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Chapter Text

The light is white and dazzling, and the frozen water glitters, as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. The sun is fading but I can see the battlefield, scattered with the dark silhouettes of bodies – friends or foes, my sight is too dim to see.

My gaze falls upon the tall walls of Erebor, black and mighty against the dying light, and I try to breathe once more, because the pain and longing becomes unbearable. The sound escaping my lips is ragged and deep, it is barely audible and still, it cuts through my whole being as if I had screamed.

I am looking at the field, at all the blood that has been shed, and I can only try to breathe a little longer, because there are no more words, nor thoughts. There is only grief, and cold, and a searing pain in my chest that has nothing to do with the blood that is soaking my right side and is threatening to choke me.

The rays of the sun grow darker and I know what is happening. I feel ready, and yet somehow I cannot yield to this unbearable pain, not yet. Kings do not kneel, and I still am King, though I know my moments are numbered. So I stand, as long as my legs will carry me.

And when I sink, eventually, the fall is not slow, nor gracious, nor soundless. It is heavy, painful and loud, like a rock thrust from the Mountain itself. And so it should be, because we have always clung to rock and stone.

As I lay at last on icy ground, I feel the snow against my back and my hair. I am shivering now, without the strength to move; it is strange that I should feel so weak, and yet so peaceful. The blood is leaving my body with every heartbeat, clotting in my lungs, forcing me to cough, but even that need is receding as my gaze meets the sky.

It is golden now, more beautiful than the subtlest alloy, and I wonder that I could forget for so many years that we are but poor silversmiths, compared to the beauties of Nature. I used to know it before, I used to stand upon the height of the Mountain with my hands full of precious stones, and I would always smile, because the infinite sky just above me could still display more shades, lights and mysteries than the gems I was holding...

It was long ago and still I remember. And as life is leaving my body, with every second that remains I can see once more every moment of my life, carved into my very soul, spirit and memory.

I have been blessed and cursed my entire life, and it will be the blessing and the curse of my death to remember everything one last time.

The water is frozen under me. The waterfall is still. The sky is golden. And I remember.

Chapter Text

It began in halls of stone, between high walls, cold and mighty as the Mountain itself.

Halls, staircases, passages and yards, all made of rock and stone, and I was looking at the depth down under me with my back against the wall, behind the highest balustrade, watching the shades and shapes woven on the dark and polished walls by the light of the flames down below.

They say water is Nature’s way of carving stone. Since that day I have always thought that firelight is its way to adorn it, with its infinite patterns of light and shadow.

“It is beautiful, laddie, isn’t it?”

The kind voice next to me startled me; I had forgotten the passage on my left, where guards were supposed to have a look now and then. I was very young, a small Dwarfling still, and my hair was yet too short to braid it, floating freely around my face.

“Black as a raven...”, my mother would fondly say, running her fingers through my locks.

And as I would frown in annoyance, she would bend softly towards me, take my face between her fingers and touch my forehead with hers.

“Do not worry, Thorin. It will grow...”, she would whisper, and I would lean into her embrace and bury my face in her shoulder, feeling warm and protected.

But not anymore. She was always busy now, with that stupid, useless, screaming little creature they said was my brother. I had told them it was not, angry, hurt and desperate to get their attention back.

“It’s an Orc!”, I had spitted out, and my mother had looked up in dismay as my father had slapped me, leaving a hot and burning mark on my cheek.

I had run from our halls, struggling against choking tears, not caring that I would get lost, and when finally my legs could carry me no more, because I had climbed higher than the highest staircase, I had slumped against this wall and wept bitterly. Tired and spent, I had then been sitting silent and motionless, gazing at the lights dancing upon the stone.

Until a voice raised me.

I struggled to get back on my feet, making sure my face was clear of tears, but the Dwarf guard that had just stepped out on the balcony laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“No need to stir, lad. It’s a nice place to rest. I suppose you don’t mind me sharing it with you for a little while?”

I looked at his face, taking him in. He was younger than my father, with a large nose and long brown hair, and a very full and bushy chestnut beard. His eyes were bright, with little wrinkles on their corners, just as if he was smiling, and yet he was not.

“I don’t mind”, said I with a cracked voice, shifting a little to give him some space.

He sat himself on the floor next to me, stretching his legs with a comfortable groan, and for a while we both stayed silent.

I was in awe of him; I had never talked to any guard before, because my father used to settle things with them, leaving me to play alone or with my mother. But not anymore.

“You are Thráin’s little son, aren’t you?”, the Dwarf finally asked in a gentle voice.

“I am Thorin”, I answered, trying to steady myself. “And I am not his little son, not anymore.”

If the challenge in my voice amused him, he did not show it. He seemed to ponder my words for a while.

“How so, Thorin? You cannot simply stop to be somebody’s son, don’t you think?

- Yes you can!”, I said fiercely. “Because he just got himself another one, and he likes him more.

- I do not think so...”, the Dwarf replied softly, and these words freed my tears again despite of myself.

“Yes he does!”, I managed to thrust back to him, between hot and angry sobs. “Everybody does! They think he is cute and adorable and sweet, but he only wails and cries and keeps everybody awake, and no one cares about me anymore! It is always ‘Thorin be quiet, your brother is sleeping’, ‘Thorin not now, your brother has to eat’, ‘Thorin be a good lad and try to amuse yourself, you are old enough now’...”

I was sobbing so hard now that my body was shaking.

“I don’t want to be old enough! I don’t like him, I don’t want him with us and... and... if they like him better than me, then I... then I won’t come back!

- Now, now...”, the Dwarf said soothingly.

He put his large hand on my shoulder and pulled me close to him, rubbing my back roughly as I was crying myself out again. And I did not mind and just stayed like this, with my cheek on his hard mesh coat, soaking it with my tears.

“And where would you go, laddie, eh..?”

I wiped my nose, pulling slightly back from his embrace.

“To Dale.

- Oh, to Dale... I see...”

He was still rubbing my back, and after this second outburst, exhaustion was slowly invading me.

“I will tell you what would happen if you leave these halls to go to Dale, Thorin-beloved-first-son-of-Thráin. Your parents would both weep, and search Mountain and Valley for you, not resting until they would find you.

- No they would not.”, I said stubbornly.

The Dwarf chuckled.

“You are proud, lad, you are indeed. And yet I can tell you they would, because you are as dear to them as their own life. Because they love you, and always will, no matter how far you go and how long you hide.

- Not anymore...”

He shook his head at my words.

“Your brother is very small, Thorin, and helpless. He cannot walk, nor get his food without help, because he is still a babe, as you were once. And he needs to be cared for just as you did.

- No I didn’t!”

I broke free from his embrace and he smiled at the indignation glowing in my eyes.

“‘Course you did. Endless days and nights, and a pretty number of songs it took to lull you to sleep, I can tell you... I saw your father carry you in his arms and sing for you for hours and hours until you would at last choose to close your eyes...

- You did?”

I was too astonished to try to deny it. The Dwarf nodded with a smile.

“It is your brother’s turn to be small, and to require attention. And soon you will see him grow and cling to you and amuse you and you will be so glad to have him there that you will not believe that you could have lived so long without him. It happened to me, you know...

- Really?”

He nodded again.

“Yes. He is away for now, and barely older than you, I left him with my parents in the Iron Hills. I have long lived without him, and yet I could not imagine life without him now.”

Somehow, deep inside myself, I could feel that he was right. I leant against him once more, my hot cheek against the iron of his coat.

“They won’t want me anymore. I said he was an Orc.” 

The Dwarf’s body shook against mine in silent laughter.

“Did you, laddie? You are precious, precious indeed...”

His hand ruffled my hair.

“Do not worry. I am sure they will want you back.

- Can I stay with you if they won’t?”

I had asked shyly, and this time the Dwarf stayed silent for a second, a little stunned. Then he stood up, lifting me in his arms and placing me on his hip.

“Sure, laddie. And when they will take you back – because they will – and if you get bored or lonely, you can always come down to the Guard’s hall and ask for Balin.

- Balin...”, I repeated softly, settling closer against him, tired to the bone and rocked by his even pace as he was beginning to climb down the stairs.

“Balin son of Fundin, yes.”

I closed my eyes, soothed by his calm voice and by the fact that he was carrying me back to my parents, saving me from facing them alone. I fell asleep, however, long before we left the last staircase behind us, because I was still a small Dwarfling counting only six winters.

“I found him, Thráin. In the upper halls...”

His voice woke me, as did the movement that made me shift from his arms into another strong and warm embrace. I knew this scent and these hands, and I could only sink deeper into them, wanting their grip around me to last forever.

“A precious lad, with an iron will and a brave little heart...”

I opened my eyes just a tiny bit – I did not want my father to put me down on the floor and be angry again, it was better to pretend to be still asleep. And half-asleep I was, but still I saw Balin’s swift wink, and knew since that day that he would always be my friend.

And I would too, I promised myself, before giving in to sleep, with dreams of stone and shadows, and soft whispers among the flames.

Chapter Text

I can still feel it, the gentle warmth of the stone against my chest, radiating through the soft blue fabric of my tunic, and the fresh smell of earth and herbs growing on the top of the Mountain.

I was lying there, my chin resting on my folded arms, lost in day-dreams about Dale and its mysteries, that continued to fascinate me despite Balin’s efforts to answer all my questions about those Men that were living there and that I still had not met.

Some years had passed and my hair was longer now. A while ago, my father’s eyes had shone with pride and love when he had finished to weave my first braid and fastened it with a carved silver bead. But I was still very young, and years would pass until my beard would start to grow – at that time my face was still bare and easy to read.

Or so my grandfather said. He was the strongest being I knew, excepting my father, and he loved to fight against me, especially with ax and sword. And I loved to fight him, despite the pain he would always inflict me, because I was slender, young and inexperienced. I had never beaten him to this day, and as a matter of fact my right wrist ached from a nasty twist of his iron grip, as once again I had tried to take him by surprise and failed.

“Not very subtle, grandson...”, he had softly said, just twisting my arm, making me drop my weapon with the pain. 

But I had not made a sound and his eyes had shone with repressed pride.

“Yet it was brave of you to try.”

He had released me from his grip and had patted my shoulder.

“Enough for today.”

His blue gaze – much paler than mine – had rested a while on my face and then he had turned, shouldering his ax with a majestic movement, regaining the halls and returning to his many errands.

I had climbed to my favourite place and stretched myself out in the sun, dreaming of the day when I would be strong and majestic too, and where everyone would think me one of the best warriors of King Thrór’s army.

“What are you doing?”

I frowned in annoyance when I heard the high-pitched voice of my little brother Frerin. Of course he had to follow me again, he always did, it was almost like I had a second shadow.

“Give me some air, Frerin, will you?”

He did not even bother to listen, and stretched himself next to me, his golden hair flowing in the wind, short and curly. His body was soft and even smaller than mine, and there were still dimples on the back of his hands.

He rested his head on my right shoulder, weaving golden and raven locks together. And he frowned when he saw the bruise on my wrist, touching it softly with his little fingers.

“Does it hurt much, Thorin?”, he asked anxiously, and I smiled, every fiber of my being warmed by such unconditional love.

“’Course not...”

I sat up and grabbed him from behind, pulling him towards me so that his back was resting on my chest. I wrapped my arms around his waist and Frerin laughed as I bent towards him, tickling his face with my braids.

“Why do you have to follow me everywhere, you annoying... little... rascal?”

I had spoken with the deepest voice I could reach, still tickling him, and Frerin was screaming with laughter.

“You small... useless... piece of a Dwarf?”

The more I was insulting him, the more he was laughing, his glee echoing on the Mountain like silver bells. And I would never admit it, but it was one of the sounds I loved most.

“I am going to eat you alive...

- No you won’t!”, he gasped between tears of laughter.

“First I will try one of these tasty little fingers...”

I lifted his hands to my mouth, pretending to bite him, and he screamed and giggled and struggled against my chest.

“And then I will see how much fat is in this belly...”

I had quickly grasped at his stomach and he jumped up.

“I am not fat, Thorin! You are the fat one!”

By that time I was laughing too, and I let him struggle and push me and drum on my chest with his little fists, just lying back on the stone, letting Frerin spend himself entirely.

Once he had done, he just threw himself upon me, hot and breathless, and I put one arm around him, pushing him away just a tiny bit – as a matter of principle.

“I think I’ll throw you down the Mountain into the stream below, so that once in your life, your skin will meet water...

- I bathed”, Frerin said, unmoved.

“Yes. Three days ago.”

He chuckled – that little plague was actually proud of it! – and then he lifted his head from my chest.

“Seriously now, Thorin...”, he said, not noticing the smile his earnest words were drawing on my lips. “Why do you always climb so high that it takes ages to reach you?

- Maybe because I do not want you to reach me...”

I watched his grey eyes cloud a little and could not repress the fondness in my voice when I added, quickly:

“Or maybe I wanted you to come so that I could show you Dale...

- Dale?!”

Frerin’s face was shining with excitement, his eyes locked in mine. I nodded, slowly, and then I sat up, taking his hand in mine.

“Come. I’ll show you.”

He jumped to his feet and followed me nearly to the edge on the Mountain. I told him not to move and he did not, gazing intently at the Valley at our feet, the back of his head against my chest again, as I was drawing his attention to every place I could remember.

“This tower there is called Ravenhill. There are guards, and a watchtower, high above the waterfall that guides the River down, down, down until the city you can see there, right in front of us...

- Is it Dale?”, Frerin asked eagerly, and I nodded again.

“Yes. It is Dale. Look at the towers, and the big houses, and the arches, and the walls... It is a city of Men, and all the precious stones and weapons, and jewellery, and everything we make here in Erebor is bought by the City and sent with ships down the River Running, making Thrór’s Kingdom and its many skills famous in all Middle Earth... Everybody has heard of Erebor, Frerin, and everyone knows the name of the King under the Mountain...

- And one day it will be you, Thorin.”

My little brother had spoken proudly, with confidence and joy, and yet I felt my chest tighten and something cold spread through my body as his words reached me.

“Yes.”, I said, trying to fight the dread that had invaded me for a second. “One day. But not before a very long time.”

I hope, did I add inwardly. Because I already knew what it meant to have a new King. My grandfather had explained it to me, as he had taken me deep down into the Mountain, where older Kings were buried, sleeping in tombs of stone.

I did not want my grandfather to lie there, or my father, and I silently breathed this wish as I was gazing down on the Valley with my brother.

I thought afterwards, many years later in dark and sleepless nights, that we should take great care in the choice we make when we allow wishes to cross our lips.

Because I was granted this one innocent request, and never saw the tomb of Thrór nor Thráin next to the others down in the Mountain. And I grieved for it, and still feel the weight of sadness and despair at the thought of it.

But that day we did not think of tombs, nor grief, and our only thoughts of war were in fanciful plays where we imagined ourselves to be warriors. As Frerin and I gazed down to the domed roofs of Dale, gilded by the fading sunlight, we were only dreaming of days to come, picturing them to be as full of warmth and light as this sunny afternoon.

We were wrong, of course, and yet...

Raven and golden locks, woven together in mute happiness, the warmth of the sun and the fresh smell of earth and herbs growing on the top of the Mountain...

Chapter Text

It is very thin, the veil between life and death, between unspeakable grief and heart-wringing joy. Such is the lesson my sister taught me from the very moment of her birth, because it was also the day of my mother’s death.

I remember her drawn and pale features, as she struggled to stay conscious and look at our faces one last time, while the stream of blood leaving her body had already made her too weak to speak.

I leant towards her, my chest hurting with fear and grief, and touched her forehead with mine. She smiled and closed her eyes, and her fingers in mine relaxed as one last soft breath escaped her lips, meeting my cheek.

That day I learnt to weep inwardly. Tears choked my voice but did not reach my eyes, because Frerin was crying so hard that he could barely stand, his fingers still clutched around my mother’s hand.

“Come...”, I whispered, gently loosening his grip from hers. “Come, Frerin.”

He turned away from her, clinging to me instead, burying his face in my chest, and I put my hands on his head, keeping him close. My father was standing motionless and pale next to the bed, struck mute by a pain so terrible and deep that it hurt to look at him, and I felt suddenly as if we were intruders.

“Come”, I repeated, and I slowly took Frerin out of my mother’s room, almost guiding him, because he would not lift his head from my chest.

That night he would not leave my side, and it was late and dark when I finally heard his sobs quieten and his breathing become slow and even. We were both stretched on my bed, barefoot but still dressed, and his face was resting on my chest, his hair spread against the dark fabric of my shirt, just like a thousand golden threads.

I had run my fingers through his locks, on and on, without a word, for hours, listening to his sobs and feeling his tears fall on my skin, wondering why I could not grieve.

Yet as I eventually felt Frerin’s body sag against mine, heavy with exhaustion and sleep, the calm despair that had allowed me to hold on until then suddenly broke free.

I looked up at the ceiling, feeling my breath choke, and lifted my chin, not wanting Frerin to hear nor to feel my tears. They were running freely, hot and silent streams against the thin whiskers that had begun to shadow my cheeks, and I did not check them, only forcing myself to breathe evenly, so as not to wake Frerin.

It was later still when that grief began to ebb temporarily, leaving me broken and exhausted, too numb to stir. Yet I startled when I heard a soft knock at my door, and somehow managed to free myself from Frerin’s embrace without waking him.

I reached the door silently, barefoot, quickly brushed my eyes with my sleeve and straightened my shirt in a hopeless attempt to look decent.

“Thorin...”

The Dwarf looking at me was dark-haired, with expressive eyes and a dark beard that was woven in two thick, stern braids. He was an elder, distant cousin of mine called Oín, who he had healing gifts, I remembered through the haze of my grief that my parents used to send for him if Frerin or I were ailing...

“I am so sorry to intrude...”, he said softly, and I could not find the strength to answer him and just gazed at his kind face.

“But Balin thought that perhaps you could...”

I had leant against the door, exhausted and light-headed, still watching him, and his eyes darkened with concern.

“That poor babe’s still alone and crying up there, and neither King Thrór nor poor Thráin seem to care...”

I swallowed hard, trying to make sense of his words, and then suddenly I felt fear tighten my stomach.

“The babe – the baby...”, I stammered, aghast, and without bothering to put on my boots, I grabbed Oín’s arm.

“Where is it?”, I asked, horror-struck at the idea that my small sibling had been left all this time without care.

“I will show you...”

Oín took my hand and I remember the warm squeeze he gave me, as a mute proof of his own sadness. I made him run, so worried was I, and between minutes we reached the upper halls, where my mother’s body was still guarded by my father.

My chest tightened again, but Oín did not make me enter her room, and took me in a smaller wing we usually used to welcome relatives when they would visit.

“There...”, he said, and as I entered the fist face I recognized was dear Balin’s.

He walked towards me and put both of his hands on my forearms.

“It is good to see you, lad...”, he whispered earnestly, and for a while I was again struggling with tears.

But a soft moan behind him made me gently break free from his embrace.

I walked slowly towards the small cradle where my sibling had been laid, and saw at once that it had been taken care of. Its tiny face was clean and woolen clothes were keeping it warm.

I looked up to the Dwarven woman sitting close to the cradle and recognized her as one of my mother’s friends. Undoubtedly, she had taken the child away before my brother and I were called at her bedside. And blinded and numbed by pain, we simply had forgotten the baby...

“She has been washed, and fed, my lord”, she whispered, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “But still she weeps and does not sleep...

- She...?”, I breathed, advancing slowly towards the cradle, bending down to take a look at my new-born sister.

She let out another pitiful little cry and my throat tightened.

“No one has come to see her?”, I asked, and the three of them shook their heads with sorrow.

“I am so sorry”, I whispered, at last bringing myself to touch her, gently pushing back one tiny lock from her perfectly rounded forehead.

“So sorry you had to wait...”

The baby stirred softly at my caress and I felt something warm spread through my chest, replacing the iron grip of sadness and hurt.

With caution, I placed one hand behind her neck and another under her back, and I lifted her to hold her close against my chest, amazed to see that there was already such a profusion of raven hair growing on her small head.

I bent down to touch it with my lips, rocking her gently as she let out another soft cry.

“Now, now, dear one...”, I whispered, kissing her again.

“Wonderful little Dís. Treasure of Durin. Brightest Jewel on the Mountain...”

I went on inventing sweet names for her, not noticing that the other three were leaving the room after a sign from Balin, cradling my sister as my mother would have done, my voice lulling her to sleep.

Once in a while I would bend and kiss her raven locks, and my eyes burned again with tears, as I wondered why joy and grief could be so close that they seemed to mingle in my heart.

Balin told me later that he had come back with the Dwarven woman at dawn’s break, and had found me asleep, stretched on the bed with little Dís still sheltered in my arms.

Dís.

My one and only sister, whose small being kept my grief at bay, allowing me to stand by my father and comfort my brother, without breaking down myself.

It was I who named her Dís, that night, the name brought to my lips without thinking, like a gift from the Gods.

And it was Dís who gave me strength and small moments of joy, after my mother’s burial had added another tomb to our lower halls.

I would come to her and hold her, sing her softly to sleep and touch her small forehead with my lips, and for several days I was everything to her, because my father was too full of grief and my brother too small to help me take care of her.

Later of course, Dís would also become the sunshine of their skies. But at that time, she was my one and only, my pride and joy, my solace and my comfort.

Balin says that is why.

That is why, when Dís was old enough to fully open her eyes, and enough time had passed so that their colour was not meant to change anymore, her dark blue eyes were the exact mirror of mine.

And that is why, no matter what I would say or do, she would always know everything I was hiding from her.

My Dís, my beautiful, brightest Jewel of the Mountain and Treasure of Durin...

How I made you suffer and yet how I loved you, and still do, though you cannot see me and will never hold me again.

Chapter Text

Rock, stone and gems. I remember how astonished I was when I was told that the precious and glittering stones our goldsmiths used for jewellery had the same essence and core than the hard rocks of the Mountain. I could not believe it at first, it was too strange an idea. But I did not dispute it – it was an elder Dwarf who had told me so, who was I to doubt him?

It is not in my nature to trust blindly without asking questions, it never was. But when it came down to crafts and knowledge, to shaping metal and stone, I knew to hold my tongue and listen eagerly to everything I was fortunate enough to be taught. I was curious, but above all, I knew I had to learn and be among the best, since I was the King’s grandson.

Not so Frerin.

He had grown, his sunny face still beardless, but the science of crystals and naming stones, of learning how to shape them was boring him to death – to the great damn of our teachers, who often swore that if they would turn out hair- and beardless, it would be Frerin’s fault.

Neither did he enjoy the work in the forge, because weapons interested him barely more than jewels. He found it smoky, hot and crowded, and though he really was skilled – all sons of Durin were – he never was happier than when he could leave work, steal to the kitchen, snatch some food away and run out to Dale.

Dale.

We both loved the city, each one in a different way.

Frerin loved the people, he enjoyed to hear their new songs, and to see the children of Men play in the beautiful carrousels: he had many friends among them, and I wished sometimes that our teachers could take a look on the marvellous and interesting toys he shaped for them with what he had scraped from the forge.

Riders on small-wheeled horses that would hop up and down if you made them roll on the floor. Boxes that would start to play music if you turned a secret key on their sides. Once, he even created a drinking cup for two people at the same time: it had the shape of a woman with a broad adorned dress, and her arms held above her head carried a small basket that could spin on itself. It was hard to drink from it, true enough, and one of the drinkers had better be shorter than the other, but it was possible – and Dale’s children spent an entire afternoon proving it.

They kept talking of the golden-haired Prince, of his incredible toys and his wonderful stories – because Frerin never created anything without inventing a whole context for it, and I sometimes wondered what came first to life in his mind.  As it was, Frerin just had to whistle a tune when he came down the marketplace, and the children of Dale would come running, beaming with anticipated joy.

As for me, I loved the knowledge, this eye Dale held wide open to the world. Boats from entire Middle Earth came there by the Anduin river, both to Dale and Esgaroth. The men arriving had seen places unknown to me, they talked of cities and harbours far away, of landscapes and Mountains so savage and broad that my mind struggled to conceive them.

I would come back and search for the maps in our libraries, trying to find these places on the old, half-erased drawings, and sometimes I had to seek help. I asked my father, trying to make him talk to me – he had seen much of the world, fought many wars, known many Men, and I was sure he must have been to every place they spoke about in Dale.

I wanted him to talk to me, to share his knowledge with me, to be smiling and happy just as he was before my mother’s death. But Thráin had grown silent and thoughtful, and though he was always patient with me, his words were ever scarce and his smile even rarer. I soon understood that he was not enjoying my questions, since they brought him back to happier times, where he still was young and full of hope, where my mother still lived.

He was always thinking of her, I knew it, and often would go down to her tomb and sit there, quietly, resting in the shadow of stones, his tattooed face dark and his remaining eye closed. And no one save Dís would dare to fetch him there – often we would go down, carrying her through the staircases, and then make her go the last steps alone.

“Go, Dís.”, we would whisper. “Tell him to come up, dinner’s waiting.”

And my little sister would go, walking on unsteady legs with her arms outstretched, reaching for Thráin’s dark and massive silhouette, unafraid of the cold and mighty tombs around her.

“Fathá...”

This was her way to say it, back then, and it never failed to make Thráin stir, getting up and hoisting Dís on his hip.

“Thorin says you have to come up. I am hungry, we all are.”

I would flee up the stairs as soon as I saw him moving towards Dís, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to be among the tombs – I was sick of his grief and felt guilty about it. He had loved my mother and loved her still, and so did I, so why was it I could not understand his sadness? Why was it I refused to grieve, had I loved her less? Was it making me a cold-hearted and selfish son, only dreaming to go away...?

Yet I sought the Men, the Guards and the travelers in Dale, eager to hear their news, to listen to their adventures, to look at their weapons and at the wares they brought with them.  And I think they liked to show them to me and talk to me.

They knew who I was, the raven-haired Prince they used to call me, and I did not mind, because in their mouths it was no jest. They could see the tower of Ravenhill high above Dale, they knew how skilled our warriors were and had heard of the Drakes our people had slain and of the Orcs our armies had killed. And they knew we liked ravens, using them to adorn our shields, so that the name they gave me could only please me.

I went unarmed to Dale of course, save for my sword, just to assure and remind them that I too had taken my oath to defend Erebor and its lands. Though I had not seen battle yet, I knew how to wield sword and axe and was strong enough to carry my own shield. Young and inexperienced as I was, Men welcomed me among their circle, and it warmed my heart. I was glad to be noticed and accepted, though it also made me sad to think it was easier with them than with my father.

I did not actually talk as much as I listened, and their words brought me far away from Erebor, to landscapes, Men and cities with strange and beautiful names.

Cities of Men – I wondered if their Kings were as powerful as my grandfather, and thought it unlikely, after all Erebor was the mightiest kingdom of Middle Earth.

Or so I thought, fool that I was.

And fool that I was, I dreamt of the days my path would lead me beyond the Mountain and the Lake. I dreamt of journeys and adventures, not knowing they are nothing like the tales shape them – polished and smoothed, looking bright and shiny, just like jewels are made of stone.

Jewels and stones. Precious gems. How we Dwarves love them, and how many aches and sorrows it brought us.

It was about this time, I think, that it happened. The day we found our Treasure and our Bane – our Bane, yes, I see it clearly now, when it is almost too late.

I can see us both, Frerin and I, coming back from Dale late in the afternoon, the last rays of the sun warming our backs as we went down to Erebor, crossing golden barley fields, listening to the river’s murmur.

What we discussed I forgot – no doubt Frerin did the main talking, or perhaps he was singing. Yes, I think he must have been singing, his voice mingling with the river’s silvery tune, as he often did. And then he bade me to sing with him.

What a strange book memory is, flipping long forgotten pages open when we expect it last.

“You have a deeper voice than me. You do the back vocals, Thorin. Make it Dwarven, and I’ll just make it beautiful.”

I laughed at him, stopping close to the golden fields, my eyes narrowed, blinded by the last rays of the sun.

“Do you realise it means the same?”, I asked. “If I make it Dwarven, I already make it beautiful. I don’t need you for that.”

I was jesting, of course. Frerin had a good voice, and what was more, he knew how to shape words. As I said before, he was even more skilled in that than in making toys. But then, he almost talked as much as he breathed.

“Right, you overbearing Prince of a Dwarf. Come on then. Sing. And don’t you dare ask me for help.”

He sat himself on a flat stone, cross-legged, shielding his brow with his hand, looking at me with shining grey eyes, his hair as light as the fields behind him.

I sighed and shook my head.

“There is no time for this. We are already late, the sun is setting.

- Getting cold feet, my lord?”

He had not moved a bit, and still looked at me defiantly. Of course I could not let it stand.

“I would sing anything, if it makes you move.

- Alright”, Frerin said. “You don’t lack of songs, when it comes to Dís, do you?”

I smiled then, and cleared my throat. I looked at him, my brother, so happy and merry on his stone, and at the dark grey walls of Erebor with the giant statues of our Dwarven Guards.

Then I sang. Very quietly, very deep, as Dwarves sing when they want to make it meaningful.

“There is gold in the valley, silver in the mines

On the fair fields of barley, the setting sun shines

Grey walls of the Mountain, the treasures you hold

Are mightier even than silver or gold

The great doors are open, the evening calls

It’s time to find shelter again in your walls

My Treasure is waiting, in her shiny eyes

The true prize and wealth of Durin’s folk lies

I may dream of going, reaching the horizon

Of finding the place where the sun turns to crimson

And maybe one day I will walk, I will be

In those places they talk of my heart longs to see

But tonight I am home-bound, as you are, brother-love,

The first star has risen in the sky above

We may dream of journeys, of tales to be told

But for now, we’ll go back, as the day is now old

We’ll go back, our hearts warm, turning home once more

Just keep watching, my Treasure, we’re almost at the door.”

I repeated the last words, softly, and then was silent again. My gaze fell back on Frerin and I was surprised to see his smile had vanished. He was sitting very upright on the stone, his feet on the ground, clutching the edge with his fingers, his eyes burning and intent.

“What is the matter?”, I asked, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “You promised to move, remember?”

He shook himself then, getting up with a shudder, and I took his arm, taking him back on the road. He did not speak, and I did not like it at all, it was so unusual, so I ended up stopping and gave him a little shove.

“What is it? Am I really such a terrible singer? You might as well say so, I don’t care.”

I grinned at him and he shook his head, still earnest and pale.

“It was beautiful. But it made me sad. I don’t know why, Thorin. You made it sound as if... as if everything you loved was already gone. As if you had lost it and yearned for it.”

He had tears in his eyes – my soulful and unique brother, what a strange mind of yours... That he should have said so, years before his words came true, that this song made him weep from the very first day, long before it would become a lament in our exile... I cannot explain it, not then, nor since, and that day I just waved his sadness away.

“What nonsense, Frerin. How should I lose this?”

I made a broad move with my arms, encompassing Erebor, Dale, the sky and the Mountain, and I smiled.

“Even if I tried to lose you, I could not. I’ve learned this lesson long ago, I’ve tried everything to get rid of you, it just would not do.”

He grinned then, at last.

“Serves you right.”, he grunted, and then he grasped my hand and pulled me behind him. “Come on, we’re late.

- What the...” – my voice choked with indignation, for it was him who had kept us on the road all this time.

Frerin laughed and I let out my breath, exasperated.

“The nerve you have...”, I growled, and then we both began to run, for it really was late and we did not want to beg the guards to let us in – it amused them too much.

We arrived at the door moments before the sun disappeared behind the Mountain, and the guards, instead of giving us a hard time, barring our way with their spears as they usually would, waved us in, in an excited and urgent way.

“Come on, quickly! You have been expected long ago! The King wants you both with him, you are to go immediately!”

We looked at each other, puzzled, and they pushed us in.

“What’s the matter?”, Frerin asked, and as if to answer his question, Balin came running down the main staircase.

Well, not running down, he had too much dignity for that. But he definitely came down quickly, and smiled at us.

“Lads, you will want to see that.”, he said in his warm and mysterious voice. “Come and see the King’s new Treasure.”

And though Frerin would ask and beg, trying to find out what it was, Balin would not answer him. He took us straight to the gallery of Kings, where the throne was and where all the guards seemed to be assembled.

“Finally”, Thrór said, his voice vibrating through the hall, full of glee and pride. “Let my grandsons step forward, and see what we found.”

I looked at my father, standing close to the throne with Dís on his hip. His face betrayed nothing, as usual, but my grandfather’s was shining, his light blue eyes sparkling.

“Step forward”, he repeated, and Frerin and I climbed the stairs as quickly as we could, standing breathless and wondering in front of the King.

Thrór smiled, and removed a velvet cloth from the small table before him. It was then we saw it. The Treasure and Bane of Durin’s line. White, sparkling, dazzlingly beautiful, almost alive.

The Arkenstone.

I remember my breath choked when my eyes fell upon it. It was perfect, without the impurities so frequently found in white gems. Not transparent, yet full of light that changed and shifted every time you would move it even so slightly.

“Who made it?”, I whispered, amazed by the quality of its shaping.

“No one”, Thrór answered. “It was found, in the heart of the Mountain itself. There it lay, only waiting to be discovered, and now that it is we will praise it, honour it and cherish it. I will make it the King’s Jewel, a symbol of the blessing of Durin’s folk and the might of Erebor, for everyone to see.”

He smiled, and all the guards cheered. It was hard to take my eyes away from the stone – it was so perfect, so beautiful, I longed to touch it and yet I did not dare, it looked too sacred. It was the King’s Jewel, and I was not the King.

There was a great feast that night, and everyone was merry, listening to Thrór’s plan to carve the stone into his throne, as a symbol of his might. For little did we know what power we had unleashed in our never-ending quest for jewels and gems.

The only one that did not care for the stone was Dís. Its light blinded her and she buried her face in my shoulder, displeased, when I carried her to the Arkenstone so that she too could see it.

Perhaps I should have felt dread, that day, just as my brother and sister had felt it, each one in his way. But I was blind, as we all were, and when my vision cleared – alas! – it was too late.

The King’s Jewel. Treasure and Bane of Durin’s line indeed.

Chapter Text

When I think of the Arkenstone now, there is only dread, guilt and fear in my heart. I never touched it, not then, not since – and when I saw it again, at last, it was in the Bargeman’s hand. Held away from me. Mocking me. Pulling me away from my friends and family, as it always did.

But at the beginning, its curse held itself at bay, for several months... or so it seemed. And what the Arkenstone first brought us was getting closer to our family, to our distant relatives in the Iron Hills.

The other Dwarven lords from the seven families had come, to look at the wonderful jewel, the Heart of the Mountain, and pay their homage to Thrór. But Náin and Fundin came as kin, since they were cousins of my father, and they brought their sons with them.

“What are they like, Thorin?”, Frerin whispered, as he stood on the ramparts above the gate, looking at the edge of the hills where they were supposed to arrive.

“You saw Dáin and Dwalin once. Balin told me.

- I don’t remember. I was too small.”

I was standing next to him, and as often I carried Dís on my hip. She had insisted to watch out with us, and had braided her hair carefully, fastening it with the silver claps I had made for her.

She wore a dark purple dress, tight around her slender waist with a black silk belt, and under her dress she had put on black trousers of the same material and her best leather boots, adorned with carved silver. Her arms were bare and wrapped around my neck, and her head gently rested against my shoulder.

She looked lovely, and it was all I could do not to tell her – I did not want her to become vain and self-obsessed, and she never was.

“Balin is very happy.”

I turned to cast a look at Dís, it was just like her, to speak out quiet little truths, she was such a keen observer and took so many things in...

“Yes.”, I stated. “He missed his family very much, I think.

- But he says we are his family as well.”

Dís lifted her face from my shoulder, smiling at me. She was right, actually Balin was a cousin of ours too – our great-grandfathers had been brothers. After his father’s death against the terrible drake that also took one his brother’s life, Thrór had returned with his people to Erebor, while his brother Grór took another path and chose to settle in the Iron Hills. And Farin, their cousin – Balin’s grandfather – had followed Grór, which is why Balin’s family was not living with us.

I had asked Balin once why he left them, why he chose to come to Erebor, to live with us, and without them. And he answered that he felt closer to that Mountain than to any other.

I had not pressed him any further that day, or any other day. I was grateful for his presence, he was one of my father’s closest friends, even though he was much younger. And he was so wise, so open, always glad to share what he knew...

But when I think about it, I wonder... Maybe Balin felt a duty towards Erebor too. He always strained to preserve and share Dwarven knowledge, he was so patient with all the Dwarflings and so proud with our progresses. Perhaps he felt he was more needed here than in the Iron Hills – and that Erebor with all its crafts and knowledge had more to give to him.

“We are his family too”, I answered that day to Dís, pulling back a dark loose lock behind her ear. “But I think that brothers and sisters, well... It’s even stronger than cousins. And that is why Balin is so happy. Everyone he cares for will finally be together.”

Dís pondered my words for a while. She was so light I could hold her with one arm only. The other rested on the ramparts, and I slightly brushed the wall with my fingertips. The stone was warmed by the sun, and I enjoyed its rough touch against my palm.

“You are nervous.”

My fingers tightened slightly around Dís’ waist and I frowned at Frerin.

“Why should I be?”

He shrugged his shoulders, his gray eyes light and playful as ever.

And he was right. Nervous I was indeed, and I had lied to him saying I did not remember my cousins. Dáin and Dwalin had left impressive memories, back then when Frerin was so little he wouldn’t remember.

I must have been not above ten years old, and recalled them as loud, strong and boisterous giants, that both impressed and frightened me. They were both older than me – a few summers only, but back then it mattered – and would stare at me with amused looks, making fun of me and bothering me every time I would dare to cross their paths.

“Grow a beard first, Thorin”, Dáin would say, his Khuzdûl broader than the way my parents spoke it. “Or get lost.”

I glared at him and Dwalin joined into Dáin’s laughter.

“I’d go and get your Mum if I were you.

- You go and get your Mums yourselves”, I spat out, my fists clenched and my body tense with repressed anger and wounded pride.

“Heard that, Dwalin?”

Dáin stood up and stretched his arms above his head, which made him only look taller.

“I think that cousin of yours just tried to insult us.

- I think so too...”

I shot a deadly look at Dwalin, not understanding how he could be like this. Mocking me, pushing me away, ridiculing me. So unlike his brother – rough, coarse, and unfeeling.

“And I think that deserves something.”

Dáin made a step towards me and I did not stir, though I was afraid – he was so tall and strong, I had seen him wrestle before and dreaded his grip and his punches. He looked hard at me, as if to take me in, and suddenly he leaped, grabbing me around the shoulders, making me spin and pushing me towards Dwalin.

I lost my balance, only to fall into Dwalin’s arms, who lifted me despite my struggling and kicking.

“Why so ungrateful, lad, I’m giving you a ride...”

He tossed me back to Dáin who grabbed me around the chest and knees. I was still far too high above the floor for my taste, and that is when I lost the last bit of restrain that was still left in me. I bent to reach the arm that was still wrapped around me and bit him hard.

He let go of me with a grunt of pain and I fell down to the floor. It nearly took my breath away, but I pulled myself up and punched Dáin in the waist, with all my might.

He was still holding his arm where my bite had left a red mark and reacted instinctively, slapping me. I thought it would make my head fall apart. I saw dazzling lights and fell on the stone floor, hitting it with my head, and for several minutes I lost focus of what happened around me.

“Come on, lad, wake up. We were only teasing you. It was just a little game...”

The hand on my shoulder was rough, strong, unlike Dwalin’s voice, hardly above a whisper.

“He’s bleeding, Dáin, I think he really hurt himself.”

I opened my eyes then and heard him breathe out his relief. I was feeling dizzy and my head hurt; when I touched my temple it was slick with blood.

“Easy, lad.”

Dwalin helped me to recover, his face as bloodless as mine. It was then that tears finally came to my eyes. I pulled away from him, and got up – or at least tried to. I was staggering and he had to catch me and hold me for some seconds before the ground became again safe and even to me.

I felt one hot and silent tear run down my cheek and brushed it away, trying to blink back the others welling behind my eyes.

And then I punched Dwalin in the chest, one time, a second time, and then with such rage and frenzy that I nearly lost my balance again.

“I hate you.”

I had spoken between my gritted teeth and Dwalin – he just did not hit me back. One knock of him would have me sprawled again on the floor, but he never touched me.

“I hate you both”, I whispered, my breathing shallow and my head spinning again, when I finally let go of him and took some steps backwards.

I could feel my blood trickle down my cheek and saw worry in Dwalin’s eyes, when Dáin just stared at me, aghast.

“I’ll never talk to you again. And if someone asks me if I have cousins, I will say no. I’ll say they are dead.”

I hurled the words at them like knives and then I turned, getting out of the hall as fast as my legs would carry me. I remember leaning a hand against the wall, the other pressed to my head, and I managed to walk the whole corridor and to climb the first stairs before I slumped on the ground.

My vision blackened and there was sweat on my forehead, mingling with my blood. I forgot who helped me out, I just remember Oín cleaning the graze on my temple.

“What happened, lad?”, he asked quietly and I just said:

“I fell.”

I never breathed a word to anyone about it, not even my mother, even though she tried to coax it out of me. And to Dáin and Dwalin I did not speak either – which was not hard, since both of them avoided me the best they could during the rest of their stay.

“A quiet little fellow you have got, Thráin”, Fundin said when he took his leave, gently ruffling my hair.

“I wish I could say the same.”

My father frowned, slightly puzzled, and Dwalin cast an uncomfortable look on me, as I gazed back, my eyes bright and unforgiving.

Now I was wiser, and older, and saw they had meant no harm, that I had been wild and passionate and had not understood it was their way to take me in.

And I was nervous.

I wanted to show them I had grown up, that I was not a small, untamed Dwarfling anymore but that I had become capable and strong. That I could be relied upon, and respected.

But when finally we heard them approach – they could not be unheard, hundreds of heavy feet marching, their voices loud as they sang – and watched them come in a long, happy procession down the hills towards Erebor, I only felt anxious.

Dís hoisted herself up on my hip for a better look on them, and I envied her. She did not have to prove anything – they had never seen her, and would love her the moment they would cast their eyes on her.

The Dwarves on the ramparts cheered and those below answered, I could see them better now. Two Dwarves leading the whole troop, Fundin and Náin beyond doubt, but I could not say which one was who. Their wives following, dressed up in travelling clothes, and the rest of their strongest warriors. Including their sons.

Frerin cheered too, his face bright and happy, and I could feel Dís move as she waved – too small to be seen, yet eager to greet them. She turned to look at me, probably wondering why I was not saying a word, why I was not moving.

I was still clutching the wall, trying to find out where they were, Dáin and Dwalin, and to think of what I should say to greet them – what were the proper words, when you met again with someone you had sworn to hate in a moment of passion...?

Surely they had talked about this between them, during all these years, surely they were awaiting the moment were I would speak to them, and then, what would they say...? What if they ridiculed me, in front of all the Dwarves, in front of my grandfather...?

Dís moved again, putting her arms around me and lifting her blue eyes towards my face.

“You are cold...”

I exhaled painfully – I had forgotten to breathe for a moment. Dís nestled even closer to me and pressed a quiet little kiss on my neck. My shirt felt sticky on my back, damp with cold sweat, and I gently put her down on the floor.

“Come. Let’s welcome them.”

My voice was steady and calm, as I took her hand to lead her down the stairs. Frerin had already preceded us, I could see him running down, the brilliant red of his shirt detaching itself among the other Dwarves’ garments.

