only anxiety and dread, deep down in my Soul.

Some might indeed find beauty in that dazzling silence, clothing everything that is bare and hard. The promise of a new beginning, perhaps, still asleep under the heavy snowflakes and only waiting to awake.

Yet it has always frightened me, since that one winter – one of the worst in my life. So cold, so unforgiving, so hard...

So hopeless.

"Balin, why did you lie to me?"

My voice was low and soft, I had no wish to upset him, and Balin raised his head to look at me, his gaze questioning.

"When did I ever lie to you, Thorin?"

I was sitting on a low stone wall, behind the forge of the small village we had entered that morning while night was still clinging to our tents, searching for work, for food – for shelter. At least that was how the forge's blazing fire seemed to me, compared to the endless extent of the snow-white hills, so cold, so barren.

The water had frozen on the forge's roof, hanging down in sharp, pointed stalactites, like daggers, and I looked at those icy fangs, thinking that the winter was the mightiest foe we would ever have to face, and that I was helpless.

I had burnt my palm, minutes ago – I had misjudged the weight of the piece I was supposed to carve, and it had slipped. But even though I could feel pain in my hand, I still yearned for heat – I who had faced the Dragon, who had sensed flames, ashes and embers, and witnessed what it could do.

Heat hurt, but it did not turn your body to ice – it was not insidious, it was not as slow and treacherous as the cold.

Balin was rubbing my palm with snow and was tying a wet cloth around my hand and wrist. He finished his knot, his hands deft and precise as ever, and then he looked at me.

He was standing, and I still sitting. I had felt light-headed ever since we had left the camp, I had not spoken more than a few words, I felt too weak for that. We were running out of food again and none of us had eaten for two days. My stomach had hurt, at first, as it had during that first period of fasting, two weeks ago, but now I was only feeling cold and faint. I had not underestimated that weight – I simply was not strong enough to lift it anymore. And Balin knew.

He laid his hands upon my shoulders, gently brushing back my braids – I had not taken the pains to plait them again this morning. Actually I could not remember the last time I had taken some minutes to try to look as I should, because I did not know who I was anymore.

I had been a Prince, a son, a brother. I still was. But what had made me a Prince had crumbled, had been taken. Thráin was lost to me – even though he was not raging anymore, for the snow seemed to soothe him, appeasing some of the desperate fire that had been raging in his gaze.

And my siblings – I felt estranged from them, ever since that battle night where I had been forced to become a fighter, ever since that morning where I had had to be stronger than my father.

Dís still touched me, she embraced me and pressed her small body against mine during the night, trying to get warm – or perhaps trying to shield me from nightmares, because I was waking up at the slightest sound. A Dwarfling's moan became an Orc's cry, the howl of the wind outside turned into the foreshadowing of the Dragon's breath, and I jerked up, every night, drenched in sweat despite of the cold, while Dís held me, gazing at me with sad, ageless eyes.

And Frerin – he was avoiding me. He was avoiding everyone, even the Dwarflings, even Itô, and especially me. I had tried to make him talk to me, I had held him against me endless times, I had even alluded again to that night, telling him once more that there had been no shame in freezing, that I loved him, that I was proud of him...

I had been desperate enough to acknowledge that, but Frerin's eyes stayed hollow and full of self-hatred. He shook his head, he pushed me away – his sunny face was clouded, and it was my fault. I had placed him in a situation that he never should have faced, I had made him feel shameful when he only ought to rejoice to be still alive...

And I hated myself so much for it. I should have made sure – I should never have asked him to stand behind me. Dwalin was the one that could have fought next to me, Dwalin had already been at my side in battle, and I was missing him so much, I had needed him so much that night that I had just tried to replace him with Frerin.

What kind of a brother did that make me...?

What kind of a brother was I, telling Frerin how much I loved him, how proud I was of him, without ever telling him the real truth: that I needed him desperately at my side, that I could not bear the fact that he turned himself from me, fleeing to my father's tent every night...?

Because that is where I had drawn him – he even preferred Thráin's madness to me. He would curl himself against my father's chest, not caring for that danger, simply parting Thráin's arms and closing his eyes, and he was deaf to my words when I tried to bring him back to us. Back to me.

In the end I had brought myself to touch Thráin's shoulder. I had made him look at me, and I could see he recognized something in my gaze – of course, I had my mother's eyes, everyone had always told me so. Frerin was the one who had my father's gaze, and while my brother's used to be clear and bright, Thráin's had always been clouded. Now they even shared that.

"If you hurt him, 'adad... If you dare to touch him... I will kill you."

I had whispered the words, my eyes locked with my father's, and Thráin did not stir. It was Frerin who moved, tightening his embrace around my father's chest and burying his face in his neck.

