Dwarrows of Ered Luin

Chapter Three: Footholds


Jóli woke to a predictable absence of light, feeling stiff, cold and hungry – but also rested, and very determined to leave those rocks for good. Next to him, Thorin was upright and sitting already, quietly redoing his braids, and for a while Jóli lay still, watching his small, purposeful moves as he refastened his hair clasps.

Wondering just how much lay coiled, deep within him.

In the end, Jóli stretched, slowly, and let out a long yawn, so as not to startle Thorin before he spoke, running a hand through his locks as he recovered.

"Have you slept?"

"Yes."

Thorin reached for his bag, grabbed his flask and handed both to Jóli.

"I'm not eating if you don't", Jóli warned him. "An empty stomach leads to nothing good, and I'm not catching you if you faint from starvation."

Thorin huffed, body relaxing as they both slipped once more in that unexpected, easy-going truce between them.

"Starvation is something entirely different."

"Aye, and I don't need any proficiency in it, thank you very much."

"Some ornate words you know."

His sarcasm was back, but Jóli knew him now, and the smile behind his words. He cut them both slices from the rapidly dwindling cake – only a small third left – and after a hearty bite he countered:

"Not all miners are uncouth and thoughtless, see?"

"I never saw any of you that way."

Thorin's words were said earnestly. Almost like an oath, voiced deep within those crumbling mines, cradling them in their darkness.

"Your kin have always bestowed fare more than they received."

Jóli was left utterly speechless at that – even unable to keep munching. He stared at Thorin, who seemed to have withdrawn into himself once more, eating quietly, fingers breaking the cake into small bites before lifting them to his lips.

"My father told me King Thrór did not even see fit to remember his name, when the Dwarven Council was summoned after Erebor's fall."

Thorin's shoulders fell, and he didn't answer, just exhaled quietly.

"He also told me", Jóli continued, "That Thrór's grandson, a tiny, skinny lad of barely twenty-five, who was present despite his legs barely reaching the ground as he sat, stood up, and greeted him earnestly by his title, Jónar Jararul, as well as ĺthi ĺmundurul from the Firebeards, thus undoing his grandfather's slight. But it always sounded like a tale to me."

Thorin raised one knee, resting his hands on it – but he kept silent.

"I loved it, when I was little, of course. But as I grew, I thought he must have spun it, a bit. To soften it - and make us believe we counted as well. A true King takes care of all his Mountains, my father told me. Then and afterwards."

Jóli's words fell somewhat whipping, and he bit his lips – but he was also glad to have spoken them. Thorin's fingers were clasping his left forearm, but he did not seem to be angry, leaning quietly against the stone wall.

"Your father is a wise Dwarf – and you carry his name proudly."

"Don't turn all formal on me", Jóli said, somewhat hotly – and Thorin turned towards him, lifting his chin.

"I don't know how to say it otherwise", he stated, simply. "There is nothing I can say, to undo the past. I won't erase my grandfather's words, nor my father's war – I bear their names, I share their deeds. Words won't give you anything – but efforts will."

"And what kind of efforts do you have in mind?"

Jóli's tone was somewhat challenging, but he was genuinely interested. And Thorin seemed to sense it, rubbing his forearm, as seemed to be his habit when he was somewhat unsure, gathering his thoughts.

"These Mountains face several problems – most of them not Dwarven", Thorin stated quietly. "There is very little trade, and from what I gathered, most of the goods that are produced here are not exported, because they are needed to survive."

He raised his other leg, slowly, testing his foot and wincing – from the pain of from his words, it was hard to tell.

"However – there is some wealth here. An abundance of timber - provided Men do not raid them. A rich soil - provided the River Lune does not flood it. And a fair amount of decent iron – if future cave-ins can be prevented."

"And what do you propose?"

Jóli was thoroughly surprised. He would never have thought Thorin to go so far in his reflections – in fact, he realised he had only expected him to command and wait for them to deliver, which did not cast a very shiny light upon him.

"It will take time", Thorin said, and he sounded weary now, probably because the task he was describing was tremendous.