We both had dressed with care, and bore our swords. I could feel mine bouncing slightly against my leg, and felt like a stranger in my own skin. My dark blue tunic, the leather jerkin with the complicated pattern, and my belt with the silver engravings I was so proud of, it looked suddenly like a costume to me.

I am ridiculous. They will just laugh at me.

The thought kept coming up, making my grip tighten around Dís’ fingers, making my breath choke again.

And suddenly we were there, at the gate. Exactly as it was proper, standing next to my father, me, Frerin and Dís, Thráin’s children ready to welcome their cousins.

My grandfather came forth himself, beaming, his heavy robes swirling around him as he embraced his nephew.

“You are very welcome, Náin, son of my brother. And so are you, Fundin, son of my cousin. We were all waiting for you.”

They bowed before him and embraced him, and then my father stepped forward. I saw that he was smiling, noticed the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes with surprise as he fell into the arms of his cousin.

“Thráin!”

Náin’s laughter was warm, bellowing – I watched them embrace and hold each other for a long time, their foreheads pressed together.

“These must be the lads...”

Náin had turned to us, beaming – I remembered the strong accent of his speech that spoke of rough days in hot, iron mines...

“Durin’s beard, they’re not lads anymore, are they?”

He had a red, carefully woven beard and not a single white hair in his fiery mane. He was tall, nearly as tall as my father, and there were tattoos on his brow and his strong arms – I saw them when he embraced me, nearly crushing me against his broad chest.

“Grown fine and tall, right? Bless you!”

He smiled again, I was still feeling uncomfortable but his easy-going way had taken some of my anxiety away, so that I felt able to smile and speak the proper words.

“Bless you, uncle, for arriving safely. You are very welcome.”

He squeezed my forearms in an affectionate gesture that almost made me wince, and turned to my brother.

“By my beard, laddie, I can’t believe my eyes. Last time I saw you, we had to pour some ale in your milk so as to get at least one undisturbed evening, you were screaming so loud...

- I’m not screaming anymore, uncle. But I’m still fond of a drink...”

Náin laughed at Frerin’s bold answer, and hugged him again. And then he turned to Dís, crouching down on the floor so as to be on the same high as her – his move was strangely gracious for one so strong and massive.

“And what would be your name, precious? I am your uncle Náin, and crossed hills and rivers to see you, for they have told me Erebor’s princess is as sweet and pretty as a dove.

- My name is Dís”, my little sister answered gravely, her blue gaze locked with Náin’s kind brown eyes. “But I don’t know the princess you are talking about. Thorin never told me about her...”

She was watching him with a doubtful expression and Náin bent down to kiss her, drawing her close to him for a moment.

“No, I bet he did not...”

He looked at me then, his gaze warm and somewhat sad, and got up.

“Where’s my lad? Dáin!”

I had barely the time to brace myself, having had to greet Fundin first – a light-haired, slightly shorter Dwarf whose kind smile I instantly recognized, for it was the same as Balin’s.

Then I stood finally in front of my cousin.

He was a small portrait of his father – the same red, luxurious hair, even though his beard was still short and unbraided; the same bright, brown eyes; the same strong, bulky frame – but he had no tattoos, of course, he was far too young.

He eyed me for some seconds, taking me in, and I realized with surprise that I was slightly taller than him, although I was by no means as stocky. He did not look much older than me, and I could see clearly that he was as uncomfortable as I was.

He remembers.

“Welcome back in Erebor, Dáin.”

My voice was slightly hoarse but at least, I managed not to stutter. He nodded, still not saying a word, and I felt my cheeks getting hot.

“I hope you had a good journey...”

By that time my voice had dropped to a whisper – I could not bring myself to say more, I could not move and embrace him. Thankfully Frerin saved me.

“Cousin! I could not wait to meet you!”

Dáin smiled and opened his arms, and Frerin and him embraced, before my brother started prattling away.

“You must tell me everything about the Iron Hills, and about your journey, I am so curious! Is it very different than here? Is it a long way from Erebor?”

Dáin laughed, a bit taken aback by his chatter but clearly pleased.

“Sure, lad, a long way from that Mighty Mountain of yours! And I’ll tell you all about it once we’ll sit down around a good pint – heard you’re fond of it, right?

- You bet!”

Dáin boxed Frerin in the shoulder – how could it be so easy between them, what was it that Frerin had in him? And then he cast a playful gaze in my direction.

“Tell me, Frerin. That brother of yours, is he always so stiff or can some pints make it somewhat better?”

I felt all my body tense and Frerin’s laughter made it even worse.

“Thorin? I’m not sure he ever got drunk... He hates to make a fool of himself, don’t you, Thorin?”

His laughter faded a little when he saw my face, and he took great care not to look at me anymore, pulling Dáin by the sleeve.

“Come. Let’s get inside, you must be tired and hungry.”

Dáin followed, but when he passed me he gave me a gentle shove, with a broad smile. I had not moved, and heard Dáin and Frerin chuckle as they left the threshold to enter the Mountain – it made me want to sink into the earth, never to get out again.

“Thorin?”

The well-known voice of Balin raised me from my thoughts and I looked up at him, to find him smiling at me, his arm around a very tall young Dwarf whose features I recalled so clearly.

He was tall, strong, his brown hair tied back with one heavy silvery clasp, his eyebrows bushy and his gaze both fierce and shy.

“You remember Dwalin, maybe? Big lad, always bothering everyone, driving old Balin mad?”

He beamed even more when Dwalin grunted and drew him closer to him.

“Yet I missed him so much. I am so happy that you finally get to meet again, I am sure you will have so many things to tell each other.”

He smiled at us, squeezed Dwalin’s arm and left, to join his father and mother again. And we were left alone.

“You are very welcome.”

I had become weary of that sentence, of these shallow words, of the stupid role of the host I was supposed to play when all I wanted was to be left alone. But I tried to put some conviction in my words.

“I hope you know that.”

Dwalin grunted again and I felt despair creeping into my heart – could they not talk, even a small down-to-earth sentence would do...

“We all really love Balin, you know.”

The tiny voice next to me both startled us and I saw Dwalin’s eyes soften when they fell on Dís.

“He tells very good stories. About fairies and moonlight, about the stars. One evening he took us out, Frerin and Thorin and me, and we watched the sky together and he told us about the story of the Great Bear. Do you know that one?

- Yes I do. It is one of my favourites.”

The smile in Dwalin’s eyes softened everything in his face. He put one knee on the ground and Dís simply stepped up to him and hugged him. It was something she never did on her own, and it made my heart sting with unexpected jealousy.

“You must have missed him so much”, she said quietly, her arms still around him, and I saw Dwalin blink, both confused and moved.

“I would be very, very sad to be away from my brothers. Especially Thorin, because...”

And then that wicked little thing bent down to whisper something in his ear. Something that made Dwalin’s half-smile become whole, and the jealous biting in my heart even worse.

Dís broke free from Dwalin and smiled at me, ready to take my hand, but I just shook my head.

“You go and greet the rest of Balin’s family. Now.”

Dís pouted and tried to take my hand in spite of me, but I pulled my fingers free, my gaze cold and stern.

“Go, Dís. I’ll not say it again.”

She went then, a tiny, graceful figure with long raven-black hair, and I watched her join Balin and put her hand in his, waiting for him to introduce her, her face grave and quiet.

“You have not changed, have you?”

Dwalin’s question came low, without aggression, yet I tensed and looked at him, my eyes dark and my voice icy.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed and had again his strange, soft half-smile.

“It still unsettles you, what people might or might not say about you. Makes you seeing offence where there’s no harm meant.”

I clenched my fists and swallowed, hard – I wanted to feel angry but suddenly I just felt sad, lonely, and at a loss for words.

“I am happy to see you again, Thorin.”

I looked up at him then, and saw the same concern and kindness that I had witnessed in him years before, after that terrible encounter.

“Listen, Dwalin... About – about what I said... and did... Last time we met, I...”

He put a hand on my forearm then. It was warm, reassuring, and it silenced me as efficiently as any words.

“We were all young and silly. Especially us. Of course you were right to be mad at us, even though I confess I would not want to cross you again.”

He smiled and I found myself smiling back, immensely relieved.

“And since that adorable sister of yours has just confessed that you are her favourite brother – it is a secret, though, and I am not to tell you why she likes you best – I reckon you turned out alright.”

I laughed then, softly, feeling the tension inside of me ebb and disappear.

“That’s what Dís told you?!”

He nodded and I finally pulled him into a real, sincere embrace.

“I am really glad you came, Dwalin.”

He smiled, and when Dís came back he watched me taking her up in my arms, drawing her close to me and pressing a fond kiss on her forehead.

“You told him...”, she whispered to Dwalin, her blue eyes full of reproach.

“Hardly anything, sweetheart...”

She shook her head and I laughed, silently at first, and then freely when I saw Dwalin’s amused gaze.

“Guess I should not cross her either...”

I pressed another kiss into Dís’ hair, still laughing, and then I took Dwalin’s arm.

“Come on. Let’s go inside. It will be a great feast, and a very long night.”

We went inside, then, and I was not worried about Dáin anymore, or about what had happened between us. I could not remember the last time I had felt so truly light and cheerful – maybe because everyone was happy around me and I knew my father was happy too, maybe also because of Dís, and her unique and simple love.

But most of all, I think it was because for the first time of my life, I had begun to feel what a great and glorious thing it was to have a friend.

Chapter Text

Friendship. Sharing what you love. Voicing your most intimate thoughts, knowing you will not be laughed at. Getting access to other thoughts, other feelings, and knowing you are not alone.

There are so many ways to trust and to open your heart. Who said it was only real love that makes you feel a life is worth living? For me friendship deserves about as much prize. For a true friend will always be at your side, no matter how low you are. Won’t look for the shiny, polished side of yours – knows some of your blackest thoughts and won’t judge you for them, or for the mistakes you make.

I have been blessed in my friendships, I know that. There are few I can call my friends, but those who found their way to my heart I hold as dear as my own blood.

And Dwalin is one among them.

Mahal knows I do not deserve him, but he never let me down. Never ever, when he was able to do something good for me, has he left my side, and he never failed me, not even in my blackest days. Not even the three times I failed him, in those doomed places where I lost everything.

Azanulbizar.

Here, in the very walls of Erebor, drowning in piles of gold, my mind consumed by the vain promises of the cursed White Gem.

And today, in the icy tower of Ravenhill – I don’t know what became of Dwalin after I looked at the Pale Orc, after my heart was ripped open when I saw him thrust Fíli down the tower... There were so many of them, and surely he must be dead too, my friend with the fierce brown eyes and the strong, broad axe...

My breath is wheezing, I feel the taste of blood in my mouth and I close my eyes briefly. I am dying, I know I am, but it is taking so long and I am tired – thinking hurts, and the memories will not stop, images passing before my eyes like falling stars.

When I open my eyes I see the dying light of the sun – a few seconds have passed at the utmost since I fell and I can hardly believe that I have been racing through years and long-forgotten days in a few eye blinks... I remember another sunset, near Erebor, another time where I have felt the hot, metallic taste of blood on my lips.

A day where I did not fail.

My cousins had stayed for a week now, and I had got used to their loud and cheerful presence, to the point where I wondered how we had managed without them.

I had taken them to Dale, had introduced them to the Men I used to meet, and they had looked at the beautiful City in wonder – there were no such houses, archways, and places close to the Iron Hills. They had seen the market, the carrousel, and the harbour, and were still talking about it for days after.

But they also went down to the forge with me and it was my turn to watch in silent respect, for both were skilled. They were not used to the precious metals and gems we used here in Erebor, but they learned quickly. And the weapons they made were both light and solid – they knew iron as I knew silver, and my teachers praised their work.

“This is beautiful...”

Dwalin had picked up a silver bracelet and was looking at the delicate carving upon it – flower blossoms and leaves, I had spent hours trying to fix them upon the shiny metal.

“You really think so?”

My cheeks had blushed slightly; I was still not used to being with him and not being pushed away. He looked at me, his brown eyes mocking me gently.

“No. I just wasted my breath and lied.”

 He rolled his eyes.

“Of course I think so. It’s not easy, carving such a tiny pattern. And they really look like flowers.”

He grinned and I smiled back, holding out my hand to get the bracelet back.

“You made it for your sweetheart, right?”

I choked and my cheeks turned to crimson.

“I don’t... I’m not in love with anyone here.”

He laughed, quietly, pushing me affectionately in the chest, and I put the bracelet away, shaking my head.

“Are you?”, I whispered, curious to know if there really was such a soft side in him – and if there was, what it was like to love...

“’Course not”, Dwalin grinned. “Would not know what to do with her, right? Talking and holding hands, do you fancy me doing that?!”

I truly did not, and the thought made me laugh so hard that the elder Dwarves waved us out of the forge, exasperated, calling us a nuisance – which only made us laugh more.

But that evening, we heard of tidings that made us become serious and listen eagerly. There had been rumours about bands of Orcs that had been spotted, ten miles away from Erebor, and the night before they had become so bold as to attack a village.

Though it was a village of Men, it was on Dwarven lands, and Thrór’s reaction was swift. We would hunt them down, and kill them all – and by ‘we’ he meant my father and his warriors, who were to set out at dawn’s break. Fundin and Náin asked to accompany them and were granted the request.

But when Dáin asked to come too, the roaring laughter of the other Dwarves was as good as the firmest of ‘no’, and for the first time since the beginning of his stay, I saw my cousin sulk.

“Never mind all these old farts...”, he grumbled, as we were going up to our rooms with Dwalin.

Frerin had gone to bed earlier, he was tired from all the late evenings we had spent together – after all he still was young, and that day his eyelids had become heavy and heavier, despite the exciting talking about Orcs.

Dáin stopped at the top of the staircase and looked at both Dwalin and me, his brow creased and his gaze intent.

“I say we grab our weapons and follow them. See if we can help them with that filthy band of Orcs.”

I looked at him, unsure, and then at Dwalin, whose face had brightened with excitement.

“We are too young. We can’t.”

Dáin snorted contemptuously.

“You might be too young. I’m not, and neither is Dwalin.”

I clenched my fists, pride and anger getting the better of me – as usual.

“If you go, I go too. I know the lands better than you do, and I know where they will be going.”

I gazed at him, my eyes a challenge, and he smiled then – for I was giving him exactly what he wanted.

“I knew you could be relied upon.”

He grabbed my arm and I shook him off, both pleased and uneasy. And then we went down, quietly, to the armoury where we used to keep our weapons between our training sessions. No one was there – they were still busy discussing their plans, and we took our chainmail, our axes, our swords and our shields.

“You think we need those?”

Dwalin pointed to the helmets, and I shook my head – I did not like to fight in those, it made me feel as if I was locked in, making my vision shrink and lessening my hearing.

“No. They are too heavy – and we won’t let them come as close.”

We went back to our rooms, then, and I stayed awake the main part of the night, too excited to sleep. A part of me couldn’t wait to taste battle, to see what it was like to fight for real – and the other hoped fervently that Dáin and Dwalin would sleep in, and forget about that hotheaded scheme.

When I saw the moon turn pale, I rose from the windowsill where I had sat and started to dress – I had given my word, after all, and would not let them say I was a coward. I put on breeches and the heavy, thick tunic I used to wear for trainings, and then I pulled on my chainmail, my leather jerkin, fastened my belt and put on my boots. I was just fastening my arm guards when I heard the knock at my door.

“Come in...” – I whispered, and there they stood, my cousins, already dressed in full battle gear.

Dáin handed me axe and sword with a grin, and I smiled back.

“Let’s not make a noise. We have to get out before them, and then we’ll just have to follow. Quietly.”

I looked hard at him, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“’Course. What do you think I am, a brainless oliphaunt?”

I shook my head – making a mental note to ask Balin what in Durin’s name an oliphaunt was – and then we just sneaked out of Erebor, through the kitchen door, like thieves. We hid in the nearby rocks, and then we waited.

And with the first rays of the sun, we saw them depart – my father and his company, thirty strong, quiet, and well-trained Dwarves, who lost no time and started marching east in a swift, easy pace.

“We stick to the rocks” – I whispered. “We let them go ahead of us, ‘til the last of them can’t hear us, and then we follow.”

They nodded – they had become quiet, all of a sudden, and I wondered if they could not be persuaded to go back, after all.

“Right”, Dáin whispered then, shattering my hopes. “Off we go.”

Dwalin nodded again, and I sighed inwardly, and started leading them, carefully, across rock and stone. Sweat soon bathed my forehead, for my weapons and clothes were heavy, and I had to be careful not to make a sound.

But we followed, quietly, our eyes fixed on the small, grim company that was marching through the mountains, to reach the valley where the village had been attacked, and the pass where the Orc band was said to be hiding, ready for another raid.

Noon was long behind us when I saw the company halt, and I held out my hand to make Dwalin and Dáin stop behind me.

“They will send two of them scouting, seeing where the Orcs are and how many they are”, I breathed, my voice not above a whisper. “And then they’ll decide how they will attack.”

I turned to them, and saw respect in their eyes – it did not please me, though, because I was the youngest, I was not supposed to lead, it was their scheme, I had just followed.

“And how will they attack?”

Dáin had asked almost shyly, and I shook my head.

“I have no idea... Did you not say you had already seen many Orc fights, around the Iron Hills?!

- Well...” – he cleared his voice and looked awkward, and I felt my heart sink, seeing that Dwalin seemed hardly more comfortable.

“You have not been to any fight, right?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, and then I clenched my fists and pressed my body against the rocks again, determined at least to look brave.

“Well then I suppose we wait, and then, when the scouts come back, we follow, and we cover their backs.”

They both nodded, their eyes fixed on me, and I uttered a silent prayer to Mahal that we would not need to cover anything – my father and his Dwarves were strong, after all, and I had some hope we would only have to watch.

The scouts came back quickly, and though I tried to catch what they were whispering, I could not make out what my father’s plan would be. Soon, I saw his company split – they were climbing the high rocks circling the pass, and we soon were left alone, our hurried breathing being the only sound between the high, cold rocks.

“And now... Should we follow?”

Dwalin’s voice was unsure, and I shook my head.

“No. We’d be exposed. We just stay here and wait.”

The shrieking and screaming started minutes after. Suddenly we heard a terrible noise, echoing through the high stones – Dwarven battle cries, the Khuzdûl words loud and clear; and Orc screeches and curses, as well as the clanging of weapons.

I stood there, my body rigid and drenched in cold sweat, not daring to move, thinking that my father was out there, facing... Facing...

“I’m going there!”, Dáin said, and he left the rocks, shouldering his axe, his face pale but determined.

“Don’t move!”

I had wanted to scream, but only managed to whisper, because I had caught sight of what was storming right towards us – Orcs trying to flee and escape the wrath of Dwarves, running out of the pass and coming to a halt when they saw Dáin.

They let out a scream then, and my heart leaped when I saw my cousin tighten his grip around his axe, looking terribly small and tiny, facing those God-forsaken beasts.

“Just come and try to get me!”, he let out, in a shaky voice, and when the first Orc hurled itself at him, he struck it in the belly, making it hit the ground with a squeal.

I stopped thinking then, and so did Dwalin. We just ran to Dáin’s aid, leaving shelter for battle, and I remember the clanging of my sword against Orc’s daggers, the stench of their blood as it soaked my jerkin, and always, always the hard and faithful shoulders of my cousin, because we fought close to each other, never leaving each other’s side.

It was a never ending nightmare, because the more we struck down the more they seemed to be – my father’s Dwarves causing them to run for their lives.

Mahal, their faces... Yellowed teeth, swollen features full of hatred, even their blood was black and foul... I guess we only managed to strike them down because my father’s company had already weakened and hurt them, but to us they were a mighty foe, very different from the masters who had taught us how to fight...

Dáin let out a scream and I saw one of the Orcs draw back its dagger with a devilish smile, eying the wound in Dáin’s arm with shiny, yellow eyes. He let go of his shield, his legs shaky and his face pale and sweaty, and Dwalin jumped in front of him, sliding his knife in the Orc’s throat with a grim face.

“It’ll teach you to draw Dwarf blood...”

He smiled at me as I just pushed another Orc away, my sword thrust deep into its belly, and it was then I saw it.

A terrible beast, taller than the biggest dog and fierce as a wolf. It had managed to climb the rocks above us, not caring that under its heavy claws, stones were thrown on Orcs, striking them down.

“Dwalin!”

My scream echoed between the stones, and he just had the time to look up and stare wide-eyed to the Warg before it hurled itself on him, baring its fangs.

I don’t remember the next seconds, I just remember the maddening fear that pulsed through my body, quicker and hotter that blood. But I recall the foul stench of the beast’s breathing, as I hurled myself at it, striking it with both sword and axe.

I was screaming too, doing everything to turn the beast from Dwalin, and I struck and hit and drew blood from its flanks, making it howl. It let go of Dwalin and took some steps back, its flanks quivering, and then it leapt again. Reaching for my body this time.

I watched its jump – it seemed to take ages, and my body tensed, ready for the terrible impact and the searing pain of claws deep down in my flesh. And it came swiftly enough – its paws pinning me to the ground, taking my breath away.

I clenched my fingers round my sword, and suddenly wondered where my axe was, for my left hand was bare and motionless. And it was then I saw the beast sway and fall to the side instead of tearing me to pieces. It was then I saw my axe, embedded deep down in its skull, and realized I must have thrown it right before it jumped.

I got to my feet, my legs shaking and my breath still short, and realized we were not facing the beasts alone anymore. My father’s company had come to our aid, and were just finishing the Orcs off – it was a matter of minutes before they all lay down on the ground, dead and not able to harm anymore.

Dwalin had got up too, one hand pressed against his chest, his face deadly pale as he eyed the Warg I had struck down. And Dáin was still on his knees, trying to staunch the wound in his arm.

His father had run to him and I saw Balin and Fundin walk up to Dwalin, their faces grey and aghast.

All the Dwarves were gathering around us now, and I watched my father as he made his way towards me, his face grim and hard. For some moments he just stared at me, as if he didn’t recognize me, as if he had forgotten how to speak.

And then he struck me in the face, and the silver ring on his finger cut my lip open. He grabbed me by the shoulders as I staggered and shook me, pinning me against the rocks as if I had weighed nothing, and the back of my head hit it painfully with every word he uttered.

“What – do you think – you were doing?!”

His voice was low, but there was a fire in his eyes that frightened me – Thráin had been cold and indifferent for so many years now, and I had never faced his anger or any other of his feelings for ages...

“You think it is a game?!”

He slammed me against the rock again and my breath choked, but I did not resist him – he was my father, I could not fight him, I was not supposed to fight him. Yet when he reached out to me again, I tried to rise a hand to protect my face, and it infuriated him even more. He let go of my shoulder and grabbed my wrist, twisting it painfully.

“If I had known you would be such a fool, putting yourself at risk like that, I would have broken your bones long ago.”

He glared at me, his grey eye shining, his face pale with anger. He was still pinning me against the stone with one hand and I – I could just look at him, my eyes wide with fear and pain.

“What would your mother say?!”

He hissed that sentence like a curse, letting go of my wrist, and I don’t know which pain was greater, the one unleashed in my hand or the one in his words.

“She’s dead.” – the words came out of my mouth with blood, and I raised a shaky hand to wipe my lips.

“She’s dead. How could she care?!”

He took a step back then, his face as white as mine – I was breathing fast, still covered with black Orc blood, every inch of my body hurting, but it was nothing compared to the pain I felt inside.

And I did not defend myself when he struck me again, hitting my jaw, making my head slam again against the rock.

“Thráin!”

My father let out a deep breath when Fundin grabbed his arm, pulling him away from me. And I just let myself slide on the ground, slowly. I was shaking now, with the aftermath of the battle and what had just happened between us, and I raised my knees and pressed my face upon them, trying to control my breathing once more.

I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and when I lifted my head Fundin was looking at me, his eyes full of sorrow. He gently brushed my cheekbone, and I turned my face from him – pain and pride making his touch unbearable.

“Thank you for saving my boy.”

He whispered those words as he pulled me up, handing me back my sword and my shield. My axe was still stuck deep in the beast’s skull, and I shuddered at the mere thought of pulling it free.

The other Dwarves had already gathered – the Orcs were defeated, left on the field to rot, just like their beasts. Náin had Dáin close to him, his grip on his arm strong as iron, and Balin and Dwalin were standing side by side, their faces both white as the clouds above us.

“I suppose you would just walk away, right?”

The icy voice of my father stopped me dead, as I was walking up to them with heavy, tired steps.

“We do not leave our weapons like that, for anyone to steal.”

I looked up at him, almost beseechingly, but this was not a day where Thráin could be softened.

“I hoped I had at least taught you that.”

The contempt in his words gave me the strength to move, and walk back to the Warg I had struck down, slowly. The beast’s scent was foul, and my axe was inches deep in his skull, covered with a disgusting and sickening substance.

They all watched me approach it, and I felt sweat cover my palms as I clutched my axe once more and tried to pull. It did not stir, and as I pulled again I felt my stomach heave. I let go of the axe for a moment, praying Mahal and all the Gods not to be sick – not today, not before anyone here. And I managed to fight my nausea back, closing my eyes, grabbing the axe and putting my foot as a counterweight on the beast’s head.

I pulled – with a sudden, terrible rage against my father who understood nothing, who knew nothing about me and most of all, who did not care – and the axe broke free with a sickening sound.

I turned from the beast then, my face grey and my fingers clammy and rigid around the axe. I pulled at the hem of my shirt, ripped it, with a quick, angry move, and cleaned the blade, carefully, slowly, as if nothing else on earth mattered.

And then I faced them all, my teeth gritted and my eyes shining. I put my sword back in my belt, grabbed my shield with my left arm and shouldered my axe.

Just dare to utter one word.

My whole body was screaming out the challenge, and they all understood it. They turned away, silently, some of them with a slight bow of their head, and my father let his cold gaze hang down on me for what seemed an age, before he too eventually turned his back on me and started walking home.

I let out a few shaky breaths, embracing the battlefield once more, the crimson rays of the sun, like blood on the mountains, and the dark piles of the corpses below.

And then I walked away myself – the last of our company, my arms hurting and heavy with weapons I had imagined I could wield. Something hot fell on my lips and I thought it was blood, but then I tasted salt and realized I was crying.

No one turned, no one said a word to me, no one heard and no one saw. I had not wept since my mother’s death, since that terrible night where Frerin had laid against me and where I had tried to keep my grief from him.

But that day – when I should have felt proud and excited, after all it was my first shot and I was barely twenty, still almost a child for a Dwarf – that day my tears ran freely down my cheeks, clearing dust and blood away. Silent sobs shook me, and I did not repress them, because it hardly mattered.

Nobody cared – no one cared.

And so I walked far behind the company, my eyes blinded by soundless tears. I wept for my mother, for my father who had died away with her, and for the terrible fear I had felt, seeing the beast jump on Dwalin, baring its claws. I wept for my own foolishness, for my shattered dreams of glory, for the terrible loneliness I felt in my heart, for the throbbing pain Thráin’s blow had left in my jaw, and for Fundin’s kindness I did not deserve.

And when I had no more tears I looked up, and saw we were almost at the walls of Erebor, and that night was closing in. I put my shield down and wiped my face then, catching up with the company, determined to hide away my pain once more.

Since no one cared.

We passed the gates and the guards cheered first, and then gazed at us with surprise, taking in my battered face, the wound in Dáin’s arm and Dwalin’s bruised body.

“You just come with me.”

My father had spoken between his gritted teeth, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me towards the staircase leading to our rooms. I was struggling to keep on my feet back then, and when he pushed me in my own room I just stood there, my arms heavy as lead, my fingers loose around my axe and shield.

He snatched them from me, tossed them on the ground, and then he stripped me from my belt, my sword, my chainmail and my jerkin, with deft and angry moves.

Until I stood in shirt and breeches before him, my face grey and my eyes empty. He grabbed me by the shoulders then, and searched my whole body with his hands – feeling for my arms, my chest, my back, my stomach, even my legs, and I just let him.

“I have no more weapons, Father.”

I had spoken in a low voice; I was feeling so tired and cold then I had given up all my pride, and I was swaying between his hands. His eye widened then and he looked hard at me.

“So you think that is what I am looking for? Weapons?!

- I don’t know, Father. I am...”

He caught me around the waist as my legs gave way and held me against him, with the same force he had used to pin me against the rock.

“Mahal knows what might be going on in your head...”, he sighed, drawing in a painful breath, and then he let himself down on the ground, still holding me close.

“I was looking for injuries, Thorin. Those Orcs could have killed you, I could have seen you torn between the fangs of their beasts, and then how could I live on, tell me?”

He pressed a kiss on my head – he who had hit me hours ago – and then he just held me, his arms around me and his eyes closed. I wept again then, my face pressed into his chest, and this time it was loud and heartbreaking, for I wept like a child.

And he did not ask me to act like a warrior and to stop. He rocked me and he kissed me, and every once in a while he ran a hand through my hair and whispered:

“You foolish boy. You foolish, stupid, beloved boy of mine.”

It was long before my tears finally stopped, and by then I was utterly done for. I had closed my eyes, my face still pressed in my father’s chest, and tried to resist when he pulled slightly back to take a look at me, pushing back one of my locks.

“I have hurt you.”

My father’s voice was sad, and I opened my eyes, shaking my head.

“I deserved it. I am sorry, Father.”

My voice was hoarse and broken, and I felt a familiar fear tighten my chest. I could not let him find his way back to brooding thoughts; he was not to lock himself again in grief and sadness.

“I should never have said such things. I should never have disobeyed you. I promise I will never disappoint you again.

- Disappoint...?”

Thráin repeated the word in a whisper, shaking his head, and I felt my fear grow – I took his hand between mine and held it against my heart, my throat too tight to speak.

“You never disappointed me, Thorin. Not even today, I am afraid to say.” – he smiled briefly at me at these words, before adding softly : “I fear I am the one that let you down.”

I shook my head and drew my arms around him, realizing only then he was still wearing his full battle-gear. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and then he said:

“Nonetheless, Thorin, I cannot let things stand as they are. If I allow you to sit at tonight’s banquet, where everyone is going to praise you to the moon – as you well know they will – Mahal only knows what silly thoughts might grow in your brother’s head.

- They won’t praise me. They think I’m a nobody.”

He laughed then, freely, for the first time in years.

“You? A nobody?! I’d like to see a nobody doing what you achieved today... Wait until your grandfather hears of it...”

He shook his head, becoming serious again.

“But I won’t let you witness that. I don’t want you to wield axe, sword or shield in any other way than in training, at least for five more years, do you understand me? You are too young, and you don’t know the wild yet – even though I know you think otherwise.”

He eyed me sternly, and then he gently broke away from my embrace.

“Take a bath. Rinse that filthy blood of them away, and try to get some rest. I don’t want to part from you tonight, but for yours and Frerin’s sake I must be firm. You are not to get to the banquet, and not to leave this room until tomorrow.”

I nodded, tiredly. I knew he was right, and besides I did not want to talk to anyone right now – too much emotions, too many thoughts and feelings in my mind.

He left me, then, and I bathed, feeling my bruised and exhausted body relax in the hot water. I washed my hair carefully, rinsing away the smell of Orc blood, and then I put on a clean shirt and breeches and stretched myself on my bed, barefoot, my hair still damp and unbraided. I could hear sounds of the ongoing feast below and realized then how hungry I was, but the mere thought of getting up and asking for some food was too much – I closed my eyes and fell asleep almost at once.

A soft touch on my cheek woke me up after what seemed only minutes to me – but when I looked around me it was dark and late, and the bellowing laughter I could hear even through the thick walls bore clear proof that the feast must have been going on for long.

“Are you ill?”

Dís was kneeling on my bed at my side and I winced when she brushed my cheekbone. She had a worried look on her small face that made her look older, and I sat up to take her in my arms.

“No. I just fell asleep.

- Dwalin said you have been very brave today, he said you have saved his life.”

I looked up and saw him standing close to my bed then, awkwardly, not knowing where to look. He cleared his voice and said, briskly:

“We both thought you might be hungry.”

My eyes brightened when I saw what he had brought with him: hot bread, cheese, salted meat and some small, tasty fruitcakes that were among my favourite treats.

“Bless you...”, I whispered, jumping out of the bed.

I hugged him, briefly, and he hugged me back, almost squeezing me against his broad chest.

“Thank you...”, he said, and I just shook my head.

“No. Thank you.”

I beamed and took a big mouthful of bread, and for some minutes I was too busy eating and chewing to talk.

“I could have starved to death in here...”, I finally uttered, with a delighted sigh, before I put again some cheese in my mouth.

“We would not have let you.”

Dwalin grinned at me, and then he took one of the fruitcakes and stuffed it in his mouth, just like this.

It was then the door opened and I saw Frerin peep inside, and then getting in with confident and angry steps, closely followed by Dáin.

“Well, this is so like you. Typical. I was literally dying with worry – and anger too, what were you thinking, going there without me?! – knowing you were all alone up there, without food or company, and here I find you, quite contented, eating your fill! You don’t deserve me, Thorin, you know that?!”

He slammed what he was carrying on the table with an angry move – dear, faithful Frerin, how he managed to snatch away an entire mince pie, and fried sausages, and a loaf of hot bread I do not know – and got the more angrier when we started to laugh, Dwalin and me.

“I think we should just leave them, Dáin.”

But Dáin was laughing too, adding to Frerin’s pile of food a bottle of cider and two jugs of ale. I rose to my feet and hugged my brother, taking in the bandages around my cousin’s arm, and knowing he would not want me to say a word about them.

“You are right. I just don’t deserve you.”

Frerin’s anger deflated as quickly as it had risen and he squeezed my arm, briefly.

“Well. Since it appears you are quite the hero, I’ll try to be noble and forget about it. Let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

Dwalin stared at him in disbelief.

“You have done nothing but eating for the past five hours!!

- I know”, Frerin said quietly. “Still. This pie is a straight way to heaven, believe me.

- And so is the ale...”, Dáin grinned.

So we all ended up on the floor, sitting on the carpet in my room with all the candles on, food and drinks at everyone’s reach, and Dáin and Dwalin were just telling Frerin for the twentieth time how the Warg had appeared right before us and how I struck him down when the handle of my door moved again.

“Oh. I am sorry to interrupt.”

Balin’s face was grave but his eyes were warm and smiling, as always. He carried a basket full of fruits, and warmth spread in my chest when I realized it was mostly peaches and cherries, my favourites. I rose to my feet as he laid the basket on the floor, carefully, and threw myself in his arms.

“Oh lad...”, Balin sighed, holding me close. “The three of you, you’ll definitely be the death of me...

- The three?!”, Frerin asked indignantly, and Balin let out a watery laugh, quickly brushing his eyes, letting go of me.

“Pardon me. The four of you, of course, and you first of all.”

He sat down with us, after that, and we made a hearty banquet of all the supplies they had gathered. I was soon full but went on eating small bites of cake or fruit, listening to the stories Balin had begun to tell at Dís’ request – she was bored by our battle talk, and to be honest, so was I.

I was holding her in my lap, grateful to be alive and happy – the bruise on my cheekbone reminding me clearly that I had almost lost all this. She fell asleep soon but I did not put her down, and we sat there, my friends and I – my kin and I – until dawn, talking, laughing and eating. Grateful to be alive and together still.

It was my first battle banquet, and definitely one of my best. That day I struck my first blow, and saved my friend, and yet decided I did not want to grow up too fast.

And right I was. Right I was.

Chapter Text

A sad and grey morning it seemed to us, despite the bright and golden sunlight, when my cousins had to part from us to get back to their own halls, and my heart was heavy as I watched them go, standing once more on the ramparts.

So many things had passed, during those few weeks...

This time Dís was in Balin’s arms – she knew how sad he was, and actually Frerin and I were standing on each side of him, leaning our head on his shoulder in a mute support.

We watched Náin and Fundin’s families and guards leave Erebor, singing as always – a homage to us who had received them, and a prayer for a safe and swift travel. And this time I raised my hand and waved, and saw Dwalin and Dáin wave back, hitting their chest and stretching their arm high in the morning sun.

“You take care, Thorin!”

I recognized Dwalin’s rough voice and smiled, bending over the ramparts.

“You watch your back, Dwalin!

- Always!”, he shouted back, and then he laughed and turned – my tall, strong, warm-hearted friend I would miss so much.

And we watched them go, until the last of them disappeared behind the Hills. Balin sighed and Dís nestled even closer to him.

“If you want, I’ll ask Father if you can go and visit them soon.

- No, dearest. My place is here.”

Balin had replied softly, running his fingers through her raven hair, and then he put her on the ground, nodded to us and went down the stairs. Frerin frowned and made an attempt to follow him, but I held him back, gently.

“Let him be.”

My brother hesitated, and then he came back, resting his chin on the edge of the ramparts, his grey eyes lost in the horizon, where the river stretched in a seemingly endless curve, like a golden arch on emerald valleys.

“I wish we could cheer him up...”

I put a hand on his back and rubbed it roughly with my knuckles, wanting him to smile because I was sad too, but Frerin just leaned against me and sighed, his breath lifting one of his braids – the picture of misery itself.  I was about to tease him, but then I felt Dís pulling at my shirt, her eyes bright and her cheeks red.

“I know what could please Balin...”

She whispered her plan then, and though it was really nothing warrior-like or glorious, it was such an excellent idea that we both accepted at once – besides, it would keep us from gloomy thoughts.

We ran down the stairs, past my father and grandfather who raised a questioning brow but said nothing – my recent adventures with a certain Orc pack having given me some licence, lately.

And then I made for my father’s room, and tried to sound grave and commanding when I told the guard standing before his door:

“I have just come to get something.”

He bowed, half-mockingly, and said:

“You know I’ll have to go in with you nonetheless.”

He accompanied me inside – I had some licence, as I said, but not as much as to roam my father’s room freely – and watch me reaching for a piece of furniture that was covered in black velvet. I lifted it with a groan, for it was quite heavy.

“I’ll bring it back, I promise.”

He frowned, but let me pass, and then I went back to my own room, where I already found Frerin and Dís stretched on the carpet, Frerin humming a tune and Dís pondering over bare slips of parchment, sucking at a quill.

I put my burden on the floor and got down on my knees beside her.

“What are you doing?

- Invitations.”

She smiled at me – it did not seem to bother her that she could hardly read or write yet; she had only learnt to scribble down her name weeks before, and still blundered writing mine and Frerin’s, mixing up the beginning letters.

“You’ll help me, Thorin?

- Later... We have to rehearse first, right?”

She got up then, and Frerin took her hand and made her stand before him, his face very serious.

“Come, Dís. Let’s warm our voices first.”

She obeyed, and soon her clear, high-pitched voice ran up and down the exercises Frerin gave her in his own, deeper tune. For my part, I sat down on a low cushion, and removed the laces of the velvet fabric, folding it up with care. And then I looked at it – my mother’s harp, still polished and as good as new, though it was centuries old.

I ran a hand against the soft, rich wood, and then touched the chords, tentatively, wincing at the sound. It took me a good hour to tune it, bent upon the instrument I held gently between my legs, and when I finally put it against my shoulder, the move was so familiar and yet so intimate that I had to repress a sigh.

Frerin and Dís had stopped singing, and they sat down at my feet, looking up at me, their faces eager and shining. I cleared my throat and muttered:

“Have to get used to it again.”

I put my hands on the chords and struck them, shyly at first. And then, finding the sound clear and comforting, I started to play. My fingers were stiff and clumsy at first; it had been long since I had played. My mother used to make me play every day, and she was an exacting teacher, training both my fingers and my ears. But after her death, I had only played during very short and private moments.

Sometimes just for me, when I knew my father was not there, those days where I missed my mother so much that it hurt to think about her – the harp was still in her room then, and I would get in and leave silently, my heart somewhat lighter.

Sometimes to make Dís sleep, on those nights where her teeth were growing and paining her. Every time Frerin had been ill, too, because in those moments he was missing my mother even more, though he never said a word about it. And every year, for Dís’ birthday, at her own request – and because it was also a day where my mother was in all our minds.

My father did not play, neither did Frerin, and so this skill she had passed on to me was something sacred, not to be used too often – at least, that is how it seemed to me, and that is why I left the harp in my father’s room and did not take it for my own.

“Beautiful...”, Dís sighed when I finished, and I shook my head.

“No. Not at all. This is the worst way I ever played, and if we want to be ready I’ll really have to work hard.”

It took us most of the afternoon, to get ready and to prepare our surprise for Balin. And then it took us an hour more to get the invitations ready, because Dís insisted all of Balin’s friends should be invited too – which included pretty much all the guards.

It makes me smile still, when I remember how hard she made us work. We lay stretched on my carpet and I wrote invitation after invitation, in my best calligraphy, careful to shape the Khuzdûl runes the way Balin liked them, nice and even. And Frerin signed close to my name, leaving a space for Dís, and adorned the edges of every invitation with flourishing patterns. Dís dictated every word, and I had to keep myself from smiling at her style, and at the very serious way she signed every invitation, in letters broader than my whole text, her tongue stuck between her teeth.

“They will come, right?

- Sure”, I said, and then we went down to the guard’s hall and put the invitations on the main table, giggling, while Oín who was sitting here, sorting out some of his herbs, eyed us suspiciously.

And they came, of course.

That night, we dressed in our best clothes and went down to the hall, only to find out that most of the assembly had already gathered. Some had brought fiddles and drums, other flutes and pipes, and my father was there too, and even my grandfather. Balin sat on the front, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, and when we stepped up to face everyone he cleared his throat:

“Really, lads, I don’t know what to say...

- Wait until you hear us!”, Frerin whispered excitedly, and everyone laughed.

I put the harp on the stone floor then, bowed towards Balin and started to play. My fingers were surer now, and I knew he loved this tune, for he had often asked me to play it, the days where my mother was still with us.

I did not look at my father while I played – I did not want to put any meaning in it other than the sheer pleasure of performance, and making Balin forget his sadness. But I knew what he was thinking, for in a corner of my mind I was sharing every thought.

After I finished, I swiftly started another tune, and Dís and Frerin’s joined in. They sang in two voices, as they often did, for both had a very sure ear, and it was beautiful to hear.

They sang about Durin, about his might and glory, about his never ending line and endless life, defying both darkness and death.

They sang about the falling of Khazad-Dûm, about the famous Bridge still stretched about endless depths, where the silver light of míthril was still said to shine, beautiful and entrancing, like the moon.

And they sang about the Grey Mountains and the Fire Drakes, about our fights against them and our many losses, before we found our way back to the mighty walls of Erebor, led by Thrór son of Dáin, who became again King under the Mountain.

And then we switched to lighter songs, and after that to some of Frerin’s compositions – by that time the assistance was roaring with laughter, and I had to keep myself from striking wrong chords, especially when Dís stepped up to me and whispered:

“He’s twisting the words and singing all foul!”

And to be honest, Frerin’s poetry was indeed breath-taking:

“And then he asked, the mighty King:

Where is my comb, that nasty thing?

My beard’s all tangled, so is my hair

Oh it’s a shame, it is not fair

Someone has come, and took my brush

And now I see myself and blush:

My beard unkempt, my curls a mess –

I’d better become bald, I guess!”

“What nonsense!”, Balin hiccupped, wiping away tears of laughter, and Frerin bowed, very seriously.

