Also known as: The time when Thráin proved himself very much his mother's son and talked himself into a lot of trouble.
Enjoy!
Chapter 20
Dwarf in the Dungeon
A frown wrinkled Thoren's forehead. 'The last time his message was marked as urgent he'd…'
'Gotten himself into a spot of bother in a Gondorian prison,' Duria finished. 'Don't remind me.' That had been thirty years ago and it had been a true accomplishment to get Thráin out without their parents being any the wiser. Their clever scheme had involved the employment of a lot of bribery, a case of a stolen pony and the invaluable help of Uncle "I-am-wedded-to-my-craft" Nori.
The Book: Chapter 3: Dark Visitor
Thráin
Minas Tirith, spring 2989 TA
It was the first time Thráin had stepped foot inside this city of Men and he found himself pleasantly surprised. Most of the places where men dwelled were in quality far inferior to the Mountain he still called home, even though he was seldom there these days. Of course, he ought to know by now that dwarvish work was almost always infinitely better and the mannish city of Dale had been designed and built by dwarves for a part, so that hardly counted, which was why Minas Tirith was the surprise he had not anticipated. It was well-built, graceful and beautiful in a way not a lot of mannish cities were. He might almost suspect dwarvish handiwork.
'Pardon me,' a polite voice came from his left.
Thráin halted and looked to the guard – from the looks of him – who had hailed him from his post next to the gate. 'Afternoon,' he greeted politely.
'Begging your pardon, sir, but you are not a man.' The guard appeared a bit embarrassed, as if he would prefer not to have to ask this, but there was a hint of curiosity there as well. Thráin reckoned not a lot of dwarves passed this way. It wouldn't be the first time he was stared at open-mouthed by the people he walked past.
'I'm a dwarf,' he confirmed. 'Is there a problem?'
'Not at all,' the guard reassured him. 'I'll just have your name and intent and if nothing is amiss with either, you may be about your business. I have to ask strangers coming through the gates, you see.' He seemed sincere enough.
'Beli, son of Orin, at your service.' He'd rather have given his own name, but even this far south it sometimes happened that people actually knew who that was. And he hadn't decided to travel the world to be treated as a prince wherever he came. Therefore, an alias it was. 'I'm a wandering blacksmith hoping to do some work in your city before I move on.' The part about the wandering blacksmith was true enough. He was a blacksmith by trade and he did certainly enough wandering.
'We don't see many of your fellows about,' the guard remarked. It didn't sound like an interrogation, so Thráin assumed he just wanted to make small talk.
'Not many of my fellows like to leave our halls.' He was an oddity among his own folk. Not that he minded.
'Where are you from then, if you don't mind my asking?' Oh, the guard was just nosy. One couldn't grow up with both a brother and a sister cursed with the trait without recognising it in others when he chanced upon it.
'Erebor,' he replied. 'Far to the north.'
The guard looked puzzled. 'Can't say I know the name.'
'You might have heard of it as the Lonely Mountain, just east of Mirkwood.' Because no one could remember one Mountain, but that ugly forest was known the world over. Truth be told though, the elves would doubtlessly like it better if it were known for its beauty rather than the tales of its horror.
This time the guardsman nodded. 'Yes, I've heard of that.' He nodded in what appeared to be admiration. 'You're a long way from home.'
'The road called to me.' It had been tempting him for almost as long as he could remember. His family had been fighting his longing for just about as long.
'I've never been beyond Osgiliath,' the man confided.
Erebor might as well be on a different world for all this man knew. It would be just as easily to reach. It was one thing to know he occupied a privileged position, but another to be confronted with folk who lacked the things he took for granted.
Not knowing how to respond, he settled on: 'The world is well worth seeing.'
The guard drew himself up with pride. 'My place is here, Master Dwarf, to guard the city from the danger in the East.'
Thráin had in fact heard more and more of Mordor lately and there was something about the land in the far distance that made him feel ill at ease. Nothing good could come from that place. And for that reason he had respect for this guardsman's attitude. 'A most worthy goal,' he commented. 'Though, if you don't mind my saying, someone's going to have to go and take a look at the defence works if ever an army marches against this city. They're looking a mite bit shabby from where I'm standing.'
'What did you say?' The voice speaking the words came from behind him and was icy cold.
Thráin turned to see a man of about sixty – or thereabouts; he wasn't that good at guessing men's ages – giving him the kind of glare that should have killed him on the spot.
'Afternoon,' he greeted, cursing his own quickness of tongue. Though his assessment of the city's defences was accurate, it was another to utter such views within minutes of stepping foot through the gates. No surprise that someone should take offence.
'What would you know of the defences of this city?' the man demanded. He drew himself up to his full height, which made him tower over Thráin. He was a tall man and richly dressed. There was a haughty air about him that clung to him like a cloak.
'Only what I've seen as I approached the gates,' Thráin replied truthfully. He hadn't made stone his craft, but all dwarves knew a little about building and sturdy structures. Minas Tirith would endure for long years in her current state, if she never came under attack.
'And you presume to tell me my business?' There was a threat in those words.
'I made a suggestion to the guard here,' Thráin said, getting annoyed. Aforementioned guard was suddenly pretending he was not there. 'I do not recall engaging you in that conversation. If you'll excuse me, I will be about my business and trouble you no more.'
The man blocked his path. 'Not so fast, dwarf.'
He took a deep breath and reminded himself that starting a fight would do him no favours. 'Step aside please. I tire of your conversation.'
The guard gasped and the elderly man's face darkened. 'You watch this city with a soldier's eyes, dwarf. And you are no soldier of Gondor.' He did not even try to mask his suspicion.
'I am a wandering blacksmith,' he repeated. 'And I've experience with fighting off orcs and outlaws on the roads.' There had been a few organised campaigns too, when he happened to be home when his own folk rode out to deal with roving orcs. It appeared wiser not to share that information. 'I am not your enemy,' he added for good measure. This proud man seemed the kind of fellow who needed to have that spelled out to him. 'Now, step aside. I don't like to ask the same question twice.'
'In a hurry, dwarf?' The way he spoke the word, it sounded like an insult.