"First of all, these walls need to be reinforced. The parts where ore is available most safely should go first. This means cutting timber and fortifying some parts of the mines while condemning others, until the soil is strengthened. On the long run, it means planting timber wherever it has been cut, so that the roots retain the earth should we dig below. And on an even longer scale of time, we should steer the River Lune clear from the mining paths. Build a dam. Which cannot be done if we do not conclude a treaty with Men – where it is stated clearly where our boundaries start."

Jóli pondered his words for a while, storing the rest of their meagre supplies neatly in Thorin's backpack.

"Some ambitious dreams you have… This will take ages . A lot of convincing, as well. And – strength. Because these Men… If we do not trade with them, it's not because we waited for you to think of it. It's because they have no word and are better left out of our trades. We are no warriors - we cannot fight them to defend our interests."

"Why would you need to fight them?"

"Because they keep raiding us. They cannot be trusted."

"Then we have to make them fear us."

Thorin's voice was grim, hands clasping his knees and Jóli faced him, aghast.

"Fear us? How so? And who's us, anyway…?"

"Us", Thorin answered quietly. "Firebeards. Broadbeams. Longbeards. The Dwarrows of Ered Luin."

That made Jóli rise, facing Thorin who remained sitting on the ground.

"The Dwarrows of… You're mad. You think… you think you can come and snap your fingers and make us all look like one people – but you can't. We have never been one people. There have always been tribes striving, and tribes looking down on others. And you cannot change it."

"Not alone."

Jóli clenched his fists, facing Thorin in the darkness, anger rising like a tidal wave despite himself.

"No. You won't make us. You won't make us follow your obscure schemes of power and war, not again. You have done enough damage to us all."

"I served my King. As we all did", Thorin said, fiercely, getting up with some effort, leaning against the wall. "The Council voted to go to war, before Azanulbizar. The Council agreed to muster, to march, and to wedge war. And wedge war I did. We all did. We all fought. And those who returned to Ered Luin are heroes – and those who did not come back are… They are…"

"Dead", Jóli deadpanned, cruelly. "They are dead. And all in vain."

Thorin's breath hitched – and then he pushed past Jóli, shoving him aside, stumbling along the stone wall, without pick and without light. Fleeing away from him and his words, oblivious to both pain and direction, flinging himself straight into the left tunnel, not caring if Jóli followed.

Jóli watched him withdraw, and for a few seconds it felt right, and he revelled in it – because so many had not returned, and so many had come back damaged, and Bifur's head was ruined… But then he remembered the earnest look of his father, telling them of the many, many losses of the Longbeards – embracing him and his sister fiercely, telling them some had been terribly young…

"King Thráin himself was not spared", he had told them – yet they had felt remote, those war-tales of a young, slain Dwarven-Prince, just as Thorin had only ever existed as a legend, a figure in Jóli's head.

Some haughty, unreachable war-hero, only caring about battle-deeds and power. Never a Dwarrow barely older than himself, who was also a mourning brother and a son, whose sleep was choked with the nightmares of his losses, and who was currently hurting so much he did not even care how and where he was stumbling.

It made Jóli feel awful.

He swiftly gathered Thorin's pick and backpack and ran after him.

He caught up with him easily enough and attempted to stop Thorin's frantic efforts to get away from him. He tried barring his way, but Thorin was past any restraint now, and was fighting him, elbows finding his ribs, shoulder shoving his arms away, but worst were the sounds leaving his chest.

Because Thorin's breathing was ragged, anger and hurt giving way to sheer, unadulterated pain – and Jóli had caused this, Jóli had unleashed that storm, with words unworthy of any Dwarf.

He did not care for Thorin's blows, for the way he fought him fiercely – Jóli ended up having to pin him against the stone wall to hold him upright, thighs and shoulders locked Broadbeam-fashion, waiting for the worst of the storm to pass.

"I did not mean it", he whispered, into each of Thorin's desperate, violent gasps. "I did not mean it. I did not mean any of it."

How long they stood like this, Jóli never knew. Long enough for Thorin's pain to bleed into him, and make his own chest hurt. Long enough to feel Thorin's frantic heartbeats calm down, gradually, and his heaving breaths turn into small, spaced-out, pain-filled exhales. Long enough for Thorin's cold, cold hands to reach Jóli's forearms, quietly pushing him away from him.

"I did not mean it", Jóli repeated, still hovering close, now that Thorin seemed able to take his words in – but this time Thorin cut him, and his voice was hoarse, sounding awfully young.