Everyone cheered, and I got up – I could not take it anymore, my ribs hurt from repressed laughter – and bowed along with Dís, while they clapped their hands and shouted their praises. Dís came up to Balin and he hoisted her up on his hip, kissing her cheek fondly.

“I am sure it was your idea, and what was that for, I wonder? It is not Durin’s Day yet, am I right?

- It is Balin’s Day...”, my sister beamed, and he spun around, making her turn and scream in delight.

The other Dwarves started playing and singing, and soon most of us were dancing, our voices loud and merry in the guard’s hall.

And when I look back at this day, I find that perhaps, it was one of the last truly cheerful ones. Without any evil, any suspicion, any greed or malcontent. An evening where the powers held in the Arkenstone’s seemingly spotless shine had not been unleashed yet.

It came soon enough, though, and I was there to witness it, though at that time I had no idea what it was that made my grandfather’s moods change, slowly, treacherously. And had I foreseen the consequences – but it is vain to dwell upon that. I have failed too, and I know what the Arkenstone put him through, so I will not judge him. Not anymore.

The change was so slow, so subtle I did not notice it for many months, almost two years. True, we saw my grandfather less: he was often busy in the Treasure Hall, because Erebor’s renown had grown even more with the discovery of the King’s Jewel. Thrór’s kingdom seemed blessed, safe, a stronghold of Middle Earth, and so every mighty House was eager to be equipped with Dwarven craftsmanship. Swords, daggers and knives – their scabbards gilded in silver. Jewels, also: necklaces, bracelets, brooches and rings. Silver plates and goblets. Warm, heavy carpets and woven travelling-cloaks, and belts – belts as beautiful as any jewel.

They entrusted the doors of their Mansions to us, because we knew how to make them strong and beautiful. They let us ornate their windows, with carved iron latticework that would allow them to look outside while staying unseen – mashrabiyas they were called in Common Tongue, but in Khuzdûl we name them sanashîl, ‘window-shields’, and they are still used in our halls, though you cannot see them in any Mansion anymore.

The forge was lit night and day, their fires burning high, and the bellows never was allowed to rest. The Dwarven-masters were carving, forging, mining – and we apprentices helped to shape those wonderful objects that would travel across whole Middle-Earth. And the Dwarven-women were weaving, sewing, adorning the heavy velvet fabrics we favoured with golden threads, pearls, precious silver buttons, with material as noble as ours.

Back then, everything that came out of Erebor was fit for any kingly house. And payment came, of course: our Treasure Hall was filled with gold and silver, great fires burning down there, making the walls shine with reflections of our wealth.

You would think Thrór would rejoice in our prosperity and success – he knew so well what it was to have nothing, having come to Erebor almost empty-handed, after the Drake had slain his father.

But now that Erebor outshone even its reputation of former days, my grandfather grew worried. There was an ever-present crease between his brow, and his smile and laughter had become scarce. Also, his mood was different. He was ever a very strong-willed Dwarf, with a harsh and unbending temper, but I had never seen him yield to anger without a good reason. Yet one day, I saw him getting furious at one of our stewards, because he had allowed a well-known merchant who had always proven honest to delay his payment for a month.

He was less patient with Frerin and Dís, too. When my brother was in a cheerful mood – as it often was the case – and was prattling away and singing and laughing, he would frown in annoyance, sometimes just walk away or even snap at him, telling him to be silent. And he had no interest in Dís’ progresses either. He watched her writings indifferently, and did not care for the pains she took in learning to weave and to embroider – yet she was skilled for so small a Dwarrowlass.

She was also trained, not for battle – we Dwarves are very protective of our women, and do everything to shield them from harm, for they are few, and our most beloved treasure. Our Dwarven-women taught her the secret ways of Durin’s Fire-dance, among other steps. And I loved to watch her, and often thought it was just as hard a training as our battle sessions, allowing her to access her body, perfecting her reflexes and her agility.

I remember her dancing on Durin’s Day, that year. There she was among the women, Erebor’s youngest Dwarrowlass, a burning torch in every hand, her body gracious and supple, her long hair loose as she was spinning, drawing curves and circles with both flame and raven locks, guided by the beating of drums.

Her eyes were closed, and her bare feet seemed barely to touch the floor as she spun and turned, the light of the flame shining on her white dress. Her small wrists moved swiftly, drawing blazing lines as the torches hissed and burned, and Dís danced, oblivious to fire and danger, hand in hand with Mahal.

My heart opened, and I whispered the words of prayer then – may our fires always burn, may darkness never cloud the light, may Mahal always guide every step of Durin’s folk. May my sister grow and be happy, Erebor brightest and fairest Jewel, the moonlight of our nights and the sunshine of our skies...

When the dance stopped it felt like coming back to the world after a blessed and oblivious journey. I looked up and saw my father – and he was smiling, his hard and closed face lit by the lights. I saw joy and pride in his eyes, and I knew then that Dís was the true daughter of the one he had loved. He did not say a word, but when she came towards us, her face still earnest and her brow crowned by beads of sweat, he bent down to her and touched her forehead with his, holding her face in his hands, his eyes closed.

I turned to my grandfather – but he was not looking at them. I was not even sure he had watched the dance. His gaze was dark, and lost in the horizon – he almost forgot to give the signal for the feast: my father had to lay a hand on his arm, raising him from his thoughts.

Perhaps that is why, hours later, when the night was deep already and the stars shone bright in the moonlit sky, I felt apprehension tighten my chest when I realized that my grandfather was no longer sitting at the table, and that I could not see him anywhere in the hall or on the outer balustrades. Of course, I knew it was unlikely that anything had happened to him. But his behaviour was strange, unlike him, and suddenly I was anxious to find him.

I left the feast and went straight to his rooms, but they were locked and the guards told me he had not come there since morning. I searched the guard’s hall, even the armoury, but Thrór wasn’t there.

And then, without knowing why, my steps led me to one of the lower staircases, where torches where always lit, burning high and clear, stretching my shadow across the walls.

I walked down, slowly, my fingers brushing the cool stone, feeling the air grow colder around me, as I went down deep and deeper in the heart of the Mountain. I came to the first balustrade and advanced until I could lay my palms upon the carved stone. And it was there I found him.

The fires were lit, as usual, here and there, and I froze in surprise, almost shocked, when I saw the amount of wealth that was gathered there. Not piles, but almost hills of gold.

And my grandfather was walking between them, sometimes stooping to pick up a golden coin or a precious stone. I saw him smile, every time his fingers closed upon them, and it was a strange smile, somehow cold and unsettling, like the light that was dancing in his eyes – a reflection of flame or gold, perhaps, but it did not look entirely sane. He was humming a tune, from time to time, and as I watched him I suddenly heard him laugh, very softly, without any joy, as he bent upon a casket in which a soft white light was glimmering.

He picked up the shiny gems – it was a wonderful necklace I had never seen before – and laughed again, running his fingers through the precious stones, listening to their crystalline sound as he drew them together.

I left then, without a noise, letting go of the balustrade and returning to the staircase, getting back to the feast and taking my place back at the table. But I was not feeling like celebrating anymore – the serene joy I had felt during the dance was gone.

Balin watched me sitting in front of my filled plate, and after a while he put a hand on my arm.

“What is it, lad? You are not eating...”

I hesitated, and then I pushed my plate away, getting closer to him.

“It’s grandfather. He – he’s acting strange.”

Balin looked at me with his kind, keen eyes, and suddenly it felt like a bad dream – my grandfather down there laughing softly to himself, bent upon the necklace, oblivious to the piles of gold around and the feast above him...

“He’s down in the Treasure Hall.”

Balin drew in a sharp breath and eyed me close.

“You have been down there, Thorin?

- Just to the balustrade. It was enough.”

I shuddered despite of myself, and Balin asked softly:

“And what did you see, lad?”

The words would not come out at first, but eventually I managed to whisper:

“He’s walking. Picking up things and throwing them back. And he’s laughing, now and then. He did not hear me coming. He did not see me watching him. Why is he doing this, Balin? Why is he not sitting here with us?”

I pushed my plate even further from me, I really did not feel like eating at all. Balin had put his arm around my shoulders, and I sensed him breathe. Several times, as if he was weighing each one of his thoughts carefully.

And then he smiled at me.

“He has some serious thoughts on his mind. We have made... we have answered a special request from the Elvenking of the great forest of Mirkwood. Thranduil is his name. He was an old, very old – well, perhaps friend would be saying too much, let’s say a very old acquaintance of Dáin, Thrór’s father. They fought the Drakes together, in the North, almost two centuries ago.

- Really?!”

My eyes widened, and for a while I completely forgot about my fears. Balin nodded, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled, recognizing the way I had always looked at him as a child, while listening to one of his stories.

“He has asked us for some very special gems that were guarded in the Mountain, long before we came back. They were entrusted by Thranduil to Thorin – the first Thorin, Dáin’s great-grandfather, after whom you have been named – to be kept safe, because those were troubled times. Then we left Erebor for the Grey Mountains, and as you well know these were not peaceful years either. Now that Erebor is thriving again, Thranduil has asked again for the gems of Lasgalen, and because he knows our skills he bade us to mount them as a necklace. White and pure as snow – it took us days and days to shape it, and it is one of the most beautiful pieces of jewellery I have been given to see.

- I have seen it...”, I muttered. “It is beautiful. Nearly as beautiful as the Arkenstone.

- Thranduil is coming soon to claim it. So I guess Thrór just went down to assure himself that everything is in order. After all, Thranduil is a very powerful acquaintance, we would not want to cross him...

- But Balin...”

I had broken free from his embrace and looked at him, puzzled.

“You cannot be right. There is no way Thranduil could have known the first Thorin – he would be at least seven hundred years old!

- Of course I am right”, Balin laughed. “Thranduil is an Elf, blessed with eternal life – or cursed, it depends how you see it, right, lad? He’s more than a thousand years old, and has seen many Kings rise and fall, this I can tell you...

- But how come we have never met him? Him or any other Elf?”

Balin smiled again at my surprised, almost offended look.

“And now my dear, little Thorin is frowning, wondering why in twenty-three summers he has roamed the Earth, Thranduil never came to see him. Such neglect, right?”

I was frowning indeed, and he laughed at me, running a hand through my hair and making me smile too, eventually.

“Yet to answer your question, lad. They never came here because they do not live like us. They like trees, and Nature, and rivers. They are always outside, looking for the sky and the starlight, between the glorious crowns of their trees. They are not fond of rock and stone, and find it hard to understand that we can live in Mountains.

- But there’s no shelter in trees, surely?”

I could tell from Balin’s warm look he loved to see me so interested and entranced by his words – I have said so before, his face never shone as much as when he could pass on his knowledge.

“I wouldn’t know, Thorin. After all, I’m a Dwarf, remember?”

He winked, took a sip of ale, and then resumed:

“But perhaps there is. They love the woods as we love stone, they can talk to trees and even awaken them – just as we know how to listen to the wind’s song along the rocks, and make them reveal their secrets to us... So you see, I think that maybe, even though we live very differently, some parts of our heart and souls might be alike.”

He looked at me, and saw the dreamy look on my face – for I was pondering his words, and wondering about this mysterious Elvenking and his people in the woods.

“Come, Thorin. Have some dessert – it is Durin’s Day, after all.”

He pushed my plate back to me and I found that the dread I had felt had vanished, replaced by images so vivid that my mind did not know where to begin to dream.

“You’ll meet him soon...”, he promised me, and as usual, he was right.

It was a cold day, the day we stood all in the Throne’s Hall, waiting for the Elvenking to come. We were all ready, dressed in our best attires with the utmost care, and I remember standing next to my grandfather, close to the throne where the Arkenstone was shining, fastened in the stone above Thrór’s crowned head.

I was wearing a heavy, night-blue tunic with many layers to keep me warm, and it was fastened around my waist with a large silver belt. The pattern always made me think of stars, which is why I often wore it with this tunic. It was very cold, as I said, and I was wearing heavy leather boots, reinforced by carved iron plates, and a cloak of black fur was wrapped around my shoulders, fastened under my arm guards, reaching almost to my knees. I had no jewels save the silver beads in my hair and my sword, and my fingers gently rested on its hilt as I was standing. Still and silent. Waiting.

Frerin was there too, dressed in red, as usual, and he had grown tall, reaching almost my size. His golden locks were drawing curves on his soft, brown fur, and the embroidery on his tunic matched his hair. He wore a thinner belt than mine, and bore his sword, but he did not touch it. I saw his fingertips brush his fur, every once in a while, like a child dreaming – and so he was, for we had been standing here for almost an hour.

Dís was not there, for she was not to be submitted idly to stranger’s gazes. She was disappointed and almost angry, but she did not argue with my father, for she knew better. I have mentioned our sanashîls – perhaps I should have talked also about the astuteness of our women, and the ways they managed to keep informed despite our secrecy. And Dís told me later she had seen everything from one of the upper balustrades, carefully shielded from every gaze.

He came gracious and almost silent, like a leaf carried by a soft southern wind – Thranduil the Elvenking from the forest of Mirkwood. And when I look back at this first encounter, I find that I cannot recall any words.

My grandfather must have greeted him, and my father also, as he walked upon the marble bridge that led to the throne, high above the depth, but I don’t remember their voices, or his answer. My eyes were focused on his face, to the point of being almost rude – but I could not look elsewhere. He had a pale, smooth, beardless skin and very fair hair that hung long and straight to his breast, but what I remember most is his gaze. Blue-grey eyes under dark eyebrows, that did not reveal any of his thoughts and yet seemed as ageless as the sky – it was then I truly realized how old Thranduil was, despite his features that looked hardly elder than Frerin’s or mine.

Thranduil wore a diadem of branches and berries that would have seemed strange and misplaced on any other – yet on him it looked as kingly as my grandfather’s heavy crown. His dress matching his eyes was of an extraordinary grey, thin tissue, shining like dew in the morning sun, held on his chest by a brooch of silver branches.

And I could not help but wonder at the contrast between this king and Thrór. One standing, the other sitting. My grandfather draped in his heavy fur mantle, his dark tunic upon his scale armour, his broad chest covered in a jerkin embroidered with golden threads, and his beard the most regal attire of all, for it was woven with golden beads, and braided to look like silver scales, shielding his breast and heart. And the Elvenking without armour, wearing nothing heavy, facing us quietly, tall and erect, seemingly untouched by the icy cold around us.

He bowed, slightly, and so did the four Elves accompanying him, and my grandfather made a sign, calling our elder goldsmith forward. I knew what he was carrying, in the precious wooden chest, and I saw Thranduil’s gaze sharpen and his body tense, almost imperceptibly.

I never guessed any of his thoughts, and never saw any emotion in this pale, strange face – except that day. When the chest was opened and the White Gems lightened his face, I saw Thranduil hold his breath. His eyes widened slightly, and he held out a hand – longingly, yet almost warily. And for this one and only moment, I understood what he felt. He had not touched them for centuries and yet, he must have remembered their shine, their cold touch against his fingers, their entrancing light, as soft and cold as falling snow.

There they were, the White Gems of Lasgalen, displayed on pale crystals, and Thranduil let out his breath and touched them.

Or rather tried.

For when his fingertips where on the point of brushing them, my grandfather made another sign, and the goldsmith closed the wooden chest with a snap, almost on his hand. He startled then, the Elvenking, and his eyes grew wide for a moment.

I had moved too, looking at my grandfather in shock, my face aghast – I did not understand, I could not understand. Thrór was smirking behind his beard, his face dark, his eyes fixed on Thranduil who stood still several seconds, gazing silently back.

And then he turned his eyes on me and I had to face this grey, cold, ageless look. He took in my face, carefully, as if weighing both my body and soul – and though I was in the very walls of my own home, I had to repress a shiver. Then he looked at Frerin, with exactly the same unsettling expression, and after that, without even bothering to speak to Thrór, he turned from the wooden chest and left.

His feet made no sound on the hard, marble floor, and I can still see his grey robe brushing it, his tall, slim frame almost gliding upon it, followed by the four Elven guards. He had not even stayed an hour.

I remained speechless and frozen on the spot, my heart cold and my mind racing. And then I turned to Thrór, the words passing my lips before I could repress them:

“What in Durin’s name was that about?”

He turned to me and I bit my lips, wishing I had not spoken. He was the King, we were in the Throne’s Hall, I had no right to voice my thoughts... But Thrór only laughed.

“That shiny Elvenking did not want to give us our due. For centuries we have kept these gems safe; days it took us to shape them the way he wanted them, and yet he would not pay. He brought less than half the sum we agreed. So I thought I’d teach him not to fool a Dwarf.”

He bent towards me and put his hand on my arm, and I had again to repress a shiver.

“If you want to become a strong, respected King one day... Remember what is due to you. Never give something valued away before you have carefully weighed its prize, and don’t let anybody fool you. Especially not an Elf. And now you may leave.”

I looked at him, and then at my father, who was standing close to him, his face grim and closed. My throat tightened and my cheeks burned with shame – though I was at a loss to determine the true cause of that feeling: my grandfather’s behaviour or my own. And then I left, by the same path Thranduil had taken, except that my pace was not silent, every step echoing across the hall, for my boots were heavy and iron-clad.

And then I ran. Leaving the halls, making for the staircases, trying to get to the ramparts on time. The wind was icy when I reached them and it bit my cheeks, making my eyes sting. I pressed my body against the cold stone, panting, and then I saw them.

Five thin and gracious silhouettes perched on strange, big-horned animals I had never seen before. Leaving Erebor without a glance behind, soon lost in the grey vastness of the bare and frozen Valley.

“He did look eerie, didn’t he?”

There was a slight tremor in Frerin’s voice, and he was standing very close to me, almost touching me – I could feel the warmth of his body, so real, so fragile, and this time, I was the one that reached out to him and pulled him close.

“Yes, he did.

- His gaze chilled me to the bone...”, my brother whispered, and I could only agree inwardly, my arm entwined in his.

“Look...”, Frerin said after a while, resting his cheek on my fur coat. “It is snowing.”

The flakes had started to fall, silently, each one of it cold and more perfect than the noblest gemstone. Snow fell on the ramparts, on the walls, on Dale’s gilded roofs you could barely distinguish in the winter mist, and on the Watchtower high above the waterfall.

Perhaps it fell, too, on the Elvenking’s strange crown, perhaps he felt its cold on his grey and shining robe, on his journey back to the Forest I thought I would now never see. And I could not help wondering, as I watched the snowflakes dance, so white and pure, if every single one of them was not reminding him of the Gems he had desired so much and lost once more, and how long it would take me to forget this cold and searching gaze that had turned my heart to ice.

Chapter Text

It would still hurt every now and then – the long, thin, silver scar on my left forearm. It should not have, for we are meant to endure fire and burns – we are used to the heat, we revel in fire, for it blazes in our forges and sets our souls aflame, when we bend upon the metal and watch it take shape.

But on some days, the blazing pain would awaken, only for a second, yet enough to bring me back to this one, dark, terrible day – making me shiver. Even though it only reminded me of ashes and furnace, even though the heat that day was almost unbearable. I who have always loved flames, their entrancing dance, the way they weave a pattern of shadows on faces and stones, I could only shiver when I remembered the heat of Dragon-breath on my skin – and the desolation that followed, for memory is both a treasure and a curse.

Not a single, dreadful image has ever left my mind since that day, even though I buried them deep into my heart and have always avoided to speak of them – we all had to endure, we all endured. But the ache never fully healed, and despite the pain and grief I would feel every time I was brought back there, I am not sure it was entirely an evil. My fingers would enclose my forearm, the pain already receding – but my conscience towards the dead was clear: I did not forget. 

It would be unforgivable to forget.

This day of desolation was dark and terrible, but the months before were clouded and tinged with bitterness. Nothing good came out of this strange, chilling encounter with the Elvenking – I am not so blind as to deny it, though I might hate him for a thousand good reasons.

I had seen my grandfather haunt the Treasure Hall, I had seen him become irritable and act strangely, but that year his conduct passed all understanding. He raised the farmer’s taxes, without any reason, and waved away his counsellor’s and even my father’s objections – and because he was the King they all fell silent.

And when the Men of Dale came to Erebor to try to bring him back to his senses, he laughed right into their faces.

“For decades my guards have defended your lands, and yet you will be ungrateful and deny us what you owe us.”

It was Girion, Lord of Dale, who was standing in the Throne’s Hall that day, and his face was certainly not as secretive and impassible as Thranduil’s. He was a tall, strong man with a black beard and very dark eyes, and they blazed under his eyebrows as he spoke:

“Right. We will give you what you want, Lord King. You will get your money and your gold, but mark my words: one day will come when you will stand in front of me begging. And I pray it might come soon – the day where you will ask me on your knees for food, the day where you will finally remember that gold cannot save you from hunger.”

He left without bowing, with broad, angry steps, and he dragged his son away with him, who had stood silent at his side. I knew him too –his name was Cillian, I used to see him around the City, on the rare occasions I would still leave Erebor for Dale.

That evening my father called me to his room. I remember him sitting at his desk, several parchments spread before him, and one of it covered with writings and numbers in Common Tongue. He had taken off his chainmail, his arm guards, even his fur coat – it was rare for us to see him like this those days, and it reminded me of my childhood, when he would hold me on his lap and let me scribble whatever I wanted on slips of used parchment.

“Come in...”

He locked the door behind me, and I looked up at him, somewhat taken aback by his secretive ways.

“Sit down.”

He pointed to the chair in front of him and I sat down, slowly, wondering what I had done – he seemed ready to scold me, and I was at a loss to find out why. Thráin sat down too, his arms folded and his eye dark and thoughtful.

“What did you think of the meeting today?”

He had asked softly, yet his gaze was shrewd and it made me uneasy, as I tried to find the words to voice my thoughts without speaking disrespectfully of my grandfather.

“I... I think we did not act as we should have, Father. Lord Girion is a hot-tempered Man, but he has always ruled wisely and Dale is thriving under his care. They need us, for their trades and for their protection. But we need them for food, as he justly said. And the farmers on his lands, though prosperous, cannot give us as much as my grandfather asks.”

I paused, wondering how my father would take my words. And I was surprised when he nodded, and smiled to me.

“You know Dale well. And though you are still very young, there is wisdom in your words. I think as you do. We should not ask for more.

- But Father, the taxes are already to be collected. Girion even agreed, how could we stop this?”

My voice was not above a whisper – it seemed so wrong, trying to undo Thrór’s foolish decisions in secret. My father smiled again.

“We will not stop it. We will collect them, and show them to the King. And then we will simply bring them back. Our chambers are filled with gold. Surely you do not expect my father to notice that a small amount he never needed found its way back from our doors...

- But how will we give it back? He will want to know why you leave Erebor, you or any of the stewards...

- This is why you are to go. Everybody knows you like Dale and always have. He won’t suspect you, dashat.”

I had conflicted feelings about this – I thought my father was acting wisely, and approved of his plan, and yet I felt terrible at the idea of betraying my grandfather’s trust. But the fond word Thráin used, and the trust he placed in me were reasons enough to make me accept.

It was one of the last conversations about Erebor we had together, and one of the last occasions where I still trusted him blindly and completely, my faith in him yet unwavering.

And so it happened that ere long, I was standing in front of Girion in his own hall, his Men, counsellors, and his son watching me silently, just like we did in Erebor.

“I come on behalf of Thráin son of Thrór...”, I said, standing erect in this Hall of Men, whose wooden pillars were high and carved, and yet so different from the cold, dark beauty of my own home.

“He bade me to seek your halls in secrecy, to try to undo the harm that has been done, and as his elder son I stand before you.”

The counsellors frowned and whispered, clearly taken aback, and even Girion’s fiery gaze softened in bewilderment.

“What do you mean?”, he asked – too astonished to shape his words so as to answer me politely.

“I mean that you honored your word, by paying the taxes, my lord. Now it is our turn to provide what is needed, and so Thráin is giving back to you what we never should have claimed.”

I took the bag I had carried on my back – a simple leather bag I often wore when I came to Dale – and searched for the metallic chest that was hidden inside, before handing it to Girion with a bow.

He got up from his seat and took some steps to meet me, but then he stopped and shook his head.

“What strange game is it you play, lately?”, he asked, and my face darkened.

I gently laid the chest on the wooden floor, making sure that I was still looking at Girion so that he would not mistake it for another bow.

“I cannot say more.”, I simply said, and then I bowed my head and left, my eyes still dark and my heart heavy.

I had almost reached the City’s doors when I heard hurried footsteps behind me – Cillian was running towards me, his long strides catching up with mine ere long.

“Wait!”, he panted, reaching out to my arm so as to hold me back.

His fingers closed upon me and I pulled free, but I could not be so rude as to avoid facing him. He looked at me, his dark eyes searching and his young face full of questions and concern.

“My father wanted me to ask...

- I have not met him...”, I answered, so low that it seemed only my lips had moved. “I have to go.”

But that child of Men would not understand. He stood in my way, and still wanted to talk, and I cursed him inwardly, even though I knew he meant no harm.

“It’s just... Can we help, somehow?”

I looked at up him, my eyes meeting his. I would recognize this black, kind and searching gaze in another Man decades after, long after Cillian son of Girion had ceased to breathe and was slumbering in his quiet green grave on the riverbanks. And I shook my head, slowly, almost sadly.

“No. You cannot help.”

We faced each other in silence for another moment, and then Cillian stepped away, bowing his head as I passed.

“Thank you”, he whispered. “We won’t forget.”

I left Dale then, without a look behind, anxious to get back to Erebor and yet dreading the moment where I would have to face my grandfather, knowing that I had acted against him. Had I known, that day, that I was never again to see the City as it was then, that those gilded roofs, beautiful arches and marbled mansions were soon to crumble down, shattered, destroyed, perhaps I would have embraced Dale with one last, longing, loving look.

But I did not.

It started to rain, when I reached the doors of Erebor, and it rained until night time, causing the Dwarves on guard to grumble. I was among them – for it was another of my grandfather’s strange orders, that there should always be a watch on the ramparts, as if we were at war, or expecting to be.

Did he know, back then, what storm his greed for gold had called upon us? I cannot answer that question, but I hope not, and deep in my heart I think he did not. He was just protecting his Treasure, and never dreamt it would actually be taken from him.

That night, I was standing close to Balin, listening to the falling of raindrops on the pavement, and on the walls. I was glad to be outside, despite the stormy weather, and I actually raised my face to the sky, letting the rain pour down on me – wanting it to wash away this nagging feeling of anxious guilt that would not leave me.

“Finally someone who seems to enjoy getting drenched...”

Balin smiled at me, and then he too looked up at the clouds above us, blinking slightly as the drops fell on his face.

“What it is you find in those I do not know, but you seem to enjoy it, lad, and it pleases me. It pleases me far more than this endless and useless night-watch.”

It was the first time I ever heard him voice any critic against my grandfather. He had been there when Girion came, and had tried to reason with him, gently, but he never had spoken his mind as clearly before. I turned to him then, my face still drenched and my braids plastered against my chainmail. He pulled them back, brushing my forehead with an affectionate, almost fatherly gesture.

“Thráin told me what you did. I am proud of you, Thorin.”

I opened my mouth but no words came out, and Balin added, wrapping my fur coat tighter around me:

“It was the right thing to do.”

He turned from me, getting back to the walls, watching the Valley you could barely discern between rain and night, and after a while I followed him, standing again on his side. He was shorter than me, I had outgrown him for several years now, so I bent my head to rest my cheek on his shoulder, feeling relieved at last.

And Balin inclined his head so as to touch mine, the raindrops falling on both of us, running between our hair and braids.

“Friendships are worth more than gold, Thorin.”

Perhaps this one, wet and dark night-watch on the ramparts stands up so clearly in my mind because there was no fire, no flame, no warmth in it, only silence and rain. One last moment of peace before the Dragon’s storming.

It happened late in the morning, after a windy, dry and unusually warm night – I had slept fitfully, searching for the cool wall in my slumber, and had woken up to find I had pushed my sheets away, curling them at my feet, my shirt and hair damp with sweat and my mouth dry with thirst.

I felt oppressed and hot, but though my heart was racing just as it did the one time I had lain in a fever, I knew right away that this time the cause was not in my body, but outside. The heat was not natural, nor was the dryness in my throat, and it alarmed me as it did everyone else.

I quickly dressed up, and Mahal must have guided me that moment for I put on my warrior gear despite the heat, not really knowing why but yielding to an urgency I could not yet understand. Shirt, tunic, chainmail, jerkin, breeches, thick pants, heavy boots, and my arm guards – I would not have survived that day, had it not been for that strange impulse to dress as if for war.

And war it was. I was sweating when I reached the ramparts, my axe and sword fastened on my back, heavy yet reassuring. And I found most of the guards up there, as well as Balin and my father, but not Thrór – Thrór would not leave the Treasure anymore.

“This is not good...”, Balin muttered, looking at the heavy, grey clouds storming right towards us.

“There is going to be a storm...”, I said, my lips parched with thirst, and my body almost wishing for it – cascades of rain raging on the dry earth, soaking it in its wrath, washing the dust away.

But my father shook his head, slowly, his body tensing close to mine as the clouds came near. A hot wind had risen, and it made the pines close to the Mountain creak, their sound aching in our ears as their branches groaned and cracked.

“No storm...”, Thráin muttered, and suddenly his eye widened.

“Thorin, get inside. Find your brother and sister, tell everyone to get out. Do it now!!

- But...”

He grabbed my arm and pushed me back inside, preventing me from seeing what was darting down from the skies, aiming straight for us. I felt a searing wave of heat pass close to me, but my father had pinned me to the ground, shielding me with his heavy body, and as I recovered, trying to breathe again and to understand, he hissed the word like a curse.

“Dragon.”

It smelt of fire and burning, suddenly, and from the door leading to the ramparts I saw that the pines were ablaze, the flames red and high, like torches in the morning's dull light.

Thráin pushed me inside, hard, and I can still hear his voice bellowing:

“Dragon! Uslukh! Sound the alarm – warn the King! Guards and warriors to the main door, and get the women and children outside! To the door – we have to fight it, it cannot get in!!!”

He turned to me then, and grabbed my shoulder.

“Find Frerin and Dís. Get them out. Now!”

I was still frozen in shock, and instinctively reached for his arm, but he pulled away, his gaze urgent and commanding.

“Just do it!”

And then he turned, reaching for his axe and shield, running back to the ramparts, shouting orders I could not understand anymore. My father, strong, cold-headed and brave – Thráin son of Thrór, as he was before ashes and fire destroyed it all.

I ran down the staircases and tried to keep calm and focused just like he was – I would obey him, I would get everyone safely out of here, and then I would return and help him face the Beast.

Frerin met me on the lower halls, his face pale and anxious – he had also dressed for battle, though he never had fought for real, and that sight gave me strength and courage.

“Is it true?”, he whispered, and I nodded.

“Get the Dwarflings, Frerin. You know the passage out of the Mountain leading to the hills. You lead them there, I’ll manage the rest – we have to be quick.”

He nodded, and then he turned away – I saw him speak to several Dwarven-women, urging them on, and then they vanished in one of the corridors and he was gone.

I have no precise memories of what I did next – I just know I was trying to remember what was supposed to be done in case of emergencies. Calming down everyone, giving everyone a precise task to do, reminding them not to waste time in gathering useless belongings. Only food, blankets, weapons if they could, and then make for the southern passage leading to the hills.

I ran up and down halls and staircases, endlessly repeating these orders, sometimes squeezing a shoulder or a hand when I saw someone ready to panic. Trying to keep some order in the chaos, for chaos it was – I still hear the screaming, and the clatter of panicked feet running down the staircases.

I did not see what happened outside, and I thank Mahal for it. The Dragon launched only one short and deadly attack on our ramparts, and then he turned to Dale, making sure no help would come to us from there. I did not see its walls and domes crash down, I did not hear the screams of Men that day – I only witnessed what was left after the Beast’s fury, and it was enough to fill my heart with dread and rob me of sleep for months afterwards.

For the Men that fell in Dale gave us a brief amount of time to save some of our kin – and this I never forgot while my mind was sane. The City I had loved was destroyed and I was not there to watch it and grieve, for I had my own folk to protect – but in my heart I have always wept for Dale every time I mourned for Erebor.

I was running down the upper staircase, reaching again for the lower floor, having made sure that everyone was warned and ready on the eastern wing, when I heard a terrible sound and felt the Mountain shake. I clung to the walls, trying to steady myself, and the stone quivered again as the banging sound echoed a second time.

And I knew then what was coming.

The Beast was at the main door – months later Balin told me what he had seen, the wrinkles around his eyes wet with unshed tears.

It came in smashing down our thick stone doors just as if they were made of parchment, and with them crushed dozens of our warriors down. Then it sent a wave of fire that blazed against the walls and burnt the Dwarves who did not have the time to crouch, invading Erebor with fire and smoke, sowing death on its path, crushing down our walls, our halls, our warriors and our people, reaching for the Treasure.

I had fallen on my knees, feeling the Mountain shift and tremble under my feet – I who had always been so sure that stone was safe and unyielding, ever enduring no matter what could happen. But I pulled myself up, still aiming to get to my father – now that the Dragon had gotten in, now that all was left for me to do was to run down these stairs and fight it.

I had reached the main hall and was running towards the crashing and roaring sound – Death, Dragon, Desolation, Despair, these words would always echo in my mind when I would remember that awful noise, mingled with the screams of dying Dwarves.

But suddenly I heard someone shout my name, and as I turned around I saw Frerin, breathless and even paler than before.

“I cannot find her, Thorin. I have searched everywhere, all the Dwarflings from the upper halls are getting to the passage, but I cannot find Dís.”

He was looking at me with wide, frightened eyes and I felt an icy hand clutch my stomach, almost making me sick.

“Where did you look?”, I managed to ask, and Frerin tried to keep calm as he answered.

“Our rooms, father’s room, the upper balustrades, every hall in the southern and northern wing... She’s not there. I have searched, and called her name, I don’t know where she is.”

My mind raced feverishly as I tried to think straight despite the panic that was invading me.

“I come from the eastern wing. She’s not there either. It leaves only the western wing – she must be there somewhere. Get outside, Frerin, lead them all out. I’ll get her.”

I did not even bother to look back and see if he did what I ordered. There was no time left, and Frerin had always been reliable.

I rushed to the western wing, suddenly remembering that these were the women’s quarters, where Dís did not live but where the sight upon Dale and the ramparts was best – and she would have wanted to see what was coming. She was never one to shut her eyes to whatever was coming out of the wild to meet her, for she had never known any real danger. No doubt she would have got up there, trying to know what was happening and how she could face it.

The wing was empty, for the Dwarven-women had all run out, searching for their children, fleeing out of the halls as ordered, quick and efficient despite their fear, for there were old Dwarven-ladies among them who had seen war and knew how to fight down the fear and to keep their nerves.

But Dís was only a child, and had ever been silent in her worst terrors. She was so small, so quiet, and was not supposed to be up there, which is why nobody noticed her, kneeling motionlessly behind one of the sanashîls on the upper balustrade.

She had watched Dale’s destruction wide-eyed and silent, she had seen the Dragon unfold its wings, coming down like a hurricane on the City, she had watched him spit fire and death and heard the screams, she had seen the smoke rise where houses had stood. And all this dreadful time she never uttered a single cry, her fingers clinging around the iron lattice as if she was drowning, her knuckles almost as white as her face when I found her.

She did not move when I called her name, not even when I tried to pull her away – her fingers were knotted around the iron with surprising strength, and when I finally managed to unfold her grip I saw blood on her palms.

Her gaze was wide and empty, and when I lifted her, pressing her against my chest and starting to run down, her body was limp and lifeless, yet she was breathing.

On and on I ran, and this time I did not bother to make sure that everyone was safely out of the wings and halls – I just wanted Dís out of this nightmare of dust and smoke, I wanted her to lie down on soft, green grass, away from the Dragon’s breath, where I could bathe her face with water and try to dissolve what she had seen with my touch and my kisses, as I always did when she woke up at night.

But I had forgotten that the western wing was right above the Treasure Hall. I know it is hard to imagine the complicate pattern of corridors, bridges, halls, wings and balustrades that we had woven deep inside of the Mountain. When my nephews – I cannot speak their names, I do not want to speak their names now, it hurts too much – when my nephews asked me about Erebor and heard me describe it, I had to draw a map for them on the ground, they could not understand or picture it without.

But the Dragon needed no map. He smelt the gold, he was drawn to it like iron to a magnet, and he found his way, through the main entrance, to the western lower hall down to the Treasure Hall, his tail crashing down pillars and balustrades.

And it was on the western lower hall that he found us. I had almost reached the doorway leading to a narrow corridor that linked the western and southern wing when the ground quivered again and I heard the deafening noise of stone crumbling to pieces.

I should have gone on running but I froze. Ash, dust and stone powder filled my lungs, making me choke, making my eyes sting, and I stood still for a second while Dís still hung lifelessly in my arms.

And then I turned.

The hall had been crushed, some of the pillars had fallen and one of the heavy, silver plates we used to adorn the walls had fallen only inches from where I stood – but this was the lesser evil.

For there it was, the Beast, its clawed wings firmly rooted in the stone ground. I could see its breath – expanding its throat and chest, glowing under its scales like embers. I sensed its heat on my face when it bared its fangs, almost smiling, greed and hunger shining in its dreadfully bright eyes.

“You cannot escape.”

Its voice was deep, raspy, like logs cracking and burning before fire twisted them. It vibrated through my chest and spread fear through my bones, turning them to stone.

“You will burn. She will burn – you will not save her, she is already a dead weight. Perhaps you could use her as a shield, yes... It might give you time to run to that door. Do not tell me you have not thought of doing it, Thorin son of Thráin.”

I had not. I had not. I clung to these words, desperately, with every hurried breath I took, facing the Dragon that pretended to read the blackest part of my soul, and his smile became broader when he saw me tighten my grip around Dís, shifting her weight to my right hip.

He took a deep breath, and as he did I moved, swiftly, reaching down to the crushed and broken silver plate that had fallen at my side. I grasped the biggest piece with my left hand and then I turned, my right side out of its reach, shielding Dís with my back and shoulders, the silver plate between me and the Dragon’s breath when he finally let it out.

The heat was unbearable, and I felt the silver against my arm twist and burn, melting itself with my skin as the Dragon roared, but the flames never touched my head or my chest and my arm never wavered. And when the Dragon finally had to draw another breath, I made for the corridor, my arm still outstretched even though my improvised shield was barely offering shelter anymore.

I had reached the doorway when the flames spread again, and this time the silver plate gave way, or perhaps I let it fall, the searing pain in my forearm weakening my grip. But still I ran, knowing the Beast could not follow me in there, and I did not stop running, even when I felt the thick air around me change to a hot breeze, carrying more dust, yet smelling of earth, not of stone.

I stumbled outside Erebor, my arm still curled around Dís’ waist – for I was outside, I could see the dark, heavy clouds above my head, replacing the stone ceilings tinged with fumes and soot.

I had reached the hills at last, and as I finally stopped running and fell into a slow, wavering, broken walk, I suddenly noticed how still everything was.

There were Dwarves all around me, I could see their frames and hear their moans, but they kept it low, and when my gaze fell on the edge of the hills that lead deep into the Forest, I suddenly found out why.

He was there, the Elvenking, perched upon his big-horned mount, his grey eyes taking us in – hundreds of us, dishevelled, coughing, moaning, crying softly and struggling to keep standing, while the Mountain close to us was quivering and fuming, the roars and screams inside muffled but still audible.

And behind him stood his army. Quiet, light, their weapons ready and their faces calm yet wary – and when I saw them my heart leaped up, for my hopes kindled again.

“Help us...”

And though my voice was hardly above a whisper, I know he heard me, because his gaze sharpened and fell right on my face.

“We tried to face him. Erebor is on fire. Please. Help us.”

I swear I let these words pass my lips twice, Mahal forgive me. I was so young then, so innocent, it still causes me to laugh even now – and what do I care if it brings fresh blood on my lips, making me cough as I did that day, for my lungs were full of smoke and those few words brought ashes in my mouth.

He looked at me for what seemed an age, and yet he took his decision swiftly and silently, not even bothering to speak. He tilted his head and turned, and as he did so his warriors stepped back and withdrew too, soon vanishing behind the edge of the hill as my hopes shattered down, replaced by a burning and everlasting hatred.

The Elvenking had seen what fire did to us, he had watched me stand in front of him begging, my breath short, my forearm burnt and aching from the Dragon’s breath – and above all, he had seen my sister’s small, limp, helpless body pressed against mine. And yet he chose to do nothing, and let us stand alone in the ashes – for ashes were all that was left to us.

Hatred rose in my soul and its fire spread to my body, making me quiver – for this was a feeling I had never tasted before, and though it ached and burnt it was also warm and comforting. It made me feel alive when I ought to have felt dead, and I reveled in it, standing on the hills, watching them go away.

Perhaps the burning shivers that were still running through my body helped to bring Dís back to life, for they also shook her small frame – deep, racking waves of hatred and despair. She lifted her head that had hung against my shoulder, slowly, just like she was waking up, and yet her eyes had been wide open all the time. Her small hand moved, brushed my jaw, my cheekbone, my forehead – and as it did I turned to face her.

Her blue eyes were searching my face, still haunted by fear, trying to understand what it was that made me shiver, what made my gaze turn black and dangerous, what made my body tense to the point that every muscle was aching. And I softened when I saw her pale, pitiful little face, her hair plastered to her head with sweat, and the small, hurried little breaths she took, like a frightened animal.

“It is over, Dís. You are safe now. You are safe.”

I was speaking softly – there was no hatred in me anymore, not with that bright, blue, desperate gaze, clinging to my face and weakening everything in me. I fell to my knees, slowly, still holding her with the one arm I was able to move. She was still stroking my face, her breathing shallow, and I held her close and rocked her, repeating the same words again and again.

“You are safe. It is over.”

And even when her sweaty palms stopped to brush my cheeks and grabbed my shoulders instead, even when she began to heave, silently, her body still pressed against mine, not letting go despite of the hot trickle of vomit that stained both her dress and my chainmail – even then I rocked her, rubbing her back gently, never letting go of her waist.

“I am... s-s-sorry...”

She was shivering, her voice thin and brittle with tears she tried to hold back. I could feel it, just like I felt the next wave that made her double up – yet I did not let go, I just dragged her closer, letting her lean against me, not caring for the acid stench, not caring to be soiled, only glad to feel her against me. Alive.

It was Dís who let go of me slightly, when the spasms finally stopped and when she found enough breath to begin to cry, softly.

“I am sorry...”

She tried to free herself from my embrace but she was still weak and in the end she just stood there, her face slightly averted as she cried.

“I sh-should have l-let go of you. Now we are both d-dirty and they will s-scold us.

- No they won’t, dearest. We are together, never mind that – we will wash it away in the river.”

I pulled her close again and she leaned into my arms, her legs entwined around my midriff as I stood up, slowly, still whispering promises in her ears.

“We will reach the water, and we will rinse everything away, and nobody will notice. It will be as if nothing had happened, I promise you. Nobody will scold you, my love. Stay close to me now, that’s it, Dís. Just stay close, dearest.”

The other Dwarves had already begun to move, I could hear their cries, urging each other to the river, some of them carrying the wounded or helping them to walk. I forbade myself to look back at the Mountain – I could not, I had to move on, we had to get out of the Dragon’s reach, we had to regroup, organize and take care of the wounded. I also tried not to think about my grandfather, my father or Balin – had they survived the attack? Were they also reaching for the riverbanks, their hearts aching and their lungs burning, or were they lying dead yet still hot and burning in the heart of the Mountain we had lost...?