'Beli, son of Orin, if you've need of a name to call me.' He hated having to look up to taller folk, though perhaps he would not hate it so if they did not delight in looking down on him. 'Which you do not, as this chat of ours is at an end.' He made to step around the menace, seeing as he was unlikely to comply with Thráin's request, but was stopped with a hand against his chest.
'I was not done.'
Well, Thráin was. 'Remove your hand, if you would be so kind, before I see fit to remove it for you.' His blood was rapidly approaching boiling point. There were days when the Maker rained his favour on him and other days when trouble dogged his footsteps. It was shaping up to be one of the latter's.
'Threats now?' The eyes had become so narrow they were but slits. There was unadulterated hatred in them.
'None from my lips,' Thráin pointed out.
'Yet you look at the defences of my city with expert eyes, and look down on the work of my people. Does not the Enemy have dwarves in his employ?' His hand still hadn't moved.
'The dwarves of Durin's line have ever opposed the darkness.' Not only was he arrogant, he was also ignorant. It was a dangerous combination, especially if he held some power, as Thráin had begun to suspect. 'And they have never willingly given their support to the one who calls Mordor his home, nor has he ever proved able to dominate them. Learn your history, man, before you seek to lecture me. It makes you appear more ignorant than I think you are.' It ran in his blood, to make ill-advised remarks like that. His mother had an unfortunate tendency to do the same that she had passed on to him. And he had caused major diplomatic scandal once already.
'Is that an insult?' The words were barely more than a growl.
'An observation.' He was thoroughly fed up with this man. 'Now, remove your hand from my person. I will not ask again.' He could break every bone in his body without breaking a sweat and the longer this carried on, the more he felt inclined to do so. 'You've insulted my people and questioned my intentions. Further provocation could prove to be unwise.'
As it was, he found Minas Tirith not as hospitable as he had thought and so intended to leave and come back some other time as soon as his business here was concluded. Men could be tiresome like that, but it had been a while since he had encountered one such as this. He had not missed their absence in the least and was therefore exceedingly disappointed to learn of their continued existence.
'Have you any notion of who you're addressing?' The hand clenched into a fist and he would have pulled Thráin towards him – no doubt in hopes of intimidating him – had he been a man. As it was, dwarves did not budge so easily.
'Not the faintest idea,' he said, taking the arrogant twat's wrist in his hand. He only squeezed very gently, but the squeaking noise that came from his mouth suggested it hurt. 'Now, you'll listen carefully. You'll unhand me and I'll let you go in turn. Then you'll turn around and walk away. I, meanwhile, will go my own way.'
There was a chorus of shocked gasps. It appeared they had gained quite the audience during their little exchange.
The suggestion was a sensible one. They'd stay out of each other's ways and that'd be the end of it. By nightfall he'd laugh it off as another example of mannish idiocy.
He should have realised that this man was not the sensible sort. 'I'll not have my business dictated to me by a child,' he sneered and then, to make matters worse, he spat in Thráin's face.
He'd taken much in order to keep the peace, but every dwarf had its limits. That limit had been reached and before the man could realise what a huge error he'd made, Thráin had released his wrist and pulled back his arm before planting his fist in the man's nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch.
The sound of a cell door falling shut behind him was a less pleasing one, but one that he maybe should have expected. Then again, how was he supposed to have known that the man he had punched was not just any upstart lordling, but the actual Steward of Gondor? Honest mistake, that. And if he was really honest with himself, he would have struck him even if he had known. He was a dwarf, not an elf that he played these complicated games. He called it like he saw it and if that wasn't pleasing to the Steward's ears, he was a fool.
In the meantime he had gotten himself into quite the predicament. This was no small town prison that was begging to be broken out of. He was somewhere underneath the city itself and the walls and doors looked sturdy enough. And they were relatively well guarded.
But it was entirely against his nature to give up. There would be a way out, one that did not involve begging the Steward's forgiveness; he had nothing to ask forgiveness for.
Before however he could come up with anything even remotely resembling a plan, there was the sound of a door opening at the end of the corridor. Thráin suspected it was the Steward coming to gloat or one of his lackeys coming to ask him questions and did not bother to look up.
'Good evening, Master Dwarf.'
He did look up when he was addressed by a child's voice. This was unexpected, but his ears had not deceived him. There were two boys in front of his cell, looking apprehensively at its occupant. One was maybe twelve years old, the other around five or six. The youngest was the one who had spoken, he thought. He looked like he was maybe a little bit frightened, but also very, very curious. The elder, brother maybe, was mainly wary.
'Good evening, young masters,' Thráin returned. 'The guard of your city employs their folk from a young age, I see.'
'We're not from the guard.' The younger of the two smiled. He had the kind of wide-eyed inquisitiveness that reminded Thráin almost painfully of a younger, more carefree Jack.
'I see,' he said. That much he'd guessed, but he remained at a loss for what two children were doing in the dungeons. 'I assume it is urgent business then, that has brought you to my door.' He sensed no malice from these two.
The older lad spoke up. 'He wanted to see the dwarf.' He aimed for exasperation and ended up somewhere nearer fondness. Brothers, Thráin was sure. And this was not the first time he elder had minded the younger or had indulged him in something he wanted. 'We did not mean to trouble you.'
Thráin laughed. 'I have no pressing demands on my time.' Not until he could figure out a way out of this wretched cell. Coming to Minas Tirith had not been one of his brighter notions of late. 'I'd offer you a chair, but I am afraid my humble establishment is greatly lacking in furniture.' He winked at the younger child.
He was rewarded by the widest smile. 'Pleasure to meet you, Master Dwarf. My name is Faramir.'
'Beli, son of Orin, at your service, Master Faramir.' He bowed slightly in his direction, then looked at the other boy. 'Might I have your name as well?'
The child debated the wisdom of giving his name to a potentially violent dwarf, but then decided that there was not much harm Thráin could do from within his cell. 'Boromir, at your service, Master Beli.' He still hung back a little.
Faramir had no such reservations. 'I like your beard, Master Beli.' He pressed his face against the bars so he could get a closer look. 'I've never seen beards like that.'
Thráin chuckled. 'Only dwarves can grow them like that, lad.' And his mother may be a mannish woman, but Thráin looked very little like her. 'Men never quite manage it.' As Jack had once informed a guardsman of Dale before he vomited all over him the one time he'd been well and truly drunk.
