Dwarrows of Ered Luin
Chapter Two: Maztân
Such a strange, steady buzzing, pulsing between his ears - everything was ringing, and everything was dark, even as Jóli tried to open his eyes, blinking slowly through his very thoughts.
And someone was shaking him.
"Up. Wake up."
Darkness had swallowed everything, and it made him cough.
"Wake up."
The voice was rough, somewhat strangled – words hissed through clenched teeth.
"'m here", Jóli slurred. "t happened?
"Cave-in. Again."
Hands moved up from his shoulders, felt for his face, the back of his head, patted him down the chest and back, quickly and efficiently.
"Can you move your arms? Your legs? Do you feel dizzy?"
Slowly, very slowly, the ringing in Jóli's head abided. He had moved arms and legs in a dazed state, but now he was able to realise it was pitch-black because they were still down there. In the mines. Alone. After a cave-in. Him - and Thorin who had dragged him along and pushed him away from the crumbling stones.
Panic invaded him, suddenly.
"The… others?"
He could not really see Thorin's face. Not through stone and dust, he could only make up vague features in the shadows, and his dread increased, before Thorin finally spoke.
"They made it. I think. They ran back. But the way is shut."
Thorin's words were clipped and somewhat breathy. Jóli sagged back against the stone wall and felt for his head, feeling almost weak with relief – and realised his helmet was useless now, bashed in and rented. No wonder his ears were ringing.
He freed his head and shook his locks loose, scrubbing the dust away from his eyes and face, and coughed. His thoughts were still sluggish, and his lungs full of dust - it felt good to clear them, but it made his head spin, and he soon felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing his head between his knees as Jóli heaved in breath after breath.
And Thorin's hand stayed there, even as his coughs turned to gags, because his head hurt and everything spun, and it was just so dark, and how had they ended up here, was Bofur alright, and Alvar, and…
He ended up losing a watery something that wasn't breakfast anymore – but after that he could breathe better, and his thoughts slowly began to clear.
"'m sorry. Didn't mean t'hurl."
To his credit, Thorin had barely moved – had even steadied him. But now he slowly let go of his shoulder, allowing Jóli to drag himself some steps away, and wordlessly handed him something, touching his knee with what Jóli realized was a flask.
"How come… you still… have your things?"
"Backpack. How is your head? Do you still feel sick?"
"No. 'm okay…"
Jóli took a few careful sips of water, and they stayed down, quenching both his thirst and his nausea. He rested his back and head against the stone wall, closing his eyes for a moment.
"What do you carry in there anyway?", he asked, turning towards Thorin who was still watching him carefully, one arm drawn around his chest, kneeling somewhat awkwardly, legs sprawled out under him.
"Things."
"Mhm."
Jóli rolled his eyes, and when it became clear Thorin wasn't adding anything, he turned towards his still, silent form, and nudged him gently.
"Care to be a bit more specific?"
Thorin tensed at being touched, and Jóli rolled his eyes again.
"Tools to sample rock. And soil. Something to take notes. And… and a spare candle."
His words seemed to register as Jóli's eyes widened.
"And you say so now?!"
"I –", Thorin had a small cough. "I forgot."
He was rummaging in his backpack now, still kneeling, left arm still firmly wrapped around his chest, and Jóli narrowed his eyes at him.
"Give me that candle. I have matches."
Thorin had taken off his gloves, and Jóli made sure to brush his fingers as he reached for the candle, finding them somewhat clammy. He shook his head, stroke a match on his sole and lighted the candle. And then he took a thorough look at the infuriating, stubborn Princeling he was stuck with.
Of course, Thorin's helmet had slipped and fallen off some time ago, and his locks were plastered in dirty, sweaty waves against his head and neck. He was pale, breathing shallowly, and Jóli realised there was a thin rivulet of blood running into his neck, where his helmet had failed to protect him from the rocks' sharp edges.
"Blazes and coals."
He crawled closer to Thorin, parting his braids, clicking his tongue impatiently when he tried to squirm away from his touch.