And my brother – had he made it too? I could not see Frerin’s golden-haired head among the staggering crowd of Dwarves climbing down the hills, but then the dust and smoke was terrible, and it was hard to distinguish anyone, harder even to recognize which name belonged to the bent, broken, limping silhouettes moving around us.

My left forearm burned and ached, searing waves of pain shooting up to my arm and shoulder. I had buried my face in Dís’ hair and it hushed my moan – the only sound of pain that would escape my lips that day. Dís gently rested her face on my shoulder, her little fingers brushing my back shyly, their caress so soft that I barely felt it.

And then I started climbing down the hills myself, with slow, exhausted, heavy steps, turning my back on the Mountain – the Mountain I had loved so dearly, the place where I had drawn my first breath, the only true shelter I could ever think of, the only real home I ever had and would ever have.

Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, that was now the Dragon’s realm.

Chapter Text

Water.

Shadowed by clouds of dust, yet holding the toxic fumes at bay, its soft roaring barely audible among so many distressing sounds: screams, moans, shouts, running feet clashing on pebbles strewn across the riverbank. Creaking branches – blazing branches, sending glowing embers into the air that would fall on us like burnt stars or fire-flakes, making us flinch and twist, always wary. Afraid of fire for the very first time in our lives. Yearning for water.

I was swaying when I finally reached the river. I felt streams of water pooling around my legs, breaking against my thighs – I had got in up to the waist, and Dís’ legs were still locked around my midriff, her arms clutching my neck painfully. And I suddenly realized it was the first time she was out of the Mountain. She could not swim, and the water terrified her.

“It is alright, Dís. I am here. Don’t be afraid. I am going to kneel down, but I am holding you. We have to get all wet, there are still too many embers in the air.”

She was still clinging to me when I knelt down, her eyes wide and her face pale under the soot. And it was only because I could not let go of her and had to reassure her that I managed to hold back my scream when the water touched my left forearm. I jerked it out of the river, holding Dís with my right arm only, shaking with pain in the cold water.

She let go of my waist, slowly, and tentatively tried to stand up in the water, her arms still grasping my shoulders. She was so small that my face was still above her even as we were, and she looked up at me, her eyes clouded with worry.

“It hurts you...”, she whispered, and I did not try to deny it – I was still striving to keep my arm out of the water’s bite, my position awkward and twisted, the pain so sharp that I could not speak.

“Put it on my arm, Thorin.”

She had extended her own, tiny arm, her hand still resting on my shoulder. I can still picture it – the water pooling around us, its course unmoved by our small, still bodies, and her bare, honey-coloured skin, so soft and cold, so steady. My own arm, heavy, wrapped in burnt garments, what was left of my arm guard biting my skin, and the shake of my forearm when I rested it on hers.

There were tears in her eyes but her voice was steady when she spoke.

“I will put water on your hair and face. The embers won’t harm you, I will not let fire touch you again.”

She cupped her fingers and put her free hand in the water, and then she gently rinsed my hair, on and on, bending softly before stroking me, always careful not to touch my wound, and to keep my arm out of the stream.

“Do not move...”, she whispered when I tried to help her, loosening my grip around her waist, and I circled it again, still shaking.

I closed my eyes when she bathed my face and it felt like tears, the water running down on my cheeks, Dís’ touch so gentle, her fingertips stroking my face, brushing back my half-loosened braids, and then caressing the hard metal shielding my chest.

“You are so pale...”

I looked at her then, and saw her gaze, the pain in her eyes, and above all, the care and love she always bore within. I pulled her against me, briskly, almost making her trip, and then I began to shield her from fire as she had done for me. My moves were rough, I could not be as gentle as she had been, and I poured water on her until she was completely soaked, just to make sure she would never be harmed. Shielded, protected, out of evil’s reach.

There were hot tears streaming down my face now, I could not hold them back, not anymore, and I just went on drenching her hair, her face, her back, with fierce, brisk moves, until she gently laid her face against my shoulder.

“It is alright, Thorin. I am safe now.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I stood up, slowly, pulling her against me, wanting her on my hip again, just as she was when I had faced evil, and she understood instantly.

She had left the sweet, innocent child I had loved so much behind her in the cold, struggling water, we both knew it, and yet she wrapped her legs around me once more and let me lift her. There I stood, in the river, just like moments before, but now I was drenched and broken and I was the one whose face was buried in her hair, my arm resting lifelessly against her back.

“Thank you”, she whispered, as my tears were mingling with the water drenching her locks.

I shook my head, trying to fight back grief and pain, trying to find the strength to leave the water, to face fire and ashes once more.

Endure. We have to endure.

“No”, I finally managed to answer, my voice broken and hoarse. “Thank you.”

We faced each other in silence – our eyes a mirror, our souls mingled, a brief respite before we would be hurled again into chaos and hell. And then she gently brushed my tears away.

They were private, they belonged to us and to the water, and she knew I could not allow them to fall again, not anymore, for I was the King’s grandson, perhaps the only male of Durin’s line still alive, and I had to be strong and unwavering so that our people could survive.

“I will follow you wherever you lead us...”, Dís whispered, and I closed my eyes, briefly, painfully, before I nodded.

I took a deep breath, and then I turned, leaving the cool, appeasing water where everything had seemed so silent, reaching for the riverbank and the hell that was still raging there.

It had hell’s warmth, hell’s never-ending screams and hateful fumes. Between the swirls of smoke, I could see my people running, calling to each other, trying to find back to their families. And sometimes sitting, their shoulders slumped, arms wrapped around each other, their eyes lifeless in faces turned into masks of soot.

Dís gently freed me from her embrace, getting down, and it was then we heard it. The terrible scream, a soul torn out of someone's body. We both turned, and saw a Dwarven-woman kneeling beneath a small, lifeless frame. She was rocking herself on her heels, still screaming, her fingers clutching the tiny silhouette at her feet, shaking it fiercely.

Shaking it in vain attempts to bring it back to life.

“I brought you out!!!! We both ran out!!!!”

Her voice was so hoarse, her face so desperate – I can still see her before me, I can still hear her. An old Dwarven-woman had stepped up to her, trying to embrace her, but she shook her off, still yelling.

“He’s not burnt!!! Why won’t he breathe?!!! Why don’t you breathe, child – why would you... after everything...”

She started to sob after that, terrible, loud, heartbreaking sobs, and it was then Dís let go of my hand. I watched her walk up to the Dwarven-woman, slowly, her wet dress plastered against her tiny frame, and I saw her wrap her arms around her neck from behind, softly, drawing her distraught kinswoman against her.

She flinched and turned, and perhaps she recognized Dís and did not dare to shake her off, but I think not. For my sister’s eyes were full of compassion and sadness – she knew that the deadly fumes raging inside the Mountain had killed the small Dwarfling, choking him before his mother could get him out, poisoning his lungs. And she was aware that she could have shared his fate, and that there were no words of comfort strong enough to be uttered here.

I turned from them – not because I did not care, but because I knew that staying there and watching such tremendous grief would break me, would tear my soul apart and send my mind raving.

For I do not have the strength that steels our women’s hearts. All these years I have witnessed it, the way they would handle the most dreadful events. Crying loudly, screaming perhaps, not afraid to acknowledge the raging feelings in their souls so that the world could see their grief and try to make amends. But never scared of so much pain, never hiding it away, and always sharing it between them, for there is a bond between women that is stronger than what we warriors could ever achieve, even on the battlefield.

It is the bond of blood. Blood flowing every month, unmentioned, hidden for fear of scaring us away – a secret between women, a private conversation each one of them could share, something that would always bind them. We warriors never talk about our injuries, we wear their marks on our bodies but do not evoke them once battle is over. Women talk – they help each other with the pain, with clean shreds of fabric, they are not afraid of handling blood as we are. For it means life to them, when it means death to us – I know that, though I cannot understand it. My sister told me so, years ago, after her second son was born, when she found out I would still turn pale when she mentioned his birth – I saw only blood, and the terrible risk of losing her, but Dís, she laughed. And then she put her arms around me, circling my waist, and whispered her secrets to me, trying to explain, trying to make me see and to take my fear away.

How I loved her. How I love her still.

My brave, wonderful sister who would face grief and pain where I could not. I turned from her, and then I searched for the place where they had brought the wounded – they were the first to attend to, and to be sheltered. I stopped close to every bent silhouette along the riverbank, and these words I repeated so often that I did not even have to think about them anymore after a while:

“If you can stand, follow me. If you are hurt, stay here, we will come back to you, I promise. Do not give in to despair, help will come.”

And some followed – Dwarves and Dwarven-woman, wiping their faces, blinking at me as if waking up from a nightmare, and then nodding and standing up, following me along the riverbank. I was searching for Oín, for the women and the Dwarflings, for I knew that they must have gotten out, Frerin had made sure of it.

Frerin...

I was trying to help a Dwarf on his feet – he was not old, but his face fell when he tried to put weight on his injured leg and I gently made him sit again, promising him I would come back to him, when I suddenly heard a hoarse voice call my name.

“Thorin!”

I did not even have the time to look up. Suddenly I was in my brother’s arms, feeling his tears on my shoulder, so overcome with relief that I barely had the strength to hug him back.

Frerin soon pulled away from me, wiping his face roughly, and then his eyes fell on my arm that was hanging limply against my side. He frowned, but I cut his words sharply.

“It’s nothing.”

My brother’s eyes were wide with horror and I could see the clear marks tears had woven on his soot-stained face. He looked so young, so terribly young, but I could not allow myself to dwell upon such thoughts, not now, not until I was sure everybody was safe.

“Did you manage to get them out?”

There was no emotion in my voice, no wavering – nothing. I had asked as if it was just a simple question, a small business matter, not something that concerned the whole future of our race, and Frerin was taken aback by my coldness. Very well – it would not do for him to cry now. Not now, not today.

“Yes. All who were in the upper halls. But the others...

- Frerin.”

I cut him again when I saw tears welling again in his eyes, when I heard his voice break – yes, it was heartless, for I had cried too, but now was no time for it. He looked at me, and then he took some steps back, trying to fight back his grief.

“They are with the women. Oín and me, we made them regroup over there, away from the trees. There are mothers without Dwarflings, and Dwarflings without mothers, but some are still arriving.

- Good. And the wounded?”

His eyes still searched mine, he could not understand why I was speaking so calmly, why my tone remained so even, as if I barely cared.

“Still arriving. They are countless, Thorin.

- They are not. They will be counted, as will the dead, and we will forget no one. And now we go to them, and we try to help. ”

I had clenched my fists, both of them, and the pain in my arm shot through my elbow and shoulder. Nonetheless, I thanked Mahal for the rage and anger he must have poured in my soul, long before I was born. For rage was the fuel that kept me going, right now and for the next awful hours – I forced myself to think about the Elvenking, blessed with eternal life, never in danger to die and who still had not helped. I pictured him, on his big-horned beast, looking coldly down on us while our Dwarflings died inside, while our guards were slain by the Dragon, while Dís was going half-mad with fear and shock in my arms, and then leaving us to our fate.

Endure. We will endure nonetheless.

My brother and Oín had managed to lead at least two hundred of our women and Dwarflings out, and they had lost no time in trying to build a small camp. I could only admire how every single Dwarven-woman that was there had managed to keep calm enough to bring what was most needed: blankets, and the huge folded tents every family possessed – never needed since Thrór had entered the Mountain, yet still carefully kept and stored away.

The Dwarflings were around them, some of them crying or too stunned to stir, and the oldest among them trying to help our women. They were assembling the tents, silently, with swift, efficient moves, as if they had done it all their life, and yet most of them were born in the Mountain and had never dreamt to leave it.

I wish the Elvenking could have been there to see how they strived, our women, how despite tears running down on their cheeks they never paused until the tents were all mounted – until the symbols of every family in our clan that still had a living Dwarven-woman among its members were displayed on the riverbank, against the dark, heavy fabric that shielded both from cold and heat.

A mute proof that we could not be swept away so easily. The Mountain was ablaze, and the small, dark tents stood close to the river like tiny hills – dozens of them, each one promising shelter.

I helped them with Frerin, we gathered heavy rocks to pin the fabric to the ground, make sure the wind would not whirl them away. We did not speak, we barely touched, but sometimes our eyes would meet, and we both gathered strength from each other’s gaze.

Oín had started to bring the wounded in one of the biggest tents, and we soon understood that we would need more than one for every injured Dwarf to be tended to. There would be wounded Dwarves in every single tent that night, and we tried to bring them all there, away from the trees, away from the burning Mountain that lighted this cursed evening like a second sun.

“Have you seen Balin?”, I managed to whisper to Oín as I helped him to lay down the injured Dwarf whom I had promised to come back.

The healer shook his head silently, his gaze dark, and I felt grief tightening my throat and chest. I left the tent then – the wounded had all arrived, slowly, and the chaos had turned to a mournful gathering of Dwarves, around the tents and on the riverbank. No fires were lit that night, we had no need of it. No words either, except this one, anxious question, unspoken yet hovering like a ghost across the dark, roaring water.

Where was our King?

“Thorin...”

Oín had stepped out of the tent, trying to hold me back, but I was already walking away from the river, heading to the trees that lead back to the Mountain.

“Lad, please don’t...”

But I could not – I could not listen to reason and abandon hope. I wanted Balin, I wanted my father, I could not bear to think they had fallen, and were left to decay in the Mountain’s heat. It was a desperate attempt, but if I could try to get back inside and find them, if they were still alive...

But Mahal spared me that day. For I had barely reached the first trees when I saw them arrive. Their beards singed, their faces hollow. My father, shoulders slumped, his feet dragging on the ground, leaning on Balin who was limping himself. And my grandfather walking behind, alone, seemingly unharmed, his gaze wild and bright – our King, without crown or Jewel, yet alive.

I had stopped walking and just stood there, too haggard to feel relief, too exhausted to find words to ask how they had managed to get out, how this miracle was possible.

I just remember thinking that I was saved now. Thrór and Thráin were alive – injured perhaps, but alive. I could lay down this terrible burden, there was no need to lead anymore, I could rest now – my father was there, and my grandfather. We had a King again, and thank Mahal, thank Mahal it was not me - it did not have to be me.

My grandfather walked briskly, and he soon overtook Balin and my father, without even looking at them. He reached me but did not speak to me, giving me only a clouded look, and then his gaze fell on the camp stretched onto the riverbank.

He froze then, and stared wide-eyed at his people. He listened to the moaning and crying, soft yet worse than any Dragon roar, and then he just fell on his knees and rocked himself, on and again, lost to anybody else.

I would learn later from Balin what happened. My grandfather had been in the Treasure Hall when the attack started, and once it became clear that the Dragon had entered Erebor his only thoughts had been about the Arkenstone. He had rushed to the Throne, had unfastened it from the stone and had returned to the Treasure, determined to face the Dragon and defend his gold.

But Thráin knew his father well. Both him and Balin had endured the Dragon’s attack, first on the ramparts, and then close to the main door. A falling pillar had been close to crush Balin’s leg, and my father had been hurled against the wall, several of his ribs snapping as he hit the stone. But they were both warriors, and the oath they had taken to protect their King was above any pain.

They both made for the Treasure Hall, my father leading, and it was there they found Thrór, only seconds before the Dragon entered it himself, crushing down the last wall. Thráin grabbed his father by the waist, trying to drag him out, and then it happened.

My grandfather dropped the Arkenstone, and watched it fall down the steps, burying itself into the hills of gold he had guarded so jealously – he tried to reach for it before it vanished, but my father was holding him firmly, pulling him back. He was stronger than Thrór that day, and he shielded him when the Dragon drew out fire, pinning him to the ground just as he had done for me. The rest of his life he would bear the marks of the Dragon’s breath, on his chest, his thighs, his arms – tiny marks where his mesh coat had left its prints. Balin helped him to get Thrór out, and they were struggling through the staircases, had almost reached the main hall when suddenly my father stopped.

He did not say a word, he just let go of Thrór’s arm and started to head for another staircase. And Balin was left with his struggling, shouting King – for Thrór only thought about his gold and his stone, and was trying to break free from Balin’s grasp – torn between the duty to his King, and the friendship and love he had for my father that had vanished, returning to the fire.

He chose duty – Balin always chose duty.

And it was when he had abandoned all hope, when he had thought that Thráin was lost forever, when they had left Erebor already, that he suddenly saw him. Climbing down the Mountain, something heavy fastened on his back, his beard singed, swaying, his face drawn and his eye bright, yet unfocused and haunted. Balin just had time to let go of Thrór to catch him in his arms – he never asked anything of my father, never ever, and I wish he had, but Balin was a true friend to Thráin. Never forced his confidence, and never judged him – just like he did for me.

How we must have hurt him, though.

I ran up to him and to my father when it became clear that no help would come from my grandfather, and when he recognized me Balin had a gasp. He let go of my father, softly, and then he raised a hand to his lips.

“Thank Mahal...”, he whispered, and I saw him avert his face, biting his knuckles so as to avoid weeping.

He walked to Oín who embraced him, silently, and I was left with my father who staggered slightly without Balin’s support, his gaze still unfocused and restless. He was breathing heavily, and when I stepped up to him, calling him gently, he flinched and searched my face. And suddenly he grabbed my arm, his look wild and desperate, and I almost doubled up in pain, for his fingers dug deep in my burns.

“He is inside. He is with her.”

I laid my hand on his, gently, trying not to wince as I made him loosen his grip, stroking his fingers.

“I know, Father. I have seen him.”

Thráin grabbed my hand then, crushing my fingers, seemingly forgetting who I was.

“He – is – defiling – her – grave.”

He had howled the words, like a madman, and I stared at him in shock as he started to weep – horrible, silent tears only drenching half of his face. He was still wringing my bones, as if I was an enemy he tried to fight, and suddenly he broke down against me, his heavy frame against my chest, and I struggled to maintain him.

“Somebody help me.”

I whispered the words as I was trying to keep my father from falling down and crushing me.

“Please.”

And thank Mahal, help was near and help came. Balin and Oín dragged my father from me, and he howled and tried to hit them as if he was going mad, and mad he seemed to me, as I saw him struggle while they led him to the tents to tend to his many wounds.

I was left there, standing, my world burnt to ashes and smoke once more. And it was then I saw the heavy burden my father had carried, abandoned on the ground during his struggle with Balin and Oín. I stared at it, recognizing the black and soft velvet, the graceful curve.

My mother’s harp. Out of everything, out of every soul trapped in Erebor, my father had brought back her harp only.

Something hot rose in my throat and I fell to my knees, slowly, trying to fight back the image of him racing past the staircases, the panicked Dwarves, the screaming Dwarflings, just to get the instrument. Wasting precious moments, almost losing his life, oblivious to the distress around him, just for her harp. It was awful, it was horrible, it was mad and wrong, and it made me sick.

I bent forward then, finally giving in, finally breaking down. Ashes and bile I threw up, for there was nothing left in my body – the attack had lasted for hours, almost an entire day, and it was night now.

It would always be night now.

I shivered as I wiped my mouth, feeling cold sweat drench my body. And then I rose to my feet.

I looked at the harp - and then I walked away. It would be there tomorrow, nobody would bother to take it, and I had no strength left in me to carry it.

I was walking slowly, my legs heavy and my arm ablaze, and almost stumbled into Frerin.

“Oín wants you...”, he said, and I just nodded.

My brother took me by the arm and led me to the tents, and I tensed when I heard the moaning grow louder, when I heard the screams of pain and the sobs. I did not want to hear, I did not want to witness, I just wanted to lie down and cover my ears – but I could not.

Endure.

So I walked into the tent, expecting it to be my father’s, to see his massive frame stretched on the ground, reaching out in frenzy as he struggled and screamed.

But Thráin was not there. There was only Oín, and Dís, the old Dwarven-woman that had tried to comfort the poor, childless mother and several little Dwarflings that were huddled together, their faces white and emotionless, while another Dwarven-woman tried to hush them with appeasing words.

“Sit down, lad.”

Frerin made me sit on the ground – I had no strenght, no energy left to move, and when Oín knelt down next to me I could only whisper:

“Where is he?

- We took care of him...”, was his only answer, and then he gently took my injured arm and laid it in his lap.

“You have faced him, right? The Dragon...”, he asked, as he considered the wound with a frown, his face darkening.

I nodded, and Oín shook his head.

“Damn him. Damn his folly and selfishness, leaving the lads to take care alone...”, he muttered, and I did not dare to ask who he meant. “You should have come long ago.”

I just turned my face from him. I could hear one Dwarfling cry, and the soft song the old Dwarven-woman had begun to sing, trying to calm him down – it was a sad, wordless chanting, the melody repeating itself endlessly, like a mournful lullaby.

Frerin was still holding my hand, his fingers entwined with mine, and at a sign from Oín he circled my waist with his other arm, drawing me close to him.

“It is going to hurt, lad...”, Oín warned me, as he started pouring water on my wound, slowly.

My breath choked and I instinctively tried to snatch my arm from him, but Frerin’s grasp was firm and so was Oín’s.

“Easy...”, he muttered, still soaking my forearm, and as racking waves of pain went through my body, I finally dared to look at the wound.

My tunic and arm guard had burnt under the Dragon’s breath, and the molten leather had pressed the cloth deep into my flesh. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, but the throbbing only grew worse. Oín gently removed the burnt pieces of my arm guard, and Frerin pressed my face into his chest, his fingers still around mine.

“Just hold tight...”, he whispered, and I clutched my brother’s hand – my brother, the youngest Dwarf of Durin’s line, yet the only one who had not lost himself in grief and madness.

Oín pulled the shreds of fabric from the wound, and my skin with it, or so it seemed. I was so curled up in pain that I could feel my own body heat, and the sweat that drenched my chest and forehead, but I did not moan. I just buried my face deeper in my brother’s chest, breathing in his scent – even through the smoke, there it was, the faintest trace of sun-baked earth, and I clung to it.

I felt Oín’s deft fingers on my skin, and then the biting of cold water around my arm as he plunged it into a basin. The pain worsened if possible, and I felt the world getting duller and silent around me as consciousness was leaving me. But just before I could give in to darkness and oblivion, the throbbing began to recede. Slowly, the fire in my arm started to ebb, and my fingers relaxed slightly around Frerin’s. I opened my eyes and turned to Oín, cautiously, wondering what he did and wary lest the pain shot up again.

“Water.”

He smiled at me, still able to marvel at Nature’s powers despite everything he had been through that day. He always found his treasures there, even in old age – healer in body, mind and soul.

“Nothing better against Dragon-fire, once you are past the first ache. I wish I could find some herbs to ease the pain, and something to dress the wound. But I fear I can only offer you water, lad.

- It... it feels better. Thank you... Oín.”

He bowed as I whispered his name and I sat up to bathe my wound myself. Frerin let go of me but stayed close, and it was then we heard Dís speak.

“Take this. You use it, for everyone needing bandages.”

She handed her under-dress to Oín, wearing her dress onto the skin, and he blushed – despite the fact that Dís was a ten-year old Dwarrowlass with narrow hips and a flat chest.

Her blue eyes were bright, decided, despite the weariness and despair in her childish features, and when he did not move she shoved the cloth in his chest.

“I don’t need it. No Dwarven-woman needs it. They will all be glad to give it away, and they are cleaner than Dwarven clothes anyway.”

As incredible as it might seem, in the midst of all this despair, I heard the old Dwarven-woman chuckle, softly, in a cracked voice. And the younger one smiled too, hiding it quickly by bending towards a Dwarfling.

“You take it, Oín...”, the old Dwarven-woman said. “Don’t be such a prig. She could have offered you mine.”

Frerin gasped close to me and suddenly I had to laugh. I bent towards the basin, ashamed, trying to repress it, but I could not. My nerves had given way after so many horrors, and I laughed until my ribs hurt, silently, my hand pressed to my lips. Oín’s grumbling and huffing did nothing to help, and when he finally began tearing Dís’ cloth to make bandages of it, I was almost choking.

There was certainly no reason to be laughing on a day as desolate as this, but I couldn’t stop. I laughed like others cry, not stopping even when he bandaged my arm – and he did it somewhat roughly, clearly annoyed by the situation, struggling to maintain his dignity.

Everyone in the tent was smiling once he finished with me, even the small, orphaned Dwarflings, some of them giggling as they saw me wipe away tears of laughter.

“You crazy pack of youngsters... ”, Oín huffed, getting up with a groan. “And you are no better, batshûna^[1] Itô. No better at all.”

He left the tent then, shaking his head, and slowly, our laughter ebbed. The old Dwarven-woman – Itô – bowed her head towards me, offering me one last, toothless smile, and then she resumed her singing, as if nothing had happened. Dís came close to me and Frerin and I embraced them both, feeling exhaustion invading my body.

I closed my eyes then, unable to fight sleep anymore, and I was beginning to drift off when I suddenly felt a shy tug on my leg.

“Shhhh...”

I opened my eyes and saw the young Dwarven-woman hold back a small, chestnut-haired Dwarfling. She looked at me, her eyes apologizing and her face drawn and sad.

“I am sorry, my lord. He doesn’t understand. I think he liked to see you laugh, and he keeps trying to get to you.”

Frerin and Dís were both asleep, their bodies huddled in my arms, and I blinked, my own lids heavy with sleep.

“Just let him. I don’t mind.”

She let go of the Dwarfling and he staggered to me, his small face beaming. I felt him bounce against my leg and then he lay down on the floor, hugging my knee, his face pressed against my thigh.

“Sleep, nadnith^[2].”, I murmured.

For you survived.

I don’t remember stretching on the ground but I must have, for when I woke up I was lying in the tent and it was still dark. I had felt hands and feet against my body during my broken rest, and thought it must have been Dís or Frerin. But when I recovered slightly I noticed that the little Dwarfling was not the only one who had sought us. Half of them were stretched next to us, their little bodies entangled with ours. Dís was holding one of them, Frerin two others, and the chestnut-haired Dwarfling slept curled against my chest.

The two Dwarven-women were also asleep, I could hear their breathing and saw that the rest of the Dwarflings was huddled against them. Silent and peaceful. Resting before the horrors of the following morning.

“We will endure...”, I promised myself, breathing the words into the curls of the little one sleeping against me.

We will endure.

[1] batshûna: ancient silver-lady

[2] nadnith: young boy

Chapter Text

Dís’ weight upon my hip, the warmth of her body against me, fumes and fire and that voice – roaring and cracking like burning logs...

‘Do not tell me you have not thought of doing it, Thorin son of Thráin.’

“Thorin, lad...”

We would all burn.

Balin’s touch on my shoulder was gentle, yet I jerked up, my breath short, my lips dry and my heart racing. I had reached for his wrist in an instinctive gesture, my nails digging deep into his skin, awakening the pain in my forearm.

He did not wince nor stir – he simply looked at me, his kind brown eyes full of grief and sorrow. And I knew then that it was no dream, no terrible nightmare. The Dragon had come, and with it fire and destruction – home and shelter were lost forever. I let go of Balin’s hand, slowly.

I was still lying in the tent, Frerin and Dís stretched next to me. The Dwarflings were all asleep, except for a baby that was sitting in Itô’s lap, sucking at her little finger, moaning slightly.

“I am so sorry, lad. You are needed.”

I nodded, and freed myself from the embrace of the chestnut-haired Dwarfling – he was the one whose weight I had felt in my sleep, and he let out a groan when I gently laid him on the ground.

My bones were aching and my body felt stiff and bruised, but the worst was my arm. I closed my fingers upon the bandages and got up, silently, half-giddy with the pain but determined to get out without awakening anyone – they had strived enough, they deserved some rest, and the later they would wake up and find themselves deprived of everything, the better.

I followed Balin outside – it was still so dark, so silent... The air however was hot, and the river was covered with a film of ashes, its waters grey and turbid.

I looked at it, struggling to recognize the crystalline river in which Frerin and I had bathed so often, and I felt Balin’s hand on my shoulder again.

“Your skin is burning.”

He pushed back my damp hair, feeling for my cheek with the back of his hand, but I pulled away, staggering slightly.

“It’s just the heat. You said I was needed...”

Balin nodded, and then he took my hand and led me away from the river, to what had been a clearing and was now an empty space with burnt, black pine-trunks. He was limping, and I frowned in concern.

“How is your leg, Balin?

- Mending, lad.”

He had answered with a wink, but I could see his jaw tighten as he walked, and slowed my pace, determined that he should not damage his leg further.

“Where are you going?”

Frerin’s breathless voice echoed behind us and I turned. He looked battered, his hair dishevelled, his face pale and his eyelids still heavy with sleep, but his gaze was aware, bright and intent.

“To your grandfather. He has called a meeting – you might as well come too, we need every mind in this.”

Balin had spoken with a sigh, but Frerin just nodded. He came up to me and linked his arm with mine, tightly – and it was when I caught his alarmed glimpse upon the soot-stained Mountain that I understood what he had feared.

“I’m not going back there, I promise...”, I whispered.

Frerin nodded again, and I felt him relax slightly – I knew his body language so well... I gave him a little shove, and the ghost of a smile.

“You look terrible...”, my brother said, and he earned another shove.

“You are not better.”

I had answered quietly, because we were reaching the clearing and the assembly of Dwarves seated there. Balin overtook us, and suddenly I was glad, so glad that Frerin was there, right by my side, and that I did not have to face this meeting alone.

I could not see my father, there were only some elder Dwarves – two of Thrór’s counsellors, three goldsmiths, Oín and Balin. And my grandfather.

He was sitting on one of the scorched trunks, his grey eyes bright and glaring, his mouth tight and his fists clenched. He seemed unable to keep his hands still though, flexing his fingers, stretching them, and balling them again.

His face was pale and hard, and when he saw us arrive he snarled:

“About time. I was wondering when you would choose to wake up to deal with the issues we have to face, thanks to your father’s carelessness.”

His words hit me full in the chest and I could only gaze at him, struck mute by his spiteful anger and the injustice of what he had just said.

“Do not be so harsh upon the boy...”, one of the counselors said, gently bending towards Thrór and raising his hand slightly to prevent me from answering.

“He has strived hard, and so has his brother.”

Nár was the name of the Dwarf who tried to put in a good word for us – he was old, older than my grandfather, at least he seemed so to me because his grey hair was lighter than Thrór’s. He had piercing eyes, though, emerald eyes that had lost none of their sharpness – I saw repressed anger in the gaze he cast upon my grandfather, and sadness in the lines of his face.

Thrór shrugged, suddenly indifferent, and we sat down on the ground, Frerin and me, close to each other, silent yet wary.

“So...”, Thrór began briskly, and then he stopped – as if words failed him, as if he had forgotten what he had in mind.

He frowned, and then he had an impatient gesture towards Nár.

“Tell them why we are here, Nár.”

The elder Dwarf looked at the rest of us and I could see him hold back his grief and despair, searching for the words my grandfather could clearly not find.

“The Mountain is lost”, he began, struggling to keep his voice even. “We cannot stay here, and we will soon run out of food and supplies. We need to decide where to go, and how we can lead to safety those of us who are injured and weak.”

His words echoed in the clearing, and my chest tightened painfully when I realised that he has spoken those words looking straight at me, his gaze grave and sad.

“Nobody has to drink from the water”, Oín intervened, temporarily saving me from answering. “It is full of ashes, and of poisoned fumes – we have to boil it first, I already told the women...

- Then in Mahal’s name boil it!”, my grandfather growled, and I felt Frerin flinch next to me.

I reached for his hand and brushed his knuckles with my thumb, soothingly. His face was aghast and betrayed his fear – he was so young, so terribly young...

“Do not bother us with such details...”, Thrór said, his voice thick with contempt. “We are talking of serious issues here.”

Oín shook his head silently, and did not talk until the end of the meeting, his arms folded and his face closed – anger was clearly pouring from his body, but he managed to keep it down.

“I think we should head for the Iron Hills as soon as possible”, Balin said calmly, his face gentle and thoughtful as ever.

“I was expecting that from you...”, Thrór said, letting out a brief, cold laugh. “To you, the Iron Hills may look like home – the mines, the dust, after all, what else have you seen of the world...? But I shall not go there – who would want to soil his hands with iron, when we could have silver, gold, and even míthril...?

- What do you mean, my lord?”, Balin asked, and Thrór was probably the only one who did not feel the sharp, biting contempt in his last words.

“I mean we should reach for Khazad-Dûm, you fool. There are enough caverns and shelter for all of us, enough wealth to be found in the mines, and even a lake so that our dear friend here won’t need to boil his water...”

My body had stiffened when he had insulted Balin, and tensed even more when I heard him abuse Oín. Surely this was not my grandfather speaking – some evil spirit had taken control of his mind, twisting his words so that they bit and hurt...

“Khazad-Dûm has fallen into darker hands. Udûn’s Flame is roaming its depths – the gates of Moria are no more open to our people.”

Balin had answered with the same even tone, and yet Thrór tensed.

“It was eight hundred years ago”, my grandfather said, clenching his fists. “Do not tell me you are afraid of a mere myth – the shadow of a Balrog, really... It only serves to scare Dwarflings, just like that one, sitting here wide-eyed like a frightened doe!”

He had a depreciating gesture towards Frerin and this time I drew him against me, shielding him from my grandfather’s gaze with a fierce, angry move.

“This is madness.”

The deep, growling voice that put a final stop to my grandfather’s ramblings belonged to Dagur – a tall, broad, fierce Dwarf whose face was deeply scarred from battle wounds. He was the one who taught us how to fight, Frerin, me and all the young Dwarfs, and he certainly was not one to rush blindly into pointless death – he knew the risks of battle and war too well.

“I am not leaving one Fire for another. I am not going to Khazad-Dûm, and never will. You keep your míthril and your dreams of glory – they are not worth a copper coin to me.”

Thrór glared at him, and yet he did not dare to challenge him – Dagur really looked too formidable, his blond hair stained with soot, his blue gaze proud and fierce.

“I am with Balin on this. Let’s make for the Iron Hills – for the sake of the women and children, if not for ours.

- I agree too”, Nár said, and then he looked at me.

I was still holding Frerin, and held Nár’s gaze for a second, before I finally said, in a voice that I desperately wanted to sound firm:

“I also think it is the wisest thing to do, grandfather. We have family here, they will help us and welcome us in these hours of need.”

Thrór shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

“How naive you are. So you think they will welcome us, right? I will tell you what they will do – they will rejoice to see us brought so low, they will smirk and chuckle to see us come to them like beggars, and I won’t bear it, do you hear me? I won’t bear it!”

He was clearly shouting now, and had risen from his sitting position, taking a menacing step towards me.

Dagur rose too, and this simple gesture was enough to stop Thrór. I slowly let go of Frerin, and then I stood up, facing my grandfather and the rest of the Dwarves.

“I will take everyone to the Iron Hills, if you won’t do it, grandfather”, I said, my voice resolute, even though my legs were shaking. “There is no other way, no other possible course.”

Thrór opened his mouth – and seemed again at a loss for words. We faced each other for what seemed an age, before Balin’s voice broke the silence.

“And what of supplies? We have very little – we will soon run out of food, and the journey is a long one.”

We fell all silent again, and it was Frerin who spoke at last, rising slowly to his feet to stand next to me.

“We have to get to Dale. They are in need of help too – the attack on the City has been terrible, their houses are burnt to ashes. We are strong, we can help them to secure their remaining homes, and to bring their wounded to safety. If we help them, surely they will help us too... They are our allies, our friends...”

His voice was so unsure, he was so innocent, so gentle... And my grandfather laughed – a hard, mean, dreadful laugh.

“How my son could father such a weakling I do not know – but then, Thráin is a weakling too. He fled from the Dragon and left our Treasure to him, and you, you stupid, little...

- Enough!!!”

My voice echoed in the clearing, causing some of the elder Dwarves to flinch. I had spoken fiercely, without restraint or respect, because I could not summon any in my heart, not after I had heard Thrór abusing my father, and my little brother who had so much more sense and goodness in him.

“It’s alright, Thorin, I don’t mind...”, Frerin whispered, but I ignored him just as I ignored the incredulous glare of my grandfather.

My blood was racing, I felt its pulses in my chest and wrists, making me sweat – my back and armpits were soaked, and my face felt hot. I was so angry I was shaking, and I clenched my fists as I spoke.

“Frerin is right, it is the only thing we can do. We have no supplies, no food, no means to carry what we have left. We have to get to Dale – it is our duty, we swore to protect them. We have to help them, and ask for their help too, there is no other way – and you know it.”

I had hurled those words at him, and then I just grabbed Frerin’s arm and left – Thrór did not even deserve to be spoken to, not in that mad, bitter and hateful state of mind.

I was walking quickly, with broad, angry steps, and Frerin struggled to keep up with me. I was still holding his hand, and it was when I heard a small, muffled noise that I slowed my pace and finally stopped to look at him.

He was crying, trying to stifle his sobs and to check his tears, but it was not in his nature to withhold his emotions, and when I dragged him against my chest his tears broke free.

I placed my hand upon his locks, stroking his hair, trying to soothe him once more, and Frerin buried his face in my neck, still sobbing.

“He hates me, Thorin. He really hates me, because I am so weak. I am... I am not like you...

- You are not weak”, I said forcefully, pulling up his chin to make him look at me. “You are brave, and kind, and strong – never let anyone make you think you are not, because that’s a lie.”

I brushed his tears away with my thumbs, and Frerin drew a small, shaky breath, his sobs ebbing slowly.

“And thank Mahal you are not like me, otherwise I think we would have forgotten ourselves and slapped our mighty King...”

I had whispered those words with a half smile, and Frerin laughed, briefly, the pain of my grandfather’s words temporarily forgotten. He wiped his eyes and let go of me, and it was then we heard loud, heavy steps heading towards us.

“I am with you on this...”, Dagur said, boxing Frerin’s shoulder.

My brother staggered slightly and Dagur grinned.

“Hold your ground, lad. You certainly don’t lack ideas, behind that shiny face.”

Frerin beamed and Dagur winked at me – he liked all of the Dwarflings, but had a soft spot for my brother, because Frerin was never hiding anything from him, confiding completely in him, even when Dagur would pin him down on the ground or make his wrists and shoulders hurt with his iron grips and hard blows.

Frerin never was afraid of strong people, the only thing that could unsettle him was malice... and madness. He never was the same with my grandfather after that day, and I could not blame him.

We left the camp shortly after, heading for Dale with a dozen of Dwarves, Dagur among them. I had asked Balin to stay at the camp – partly to rest his injured leg, but also because I did not want to leave my grandfather alone. He was not in his right mind, and after what he had said about my father I wanted to be sure that he would not get to him and harm him.

We reached the City as the morning sun grew warmer – or perhaps it was only because the fire raging there was barely quenched. The houses I had loved so much were maimed and scorched – their white marble had fallen to dust, and the gilded domes had all crumbled, adding more rubble to the streets, killing some of those who had dwelt under their golden tiles.

We entered Dale in silence, and with silence Dale’s Men met us – not a word of reproach was voiced, they were too desperate, too hurt, too stunned. Their lord was dead – Girion had fallen from the watchtower, where he had tried to fight the Dragon. The tower was destroyed, and the lively, proud City-lord was no more.

His son was mourning him, they told us, and when we asked what we could do for them they just shrugged their shoulders. But slowly, we managed to find out which part of the City had endured the worst of the attack – in which part it was still dangerous to walk, and where our skills would be welcomed. For we Dwarves are used to handling weights and levers, and know how to stop the stone from crumbling – the galleries and halls in our Mountains a daily proof of that talent.

That day we secured the stone walls of Men and put levers against their houses. We worked hard and in silence, thinking of the walls and galleries who had crumbled in the Mountain – of all the lives that had been taken, by smoke, fire, stone or lack of air.

And when the houses were safe enough to begin the search, we entered them. I wish I could forget what we found there – death and tragedy in every room. Crushed bodies, lifeless frames that had long finished to bleed. Children, women and men – none was alive, there was no one to save there.

I flinched when I heard Frerin moan, bent upon a tiny frame. My brother was stroking the hair of a child – a small, dark-haired girl that could have been Dís. She looked asleep but she was not, the strange angle of her neck told another story. She must have fallen from one of the houses storeys, breaking her spine and dying instantly – at least she had not suffered long, but that thought gave me no comfort.

“Lena...”, Frerin whispered, his grey eyes empty as his gaze met mine. “Her name was Lena. She was my friend – she was afraid of the dark, and I made her a music box to help her fall asleep...”

He was not crying, this time – his grief was too strong, and it made my own throat tighten. Inwardly I wept, for that poor, little girl that would sleep forever now, for the fact that it could have been Dís, stretched motionless on the ground, and for my younger brother that should never have had to witness such a dreadful, meaningless death.

Frerin gently placed an arm around her shoulders, and another under her knees, and then he carried her out of the house. He held her close against his chest, his face pale but upright, and he walked up the street, slowly, respectfully, carrying her to the place the Men were watching their dead. And many were those who saw him walk – the young, golden-haired Dwarven prince who had once filled their places with their children’s laughter, his mind full of stories and his hand full of toys. And they wept to see him like that, sharing their grief without a word - because there were no proper words.

Frerin laid down his small, frail burden close to the other bodies that were stretched here, and I heard him voice our prayer for the death, before he bent and kissed Lena’s forehead.

It made my chest tighten and hurt with unshed tears and suddenly I was afraid to scream out loud – I could not watch this, I could not handle this, it was too awful... But I witnessed it, nonetheless, my body drenched in sweat, shaking with grief in the morning sun.

When Frerin came back I had taken my resolution. We would not ask anything of Dale’s Men – it would be a disgrace, an insult to their grief that would only bring us lower than we already were.

We had helped them to get to their dead kinsmen – dead because of the Fire my grandfather’s greed had called upon them. And we had done so because it was right, not because we expected something in return.

I put a hand on Frerin’s arm and looked at him. And my brother understood without a word.

“Let us go, Thorin...”, he whispered, and I nodded.

We left that sad place then, facing Dale’s destroyed, dusty streets again, and we had almost reached the marketplace when a voice made us stop.

“You are leaving.”

We turned to see a thin, dark-haired boy – not a child anymore, but not a Man yet. His eyes were bright and red-rimmed, his features pale and drawn, and I recognized Cillian instantly. Girion’s son. Mourning.

His voice was cold and hard, just like his face – he was tall, I had to look up at him but I withstood his gaze, even though my vision seemed strangely blurred, all of a sudden.

“There is nothing left here for us”, I answered softly, and Cillian laughed, a brief, mirthless laugh.

“You have taken everything from us. Our City is in ruins, our lands are burnt and barren, our people are slain or injured... and my father died trying to defend what you should have guarded.”

His words hit me as if he had smacked me, yet I did not answer, because there were no proper words to apologize.

 “Come, Frerin...”, I said, laying my hand upon his arm, turning away from Cillian, ready to leave.

We had done our duty, we had helped Dale’s survivors, I had made sure our conscience would at least be clear on that point. We had not done that for help, we had done it to ease the guilt we felt because we had failed, and there was nothing more we could do.

“Wait.”

Cillian’s voice stopped us as we began to walk away – my hand was still on Frerin’s arm and I had to lean upon him, the fire in my arm and blood becoming hardly bearable.

“That wound on your forearm – where did you get it?”