"I cannot talk about this."

"Thorin…"

"You have no decency. No respect. No memory. You were not there. You hurl words around you like mattocks."

He took a shuddering breath, gathering some strength, forcing anger and pride back into his being to stay upright – and it was making Jóli's heart clench.

"You say we cannot be one people. But we were one in grief, and if you would but open your eyes, you would see . What does your father tell you? What does your friend's cousin tell you? They would tell you we are one Soul, one heart, when it comes to remember, to revere, and to hold our ground."

Strange, how much dignity could be carried in such broken words.

"You think we look down on you. How do you think we felt, when we burnt your dead, knowing they came at our bidding? We paid warfare. We honoured them. And if we have come here, it is also to honour their deeds. If we must defend you, we will. If we must shield you, we will. If we must work hard and challenge rock and stone, water and trees, we will. We do not spit on you – unlike you."

It felt like a slap – and it silenced Jóli for a good while. The only sound was Thorin's uneven breathing, and it was worse than sobs. It made Jóli's face burn, fiercely – made him want to hide, and take back every word.

"I apologize."

He breathed out the words, taking a tentative step towards Thorin.

"I had no right to say such things, about our dead ones and yours. Please forgive me."

He took another step and stretched out his hand.

"It was not decent. It was spiteful, and hateful of me. But I remember those who are no more. And I believe they are in the Halls of Waiting, watching us argue, thinking we are fools."

He kept his hand outstretched, palm facing up – an offering he was not sure Thorin would ever take, but he had to try.

And eventually, he felt the cold, somewhat shaky touch of his fingers, and clasped them firmly.

"I am glad you were here to save my life", Jóli said, quietly. "I suppose it makes me a selfish Dwarf – but I cannot help it."

A small huff. Fingers slipping from his, as fight was receding at last between them.

He handed Thorin his pick and shouldered his backpack.

"Shall we move on? That way seems about as right as any."

Thorin made a small sound of agreement, and they soon started walking down the tunnel, hands feeling for the wooden beams above them, feet carefully testing their way forward.

They were not talking – there had been many words between them, and both were still reeling, but their silence was not unfriendly. It felt like something precious, calming them, and linking them somehow.

"Mahal be praised to the moon and back – do you see what I think I see?"

They had walked for about two hours, trudging quietly in the cold and darkness, but now the gallery was narrowing before them – and a small ray was bestowing some light at last, drawing the shape of a huge opening before them.

"The ore-pass?", Thorin breathed out, hand finding the stone wall beneath him and clinging to it, watching Jóli crouch close to the opening.

And Jóli nodded, because this was it – this was the ore-pass, plunging deep in the shadows, where miners from a past long gone had thrown ore and copper into the deeper, long forgotten levels to be collected more easily.

However, down was not their way out – they would not plunge even deeper in the mines. They would have to follow the light, that tremulous ray shining up from above, because there was another vertical shaft, small and narrow, straight over the ore-pass, heading for the surface – it had been used as a shortcut for maintenance reasons, and still harboured a ladder. Or so Jóli hoped.

He knelt, and swiftly lit their small candle, inspecting the tight, somewhat uninviting passage leading high up, towards a promise of sun. And sure enough, he could distinguish what looked like footholds, but rust and time had wrought their way there ruthlessly, and some of the holds were missing.

It would not be an easy way up. Nor a safe one, hanging precariously above the abyss, especially considering Thorin's injuries. Jóli heaved a sigh, and Thorin joined him at the opening, treading very carefully, quietly inspecting the shaft.

He was smart enough to guess the main issues, and his shoulders fell slightly, but his voice was calm when he spoke.

"I suppose the opening below us is the surest way to the Halls of Waiting?"

That made Jóli chuckle, despite their dire situation and despite his dread.

"Yeah", he squeaked out, feeling his palms begin to sweat. "And this rusty ladder might be another shortcut, if any of these footholds gives way under our weight."

Because it was brighter around the shaft, he could see Thorin's face, at last. His companion looked like Jóli felt – weary and sweaty, features pinched with exhaustion. But Thorin's eyes remained alert, and his face softened as he read Jóli's fear.

"We will need some insurance, then."

"I… I don't think it's such a good idea."