"Just leave us alone, Thorin."

And I had, suddenly feeling cold and empty. I had left that tent, and with it, everything that had still defined me. The loving brother, the respectful son – I had killed them along with those Orcs. Now the only thing that mattered was to keep going. To reach the Iron Hills before the snow buried us alive. To achieve at least that.

"What makes you think I lied, lad?"

Balin's gentle voice startled me, my thoughts had begun to drift off, I was feeling so faint and cold... His face was pale and worn-out, but his brown eyes looked at me, steady and loving as always. So warm.

"You always said... You said there was a balance in this world. You said Mahal knew how to weigh our deeds... That if we tried hard, and were good... and tried to do some good... that it would always come back somehow..."

I was whispering now, and he had to crouch and face me to understand my words.

"But it doesn't. There is no good coming back, it only gets worse... The Dwarflings, Balin... They are dying..."

He circled my waist and pulled me close, while I rested my face on his chest. It was true. They were dying. Slowly, silently, one after the other – we had already lost five of them, their small bodies unable to bear both cold and starvation.

Sometimes they wept for hours – a feeble, wailing sound that got weaker and weaker until it stopped. And one morning we had found two lying lifeless in their blankets, their bodies huddled against each other – so small, so cold.

Itô had looked at me – she was my rock in that tent, that proud batshûna who had seen so many sorrows. And then she had gently taken the bodies, carrying them to Óin – she knew I could not bring myself to touch them, she knew how guilty I felt, how desperate I was, so close to falling apart.

"They have gone to Mahal...", she had said, her voice steady, but there were silver tears on her cheeks. "The Maker has reclaimed them. We should be grateful that their sorrows here have ended."

Yet she had wept, while taking them away. She had wept because she was old, and still alive, while their lives had been taken before they had really begun. And I had just watched her go away.

"Where is Mahal, Balin?", I whispered. "Does he really care? Is he really the Maker, to let such things happen?"

Balin was stroking my hair now and how I had missed it – his embrace, his presence next to me, his comforting touch on my face that had always reminded me of home. He had spent so much time with my father, those past weeks, but now that Frerin was clinging to him, and now that Hergíl had died, we were together again – at least we were together.

I had never voiced my doubts and my despair, ever since we had left Erebor. I had tried to keep them to myself – and as the years would pass I would learn how to hold to that resolution. Mahal knows I have been called grim and stern in my life – and grim and stern I may have seemed, just like the chainmail covering the warrior's breast, concealing the desperation and doubt that lingered in my heart.

But that day I was still so young – I was still looking desperately for some justice, clinging to the extinguishing hope that it would get better, yet that flame was dying out fast.

"There is a balance, Thorin", Balin answered, and despite his own sadness his voice was unwavering. "We are just too small to fathom it."

I looked up at him – he sounded so sure, and I yearned for hope...

"Where is the balance in this? Where is Mahal, Balin?"

There were tears in my eyes but they were not flowing – I did not have enough strength left to cry, and I could feel Balin take a deep breath as his fingers brushed my shoulders.

"Do you remember those days where we would find you asleep, the crystal lamp next to you still alight because you had to finish that book before morning?"

He was smiling sadly at me and I tried to blink back my tears – why was he speaking of Erebor, why was he drawing me back to those past, happy times...?

"The lamp was still burning, but in daylight the flame was barely visible. Its light was only needed in darkest hours, and yet it did not change – it was the same regardless of time and circumstances. So, Thorin... You can look at shadows dreading their cold, and the darkness they hold. Or you can think that without them, light would never be revealed in its full shine..."

I looked up at him, and my fingers closed upon the hard leather of his jerkin – a worn-out jerkin, where the adornments had begun to fade.

"I don't see any light, Balin..."

And as I spoke out those words I suddenly acknowledged it. I was not strong enough, I could not handle this. I just wanted to be left on this stone wall to die. There was no warmth, no light, no hope in this world, there was only cold and darkness, and I had no energy, no fire left to fight it.

"Do you want to know where I see Mahal's light, Thorin?", Balin asked, and he did not even wait for my answer. "I see it in your gaze, right now and every day. I see it in the way you look at everyone, in the constant care you show us – and it is such a blazing light, Thorin, it takes so much strength and warmth to achieve what you do, even if I know you cannot see it."

There were tears in his eyes now, but he went on, his voice still clear:

"And I see it in your hands. Those nimble, small hands that work so hard and make me ashamed of not being able to spare you at least that pain. That is where I see Mahal's making, Thorin. He might seem cruel or indifferent, He might snatch lives away – but He also made you, and Frerin, and Dís, and that is why I still believe in Him. That is why I still trust Him, and still search for His light."