"Will you stop being so… Oh, that's quite a gash you have there. Does it hurt?"
"No."
There was defiance in Thorin's eyes, but his face still had to regain some colour.
"This needs to be cleaned. As in now."
Jóli paused, thinking for a moment.
"Alright, I'm sorry, but this will have to do."
He removed his tissue-cap, folded it the best he could, and spilled some water from Thorin's flask on it.
"Keep still."
He slowly cleaned Thorin's wound, a deep gash on the back of his head that was not bleeding much, half clotted by those thick, dark locks of his – and then he applied some pressure on it, still watching Thorin carefully.
"Your ribs are hurt."
Thorin just huffed, but Jóli persisted.
"I can hear it when you talk."
"It is nothing."
"Come on… "– he gently removed the cloth, pleased to see that the wound was not bleeding anymore.
"It is nothing!"
This time Thorin's hiss was fierce and ended with a cough that left him breathless. And Jóli distinctly heard him curse through gritted teeth – choice words he would never have dreamt to hear from a Princeling.
"Impressive", he smiled, and then he knelt before Thorin, pushed back his arm and felt for his chest as gently as he could, waiting for him to flinch.
"Your ribs are cracked. There."
"I am aware."
The last word was hitched, and Jóli felt his iron grip around his wrist, pushing his hand away.
"Can you breathe in deeply?"
This time Thorin just groaned. And Jóli felt another smile stretch his lips, because he sounded just like Bofur. He patted Thorin's knee wordlessly and did not earn a shove, surprisingly enough. Thorin just sat there, quietly, legs sprawled beneath him, his body spelling nothing but weariness.
"Thanks for shoving me away. You took most of the brunt, I'm afraid."
" Ya harmu."
There was a tiny hint of sarcasm in the polite Khuzdûl – and Jóli sighed.
"Are you always so formal?"
"You want me to be, don't you?"
That left Jóli speechless for a while.
"I do not think so much about you, you know…"
"And of me neither. None of you. You think I am here simply because I have no choice."
Hands patting him down. A rough voice asking him to wake up.
Jóli blinked, briefly, and then he sat himself next to Thorin.
"Well, I would not have chosen this place, to be honest. Not that cave-in, 'course. And not these Mountains."
"They are your home."
Sadness, longing, fierceness – all these in four small words.
"Yes. And I love them. But I know how old and empty they are. How uncared for. How hopeless. There is no gold here. No gems. And we must dig hard for iron and ore."
"I know."
"No. You don't. You just came here, with all your warriors and your kingly father. And I can't help wondering why, in Mahal's name. Why now. Why here."
"Because it is here that we can achieve something."
It was Jóli's turn to huff, shaking his head silently. The candle was flickering between them, and he realized they would have to move, soon, and keep the light rationed to last as long as they could.
"How about achieving to get out, first?"
He got on his feet, inspecting the rubble and boulders that were completely obstructing the gallery.
"You think we can move that? Dig a way?"
Thorin shook his head, still kneeling.
"The gallery collapsed at least on twenty steps. I tried calling, but the sound does not carry. And… I think the rocks are still unstable."
He had been right before, and Jóli realised he trusted him. And that he was absurdly glad not to be stuck alone here – there were worse allies than Princelings carrying strange tools and pushing people out of harm's way.
"We should walk on, then. It is quite a labyrinth, and some of the galleries must have been shut with backfill since the last time I mined there. But I think… I think some of the old shafts, deep down, should still be open."
Thorin nodded and Jóli crouched next to him, taking in the pained lines around his eyes and his stillness.
"Do you think you can move?", he asked, almost gently.
Thorin nodded, again, biting his lip and gathering his legs under him. He placed a hand on the ground and pushed himself up, stubbornly, face definitely losing all colour when he tried to put his weight on his left leg.
Jóli instantly rushed to his side, slid his arm around his shoulders, and helped him hobble towards a boulder, sitting him down, crouching in front of him. He placed a hand on his knee, determined to see to his ankle, but Thorin shook his head.
"Don't", he let out. "It's… just a sprain."