I turned, slowly – the street and houses around us were distorted, an indistinct mass of brown, black and grey. The air was so hot, so oppressive, suddenly I just wanted to get out of the City.

“He faced the Dragon. He saved our little sister.

- Frerin, mahimdin gal’mezû!!”, I hissed, but my brother would not be stopped nor silenced.

“We loved this City too. We never wanted it to burn, never wanted your children to die as ours did. There was no time to get to you – those who have survived did so thanks to your Men, and we will never forget it. We are so sorry.”

There were tears running at last on Frerin’s cheeks, and I could not bring myself to order him to pull himself together. He had just voiced my thoughts, avoiding me the humiliation of excuses, assuming it alone – almost childish in his acknowledgment.

And perhaps it was because we were actually no more than children – Cillian a child of Men, and Frerin and I far from grown-up Dwarves – that the son of Girion softened.

He came up close and bent upon my wound, feeling for my fingers that were still clenched in a fist, and I let him. He touched my skin, forced my fingers to loosen their grip and then he looked at me.

“That wound is poisoning your blood.”

I shook my head, trying to ignore the dizziness this simple movement caused.

“No. We are used to the fire, it doesn’t harm us.”

I was lying, of course. I had felt feverish ever since Balin had made me leave the tent, and it had worsened every hour – my whole body was aching and my lips were so dry I could barely speak.

Cillian raised his eyebrows, and then he made up his mind.

“Stay here. Don’t move.”

As if we could. Frerin made me sit on the ground, leaning me against the remains of a house, and I only remember the hard, dry ground against my thighs and palms and the hot, sticky air around us – then I passed out.

I regained consciousness minutes after, feeling water on my lips and on my face – the delightful coolness of it, quenching that terrible thirst that had plagued me... I opened my eyes, yearning for more, and found Frerin and Cillian bent upon me – my brother’s face ashen, and Cillian frowning.

“He tells me you haven’t drunk anything the whole day – why is that? Surely there’s enough water for all of you in the river...

- It’s poisoned...”, I whispered. “Full of ashes and fumes.”

I recovered, leaning against the wall – I felt a little better, less dizzy but still terribly hot and thirsty.

“It has to be boiled to be drunk, and we did not have the time...”

Cillian wordlessly handed me the hip-flask he was holding, and I was about to raise it to my lips when I suddenly thought about what I had just said.

“Does it come from the river?”

Cillian shook his head.

“The waterfall...”, he answered, and I could only curse us for not having thought about the cascade before – but then Ravenhill was far away, and so close to the Mountain...

Again I raised the flask to my lips, and again I stopped, noticing Frerin’s parched, dry lips.

“Take some...”, I said, handing it to him, and I watched him drink – only one or two gulps, before he handed it back.

“I’m not thirsty anymore...”, I lied, and Cillian shook his head again.

“I have brought more. Just drink, there is enough for both of you – no need to die of thirst.”

His face was grim, his eyes dark – I knew he was thinking of his father, of all the dead Men the Dragon had taken in his wrath. I bowed slightly, thanking him, and then I drank, trying to regain some strength – enough to get back to the camp, enough to move on, enough to keep everyone going.

“Your brother told me your father is injured too...”

I almost dropped the flask in surprise – Mahal, was there no ending to Frerin’s chatter? Had he really no sense of pride and privacy at all? I glared at him, too furious to find my words, and Cillian spoke again.

“They all rely upon you then – how can you bear it?”

There were tears in his eyes and they quenched my anger, suddenly. That child of Men was barely older than me – and he had been thrown into that mess and desolation just as I had been. Men or Dwarves, we were all sad and terrified. Homeless and lost.

I rose to my feet, slowly, leaning a hand on the wall, and I handed the flask back to Cillian, my gaze full of unspoken sympathy.

“I bear it because I have to. There is no choice in that, is it? We have to move on, all of us...”

He took the flask and I lay my hand upon his arm.

“Thank you for the water. I won’t forget.”

Tears were falling on his cheeks and he brushed them away as I gently dropped my hand, ready to leave.

“Wait – Thorin, please...”

He brushed his eyes again and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“My father is dead. I don’t want yours to die too. His kindness has helped us this spring, and we – we promised to remember.”

His lips were quivering and he bit them, trying to fight back a sob.

“We can’t offer you much food. There is not enough left, but I can let you take some wheat, and also blankets. I’ll ask the men to load a cart for you... and I can give you some carts for the injured too...”

I looked up at him – that young boy, not a Man yet, so generous and kind despite his grief. And then I embraced him, not bothered by the fact that he was so much taller that my head barely reached his chest – I had never felt small among Men, they never frightened me. They had been my friends, and it warmed my heart to see that it was still the case.

“Mahal bless you, Cillian.”, I whispered, and when he started to cry I just held him close.

He was true to his word, that young lord of the once mighty City we had all loved. The cart was filled, and several others handed to the dozen of faithful Dwarves that had followed me that day and had strived among the ruins.

“This is for you...”, Cillian said as we parted, and he handed me a small parcel. “Some herbs to ease the pain and abate the fever, and a balm for fire-wounds. Take care of him, Thorin. Take care of your father, for he was a friend of mine.”

He had tears again in his eyes and I struggled to fight back mine – I knew I would never see him again, and yet I would remember his kindness all my life.

“Mahal bless you, Cillian”, I repeated, and then we left.

I could not drag the cart myself – the pain in my arm was too intense, I almost passed out again when I tried, and Frerin just pushed me away with an exasperated move, before he gestured the other Dwarves to come and take my place.

“Will you stop trying to kill yourself?”, he hissed, putting my arm around his shoulders.

Frerin was the one who led me away from Dale, the other Dwarves following slowly, pulling the chariots behind them. He did not turn once, but I saw him brush away his tears with his free hand, the other still supporting me.

“You have to learn to keep silent, Frerin...”, I chided him – because I had to, and also to keep him from his thoughts.

“You cannot just tell everything about us like that.”

He stopped and had a brief, joyless laugh, his grey eyes ablaze in his pale, drawn face.

“Right, Thorin. I should just keep my mouth shut like yours – never ask for help, never complain and never confide in anyone, so that I could remain an honorable Dwarf and just die of thirst and fever!”

He let go of my arm and pulled away from me, shaking with anger – I had never seen him like that, he was always so calm, playful and gentle while I was the one who was boiling and angry.

“Do you realize the state you are in? Do you realize what I might have felt, when you chose to pass out in that dusty, smoky street? I thought I was losing you! And you... the only words you can think of are mahimdin gal’mezû – keep it shut, then, Thorin, and see how far you can go without asking for help!”

He gave me a brutal shove in the chest and watched me stagger, his eyes bright and glaring. And then he let out a stifled sob and turned from me, with broad, angry steps that soon broke into a run. I watched him dash towards the camp, his golden hair flowing as he ran, too stunned to move.

And then I slowly resumed my walk – one step after another, it could not be so hard, the camp was not far away, I could already see the tents, tiny black spots close to the riverbank...

I barely remember getting back, but I recall the small weight of Cillian’s parcel I was pressing against my chest.

My father. I had to get to my father.

Balin and Oín met me at the camp’s entry, and I do not recall what I said to them either – probably that there was food on one of the chariots, as well as blankets and a barrel of clear water, or maybe I just pointed to the carts, too exhausted to speak.

But I clearly remember enquiring after my father, and asking Oín to take me to him, despite his frown and his repeated advice that I should rest first, that it was unreasonable for me to go to him in that state. I just waved his objections away, and when he still did not move, I felt my anger rise once more.

“Either you take me to him, or I will search every tent until I find him! Just show me where he is, Oín!”

He shook his head but then he bowed, a stiff, curt nod, and took me by the arm to guide me toward one of the tents. I remember the dust that rose and fell on my boots with each wavering step I took – the earth was so dry, dry as my mouth and my eyes.

He stopped close to the entrance and looked at me earnestly.

“You are sure about this?”

I nodded, and Oín let out a sigh.

“I will be right behind you.”

And with these words, we entered the tent, and I felt my courage and strength falter as the heavy folds of dark fabric closed behind us.

I only wanted to lie down. I wanted to feel my father’s arms around me and be able to tell him about Dale – the horrors I had seen there, and Cillian’s kindness. I needed him to comfort me, to assure me that I had taken the right course, to take some of this terrible responsibility off my shoulders.

But I could not.

As I advanced towards the massive yet motionless figure of my father stretched onto the ground, I knew that my hours of comfort had been spent long ago – they were a vain hope, nothing more.

I knelt next to my father, casting a look upon his battered face, at the old, pale scar that had damaged his left eye, so familiar... I had run my fingers upon that mark as a Dwarfling, those mornings where my father would allow me to climb in my parents’ bed, and Thráin had always let me, holding me against him, allowing me to discover alone what wounds blades and battle could cause.

His eyes were closed now, and the raven-black hair that he had passed on to Dís and me was damp with sweat where it was not singed. There were knots and tangles everywhere, even in his beard, but what made my chest tighten was to realize for the first time that there were grey threads in his mane.

He was asleep or unconscious, I did not know, and when I reached for his hand I felt the heat of his skin. My fingers closed upon his, entwined themselves with them, and I held his hand close to my chest, suddenly overcome with grief. We were both burning, we both had endured Dragon-fire, and we both could not afford to be injured.

I felt my father’s fingers tighten around mine and stroked the back of his hand, still kneeling. He opened his eyes, turned his face towards me – his gaze was unfocused, the grey iris bright as a moonstone, full of pain and anguish.

When he finally spoke, uttering only one, half-whispered word, I had to close my eyes to hide my own pain.

My mother’s name. Always my mother’s name.

He whispered it repeatedly, like a child calling out for help. So much anguish and suffering in a single word – I knew then that he must have woken like this every single night of the past ten years. Her name on his lips, emptiness beneath him, and the balance of his mind and soul more fragile every day.

I bent upon him, and tentatively touched his forehead with the fingers of my injured arm, stroking his hair. Thráin flinched at my touch and his body stiffened.

“It is me, Father. It’s Thorin...”, I whispered, trying to soothe him.

“Careful, lad.”

Oín’s voice echoed from the tent’s entry, but his warning came too late. Suddenly Thráin reached for my wrist, his burning fingers crushing my bones. Pain and surprise made me release my own grip, and my father jerked up, reaching for my throat. His broad fingers closed themselves around my neck and he nailed me to the ground, despite his weakness and his injuries – for I was weak and injured too, and did not even think of defending myself.

I found myself lying flat on the ground, his thighs crushing my chest, his hard, strong, deadly fingers choking my throat. What foe he saw in me I never knew – I just remember the fierce, desperate expression of his face as his grip around me tightened.

I could not breathe anymore, and tried to loosen his fingers with my free hand. And as I struggled and strived under him, our eyes suddenly met. He was a formidable Dwarf, strong, fierce and ruthless, and I can recall him so clearly, bent upon me, his raven mane brushing my chest and face, his teeth gritted in rage.

I was looking at him, wide-eyed with pain and fear, my gaze beginning to cloud, and suddenly his fingers released their grip. He let go of my throat, panting, and I drew a deep, wheezing breath, desperate for air, before I started to cough.

He was still weighing me down, and I felt his hands as they brushed my chest, taking in my frame – I was still wearing my chainmail, had never had the time to undress ever since the Dragon’s attack, but I must have seemed so slender to him, so light and easily crushed...

I never stopped to look at him. I could not bring myself to use his confusion to strike back – he was my father, had been my rock and my Mountain for years, I could not hit him or defeat him, I could only look at him, trying to fight back my fear.

Thráin’s face fell and he let go of me, freeing my chest from the iron grip of his thighs, moments before Oín hurled himself at him – for our terrible struggle had only lasted seconds.

“Let go of him!”, he shouted, and as I saw him drag my father back, I realized that he might be a healer, but that he was as trained for battle as any Dwarf.

“Do not hurt him... please... Oín...”

I had recovered, reaching for Oín and my father with staggering steps – Thráin was not even struggling, he was just breathing heavily, shudders running down his spine, his gaze confused and afraid. I fell to my knees next to him and embraced him, my heart still pounding with fear and dread.

“Do not hurt him...”

I felt the hot breath of my father on my cheek and I bent to touch his forehead with mine – our sweat mingling, the same fire burning in our veins, the same soaked, black locks pressed against each other.

“It is alright, Father. I am here. I will always be here. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you.”

My voice was hardly above a whisper – I was so scared, so terribly scared. But I did not let go of him. Not even when I felt him sag against me, exhausted by this outburst and by the fever setting his blood ablaze – I would hold him, I would help him.

I slowly laid him back on his blankets, and with Oín’s help we removed his tunic. There were bandages everywhere on his chest and his arms, and I shuddered when I saw the rusty pattern blood had left on the white shreds of fabric.

“You don’t have to do this, Thorin.”

Oín’s tone was gentle, but I just shook my head. I thought of Cillian who had just lost his father and who had been kind enough to give me something to help mine – a son’s gift to another son. It was my duty, no one else could do it. The lower part his body I would let Oín handle, out of respect. But my father’s chest, his face, his hair – they were mine to take care of.

Oín helped me to remove the bandages and there they were, the marks of the Dragon’s breath on Thráin’s body, barring his tattoos, half erasing them.

I washed my hands with care and then I started to clean his wounds, with gentle, careful moves – I was not afraid to look at them, I had the same marks on my arm. And once I finished I applied the ointment Cillian had given to me, on the edges of every wound, praying Mahal to quench the fire in my father’s body.

Oín was doing the same with the wounds on his legs, and then he helped me to treat his back. It was when we sat him up that I saw the broad, purple bruise stretched upon his ribs. His breathing was shallow, even unconscious, and it made my own chest hurt. We bandaged his wounds again and made him put on a clean tunic – black, without adornment, the way he favoured.

We laid him down again and I looked at him, almost numb with grief. He was lying there, so close that I could touch him, and yet I could not reach him – I could not reach him.

His face was pale and looked calmer now, but his hair was still untidy and wild, and it seemed so wrong. He had never looked that way, every single day he had tried his best. Always dressing with care, always mindful of his duties, his grief unhidden yet unvoiced. He was a Prince too, had served his King and father and had almost lost his life trying to save him, earning only contempt in return.

It was so wrong, so sad, so unfair. Death had broken his heart, fire had scorched his body, and now his mind was crumbling too – the Dwarf I had depended upon was no more.

“Thorin, you have to rest.”

Oín’s voice echoed next to me and I realized I was barely able to sit upright. I also noticed that for the first time in my life he was not calling me ‘lad’ anymore, and it strengthened me somehow.

“There is something I have to do first.”

I had spoken softly, and my elder cousin did not argue with me when he saw me bend upon my father once more. I removed the silver clasps and beads from my father’s hair, carefully – I knew every braid and every pattern by heart, I had watched him plait his hair every day as a child, and he was the one who had taught me to braid mine.

I laid the clasps and beads on the ground next to me – Thráin’s private, carefully kept treasure – and Oín handed me a clean basin, his eyes full of understanding.

He left me then, giving me this one moment of privacy, and as my eyes fell on the basin I realized my cousin had also left me his comb. It was a family heirloom, centuries old, made of a light, hard material – ivory, only found in the South, rare and precious because it came from the tusk of gigantic, ferocious animals. The symbols of Borin’s family were engraved upon it – Borin the Fearless, Balin’s and Oín’s great-grandfather, who was said to have travelled far and taken back trophies and healing secrets from entire Middle Earth...

I let out a deep, shuddering breath, and then I gently began to bathe my father’s hair. I rinsed dust and ashes away and did the same with his beard, careful not to hurt him, not to pull hair out, yet singed curls would still fall and stay in my hands. And when it was clean and smooth I began to comb it, my moves cautious and slow. It took me so long to get past the tangles and knots, just as if I was carving silver. But in the end Thráin’s hair and beard were spread against his chest, unbraided yet long and luxurious again.

I stroked it with my fingertips, feeling some peace invade me at last. My body ached and exhaustion made my eyelids burn, but my mind and heart were at peace – I was not afraid anymore.

“If you do not remember, ‘adad, I will remember for you.”

I whispered these words like a promise, as my fingers began to braid Thráin’s hair. The moves were so intimate, so familiar I could do it even with an injured arm, even through the haze of fever. My fingers ran nimbly through my father’s damp locks, weaving the symbol of our clan into his braids – Durin’s folk braids, fastened with a silver clasp. And then I braided the locks on his temples the way he had taught me to do with mine – the simple, three-threaded pattern of our family line, the line of Thrór, who had strived, fought and reclaimed our kingdom, only to lose it again.

Endure, treasure, protect.

I would not let our family forget, I was still there to keep these proud values upright – may Mahal forgive my weakness as a King... May he forgive my folly when he gave me back what the Dragon took, because while I had nothing I never forgot the oath I took that night, weaving those words into my father’s hair.

I finished with his beard, and as I fastened his braids, I realized that the beads he placed in it every day were my mother’s. He must have woven his own in her hair before he laid her into her grave, and it struck me that I had never noticed it before – perhaps because it was long past, the time when he would hold me close enough to do so...

When I sat up, I felt as if I recognized him at last. My father, whom I had loved so deeply and still loved, for what he had been and still was. He had given me life and deserved to live, and as I looked at him I swore to myself I would take care of him every day, not only seeing to his comfort, but making sure that his dignity was preserved.

“Sleep, ‘adad. Rest.”

I whispered those words before I touched his temple with my lips, and then I rose. The ground was unsteady under my feet and I was swaying as I left the tent, pushing back the heavy folds of tissue.

“Foremost rule to be able to protect others...”

I had almost tripped upon a silhouette keeping watch at the tent’s entrance, and the Dwarf rose swiftly and caught me in his arms.

“... take care of yourself first.”, Balin whispered, and then he carried me back into the tent because my legs would not support me anymore.

He made me sit on the ground and then he made me drink. The water was cool, soothing and tasted of thyme and sage – I knew then that he had given me some of Cillian’s precious herbs.

Thirsty. I was so thirsty.

I drank almost an entire jug, leaning into Balin’s embrace, too weak to thank him and to move. And Balin held me, until I felt the heat in my blood abide slowly, until my vision cleared up again – these herbs were priceless indeed.

“We have to treat that wound of yours, lad.”

Lad.

My last pretence of strength just vanished with this fond word, and I slumped into Balin’s arms.

“I can’t do this, Balin.”

I whispered those words as he removed my belt and my jerkin, and pulled my chainmail from my body, freeing my chest and shoulders from its weight.

“Of course you can...”, he answered gently, and I did not have the strength to tell him I was not talking about my wound.

My tunic was soaked and plastered against my chest and back. I pulled it off myself, with clumsy, tired moves, and Balin’s eyes clouded when he saw how bruised my skin was, and the red, terrible marks on my throat I owed to my father.

“No one has to know.”

I looked at Balin, beseechingly, and he nodded, sadly, before he removed the bandages around my arm. He helped me to wash, without a word, the water cooling down my skin, and then we bathed my wound again. I did not feel the pain as acutely as before, and did not even flinch when he applied the ointment on my wound before bandaging it.

He made me raise my arms and put on a clean tunic – I realized with shame I had no strength left to do so alone, I could barely apologize for my weakness.

I am so sorry. I should be stronger. I am unworthy to be called a Prince, a lord or a leader. I am so sorry.

Balin shook his head at my words – they were leaving my lips unchecked as exhaustion and fever were finally taking their toll. He held me against him once more, resting my head against his shoulder and rocking me slightly.

“Mamarrakhûn.”, he whispered, stroking my hair. “Do you know what it means, Thorin?”

I looked up at him, trying to keep focused and awake. The Khuzdûl word he had softly spoken out hung between us in the tent like an incantation, and I was struggling with my answer.

“A shielder... a shield-man...?”

Balin shook his head again, almost smiling.

“You are close, lad, but not quite. Shielder would be umrakh, and shield-man markhûn. Now, mamarrakhûn is an even stronger word than that, it means ‘he who continues to shield’. Every King and Prince is mamarrakhûn to his folk. You are. Frerin is. And Dís is mamarrakhûna too.”

His hand went on stroking my hair – I was feeling so light, so relaxed in his arms, it was almost as if we were back in Erebor, where his wonderful stories would gently carry us to sleep.

“But it is such a weight, such a burden to bear – to shield, to protect, always striving, never allowed to break down. That is why every true leader – everyone, Thorin – also has his mamarrakhûn. A person that he trusts, in life and on the battlefield. Someone he confides in so much that he can lower his guard, show his weakness and be comforted, and cared for if needed. Nobody can lead relying only on his own strength. It would be too hard, too cruel to be so alone.”

As Balin words reached me, I felt as if some of the weight crushing down my shoulders was slowly taken from me. I buried my face into Balin’s chest, unable to speak for a while, and when I did my voice was thick.

“You are my mamarrakhûn, Balin.”

He laughed then, a soft, deep, fond laugh, holding me closer and kissing my forehead.

“No, Thorin. I simply love you, lad, that’s all. Besides, I cannot serve you both.”

I stiffened when I heard him voice these words, and when I pulled away to look at him I noticed his gaze had shifted to my father. It all made sense, suddenly – all these fond moments with Balin when my father had closed himself up in grief. The reason why Balin was always there, with us, so much more than a cousin or an uncle...

I embraced him tightly, nestling against him. I loved him too, I had loved him ever since he had found me crying and sulking against that stone wall, and had taken me back home.

“And grandfather?”, I asked, feeling sleep invade me slowly. “Who is mamarrakhûn to him...?”

Balin had begun to stroke my hair again, and he took his time to answer my question – a rightful one, since my grandfather seemed to confide into nobody lately.

“Nár is. Nár has been Thrór’s mamarrakhûn ever since they fought the Dragons, long before they came back here.”

I shuddered – I did not want to think about Dragons anymore, I just wanted to sleep, and in Balin’s arms it suddenly felt possible.

“You will keep watch - you will not let Frerin or Dís get inside?

- I will.”

I let out a deep, painful sigh and then I finally closed my eyes.

“Do not let me sleep too long”, I whispered. “I have to get back to them... they will worry... Frerin is already upset...”

My thoughts had begun to drift and fall apart, the only thing that kept me awake was the gentle stroke of Balin’s fingers.

“They know where you are.”

I sighed again, struggling to voice my last doubts.

“Balin, I cannot lead... I have never been to war...”

He had begun to rock me again, slowly, and he gently laid his hand upon my mouth to silence me.

“This is war, lad...”, he whispered, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. “And now, just sleep. Sleep, Thorin. Have some rest.”

Balin’s words swirled and spun around me, and I took them with me in my slumber, still sheltered in his arms.

Shielded.

At peace.

Chapter Text

Do not look behind.

I was clinging to those words as to life, as I started to walk away from the Mountain, away from the Valley, away from everything I knew. For now, it was still familiar ground, for now we had not left Erebor’s realm, but soon we would leave the land I had explored and head into wilder roads.

I had discussed it with Balin, earlier on. He had held me in his arms the whole night and I had slept – a heavy, exhausted sleep, I had not felt him move when he searched for a blanket to wrap it around me. He held me close and kept everyone at bay until dawn. He kept even nightmares at bay, and when I woke I felt better.

The terrible heat of the fever was gone, and my wound was not as sore – I could move my fingers and clench my fist almost without pain. I recovered, slowly, and met his smile once more.

“Did you sleep?”, I asked, noticing his worn features and his tired gaze – he must have stayed awake the whole night.

Balin nodded, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

“I think I might have snored quite loudly, yet it failed to make you stir, lad.

- You should have woken me earlier...”

His eyes fell upon me – barely awake, my hair tousled and my body bruised under my worn-out tunic – and he shook his head.

“Indeed not”, he said softly, and then he pushed my braids away, taking a look at the half-hidden marks on my throat.

“What of Father...?”, I whispered, looking at Thráin who was still stretched motionlessly on the blankets, and making sure to hide my bruises again.

“I will take care of him”, Balin said firmly. “He is better. I will manage him with Oín. You can come to him on the evenings.”

I nodded wordlessly. I knew he was right. I had to be cautious about that, I could not unsettle him again. And I had to keep Frerin and Dís from him until I could be sure of his reactions.

I rose to my feet with a sigh and pulled on my chainmail, my jerkin and my belt – they were heavy but I felt older in those, it was like a screen, a hard, grim, second skin that could hide just how thin and vulnerable I felt inside. I paused for a moment, looking at the only armguard I still had, and then I fastened it upon my wound to protect it from dust and dirt.

Balin smiled sadly when I faced him, and then he stroked one of my half-loosened braids – I realized then that despite my warrior gear, I looked nothing more than what I was to him: a Dwarfling just roused from sleep.

“I will be back...”, Balin said, and I quickly pulled off my own hair clasps and my beads.

I ran my fingers through my hair – I felt unworthy of Oín’s precious comb, and hurried through my braids, making them thin but tight. I was fastening my clasps when Balin came back, and he handed me a small bowl of wheat.

“Eat, lad. It’s not much but it’s good, and you’ll need it.”

I obeyed, realizing as I ate just how hungry I was, and then I looked at Balin, unsure – so terribly unsure.

“I... I don’t know the way, Balin.”

I had whispered those words, and he raised his eyebrows, mocking me gently.

“And all these maps we perused together, what of them, lad?”

I shook my head, and then I bent to draw a rough map on the ground. Erebor, the Mountain, the Elvenking’s Forest – and the river, getting south and then east, until it reached the Iron Hills.

“I know we have to go east, and that it would be shorter not to follow the river. We could cross those lands straight away – that is what Náin did when he came, Dwalin told me so.”

I felt my heart warm when I spoke his name – how I missed him, my tall, brave friend... He would have known which way to go, I was sure of it, he would have smiled, shouldered his axe and just started walking – not worrying. Not afraid. Unwavering.

“But... They had warriors, they had supplies, they were all strong and their journey was planned. They did not need to search for water, and they could defend themselves in those lands, while we cannot. We have to stay close to the towns, and the villages – our only chances of supplies lie with Men, and near the river.”

I looked up at Balin – he had not spoken, he had let me unfold my thoughts without influencing me, just like when I was younger and when he made me explain a complicated grammar-rule or an arithmetic demonstration so as to understand it better.

“We have to follow the river”, I said, my hand still resting upon the dusty ground. “But Balin – it will take weeks. Months even, with all the wounded, and the autumn is late already.

- It is the only way, lad.”, Balin answered softly, and I felt dread invade me.

I was dooming us to months of exile – and I was not even sure it was the right decision.

“What does my grandfather say?”, I asked, my voice tiny, and Balin sighed.

“Thrór? I fear he does not say much – at least nothing helpful. His mind is elsewhere, Thorin. We cannot rely upon his advice, as much as it pains me to say so...”

Despair invaded my heart then, and it must have shown in my eyes, because Balin gently laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“But, for what it is worth, lad, I think it is the right decision. So does Nár, and so do Oín, Dagur, and Itô. She has seen war – she’s old but her mind is sharp, and she thinks as we do. Besides, Thorin... Frerin’s advice is to keep close to Men to survive. He – what were his exact words when I asked him? Oh...”

He looked at me, his brown eyes sparkling.

“Thorin’s head is stuffed with silly notions of pride and endeavour, and they may cloud his mind pretty often, but he knows what course to take, he knows where to lead us, and he will choose the river.

- I will make him swallow his braids...”, I whispered, getting up with a swift move, and Balin laughed, quietly, for he knew better.

Some of the tents were being folded as I got out, and I went straight to the one where I knew my brother was. He was already outside, had helped some of the Dwarflings to gather their things, and when I laid my hand upon his arm he turned to face me.

His face brightened for a second when he saw me, and then became earnest again. He looked at me, taking in my face and my whole body, his eyes grave and searching.

“So...”, I whispered, bending towards him – for I was still taller. “I am proud and my head is stuffed with silly notions, right?”

I had spoken quietly – I was not angry, not really, I just wanted to be even with Frerin again, for I had upset him the day before and still felt bad about it.

“Of course you are”, he said dryly. “You are dreadfully overbearing, and you definitely have issues with the word ‘thank you’, at least when it comes to me. And you know what is even worse? That you feel sorry about it every time, and that it is still upsetting you while I have already forgotten all about it.”

He was still looking at me, his grey eyes bold and sparkling – that shiny, insolent brother of mine, how small he made me feel sometimes...

“Frerin, I...”, I begun, but he just cut me off and embraced me, saving me from speaking.

“Oh, keep it for later, Thorin”, he sighed, and in the end I just hugged him back, drawing him against my chest and holding him close.

“I don’t know where I would be without you...”, I whispered, so low that he was the only one that could hear it. “Without you, and Dís... I would go mad – I would be lost.”

I had breathed those words into his hair, thinking of my father, and my grip around Frerin tightened as I realized how much we already had lost, and how many things I had to keep from him.

His hands brushed my back, gently – he was not unsettled by my words, he knew me well and above all, he loved me as I loved him.

“How is your arm?”, he asked, pulling back slightly so as to take a look at it. “Oh, it looks better.”

His gaze found mine again, playful and kind.

“You look better too. Yesterday after Dale – Mahal, the state of you! I heard you speak to Oín – it barely made sense. Then you passed me, you actually swayed past me and then you vanished in that tent and just did not come out... I sent Balin after you, I was worried – what happened there? How is Father?”

I was still holding him – dear, lively Frerin, voicing whatever was in his mind, so open even after all these horrors... Shield him. I had to shield him, and keep him like that.

“He’s resting. He’s still not well – I don’t want you or Dís to see him that way, it will upset him...

- You stayed ages with him, however!”, Frerin replied, still looking at me, and I paused, feverishly thinking of an excuse, of anything...

“I fainted”, I said – it was close to the truth, after all. “I passed out as soon as I entered the tent. As you said – I was... not well either, yesterday. Then Balin helped me dressing that wound, and then I slept. So, in the end – getting to him was not of much use...”

Frerin’s grey eyes were still doubtful – it was so unlike me, to speak openly about faults and weaknesses, but it was the only excuse I could think of and, since it somehow matched my brother’s expectations, he finally accepted it.

“Glad you feel better”, he said, and then he let go of me.

“Where is Dís?”, I asked, as we joined the Dwarven-women to help them fold our tent.

“She’s with Oín. She says she wants to help him with the wounded.”

And so she was. I searched for her – I had not seen her for an entire day and yearned for her. But when I saw her, dressed in a worn-out tunic and in pants she had curled up, stuffing them in her boots just like a Dwarf, when I saw her calm, earnest childish face as she bent towards an injured warrior to help him to recover – I barely recognized my little sister.

The small child I had held against me – it was gone. That tiny body I knew so well, those graceful wrists and slender fingers – they were moving as usual, but the mind and soul inside had unfolded, and Dís looked older. Stronger.

She had tied up her hair – she still wore the embroidered ribbons our women use to fasten their thick, silky braids, and the silver beads in her tiara caught the light, now and then, when her head moved. But apart from those small adornments, and from the fact that her cheeks were still smooth and beardless, she looked like a young Dwarfling, no more like a fragile Dwarven-princess.

I looked at her – my eyes embraced that slender frame, pride and grief fighting for dominion in my heart. And then she lifted her gaze and saw me.

She gently laid her hand upon the injured warrior’s arm, and then she walked towards me – I do remember that sapphire-blue gaze, so bright, so luminous, so faithful.

“We are almost ready to go, Thorin.”

I could not speak, I just extended my hands, and Dís took them in hers, placing them around herself as she embraced me, her cheek resting against my chest.

I don’t want to leave, Dís. I don’t want to lead you astray. I don’t want to lose you. I am scared. I am so scared.

Those words never passed my lips, and yet Dís sensed them – she always guessed my darkest thoughts, she always knew, the bond between us was so strong...

“You won’t lead us astray, marlel...”, she whispered. “You already helped to save so many. They all trust you. They all love you. Do not look behind.”

And I did not.

As my steps took me further and further from the Mountain, as my people behind me stretched, moving slowly past the riverbank, leaving the burnt trees and the ash-covered ground behind – I did not look back.

My axe and sword were fastened again on my back, and my strides were decided and quick – even, unwavering, as they had to be. I pointed to the right direction, I laid a reassuring palm upon several shoulders, I stooped to relieve Itô from her small burden – the chestnut-haired Dwarfling, still too small to walk.

I looked so assured, but I was not. My heart was racing, and I clung to the Dwarfling I was carrying more than he clung to me – I held him against my chest like a precious shield, focusing on his small weight so as to be able to head on and lead.

“Svali...”, Itô answered, when I asked her what his name was – the little one had not yet begun to speak and was only making sounds.

Strangely happy sounds, tugging at my braids and beaming at me every time I happened to look at him.

“You don’t know anything...”, I whispered to him. “You have no idea of where we are going, have you, Svali?”

I was walking far ahead of the rest and no one could hear my words. Svali made a small, shrill sound – recognizing his name, probably, his heels kicking against my chest.

“Neither have I, nadnith.”

I brushed his back with my palm, smiling despite of myself when I saw his bright, hazel eyes, his small chestnut curls and his happy little face. I shook my head so as to tickle his cheek with my braids and he had a delighted laugh.

“And you do not care about that, do you? You little nut, you shining, little acorn – could you not have picked up somebody else to throw your smiles away? I am not your mother, you know...”

Svali was looking at me, and I suddenly realized what I had said. My voice broke and I dragged him against me once more, falling silent, my steps the only sound on the leaf-covered earth.

Move on. Don’t look behind. And keep your lips shut, for you are the one who knows nothing.

Night was closing in when Dís caught up with me. We had covered several miles – an encouraging first step, a small success that had helped to ease my mind a little. Svali was slumbering in my arms, and I had actually stopped thinking, the even pace of my walk lulling both him and my thoughts to sleep.

“It is so beautiful, Thorin...”

I turned to face her, wondering what she was talking about. Dís searched for my fingers and entwined hers with mine.

“The leaves, the moss on the trees... The pattern of those branches, and the sky – have you seen the sky? No boundaries, no window-frames to encage it... I wish I could be a bird, Thorin, and fly among those clouds to discover how far they stretch...”

Her eyes were shining – she was so passionate, so full of joy, there was not an inch of fear in her feelings. And it made me realize for the first time how different our lives in Erebor must have been. She was still young, and had hardly ever thrown herself in a tantrum, but several months ago she had indeed turned wild and furious one day, hitting me in the chest, her cheeks wet with angry tears, because my father had forbidden her to accompany me to Dale, and because I had supported him, for she was too young.

“You make me feel like a prisoner!”, she had screamed, and then she had fled from the room, avoiding me for the next couple of days.

It had been the only time we had been estranged, and I had hated it. I had brought a bag full of goods, toys and precious objects from Dale, trying to bring back some of the City’s atmosphere in Dís’ room, and she had thanked me.

But it had not been enough, and as my gaze fell on my little sister who was soaking in the landscapes, revelling in the trees, the sky, the Nature, I suddenly understood why. She had only wanted a short, single day of freedom, and I had not even been able to grant her that.

“I am sorry, Dís”, I whispered, and it was her turn to gaze at me in bewilderment.

“I wish you could have discovered all that differently. I wish I could have shown it to you on a happier day.”

Her fingers tightened around mine.

“I don’t need you to show me anything. I have eyes as you have, a soul and mind as you have – you and me, we are the same, we feel the same. We are both free.”

She looked at me, earnestly, and I shook my head. Erebor’s walls had crumbled – setting her free while burdening myself with the terrible task to leading my people to safety. Even if we reached the Iron Hills, even then, I would always have to think about my kin first. The dream of leaving them, to discover the world alone, only guided by my own wishes – it would remain a dream, a childish daydream.

There was no escaping this.

“I am not”, I whispered. “I am not free. I will never be.”

The words had left my heart before I could check them, and I hated myself for destroying her happiness. She was still holding my hand, and her gaze clouded – I swore to Mahal I would never voice any of my feelings anymore.

“Forget what I said, Dís, I am just tired, I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course we are free, of course you are right, there are no boundaries to encage us here.”

Night had closed in. It was dark, and behind us they had stopped, starting to unfold the tents.

“Why are you doing this?”, Dís whispered, letting go of my fingers. “Why are you always drawing back every time you begin to voice your feelings? Why are you lying to me, and pretending you can handle everything alone?”

She was not angry – there was only sadness and hurt in her eyes, and I did not know how to answer, I just held Svali closer against me.

“I have been to ‘adad, today.”, she went on, her voice not above a murmur. “I have seen him, I went there with Oín, and I know what he did to you. I saw those marks on your neck – I am not blind, Thorin, I don’t need you to shield me. I made Oín tell me what ‘adad did to you, and what you did in return, and it made me weep. It made me weep because you did not share it with Frerin or me, not because I cannot deal with it.”

She was still looking at me, and I could feel myself begin to crumble inwardly – she was destroying all the fragile pretence of strength I had tried to build in the past hours.

“I am not afraid of ‘adad’s madness.”, Dís whispered. “I have already been there, he has shared it with me, every time I would go down to fetch him among tombs of stone. I know where he wanders, and I do not fear it. I have braided his hair today, I have held him in my arms, there is no need for you to bear this burden alone. Nor to keep Frerin away from him – he is his son too, he has the same strength and love as you.”

I tool some steps back, my arms so tightly wrapped around Svali’s small body that he let out a moan. He stirred against me, and suddenly I was afraid to break down. I stooped to put him on the ground, and he began to cry, softly at first and then with loud, heartbreaking sobs, because I was running away.

I left Dís with Svali, turning my back on her, unable to face her and her words, and I ran. Down the small hill where we had been standing, away from the river whose course we had followed the whole day – I just ran, stumbling across wild bushes and their roots, tripping upon rocks and dead branches.

I ran until my breath failed me, until my lungs ached and burned, until there was not enough air left to cry. I let myself down on the ground, somewhere in the wilderness, and as I panted, my hands pressed against my ribs, I desperately tried to pull myself together.

I had one minute – one minute to regain my breath, and then I would stand up. I would brace myself and go back there, acting as I should – as it was expected of me. Dís could think whatever she wanted – I would not discuss my feelings with her, or with anyone.

Feelings only made you break down. Feelings were allowed if you were safe, if you could truly be yourself, and I could not.

I could not.

“I won’t let you free...”, I whispered, resting my hand on the earthy ground, and then I rose.

I was standing among wild bushes, not far from the riverbank – the river had drawn a slow curve on the mossy land, and in my run I had cut across the wilderness so as to cross its waters again.

What a glorious shortcut, Thorin.

I felt the ghost of a smile on my lips as those words entered my mind – Dwalin could have voiced them, I could almost picture him, standing against one of the trees, his hand resting on his axe, his bushy eyebrows raised and his brown eyes gently mocking.

“Just keep it low”, I whispered, not caring for the fact that there was no one there facing me, and that my words were blown away in the icy wind that had risen.

“You would have crushed down every bush, cursing them and calling them firewood-in-being. I know you would have, don’t shrug your shoulders and don’t shush me.”

I was still smiling when I began to walk down the river – I did not want to return to the camp yet, there seemed to be light about a mile ahead, several lights that could point to a village, and I was curious to see how big it was. Perhaps we could find some work, or at least some supplies.

The river soon grew larger, and as I reached the group of houses that were huddled there I realized it was because there was another stream adding itself to its waters.

There was indeed a village – a small village, not above a hundred houses, yet it did not look abandoned. There seemed to be boats on the riverbanks, not only fishing boats but trading-barges, and I realized that the village was probably built along one of the locks, allowing merchants to transport their goods across the canal that lead to the west.

I could see a small bridge, a market place, and the harbour – not much more, for it was getting late and the moon was thin that night. Yet it looked promising, and I resolved to return there in the morning with several Dwarves, for I was sure we could find work there.

I turned then, following the river upstream again, feeling able to go back, now that I had the ghost of a plan in my head, now that I could at least suggest what could be done next. And it was as I reached the camp that I suddenly realized that for a couple of hours, I had completely forgotten about Erebor and the Dragon, and about my father.

“Hey, show yourself!”

I recognized Dagur’s rough voice in the darkness – he was one of the Dwarves on guard, for this was a precaution Balin and Nár had agreed upon, that there should always be a dozen warriors watching over the camp every night.

“It’s me, Dagur. Thorin.

- Durin’s beard, lad!”, he growled, as I stepped up to him, and when I smiled at him he just glared back.

“What are you doing here, roaming the riverbank like a ghost? I almost mistook you for some venison!”

He lowered his crossbow and I realized with a shudder that I had been close to be shot by one of his deadly arrows. Thank Mahal he first shouted at venison before shooting it – though this method did not strike me as a particularly successful one, when I began to think about it.

He was shaking his head at me, still displeased, and I swallowed my comment – he was right after all, I had behaved foolishly ever since I had left Dís.

“Dagur, there is a village down there. It’s close to the canal, there is a harbour and some trading-barges. I think we should head there tomorrow, see what we can find.

- Well for now, you’d better head to your tent and see what you can find. Food’s scarce, I would hurry to get my share if I were you.”

He had grumbled those words while pushing me towards the camp, and as I walked away I heard him mutter:

“Steps out of the shade like a ghost and talks quietly of barges and boats –  by my beard, I never thought I’d be so close to wet my pants like a Dwarfling, I never...”

The tents were all mounted and small fires were lit on each threshold – there was enough dry wood around us yet, and we were still close enough to Erebor so as to be safe from Orcs or Goblins.

I could see the shadows of Dwarves against the flames – they were warming themselves up, most of them huddled together. Quiet and weary – they had covered many miles in a single day, and the shelter and food they got for what they had strived was scarce.

A thin shadow rose as I walked between the tents and I froze when I recognized Dís – but she only handed me a bowl of warm soup. I closed my fingers upon it, realizing how cold and hungry I felt, yet I did not sit down to eat, because she was avoiding my gaze – angry or hurt, I could bear neither of it.

“I am sorry, Dís...”, I whispered, and she had a sad smile.

“You keep telling me those words tonight.”

She looked at me then, and saw hurt rise in my eyes. Hurt and guilt, for she was right.

“I cannot... I am not good with words, Dís”, I said, my voice low. “I am not good with... all this. I am always... I am always saying the wrong thing while... while everything that really matters stays unvoiced. And... I cannot speak about what matters, about what I truly feel... because if I do... if I try to...”

Hot soup splashed on my fingers and I realized my hands were shaking. Dís stepped up to me and gently took the bowl, brushing my skin as she did.

“I know...”, she whispered, and she rose on tiptoes to kiss me. “I do know,Thorin. Now please, sit down and eat. It is hot and good, it will warm you up.”

She did not scold me, she did not ask anything from me, she just sat down next to me and watched me eat, and when I finished she parted my arms to nestle close to me, her face resting against my neck.

I stroked her hair, the ribbons around her braids, the beads among her locks – that beautiful, wonderful Dwarrowlass that was wiser and stronger than any warrior.

I love you, mamarlûna.

“I know, Thorin...,” she said, her arms wrapped around my chest, and yet I had not spoken. “So do I. Never run away from me anymore.

- I promise...”, I whispered, saying those words aloud, and she sighed, before pressing a silent kiss into my neck and closing her eyes.

That night I sang her to sleep, softly, just like I did when she was smaller. I sang because I could not speak, my voice deep and low, and when Frerin came to join me, sitting down next to me and resting his cheek on my shoulder while Dís was already asleep, I did not stop.

“Just keep watching, my Treasure, we are almost at the door...”