It appeared that Faramir was not only endlessly curious, he also was very innocent, because he stuck his hand through the bars and reached out to touch the beard. Had Thráin truly been violent, he could have done some serious harm. He didn't and he did not intend it either, but still.
'Faramir!' said Boromir in a warning tone of voice.
'No matter, lad,' Thráin reassured him. 'Nothing wrong with having an inquiring mind. But you could just ask next time.'
Faramir appeared abashed. 'Yes, sir.' Then he realised. 'You said, next time. Does that mean you won't mind us coming back?' Even a deaf fellow could have heard the hopefulness in his voice.
Thráin laughed. 'Does it look like I have places to be?'
At least the child's company would help him pass the time of day.
He did not honestly expect to enjoy the almost daily visits from one or both of the boys. It was beyond obvious that the visits were like a daily treat from the market to the young Faramir, who, when he came by in the late afternoon or early evening, either chatted his ear off about his day and his lessons or had a thousand questions about dwarves and, when he discovered that Thráin had travelled far and wide, the places he had seen. He had an eager mind and soaked knowledge up like it was nothing. He could never seem to get enough.
He didn't see many others beside the children. There were guards who brought him food and water, but they weren't that talkative. If not for them, he might have thought the Steward had forgotten about him, which struck him as odd, given the accusations he had uttered. If he did think Thráin was a spy from the Enemy – the idea still sounded absolutely ludicrous – why not come and interrogate him?
'I don't think you're a spy,' Faramir volunteered when he came to visit Thráin a week after the start of his imprisonment. 'And our father doesn't really think so either.'
'Sounds like a smart man, your father,' Thráin remarked.
Faramir frowned. 'Why did you hit him, then?'
Oh. He'd assumed the boys were the sons of some guardsman who for reasons beyond his comprehension didn't mind his children interacting with the prisoners, but this changed matters. They were the Steward's sons? That was unexpected.
'He said and did some things that vexed me,' he replied. It was true.
To his surprise Boromir, who'd barely spoken at all since these visits began, spoke up. 'He said you told him the defence works of the city are lacking.' It was hard to tell if the boy was offended on his father's behalf or just wanted to know what had happened that day.
'So I did,' he replied. 'And it was the truth. You could keep an army out for a bit with what you've got, but not indefinitely. Your outer walls have seen better days and some towers look like they're crumbling. Seems foolish to me, with the neighbour you've got.'
A stern stare was levelled at him. 'It's no laughing matter.'
'It's not,' Thráin agreed. 'And I am not laughing.'
Boromir looked at him for a moment and seemed to decide that Thráin was telling the truth. 'Why would you help?'
Because he'd blurted it out before he thought about it, because no living creature should ever be subjected to orcs and their evil master. He did not say it. Instead he gave the lad an old wisdom of Elvaethor's: 'It is the duty of every sentient being to battle the threat of orcs wherever they may find it.' He shrugged. 'It's the truth, lad.'
Boromir frowned. 'Have you?' he demanded. 'Fought orcs?'
'I have.' And he had some scars to show for it. 'They're nastier than you can imagine.'
'But I'll go and fight them when I'm old enough,' Boromir told him. His voice rang with conviction and made him sound older than Thráin suspected he was. He wanted to be an adult, but the last remnants of childhood innocence still hung about him. Twelve years, he guessed, thirteen at the most. And no lad that age should be eager to run off to war. Though it seemed Boromir did not crave the thrill of battle, but rather longed for an opportunity to do his duty for his country. That too was worrying in someone his age.
He told Boromir as much.
And he could tell he was offended. 'There is no shame in wanting to do my duty. I'll keep Gondor safe. We'll keep the threat at bay.'
A noble goal, indeed. 'Aye, I've no doubt of that,' he said. Contradicting him would only make the boy more stubborn about it, he suspected. 'But you're not a grown man yet. How old are you, Boromir?'
For a moment there he didn't think the child would answer, but then he did. 'I'll be eleven this autumn.'
Younger than he'd thought. Then again, Thoren had grown up quicker too out of the two of them. He would be, with him being the heir, the one things were expected of. Nevertheless, Thráin didn't like the idea of one so young being burdened with the weight of responsibility before his shoulders were strong enough to carry that load. And the weight of expectation could be a heavy one indeed, which was why he had shaken it off the first chance he got.
Perhaps Boromir sensed that Thráin would say something he did not like, for he lightly touched his brother's shoulder. 'Come, Faramir. Dinner will be nearly ready. We must go.' He did not once look back as he left.
Boromir
There was never any chance of Faramir not wanting to go down to the dungeons to see the dwarf from the moment he heard that there was a dwarf in the dungeons, Boromir reflected. It was better to indulge him, even though he himself was not so sure it was a wise notion; he had seen what that dwarf's fist had done to his father's nose.
But Faramir smiled again. Boromir didn't think he'd smiled as much since their mother passed away. And the dwarf himself appeared more or less harmless. Well, he hadn't been harmless when he had met Boromir's father, but he seemed to like Faramir well enough. He certainly didn't seem to mind the endless questions.
'Where do you come from?'
'What's the strangest place you've ever seen?'
'Isn't it dark, living under the mountains?'
'How old are you?'
'Why do you braid your hair like that?'
'Do all dwarves live in mountains?'
The list of questions he asked was endless. The dwarf Beli answered all of them. It seemed to amuse him.
Boromir himself wasn't sure what to make of him. A few days ago he'd looked at him in a way he didn't quite comprehend, when they'd talked about his future. There was nothing wrong with wanting to defend his people, whatever that dwarf may think. He avoided him for a few days after – he was convinced now that Faramir would come to no harm during these visits and so was comfortable letting him go alone – and spent some extra time at weapons training instead.
Until today.
'Please will you go?' Boromir was starting to suspect Faramir had made a long and comprehensive study of puppies; he certainly managed to imitate the wide-eyed innocence. 'Boromir, he's all alone!'
'I've training,' he pointed out.
'But I can't walk and now he'll think we've forgotten about him and he will be lonely.' There were times when Faramir was old beyond his mere six years. And then there were times when he was just a child. His fall and injury had brought the child in him back to the forefront.