He swallowed, face still ashen, cold sweat breaking out on his brow, and Jóli squeezed his knee, trying to ground him, wincing in sympathy.
"Thorin, I don't think it's just a sprain."
It was the first time he had spoken his name aloud, and somehow, it seemed to steady Thorin, who closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe in deeply, determined to conquer the pain.
"Maybe not", he breathed out. "But… my boot is acting as a brace."
Defiance was back, in his posture, in the way his clenched teeth refused to let out any sound of pain, and Jóli patted his knee, smiling at his stubbornness.
"Alright. Let me find you something to lean on, then. There must be old picks lying here somewhere."
He soon found what he was looking for, and came back with an old, somewhat rusty mining pick. Thorin had wiped the sweat from his brow, smearing some dust and dirt on his forehead and nose, and it made him smile.
"Aren't you quite the shiny Princeling, now?"
"Aren't you quite the grateful, grovelling iron-digger?"
Jóli did not know what was funnier – the words that came out of Thorin's mouth or his shocked expression as he realised they had . He burst out laughing, leaning on the pick to keep upright, shaking with mirth.
"Oh Mahal… Bofur won't ever believe me…"
He wiped his eyes, handing Thorin the pick, still laughing quietly as he wrapped Thorin's arm around his shoulders.
"Right. Let's make a stand."
He felt Thorin's huff against him, and soon he was standing indeed, using the pick as a makeshift crutch, quietly brushing off Jóli's arm. It had to be painful, but Thorin never even blinked, taking a few tentative steps, then nodding.
"Let's move."
They started to walk down the gallery, the candle still flickering between them. They were not very fast, Thorin's limp slowing them down, but Jóli was confident they would reach the older galleries before nightfall.
"I think we should spare the candle", he voiced, and Thorin agreed wordlessly.
Darkness soon engulfed them, and they both took the time to let their eyes adjust – it was not complete obscurity, and they could still make out the stone walls around them, feeling their way around from the very sound of their steps.
"How far does the gallery stretch?"
Jóli had to think for a while.
"It is very old. I think it stretches almost to the other side of the mines. But it doesn't lead out. The other end was closed centuries ago, when the galleries ran out of ore. You'll see. It branches off in at least three different directions, and we will have to find out the tunnel with the old ore pass, to reach the shaft."
"You have been there before?"
"Mhm. Once. Long ago. Just to the ore pass. But 'adad told me all about it and showed me some old maps."
Thorin hummed, and they walked quietly for another hour, only exchanging a few words now and then – Jóli intent on leading them, and Thorin on trudging on.
"Okay, here, see? Full of backfill. We are entering the parts where no one is digging anymore. So careful. The bolts will be older, rustier. But I think the way we are searching for has some wooden beams. We'll be looking for the embranchment first, though. And then I guess we'll just have to… try them out."
"Mhm."
"Are you alright?"
"Mhm. Lead on."
Their footsteps echoed around them for a while, then Thorin spoke once more.
"Your family must be worried for you. I wish we could tell them we are alright."
Jóli turned towards him in surprise.
"They'll fret, no doubt", he answered, voice wavering a little. "But so will yours. Your sister – and your father…"
A few more steps, and Thorin's voice rose again.
"Dís... She didn't want me to go down there."
"Why?"
Thorin swallowed, leaning heavily on his pick.
"She knew there were cave-ins. And… I just came back to her."
It was said so very quietly.
"Now you are fretting", Jóli chided gently. "She let you go, didn't she? Meaning she trusts you to come back. That's what ' amad always says to me. Come, let's go on."
They walked in silence after that, until the air grew colder around them, along with a faint sound of trickling water.
"Let's refill your flask."
Jóli took it from Thorin's belt and held it under the small stream trickling along the rock. He looked up, searching for light – for an opening, but the rock, though damp, was as thick as ever.
Thorin waited for Jóli to finish, then he held his hand under the trickle, wiping his face with a deep sigh – and Jóli suddenly realised he had yet to see him drink.