I was still looking at him – I could not make my heart believe his words just like this, but as he spoke I suddenly understood how strong Balin was.

His body was well-trained, he was a swift and strong warrior. His mind was sharp, and treasured so much knowledge, but above all, there was a force and fire in his heart that could not be taken away. He knew about his beliefs, he had thought about them, he had weighed the sacred words carefully before acknowledging them. He might stand before me in a worn-out jerkin, weapon-less and starved, but in that Dwarf laid treasured all the knowledge, beliefs and strength of our race.

Balin was more than my cousin, more than my father's mamarrakhûn, more than a warrior or a scholar. He was a treasurer of memory. He reminded me where we came from, and what we had to protect, to make it endure.

If Balin believed, then there had to be some hidden justice, there had to be a light somewhere.

"What are you doing here?"

The Man's voice had risen behind me and I flinched – I had rested my forehead against Balin's chest and he had resumed stroking my hair.

"You should be working, shouldn't you?"

Balin kept my head close to him and his hand never left my face.

"He is unwell...", he said softly, his brown eyes kind as usual as he looked up to the tall, bulky Man.

"And what, pray, is wrong with that lad? He seemed capable enough this morning, or so you said..."

Accusation showed in his voice, and I lifted my head then. I must indeed have looked wretched, my face bloodless and drawn, and my eyes hollow – the Man drew back, suddenly alarmed.

"Oi, I don't want anyone to give up the ghost on my grounds! If he's ill, you take him away with you, and off my lands!

- He is not ill", Balin said, still holding me. "He is starved. He has not eaten for days. He is not even thirteen, if we would count his summers as you do. Just give him his share of what we have agreed now, and you will see him work."

I should have felt ashamed, to hear Balin beg that Man for my own food, to hear him ask for a meal for me while so many starved. But I could not muster the strength to feel any shame. I did not say a word, I just looked at the Man and somehow it softened him.

"Thirteen, eh? One never knows, with that beard of yours – no offence meant..."

He raised his hands and then he left, leaving me alone with Balin. I rested my face against him once more – my head was spinning with exhaustion and hunger, and I could not sit upright anymore.

"There you go. Don't bother about our agreement, I would have thrown it to the pigs anyway."

It certainly was not the most gracious way of offering food, but it was a mighty gift to us. The plate was full, and the porridge in it was warm. Balin and I, we both shared it, and the other Dwarves that had come with us got some too.

I forbade myself to think about the Dwarflings, about Dís and Frerin, suddenly understanding that there was no other way – I had to eat in order to keep able to bring back food. It felt strange to have something hot in my stomach again, it made me want to lie down and sleep, overwhelmed by that delightful sensation. But I had already rested enough.

"There is a balance, Thorin", Balin whispered as he helped me to get up and to walk towards the forge again. "We just have to keep believing."

And somehow we managed it. To keep some hope, to be able to keep moving. We dragged ourselves along those white, icy hills, a long, endless procession, tiny dark spots in the snow, so easily erased...

Mounting the tents, sitting down, swallowing something, keeping warm. Trying to sleep, holding Dís against me, Dís and Svali who was still smiling at me when I came back – Svali that helped me not to think about Frerin who was still with my father, who was not even talking to me anymore, so silent and sad.

And one day Balin, Nár and Dagur called me out of the tent once more. Their faces were grave, and I dreaded what they would tell me, but for once they had no bad news.

"We are close to the Iron Hills, lad. It's just one more week to go", Balin said, and for the first time in days my eyes lightened up. "But there are no villages on that road. There is no food, there is nothing but barren land.

- We have to get some help.", Nár added. "Grór and Náin probably guessed we are coming, but they have no idea where we are. We have to reach them quickly, so that they can meet us on the road with some supplies.

- How so?", I whispered – it seemed impossible, seven days of walking through the snow without any food, it would be the death of everyone.

"Dagur and me, we have to go. We are strong, we are fast, and I know the way, I have been born there. If we don't stop, we will reach them within two days.

- No..."

My voice was desperate, and I clung to Balin's arm, with all my might, my fingers digging deep into his cloth.

"Don't go, Balin. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please..."

He laid one hand upon my fingers and with the other, he brushed my face, laying his palm upon my cheek.

"I have to, lad. It is the only way. You have to keep on walking. Nár will help you, and Itô also, as will the rest of the warriors. The only thing you have to do, Thorin, is to keep moving. One step after the other, heading straight north. And you will barely notice we left, only three days and we will join you again. We will bring help, and food. I promise...

- No, Balin, please...

- I promise, Thorin. I promise I will come back to you. Have I ever lied to you, lad? Have I ever broken my word?"

He was looking at me, his brown eyes so bright, and I had to swallow thickly before I was finally able to answer.

"No.

