Dwarrows of Ered Luin
Chapter One: Rock Bolts
"You are pissed."
Bofur had never been one to elaborate – and never one to get pissed, to shove his words right back into his mouth. Jóli was not one to sulk either, but that morning he felt entitled to, so he just kicked a few pebbles out of their path, as they started to climb towards the house where King Thráin of the Longbeards was currently dwelling.
"Why?"
Bofur's voice was calm, and he took a roll of bread out of his pocket, broke it, and gave half of it to Jóli, before starting to chew. Jóli took a few minutes to munch – it was good, all Bombur's, and he was still hungry, despite the small breakfast he had taken.
"Because I can't see why he bothers. I can't see why they all bother."
"About?"
"About the mines, Bofur! And about everything here. I can't see why they all bother now."
Bofur frowned slightly and took another bite.
"Don't you think it's simply because they are here?"
"Yes, exactly! And why are they here? Because they led half of us to slaughter, because we hardly ever mattered, and now that they're reduced to almost-begging, now that everyone knows just what kind of ragged people they are, now they come and play all lordly and pretend to care?!"
"We haven't been there", Bofur said quietly.
"Yes, but Bifur was", Jóli replied savagely, and his friend had a pained blink.
"Bifur likes Thorin", he objected, and Jóli sighed.
"Bifur likes everybody", he said, softly, because Bifur's story was a sad, terrible one – and his wound grievous. "I'm not even sure he knows who Thorin is."
"He knows", Bofur said – with unusual stubbornness. "I told him we were taking him down with us, this morning. And he signed Raven."
Jóli gave him a sideway look and Bofur persisted.
"When he signs Raven, he means Thorin. I don't know why. But 'amad noticed it too. Whenever we talk about those Longbeards. He always signs Raven, and he smiles."
"Well, I don't. I sign pain-in-the-butt, frowning, scowling, dull Princeling who doesn't even know what a mine is but has decided he'll see better than us what's wrong down there."
"Jóli!"
Bofur's hiss registered just a tiny bit too late. They had just taken the turn that led to the King's house, and five steps ahead of them, and completely in reach of Jóli's voice – stood Thorin, who had frozen mid-gesture, strapping the small bag he was carrying tighter on his back.
Despite himself, Jóli felt a blush creep up his whiskers, but Thorin just let the buckle slide, shook his braids back and straightened, face as stern as ever.
"Light upon your day", Bofur stammered, and Jóli promptly mimicked him.
"May yours shine."
Thorin's voice was deep, and rough – and there was something sharp and cold there too that made his words sound like a mockery. It probably was. Because his eyes bore like daggers into Jóli's face – that icy, haughty look Jóli hated – and then he just dismissed them, walking past them onto the path they had just taken, right down towards the mines.
He - heard - you.
The frantic way Bofur signed was a sure sign of distress, and Jóli shrugged, giving him a somewhat embarrassed smile.
"Thorin!"
A voice behind them made them start and turn – and lo , was that a lovely sight, for there stood, as sure as Mahal was the Maker, the most beautiful Dwarrowlass Jóli had ever seen. Like Thorin, she had blue eyes, dark, long locks, but her beard was still just beginning to grow – and there was something so intense in the way she was striding towards them, in the way she looked at them, that just made Jóli stare .
"Oh. Light upon your day. I am Dís. Thorin's sister."
She did not even wait for their reply, just smiled at them, and then even more fondly at Thorin.
"Thorin, you forgot this."
She handed him a parcel, and Thorin shook his head and let his bag slide, placing it carefully inside.
"Maikhmin, mamarlûna."
It was said quietly, but Jóli still heard the tenderness inside and it surprised him, because had it been it Jóna who'd have run after him like that, he'd have jested with her, trying to act tough. Thorin however let his sister hug him, briefly, and touched foreheads with her, and then she smiled at them once more and was gone.
Neither of them talked after that, and the only sound was the rolling-off of the stones they shook loose in their way downwards for a while. But after a few minutes of silent walking, Bofur broke the silence:
"I've got a brother too. He bakes bread. And a cousin – he's like a second brother."
Thorin acknowledged his words with a nod and kept his pace.