"There is no other way."

"Still, I don't… I don't think we should do it. I think we should… consider something else. There must be… another way."

Jóli was muttering, now, heart racing at the thought of having to climb that awful, rusty ladder in a shaft that was only waiting to spit them back into the Mountains' depths. And he was so lost in his own panic that it took him a moment to realise there were hands on his forearms. Grasping him quite gently. Steering him away from the chasm, making him sit on a flat, solid rock he could hold and feel.

"You are a brave, strong Dwarf, Jóli son of Jónar", a soft, deep voice was saying, leading him away from panic, and Jóli clung to it, words choking into his throat.

"You promised to guide us out of here, and you have kept your word. We are almost out, and all you will have to do is to take a few steps more."

"I… don't… want… to."

Thorin's hands – because it was Thorin, weird as it might be – gently pressed into his forearms. There was no mockery, no contempt in his gaze, and suddenly Jóli realised why people like Bifur could be drawn to him. Because everything in Thorin's being was spelling I have got you, and because Jóli wanted nothing more than to believe him.

"Of course you don't. You are not mad. You are not stupid."

"How can you stay so calm?"

Thorin let out a huff, and Jóli realised he was harbouring a half-smile, kneeling before him, still holding him lightly.

"I have not been the calmest Dwarf down here, have I?"

Jóli half-smiled back, and shrugged, heart still beating erratically in his chest.

"I think I have a plan", Thorin said. "There is a thin piece of rope, in my backpack, and I think you have your own bit as well. So… we are going to thrust this pick as far as we can get it in the rock beneath the opening. And we are going to fasten the rope around it, and around our belts. This way, should one of us slip, the other can catch hold of him. And the pick would be there for safety."

"But… how are you going to walk afterwards?", Jóli asked, after having mulled his words over for a little while.

This time, Thorin fully smiled at him.

"Well, if you can picture an afterwards, then all should go well."

He did not let Jóli think much about it, well-knowing it would paralyze him. They did exactly as Thorin said, embedding the pick into the rock until they were sure it could not budge, tightening the rope around it and around themselves.

"I will be straight behind you", Thorin told him. "You just take hold of the ladder, slowly. If you skip, I will catch you. Just look onward."

They were standing at the edge of the shaft once more, and Jóli swallowed, painfully. And then, because there was no other way, he carefully tested one of the footholds with his hand. Then the other. And five footholds later, he was climbing.

It smelled of rust, and of damp air, and his heart was beating so loudly in his chest Jóli could barely breathe. He was pressing his body to the rock, hands knotted around the footholds – and Thorin was following closely, very calmly.

"There… There are some footholds missing", Jóli squeaked out, about halfway through. "I… I don't know what to do."

"How many?", Thorin asked, voice steady. "It is all right to take your time."

"Three", Jóli gritted out, eventually, feeling tears prick at his eyes. "I can't… I can't go on without letting go of both the holds I have. I… I can't let go."

"You can, because I am going to hold one of your ankles. You just have to tell me which. I will be your hold."

Jóli released a long, shuddering breath.

"Okay", he whispered. "Okay. The… left one. Please."

He soon felt Thorin's hard, strong grip around his ankle and swallowed again.

"You are still… still holding a foothold as well?"

"I am positively riveted to that ladder, I promise."

Jóli huffed and felt something wet run down his cheek – sweat or tear, he did not know, he was past sorting out whatever was going on deep within him.

"Okay. Stay… riveted, please."

Gingerly, he let go of one of the footholds and placed his right foot onto the small bit of iron that was still sticking out where the next one should have been. He grabbed another bit of iron with his left hand, and then, stretching with all he had got, Jóli found something that felt like a whole foothold with his right hand.

He pulled, gingerly, and it seemed to hold. So, he heaved himself up a bit more - and soon found the next foothold with the left hand, clinging to it with all his might.

"I… I found a way", he whispered. "You can… let go."

"I saw how you did it", Thorin told him, quietly. "Whenever you feel ready to move, I will do just the same. Well done, Jóli."

"There is still… a long way to go."

The surface felt like the sky, close yet unreachable. But bit by bit, they managed. The were just about ten yards away when one of the footholds crumbled under one of Jóli's feet, causing him to cling to his holds, one of Thorin's hands immediately grasping his calf.