- Then trust me, lad. Let me go."

I looked down – I could not face him anymore, if I kept looking at him I would thrust myself into his arms, I would cling to his chest so as to keep him with me, chaining him to me and dooming us.

A single, hot tear fell on the back of his hand, the hand that was still holding mine, and I heard myself whisper:

"Go, then.

- Mahal bless you...", Balin whispered, and then I turned from him.

I turned and walked away, because I could not bear to see him go, and yet he had to. I turned my back on the tents, I walked to the other edge of the camp, pressing my palms against my eyes, wiping my tears away – I was alone, I could have let them flow but it would not do to weep, I could not afford to weep, I had promised, one step after another, heading straight north.

I don't know how long I stood there, trying to fight back my grief and my fear. But when I turned I saw Itô watching me. She had crossed the whole camp to find me, and the hem of her robes were wet with flakes, curling along her boots – Itô never dressed like a Dwarf and kept to her robes, her silken belt wrapped tight around her waist and her snow-white hair tied up with stern, carefully woven braids.

I faced the old batshûna, my eyes still red – she seemed to have risen from the snow, everything about her seemed so spotless, so neat, and yet she had a hard and ruthless soul, just like the winter.

Shame invaded me as I stood before her – I had not taken off my clothes for days, because I only had that one tunic and because it was so cold. I would only wash my face and my arms with handfuls of snow, trying to keep my body-heat in the icy wind – Mahal knows what Itô must think of me, to see me like this when I was supposed to lead on...

But Itô bowed. Of all the things she could have done, that proud Dwarrowdam bowed.

"Where to now, ubnadê?"

Leader. She was calling me her leader. Her black gaze searched for mine, and I could see it – the same love, the same faith that I always found in Balin's, and in Dís. That used to be also in Frerin's.

She looked at me and we both knew. She might have bowed, but she had raised me from the depth, had given me the strength and will to deserve that gaze once more.

I stepped up to her, I wanted to bow myself, I owed it to her, but she held a hand against my chest, preventing me to move.

"No, ubnadê. Not you. You lead, we follow. And I am behind you, always. Mahizli."

Remember.

The same sacred word that was carved into the silver of the only ring I was wearing – the ring that had been given to me when I had taken my oath to defend Erebor, a simple silver ring enclosing a small, dark onyx gem. The only heirloom that I still had.

I nodded, wordlessly, and then we left.

Hours after Balin and Dagur, we were heading again through the snow – and Mahal, I still shudder when I think about these three, last, desperate days.

This time we did not stop to try to find some work, we just walked on and on, and I was urging everyone forward. No fires were lit – there was no wood and no dry place. We unfolded the tents and just tried to keep warm, sitting close to each other.

The second night it happened. I had dreaded it, I had tried to steel my soul against it, but I had seen the first signs. Svali was not smiling anymore, in fact he was not making a sound. I was carrying him, the same way I had carried him when we had left Erebor, but this time there were no cheerful noises coming from his mouth, because my little chestnut was fading away.

I had tried to feed him, I had chewed some wheat and tried to coax it into his mouth, but as the night grew darker I could see his breathing become more and more difficult, while his little heart was racing against mine.

I was holding him so close. I had taken off my chainmail, I did not want him to feel anything hard or cold in his slumber. I was holding him against my bare chest, and I had pulled my tunic on both of us. Dís had wrapped her arms around my waist, trying to keep his back warm, and she had fallen asleep on my lap.

My fingers brushed his brown, soft curls – he was still a baby. He had never spoken a word. He had only ever smiled.

"Mahal, have pity...", I whispered, so low that no one heard me. "Mahal, be merciful... Please save him..."

And Mahal did. As dawn broke, I suddenly felt it. A soft, warm, breath, brushing the skin of my neck.

And then nothing.

The Dwarfling I was holding against me was no more. Mahal had saved him from hunger and cold, but not in the way I had prayed for, not in the way it should have been.

Svali's body was still warm, so soft and relaxed against mine, but he was dead. The light in his gaze had passed, and his eyelids were closed, his dark lashes drawing soft shadows on his hollow cheeks.

"Oh Mahal..."

My own moan was low, almost like a prayer – I could not let Dís witness that, she was weak herself, she did not say so, but I had seen it in her hollow gaze as she had embraced me before falling asleep...

Itô saw me move. She saw me free myself from Dís' embrace, gently, trying not to wake her. She saw me advance towards the corner where I had laid my axe, and then leave the tent.

I was still holding Svali against me, and as I looked upon the hard, icy ground, I thought how easy it would be, if my heart could be that cold and indifferent – but it was not.

Silent, tearless sobs shook my frame as I tried to make that frozen ground open up – the earth was still far beyond my reach, and yet I had to lay Svali down somewhere, I could not just leave his small body to the crows...