Out of the three things he said, one was true, though. Faramir had twisted his ankle running after Boromir when he lost his balance and fell down the stairs. He'd been convinced his heart stopped beating when his little brother had fallen. And then he had never been so relieved as he was then to find that Faramir was still alive and relatively well. It could have been so much worse.
'In a few days you'll be able to tell him what happened,' Boromir reminded him. 'The dwarf will be fine.'
It had been the wrong thing to say; Faramir's face betrayed that he was on the verge of crying. 'But he doesn't know now,' he said. 'And no one talks to him and he's nice and he isn't dangerous and it isn't fair!'
Maybe so. Then again, nobody struck the Steward of Gondor and got away with it. Having said that, Boromir was uncertain why after two weeks the dwarf was still there. No real harm had been done – except to his father's nose – and from the little he had heard, Beli may even have been slightly justified in his actions. Surely his father could see that?
'That's how it is,' he said. Faramir probably did not need another reminder of just how unfair life could be, but he said it all the same.
The puppy disappeared. A mule took its place as Faramir crossed his arms over his chest. 'I'll just go myself.'
'You can't walk.' The healers had been very firm in their instruction.
'I can. And I will.'
Boromir took a deep breath. 'Very well. Will you promise to stay where you are if I go and visit the dwarf on your behalf?' He was fairly sure this was blackmail of some kind.
He also forgot that notion as the mule vanished and the puppy re-emerged. 'Thank you, thank you!'
Boromir levelled a stern stare at him.
Faramir remembered. 'Yes, I'll stay here.'
And that was how it happened that he made his way down to Beli's cell alone. He didn't particularly like to go, but a promise was a promise. And it didn't have to be a very long visit either.
'Afternoon, young Master Boromir.' The dwarf saw him before Boromir had been able to utter a greeting of any kind. 'How are you today?'
The question took him by surprise, but he managed a response well enough. 'Very well, thank you. And how are you?'
Beli held up a thick tome. 'Your brother was kind enough to lend me some reading material, so I am keeping busy. It appears my knowledge about your land was indeed lacking somewhat.' He studied Boromir for a moment. 'May I ask, where is your brother?'
'He's fallen down the stairs,' Boromir reported. 'And he twisted his ankle. The healers won't allow him to walk for a few days.'
Beli nodded thoughtfully. 'I see. And you've been sent to keep me company in his stead.' He had it worked out quickly enough. It appeared he understood a lot of things without being told and Boromir did not particularly like it. It felt almost magical.
'Faramir fears you'll be lonely,' he replied.
'Your brother is a very kind soul,' Beli observed. Not that Boromir needed telling; he'd known that already. Anyone who'd ever met Faramir inevitably reached that conclusion, sooner rather than later. 'If you don't wish to be here, I will not force you to keep me company.' He must have sensed Boromir's reluctance.
His promise to his little brother still fresh in his mind, Boromir shook his head. 'I have no pressing engagements.' It sounded responsible and grown-up. His father was fond of the words and he'd picked them up by association, another big word his father liked to use.
'In that case, I would be glad of the company. Your guards aren't all that chatty.'
Boromir hesitantly sat down on the floor in front of the cell. 'It is not their duty to talk to the prisoners.'
Beli chuckled. 'Indeed not. In fact, they appear to take offence to my wishing them a good day. Your folk mustn't be very sociable.'
'We don't see many dwarves in Minas Tirith,' Boromir pointed out. 'They think you're odd.'
'True enough,' said the dwarf. 'Then, if they'd let me go, I'd be glad to take my leave of this city and bother them no further.'
'That's my father's decision to make,' Boromir said sternly.
Beli did not press the matter. 'I know, lad. And I wasn't asking you to release me, especially not against your father's orders. But as I'm uncertain as to the duration of my stay here, I would ask leave to send a message to my family informing them of my whereabouts.'
Boromir frowned suspiciously. 'Why?'
The dwarf had his answer ready. 'I usually let them know what I'm about, mainly to stop my mother from worrying. She does that. It's a mother's prerogative, she says.' Fortunately Boromir knew that big word too. It might have been more impressive if Faramir hadn't known it as well. 'I'm sure your mother tells you much the same.'
Boromir looked away. 'My mother died.' He wouldn't cry here. It wasn't dignified to cry where other people could see. But he missed her. He really, really missed her.
A hand reached out through the bars and rested on his shoulder. 'I am very sorry to hear that, Boromir. You must miss her greatly.'
He could only nod; he didn't quite trust his voice yet.
'I did not intend to stir up painful memories, lad. My apologies.'
Boromir nodded again, because that was still the safest option. He swallowed a few times and took a few deep breaths and so won the battle against the tears. 'Thank you.'
'You're welcome. And for the record, I don't think it's a shame to weep.' His unexpected words forced Boromir into looking at him, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it. 'I've got an aunt who'd tell you that a good cry is the thing that makes anybody feel better when their emotions are getting a wee bit too much for them.'
'Is that what you think?' It seemed strange; grown folk did not cry where others could see. If they did, Boromir certainly had never seen it before. His own father hadn't even wept when Boromir's mother passed away. Only children cried, because they weren't as strong as grown-ups yet.
Beli nodded. 'Oh, aye. And I'll tell you something else, Boromir. Our crying, the fact that we are capable of it, proves that we have emotions, that we can feel. And that's one thing that sets us apart from orcs, who can neither feel nor weep.'
It made Boromir feel a little bit better. 'I've never thought about that.' He felt as though maybe he should have.
Beli clearly did not think that. 'Well, and now you have. Seems you've learned something today.'
'I'll fetch you some writing necessities,' Boromir said, making a decision. His father might not approve, but he felt as though maybe he owed Beli a little. 'There's some merchants leaving for the north tomorrow at dawn. I'll make sure your letter goes with them.'
It was the right thing to do.
Duria
'Oh, this is really not good.' Duria glanced at the letter again. 'Really not good.' The contents reinforced that opinion again. 'How could he be so foolish?'
The answer to that was: he's Thráin, he's always doing one foolish thing or the other. He hadn't done anything in all his life to disprove the notion.
'Occasionally even Thráin talks before he thinks,' said Thoren.
There was nothing occasional about that as far as Duria was aware. She'd been cursed with the most reckless and impulsive dwarves under the Mountain as her siblings, and Thráin was by far the worst of them.