"Are you rationing yourself?", he asked, incredulously. "There are plenty of springs down there – we can fill the canteen anytime."
Thorin just cupped his palm under the stream and raised it to his mouth, several times, until his thirst was quenched. His breathing was shallow again, and Jóli realised he was exhausted, so he found a boulder and made them both sit down.
"We must have had a nice maztûn with us", he mused, fingers brushing the cool stone – and then he realized Thorin had turned towards him, head tilted.
"A maztûn?"
"Yeah. A knocker, that's what we call them here. Some say they are evil, hammering at the walls and support to bury us with them. But that's rubbish. 'Adad and Alvar, and Bofur, and me – we know they are just jokers. Warning us. Why, you just heard one, right before the cave-in."
"I didn't hear a knock."
Thorin was frowning, Jóli could practically hear it.
"I just heard the rock giving way."
"Ah, you don't believe me… but there are maztân down here with us. The helpful spirits of the Dwarves who died in previous accidents. They are trapped down here, 'cause they never reached the Halls of Waiting – and so they play with us, protect us and warn us."
Thorin had stiffened next to him, and at first Jóli was amused, thinking he was frightened. But when he spoke, something else was brimming within his words – something sounding a lot like anger.
"Why would anyone think some Dwarves are unable to reach the Halls?"
Jóli turned towards him, utterly surprised.
"Oy, these are just sayings. No need to sharpen your axes."
"Why would they linger down there?!"
Thorin was so tense he was almost trembling, and Jóli realised he was upset – pain clearly catching up with him.
"Why would any of their spirits stay trapped under rubble…?"
He was whispering now, and it didn't sound like he was talking to Jóli – in fact it sounded a lot like despair voiced aloud. And Jóli realised, then.
That it was probably not the first gallery Thorin had found himself trapped in. That a Dwarf – well, a Dwarrow – who had fought for six long years in the Misty Mountains must have had his fair share of cave-ins, of rationings, of deaths and of horrors.
"They are just sayings, Thorin."
Jóli kept his voice calm, very even. And as before, using Thorin's name seemed to help, he could feel some of the tension within him ebbing as he went on:
"It gives us courage – or spurns us, depending on how we see them. But basically, it is just our way to remember them. We always leave the last bite of our food for them, before we leave – and you'd probably call it superstition. But it's an offering."
Thorin was silent, for a while, body uncoiling.
"I understand", he finally said, voice quiet. "I did not mean to belittle your dead."
"No harm done", Jóli answered. "You didn't."
He gave a big sigh, acknowledging just how empty his stomach felt once more.
"And anyway, to leave a bite, we would need food, which we clearly lack. I don't suppose you packed anything to eat?"
Thorin shook his head and Jóli sighed again.
"I didn't. But Dís did."
The smile in his voice was obvious this time, and Jóli turned towards him, palms gripping the edge of the boulder.
"And you say so only now because…?"
"Because you asked. Nicely. And because I think that cave-ins are actually caused by weakened soils, floods, and corrosion – ow!"
Jóli had elbowed him, hard – but not on his injured side, he wasn't that heartless. And he was too curious to see what that striking, wonderful sister of his had packed in for him – he just hoped it was plenty .
"She bakes this cake. Full of nuts and dried fruits, without any flour. You cut a tiny slice, and you can go on for some hours."
"Some hours", Jóli repeated, almost dreamily. "There has never been anything filling my stomach for some hours. I'm a bottomless pit."
Thorin had that small huff that wasn't quite a laugh, but almost. And then he handed him a slice of cake, palm extended, and watched Jóli eat.
"Tada galth…", Jóli sighed. "Are there… plums? Pears?"
"Whatever she finds", Thorin answered, cutting a small slice for himself. "She learned that from Dwalin's mother. Somehow it never tastes exactly the same – so you never really tire of it."
"And how much do we have left?"
This made Thorin huff again, pressing a hand against his ribs and leaning forward.
"Enough. But I will ration it. I do not trust your restraint."
"Eat your beard."
"Wash your mouth."
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes after that, their shoulders brushing, until Thorin finally stirred.