I tried to part the icy ground, but I failed – I was so weak myself, and I soon fell down on my knees, sobbing silently, unable to summon tears. They stayed inside, soundless, while desperate sobs made my whole body quiver.

And suddenly I felt a warm hand upon my shoulder. I looked up – and it was Thráin who gazed at me. Thráin who must have heard my frantic attempts to make the snow shift – Thráin who knew so well what it meant to dig a grave.

I do not know if he recognized me. I cannot vow that he remembered who I was. But there was pity in his gaze, and sadness – a sadness where I could indeed recognize him.

My father took my axe and started ploughing. He was strong and able, the snow did not resist him, and soon enough he managed to reach the earth, carefully carving a small tomb for Svali.

He touched my shoulder once more when it was done – I was still standing in the snow, and Svali's body was no longer warm and soft against mine. My father brushed back one of my braids and nodded, his gaze still sad.

And together, we laid Svali down into the ground. Earth and snow covered him, and once it was done I searched for a stone – but there was none. The land was barren, there was no rock to mark his tomb.

Thráin saw my breath turn shallow, he saw anguish invade my gaze, and somehow he understood. He fetched more snow, piling it on Svali's tomb so as to form a white block, almost like a marble stele. And I watched him carve the sacred runes into the snow – he still knew how to shape them, he was so skilled, he knew so much about death...

And when he finished he looked at me. A guarded, unsure look, just like a child gazing up to an elder parent – was it right? Had he done the right thing? Was I better now?

I was not. There was no way I would feel better, but what he had done seemed right. A white marble tomb for Svali. No crows for my chestnut. I nodded, I touched his arm, and then I went back to the tent. Back to Dís who was still breathing, thank Mahal.

I think that is when I started to lose focus. I do not remember the next two days, not really. I do remember my anguish when I realized that my father was carrying Frerin as he walked, because my little brother was too weak to manage his own small weight.

I remember Itô's black, steady gaze, every time I wavered, and her firm grasp on my arm when I would stop, unable to remember what I was doing here, why I stumbled, why everything was white and dazzling...

And I remember the terrible fear that turned my heart to ice when I saw Dís fall down on the ground, with a soft, almost silent sound. She fell like a leaf, and the gems of her tiara caught the light the sun was casting on the snow, like stars in the raven-black night of her hair.

"Don't... don't give up, Dís", I whispered, kneeling next to her.

I wrapped my arms around her small body, I pulled her up and hoisted her on my hip, just like that dark, other desolate day where we had faced the Dragon together.

"Stay close. You are safe. I will carry you."

She circled my neck with her arms, she still had enough strength to do so, and I pressed her body against mine, determined to hold her close, come what may.

It was the afternoon of the third day, and I had forgotten everything except Dís. I was stumbling on, wading through the snow, heading north, step after step...

And I fell. Several times, my knees hitting the cold ground.

"Leave me, Thorin..."

She had whispered those words against me and I let out a moan, holding her even closer.

"Leave me, marlel. You don't have the strength. I am too heavy."

I rose once more, trying not to stagger, hoisting her up again.

"You are lighter than those flakes", I whispered. "You are keeping me warm. I will never leave you. You made me promise not to run away from you. Mahizli. Mahizli, mamarlûna."

I was shaking with exhaustion when they finally came – I do not even remember seeing them arrive, or hearing them. I was only aware of the snow, and of my sister.

But the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had come, mounted on huge, sturdy boars. Dozens of them, loaded with food – just as Balin had promised.

Balin was not there – they had not let him come back to us, for both Dagur and him were exhausted, their strength almost spent by their hurried journey.

And neither were Dwalin, or Dáin – this was no place for Dwarflings, and Dwarflings my cousins still were.

Náin was there, he must have been there, but I do not remember him. I only remember being given my own share of food – bread and some dried meat. I remember chewing it and then putting some into Dís' mouth, while my father was doing the same for Frerin.

I don't remember eating myself – but I did. I must have, because suddenly I had enough strength to stand again.

"Can you walk, lad?"

The Dwarf that had addressed me did not know who I was. How could he – I had nothing left of the Prince in me, I was weak and cold and dirty, and just as wasted as everybody else.

I nodded, and the Dwarf had a grunt.

"Good. We are taking the weakest and the wounded with us. The rest will have to keep walking."

I nodded again, and Dís stirred in my arms, suddenly understanding what was going to happen.

"No... marlel... Tell him you have to... Tell him you cannot..."

But she was weak and feverish – she did not manage to finish her sentence, and she never spoke my name, so the Dwarf never knew. I drew a deep breath, and then I did what I had seen my father do seconds ago. I wrapped my arms around Dís' waist and lifted her to place her in front of him, right before Frerin.