She knew that if she dignified this with an answer, she'd only anger her older brother and so she refrained from offering comment, no matter how much she wanted to. 'Now what would he have us do?'
Of course that was the point: Thráin hadn't asked for anything. He mentioned something about not wanting to getting his young mannish friend into trouble, so he just informed them that he was currently doing a spell in prison in Minas Tirith for breaking the Steward's – for Durin's sake, Thráin! – nose. Oh, and would they please tell amad and adad not to worry? The way Duria saw it, the only way not to worry them would be not to tell them at all.
'Well, we can't leave him there.' Thoren clearly had spent some thought on it. 'And we can't tell amad and adad.'
'I don't like that,' Duria said. They weren't elves that they kept secrets from their own. It was not their way.
It turned out that Thoren had some solid reasoning underlying his decisions for once. 'Adad would march on that mannish city and free Thráin by force,' he explained.
And that was true enough. The moment their father caught wind of this, he would ride out to set the matter straight and Duria honestly didn't like the offending Steward's chances in such a confrontation.
'And amad would only worry,' Thoren continued. 'And she would worry a lot.' He grimaced. 'And she would tell adad either way, because she never keeps any secrets from him.'
It made all an awful lot of sense and she wasn't used to that from him. For reasons she couldn't quite define, this vexed her.
'What then? If we cannot speak of it to them, what do we do?' She doubted it would make much of a difference if the two of them rode south and politely asked this Steward to release their brother. From the little Thráin had told them, the man wasn't much for being reasonable. Besides, their parents would most certainly suspect something if the two of them left and attempted a rescue mission by themselves.
She said all of this to Thoren, who surprisingly proved to be several steps ahead of her. 'I know,' he said. 'We would be missed.' He definitely had inherited that smug smile from their mother. Without fail it was always followed by some devious scheme that was entirely alien to one of their kind. 'But Uncle Nori wouldn't.'
Oh, no. 'Definitely not.'
Duria was fond of her family, all her family, even if they were a trial to put up with. At least her uncles Dori and Ori had some sense. That was the one thing nobody in their right mind would ever be able to claim about Nori. Duria did not even particularly like him. He was nothing a dwarf ought to be: he wasn't reliable, he wasn't trustworthy, he wasn't steadfast and he certainly did not practice any craft that would even remotely please their Maker. He was always off to distant places – in that way he and Thráin were very similar – and he was always getting into trouble, mostly for thieving. Uncle Dori quite frequently said – well, shouted at the top of his lungs more like – that Nori was a disgrace to the family and even though Duria would have defended her uncle to her dying breath against outsiders, she privately shared the sentiment. He wouldn't know responsibility and respectability if it hit him over the head with a club.
Thoren, who actually liked Nori, frowned. 'Well, sister dearest, if you have better ideas, I am all ears. Unless of course you want to let Thráin rot in a mannish dungeon.'
Now he had riled her. 'Of course not!' she snapped at him. Thráin was as big a fool as she had ever encountered, but at the end of the day, he was her brother and she had a duty towards him.
'So, if you have better options than Uncle Nori, do tell,' Thoren invited.
He knew already that she had none and that was exactly how they ended up here, asking the dreaded uncle for help.
'In Gondor, you say?' asked Nori when Thoren had finished the tale. Not that there was much to tell; Thráin had been sparse with the information he sent them. Like as not he really had intended it as a note to tell them where he was. Come to think of it, that was probably the case. For all his strange ways, he had a sense of honour. It might be he did not even expect them to come to his rescue. That would even make him a bigger fool. They were dwarves and kin besides; there was no chance of them leaving him to his fate, not ever.
'Minas Tirith, aye,' Thoren replied. 'We know nothing else.'
Nori grinned. 'Punching the Steward in the face, eh? That's my boy.'
Why was this a good idea again? Her rational mind told her it was because there were no other options available to them, well, no options that wouldn't result in an all-out war with the southern mannish kingdom. That didn't mean she had to like it. Her scowl told her uncle quite possibly exactly that.
Today Thoren had no more patience for their uncle's antics than Duria did. 'Can you do it?' he asked.
'Do it? Possibly.' Nori was all business now. 'I'd be needing a fair bit of money.'
Duria's blood reached boiling point. 'You'd ask money for a service like that?' She ought to have gone to her father. Suddenly war with Gondor did not sound like such a bad plan. She stopped herself right there. No, war was not the solution here. Not that she would be averse to fighting whoever had gotten it into their heads to harm her brother, but there was a time and a place and this was neither. She was more responsible than that.
'At ease, my hot-headed niece.' Nori had never been affected much by his own brother's rage. It stood to reason hers would not make much of an impression either. 'What I'm saying is, from what I've heard of the prison in Minas Tirith, it's hard to break out of. So, in order to get in so that I may get my nephew out, I'll be needing to bribe some folk. And I'll need good coin to do the bribing.'
It sounded reasonable enough. Well, reasonable enough if one didn't think about the fact that the rescue mission would be conducted in a manner that was abhorrent to all decent dwarves. Bribery and sneaking and general dishonest behaviour. Those were elvish practises, mannish practises even. Of course, that might mean Nori's approach could actually work. Deep down she knew this was the very reason Thoren had decided to ask their uncle.
It'll be worth it if he can bring Thráin safely home, she told herself. It had better be worth it. Only for her brother's sake could she overcome her scruples, so Nori had better not fail them. If so, well, war was maybe still an option.
'We'll make sure you get the coin.' Thoren was quick to agree. While the look on his face told Duria he liked this no more than she did, he also knew they weren't exactly swimming in other options.
Nori looked almost sheepish when he spoke again. 'Ah, there's one other thing,' he said and really, why was Duria still surprised? There always was one other thing with him.
'Which is?' she asked, counting to ten and so winning the fight against her anger.
He grimaced. 'This Ivar fellow has confiscated my loyal steed, if you know what I'm saying.'
Duria knew Ivar to be a thoroughly unpleasant dwarf who refused to get the hint that everybody would be much more pleased if he removed himself to the Iron Hills. That Nori had gotten into trouble with him was hardly a surprise. And not their biggest problem neither.