"I think we need to move on. Let's find that embranchment."
They soon trudged on, deeper and deeper into the mines, and another hour passed. The air was even colder, smelling of damp and dust – and suddenly the walls seemed to widen, and Jóli took out the candle and stroke a match.
"There. Now we just have to decide which one to try first."
The main gallery was lined with stone bricks here, and an abandoned cart had been left close to one wall. It had clearly been a key-place of gathering and of dispatching ore, long ago, but now it just looked abandoned and forlorn.
"Do you remember the way?"
"No. I was too young. But as I said, I think there were wooden beams somewhere. Let's start with the middle, shall we?"
They entered the central gallery, and Jóli saw with satisfaction that there were indeed wooden beams supporting the stone walls – they had to be on the right path. He kept the candle lighted, though, just in case, afraid of holes and crevices.
He lost track of how long they walked, but suddenly there was a new sound – something like a faint howl, and the cold intensified. The candle flickered and Jóli cupped his hand around the flame.
"Blazes and coals…"
The gallery ended in… a pit, deep, narrow edges plunging into a large chasm where lower mines had once been but had clearly crumbled. Old stairs led down but had given way to rubble – one could still see carts, chains, and even an old well. But the place was decaying, lit only by their candle and an unattainable opening, high above, where some ghastly light was filtering, making way for the howls of the wind.
The sound was fierce and biting, an eerie shriek that made Jóli wince and Thorin grow still next to him, hand automatically moving towards his belt.
"Must be the old copper mines", Jóli muttered, dejectedly. "There's no shaft there. We went the wrong way. 'm sorry."
The wind kept wailing around them, and Jóli felt himself shiver, because it sounded almost like a battle cry, a pained howl adding to the desolate impression – and it gave him the creeps.
"What a foul sound", he whispered, and then he realised Thorin had not spoken, body rigid and coiled protectively at his side, hand still clenched around the hilt of his knife.
His face was so pale it looked carved in marble, and it worried Jóli, because he was not moving at all – just breathing fast. Assessing. Ready to strike.
"Miners say sometimes the wind speaks Orcish, down here. 't certainly sounds like someone's yelling right down the way."
Carefully, very slowly, he moved closer to Thorin. Gently placed an arm around his waist, and pried his cold, sweaty fingers from his knife.
"Put your arm around my shoulders. Let's leave that horrid place and go back."
Thorin blinked, and Jóli nudged him, softly, dragging his arm around his shoulders, placing the pick in his free hand – leading him away from the howls, the cold, and whatever awful memories had woken within him.
It was an arduous, unpleasant road trekking back, because it was wasted effort and wasted time, but there was no helping it, and since Thorin wasn't complaining, neither was Jóli. His companion wasn't saying a word, putting every strength he had into his steps, but he was leaning heavily against Jóli once they finally reached the embranchment again, sitting down close to the abandoned cart.
Thorin had closed his eyes, and this time Jóli felt him tremble, body drenched in cold sweat, all but melting against the stone wall.
"Alright, I don't know what time it is, but I say we move no further today. Don't know about you, but I don't have the energy to trudge into another gallery."
He pressed the flask into Thorin's hand, forcing him to drink.
"Agreed", Thorin finally let out, stretching out his legs.
And Jóli did the same, until they were touching shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, trying to keep each other warm in the cold and darkness. They did not talk, both taking time to recover, but after a while, the pained hitch in Thorin's breathing lessened and he moved, handing his backpack to Jóli.
"Eat something", he mumbled, words almost slurred.
"What about you?", Jóli countered, already opening it, taking Thorin's knife from his belt, gently nudging his knee when he failed to answer.
"Later", Thorin let out, eyes closing and body slowly sliding against Jóli.
It was almost infuriating, how quickly he was allowing himself to fade, now that they were not moving anymore.
"Oh come on…", Jóli whined. "I'm not a cushion, and I'm not ready to sleep yet."
"Don't waste the candle."
And with those last, exhausted words, Thorin's head softly sank against Jóli's shoulder, breath evening out, heat spreading where their limbs touched.