Jóli was so terrified he did not even scream. He just let out a small, pitiful little sound, forehead finding the rock as his fingers tightened around the iron bars. And then he closed his eyes and froze, unable to go on, unable even to speak.

"Jóli… Jóli, we were expecting this. I have got you. See, the light is just above you. Just a handful of holds to go."

Jóli just shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.

"Jóli, I have rust in my mouth, and I hate it."

A sound left Jóli's chest at last, air reaching his lungs once more. He opened his eyes, finding them stinging with sweat, and blinked – he had to move on.

"I think one of those accursed foothold-bits is tangled in my hair."

This time, Jóli laughed. Something high-pitched, almost maniac, but it spurned him on, and he did not stop anymore, grabbing one foothold after the other, suddenly fed up, determined to not spend any minute longer in that narrow, rusty nightmare.

He never was able to recall how he went out, but suddenly his hands found earth and he was clawing himself out of the shaft, not caring for the grazing sensation on his forearms and cheek. He just brushed it aside, knelt on the ground and pulled Thorin out , unable to wait for his last moves, dragging him away from the shaft's hole.

"Jóli… Jóli, let go, we have to get rid of the rope."

Thorin's voice was tight, and Jóli nodded, taking his knife from his belt, freeing them both and tossing the last of the rope into the dark, horrid place he had never, ever , any intention to see again.

And then he looked at Thorin, because he could – because the sunlight was clear and beautiful as only dawn could be. He could see they had reached the western side of the Mountains, for the sun was shining straight at them. Everything around them was deep green and tender yellow, because gorse was blooming all around them, honey-scented and golden.

"You are bleeding", Thorin voiced, and he was pale himself – features ashen under the rust and dirt dusting them.

Jóli looked at his forearms, covered in tiny scratches, and rubbed his cheek, fingers coming away bloody.

"I think you climbed straight through that gorse-bush", Thorin added, with that special half-smile of his – but he was silenced effectively when Jóli pulled him against him, embracing him with all he had.

"I would never – ever – have made it out without you."

Jóli's voice was thick, and there were tears in his eyes. Thorin had stiffened, turning to stone in his arms, but he did not squirm and remained very still. And after a while, hesitantly, Jóli felt his palms against his back.

"You had it all in you. And I would not have made it out without you either", Thorin voiced, quietly, and Jóli released him, smiling at him, rubbing both his eyes and his cheek in a swift, quick move.

They both leaned against the mountainside, after that, too exhausted to move, basking in the sun, watching dawn make way to a new day. Jóli felt as if his legs had turned to water, and when he glanced at Thorin, he saw how drained he was as well, looking just as pale, cold and tired as he felt.

He had closed his eyes, leaning against the rock face, but a small, relieved little smile was playing on his lips, and that is when Jóli realised just how scared he must have been all along.

"We had a nice maztûn", Thorin voiced, surprising him, opening his eyes to smile at Jóli. "I made sure to leave him a bite. But I kept some for us. I hope he won't be offended."

"He won't", Jóli assured him. "He had his fun breaking that foothold, covering you in rust and having me almost losing control of my bladder."

Thorin's hand flung to his ribs – and suddenly he was laughing. It was not loud, not obtrusive, but it was warm and sincere and softened his very being, colour reaching his cheeks at last.

"I am glad you didn't", he answered, once he had himself in check again. "I'm afraid I would have truly lost my footing."

Jóli shuddered, but he was grinning now that danger was past.

"Do you know where we are?", Thorin asked. "I can see a way down, but I think the settlement is… on the other side."

"I am afraid we crossed the mines east to west", Jóli confessed. "We will have to walk all the way round. Let's hope we'll meet someone on the way."

"I hope they did not try to dig us out", Thorin voiced, suddenly thoughtful and worried.

"Nah, they would have seen it was a lost cause, believe me. And my father is aware that I know the paths down there. He'd have figured out we'd try to find another way."

Thorin nodded, and then he dragged himself up, leaning against the rock face for support. It was obvious he was still unable to put weight on his left foot, but he insisted on Jóli finding him a robust branch he could use as a makeshift cane, and they were soon trudging on through trees and gorse-bushes, ruffled and weary, but free from the mines at last.