Thoren shared that opinion. 'Take a mount from the royal stable. I don't care.'
'According to your father, I don't have to show my face here again if I so much as think about touching those beasts.' And there was the trouble. It was true that the King under the Mountain had more than enough of his brother-in-law taking things that didn't belong to him. Whatever else may happen, that course of action would draw the attention from the one dwarf they were trying not to alarm. Durin's stinking, unwashed beard!
She almost hated herself for asking. 'What do you need?'
'I don't like this,' she therefore said later that evening. She had lost count of the number of times she had either thought or voiced the sentiment and judging by the thoroughly chagrined look on Thoren's face, so had he.
'The alternative is that you'll keep Ivar's servant occupied while I steal the pony,' he said. 'And since you've never ventured down to the stables unless held at sword point, that won't work.'
Duria found all of a sudden she had more of a taste for making conversation with a guard than actually stealing – the mere mention of the word did unpleasant things to her body – a pony. 'Words are my trade. I'd be able.'
Thoren shot the notion down before she had been able to present her argument in full. 'You can't dissemble to save your life, you're even worse at lying and anyone who sees you there will wonder what in Durin's name ever compelled you to pay a visit to the horses and ponies, what with you never showing any interest before. You'll be noticed, you'll be remembered and before you know it word will have gotten back to adad and then it's only a matter of time before the whole story comes out.'
She took offence at that. 'I can keep a secret.' She was a dwarf; theirs was a race known for being tight-lipped.
Her brother didn't buy it. 'If thinking that helps you sleep at night, good for you, Duria. But I'm not risking Thráin on it.'
She really did not like his reasoning, especially since it was, for just this one time, more founded than hers was. That was not usually the way of it. And Duria hated being in the wrong.
When she said nothing, Thoren continued: 'It'll be easy. Just stick to the plan and nothing much can go wrong.'
She did not much like the sound of that.
Before she could find the time to protest, Thoren had gotten up and walked to the entrance door to the stables with a confidence Duria knew she would never have been able to pull off.
'Evening, Fíri.'
'Thoren,' the other dwarf greeted. 'You're out and about very late.'
Thoren shot him a meaningful look. 'So are you. The mounts require that much care? There's only so many stables that can need mucking out, right?'
'Experience with that, have you?' Fíri grinned.
'What can I say? Aunt Thora could be very creative in thinking up punishments for naughty dwarflings.' To look at him, one would never guess he had any sort of ulterior motive for being here. It was not the dwarvish way. Then again, they had mannish blood and their mother was well-known for employing her own people's tactics when the need arose.
'I remember that,' Fíri nodded, chuckling. 'So, what brings you all this way?'
'A late evening stroll and a sudden fancy for taking a ride.' If anyone but Thoren had uttered such a sentence, they'd have thought it strange. But Thoren was known for doing odd things now and again and nobody took much notice of it these days. 'I was of a mind to head to Dale, maybe get a drink and then head back home. Do you fancy joining me?'
Fíri pondered this a moment. 'If we don't have to go all the way to Dale, perhaps.'
Thoren pretended to think about it. 'Oh, we might as well stay here. At least we won't fall off our mounts on our way back.'
Fíri laughed at this.
'Hold on,' Thoren said just when it looked like they were about to leave. 'You won't get in trouble for abandoning your post or something of the kind?'
What in Durin's name did he think he was doing? Duria would be the first to admit she had no stomach for deceit, but right now they did not want to alert him to the possibility of something less than honourable being afoot. Whatever Thoren was getting at, reminding Fíri of his duty, she would never know. They'd agreed to get the fellow away from the stables, she didn't want to keep him there!
To her infinite relief Fíri shook his head. 'It'll be all right,' he said. 'Work's done for the day. Now lead the way before I change my mind.'
Thoren was fortunately quick to oblige.
Duria waited until her brother and his newfound friend had disappeared around the corner before she left her hiding place behind a haystack. According to Thoren, all she had to do was find the pony and lead it out of the stables to the agreed meeting place where Nori would be waiting. He would saddle the beast and ride it out of the gates, so when all was said and done, no one would be able to tie Thoren or Duria to the whole affair. She hoped it all went according to plan, because unlike her thieving uncle, Duria might just die of shame if she were ever discovered stealing anything, never mind a pony.
No point wool-gathering now. Get on with it. There were times when her mental voice sounded remarkably like her mother, which was odd, because Duria was as different from her mother as she could possibly be.
But it aided her in this. It's for Thráin, she reminded herself. And we're saving amad so much worry.
The stables were blessedly empty. The ponies and horses were all more or less dozing, though a few perked up when they saw her.
'Don't make a sound,' she instructed them. 'Because I will have you for dinner on the morrow. Don't think I won't.'
Whether or not the beasts understood her remained to be seen. It was more likely a happy coincidence that none of them went against her orders.
Finding the monster Uncle Nori optimistically called a pony was not that hard. Her uncle had been detailed in his description and Ivar hadn't attempted to hide it. The only problem was that Duria had never had much of a way with animals.
'All right,' she said, because for some irrational reason talking aloud made her feel more certain about her own actions. 'I'm about to reunite you with your owner. Try to behave until I've done so.' What happened after was Nori's concern.
The pony was an ill-tempered beast. Duria strongly suspected something of goblin in its lineage. There was mischief in those eyes and no mistake, and a hint of something malicious. Maybe the pony was well-suited to its rider, though at least Nori was never anything but kind to her.
The same could not be said about this beast. It pulled at the rope and if Duria had taken more after her mother, it might have pulled her with it in the opposite direction of where she wanted to go. As it was, she was as unmoveable as the Mountain itself.
'This way,' she snapped at it. 'I'll be in trouble and you'll be short a rescuer if we're found here. Kindly cooperate.'
She should have known that if her tactics had failed on her siblings, they were not going to work on a recalcitrant pony. Well, it had been worth a try. And it was a good thing that Thoren at least kept Fíri well occupied, because it was slow-going. Wherever it was the animal wanted to go, it wasn't the direction Duria had in mind. And her literally dragging – thank the Maker for her dwarvish build and strength – a pony out of the stable was hardly inconspicuous. Thank Mahal that it was very late and the streets were deserted.