I do still remember those words that spoke of brighter days and yet allowed me to express my grief without falling apart, as I do remember Dís’ small weight on my lap and Frerin’s warmth close to me, on that first, cold night in the wilderness of our exile.

The next day we headed for the village, six Dwarves, including Dagur and me. Balin could not go with us, his leg was still sore and he was exhausted – he had tended to my father, had helped Oín with the wounded and, as if it was not enough, he had also been at Nár’s side during my grandfather’s latest outburst.

“Are you mad?!!”, Thrór had shouted, glaring at me. “You want to go to that village of filthy, swarthy Men who live their lives crouching next to the water – and for what? To ask for food, for supplies, to offer your services to them?!”

He had grabbed my shoulders before Nár could hold him back and he shook me – his blue eyes locked in mine. Shining, yet without any light. So cold.

“You are a Prince, a son of Kings – we do not beg, we do not ask anything, we rather starve! Have you no pride, no sense of honor?! What did I teach you, what did I pass on to you, I wonder?”

He let go of me and Nár gently took him by the arm, while I stood there, my face ashen, trying to overcome the pain his words had caused once more, listening to his shouts that were fading slowly as Nár led him away.

I flinched when I felt hands again on my shoulders – but it was Balin. Brown eyes were gazing at me, and the contrast could not be plainer – so much warmth, so much love.

“If you let this nonsense harm you – if you dare to remember any of those silly words, I will never speak to you again, Thorin. Let him starve if he wants to – fasting helps to clear up the mind, they say...”

He did not let go of me until he was sure I was steady again, until he managed to summon the ghost of a smile on my lips – and then he pushed me away, towards the river and the village.

“Well, lad, what are you still doing here?”

He winked at me, Dagur took me by the arm and we left. I was a tall Dwarfling, but I still was the shortest of our company, and when we reached the village I was the one Men stared at, their eyes wide and their mouths open.

“Dwarves! Look! I told you they were smaller than us – look at the dark-haired one, it must be a child still... See, his beard’s still thin, not like that blond one, look, it reaches his belt – oooh, it’s not his belt, it’s his beard still, he has fastened his sword into his own hair!!!

- Wait until I thrust it into your fat belly, to teach you how to talk about my hair...”, grumbled Dagur. “Are they dumb, or what, they think we can’t hear them?

- Calm down...”, one of the other Dwarves said, winking at him. “They are not used to us, especially not to you. And maybe they think we do not understand them.”

He advanced towards the Men, making sure to show his palms in an appeasing gesture, and then he bowed.

“Hergíl, at your service.”

Their jaws dropped even more when they heard him speak, and they gathered close to each other like frightened birds.

“We are currently crossing the lands around your beautiful village, and searching for work. We know how to shape metal, to manage heavy weights – we can do anything for you, and gladly exchange our skills for food.”

He had a friendly smile – but those Men, they still gazed at him like he was a strange, wild animal.

“Idiots”, Dagur signaled in Iglishmêk, and I would have laughed at Hergíl’s discreet yet firm reply, had I not been anxious to get to an understanding with those Men, so different from those I had known.

“Keep – those hands – of yours – where they belong. In – your – damn – trousers – with everything else.”

Hergíl’s fingers were nimble indeed, and his face betrayed nothing, still open and smiling.

“Well, I s’ppose... You could try the forge... There’s always work there, horses need shooing.”

They grinned at each other, no doubt thinking that Hergíl would shrink from the horses’ height – but they did not know him, or any of his skills and courage.

“And there’s the lock. Old Wilfred, the lockkeeper – sure he would like some help. More time for sipping his ale... He’s seen enough of water for a lifetime.”

They laughed freely then, a rough, coarse laugh – how I missed Cillian’s clear, kind gaze, the earnest, friendly faces of those Men at home... But there was no more home.

And so, minutes after, we split up. Hergíl and the three others heading for the forge, and Dagur and I searching for the lock and its keeper.

“Keep close to me, lad...”, he growled, and I obeyed – I was not really scared, but I definitely did not feel at ease, everything here was so different, so... so unpolished.

“Must be him. Mahal, what a creature...”

A creature indeed he was. Thin, crooked, and so dirty – incredibly dirty for someone who spent his days close to so much water. He smelt of ale, urine and tobacco – he was chewing at some leaves, eying us suspiciously as we walked up to him.

“Light upon your day...”, I said shyly, too nervous to remember how Men used to greet each other, and using the Dwarven fashion instead. “Are you... are you the lockkeeper?”

His eyebrows had shot up and he had a gravelly laugh as he took me in – I had neither chainmail nor weapons that day because Dagur was supposed to stay with me, and only wore my dark leather jerkin above my tunic.

“What if I am?”, he asked, his speech slow, still chewing.

“The Men in the village... They said you could use some help – with the lock. We could run it for you today, if you want...

- What for?”, he questioned, and Dagur pushed me aside.

“Those boats – how much do they pay you, when you move those gates to let them pass?

- Two silver coins...”, the Man replied, after a small pause where he seemed to consider if it was wise to answer.

“What about that – you get your work done today, have some ale while I run that lock for you. One silver coin for me, and one for you, I working, and you sitting down, how pretty does that sound to you?”

He was glaring at the Man, but his voice had remained almost polite, and it did not unsettle the lockkeeper.

“Sounds nice. Strange request – but nice one.”

He had again that ugly laugh, full of leaves and dribble, and I almost shuddered with disgust.

“Deal then”, Dagur said. “Take me to that lock then.”

The Man bowed ironically, starting to walk away, and I felt Dagur’s arm barring my chest as I was about to follow him.

“No, Thorin. Not you. I’m not witnessing that – you are not to strive like a troll for that disgusting Man who knows nothing of you.”

He had spoken in Khuzdûl, in a deep, growling tone, his broad, strong arm still holding me back. And I answered in the same language, putting my hands upon his fingers and pulling myself free.

“You will have to get used to it, Dagur. The sooner, the better.”

He shook his head, displeased, and I faced him – this strong, fierce, tall Dwarf that could kick me into the canal with a single hit.

“Where is our kingdom now?”, I asked softly. “What use is there to cling to pride, when there is work to do?

- You should not have to do that!”, he answered, his face dark and hard, and I shook my head.

“And neither should you.”

I had spoken gently, and when he didn’t answer, I turned to the Man who had witnessed our discussion, his brow knitted and his gaze suspicious again.

“Tell us what we have to do”, I said, and the Man eyed me for some seconds, then spat the tobacco he had been chewing, aiming for the water and missing it.

“Simple task enough”, he said, his speech slow and thick. “Boat comes. Upstream or downstream, doesn’t matter. You open the gate for the boat. It gets into the chamber and you close the gate. Then you lift the gate’s paddle to let water out or in, it depends where the boat is going... When the water is on the right level, you open the other gate, and off the boat sails...”

He pointed to the lock gears next to the gates.

“You lift the paddles with those. Think you can manage that, eh?”

He looked at me, eying me from head to foot.

“Or perhaps that brain of yours is small too...

- Kamnûl ‘urmarum udu ‘ihan”, growled Dagur, stepping forward, and I extended my arm to hold him back.

“I think I understand”, I answered, my voice calm yet icy. “The task sounds simple enough... even for us.”

The Man looked at Dagur, then at me – I was still facing him, not lowering my gaze, and he seemed uncomfortable, suddenly. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and then he muttered:

“Well, fair enough. Don’t break anything, that’s all I ask.”

I bowed slightly – I was so full of contempt for that Man I didn’t trust my face anymore – and watched him go away.

Dagur was breathing heavily, his face flushed and his eyes ablaze, and his strong fingers enclosed the lock gear as if their only aim was to bend and break it.

“That miserable canal rat...”, he growled. “I could have... I could have done anything to him, I still can, you just have to ask!”

I smiled at him – I did not mind the Man and his words, he was unworthy of our anger. I just felt glad, suddenly, to be with Dagur and to see that there was someone who actually cared, who was hot-tempered and proud just as if we were still roaming Erebor, and who was not afraid to show his anger to me.

“I won’t, Dagur, and you know it.”

He let out his breath noisily, and then his eyes turned to the water.

“Boat, Thorin.”

A hard day it was, but an interesting day – because the way that lock worked was fascinating. Such a simple device, allowing boats to cross the canal and to overcome different water levels... The Man had spoken quickly, not caring if we understood what he said, but it was simple, you only had to understand which gear to move so as to lift the correct panel. Filling the lock with water when the boat had to get upstream – emptying it when it headed downstream.

Dagur and I worked without speaking. We only spoke with the Men who greeted us, astonished to find us running the lock – and often pleased, for these were merchants, used to travelling, who had seen some Dwarves in their lives and had a sincere interest for us.

“Is that your son?”, one of them asked, his voice gentle and his round face looking at me with a smile.

Dagur shook his head wordlessly, and the Man did not press him further, streetwise enough to know when to drop a subject.

“Well you do strive hard indeed”, he only added, and as he was about to leave he bent towards me, handing me a small parcel.

“There. Some cake, and some apples. You might enjoy them both, between two boats – lucky we are indeed to have you, may you keep your strength so that our travels stay swift.”

He smiled at me and I bowed, not daring to smile back, holding the parcel against my chest – if that Man knew how his gift found its way to my heart... I would not eat the cake or the apples, not here, not alone. I would save it for the Dwarflings, and for Dís and Frerin.

The sun was low when we finally left the village. Dagur had kept his word – sixty shiny silver coins we had earned, and he poured thirty into the lockkeeper’s lap, without a word, and then he went to the miller to get some wheat.

Hergíl and the others had worked hard too – two heavy sacks of wheat were the reward of their day, and one was added thanks to Dagur and me. They hoisted the sacks on their backs and then we left.

“Glad to get away...”, Dagur grumbled, and I agreed inwardly.

I did not carry anything, they did not even consider it. I stumbled along the other Dwarves, too exhausted to speak, for I had strived for hours without pausing, and the work had been way harder than in Erebor’s forges. As the days would pass my body would get used to it, getting stronger as my muscles hardened, but that evening I was done for – utterly done for.

“Well, laddie, how did it go?”, Balin asked, embracing me as we reached the camp, and I handed him the parcel.

“Apples, and cake. And wheat – three heavy bags...”

He smiled at me and kissed my forehead, and then he led us to one of the fires – the six of us, we sat down together while the Dwarves around us cheered and handed us some water.

Dagur dragged me against him with a rough, fond move, and I can still hear his roaring voice as he vowed that, since we had helped to gather the food, there was no way we would lift a single finger to cook it, and that it had to be brought to us.

“And quickly, for that lad is done for!”

He brushed my shoulder affectionately, and I rested my head against his broad arm, smiling at his outburst. I fell asleep long before the food was brought, propped up against Dagur’s arm, my lips half-parted and the grip around my glass slackening slowly.

Dagur took it off my hands and gently shook me awake so that I could eat. I remember that meal through the haze of sleep – I think I did not even finish my plate, handing it to Dagur before lying down on the ground, resting my head against his massive thigh.

“Shame for the cake...”, he teased me, ruffling my hair, but I barely heard him, falling asleep almost at once.

I have to tell Frerin about that lockkeeper – I have to tell him how he spat out those leaves and managed to miss the water...

Such were my thoughts as I fell asleep, and Dagur said I laughed, once, before my breath became slow and even, and I oblivious to everything around me – the talking, the heat of the flames, and above all, the still uncertain future of the next, hard weeks.

Hard they would be indeed, but that night I slept – a Dwarfling among warriors, exhausted yet not entirely without hope, or shelter.

That night I slept.

- marlel : love of all loves

- nadnith : young boy

- mamarlûna : she who is loved

- kamnûl ‘urmarum udu ‘ihan : dirty canal wormling [more exactly : ‘dirty tiny worm from a lesser river’... Khuzdûl does offer glorious shortcuts indeed...]

Chapter Text

Days had turned into weeks, and weeks into a month. It had been one month exactly since the Dragon’s attack, the moon was proof of it – I could see its rounded shape high above me, crowning the dark sky and softly shining down upon the tents. Yet this month had seemed like a decade to me.

How cruel time can be, running like sand grains between our fingers when we desperately want it to stand still – and seeming endless when we dream to call it past... Even now that my moments here are numbered, time remains ruthless. I fell only seconds ago, I am sure of it, the clouds above have not even stirred, and yet I have gone through endless memories, almost forgetting the searing pain in my chest, the weight of all those years of care and hardship...

I was standing outside the tent, that night, looking at the moon, remembering what I was doing the last time I had seen it like this – I had been sitting on my bed, close to the windowsill, using the moonlight to finish the chapter I was reading. I had raced through the accounts of Borin’s travels, fascinated by that Dwarf who had been so far away and had returned with so much knowledge. And then I had rested my head against my pillow, looking at the shapes the moon was weaving on my blanket, dreaming of the day I was going to travel too – and perhaps write about what I had seen.

How innocent and treasured I had been...

It had been four weeks. Four, hard weeks on a seemingly endless road, and I did not feel like writing anything down, not even if I had been gifted with ink and pen. This luxury was not even to be thought of, and my tale was a plain one: a tale of hunger and exile.

We had followed the river, and there had been days where we had found some work indeed – in forges of Men mostly, for there was always a blacksmith in their towns, and hard work to do.

I would go with the other Dwarves, every time, because I could not bear to stay in the camp during the day – there were too many sorrows to be witnessed, too many sick, weak, exhausted Dwarves, too many hungry Dwarflings...

I could not handle this, I was not like Frerin or Dís – where they gathered their strength and their kindness I did not know, they managed to find a gentle word for everyone, to comfort those who were ailing and the Dwarflings that were crying. They were so full of light, such a treasure to their people, I saw them summon smiles on faces that had forgotten they could shine...

Where they passed, sorrow seemed to vanish for a moment – they were the sunshine of our kin, so loving and so loved. But I... I had no smiles to bestow, no light to give. To see how they all suffered – old warriors and Dwarven-ladies that should have ended their days in peace and were now struggling with endless miles every day, Dwarflings that were too young to speak and who were already starving – it tore my soul apart, it drew me close to frenzy.

I could not find anything to say to them – I had no solace to offer. I could only work, trying to bring back some food to them, trying to ease some of their pain, but it was never enough.

It was just never enough. The food we brought back – I always thought it would last for a week, the sacks were so heavy, they looked so full... and yet after two days they were empty, and none of us had ever been able to eat his fill at least for one meal.

And sometimes there was no food. Sometimes there was no village next to our camp – and then we went to sleep with empty stomachs, clinging to the hope that next day, it would be better. Next day, there would be work, plenty of work, and we would eat – but I do remember that one week there was no food for three full days.

That week we buried our first dead – Dwarves that had already been injured or ill, and had no strength left to starve. There was no Dwarfling among them, thank Mahal – I had made sure of that, I was rationing the food carefully. They were our treasure, they were our hope, they would be the last to starve – it was cruel for the wounded, but I knew it had to be so, and so did they. We had always placed children first in the Mountain, it would not change in exile.

We had buried the dead far away from the river, marking their tombs with stone. We had promised we would come back to them one day and make a proper tomb for the all the Exiled that had fallen. But their deaths weighed heavy upon me, and never left my thoughts.

The only way to forget about it for some hours lay in the forge – and to the forge I went, with Dagur, Hergíl, and Balin sometimes when he could leave my father, for Thráin was another cause of worry. 

He was still beside himself – he did not seem to recognize anyone, and though he never attacked anybody after that terrible night where he had almost choked me, he was unpredictable. He would sit still, letting Dís and Frerin embrace him, braid his hair and help him to fasten his armguards, but suddenly his gaze would change and Balin would have to hold him back, trying to calm down his anguish, and they would have to leave for fear of unsettling him.

I was the only one that could spend more than several minutes with him, except Balin and Oín – I never knew why. Perhaps it was because I was his eldest child: he remembered my mother, that was plain enough, so maybe he recalled his first-born child too... But I could never be sure, and Thráin never gave me any proof of recognizing me. He would sit close to Balin and watch me approach, kneeling next to him, trying to reach him somehow.

I did not dare to touch him – I was still feeling his hands around my throat, and Mahal forgive me, I was still scared. But I tried to reach him with my words – usually I would tell him about my day, about what I had done in the villages of Men. How Dagur had thrown himself into a temper once more, how Hergíl had braided the horses’ manes in Dwarven fashion to tame them – he was not scared by their height and they loved him, it fascinated Men to see how they would bend towards him to be stroked...

But Thráin never answered, and it hurt. I knew he probably could not help it, but it hurt so much to see his unfocused gaze, to feel like I was speaking to a ghost – and my heart when wounded has always raged. I made myself believe I was angry at him, resenting his weakness, so as not to acknowledge that pain, and in the end I forgot about my own ruse.

I stopped coming to him – it had been a week since I had entered his tent to talk to him, because I had begun to hate him, hate him for the fact that he had left me alone when I needed his support so dearly.

“You are getting thin, and full of shadows...”, Dís had said to me moments before, when I had refused the plate she was handing to me.

“I am not hungry”, I had repeated fiercely, and she shook her head with a sigh – but what did I care, I could not eat knowing that the little ones next to me were yearning for that food, longing for more yet never daring to ask.

My grandfather had laughed at me, the other day – he had mocked me when I had come back from the forge, tired and spent, my face smeared with soot. And I had not managed to keep silent, my voice fierce and my eyes burning – his words had simply been too much.

“As long as it will bring us some supplies and some means to keep on going, I will keep humble and swarthy, grandfather, whether you like it or not.”

He had caught me by the arm, I had felt his iron grip around my bones but I had withstood his angry gaze. Until he spoke, hissing the words like a curse:

“I suppose you think you are acting nobly... A true protector of Durin’s folk, bringing back food, caring for everyone... But you will see their looks, you will feel their hatred, once they will starve. Kindness, selflessness, that’s the surest way to lose your crown. They will feast upon you, they will break you – it has already begun.”

I had freed myself from his grasp, horror-struck by his words, and he had laughed as I had staggered back.

I had not eaten that day – I just could not bring myself to eat after those terrible words, and today I had also refused my share. I knew it was wrong, I knew I was losing weight, I had just carved another hole in my belt that was getting loose around my waist – but I could not eat. I simply could not, anxiety tightened my stomach too much.

I had left the tent and my gaze had met the moon – a full, shiny, bright moon, so unmoved by our struggles. I sat down close to the tent’s entry, gazing at the sky, my arms around my knees, thinking that it had been a month, and that we had several more weeks to go.

In the end it was Frerin that coaxed some food into me. He got out of the tent, crouched in front of me with a half-filled plate and threatened me, his grey eyes ablaze:

“If you don’t eat it straight away, it will land on the ground. I’ll smear it, and it will be wasted. I am not joking. You should mark this day, Thorin, that’s actually the first time I ask you to open your mouth.”

I laughed then, briefly, despite myself – it sounded rusty even to me, it had been days since I had smiled. And Frerin watched me eat, his arms folded, his gaze stern.

“There...”, I said, handing the empty plate back to him. “Done, zirak^[1], no need to scowl like that.

- I wish you would hear yourself...”, Frerin said, his lips twitching slightly. “You just don’t deserve me, I already told you so. Your gaze is the one full of clouds.”

He had spoken the last word in Khuzdûl – shathûr, and he smiled, eventually, when he saw his wordplay hit home^[2]. What a wordsmith he was, that little brother of mine, what a sunshine in my clouds.

He sat down next to me and I drew my arm around him, pulling him close, for the night was cold.

“Dís is right...”, Frerin said after a while, poking me in the ribs and earning a shove. “You are getting thin.

- I always was...”, I replied, looking at him, my face earnest but my eyes playful. “You are the fat one among Thráin’s sons, remember?”

This time I was the one getting a shove and I let myself fall flat on my back on purpose, while Frerin sat himself on my chest, his knees digging in my ribs and his hands enclosing my wrists.

“So I’m fat, right?”, he asked, pretending to be upset, and he lifted his body slightly before letting himself fall again on me with all his weight – and Mahal, it was not much, but I kept up the game.

“Uugh, can you tell me how I am supposed to keep food down with your Royal Fatness sitting upon my stomach?”

I grinned at him and he grinned back, his teeth pearl white in the moonlight.

“Oh there he is...”, he said, sounding surprised. “I thought we had lost him, but Prince Cheerful is actually back... We have all missed his wonderful good-humor, his generous smiles and the way he always manages to point out the brighter side of life...”

He was laughing softly, his hands still around my wrists, and I smiled at him, lifting my knees so that he could rest his back on them.

“I know where that one is. He’s sitting on my belly, making me wish I had not eaten so much – a whole mince pie, roasted potatoes, an entire loaf of bread, and then...

- Stop it, Thorin...”, Frerin sighed, and I had to laugh – I would never have thought it, but it felt so good, joking about the food that was never going to be there even in our wildest dreams.

He freed me from his embrace and I sat up, feeling lighter in a way that had nothing to do with Frerin’s small weight. We were both smiling and I was about to thank him – for having brought me food and some joy on a night where I thought I could not get any.

But I never had the time to mouth those words, because that is when the shrieking suddenly began.

Suddenly there was chaos and panic where there had been silence and peace – and the anguished cry that echoed both in Khuzdûl and Common Tongue made our limbs turn to stone for some seconds.

“Orcs!!!! Rakhâs^[3]!!!”

They were coming. They were attacking the camp in packs, shrieking, yelling, having got past our guards – they had been strangely silent, or perhaps our warriors were simply exhausted, half-starved and weary, and had missed their scouts.

Frerin had grabbed my arm, in an instinctive, frightened gesture – and that was when I moved. I could see frames fighting: the small, stout silhouettes of Dwarves against tall, dark, deathly shadows. Orcs were invading the camp, so far they had not reached our tent for it was in the center, in the safest place, but it would only last minutes until we would be ourselves under attack.

“Frerin, we have to fight them.”

I did not let him speak, I did not leave him any choice, I dragged him back into the tent where the Dwarflings had woken up, afraid by the noise and the panic outside.

“Orcs!”, I hissed to Itô who had risen, always watchful, and the old Dwarven-lady tensed, her gaze bright and her face grim.

One of the Dwarflings began to cry and the others shortly followed, but I did not bother to try to comfort them, I dragged Frerin to the corner where we kept our weapons and made him pull on his chainmail, thrusting his sword into his palm.

“Thorin, I...

- Not now, Frerin...”, I replied, pulling on my own chainmail, grabbing my axe and sword and dragged him out of the tent.

“Where are you going?!”

Dís’ anguished cry echoed behind us but I did not turn, I did not answer. My body was tense and wary, my heart raced but I was not afraid – not anymore, I was aware of every move and every sound around me in a way I had never experienced before.

I could hear the shrieks, the clanging of blades and the anguished cries – the cries were the worst, my hands balled themselves around my weapons, and it was then I saw them.

They were coming, they were running right towards us – heavy, tall Orcs, their faces horribly distorted, fierce, like demons, dressed in iron breastplates and armed with daggers, swords and axes. They were shrieking, their eyes bright in the moonlight, baring their teeth as they did so, and I could hear Frerin’s gasp behind me. 

“You guard the tent’s entrance, Frerin. You don’t stir – do you understand, you don’t move, you don’t let them get in. They won’t get past you, I’ll make sure of it – I will shield you.”

I whispered those words to him and then I raised my weapons. I screamed, too, a hoarse, terrible scream to give me courage, to give me strength, to frighten those beasts away...

I pictured Frerin behind me – my tiny, golden-haired brother, guarding the tent that shielded my sister – and anger rose, setting my soul ablaze, fueling my body with a fire that was stronger than any fear.

My blade met theirs with a clanging sound, and after that – after that I have no precise memory. I remember their faces, plainly enough, the foul stench of their bodies and the terrible smell of their blood – because I made them bleed, I made them bleed so dearly, hitting them with axe and sword.

I was small compared to them, I was light and swift – and I had been well-trained in Erebor, despite the fact that I had never fought for real after that day – that day with Dwalin.

I was avoiding their blows, they were dreadful aimers and I knew how to shift my weight so as to avoid their blades – I would turn aside and hit them, aiming for the weak places in their breast-plates: the armpits and the groin.

And I killed several, but they were so many, and I was small, weak and ill-fed – I could not hold them all back, and soon enough I heard a terrified cry behind me that made my heart stand still.

Frerin was standing where I had left him, both hands clinging to his sword, facing two fierce-looking Orcs that were aiming straight for him. He was staring at them wide-eyed, and I heard him whisper:

“Please don’t do that. Please go away...”

What was he thinking of, he had to raise his sword, he had to fight them, he had to defend hims...

A thump, and a sickening pain in my head. The second where I had turned to look back had been used by one of the Orcs I had been facing, and the blow on my temple kicked me off my feet.

I fell to the ground, hitting it with my back, and I heard Frerin scream – but Dwarven skull is thick and it was long past, the time where a single blow could knock me out...

“Frerin, you have to fight them!”, I yelled, and then I thrust my sword deep into the belly of the foul Orc that had bent upon me, thinking he could finish me off when I had my Frerin to shield, my little brother to save – how dared he think he could just get past me like that...

The fierce Dwarven battle cry that echoed behind me made me flinch and wonder how Frerin could have voiced it – I avoided only by inches the dead Orc’s body that was oozing foul blood, and some of the black, fetid liquid fell upon my chest and legs. I pushed the corpse away with a kick and got back to my feet, using my axe to hit the next one, in the arm, in the thigh – whatever my blade could reach, and I dealt each blow with another scream.

And when I finally got rid of the group that had attacked me, when I finally could turn safely, dreading what I would see... It was then I saw her, and I would never forget that sight.

It was Itô who had screamed. Itô who was wielding a broad, battle axe I had never seen before, Itô who was fighting like a Dwarf, despite her old age, despite her robes that swirled around her ankles and must have restrained her in her moves.

Her hair flew around her as she fought – she had already loosened it for her night rest, and it was still a mane, a proud, beautiful white mane that reached to her waist. Her eyes were bright, her mouth grim and I could see the tattoo she had between her eyes – a tattoo that attested she was a warrior’s wife and widow, and even more.

She was a warrior herself. She wielded her axe in a way I had never seen before, she wielded it as if it was a shiny torch, weaving curves and lines for Durin’s day – Itô fought just like she danced.

She uttered her battle cry again and it was high – it was a terrible, threatening shriek, and I could see some of the Orcs draw back. She was shielding Frerin with her body – he had not stirred, he still stared at the scene wide-eyed and pale, so helpless, so shocked.

Itô snarled and the Orcs drew back straight towards me – and Mahal, what a glorious feeling it was to be able to finish them off. I thrust my sword, I wielded my axe – I was no dancer, I was a killer, fierce and ruthless, drenched in sweat and foul black blood.

I do not remember when it stopped. I had forgotten about everything else except my axe and sword – I was not thinking about Frerin anymore, I knew that Itô was shielding him, I knew I could give in to battle’s rage without restraint.

But somehow it stopped, and we were left standing while the Orc pack fled. Our warriors had fought bravely, though several had fallen, and what remained of the Orc pack ran away shrieking in fear, and as dawn rose we were left standing in the camp, gazing at what was left after the battle.

There was blood everywhere. Foul, black blood covered the ground, had splashed upon our tents, and there was Dwarven blood also, for some of us had died, and Hergíl among them.

There would be no more horse braids to be woven – no more quiet talking and gentle smiles while fastening the shoes we had made together on their hooves...

I would learn later that he had died – I would learn later that they had all fought, my grandfather, Balin, Dagur, Hergíl... and above all my father. For Thráin’s memory was not shut to Orc cries, and he had reacted as soon as he had heard them utter their first shriek. My father had grabbed his axe and had run out to fight – our victory belonged also to him, for there was no fiercest warrior, and that night Thráin ran berserk.

But of all this I heard later. As I was left standing, my hands still gripping my sword and axe, my breath short and my body covered with blood that was not mine, I only knew it was over.

The terrible foes I had faced were dead on the ground, their faces lifeless and their eyes dull – I had killed them. It was over, and as that realisation kicked in, I suddenly felt myself stagger. I thrust my axe in the ground and leant upon it, my breath heavy and my body sore.

A soft moan made me turn, and I saw Itô holding Frerin. He had dropped his sword and was throwing up, his small body heaving violently in her arms, and Itô had gathered his hair, her hand upon his chest, her moves gentle and soothing.

She saw me advance towards him and shook her head with a warning look, and I realized then how frightening I must seem, covered in blood, reeking with sweat... I turned, I ran to the river, taking my weapons with me, and as I did so I saw how many wounded there were, how terrible the raid had been, leaving us victorious yet broken.

I pulled off my chainmail, I rinsed the blood from the meshes and from my blades and dried them carefully. I took off my jerkin too – the leather was bloodied, but it had not reached my tunic. I pulled it off nonetheless, I washed the whole upper part of my body: my face, my hair, my chest, my arms... I rinsed the blood away and then I pulled on my tunic again – only my tunic, the rest I carried with me, I would see to it later, there were other priorities.

The Dwarflings were huddled together when I came back into the tent, my hair drenched and my lips blue with cold. Some were crying, but most of them were silent, looking at Itô who still held Frerin in her arms, and at Dís who was gently stroking his hair.

“Thorin...”, he kept whispering, his face pressed against Itô’s chest. “I want Thorin... I want Thorin... I want Thorin...”

Dís looked at me and there was so much despair in her gaze, so much sadness – what was there left to do or say? I laid down my weapons and my heavy chainmail, and then I joined them. I reached for Dís’ face, caressing her cheek with my hand. I looked at Itô, our eyes locked – we gazed at each other silently, knowing that there had been a special bond between us, the bond of those who fight together – and I bowed, thanking her silently, before I lay my palm on Frerin’s back.

“I am here, Frerin. I am right here.”

Itô gently let go of him, she and Dís withdrew to the other end of the tent, trying to give us some privacy, and Frerin reached for me, desperately, clinging to the back of my tunic, almost tearing at the fabric. He was shaking – he was so young, and he was breathing so fast, I could feel his chest quiver against mine.

He was not crying – he was not making a sound except hurried, shallow breathing noises, and they broke my heart. I held him against me, I brushed his soaked, light locks aside, trying to make him look at me, but his face was averted, his cheek pressed against my shoulder.

He was not even twenty – he should never have had to draw a sword, to fight like that, especially not there, in cold, foreign lands, half-starved and afraid. He was still a child, and I had made him act like a warrior – I had made him face things he never should have seen.

“Kudzaduz^[4]...”, I whispered, using the fond word I only called him when he was ill or low. “Please, look at me.”

My hands brushed his back, the curve of his spine, the muscles of his chest and waist – he was so tiny, so slender... I bent towards him, and kissed whatever I could reach of his face: his ear and his cheekbone, burning hot and sweaty. It had been years since I had done that – we embraced each other, we grasped each other’s arms, we pushed each other, earned shoves or blows, but Dís was the one getting kisses and bestowing them.

Yet that night, that terrible night, I bent towards my brother and kissed him, because he had no one else to cling to. There was no one there to try to remove his fear. There was only me, and I had been the one who had placed him in this terrible situation.

Frerin’s breathing hitched when I touched him, yet slowly became more even. He was still shaking, but his hands were loosening their grip around me.

“Look at me, Frerin...”

He shook his head, his face still hidden in my shoulder, and I felt my throat tighten.

“Please forgive me... I know I asked too much, I know I had no right to push you like that. You should not have had to fight, I should have made sure... Please forgive me...Frerin... please... Don’t turn your face from me...”

A sob escaped Frerin’s lips – a sound at last, and I held him while he cried, and terribly silent tears they were, so quiet and desperate.

“Why... are you... so kind to me?”

His words took me aback – I froze, still holding him.

“I failed, I am so... so weak. I am useless... I cannot... fight, I am so... I am such a failure. You should be... ashamed of me...”

My grasp around him tightened – I could hardly believe what he was voicing.

“I will never be ashamed of you. You held your ground, you did not stir. You were the one guarding the tent’s entrance, and they knew it. I was supposed to shield you. I am the one who failed.

- They... they struck you down because... because you looked at me. If I had... If I had been quicker... stronger... But I was so scared... I could not move... I was so scared to lose you... I don’t want to... lose you...”

He was crying so hard now that I could only hold him tighter.

“They were so many, Frerin, and it was night... Of course you were scared... I was too – I was terrified. I was as scared as you.

- But you fought well... You were so fast, you did not look afraid...”

He raised his face to look at me – he lifted his face at last and I met his grey, clear gaze, still bright with tears. He has stopped shaking, he was calmer now, and it was all that mattered to me. Calming him down.

I could not tell him about that rage that had spread through my limbs like a glowing torch – the hatred for those foul beasts born and bred in the shadows, only raised to kill and pillage. That anger that had given me so much strength, quickening my pulse, and in which I had reveled because it had fanned my courage – it had to remain unvoiced. It was the darkest and the most blazing part of my soul, and I could not share it with Frerin.

It would only frighten him, he would not understand. He was thinking too much, caring too much – his soul was like a crystal lamp, its light clear and pure, without any room for hatred and wrath. And I did not want him to change – I loved him, I loved him so dearly that it hurt to look at him.

“I was fast because they were heavy. Those breastplates and weapons they carry, they are ill-made and only slow them down. Their bodies are not swift, their brain is sluggish and they only think about their own safety – they do not care for each other, they do not regroup, so it is not so difficult to break through them, actually.

- You are so brave...”, Frerin whispered, and he felt for the bruise on my temple, his fingertips brushing my skin.

How little I deserved both his praise and his concern – and yet I managed to smile at him.

“I have a thick skull. You are the smart, inventive, kind, wonderful one among Thráin’s sons...”

His gaze clouded and he let go of me.

“Do not say that. Don’t lie to make me feel better.

- I don’t. I am not lying to you...”

I was speaking so low that he had to stay close to me to hear me.

“You have so much more goodness than me. That’s what held you back, even with those creatures, and it does not make you a coward at all. Don’t lose that treasure, kudzaduz.”

He did not answer. He laid his face against my neck again, his arms circling my chest. And I brushed his back with my palms, gently, feeling my own tension ebb slowly.

“You are shaking”, Frerin whispered after a while, and I was indeed.

I always have, after battle, after those raging hours where my body fought and my mind only followed instinct. Never before, or during the fight – always afterwards. Like a flame suddenly extinguished once danger is past, for Mahal does not give away his blessings freely. I learnt to hide it quickly enough – no one would have followed me had they witnessed that, and it never lasted long.

I would make sure to go away or to keep to myself while the battle’s aftermath was taking its toll, and no one ever saw me like this.

Except Frerin, on that cold, forlorn night. I went on brushing his back, holding him close, but I was shivering – not with cold or fear, but with the awareness of being alive still.

He did not breathe a word, he did not even move. We both stayed as we were, knowing that we were exactly as afraid and helpless, that we were the same deep inside, despite our differences. And Frerin knew that I could never, ever allow myself to show the fear I had temporarily held at bay without conquering it, so he held me as I held him, until my shivers ebbed.

Weary. I was so weary, and yet I could not rest. There were so many to tend to – the dead and the wounded, and those who were too afraid to stir, for we had to move on.

But we Dwarves know about battles, and facing Orcs. There were many who had fought endless times in their lives, and they knew how to take care of the dead and wounded, how to handle the terrible situation that follows every battle.

Everyone knew what was to be done. The Orcs’ corpses we piled, leaving them to the crows – and may they have feasted upon their rotten flesh. The injured we gathered in a tent once more, and how hard Oín and our women strived that morning to tend to their many wounds so that they could keep moving...

And the dead we buried – because once more there was no possibility to offer them a proper tomb. There was no cave, no stone, only a few forlorn rocks... and there was no time.

I had pulled on my jerkin and my chainmail once more. The air was biting cold, and it did hardly matter now how dirty and stained my clothes might be – they were shielding me from the icy wind, as I stood there in the silver mist that had risen after that deathly night, clouding the hills like a grey sky.

I watched our fallen warriors being laid close to each other in the earth while a huge rock was being dragged above their tomb, so as to make sure they would sleep under stone until we could come back and build them a proper grave.

And as I watched Dagur and Nár carve the sacred runes into the dark, hard stone, I suddenly heard my grandfather’s voice.

Not shouting, not even speaking – so low, so soft. His lips moved and I heard him sing for the first time in years, his gaze upon the dark rock that covered the twenty Dwarves that had fallen, his robes still slick with Orc blood he had drawn, for he had fought among them:

“The world is grey, the Mountains old

The forge’s fire is ashen cold

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls

The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls...”

His blue eyes were lost to the world and I know that he was not thinking of Durin – he was seeing Erebor, Erebor that he had strived so hard to rebuilt and that was now destroyed, in ashes, leaving our people exposed. Vulnerable. Dying.

“The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-Dûm...”

Thrór’s voice broke and I saw him stagger – and suddenly realized that he was grim, hard, spiteful and proud, but also old, weary and desperate. He had been through that before, a thousand times, and now that his hair was grey and should have grown white in peace and wealth, there he was, standing once more before a grave, without shelter – without anything.

I stepped up to him – I knew I could, I knew he would not push me away this time, I knew he would not harm me, because of the grief that bound us that day.

I came close to him and took his hand – his broad, strong hand that still knew how to wield sword and axe when it came to defend his people, and how slender did my fingers look in my king’s grasp...

Thrór turned his face towards me, and I saw doubt darken his gaze – what was I doing, what did I want, why did I touch him, who was I to him... I saw all this, in his clouded eyes, and I softly ended the song for him.

“But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere

There lies his crown in water deep

‘Til Durin wakes again from sleep.”

He looked at me – pale dawn meeting night-blue, recognizing each other at last, and then he smiled. A soft, sad smile that was heartbreaking but made him look more himself than in years.

“Not my crown, Thorin... Not mine...”

He brushed the back of my hand with his thumb before letting go, turning his back on me, walking away quietly – no hard words came from him that day.

I watched him go, knowing exactly how desperate he felt inside. And it was then I felt Dís fingers on my arm.

“Thorin... You have to come – it’s ‘adad.”

I tensed, dreading the worst, and she quickly added:

“He’s not injured – he is over there. He won’t drop his weapons, we all tried, me and Frerin, even Balin, but he doesn’t listen and he’s... he’s frightening everyone.

- Mahal...”

The anguished cry that had escaped my breast hovered for a second between us and Dís knew then. She knew how close I was to break down myself – I could not be everywhere, shielding the Dwarflings, comforting my brother, standing by my grandfather, and mastering my father’s madness.

“I know...”, she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes. “I am so sorry. We tried, we all tried, but he’s not to be reasoned with – and you are the only one who manages to speak to him.”

I shook my head, my breath getting shallow as I tried to fight down what I felt – and failed. I raised a hand to my mouth, pressing my knuckles against my teeth so as not to scream aloud.

“I know, Thorin...”, Dís said, circling my waist with her arms.

“Mahal, Dís...”, I whispered. “I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate what he is doing to us.”

She did not answer, she did not judge, she only held me tighter. And after a while I dropped my hand, gazing down at her, my eyes still burning with unshed tears.

“Where is he?”, I asked, and Dís took my hand to lead me to him.

A frightening sight it was indeed. My father was standing on one of the hills, his gaze fierce and his hair loose in the biting wind. His grip around his sword and axe was firm and he was facing those I held dear, his posture wary and his gaze bright and mad.

Frerin, Balin – even Dagur, they had tried to reach him and he had dragged his sword, wielded his axe, baring his teeth at them, threatening them with both his weapons and his glare.

“Don’t go there”, Dagur said. “He’s raging, he’s mad. We’ll have to wait until he gets exhausted.

- We don’t have the time”, I replied.

I whispered something to Balin, and then I walked up the hill. I went empty-handed, but not unarmed – my axe was fastened on my back and my sword hung at my side.

Thraín watched me arrive, his breath getting quicker, and I saw him shift position slightly – not defensive anymore, but ready to attack.

“’Adad, if you hit me, I will hit back.”

My voice rung clear and I saw him blink, taken aback by my resolute tone, and probably wondering who I was, and why I kept walking straight towards him.

He bared his teeth – what a fierce warrior he looked, his tattoos changing shape as he growled, but I was not afraid, I was just desperate and so, so weary.

“I won’t warn you again, ‘adad.”

I was only several steps away from him when he moved. He ran towards me, raising his blade, and I parried his blow, drawing my sword with both my hands.

He had struck so fiercely that I felt the blow reverberate through my whole arm, reaching my shoulder. But he had not aimed, not really, he had only lashed out, probably because I was puzzling him, while I definitely wanted my blow to reach him. I parried his attack, and while my sword was still against his blade, my foot reached out, hitting his stomach with all my might.

He huffed, his breath failing him, and I heard someone scream behind me – Dís, or perhaps Frerin, I would not know. I turned down Thráin’s blade and then I took some steps back.

“How dare you...”, I said, my voice still loud, and unwavering. “I am your son. Thorin.”

He was still searching for air and his grip tightened again around his weapons, but he suddenly seemed confused.

“Dashat-zû^[5].”, I repeated, and as I switched to Khuzdûl my voice suddenly broke – it was too intimate, too close.

“I don’t want to hurt you. But you have to stop. Drop your weapons, ‘adad. Don’t force me to make you drop them, because I will.”

I sheathed my sword again, still facing my father. We both were breathing fast and our eyes were locked, and I could see him waver, frowning slightly, his fingers slackening slightly around his weapons.

“Thorin...”

Balin’s voice echoed softly behind me and I let out a deep breath.

“Put it down there.”

I did not turn to see if he obeyed – I knew he would, and I could not let Thráin out of sight. It was cold, so cold – there was frost on the ground, and my breath swirled before me.

“’Adad... Drop your weapons. It is safe. Come and look, come and listen – there is no need of blades for that...”

I took some steps back and there it was. My mother’s harp, wrapped in faded black velvet that still smelt of smoke and ashes. I slowly extended my hand and touched the fabric, my gaze still fixed upon my father. I started to remove one of the laces, my moves cautious, and I saw my father take a tentative step towards me.

“Come, ‘adad...”

The fabric fell to the ground with a soft move and the harp was bared. Its beautiful, dark wood had withstood the fire unharmed, and the silver runes that were carved upon it shone as if it had just been polished.

My hand felt for the wood and I followed its graceful curve, stroking the harp as if to tame it, and I saw my father shiver slightly. The fierce expression had left his face and he looked guarded, yet unsure. I put one knee on the ground and drew the harp against my shoulder, watching him approach.

“Come, ‘adad. You can hear the wind playing in the strings. It is just as she said, ‘adad – the wind never howls, we simply do not understand his words...”

My body tensed when he came close enough to touch it – he was still armed, but his weapons were facing earth and he did not seem to think about them anymore. I was holding the harp against me like a bow, my fingers not touching the chords, resting on the wood.

Thráin stopped and endless moments passed before he dared to move. I heard the dull thud of his axe when it hit the ground, as he extended his hand to touch the wood, caressing it just as I had done.

“Come closer, ‘adad. Listen...”

I bent my head softly – I could hear it indeed, the breeze’s soft, strangely harmonious lament, going up and down the tone-ladder.

Another soft noise, metal hitting stone. Thráin had dropped his sword and came even closer. He rounded me, standing right behind me – and though I was frightened, so much more than when I had faced the Orcs, I did not move, I just turned to look at him.

“You have to bend...”

His eye searched mine, and then he bent, slowly, his face inches from mine. One of his dark locks fell upon my shoulder and I could feel the heat that was radiating from him – he was so strong, there was so much fire in his soul still... He bent, and then suddenly his body tensed, for the wind had risen again, breathing his song on the chords once more.