"My cousin knows you. I think."
"Does he?"
The words were pushed out almost wearily – there was a tiny hint of sarcasm there too, and Jóli felt an urgent need to throw out his leg and make him stumble right off his high horse.
"He took an axe-blow to the head. In Khazad-Dûm. It stayed stuck."
That, unsurprisingly, slowed Thorin's pace – and when he turned towards Bofur, there was genuine pain in his words.
"I am sorry. I did not realize Bifur was your cousin."
Bofur's jaw dropped, very slowly, and Thorin fingered the latches of his bag, then simply resumed walking – but his face looked drawn now, almost pale in the rising sun.
They soon reached the mine's entrance and lost no time in idle talking. Bofur quietly introduced their elder fellow-miner Alvar, who had returned with a limp from Azanulbizar, and his young sons Snorri and Gunni – born so few apart they looked almost twins, both in age and appearance.
Thorin gave them a nod, gaze lingering for a second on the brothers but otherwise silent, quietly accepting a helmet and a pick from Alvar. Jóli lost no time donning his own gear, covering his head with his usual tissue-cap and slamming his helmet on his brown, unruly locks.
"Right. Let's go."
He noticed Thorin had no tissue-cap of his own, of course. But after all, he was not there to mine ore, just to take a look , and Jóli did not think his helmet was at a risk to slide. So he said nothing, just rolled his eyes when he saw that Thorin was still lingering at the entrance, inspecting the gorse-covered mountain slopes.
"This is where the first cave-in happened?", he asked, pointing to an area where no gorse grew.
"Aye", Alvar answered. "You can see the timber has fallen over the rock. Happened last month."
"Hm. And the second and third ones?"
"Down the mine", Alvar said quietly. "About five miles from the first. 't has been raining an awful lot, these past months. 't has weakened the soil and swelled the river."
"What of the timber?"
To his surprise, Jóli saw an appreciative smile spread on Alvar's tanned face.
"'t has been awfully cold, these past years. Not much timber left, on these slopes. Many pines and oaks were felled."
"But you made sure to replace them? To make even cuts?", Thorin asked with a small frown, absently rubbing his left forearm.
"Define even cuts", Jóli threw in. "Of course we did not fell them all in the same place, who do you take us for? And as for replacing them, honestly, we would - if Men would just keep their axes from our slopes!"
There was a definite challenge in his words now, and Thorin narrowed his eyes, clearly put out. But in the end, he just exhaled, and looked at Alvar, who took his hint.
"Alright laddies, let's go."
They finally entered the mine, and Jóli felt Bofur's elbow, nudging him in the ribs.
Don't chow on him like that. Won't bring anything.
And of course, Jóli knew his friend was right. Blaming Thorin for the poor state of their iron and copper mines, for the shabbiness of their settlement, for the way Men regularly raided the forests – it made no sense and would not make it better for the Broadbeams and Firebeards. But there was something in the chilly, haughty way Thorin held himself that was aggravating him– it was clear he was not here for conversation or for knowing them better, only to find out why mining wasn't productive enough for the settlement. And of course, as a Princeling, he felt entitled to do so, but he had not lifted a single finger for these mines himself.
Neither had his father, and especially not his grandfather Thrór, who had made a point to look down on Ered Luin from the very beginning.
So Jóli stomped on, leaving the necessary explanations to Alvar and Bofur, directing his anger into something productive indeed – namely pushing the cart along.
He could not prevent himself though – could not help looking at what he considered their mines with a stranger's eyes, with Thorin's unfeeling eyes, watching him touch the stone walls, look at the ceiling and crouch to inspect the floor.
Thorin was not wearing gloves, nor was he dressed in particularly worn-out clothes, but Jóli was surprised to see that he did not shy from kneeling in the dust, feeling for the soil with his bare palms, then stretching to touch the ceiling, frowning when his fingers came away damp.
Jóli assumed that he found the mines shabby – and he was probably right to think so - but it made his heart clench with wounded pride and snap his answers back at Thorin.
"These rock bolts you use to reinforce the ceiling and walls… are they point anchor bolts? Friction bolts?"
"Both. Depends on the gallery."
"And you coated them in grout?"