Uncle Nori was waiting where they had agreed, which was another good thing. Of course the pony, recognising its owner, was suddenly very keen to go in the right direction, so that Duria, instead of dragging it, was now almost dragged behind the monster herself. It did not endear her to Nori's pony of choice.
'Here it is.' She unceremoniously dropped the rope in his hands. If she never saw the wretched beast again, it would be too soon. 'Do you have all you need?'
Nori grinned as though he hadn't a care in the world and they weren't in the process of conducting illegal business. 'Fear not, my dearest niece. All is in hand. And I'll be sure to bring Thráin safely home again.' There was more sincerity in the last sentence and Duria believed him. No matter how odd and dysfunctional her family was, they always came through for one another. And Nori was no different from the rest of them in that respect.
'See that you do.'
'You sound more like your father with every year, I swear.' He grimaced. 'Or my brother, come to think of it.' She didn't need to ask which brother.
'Good,' she said.
'Worry not,' Nori said. 'We'll be back before you know it.' He had vanished before she could respond, leaving her alone in an abandoned street, hoping desperately that she had made the right choice.
It still didn't feel like one.
Thráin
Most of the summer had already passed, Thráin estimated. It was hard to keep track properly when all days blended together. And he hated it. He was a dwarf; he was made to work, to fill his days with useful activities. Lounging in a dungeon had not been part of his Maker's plan. And of course it was true that young Faramir did his very best in supplying him with reading material and company each day, but in the end it was no substitute at all for going where he chose and doing what he ought to do.
Having said that, he was intensely grateful for the company. Boromir showed up more often than not when Faramir came by. He'd even visited a couple of times on his own. The truth was that Thráin liked the lads, but the more he learned about them, the less he approved of the father. From what the boys told him, Thráin had started to suspect that the Steward favoured Boromir over Faramir and had clearly no reservations whatsoever about making it known to whoever was around. But neither child tolerated as much as a hint of Thráin's disapproval about the Steward's fathering and so he kept his thoughts to himself. At least he knew now that the punch in the face had been wholly deserved, if not for his own pride, then for the two boys who had a sorry excuse for a father.
'I would like to see a dragon,' Faramir confided in him one day. How he came up with these things Thráin never knew, but the lad kept taking him by surprise.
He snorted before he could catch himself. 'Would you now?'
'I've read about them,' said Faramir. 'They are big and they breathe fire and…'
'They could lay waste to an army of orcs in the blink of an eye.' Boromir, as always, was quick to see the advantage. Thráin had come to see that this boy's thoughts were never far away from the conflict in the East. Had he ever even been a child in the true sense of the word or had his worthless father groomed him for war from the moment he could walk? With what he knew of the Steward, it would not have surprised him.
Comparing Boromir to his own brother was therefore a painful affair. Of course Thoren was being prepared, had been prepared for years. But Thoren had known many long years of carelessness and childish mischief. It didn't seem Boromir had been granted the same favour.
'And to an army of men just as easily,' he pointed out. 'Dragons have never been friends of the Free Folk. They have always fought on the other side. Even those that have no master are evil down to their very core.' His father never talked much about the day Erebor fell to Smaug, but he'd heard snippets of stories all the same. It must have been a day of terror, bloodshed and death.
Boromir looked disappointed.
Thráin decided to soften the blow. 'I do not believe there are dragons left in the world today, Boromir. The last known one was slain almost half a century ago.'
'Still, a weapon like that…' Boromir could clearly picture it.
'Would turn on you in a heartbeat. The monsters can't be trusted. They only answer to the dark.' If they answered at all. From all he'd heard, Smaug had pretty much done what he wanted.
Faramir looked at him inquisitively. 'Do you know any stories about dragons?' He must have sensed there was something more than just book knowledge fuelling his words. For a boy his age, he was very quick.
He smiled. 'Aye, and a good one it is too. Care to hear about how the last known fire dragon was slain?'
For the next half hour he gave them the story about the quest for Erebor, carefully omitting any mention of how he was related to any of the folk who had gone on a true hero's journey. His father had told the tale so often as a bedtime story when Thoren and he were little that he knew it by heart, could recite it in his sleep if needed. As for his audience, they were listening breathlessly as the story unfolded, even Boromir.
'And thus the dragon was slain and the Mountain reclaimed for my people,' he finished, choosing to end it there instead of including the nastiness of scheming men and elves and the battle that followed.
Faramir's face reflected wonder. He loved this kind of story. 'That really happened?'
'Aye, it did.' When he had been as old as Faramir was now, he'd felt the exact same way about it. And in him it had awakened a longing for adventures of his own.
Boromir on the other hand was frowning. 'What did they do with the dragon after it had been killed?' he asked. 'Did they just leave it there in the treasury?' At least Boromir always asked the practical questions.
Thráin laughed. 'Not hardly. I've been told that they had to drag the corpse out of the Mountain, a process that took several weeks, as it was heavy and not easy to move.'
There would have been more questions – there always were – had it not been for the opening of a door and a very familiar head poking through. The head took in the scene before him, realised that not everything had gone quite according to plan, and sighed in annoyance. 'Durin's beard, I thought that guard said that the coast was clear. Must mean something different here than it does up north.'
Thráin groaned. 'Uncle Nori? What are you doing here?'
Nori's body joined his head in the corridor. He shut the door behind him. 'This, my lad, is a rescue mission. Only the fellow I bribed didn't mention you had visitors.'
Was it any wonder Nori was forever getting into scrapes? If he always went in as half-arsed as he had clearly done here, it suddenly made sense why he spent so much of his time in one lockup or the other.
Boromir had acted immediately. He had sprung to his feet, facing Nori while in the same motion pulling Faramir behind him. This left the younger child between his brother and Thráin, which was an interesting move. It suggested that while Boromir did not trust Nori, he didn't think Thráin would be a danger to his younger sibling. There was a measure of trust in that action that Thráin would not shame for the life of him.
'Lay down your weapons,' Boromir demanded. He himself was unarmed, but that didn't stop him.
Nori sent him an annoyed look. 'I'm not going to hurt you, lad. I'm just here to get my fool of a nephew out and take him home.' He grinned at Thráin. 'Your sister is going to tear you to pieces when she sees you again,' he informed him cheerfully. 'Fair warning.'