I heard him exhale, painfully, and then I watched him come even closer, until his forehead touched the wood. He stood like this for minutes, not moving, only listening. And then he stirred again.

His hands that had been clinging to weapons, sowing death and wrath – his hands searched for mine. He laid his palms upon my forearms and it was all I could do not to flinch, then he enclosed my wrists with his fingers, cautiously.

His skin was so warm – it had been weeks since he had touched me like this, gently, aware of his moves. He circled my wrists and then he placed my hands upon the strings, one after the other.

“Ilfim... Play...”

I had a start when I heard him speak – he had not said a word for so long, and nothing coherent ever since the Mountain fell.

“Ilfim, magabshûna^[6].”

Magabshûna... Magabshûna, not magabshûn... I closed my eyes, I rested my head against the harp, well-knowing who he was confusing me with. The dark, rich wood met my bruise, and the pain was welcome.

His palms still rested upon my wrists, and his fingers brushed my forearms again, getting up to my shoulders, gently gathering my hair.

I shuddered – I wanted to believe he was caring for me, touching me, loving me, but he was seeing another frame, looking at another being, and I was lost in his embrace.

My fingers found the chords, somehow. The strings were not in tune, and my hands were frozen, for they were bare and I had not moved them for minutes.

But I played, a fragment only, the one that came to my mind, my left hand striking two deep chords while the right one slowly ran through the notes that matched the words.

“No harp is wrung, no hammer falls

The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls.”

After that my hands fell to my side. My head was still resting against the harp, but I could not play anymore, I could not move. I felt my father’s embrace being removed gently, Balin was taking him away from me and he was not struggling. He was walking away, still looking at me, while I was left kneeling next to the harp, listening to the wind’s moan upon the strings.

“Come, Thorin. Get up, lad. Let us leave that wretched place.”

Dagur was crouching next to me and was gently shaking my shoulder, his blue gaze sad and dark. I looked at him, but I could not move – I could not even remember how it was supposed to be done.

“Mahal, laddie, say something.”

But I stayed mute – I could not speak either, there was nothing left in me. I could still sense my father’s touch, so intimate yet never meant for me. It had felt so wrong, so forbidden – he should never have touched me like that, gathering my hair, stroking my skin like a lover... We were both tainted. And I felt so soiled, so broken.

I had faced battle’s horrors, I had been drenched with foul blood I had drawn, but it was my father’s touch who broke me.

Dagur hoisted me up, wrapping my arms around his neck, and carried me down the hill. He took me to the riverbank and bathed my face, and the water’s icy bite on my skin made me flinch.

“Feeling alive again, lad?”

I was – if you could call that alive. I raised a shaky hand to my face, feeling for my bruise, still bent upon the riverbank. I had committed something unforgivable, hitting my own father – and Dagur had witnessed it.

I knew how it must have looked, the way Thráin had touched me – he had spoken softly, perhaps they had not heard and thought he had recognized me, but I knew better.

I pulled up my sleeves, despite the cold, I thrust my arms into the river, desperately trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his hands, and my skin was red and sore when Dagur pulled me away from the water, his broad arm around my chest.

I struggled, I lashed out and hit his breast with my fists, I threw my body against his massive frame, trying to break free. I never let out a sound, and Dagur did not defend himself, he only held me, trying to keep me from hurting myself – but I was bruised and my body ached when I finally stopped struggling.

My arms were dragged against my chest, a screen between Dagur’s body and mine. And yet there was no way he would harm me. I had sparred against him so many times – he had trained me, he had taught me how to rely upon my body. Never would he have dared to cross that boundary my father had crushed down in his madness, in this insane delusion that destroyed everything around him.

“Come now, lad...”, Dagur said gently, his arm still around me. “Come now... You will be fine. You will be fine.”

He repeated the words several times, like a promise, and I – I just gave in to exhaustion, finally leaning into his arms. I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to believe Dagur who had never betrayed my trust, who had always clearly voiced where he stood, what to expect of him and why. There was not an inch of insanity in him, and I clung to it, I clung to his words so as not to drown.

“Come, lad. I’ll carry you for a while. Look at you, haven’t I taught you not to waste your strength like that? You should have known better, laddie – I would never dream of hurting you.

- I know...”, I whispered, and when he lifted me I did not struggle.

He placed me on his back – I could feel the broad blade of his axe against my face: it was no safe place for a Dwarfling, but it was the safest for me. I rested my cheek against it, my arms around Dagur’s neck, my fingers closed upon the broad braids of his beard and my thighs on his strong forearms.

He lifted me just like that, and had a low grunt.

“Mahal, laddie. We really have to get some food into you.”

I could have told him to remember we hardly had any food left, but I did not. I closed my eyes and just let myself be carried – I would be fine. I had to be.

I have only scarce memories of this day – the hard, cold touch of the axe’s blade against my cheek, and Dagur’s hair, smelling of leather, of iron dust, of hard work and steadiness.

I remember looking at my boots, at the tarnished silver on its tips, at the leather that was faded and worn-out, I remember thinking how small they looked compared to Dagur’s, and how incredibly tiny Dís’ must actually be.

Those few impressions never faded, yet the rest of the day has vanished in my mind. I must have slept, I probably slumbered most of the time, my fingers buried in Dagur’s hair – it was so cold, so cold outside, and my chainmail felt icy against my back.

I do remember wondering – dreading when it would come, the moment where Dagur would be fed up with carrying me, when someone would come, asking something of me once more. But no one came, and he never put me down, giving me these hours of respite, allowing me for a single, short day to be what I really was back then – a Dwarfling dealing with issues that were far beyond my age and strength. 

And when he freed himself from my embrace, putting me down on the cold ground, he did so gently. He wiped off the frost that had begun to cover my chainmail, and then he took my fingers into his own and rubbed them, for the blood had frozen in my hands.

It was time to unfold the tents again, it was time for everyone to try to get some rest – and for me to leave the shelter of Dagur’s arms. I don’t recall what gave me the strength to do so, I just know that I did it somehow, because I had to – because I had no choice.

But I do remember the soft, cold touch that met my face when I finally rose to my feet, walking up to my people again.

Snow. Snow had reached us at last.

Neo-Khuzdûl translations:

^[1] zirak: its first sense is ‘spike’ but it’s also short for Zirakzigil, one of the three Mountains of Khazad-Dûm. Thorin however uses the word in its third sense: ‘master, presiding officer’ to mock Frerin.

^[2] shathûr: it means ‘clouds’. But it’s also short for Bundushathûr, another of Khazad-Dûm’s Mountains – so Frerin is turning back his jest to Thorin and I just love it and yes, you can call me Pr. Khuzdûl if you want :).

^[3] Rakhâs: Orcs

^[4] kudzaduz: tiny gold/coin (isn’t that cute...?)

^[5] dashat-zû: your son

^[6] Ilfim, magabshûna: play, you who have been treasured. And there Thráin is addressing a woman – for a boy it would have been ‘magabshûn’. Khuzdûl can’t fool you. It just can’t.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

So hopeless.

“Balin, why did you lie to me?”

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

“When did I ever lie to you, Thorin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you hurt him, ‘adad... If you dare to touch him... I will kill you.”

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

“Just leave us alone, Thorin.”

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

“What makes you think I lied, lad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is the balance in this? Where is Mahal, Balin?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t see any light, Balin...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

“You should be working, shouldn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- No...”

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

“Don’t go, Balin. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Please...”

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

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

- No, Balin, please...

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

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

“No.

- Then trust me, lad. Let me go.”

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

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

“Go, then.

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

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

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

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

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

But Itô bowed. Of all the things she could have done, that proud Dwarven-lady bowed.

“Where to now, ubnad?”

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

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

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

“No, ubnad. Not you. You lead, we follow. And I am behind you, always. Mahizli.”

Remember.

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

I nodded, wordlessly, and then we left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then nothing.

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

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

“Oh Mahal...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t... don’t give up, Dís”, I whispered, kneeling next to her.

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

“Stay close. You are safe. I will carry you.”

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

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

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

“Leave me, Thorin...”

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

“Leave me, marlel. You don’t have the strength. I am too heavy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you walk, lad?”

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

I nodded, and the Dwarf had a grunt.

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

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

“No... marlel... Tell him you have to... Tell him you cannot...”

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

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

“You promised...”

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

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

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

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

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

“’Adad...”, I whispered, and my voice was hoarse.

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

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

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

“Thorin!!!”

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

“Dwalin...”, I whispered, and seconds after I was in my cousin’s arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- I had to...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chestnut.

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

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

“I am... I am fine...”, I whispered, staggering in his arms.

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

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

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

“No... Please... I will be fine... I feel better...”

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

Blood. I was vomiting blood.

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

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

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

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

Dragon.

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

I cannot go home.

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

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

I can still hear his words, and they must have lulled me to sleep, because after that I dreamt. My body was burning, and I was breathing fast and thrashing around in my bed, but that dream was a cold, silent one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thorin...”

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

“Let me take the boy. Let me go there.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you know?”, she replied, and I shook my head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No flakes.

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

The hand was squeezing mine, urging me to try.

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

“Thorin, do you know who I am?”

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

“Thorin, stay with me. Just answer.”

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

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

“Do you know where you are?”

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

“I am... trying to... reach you...”

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

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

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

“Thorin...”

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

“Urâd Zirnul...”

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

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

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

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

I had reached him.

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

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

- It is good...”, I whispered. “It is enough...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was pain and unspeakable sadness.

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Coming back to life is a slow and painful journey, each step a struggle, each day a small victory. Such a strange battle to fight, between two worlds, one full of hardships, and the other a blank, a void only filled with questions... I guess the soul clings to every sensation, magnifies every feeling, after facing death and pushing it temporarily away.

At least this is what happened to me, that winter in the Iron Hills coated in ice and snow, where I recovered slowly and found my way back to my exhausted body.

Strange that it all happened away from my family, away from Dís and Frerin, away from my father, away even from Dáin – I should have been with them, they were my closest kin and I was still Thráin’s son, and Thrór’s grandson, even though I was reduced to a mere shadow of my former self.

But when I collapsed they had taken me straight to Dwalin’s room that was nearest, and I had been too weak to be moved afterwards. And so it happened that, during the first week, while my family was taken in by Náin and Grór, I lay in Fundin’s house, lost in fever dreams of snow and fire.

They told me later I stopped breathing for some seconds, that night where I saw the white bridge for the first time. It happened twice in my life afterwards, and every time coming back was excruciating, leaving me broken, without any strength.

I was a shadow in the darkness, and my only light was Dwalin.

He was there. Always there.

He smiled at me when I woke, his fingers enclosing my wrist, making sure I remembered where I was – safe and sound, away from the snow. He held me when I tried to sit and he made me eat – he would frown and scold me softly when I would drop my spoon, unable to finish my small plate, but he never forced me. He noticed that often, the main fact of sitting was too much, that I had no strength left to do both, and so he would make me lie down again and try to give me the rest later.

And I would reach out for his hand, always, wrapping my fingers around his thumb and fall asleep with the promise that I had reached him – that no matter where my dreams would carry me, he would stay there and bring me back from cold and death.

I never asked for anyone in my illness – not my father, not even Dís and Frerin, and least of all my grandfather. I had been told they were well and resting, I had secured my mind about that at least. They could not help me. I was so far away from them anyway.

I just wanted Dwalin.

He talked to me, quietly. He told me my lungs were inflamed, that I was fevered and breathless because my body was fighting the infection. I was not even coughing that much... or perhaps I did and it mingled in my head with the ash and dust the Dragon had brought upon us.

I was having nightmares, about Fire mostly while I was fevered, but the worst were set in the snow – I would wake up drenched in sweat, my tunic damp against my chest. My chest where Svali had lain, where I had sensed him breathe, until he left me. I did not moan, I did not make a sound, yet Dwalin seemed to feel it.

Every time I would wake, wondering why Mahal did not take me, why I was still there, shivering and weak, so useless, there he was. I could feel his arms around me, circling my chest, and his warmth on my back as he would make me lean against him. He let me sleep curled up in his embrace like a Dwarfling, and I never even considered not doing so.

I needed him too much. Cold, snow and death were still so close.

That day, however, I had woken without the feeling of dizziness fever always gave me. The pain in my chest had receded slightly, and my dreams had not been as vivid as before – my sight was clearer and I felt able to move, sitting myself against my pillow.

For the first time, I truly looked around me, wondering where I was, and the first thing I noticed was that I was alone. The day was late already, I could tell it from the fading light that was still shining through one of the small windows on my right – a lamp was burning on my left side, the flame bright and cheerful, lighting the room.

It was Dwalin’s room, of course.

It was just like him – warm, safe, and mostly unadorned. You had to look harder to find out who was living there, a quick glance was not enough. And I... I was still weak, but I was biased, I knew my friend – we might have spent only several weeks together, but we had talked and practically not left each other, even afterwards.

He was my best friend. He still is.

And I recognized him in every corner. The bed, of course – it was simple, without any flourish, and the blankets were of warm, slightly rough wool. Then there was an iron chest, thrown open, and inside I could see several pairs of boots, carefully cleaned, a folded chainmail, and a helmet. His shield was just behind the chest, the adorned part turned towards the wall – he would not show it, he did not really care about that.

A shield was a shield, what mattered was the person behind it. Friend or foe. With Dwalin it was always simple.

He kept his other weapons on a low table next to his desk: his sword, sheathed in its scabbard, his axe, blade turned down so as not to damage the wood, and a mattock also – this was new to me, I had never seen him fight with that weapon before...

And on his desk were his books – not so many, not because he didn’t enjoy reading, but because there were few in the Iron Hills. The treasure of Erebor had not only laid in gold – the libraries had been as valuable, probably even more, for we had gathered books not only about our own knowledge and history, but also from entire Middle Earth. Now it was lost, burnt down to ashes, fuel for the Dragon’s fire... I shuddered, and looked at the wall.

There was a map hanging there, a map of Middle Earth, with pins on the Iron Hills, and on the Lonely Mountain. He had attached them with a small dark thread and it moved me – I knew he had done that because of Balin, they did that each time they parted, giving each other a thread of their favourite tunic.

They were always apart... Balin was so much older, he had been forty when Dwalin was born – an unexpected blessing, he always said, looking at Dwalin who would grumble and blush. He left for Erebor when Dwalin was still not much more than a baby, and for what...?

They did not see each other so often – I think Balin knew me better than his own brother back then... But a brother is a brother, and Dwalin would tie the thread between the pins that held them apart, while Balin kept it carefully with his writing tools.

Both so different. Both so similar in their faith and love.

My gaze left the map and then I saw it. A small, colorful drawing of a tall, sharp Mountain, the sun bright and everything but round, with a hundred rays at least spreading from its orb, and six little figures with big heads and small bodies, holding their hands. I knew what was written below – she had begged me to write it down, before Dwalin had left. Dáin, Dwalin, Balin, Dís, Thorin, Frerin.

Dís in the middle of course, and the heads of the figures red, brown, dark and golden. All linked – Durin cousins, tiny links of the same chain.

I swallowed, hard. It seemed ages ago, and I still remembered her small weight on my lap as I had held her, writing down our names in tiny runes – her gift for my best friend.

He had kept it. He had pinned it to his wall and looked at it every day. He knew what a fragile treasure this chain was.

The sun had set and the room was getting darker, the light of the lamp flickering and drawing shadows upon the ceiling. I lay back against my pillow, suddenly feeling cold again.

I was always cold. I was so thin, even the flesh between my fingers seemed to have vanished, and my ring would have fallen long ago if Dwalin had not put it around my thumb, always mindful and caring. My ribs and my hipbones were standing out sharply under my skin, I could feel them under the heavy fabric of my tunic, under the woolen blanket that still was not enough to warm me up.

“How could you leave him?”

The voice that had let out those words seemed to come from far away. It was muffled by the stone wall and the door, and by the way Dwalin always spoke when he was angry – he barely ever shouted, on the contrary, his voice tended to soften alarmingly.

I rose again, wondering what was upsetting him and who he was talking to, and I soon had my answer.

“It always sounds so simple with you. Life is not black and white, it is much more complicated than that...”

I recognized Balin’s voice and it sounded tired. Tired and hurt – I pulled back the blankets and sat up, my palms leaning upon the mattress as my head started to spin.

“Don’t start lecturing me. I don’t care for what you will say. You should have noticed, you should never have left him. You should never have let him push himself so far.”

Slowly now. I put my bare feet upon the ground and then I rested, already breathless, already clawing for air. Useless – I was useless, not even properly dressed. They had stripped me off everything but my tunic and breeches, trying to make the fever abide.

Yet the clothes I was wearing were of a soft, warm fabric, rougher than Erebor’s elaborated tissues, but carefully woven and neat. They were Dwalin’s. They had been his, and his mother had been attentive and kind enough to alter them and make them fit my body.

“What do you know of what I did, or did not do?”

Balin’s voice was wounded and angry, I had never heard him so upset, so vulnerable – he sounded so young...

“Do you think it was easy, to turn my back on him, knowing that I was letting him alone to face the snow?”

He slammed his hand on something and I flinched, still sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling my body begin to shake.

“Do you think it was easy, to see him cry, to hear him beg me to stay with him – he’s even younger than you!”

There were tears in his voice and I could not bear it – I reached for my boots that were close to me on the ground, worn out but clean and still not falling apart. I pulled them on and had to rest my head against the wall when I recovered. The room was spinning around me, but I still could hear them.

“Then why did you leave him? Why did everyone get saved but him? Why did nobody notice he was fading away – dying, for Mahal’s sake!

- Dwalin, that is enough...”

The calm voice belonged to Fundin, and I could hear the noise of a chair drawn back.

“Let him speak his mind, ‘adad”, Balin replied, his voice very low. “He is young, he doesn’t understand yet...

- Of course I do! There is nothing to understand, this is about keeping your eyes open and...

- And what? Don’t you think Thorin had open eyes, ever since we had to leave Erebor? Dwalin, believe me, he kept them wide open, he’s not like you, racing away and just following his heart without...”

Balin’s quiet sob tore my heart as efficiently as the mention of my own name. Me. They were arguing about me. Fundin’s sons – one against each other. It had to stop. I could not let another family fall apart because of me.

“So you are telling me it was his own choice to keep there in the snow, to exhaust himself like that?! He’s dreaming of it, Balin. Every night. It’s eating him away.”

Dwalin’s voice was fierce, and I almost moaned, clenching my fists fiercely on my knees – it had to stop. It had to stop. I rose and steadied myself with one hand on the wall.

“Why did it have to be Thorin?”, Dwalin went on. “What did Thráin do? Where was Thrór?”

My breath was short, it was wheezing as I followed the wall, pausing after each step I took.

“He has a point here, Balin”, Fundin quietly said. “I understand from Náin that Thráin has been... quite shaken, and that the loss of Erebor weighs heavy upon Thrór’s mind, but still – surely it was not Thorin’s burden to bear...?

- Of course not.”

Balin’s tone was desperate, but it was calm and firm and sounded more like himself.

“It was not Thorin’s burden to bear.”

I was standing against the wall, my legs shaking, waiting for his next words. I do not know what I expected.

But he did, because his father and grandfather both lost their minds?

But he did, because he had sworn to protect Erebor and its people, and that there was no one left but him?

Balin just said:

“Believe me, I have never forgotten who our King truly was.”

He had spoken quietly, and yet his words hit me full in the chest. He had not told his family a word about the dreadful state of mine. He had kept Thrór’s madness secret, had not breathed a word about my father’s ravings – he had kept them a King and a Prince to every Dwarf of the Iron Hills, including his own family.

He had fulfilled his oath to his King – he shielded him to the end, and I was a disgrace to my own line to have thought about sharing that burden with anyone, forgetting about every oath that truly mattered.

My knees gave way then and I slowly slid down on the ground.

There would be no relief from madness, and from what I had lived on that exiled road. I could never ever talk about that with anyone. That tent of ours had crumbled, anyway – Itô was dead, they did not tell me but I knew it in my heart, what else could that white dream mean? The Dwarflings were too small to talk, and Dís too smart.

And Frerin... I did not know about his reactions anymore. Once I would have been sure that I would have to silence him, but now... He had not talked to me ever since he had chosen to stay with my father, he hated me for hitting him, for holding his madness at bay with my violence. He would not have talked of what I did, because it hurt him, he wanted everything hale again, as it was before...

Still... He might talk...

I did not hear Balin leave but he did, and an animated discussion followed, but I did not listen anymore, I could not listen anymore.

I flinched when I sensed hands on my shoulders – Fundin was crouching in front of me, his brown eyes he had passed on to his boys eying me with worry and concern.

“Thorin, what are you doing here?!

- I have to... I need to see my brother.”

I had whispered that sentence and it ended in a cough – I was breathless once more, shivering between Fundin’s hands.

“What are you talking about? You should be resting, boy, Mahal knows you should!”

He steadied me as I got up, still leaning against the wall that felt so cold against my back.

“I need to see my brother”, I repeated, softly, my face raised towards Fundin, wishing I was strong enough to break free from his embrace.

He frowned and felt for my cheek, testing my forehead with the back of his hand – he had warm and strong hands, just as gentle as Balin’s, and yet I flinched again. My own skin was icy – the effort of getting up had drained everything from me.

“Come...”, he simply said, and then he led me towards the kitchen.

He placed me on a chair and sent Dwalin to fetch a blanket, then he wrapped it around my shoulders. I was tense, so tense, but I let him rub my skin gently to warm me up.

“I have to see Frerin”, I repeated, feeling my body begin to regain some heat between his hands.

“Drink this, boy”, Fundin answered, thanking his wife with a nod as she placed a steaming cup in front of me.

I looked at Dwalin’s mother – she was a tall, stout Dwarrowdam, with luxurious brown hair she braided into a bun that almost covered her neck. She had brown eyes too, their shade ember, lighter than Fundin’s, and her collar beard was carefully trimmed, freeing her cheeks, looking so soft. She had no beads, only two small pearls that were adorning her ears, shining softly as she recovered.

“Thank you”, I whispered. “For the clothes and... everything.”

My breath hurried and I struggled to fight back another coughing fit.

“I am sorry to be so...”

My voice hitched and the hollow cough searing through my lungs shook my entire body.

“Hush now...”, Dwalin’s mother said, circling my shoulders and rubbing my chest with her fingers.

“Don’t talk, love. Just drink, get some warmth into that warrior’s body.”

I would have given anything to lean into her embrace, to feel her arms around my waist and to rest my head on her breast. I had been motherless for so long, but I could not. She was not my mother, she already had two sons and they had just been fighting because of me...

She left her hand on my chest until my coughing ebbed and then she ran her fingers through my hair, gently pulling back my locks – it was unbraided, they had taken off my hair clasps and beads during my illness when they had washed my hair.

“We’ll have to do something about that raven mane...”, she said with a smile, but her eyes were clouded as she watched me wrap my fingers around the cup.

I loved the heat, I loved the steam that was rising, promising warmth, I hated the cold so much...

“Do you want some honey?”, she asked, and I looked up at her, unable to answer.

Honey. It had been weeks since I had taken something sweet. I had even forgotten it existed.

“Dwalin, sweetheart, get him some honey, would you? And a slice of oatcake too, I am sure you will love it...”

She was spoiling me just like a treasured child and I could not find the strength to fight back my feelings anymore. I leaned against her, I drank that sweet honey-flavoured tea and ate the cake, slowly, relishing every bite – I had forgotten everything except that warmth, that sweetness and those arms around me.

Honey. Ever since that day, Dwalin’s mother was always mingled with its sweet softness, its golden colour, promising better days.

“There is more if you want...”, Fundin said, his voice and eyes kind.

I shook my head – it still felt like a precious treat, not to be abused of.

“Maikhmini^[1]...”, I whispered, and I felt her grip tighten around me and her kiss on my temple.

“Just eat your fill. Put back some roundness around those skinny bones, so as to fill your clothes properly...”

She was smiling again, brushing my collarbones – I was so tiny back then, it seems hardly believable to me now...

They have called me a warrior, a King. Thorin Oakenshield, the raven-haired warlord – and I have led, I have fought, I have been strong... But that winter the proud raven was reduced to a small, famished sparrow. And I could have died – I was so close to dying that winter. But I did not, because Fundin’s family watched over me – warming me up, feeding me... and loving me.

They made me sit close to the fire after that. Dwalin smiled at me but did not talk, he just made sure I was wrapped tightly in my blanket and then went to sit with his father. I was feeling sleepy, all of a sudden – the tea, the cake, the warmth of the fire...

Fundin and Dwalin had sat around the table, sipping their tea quietly, and my eyelids were getting heavy and heavier. I could hear Dwalin’s mother humming, and her gentle tune lulled me even more.

I fell asleep looking at the flames, curled up in the armchair, feeling more relaxed and shielded that I had in months. There was no madness, no violence in that abode... There was no death, no snow, no struggle, no fight...

“So strange that he never asks for his father...”

Fundin’s voice roused me from my sleep but I kept my eyes shut. I did not want to wake up, I was feeling so protected and warm...

“So strange that Thráin never asks for him... Something is wrong there, Fundin. Trust me. I have never seen Balin so worn out, and starvation does not explain it alone.

- The boy is worn out too...”

Fundin spoke softly, echoing his wife.

“Mahal, he really broke my heart, sitting on that chair, clinging to his cup. If he is better tomorrow we have to get him to his family. The little ones keep asking about him...

- I don’t know, Fundin... Look at him – he’s just beginning to rest, it’s the first time I see him at peace ever since he is with us...

- His fever has broken, thank Mahal. You are right, I don’t understand... Thráin was clinging to him when he reached us, and yet – he never came to him, and neither did Thrór... He’s the heir, Durin’s beard!

- He’s his son.”

Her tone was earnest and adamant.

“Dwalin was not entirely wrong in what he said. The boy broke down not only physically. His siblings were as famished as him and they are recovering, while he’s just beginning to lose that haunted look... He keeps flinching, he’s always wary, and he’s frightened at your touch, Fundin.

- But – why would he?

- Why would he indeed, my love?”

I could hear the smile in her voice as she bent towards him.

“Something happened between him and Thráin, of course. Something so serious that it shattered the boy’s strength, and Balin’s also. And I won’t raise any scandal, Fundin, but I’m with my boy on this – we have to find out. We have to help Thorin, because I won’t bear to see him again the way he was when we took him in...

- Amrâl^[2]... He’s the King’s grandson... You cannot just pry into their family affairs...

- He’s a child. He’s just a boy. He could have been my boy, just like Balin is – and Balin knows about their family affairs, be sure of that, and it makes him suffer. If you don’t do it for Thorin, do it for your own son. Find out what is wrong, Fundin.”

I heard Fundin sigh at her words.

“You seem to be much more clear-minded than I am... I – amrâl, I don’t like this. I never was close to Thráin. I always found him difficult to draw out... I was so relieved and happy when he chose your friend as his Own, and not you.

- As was I...”, she answered quietly, and I could tell from the silence that fell that she either kissed or embraced him.

“I have always pitied Thráin – such a hard, demanding, distant father, and alone, without any siblings, his mother’s shadow weighing upon his life, always feeling guilty. And he’s such a handsome Dwarf – this black hair he has, and those grey eyes... She was so in love with him, as was he. They both found each other, and she steadied him. But I – I would not have dared to try to repair what was broken in him... There are waters in which I’m afraid to drown...

- You, amrâl? Afraid...?”

Fundin’s voice was playful, he sounded exactly like Dwalin – trying to cheer her up, knowing however how earnest the matter was.

“Yes, Fundin. Afraid. And worried.”

Her voice was soft and silence fell once more. When Fundin spoke, his voice was lower and I knew he was holding her against him.

“It does upset you, doesn’t it, love? That boy – he got to your heart just like he got to Dwalin’s, didn’t he?

- Of course, Fundin. He’s her son. He has her eyes, and the shape of her hands. And he saved my boy’s life. Of course I love him. Of course I want him shielded from any further harm. As she would have wished it.”

They stopped talking, after that. They gathered their things and went to check on me – I had not moved, I had managed to keep my breath even, I would not have known how to face them had they noticed I had listened to their conversation. They wrapped another blanket around me and Fundin carried me back to my bed, his moves gentle as usual, while his wife made sure to kindle the fire in Dwalin’s room and to leave the lamp burning at my side.

She bent down and kissed my forehead, brushing back my hair.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart. Rest.”

She left me and went to Balin’s room, where Dwalin was sleeping – I could hear his soft sores, he was resting too after those nights spent next to me, and she kissed him just like she did for me.

I waited until every sound stopped, until I was sure they had all gone to bed, and an endless time after that. And then I allowed myself to recall those words – my life, the life of my parents, quietly discussed over... It could all have been so different...

I let every sentence hit me once more, and when that blow was dealt and began to ebb, I curled myself up in my blankets, looking at the small fire, its light blurring in front of my eyes as my tears fell.

It was like an endless mourning, such an ache...

Erebor and Dale. Lena, and Cillian.

Itô, Hergíl, and Svali – Svali...

My father and my mother...

There was no possible solace to that grief. What was lost was lost, and what was left soon would be...

I was just a boy. I could not keep Thráin’s madness secret. I would not breathe a word, though. He was my father, despite everything that had happened, and he had saved my life twice, shielding me from the Dragon and carrying me away from the snow.

But I could not face him alone anymore, the mere thought made my heart race and freed my tears even more.

I wanted my brother, I wanted Frerin’s smile back, I wanted to see his face shine again when his eyes crossed mine. I wanted Dís, her embrace around my waist and the soft, silken touch of her hair against my neck.

But most of all, that night – I wanted my mother.

I wanted her steadiness, her kindness, the way she had to touch me, cupping my face between her fingers – she had loved me so much. She had loved us all so much. And now, now that I was finally able to rest, to think about the horrors that had happened, now that I could finally give in to my feelings and acknowledge them...

I just wanted my mother, even after so many years.

I wanted my mother, and I wiped my eyes again and again, trying to calm myself down, but the fire was low when my tears finally stopped. I raised my knees and drew my arms against my chest, just like I did when I was a child, and frightened of the dark.

I had faced so much worse than the dark...

Slowly, my breath became more even. I watched the light of the lamp on the wall, small and steady, and as it faded away I fell asleep once more, curled up in Dwalin’s bed, his mother’s kiss still lingering on my forehead.

The next morning Oín came as he had done every day, even though I had not been able to remember him. He sat himself on the bed and pulled the blankets away, mercilessly exposing my frail body, his eyes black behind his thick eyebrows, the two braids of his dark beard carefully woven once more – yet his face was thin and he looked tired.

He had strived so much, during our exile, and it struck me suddenly that, though he was a cousin of ours too and actually belonged on Dís’ drawing as much as Balin or Dáin, we had never really considered him as such. He was a healer, he was the one we never hoped to need, the Dwarf that would come and make us swallow bitter potions, rub our bruises with unguents and reduce broken bones. He was not tender, he did never really share his thoughts, and he was so much older... Or perhaps not.

He was older than Balin, true enough, but what really made him look aged and distant was his knowledge of suffering. Oín knew about agony and death, about pain and blood, about the terrible injustices of life, and he had long stopped to rage against them. He did not cry, not even when the Dwarflings died, and he never was afraid of Thráin, even though he sometimes needed Balin to be able to restrain him.

It struck me, suddenly, that Oín and Balin were actually close, though they never really showed it. Both were from the Iron Hills, both had a much younger brother – Oín’s was called Glóin, and he was even smaller than Dís.

And I wondered if it was him that had kept him moving during our exile, if he had thought of his baby brother waiting for him where shelter lay, to be able to bear what he had witnessed...

“Take deep breaths, lad...”

He was listening to my chest, using a wooden tube he pressed to his ear, holding me upright with his left hand – I could feel his hard grasp around my hip. He frowned when I coughed once more, but I managed to breathe deeply, trying to make it easy for him, trying to show him I was stronger.

Oín pulled my tunic down on my back, with a brisk move, and then he faced me, shaking his head.

“It’s better, lad, but you are still far from hale. That cough is nasty, it will cling to your lungs for a while.”

His hands felt for my ribs, brushing down my waist.

“No fever though, that is encouraging. But you need to put on some weight. Eat, lad. That’s the best way to recover.

- Is there enough...?”

I had whispered that question, not wanting Fundin’s family to hear, and Oín’s gaze clouded. He pulled the blankets back on my legs, resting one hand on my knee.

“Of course there is. There is enough to eat for everyone, until spring – then we will see to it. Grór and Náin will see to it. Don’t you worry.”

He looked at me and saw my gaze – so full of anguish despite his words.

“Thorin, lad, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry, do you hear me? Issues about food, and shelter... they are none of your concern. Can you try to leave them to others – can you try to do that?”

I felt tears rise to my eyes once more – I hated that weakness, I hated the way my feelings just seemed to burst out, crashing down every boundary I had tried to build around them.

“And how do I do that, Oín?”

He knew. He had seen me leave the camp, come back with food, standing at Nár’s and Balin’s side, deciding with them how to ration it. He had heard me ask about safety issues, every night, ever since the Orcs' attack. He had witnessed me as I discussed with Balin which road to take next, and we had buried many of our dead together. He had bandaged the wound of my arm, so many weeks ago – the burn I owed to the Dragon’s breath.

He knew how these nine weeks had aged me, how old I felt inside, despite my young age, despite being only a boy.

He had long been forced to age the same way.

“You place your trust in others, Thorin...”, he answered, and his hand brushed my knee, in a rough attempt to be gentle.

“You let those who are reliable act their part, now that you have support, now that you can be sure they will act wisely. And you rest. You deserve it, lad. You have strived more than enough. We all know it – we might be silent, but believe me, lad, no one has forgotten who led us here. No one has forgotten who our King truly was.”

He whispered those words still looking at me and I froze, gazing up to him, my face pale. The same words Balin used. The same quiet statement. Not the reminder of a grim oath, but a calm acknowledgment.

I started to shake then. I reached out for Oín and he held me, somewhat awkwardly – he was not used to it, especially not from me, I was no hugging and loving Dwarfling, except with my siblings.

But that day I clung to Oín – my cousin the healer, whose words threw an appeasing balm on my mind and soul. I was not alone. It would never been forgotten – I could share this suffering with him, with Balin, with every Dwarf that had strived with us in our exile.

I did not have to speak about my father or grandfather in the Iron Hills – if no one asked, there was no use talking about it. But I could rely upon Oín, upon Balin, upon Nár... I could let things take their course quietly – I did not have to face madness alone, because I actually never had. They had been at my side, all these weeks, and they would stay at my side.

“Maikhmin...”, I whispered, my arms wrapped tight around Oín’s chest, and I felt his hands on my back – shy and awkward, so unsure when it came to emotions...

“No, lad. Thank you. Stay a boy a little longer, will you?”

 I nodded, my eyes closed, burying my face in his shoulder.

“Come, lad, stop it, there are others who need me...”

His voice was gruff and I knew he was just fighting back his own feelings. I let go of him and he looked at me, his black gaze soft and somewhat bright.

“Fundin told me you want to see your family. Do you feel strong enough? You could use a few more days of rest...

- No. I want to go. I have to see them.”

My voice was tiny but unwavering, and Oín nodded.

“Take Balin and Dwalin with you. And don’t exert yourself. If you feel tired, you rest, if you feel breathless, you pause. I will make sure you are alright this evening, so mark my words, lad.”

He left me, then, and I spent the rest of the morning getting ready, because everything required an effort – yet I was determined.

I bathed and washed my body carefully – and what a delightful feeling it was to feel the warm water on my skin, to feel the steam around me, watch its droplets on the bathtub’s edge, knowing that I was safe again, between walls of stone...

And then I dressed, and Dwalin and his mother helped me look as I should, making sure I would keep warm, wrapping me in several layers of clothes that also helped to hide some of my thinness away.

She adjusted the grey woolen tunic around my waist and then she made me pull on a black leather jerkin. It had belonged to Dwalin some years ago but he had outgrown it, and it fitted me, making me look more like myself than I had been in days.

“What did you do with my clothes...?”, I asked, shyly, as she helped me to adjust my belt around my waist.

It was the belt I had brought back from Erebor – somewhat faded and old, but still fit to be worn. I brushed it with my fingertips – it was a small reminder of home.

“I washed them. The tunic is old, so are the trousers, but they are there if you want them.”

I nodded – it was silly, I knew, but still... I could not bear to throw them away.

“The leather jerkin however is lost, I fear. The snow damaged it too much, I’ll see what I can do but I don’t have much hope...

- It doesn’t matter...”, I whispered. “It’s just a jerkin.”

She brushed my cheek and Dwalin said:

“I have your axe, your sword and your chainmail. I cleaned and sharpened them. They are in Balin’s room.

- And you will get them back another day”, Dwalin’s mother said. “You know where they are. Just make sure you come back.

- I promise...”

I could not have carried my weapons anyway, and they all knew it. I had to rest for an hour after that, they forced me to lie down despite my protests. And I slept – quietly, dressed in Dwarven clothes again.

When I woke up it was late, much later than it should, but I felt rested and walked without help to the kitchen.

“Look at you...”, Fundin said with a smile. “It is good to see you like that, boy, don’t you agree, Balin?”

There he was, sitting next to Dwalin yet not touching him. His gaze was tired and there was sadness in the lines of his face – he looked so worn out, so worried...

He nodded, but he did not really meet my gaze and I suddenly understood that he felt guilty, that Dwalin’s words had reached him deep and that he had been torturing himself ever since.

I stepped up to him. I was taller than him, and he was sitting anyway, resting his arms on the table, too shattered to stir. I made him turn, and he only yielded because he knew I had barely the strength to do so. I stood in front of him, I forced him to come closer, to put his arms around me, and then I drew his head against my chest, just like he had done for me on that stone wall behind the forge.

I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair and held his head against me, not speaking, not moving, only breathing, and I could feel his warm tears against my chest when he finally relaxed against me.

I was not crying. I just brushed his hair, and I looked at Dwalin, telling him silently that what had happened between Balin and me was not to be judged. It had happened, and it had been hard, and there had been death, but we were all alive and together, and it was the only thing that mattered.

And Dwalin understood. He reached out for his brother’s shoulder, brushing it shyly, and at his touch Balin had a sob. He turned from me then, leaning into Dwalin’s embrace instead, and I took some steps back, breathing fast, my heart racing.

I had done something good. This time I had not shattered anything.

I asked Balin to braid my hair, afterwards. I did not have the strength to hold my arms up for such a long time, and I did not want my braids to be messy and crooked, for it was the first time I would have to face Náin, and I owed him respect.

He put all his love into those braids. It was not very hard, it was not the complicated pattern that adorned my father’s hair, and certainly not the rich net of braids that was displayed in Thrór’s hair and beard. He gathered some of the locks around my temples and braided them on the back of my head, carefully, weaving Durin’s pattern into my hair, and fastening it with my hair clasps.

And then he circled my face with the two, thin, tree-threaded braids that I had always woven, every day, since I was a little boy.

Endure, treasure, protect.

Balin’s fingers were nimble, as always, and the braids were perfect – regular, shiny, raven-black. He knew so much what it meant – he had done all that, he could have woven them into his own hair, he had endured so much, and he had treasured and protected us all.

He fastened the carved silver beads at their ends – silver from Erebor, carvings from the Lonely Mountain, and then he looked at me, his brown eyes meeting mine at last.

“There you go, lad...”

He bowed his head slightly and I smiled at him. He circled my waist and led me to a mirror, and I faced myself for the first time in weeks.

The Dwarfling that was looking at me – was it really me? Blue eyes that looked so bright in my hollow face, a beard even sparser than Kíli’s – I was so young, so young still, but my face was so serious, the expression in my eyes so much older...

My hair fell in long raven waves upon my shoulders, circling my face and my neck, and it matched my jerkin and my trousers. Black, dark, sheathing that body I barely recognized.

I drew a deep breath and turned from that image.

“Let us go, Balin...”

They were walking at each side of me, Fundin’s sons, Balin on my left and Dwalin on my right, as they led me to Náin’s house, deep into the Iron Hills, across endless corridors.

There were no stairs here, only long passages and thick stone walls that muffled many sounds – they used iron wool here, I would discover it later, and it was a wonderful isolator, keeping the warmth inside and giving every family its privacy.

It was a long way and that day I had to focus on walking – I did not really bother to ask where I was, and to look around me. After the second corridor I felt cold sweat starting to drench my forehead, while my breath was getting short. Balin put his hand on my arm, making me stop, and I leant upon Dwalin, heavily.

“You want a ride?”, my friend said playfully, once I had recovered a little, and I gazed at him, my face grim.

“Go on dreaming...”, I whispered, still clutching his arm.

It was a matter of pride and honor not to stop again until we reached our goal, and we did not. Minutes after I was facing Náin’s door at last, hearing Balin greet the guards – I could not greet them, I could not talk yet, my lungs were burning too much.

They looked at me, their gaze curious, and I gave them a small nod as we passed them. Once we were inside, there still was another corridor to cross, and this time Dwalin stopped.

“Hold on a little. Let’s give him a break.”

He grinned at me – I drew a deep breath and started to cough, unable to quench the fire in my lungs.

“Spit it out, Thorin.”

I shook my head, I couldn’t believe he dared making fun of me, and yet it was what kept me going.

“Get lost”, I whispered, once I had enough breath again to do so, and he laughed, quietly, knowing I didn’t mean a word of it.

When we entered Náin’s home at last and went into the main room, the first thing I remember was the fire, where I could see Frerin’s golden hair bent upon a table, his arm drawn around Dís’ waist that was sitting next to him. He was facing Dáin – they were playing a game, black and white marbles facing each other, and my cousin had tried to amuse them with it. He always was close to Frerin, and he had taken pains to make him smile, to occupy his mind, never asking anything from him but keeping him from brooding thoughts.

Dís was the first to spot us and she jerked up with a swift, fierce move that made her hit the table and caused several marbles to fall on the floor, but she did not care.

She ran towards me, her small feet making no sound on the carpet, her cheeks red, her eyes bright, and I took some staggering steps to meet her, putting one knee down on the floor when she reached me – I could not lift her, but I wanted her against my chest, I wanted to feel her small body against mine...

She hit my body with a hard thump, almost knocking me down, she was so desperate to reach me, and when she drew her arms around my neck she almost choked me. I circled her waist with my arms, she was so thin, so slender... I wrapped her up in my embrace and pulled her close, so close, burying my face in her hair, kissing her again and again, whispering her name.

I was shaking, I could not withhold the tremendous relief I felt in finding her alive, unharmed, and still loving, still so close, still breathing...

“Dís...”, I whispered, on and on, brushing her back with my hands, and her own small fingers found my face, touching my forehead, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips...

I could not get up, I could not even look up – I wanted that moment to last forever and I dreaded what would come next, what I would read in Frerin’s face. Fear, hatred, anger, resentment...?

So I stayed kneeling on the floor, holding my sister against me, hiding my face in her hair, and that is why I never saw him approach, never knew what emotion was dominant in his expressive features, in that face that had always been so easy to read...

Suddenly I felt other arms around my back, another warm and tiny body against mine, his chest against my shoulder blades and his cheek meeting mine. Golden locks found their way into the raven ones and as I leant at last into my brother’s embrace, feeling my body sag against his, feeling my breath choke and my chest quiver because I was fighting back my sobs, I heard his voice, so earnest, so fierce.