She cried, she struggled, and I could hear her tiny voice as the Dwarf urged his mount on:

"You promised..."

I had. But I wanted her sheltered, as soon as possible. I wanted her out of this white nightmare. And I could walk, now that I had eaten, could I not?

We were indeed advancing faster, without the wounded, but my pace was slowing down. My feet struggled through the snow, and every step seemed harder. There was a dull pain in my chest that hurt each time I took a deep breath, and I kept seeing dark spots on the snow.

I was one of the last in our company, after leading for so many days. The others were walking and following the boars' traces, while I was trying to put one foot in front of the other.

When I fell once more, I did not manage to get up. There was no Dís to warm me up, to urge me on, and I was feeling sick. I threw up the scarce bites I had swallowed and watched the snow soak it up, just as it had soaked up everything else.

And then I felt arms around me. Dark locks fell upon my chest and I recognized this scent, this hard grip under my armpits, hoisting me up, holding me against him. Carrying me.

"'Adad...", I whispered, and my voice was hoarse.

Thráin did not answer, he just marched on, his steps broad and steady. He was fast, he was strong, and soon enough I could feel sleep invade me – I was so weak, so tired...

I do not remember that last night on the road, I just remember my father's warmth and the unwavering embrace of his arms around me. He carried me until we reached the Iron Hills, until there were voices and sounds around us, until despite my weakness I stirred in his arms, trying to understand how this miracle was possible.

He put me on the ground then – he was worn out too, famished and confused, overwhelmed by the fact of entering a Mountain again, and we both sat, I leaning against Thráin's chest and Thráin wrapping his arms around my waist, shaking with exhaustion.

"Thorin!"

I knew that voice – I knew that warmth, that strength, I had yearned for it for weeks, it was the only thing that could still bring me back on my feet.

"Dwalin...", I whispered, and seconds after I was in my cousin's arms.

There were tears in Dwalin's eyes as he held me, his warm hands upon my shoulders – he was so tall, so strong, and I was feeling so numb and cold.

"They would not let me come and fetch you... I have tried – why in Mahal's name did you linger behind?"

He crushed me against his broad chest – he was so warm, so steady, I clung to him, pressing my head against his shoulder. I was shivering – such an unlikely thing for a Dwarf, but I had no resistance left, and when Dwalin felt that he took off his fur coat and wrapped it around me.

"I have thought of you every day – every day since we heard..."

His voice broke and I could not tell him that I had felt the same, exactly the same, that I had missed him so much that it had hurt, that it still made my chest hurt, and that knowing that he was there, that I had reached him weakened everything in me.

He caught me when I fell and steadied me against him, his brown eyes searching mine.

"You are so cold, you must be so hungry... What am I thinking of, keeping you in that icy hall – come, let us find some food and a blanket for you..."

I do not know how I managed to follow him. I guess I simply could not bear to be parted from him – I needed him, I needed him so much, I was so cold and he was so warm, he knew what had to be done, he did not waver, he was so strong...

He made me sit close to a fire – I had no idea where I was, I did not even manage to look around me, my gaze was fixed upon Dwalin's face, searching for Dwalin's eyes.

"Dís... Frerin...", I whispered when he placed a warm bowl between my hands.

"Now don't you worry. They are fine. They reached us yesterday – that fool who brought them did not know where to look when he understood who they were... Why didn't you tell him? Why didn't you come with them?

- I had to..."

A broad shiver shook my frame, despite the fur coat, despite the fire, and Dwalin steadied me once more, his hands upon my shoulders.

"Well, never mind. You are here now. Eat. You look like a ghost, no wonder he did not recognize you, when I think about it."

He grinned at me – I knew he was trying to cheer me up, I knew I was frightening him, with my hollow gaze and my thin, worn-out features. I dipped my spoon into whatever was in my plate, I did not even look but I tried to obey him, I tried to eat.

I swallowed a few mouthfuls but suddenly I had to think of the Dwarflings, of all the meals I had not been able to bring to them, and I dropped my spoon while my hand fell at my side.

"Eat...", Dwalin urged me on, gently, but I could not.

It felt wrong, the few bites I had swallowed, lying heavy on my stomach. I laid down the bowl, slowly – I could not bear to think I was wasting that food, but it seemed my stomach had shrunk to the size of a chestnut.

A chestnut.

I bent forward, suddenly, I barely had the time to turn away from Dwalin. My stomach heaved, I threw up once more, and then I tried to take deep breaths.

Seconds later I was vomiting again, deep, racking waves shaking my entire body. Dwalin brushed my shoulder, gently, and held me when I tried to get up.

"I am... I am fine...", I whispered, staggering in his arms.