Thráin did not need to ask which sister.
'I cannot let you do that,' said Boromir. 'He has been locked up by command of the Steward of Gondor and his release has not been ordered.'
'I reckoned as much,' Nori replied, not impressed in the least. 'That's why it's a rescue mission.'
Faramir poked his head out from behind Boromir's back. 'You will take him home?' he asked.
Nori nodded. 'Aye, that's the idea.'
'We have got to let him,' Faramir said, addressing his brother. 'It's not fair he's been here so long. He's done nothing wrong!'
'Nothing much except punching a Steward in the face,' Thráin pointed out. Having said that, the punishment had stopped fitting the crime about a week after the start of his captivity. He had done no permanent damage and the Steward had certainly not been an innocent in the exchange.
'He got what's coming to him from what I've heard.' Naturally Nori would not think much of it.
'Please, Boromir?' Faramir was still pleading Thráin's case. 'He's never going to let him go and he needs to go home and travel and work and do dwarf things.'
'None of which involve hanging around dungeons.' And Nori just couldn't keep his mouth shut when he needed to.
Boromir appeared to think about it. It was hard to see which direction his thoughts were taking just from looking at his back. Then he turned to Thráin. 'I sent the letter for you,' he stated. 'Did you ask for help?' He looked as though he had been betrayed.
Thráin's heart filled with pity. 'No. I did not.' And he was glad he hadn't. 'You read it before you sent it. You know I did not.'
Boromir was nothing if not insistent. 'Did you know they would send someone to break you out?'
He felt that a lot depended on his answer. 'No, I did not,' he answered again. He hadn't. In hindsight he might have known that his family was not just going to sit back and wait while he was in trouble, but he hadn't thought on it before, nor had he held on to the hope that they would act when he had specifically asked them not to.
Boromir held his gaze for a long time, searching for answers there. In the end he nodded. 'I believe you.' It sounded like someone much older than he was spoke the words. If this wasn't the situation that it is, I would have liked to speak some choice words to the man who turns his own son into an adult before his time. 'If you can find the keys, I won't stop you.'
Thráin looked him in the eyes. 'Thank you, Boromir.'
The child nodded. For Durin's sake, he was only a boy. What kind of mad world were they living in?
Nori was burdened by no such thoughts. 'Who needs keys?' he asked, producing something that looked like a hairpin from his pockets. 'This ought to do the trick.'
Thráin frowned. 'Is that a hairpin?'
His uncle grinned. 'So it is,' he confirmed. 'Now hush, I'll need to focus. Your mother taught me this trick, you know. Quite handy in a tight spot, I must say. Surprised she never taught it to you.'
He moved past the boys and stuck the pin into the lock. Thráin couldn't see what he was doing from this side of the door, but whatever it was, it required concentration.
'I'm surprised she taught it to you,' he countered. It wasn't like his mother to teach Nori tricks that would aid him in his wrongdoings. Come to think of it, he was surprised she knew how to pick locks at all.
'She lost a wager, so she had no choice.' Nori did not look up from his work as he spoke. 'And she grumbled like Dori does all the while.'
Now that he could actually believe.
'Ah, there we go!' Nori announced when the lock gave way and the door sprung open. 'Out you come, my boy. The guard won't pretend to be asleep for much longer and I am ready to be gone from this place.'
Thráin got to his feet, but before he could step outside his cell for the first time in months, Faramir jumped in and caught him in a hug. 'I will miss you,' he confessed in a small voice that heavily implied he was fighting back tears.
'And I you, my young friend,' Thráin said. He found he meant it. 'But perhaps one day our paths will cross again. And if you ever feel like seeing Erebor for yourself, it'd be my pleasure to show you around.' But for the time being it would be wiser to avoid Gondor. As long as the Steward drew breath, he could only look forward to a continuation of his captivity if he stepped as much as a toe over the border. But he felt the child knew that already and so he did not speak a word.
Faramir let him go. There were indeed tears in his eyes. He did not have many friends and to lose even one of them must be a heavy blow to one so young. It made his insistence to do the right thing even more admirable. 'I will,' he promised. 'Come and see you one day, I mean.'
'I shall look for your coming,' Thráin promised. He turned to Boromir. 'Be well, Boromir. And thank you once more.'
The boy drew himself up to his full height, a gesture that Thráin thought was meant to make him feel stronger and older than he was. 'I hope you have safe travels,' he replied. He hesitated and then added: 'And I hope your mother won't have worried too much about you.'
Boromir had a bigger heart than folk generally gave him credit for, Thráin thought. 'I'll tell her I was well looked after.'
Nori made a show out of carefully smelling the air around Thráin. 'Not from where I'm standing, you haven't been. When we get out of this wretched city, I'm throwing you in the first body of water we find. You don't half smell, lad.'
There were days when Thráin understood why Uncle Dori was always threatening to gag Nori. This was one of those days and in that moment, he could have performed the deed himself.
'Uncle Nori, if you've nothing sensible to add, it would be best for all concerned if you kept your mouth firmly shut.' At least he had heard enough of his father's icily disapproving speeches to have a fair shot at imitating him.
Nori clearly thought the same. 'You sound like your father.'
'I meant to.' He turned back to Boromir. 'You've done well, Boromir. Don't pay any heed to my uncle; he's never spoken sense in all my years and I doubt he's going to break the habit of a lifetime today.' The customs of his people dictated that he would side with Nori against outsiders, but he did not feel in the least guilty about breaking tradition now. Nori had a thick skin after all and for all that Boromir pretended likewise, Thráin knew better.
The smile he got in response was somewhat watery. The boy would benefit from a hug, but he feared that the carefully maintained mask of a strong and decisive figure would shatter to pieces if he did. And Boromir was unlikely to thank him for that.
'You should go,' the lad said. 'And it is best that Faramir and I were not here either.'
'Perhaps we'll meet again one day,' Thráin said.
He found he'd like it.
This was supposed to be about 3000 words at the most. By the length of this chapter you can quite possibly tell that didn't really work out. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this not so little story and, as you may have guessed, this may have some consequences later in The Book, which should resume regular updates starting next Sunday, so keep an eye out for that.
As always, thank you very much for reading and I would love to hear your thoughts about this piece if you have a moment to share them.