Jóli turned towards Thorin and found Alvar and the others equally puzzled.
"Grout?", Bofur repeated. "What do you mean by grout?"
Thorin frowned but seemed to think of the best way to explain himself, hand rubbing his left forearm in that unconscious gesture Jóli had noticed before.
"Crushed lime, sand and water…?", he finally said, tone questioning. "To avoid corrosion? So that they do not rust when the rain permeates the stone?"
"Aye laddie", Alvar answered, dropping to a more familiar tone now that they were deep in the mines and on equal footing. "We happen to know what corrosion is, even here."
He smiled at him, though, and even patted him briefly on the shoulder – and oddly enough, even though he stiffened, Thorin let him.
"We call it caulking, here. And we use chalk, not lime. But that's a valid point, lad. Different customs, different Khuzdûl – but water's still a pain."
He laughed and his sons with him, and Thorin nodded, once, shoulders relaxing. They walked in silence for a while, the walls and tunnels only lighted by the lights of their candles, safely enclosed in their lamps. Their footsteps echoed in the cold gallery, along with the sound of falling drops and the grinding of the cart.
"They use welded wire mesh, in Urâd Zirnul", Thorin ended up saying, once they had reached a hall where several galleries branched in multiple directions.
"Like a mesh coat?", Snorri asked, and Gunni added: "Or a fish net?"
"A… bit of both. I guess."
There was the beginning of a smile lifting Thorin's lips, Jóli could see it in the flickering of their lamps. And, as much as he wanted to see Thorin as the coddled, haughty Princeling he was , Jóli had to admit there was no mockery in his expression – just faint amusement at their enthusiasm. It softened his face, briefly, making him look oddly young with that strange, short-cropped beard of his. More like… well, more like his sister.
Jóli did not want to go down that road, though.
"You need a lot of iron for welded wire meshes. It would cost us almost the whole production. Ironfoot has it way easier in Zirinhanâd , with his furnaces and ore passes. I bet he never used a pick himself. But that's not the way we mine here."
Thorin's smile had vanished so thoroughly that Jóli doubted it had ever been there. His shoulders tensed, his lips parted and for a while, it seemed like he contemplated snarling an answer back. But in the end, something seemed to leave him – he just shook his head, briefly, and turned towards the galleries.
"Where now?", he asked Alvar, quietly, avoiding Jóli altogether.
"Well, lad, it depends. If you want to see how we are mining the ore, then you just accompany us that way with the cart. If you want to see where the walls caved in, one of us can show you as well. We can also take a look on the way out."
You show him.
Jóli had already signed the words, tapping them on Bofur's forearm. But once more Thorin surprised him.
"I will mine the ore with you."
No question, no defiance, just determination – and it completely silenced Jóli. Snorri and Gunni looked at each other, eyes wide, and then they flashed their biggest grin at Thorin, their teeth almost pearl-white in the darkness.
"You would push the cart?"
"You would dig for the ore?"
"With us?"
They were pulling him along, excitingly, almost hopping up and down – they were both awfully young still, barely of age. To them, all this was still an exciting game – and perhaps it was, for Thorin as well. Because something broke from him that sounded very much like a brief, quiet huff – but it could not be. Not him – he had coughed. Or gasped at being touched that way.
Thorin's voice was unmistakably warmer, though, echoing in the gallery before them, as he answered:
"Just lead the way."
Alvar was following, humming quietly and laughing at his sons' antics. And Bofur stepped next to Jóli, eyes glinting with mischief, pulling the cart along with him.
"Well… Guess he's showing you."
"Shut it and pull", Jóli answered - but Thorin had puzzled him, and he found himself grinning back at Bofur.
They had entered one of the most recent galleries and soon started working, crawling into the side galleries in pairs. Jóli went with Bofur, Gunni with Snorri of course, and Thorin with Alvar. And for two long hours, nothing much was said and not much was heard, save from the clanging of their picks, the sound of ore chunks dropping down, and of their footsteps – making endless journeys between the galleries and the cart.
"Almost full already", Alvar voiced, after a while. "Let's take a break."
They all crawled out, joining in the main gallery, around the cart. Alvar lifted his lamp, placing it on top of the ore heap piled there.