"Silly, overbearing Princeling", Jóli said, tentatively, to break the silence and feel less lonely, cutting a slice of cake and munching it. "I'm not tired, do you hear me? I'm going to sing. Make your ears bleed."
But Thorin did not answer, just breathing quietly against him. And so Jóli began, somewhat defiantly:
.
"Oh, who will pull the miners' cart?
Beneath the stone it runs so slow
Who shall refill it, act my part,
Oh, Mahal, when I go?
.
Who'll use the pick that now I hold
And first did wield long time ago?
Oh, who will mine the ore, so cold,
Oh, Mahal, when I go?
.
Oh, who shall strive without an end
Who's back will strain and ache and bow?
And who will work and strive and bend,
Oh, Mahal, when I go?
.
For many years I've loved the mine,
For many years I've worked below
Now who will take this place of mine,
Oh, Mahal, when I go?"
.
His voice was echoing softly in the mine, and Jóli realised that, far from waking Thorin, he had basically just succeeded in making himself sad, which was beyond silly. And then he became aware that Thorin's body had sunken even more against his.
So he leant his head against Thorin's, because it was only the two of them and rock and stone. And, just like that, weariness settled in and Jóli closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes and woke only briefly when Thorin stretched out on the ground to nestle against him. Then sleep claimed him again.
He woke to muffled sounds, hours later, and blinked to find only darkness once more, troubled by broken moans and words. Jóli rubbed his eyes, and realised it was Thorin, stretched next to him, hand firmly fisted in his tunic.
He touched his forearm, gingerly, afraid to find fever's heat and finding the cold sweat of nightmares instead.
"Thorin… Thorin, wake up."
He gently tried to pry his hand away from his tunic, but this time Thorin woke with a jolt, flailing and grabbing Jóli by the shoulders, slamming him against the rock.
"Don't take him", Thorin snarled, breathing loud and fast. "Don't you dare take him…"
"Oy – what do you think you are doing?!"
Thorin froze at his outburst, fingers slackening – and then he let out a small sound that just lasted a second. It was not loud, not even articulate – leaving his chest like a crushed bellows. He sank back against the wall, dragging his body away, clearly struggling to breathe – recoiling when Jóli tried to approach him.
"Don't…", he whispered, and Jóli stilled.
Waiting for words that never came. For air to reach Thorin's lungs again. For silence to expand once more between them.
And then Jóli simply stretched himself on the ground.
"I'm going back to sleep. So should you."
He closed his eyes, and after a few moments he felt Thorin lie down – away from him, as far as it was possible. Still and silent once more.
Jóli lay awake for a long time, eyes wide open – but he did not move and kept his breathing even, just like the times when Bofur and him went to watch birds.
He could make out from Thorin's breathing that he was not sleeping either, but that he thought Jóli was, at last. He heard the soft noise of palms against skin, more than once, and knew then that Thorin was wiping away tears. But he did not say a word and pretended to sleep.
He had pried enough into Thorin's secrets for a while.
Notes and Neo-Khuzdûl translations:
- Ya harmu : short for Ya harmu 'addad meaning very formally: "You are welcome", literally "with the favour of the fathers", even though the last part is often omitted [eternal thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar, whom I quote almost word for word].
- Backfill : another mining word I encountered during my research, which consists of cement and sand or rock mixture, to refill mined galleries in order to provide support for the adjacent ones once it is done [I suppose it is done when mining is done on a much bigger scale, and that there are still many liberties taken in my way of telling it, but I liked this idea for the story, as it can show just how advanced the Dwarves are in their craft].
- The lore about maztân is also detailed by the wonderful Dwarrow Scholar.
- Tada galth : This is delicious [enjoy, Jóli, you deserve it. By the way, this cake truly exists in Alsace and is called 'Berewecke' . And it is truly delicious, and very nutritive.]
- The song Jóli sings exists and is called The Old Miner. I shortened it and altered some lyrics, but it exists in a few versions, my favourite being Jon Wilks', and I decided to borrow it .