He shook his head, and held me tighter. And when I had to bend again and resumed retching, throwing up every remaining drop that was left in my body, he just held me.

"I am fine...", I whispered, looking at the mess at my feet, feeling tears sting my eyes – I was shaking and my knees would not hold me anymore.

He caught me when I fell, I was feeling so sick and weak, my teeth were chattering and the retching just would not stop. Nothing came up, yet I was still doubled up on the floor. My skin was clammy, my face was hot and the rest of my body icy, but I shook my head when Dwalin talked of fetching help – I could not bear to think he would leave me, everybody had left me, even Balin...

"No... Please... I will be fine... I feel better..."

I had reached for his hand, and I clasped it when the next wave hit. This time I had something to throw up, and we both stared at the red liquid that had just splashed on the ground.

Blood. I was vomiting blood.

Dwalin said I just lost focus afterwards. My body tensed, and then went completely limp in his arms. I was still looking at him, still breathing, but I was not there anymore.

I do not remember anything of that. I recall voices, a dull pain in my stomach and arms around my body, carrying me away, but I do not know what they did with me.

The retching had stopped, replaced by a terrible heat in my body, and after that my memory is clouded, and the images I keep are distorted, because I lay for two days in a raging fever, unable to move or to eat, barely able to drink.

I remember Óin's face, his gentle pressure on my arm pushing me back on my bed as I struggled to sit up. I remember a terrible heat running through my skin, and they told me later that I had constantly repeated one desperate word, as the fever was taking hold of my body, drenching it in sweat.

Dragon.

I remember hands I did not recognize at first, pushing back my soaked hair and placing something cool on my forehead. It was Balin, and I must have been aware of him somehow, because I recall some of my ravings while looking at him. I had said something terrible, something that had made my father angry and my mother sad, and I could not go home...

I cannot go home.

I told him so earnestly, as he bent upon me, and his kind eyes clouded with grief as he wiped my forehead.

"Do not worry, lad. Please, laddie, stop fretting. Just rest."

I can still hear his words, and they must have lulled me to sleep, because after that I dreamt. My body was burning, and I was struggling to breathe, but that dream was a cold, silent one.

I was standing close to Svali's tomb once more – I could recognize the sacred runes my father had carved upon the snow, and the barren lands around me.

But something was different, something was strange. I was holding Svali against my chest, and he was warm and alive, not lying under earth and snow anymore. I pulled away slightly, gazing at him, my heart racing, and I saw him smile, I saw the light in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks.

"Svali...", I whispered, and I felt the small kick of his heels against my chest as he reacted to his name.

I dragged him against me, I could not believe he was alive, unharmed and happy, and suddenly I saw the snow-covered hills expand, turning to an even, white landscape that looked like dazzling rocks. They ended only some steps ahead of me, after that there was a chasm, a depth I could not fathom, and as I gazed at it, wondering where I was, I saw a bridge form in front of my eyes.

A beautiful, white, carved bridge, chiselled into precious marble – or so it would seem, maybe it was míthril, it was so dazzling, I hardly knew what I was seeing, and I could not see where that bridge ended.

Svali beamed and laughed against me, turning his face towards the light, and I took a step, approaching the bridge slowly – since it seemed to be what he wanted.

"Thorin..."

I could hear a firm, steady voice behind me, and when I turned I saw Itô, just like that morning where she had seemed to rise from the snow. Her old, proud face was looking at me and it seemed urgent, there was a command in her gaze that had not been there when she had faced me...

"Let me take the boy. Let me go there."

She advanced towards me and I looked at her, not quite alarmed, but somehow puzzled.

"Can't we both go there?", I asked, still holding Svali, and Itô reached me, putting her palm upon my arm.

"We can. But I do not think you should, Thorin. Not now. Don't go there. Let me take him."

I wavered, but I had always respected her. She had been my rock and my shield, and I would never forget what I owed her.

"Where are you going?", I asked, as she took Svali from my arms and slowly bent her head to touch my forehead with hers.

"Don't you know?", she replied, and I shook my head.

She smiled then, the same playful smile she had had in that tent, the day the Dragon came, that evening where we had all laughed despite our sadness and our despair.

"Then you are not ready yet, lad. And I am glad. Don't follow us. You go that way."

She made a vague move, signalling something behind me, and then she bowed, once more, taking Svali with her as she reached the edge of the rocks.

"I am ready...", she whispered, and as she stepped up to the bridge I saw her vanish as the white marble faded away.

I was left standing in the snow, alone. There was no more tomb at my feet, there was only a vast, white landscape, stretching around me, and I did not know where to go.