"Neat work", he commented, and Bofur hummed, uncorking his flask and taking a healthy swig of water.
Jóli pulled out his own flask and looked at Thorin, who was leaning against the wall, backpack at his feet but not drinking. He was as sweaty and dirty as them now, but did not seem to mind, somewhat short of breath and happy to stretch his back, as they all were.
"You're not wearing gloves?", Jóli blurted out, suddenly aware of the state of his hands, and Thorin shrugged.
"I do not mind."
"Well, that's silly. You'll have blisters in no time. And you'll scratch them open and fill your wounds with iron dust. Take my spare ones."
Thorin flashed him a look that was either uncertain or defiant – it was very hard to tell. But Jóli just threw them at his chest, playfully, and Thorin had no choice but to catch them. He clutched them hesitantly for a while, and then the Princeling in him finally showed.
" Maikhmin. I'll just… wash my hands first."
It made them all laugh, but Thorin paid them no heed, hefting his backpack up and trudging towards one of the water puddles that always seemed to gather there.
"Oy, they have seen worse than that!", Jóli called, but Thorin just shook his head, crouching down and cleaning his hands thoroughly.
He had even pulled his sleeves up, and it made them all cackle – because he would soon be coated in dirt again. Thorin however simply pulled Jóli's gloves on his admittedly cleaner hands, tucking his sleeves around them – and then he seemed to still, face intent and listening, then morphing into something close to alarm.
"Shh – can you… Can you hear it?"
They all fell silent, but the only sound that could be heard around their cart was their breathing, and the odd drop of water. Thorin had yet to move, still a few feet away from them, deeper in the main gallery, helmet somewhat askew on his raven locks, his posture still tense but slowly beginning to ease as silence stretched.
"I thought I heard… something."
His last word was whispered, but he still looked coiled, eyes narrow and wary – and Jóli found himself walking towards him, without really knowing why. Probably to make him come back towards them. Maybe also, because Thorin was certainly not easily shaken, if any of the war-tales his father had told him were true.
He never got the chance to say a word, though.
Because Jóli had barely reached Thorin when he definitely heard and felt it – a groan, a ripple, something deadly and dangerous above and around them, threatening to swallow them all.
"Move back!", he heard Thorin shout, voice suddenly loud and panicked. "Alvar, Bofur, boys, move back, it's caving!"
Rocks were falling around them, the noise and dust unbearable, and Jóli did not even have time to panic, because abruptly he was dragged on, on, on and even deeper into the main tunnel, forced to run. The noise was increasing and hard bits of rock were falling around them and he was falling too, or perhaps he was pushed down, because there was definitely something covering him, shielding him, and he was… coughing and he was… squirming away from the falling – falling rocks but one… one abruptly hit his helmet and it… it just… went all... all so… so very, very… so very- s… so… very… d-… ark.
Neo-Khuzdûl translations and notes:
- Maikmin : Thank you.
- Mamarlûna : She who is loved, Thorin's nickname for Dís.
- I spent an insane amount of time researching the way mines were kept from crumbling on themselves, a physical mystery that utterly puzzled me. Please remember that nothing I wrote should be considered as completely truthful – I thought that, since I'm writing fiction in Middle Earth, it was all right to take some liberties. Rock bolts are, basically, and if I got it right, metallic structures that are pierced in the rock to hold the rock mass together. There are different types of bolts, and of course, you should coat them in the adequate material to avoid corrosion: grout is one word, caulking could be another even though I think it is not really used with metal anymore. In more modern techniques of ore mining, that I chose to set in the Iron Hills because I like to think the Dwarves there were centuries ahead of Men in their knowledge of mining and crafting metal, you can use welded wire mesh. That's basically a sort of net holding the rock mass together – isn't that fascinating? Anyway, if you want to learn more about it, don't read me, find someone more reliable .
- Urâd Zirnul and Zirinhanâd are two ways of calling the Iron Hills in different Khuzdûl dialects, and Ironfoot is Dáin's nickname after Azanulbizar – Thorin's cousin, who had to take over after the death of his father Náin, and who certainly does not have is at easy as our young, impetuous Jóli seems to think.