Behind me. She had showed something behind me. I turned, and it was dark, it was cold – the path she had signalled me as being my own. But I turned. And as I did so I suddenly felt hot, I suddenly felt my body again, the heat of my skin, the pounding beats of my heart, the sweat that was drenching my chest...

I was leaving the snow. I was leaving the snow for heat and fire.

When I opened my eyes I was lying down in what still seemed snow to me. It was white, it was soft, it was wrapped around my legs and chest and I had sunken deep into it.

But it was not cold, not really, and when I tried to brush the snowflakes away my fingers met something smooth.

No flakes.

A hand touched mine and I tried to turn towards the person that was sitting next to me. My head hurt, there was pain in my chest and in my entire body, and it was difficult to focus, but I tried.

The hand was squeezing mine, urging me to try.

I turned my face and there he was. I knew this brown, warm, gaze, I knew those bushy eyebrows and the rough grasp of his fingers.

"Thorin, do you know who I am?"

My eyes fell shut for a second and he tightened his grip around me.

"Thorin, stay with me. Just answer."

I shuddered and opened my eyes once more, feeling sweat trickle down my spine, drenching my forehead – it was such an effort, such an effort to keep looking at him.

"Dwalin...", I whispered, and I heard him let out a deep breath.

"Do you know where you are?"

He was brushing the back of my hand, he was not letting me close my eyes again, he still would ask and keep me with him.

"I am... trying to... reach you..."

I had breathed out my answer, anxiously looking at him – I was unsure of where I was, one moment it seemed like a bed with Dwalin at my side, and the other I still felt buried in the snow, only facing his shadow.

"No, Thorin, listen. You have reached me. You are safe. You can do it – you can say that you are safe, you can say where you are."

He was urging me on – why was it so important, I did not really want to focus, I wanted to go back to that strange white dream...

"Thorin..."

I shuddered again, trying to make my brain function again – if Dwalin was there, if he was really there, surely I must be...

"Urâd Zirnul..."

I had whispered the Khuzdûl words for the Iron Hills with my last strength, and Dwalin squeezed my hand. I was still looking at him and saw him shake his head with the ghost of a smile.

"Playing high-born once more, Thorin? How many times do I have to tell you – it's Zirinhanâd. Zirinhanâd for any proper Dwarf but you."

It was an old joke between us – there were some differences in Khuzdûl dialects and we were not always using the same words. He would mock me, pronouncing what I had said in a high-pitched voice, and I would laugh, and then twist my face while growling his own words, trying to sound as rough as possible.

Now I definitely could not be dreaming about that, and though I tried to smile, the only sound that escaped my throat was a small, choked gasp. My hand moved under his, and I grasped one of his fingers, holding it as tightly as I could, knowing that I had reached him.

I had reached him.

He made me sit afterwards, he held me against him and patiently fed me, lifting spoon after spoon to my lips – it was just a light broth, but it was warm and I was thirsty.

"Honestly, it just tastes like water...", he growled, having tried one spoonful himself. "I wonder what Óin was thinking...

- It is good...", I whispered. "It is enough..."

I was still feverish, and he saw it. He saw it when he noticed that I kept looking at the blankets uneasily – they reminded me too much of snow, of cold, of terrible struggles I did not want to recall.

He reached for his fur coat then – he simply pulled the blankets of the bed and thrust them on the ground. And then he dragged me against him, he made me wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his chest. He brushed my hair aside – it was damp and tangled, hanging loose on my shoulders, and I was shivering, because the sweat on my skin was cooling down rapidly.

He drew my body against his and just wrapped us both in his fur coat. I could feel the heat that was radiating from him – he was so strong, so alive, I could warm myself against him, I could rely upon him, I could rest.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeats carried me to sleep. Soft, yet strong and steady, just as Dwalin was himself.

I remember that sound, as I feel the snow's cold kiss against my chest, and am aware of my own heartbeats, turning the ice scarlet under me. My heart is racing, trying to send some blood into my numb and feeble limbs, and I wonder why it struggles so, like a frightened little bird.

Because I am not afraid, not anymore. I see my breath spin in the cold air before me, and I realise it was not fear I felt when I used to look at falling snowflakes and frozen landscapes.

It was pain and unspeakable sadness.

Because that winter, I nearly lost everything and yet Dwalin's arms were around me, his heart beating against mine. The dread of cold and death had receded, as I had fallen asleep against him. There had been hope, even though I was too numb and tired to feel it back then.

And it was a treasure I was not aware of, until it was – cruelly and mercilessly – taken from me. Until snow could only remind me of what I had feared and what I had lost.

And yet... there is beauty in this dazzling silence, something soothing in its cold embrace. Not hope, maybe, not anymore. But a promise of rest, at last, here at the very end, where soft flakes fall on my face and my breath spins in the cold air.