“What in Durin’s name took you so long?”

The sound that escaped my breast was strange – a cough, a sob, maybe the beginning of a laugh, too, it was so like him to scold me, to direct me, and I knew he was not angry, he was just pretending...

I turned my face a little bit and there it was, that clear, loving grey gaze that also looked so much older, so grave, so understanding... My breath hitched and Dís released me slightly from her embrace, always worried, always careful, but Frerin bent his face and touched my forehead with his, drawing us both against him.

“Just breathe.”

They were both holding me upright, Dís against my chest and Frerin against my back, and they felt me shake, they heard me cough – I had no air left, I did not really know if I was breathing, coughing or crying, it suddenly seemed the same...

But in the end it stopped, and I was just there, kneeling between them, their arms around me, feeling whole again, at last. My eyes were closed and my heart was full – I was alive, and for the first time in days I could rejoice to be so.

“’Adad?”, I asked, my voice soft, because I had to, because right now I had the strength to ask.

“He’s better”, Frerin whispered. “He’s spending much time with Náin... He likes to be with him, his face shines when he sees him. And he recognizes us. He likes to hold us, Dís and me, even if he does not talk. I think he’s happy to be in a Mountain once more...”

I nodded, I could not answer, there were still so many bad memories associated with Thráin...

“He misses you, marlel...”

Dís’ soft voice came close to my chest and she raised her face towards mine, her gaze so gentle.

“He holds me against him, and sometimes he touches my hair and I know he asks for you. I told him you would come. I told him not to worry... Was it right, Thorin?”

She was looking at me, so anxious, so faithful, and I nodded again.

“Yes. It was right. I will see him as soon as I can...”

I was still leaning against them and they understood. They saw my drawn, pale face and knew I was still not ready. Frerin helped me to get up, and I suppose I greeted Dáin, but I only remember his firm embrace and the warm smile in his eyes as he led me to his father.

I greeted Náin then, thanking him for taking care of my siblings, thanking him for his hospitality, but he just waved my words away, crushing me against his chest, his bulky frame a rock against mine.

“Don’t waste your breath, lad. You are all so, so welcome.”

We sat down together after that, but I do not really remember that evening, or what we discussed. I think I was just sitting, never letting go of Dís, and feeling Frerin’s presence around me, sometimes searching for his gaze and always finding it, a mute support, a new-found form of love in his grey eyes.

Dáin, Dwalin and Balin were all so close – I remember their touch, if not their words around us, and when Oín joined us, his stern face lightening up as he saw us together, that is when I thought about Dís’ drawing once more.

For we were eight, not six cousins, and we were all together save Glóin who was still a baby – and it was such a treasure, worth a thousand times more than all the gold in Erebor.

Durin cousins. Tiny links of the same chain.

Neo-Khuzdûl translations:

[1] Maikhmini: be thanked/thank you, singular form ‘maikhmin’.

[2] Amrâl: love – ‘marlel’ meaning ‘love of all loves’, a fair expression of what I feel for that wonderful Khuzdûl language.

Chapter Text

The worst wounds remain unseen. There is no visible scar to show, once your carefree childhood is only memory, once your mind has been engraved with images so terrible that they seem to erase every other thought. There is no wound to show when the soul has been crushed.

Nor are there words to express that loss.

We had settled in the guest rooms in Dáin’s house – Frerin, Dís and me in one room and my father close to Náin’s, while my grandfather had other rooms in Grór’s apartments. They had let Dís stay with us when it became clear that nothing would make her leave us to be looked after in the women’s quarter – and Náin had never been able to refuse her anything.

So we shared that room – Frerin and me in the two-sized bed and Dís in a smaller cot, at least until the light was out. Then she would push back her sheets, cross the room noiselessly and slip under my blanket, wrapping her arm around me and nestling close to me. Frerin would already be circling my waist back then and so we would lie there, in that huge bed that had been made for elder Dwarves, tangled into each other’s embrace. Clinging to each other, trying not to feel lost.

Clearly failing for me.

The first night I relapsed – there had been too many emotions, too much of a strain. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, my head and throat sore, only to find Frerin gazing at me. He had lit the small lamp close to our bed and stroked my hair when I tried to recover.

Dís was still asleep against my chest, holding me tightly, and I struggled to sit up.

“You are burning up...”, my brother whispered, still stroking my hair. “Shall I fetch someone?”

How I loved that touch against my hot forehead... I bent my face slightly so that his palm could cup my cheek, it was so cool, so gentle...

“No”, I whispered, careful not to wake Dís. “It’s nothing.

- Oín said you might become feverish again tonight. Don’t worry, Thorin...

- I don’t...”

My voice was faint and my brother’s hand left my face. He fetched me a glass of water and watched me drink, then he gave me something else to swallow. It was bitter and I shuddered, but I drank it nonetheless, and then I lay down again while Frerin stretched himself at my side, resting his head on his elbow while his other hand searched again for my face. His fingertips found my temple and he started rubbing my skin gently, making me shudder again.

“I am sure your head hurts. Mine always hurts when I am ill. You used to do that for me, do you remember?”

I let out a soft sound between a groan and a ‘yes’ – his fingers were so cool, they seemed to suck my fever away and eased the throbbing in my head. I had closed my eyes again, my face turned towards him – I had missed him so much...

“Thorin...”

Frerin’s fingers shifted to my other temple and I could feel my body relax, despite the soreness in my throat and limbs. I opened my eyes, casting a hazy look upon him.

“Promise you will get better soon...”

His gaze was earnest and I sighed when he began again to rub circles into my skin.

“I promise...”

My voice was not above a whisper and I searched for his free hand.

“Kudzaduz...

- Hmm?”

I wrapped my fingers around his, struggling to keep awake.

“Don’t stop, please... Don’t stop just now...”

I had mumbled that sentence in half-sleep and did not really notice if Frerin answered. His hand went on rubbing my skin and I sighed again, giving in to his touch and to sleep once more.

Those nights had a softness that made up for the day’s struggles...

How do you go on, how do you manage to fit in once more, to behave like a boy when you have experienced the terrible weight that comes with adulthood? I can only answer for myself – I did not manage, not at all, and every day it seemed harder.

I never was very gifted with socializing and fitting in. I had been raised among the guards in Erebor – Balin was probably my closest friend there, actually... There were our teachers, the other warriors, Dagur, my father... I was always among them, always caught between lessons, trainings and other duties – because I was the heir, because it had been made clear to me very early what role I would have to fulfill once my time would come.

My grandfather had very high demands, he had raised my father in a hard, exacting and often unforgiving way. Thráin had been more tender – my mother had helped to soften him, and when I look back on my childhood, I think my father really tried to give me more than he had received. While my mother was alive, he had spent much time with us, much time with me actually – he trained me, he was the one who had shown me Dale... why would I need anyone when I had him and Balin to talk to?

And I had Frerin if I wanted to open up and to laugh, if I wanted to play or to explore, and Dís for tenderness and kisses that had indeed become scarce ever since my mother’s death.

Being the heir of Durin’s line built a barrier between me and the other Dwarflings, but I had hardly noticed it because I had so many obligations, and did not mind solitude – for I was secretive and shy, despite my fiery temper, and ill at ease with words once it came to friendship and feelings. I just did not know how to open up.

Frerin was the one who was all sparkling, funny and appreciated. With him at my side I never had much to do... He would do the talking and make people like him, and being with him I was automatically integrated in the group as well.

The only friendships I managed to build myself were with Men, and elder Dwarves. It was easier to interact with them – you had to prove yourself, true enough, but with them it was a matter of skills, knowledge, strength and strategy. It had nothing to do with the scrutiny and ordeal you have to endure among Dwarflings – with them, what was important was to be funny, to have things to say, to have dreams, to laugh, to be always ready for mischief and adventure, to follow the general move...

Wit and humour were the keys, and I... I doubt I ever had much of those. And that winter in the Iron Hills, I was drained of the small amount of light-heartedness I had ever possessed.

As it was, for some days I only followed.

I followed Dáin and Dwalin, who took pains to show me their home, leading me through passages, corridors and floors, but carefully avoiding the forges – for Oín had forbidden me to go there, the iron dust was still poison for my lungs and he dreaded the shifts of temperature, for I was still recovering.

There were few staircases in the Iron Hills – the net Dwarves had woven here was stretched almost on one level, but the pattern of corridors seemed to be infinite.

It was not a single Mountain where Dwarves dwelt in different levels, yet somehow stayed together – the homes were apart of each other, separated by corridors, sometimes not even in the same Hill. But they were linked by that complicated web of corridors and passages, so that it was possible to cross the Iron Hills without getting out.

Dwalin’s home was not far from one of the main entrances, close to the Red River that was running away from the Hills, its waters dyed scarlet by the iron ore. For Fundin belonged to Grór’s guard, and it was customary for those Dwarves to live close to the border so as to defend it better.

Dáin’s home was more sheltered – carved deep into the Hills, in the center of the now last remaining Dwarven stronghold. Easy to reach, for Grór and Náin were taking active parts into the Iron Hills’ life, supervising the mining and forging for Grór, while Náin even worked with his kin in the forge, often taking Dáin with him.

I would see them work later – I would go with them down into the mines and around the furnaces, but not in the first weeks. The first weeks I recovered, and tried to pull myself together.

I followed Dáin and Dwalin, and I followed my brother, who had managed to make many friends in a few days, still full of spontaneity and genuine kindness, despite his broken sleep – for Frerin had suffered too, and would wake up nearly every night, plagued by nightmares about Orcs. He had not forgotten that night, it still weighed upon his mind, but he had that wonderful openness of heart that made him able to voice his feelings so as to face them.

“It- it’s just that bad dream again...”, he would stutter when he woke up drenched in sweat and shaking, searching for my arms that were already around him. “I still have it sometimes... Don’t worry, it’s just that... I have been so scared...”

He would search my gaze, giving me that pitiful smile that just broke my heart.

“I have decided to do more training. Dáin promised me. I told him about the Orcs, one evening. I told him I froze – you were not with us yet, and they would not let me come to you... He said I should not be ashamed. He said he had been scared to death as well, that day when he got injured in Erebor, and he promised to help me.”

I was brushing his back, wondering why he had needed someone else’s words to convince him, why mine had not been enough to give him back some peace...

“I won’t ever let you face anything alone anymore.”

His voice was earnest and he voiced them against my neck, his golden locks spread upon my breast once more.

“I was not alone...”

I had replied softly. My fingers had been running through his hair ever since he woke, but my moves slackened as I spoke – I remembered Itô’s deadly dance, that night before the tent, I recalled her proud, black gaze, and the blue pattern of her tattoo between her eyes... The only way she had touched me had been through hard grasps and firm moves...

Not you, ubnad. You lead, we follow, and I am behind you, always.

She had saved me. Not only Frerin, or the Dwarflings. She had saved me from despair, from the snow, from getting mad with grief after Svali’s death... she even had saved me from the fever’s deadly grasp.

Dís had told me how she died. She would not speak of it at first, but I had asked several times – it mattered to me, I still felt so close to her, and Dís gave in to my questions, because I cared. I was so calm, those days in the Iron Hills, so calm and quiet, it worried those who knew me well. So when she saw how much it mattered, she told me. She waited for the evening, and then we sat on our bed, Frerin close to me and Dís facing me.

“The day you came back... She had already been carried here. She had been with Frerin and me, she had been taking care of us. She saw you arrive, she was looking out for you, and then she learnt you were ill. They would not tell us much more, but she insisted upon seeing you. She went to see you, she told me so the night she died. She went because she loved you. She said she had never followed a King who deserved it more – that it had been an honor to see you fight...”

I was looking at the blankets, not moving, not speaking. It was Frerin who reached out for my hand and clasped it.

“But you were burning. There was a deadly fire in you, and you were fading away. So Itô said – she said Mahal had to get it right this time. She asked me to tell you that it was better for a batshûna to die than for you – because you still had enough teeth to entrance anyone with your smile or frighten foes away. She said she was old, and tired, and ready, and then she promised me she would bring you back. That night she kissed us both, and told us to leave her. And when morning came she was dead.”

She held out her hand after that. I was still sitting motionless on the bed, my fingers cold and slack in Frerin’s.

“She asked me to give you this. She said you would understand.”

And in Dís’ small palm I saw another ring. It was a woman’s ring of heavy silver, with a wonderful carved motive in which I could discern Durin’s crest. It was the kind of ring that had been given to Dwarrowdams who had helped to achieve battle victories, back in the times where we had faced the Drakes in the Grey Mountains.

“She said she would love to see it on your hand, Thorin.”

I did not extend my hand at first. I was still looking at the blankets, holding on to these blankets of heavy, unadorned wool, because if I dared to think of something else... There was a tiny spot on them though, one that had not been there seconds ago, and as I gazed upon it another appeared. And another.

“Oh, marlel...”

Dís brushed my arm, gently, so gently, while Frerin circled my shoulders wordlessly. It was so rare for me to cry – it had hardly ever happened before the Dragon came, I used to be so strong, so master of myself... Now I did not even notice it when my tears fell. They just welled up in my eyes, unexpected and unwanted, and fell, silently.

But never outside that room.

I did not say a word, I did not look up to them. But I took the ring carefully, respectfully, once I had dried my tears, my fingers still slightly wet. Itô had had slender fingers, but my hands were thin and wasted, it fitted my ring finger perfectly.

Later I shifted it to my smallest finger – it is still there, I can feel its soft, cool embrace against my knuckle. I have never taken it off – I did not need it to remember her, but those days where I have wavered, where I have wondered why on earth I should keep struggling, there it was.

There were evils against which it was helpless, but most of the time it has always been a reminder of her firm grasp around my arm.

Lead on, ubnad, keep that head of yours upright.

“Are you alright, Thorin?”

Frerin’s soft whisper brought me back to the present once more. He had woken, had had this nightmare once more, and I was the one supposed to comfort him.

“Yes... I am fine. Of course I am, kudzaduz.”

But this time that fond word did not manage to fool him.

“And Dwarves are born out of rock and stone, Thorin.”

He looked at me, some of his old playfulness in his eyes, but his face was worried. I withstood his gaze and he shook his head.

“You are unhappy. There is something weighing you down. Please tell me.”

I almost smiled – and it would have been a very unhappy smile indeed. I could not even begin to list what was weighing me down... The fact that Itô had died for me and that I still did not manage to act gratefully and actually feel alive, the fact that one day I would have to speak to Grór and Náin and that I dreaded their questions about my father and grandfather, and most of all the way I felt so helpless when faced with Dáin or Dwalin’s friends.

I did not know what to say to them, I did not remember how to begin those conversations... Most of the time I just stood there, trying to listen, to interact, but I never was really able to focus, every once in a while my mind would drift off, to Erebor, to Dale... To those riverbanks we had roamed, to the tombs that were like milestones on that road...

Who could want to listen to that tale? Who could begin to understand that I could not push those images away and become again the Dwarfling I used to be? I did not even know how to talk about it to anyone – I was just lost. I did not know how to behave or who I was supposed to be anymore.

And today I had just shattered everything.

Frerin had not been with me – that one, single morning he had left my side because Dáin’s mother wanted to cut some clothes for him. She doted on him just like he was her own son, and had promised him a fur coat and a new training tunic, so Frerin had kept to their rooms, surrounded by Dáin’s mother and her friends, standing tall on a small chair so that they could alter the clothes, and chatting away with a good-humoured smile, perfectly content, and Dís was watching it all, laughing at Frerin’s jokes and stories.

Frerin was such a tender one – he loved to be cuddled, to get embraces and some motherly attentions, he had missed them so much... I would have hated it, to have Dwarrowdams fussing around me, I already cringed when Dáin’s mother dared to ruffle my hair – so I gratefully accepted Dáin’s invitation to meet up with his friends, and fled away.

The winter was dreary that year, and outdoor games were postponed for a while, so the Dwarflings were getting somewhat restless. The training room was always full, and they were mighty warriors in being, those youngsters in the Iron Hills. I watched them spar, I took a close look at their techniques that were different from the way I had been taught in Erebor. They were wonderful at holding their ground, they would regroup in formations of three or four and fight back to back, holding on to each other in deadly groups...

“You want to try?”

A tall, freckled Dwarfling was facing me, his green eyes taking in my face somewhat defiantly. I was leaning upon the wall, only watching, not talking, and he handed me a shield and a training sword.

But I shook my head – I did not feel able, I was still not strong enough, the other day I had tried to hoist Dís on my hip so that she could take a look outside the window, and had had to put her down after a few seconds.

“Thorin is incredibly fast”, Dáin said, and I was surprised at the admiration showing in his voice. “You should have seen him in Erebor, Lóni. He spins and shifts, you never know where the blow will come from. And the obstacle course... I have never seen anyone crossing it so fast.

- Oh yes?”

The other Dwarfling arched his eyebrows, still sceptical.

“Well I would love to see that, for sure... Right now I have not seen him do anything, Dáin, so I begin to think they do not know how to fight at all, in Erebor...

- That is not true...”

I had whispered those words still backed up against the wall – I could not believe he was doubting us, that he was questioning our abilities in fighting... And yet – had we not lost, against the Dragon? Had we not been powerless to defend the Mountain...?

“Then prove it. Just take that sword and fight.

- Lóni, let him be...”, Dáin said, putting a hand on his arm, but he just pushed him away.

“No, I mean it – we’ll see if he keeps that overbearing look, once he faces us, we’ll see if he knows how to hold his ground...”

Overbearing – could he really think I was looking down on them? Was my face so wrong at expressing what I thought? I was so shocked I actually extended my hand to take that sword, not really knowing what I was supposed to do with it, but Lóni caught my hand before I touched it, because he had spotted Itô’s ring.

“Look, everyone – Thorin has a sweetheart!!”

He was chuckling now, his grin broad in his freckled face. There was a small space between his teeth... and suddenly I found myself burning with the desperate need to shatter them, one after the other, so that he would stop grinning.

“He’s wearing her ring! It’s a bit heavy for those tiny hands, don’t you think?”

I pulled back my hand with a fierce move, my eyes turning black, feeling my muscles begin to ache – I was tense from trying not to hurl myself at him.

“Cut it, Lóni...”, Dwalin threw in, his voice calm, and I crossed his gaze briefly.

Don’t, Thorin. It’s not worth it.

I took a deep breath, trying to quench the fire starting to burn in my soul.

“Did you kiss her, when she gave that one to you?”

He pursed his lips, mimicking a kiss, and the others around him giggled.

“It must have been so sweet...”

I hurled myself at him then, giving in to that burning, devastating hurt. I hit him with my whole body, knocking him down and falling with him, I weighed him down, crushing his chest with my knees, and what did I care if I was acting exactly like Thráin...

I grabbed his tunic with my hands and made the back of his head hit the floor, to erase that grin that had dared to make fun of Itô, once and for all. And then I hit him in the face.

He groaned and hit back – he had definitely stopped smiling and reached out for me, I could feel his blows against my ribs, almost taking my breath away, but I did not let go of him, and soon enough we were wrestling, a violent, terrible embrace, only seeking to hurt and destroy.

I was breathing fast and it made my chest hurt – but I did not cough, my teeth were gritted, and I fought with bare hands, determined not to let those words stand.

“Enough!!!”

Dáin’s voice rang loud and I could feel other arms throwing themselves in our fight. Someone was grabbing me around the waist, pulling me away from Lóni, but it was not Dáin, Dáin was restraining his own friend who was glaring at me, his lips bloody and his breath shallow.

“He’s mad!”

His words barely reached me, I was too busy fighting those arms that prevented me from silencing him – I kicked and struggled, I writhed my body, and in the end I just let myself fall. It was an old ruse that had served me in the past, and the one holding me released his grasp indeed, taken by surprise. And I used it to break free from his embrace, jerking out of his arms, running again towards Lóni.

But the iron grip caught me first. Holding me, making me spin so as to face my new opponent that was crushing me against his chest.

“Thorin, damn it...”

It was Dwalin, and I froze in shock for a second, but then I started struggling again, though I wasn’t really sure what for anymore.

“Let me go!”, I hissed, trying to break free.

“Thorin, calm down...”, my friend said, and his words went through me like knives.

He was taking Lóni’s side, he was not backing me up...

“Let me go!”

I hit him, then, I hit his chest with my fists, just like that other day in Erebor, my gaze burning and my body shaking.

“Thorin...”

Dwalin had caught my wrists, both of them in one of his broad hands.

“Thorin, stop it...

- She’s dead! She’s dead, you filth!”

I had hurled those words at Lóni, not at Dwalin, I had spat them out like a curse, I was still struggling, trying to free my hands.

“She died, you little piece of... You...”

My voice broke but I did not cry, I was too hurt, too angry, too overwhelmed.

“She was not my lover! What do I care for a lover, I don’t need one, I’ll never have one!”

Dwalin was still holding me and I did not notice the silence that had fallen all around us, I was only aware of my own breathing and my pain.

“She was a fighter. She was a batshûna. She fought ten thousand times better than all of you, she would have broken your neck and shattered your teeth and you would just have watched her reach out for you, because you know nothing! You all know nothing!”

My eyes were ablaze, I was still half crushed against Dwalin but I did not struggle anymore, I was just breathing fast, my fists still balled against his chest.

“Let me go”, I whispered. “Just let me go, Dwalin. I won’t touch him. I don’t even want to touch him anymore.”

He wavered for an instant, but my voice had dropped to a calm, desperate murmur, and I had stopped fighting him. He slowly let go of my wrists, and then he freed my waist from his grasp. I faced him for some seconds, wondering what I felt, what I wanted... I did not know anymore, probably just nothing.

And then I turned. Towards Dáin who was still holding Lóni’s arm, Lóni whose face was aghast and burning with a glow I recognized as shame. But it did not give me any joy.

“I wish she was still living. I wish I didn’t have to wear that ring. I am sorry if I hurt you. But you deserved it.”

My voice was toneless, so calm – I did not recognize it, it was as if another had spoken. I turned from them, then, I left that room, slowly, not running away this time, just leaving, not knowing where to go but yearning to be alone at last.

And my feet carried me to the only person that would never judge me – the one that had passed on that raging fire to me, whose madness was even worse than mine...

I did not even think of entering Thráin’s room – I did not tell anyone, I did not brace myself or prepare what I could say to him... I just walked back to Náin’s apartments, avoided the rooms where I could still hear animated chatter, and searched for Thráin.

I opened the door and slipped in, noiselessly, and then I leaned upon the door, facing my father who was sitting quietly at a desk, carefully mending his chainmail – madness never deprived him of any of those dearly acquired skills, and Náin was taking great care keep them honed, hoping that the familiar moves would help to bring him back to himself.

Thráin looked up and his gaze found mine – and I was barely able to stand, I felt so shattered, so broken inside... He let go of the chainmail, slowly, and I heard the soft sound of metal against wood, and then the noise of the chair he was drawing back.

He was looking at me, slightly frowning, and there was no mistaking the concern in his face. He stopped several steps away from me, still doubtful, and then he opened his arms, with a slow, guarded gesture.

And I just threw myself into them – I was not afraid of him anymore, we were the same, we were just as broken, we both lashed out and shattered everything around us...

He caught me around the waist and I heard him draw a deep breath as he held me against him. I buried my face in his chest and I could feel his hands on my hair, trying to confirm his lingering doubts, trying to reassure himself...

“Dashat...?”

Thráin’s voice was brittle – he had not spoken for days, and his body was shaking against mine, despite his strength and the firm grasp of his embrace.

I did not answer, I just clung to him, and somehow Thráin understood. He understood that something was wrong with me, terribly wrong, and his hand brushed my back, gently, soothingly, during endless minutes, and I could feel his breath against mine.

He led me to the chair – he had to drag me with him actually, because there was no way my face would leave his chest, and in the end he sat down on it, placing me on his lap with a tender gesture, his face still searching for my hair.

His hands felt for my body, not confusing me with another this time, but clearly taking in my thinness – and it pained him, I could feel him draw another shuddering breath.

“Food...”, Thráin murmured, trying to make me pull away from him so as to look at me. “Eat, dashat.”

I shook my head and raised my face, meeting his gaze that was so worried, so bright and caring.

“I am eating, ‘adad – I don’t need food, there is enough, do not worry.”

But my voice broke as I spoke and I had to hide my face again, pressing it against his chest. Thráin circled my waist with his arms, drawing me against him.

“Oín?”, he whispered then, his voice questioning, and I felt his fingers in my hair again, the back of his hand searching for my face.

“I am not ill, ‘adad, I am... I am...”

My breath choked, and Thráin began to rock me gently, as he had done when I was small – I do not know what he was thinking, if he really was aware of my age and of the fact that I was not a child anymore... But he remembered. He remembered he had a son, he remembered what had always helped when I was distressed, and so he rocked me, and he bent down and kissed my hair, breathing in my scent as he did.

“I have done something terrible, ‘adad... I am so sorry... I am so sorry... I am such a bad Dwarf, ‘adad... I only know how to fight, I only know how to kill and hurt... I am so sorry...”

Thráin froze against me – what was I thinking of, to speak to him like that, it would only unsettle him and he could not understand... But when he bent again towards me his tone was gentle.

“Not bad. Not only fighting.”

He brushed back my hair and I heard his deep voice, gently vibrating against my own chest – he was humming. He was singing something to me, in a low, dreamy voice. The song I had played for him on those forlorn hills, after that bloody night...

Durin’s song, that had helped to give him back some peace...

“Dashatê...”

Thráin’s voice was so tender, so soft – his hands were so warm against my back... I did not want to leave that refuge, I would never leave those arms anymore, I would just stay with him and cling to him and what did I care if I was called mad, if he was called mad – it did not matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

My uncle was the one who was able to make me leave that room. Náin was a sharp-minded, caring, warm-hearted Dwarf, just like his son, and he was very attached to Thráin. He came to him several times a day and always made sure to spend some hours with him, keeping him company and talking to him just like in the old days.

“I did not know you had a visitor, Thráin...”

Náin’s voice was warm and it made me lift my head from my father’s chest, while Thráin’s arm tightened slightly around me. I faced my uncle, and suddenly it mattered again – I could not let him see me in that wretched state, what would he think of me...?

I tried to pull away from my father but Thráin kept me against him, stroking my hair again.

“Dashatê”, he repeated, and this time his voice was firm and brightened by his smile.

Náin looked at me, and his eyes gave a spark of pleasure at hearing Thráin’s voice again. He stepped up to him and squeezed my arm, briefly yet fondly.

“Yes, Thráin. A fine lad you have here, and the others are just as precious. What is his name? What do you call him, Thráin – a hothead, a little nuisance, the apple of your remaining eye?”

Thráin was laughing – my father was laughing silently, I could feel his chest quiver against mine.

“Thorin”, he said, his voice low but decided. “Thorin.”

He pressed a kiss on my head, and then he brushed back my hair, gently pushing me away with a little tap on my shoulder.

Go and play now, son, I love you, but I have duties to attend.

I understood. It did not make much sense here, and his mind was probably caught somewhere in my childhood, maybe he even thought himself in Erebor – but he looked happy, he was talking again, what was the use of burdening him more with my feelings...

I left the room then, I entered ours and stayed there for the rest of the day. So silent that no one noticed I was there, and that it was evening when I finally had to face people again.

I did barely speak at dinner, and I avoided Dáin as much as I could – not meeting his gaze, not talking to him, and fleeing to our room as soon as the meal was over. My cousin did not breathe a word about what had happened in the training room, and had I dared to cross his gaze I would probably have found only gentleness and concern – but I fled.

And now – now that Frerin was facing me, trying to find out how he could help me, how he could ease some of my pain, I was again at a loss for words.

“Tell me, Thorin...”

Dís mumbled something in her sleep and turned, throwing her arm upon my stomach – such a tiny little arm, I pushed it back in the blankets, careful to keep her warm.

“Frerin, am I overbearing?”

The words had left my lips unexpectedly – so strange that it should have been that small remark that led me to talk to him...

Frerin recovered slightly to gaze at me, and I felt his hair brush the skin of my neck.

“Who told you so? Dáin? Dwalin?”

I shook my head and Frerin sighed.

“Why is it always so difficult with you? Of course you are not, silly, except with me and that is fine – I know you cannot manage without me anyway...”

He smiled at me, but when he saw I was not even reacting to his joke he frowned, paused for a while and then resumed speaking.

“It takes some time to know you well... I mean, not for me – I know you just like the hair on my head, with all your tangles and knots. But for others, obviously – Mahal, it can be hard sometimes.

- What do you mean?”

My voice was tiny, I was feeling icy – if Frerin agreed with Lóni, if I lost his support, then I was alone, completely alone, and that thought made me shiver.

“I mean you can look intimidating. You don’t talk a lot, Thorin, you know... You are often silent, and I know it’s just because you prefer listening, or following your own thoughts, or because you don’t really know what to say. And then when you speak it’s often to the point – sometimes it’s harsh, but it’s often right, so... people, especially young ones, they are often a bit afraid of you. And then you are such a warrior, everyone knows you have taken down that Warg while you were only twenty, so it’s even more intimidating. It takes some time to spot your soft, warm side – but once it’s done, people will follow you through Udûn’s flames, be sure of it...”

He was such a treasure, my kudzaduz... He was smiling, holding me and loving me, not knowing what a terrible Dwarf I was, how fiercely I had behaved that day, justifying every fear and distrust indeed...

“I hit Lóni”, I whispered. “I hit him today. He made fun of Erebor, and of Itô’s ring. So I struck him down. And when Dáin and Dwalin separated us, I hit Dwalin too... I wanted to shatter Lóni’s teeth, and he prevented me from doing it, but I struck him...”

Frerin let out a deep breath and I realized with some shock that he was laughing. He was pressing a hand against his mouth and was shaking with laughter, silently, careful not to wake Dís.

“Mahal, Thorin, I wish I was there to witness it! Damn that stupid fur coat, why did I have to miss that?!”

He pulled away from me, he actually left the bed, wiping away tears of laughter, and I just stared at him.

“Oh dear, Thorin – and that’s why you are so miserable, looking all pale and wretched?! Did you do a thorough examination of conscience, did you decide already that you were such a bad, terrible Dwarf, not even deserving to breathe, or are you still stuck at the state where you think no one understands you and that it is all well because you are not fit to be anyone’s friend?”

I was looking at him, still shocked, sitting motionlessly in the bed, watching him stifle his last outbursts and then come back to me, locking forearms with me, still smiling.

“I don’t like Lóni. He’s the one who deserves to be called overbearing – ever since I met him, he has been bragging about those Hills and depreciating Erebor. He has not even seen the Mountain and I doubt he even knows where it is – he only thinks of iron and fighting formations. I’m glad you thrust some of his words back into his throat, because you did, I’m sure of that...”

He brushed my arms, his voice getting warmer and I – I could feel some of the terrible guilt and sadness being drawn away from me, like poison from a wound.

“That idiot is probably just jealous... But the thought of you hitting Dwalin – Mahal how it must have looked! I bet he was just standing there, wondering what in Durin’s name had got into you, and only thinking how he could make you stop without crushing your bones!”

He was laughing again, clearly waiting for me to join in, but I could not. So he squeezed my arms, fondly.

“Dwalin is not made of sugar, Thorin. Of every Dwarf here, he’s probably the only one able to hold you back when you throw yourself into one of your rages... He’s your friend, he loves you – I bet he’s only sorry to have seen you so upset.

- Why would he...?”

My voice was low and Frerin made me lift my chin so as to face him.

“Why would he what – care for you? Love you? Because you are a stubborn, fierce, passionate but high-principled, caring, brave, smart and loving Dwarf. Deep inside. After a closer look of course.”

His grey eyes were bright and sparkling, I could see them shine even in the darkness of our room, and in the end I smiled. A small, shy smile, tiny and fragile – but a smile nonetheless.

“Come on, Thorin. Stop torturing yourself, will you?”

He pushed me back on the bed, settling once more against my chest. And I wrapped my arms around him, eventually, thinking that I could indeed not do without him – and that Frerin was the one deserving to be loved and admired.

I did not know how to face the next day, but Frerin made it possible for me to face the night and get some rest. Morning would come soon enough, but I was not alone, I had someone who knew every inch of my soul and still thought I was worthy to be loved...

So I did as he told me. I closed my eyes and stopped thinking – and sleep came soon enough, for those nights were soft.

Those nights were a reminder of that tent we had all helped to keep upright, despite the hardships and the horrors of the road – and it helped, to know that during these hours at last, I could talk and share some of my pain with Frerin.

He laughed softly, once more, against my chest, mumbling something that sounded like “shattering his teeth indeed...”, and I had to smile again, before I rested my face against his hair and closed my eyes at last.

Such were the first nights of our stay – a small tent in the shadows, and whispers in the dark.

Chapter Text

“Steel of high quality was produced in ages as early as Durin the Deathless, according to some sources, for there are evidences even before Khazad-Dûm that the crucible technique was already well-known... High-purity wrought iron, charcoal, and glass were mixed in a crucible, heated until the iron melted and absorbed the carbon, leading to steel that was said to be unbreakable...^[1]”

I was sitting on the windowsill in our room, alone once more – Frerin had smiled at me in the morning and had hugged me tightly, but he understood it was better to leave me. I still did not feel able to face anyone save Dís and him, and had excused myself for the day – it was so easy, no one was asking anything from me anymore...

But Balin had come, earlier on, he had sat a while with me, as gentle as ever – he did not know about Lóni, of course, but he knew my father was talking again and that I had helped, somehow. He did not stay long, only to assure himself I was fine and to bring me that book I had asked for earlier – I was curious about the forges, I still managed to summon interest for that...

And my looks must not have pleased him so much, for when he left he brushed my cheek.

“Don’t read too much, lad... Those eyes still look tired to me...”

I thanked him, I smiled at him – but I heard Balin’s sigh as he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. And I had settled on the windowsill, determined to read, determined to overcome that slow, terrible inertia that had invaded me, depriving me of all energy and fire.

“Hey, you...”

Dwalin’s warm, gruff voice startled me, making me turn towards the door. I had not heard him knock, I had been lost in brooding thoughts once more, still gazing at the book that lay open in my lap.

“Light upon your day...”, I whispered, and Dwalin rolled his eyes.

“Mahal, are we on formal terms now?!”

He stepped up to the windowsill where I was still sitting, my knees raised, my bare feet resting against the cool stone.

“Shift a little, will you?”, he asked, gently pushing my knees so that he could sit down, facing me.

“Ever heard about socks? Your feet are icy – what was the general idea of all this, catching death with cold... or boredom?”

He had pulled my legs towards him again, placing my feet between his knees so as to warm them up, and he picked up the book on my lap, frowning.

“Durin’s beard – Early ironworking: harmonizing the hard and the soft...^[2]?!”

His brown eyes searched for mine and he shook his head.

“My brother is such an idiot sometimes. So that’s what he fetched for you? Sometimes I wonder if Balin was not born already with a mind of sixty...

- I asked him for it...”

I was still facing him, my feet locked between his knees, feeling compelled to defend Balin. He had tried to cheer me up in his own, dear way – he knew it was hard for me to be away from the forge, and I had always been so eager to learn... This book was his way to tell me he still thought me able, he could not help it if it was hard to read and without any room for dreams or fantasy...

Dwalin raised his eyebrows.

“And? You enjoyed your morning reading?”

He squeezed his knees just a tiny bit and I could feel some of the ice clutching my heart starting to melt away.

“Yes”, I said, my voice firm.

“Fine.”

Dwalin flipped the book open.

“What’s the first chapter about? The one I suppose you were reading with utter delight before I happened to come in to save you...

- It’s about the history of heating up iron, about bloomeries^[3] and blast furnaces^[4] and how we managed to improve our skills to produce iron of better quality.”

He arched his eyebrows once more, looking at me. And I could not suppress a half smile, shy yet reaching my eyes.

“Oh boy, you actually read that one – the second, then...

- It’s about the way to heat up iron so as to produce steel...”

Dwalin huffed and shook his head.

“Mahal forgive me to say so, but you are the strangest Dwarf I know, except my brother. Don’t you know that already – I mean, heating up iron, and working with it, Thorin, haven’t we all been in the forge ever since we could hold a hammer? Why do you bother with what happened centuries before...?”

I shrugged my shoulders and looked out of the window.

“Hey...” – Dwalin put a hand on my knee and shook it gently. “Don’t get upset. I just want to understand.”

I turned towards him, wondering if I should answer – if I should share my thoughts with him, if he would not laugh at me.

“Same for me. I want to understand. I want to be able to master our skills and the knowledge behind it, so as to be able to work and build up our trade wherever I am. I don’t want that knowledge to get lost. We are still the best at it... Those Men, Dwalin, they are centuries behind us. They still use bloomeries and it took me a while to understand how that simple, archaic device was actually working... It hurt, to have to waste so much ore, to produce weapons and tools of so low a quality – they would just break against ours...”

Dwalin was looking at me and his gaze had softened.

“It is so strange to see that, be we Dwarves or Men, we take the same path in improving our skills – we used bloomeries before, it’s just that we are miles ahead on that road compared to Men. And it is not fair, but we still cannot share our knowledge with them – where would we be? How would we still be strong and respected? As it is, I suppose we can rest assured to forge weapons for them for many centuries more, and I suppose it is right...”

I had stopped looking at him, I was holding the book between my fingers, my thumbs brushing the leather cover – my words were just pouring out of my soul then, leaving my lips unchecked.

“Thank Mahal there is the forge, and the anvil...”

The gentle touch on my skin raised me once more from my thoughts – I had almost forgotten I was actually talking to Dwalin, and he had laid his hands upon my forearms without a word. He knew I was seeing the road again, all those small forges where we had worked, exchanging our craft for food...

We stayed silent for a while, and then Dwalin said, his voice firm:

“Alright, enough of book-perusing. Grab your socks, pull on your boots and get your fur coat. We are leaving.”

I gazed up at him, puzzled.

“What do you mean, we are leaving?

- I mean we are taking a walk. You have been indoors for too long, your face has the same shade as that bunk of faded parchment.

- It is called a book.”

I was struggling with my half-smile again and Dwalin grinned at me.

“Never heard of that one before. Come on, move it. It will be just you and me, no need to begin to think of an excuse...”

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

“Shall I free you, your Highness? Did those royal feet warm up a bit?

- Just stop it...”

He squeezed my feet once more and I bent towards him, pushing him back against the windowsill.

“I said stop it... They are getting numb, you oliphaunt.”

He freed me then, with a grin, and watched me pull on socks and boots.

“You’ll need something warmer”, he said, and I dressed in one of the thick woolen tunics his mother had given me.

“And those as well.”

He handed me thick gloves and the fur coat Dáin’s mother had made for me.

“Where are we going?”, I asked, and Dwalin just smiled.

“You will see.”

We left the Iron Hills then, through a stone door that led us outside between tall and sharp rocks, covered in ice and snow. The wind was icy and it made me blink, stinging my eyes and biting my cheeks, but my fur coat was warm and my clothes thick.

I froze, nonetheless, when my gaze fell on the wide, white landscape that I could spot from where I stood, cowering like an ashen sea at the feet of the Hills.

“Are we going down there?”

I had managed to keep my voice even but Dwalin still read my fear.

“No. I’m not taking you down there. Our path lies through the Hills, we won’t leave the rocks.”

He linked his arm with mine, with one of his easy-going moves, shouldering the bag he was carrying, and I noticed he had no weapon save for a knife that was fastened on his belt.

It makes my heart soften still, when I think about the way we must have looked, both of us... Dwalin, tall, dressed in brown furs, his steps broad and assured, his brown gaze keen and sparkling, leading on through the rocks but always careful not to push me too far, often slowing down because he noticed I struggled to keep up.

And I, still smaller than him back then – I would catch up, eventually, almost, we would look eye to eye to each other afterwards... I, following him, trusting him, gazing up to him when we stopped, my fingers locked around his arm, searching for his warmth...

Mahal knows I lead, I have had to lead many times in my life – I already did that winter, but back then... We were in his own lands, and I was completely lost, I was like a bird that had forgotten how to fly and desperately lashed out at everyone who tried to help – yet yearning, oh so yearning for someone brave enough to tame me...

Those days, despite everything I had been through, despite all the experience and suffering and forced-on maturity, I still felt younger than him, those few summers he had more than me still showed, on his body but also in that calm assurance I would try to reach later.

Try, and never reach. The assurance yes, but his calm – that rare, unobtrusive peace of mind and soul – I could only envy him, and admire him for achieving it.

Dwalin did not consider me as his younger cousin, he did not treat me as such, but that winter he was so much stronger than me and I was so shattered... He just could not prevent himself from acting like the elder brother I never had.

I have often wondered what my life would have been, had I not been the eldest. If for example Frerin had been the heir, and I the one following, the one resting in his shadow... But that thought I have always pushed away in horror. I did not even want to picture that weight upon Frerin’s shoulders – I would never have exchanged with him.

But Dwalin gave me a glimpse of what could have been. Of what it would have been like, to have someone leading, deciding, strong and unwavering... Of what it was like to rest, to put down that crushing burden, be it for a moment.

“We are rounding the Hills, are we not? We are going east...”

Dwalin turned his face towards me and his eyes gave a spark.

“And how would you know that, your Highness?

- Stop that...”

I gave him a little shove, or rather tried – I was the one losing my balance, my feet slipped on the ice-covered stone and Dwalin caught me.

“Hey, hold your ground...”

His voice was gentle and he squeezed my shoulders, smiling when I shook myself free.

“Why are you calling me that?

- Calling you what?”

Dwalin had arched his eyebrows in false innocence. We had stopped, between the high rocks, and the lights and shadows woven along those walls seemed infinite.

“You know what I mean...”

I was facing him, looking up to him, and Dwalin smiled again.

“Because I love to see you rage... It’s just so precious – there you stand, your eyes ablaze, your body still as the ground before the earthquake, and when one expects it last, when everyone’s thinking you actually don’t mind, there it comes, Thorin’s supreme fury...”

He was laughing now, laughing at me – my eyes were indeed bright and burning, but this time I was not raging.

“I am sorry I hit you...”, I said, my voice not above a whisper. “I did not mean to... I had no right to...

- You call that hitting?”

Dwalin huffed, shaking his head.

“Come on, you did not even aim... That was definitely the easiest beating I ever got, you were even better with it at twelve...”

He watched my face fall and stepped up to me. I was looking at the ground, wishing I could disappear into it, but Dwalin put his hands on my shoulders.

“Hey... I’m just teasing you. I know it had nothing to do with me. I just wish I could have guessed before... You should not have had to speak of that...

- No...”

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice even.

“It... it felt right. It... relieved, somehow. To speak of her. It helped.”

I still did not manage to look up and Dwalin brushed my shoulders.

“Then I am glad”, he said quietly, and then he linked his arm with mine, resuming our walk.

“So, how do you know we are going east?”, he asked, eventually, and I could hear the soft noise of our footsteps as we trod on.

“The river is running south, and we left it on our right. And then – there is this spike over there that looks like a boar’s muzzle, Galtul’abad^[5], I believe, it’s right in front of us, which means we are going east and rounding the Hills as we do.”

Dwalin cast an incredulous look upon me.

“But Thorin, you never came here. I thought you were guessing by sunlight...”

I looked up at him then, and this time I was not shy to cross his gaze.

“I made Balin tell me everything he knew, about the Hills. I dragged out every map we had in Erebor, and we spent hours discussing them. I wanted to know where you lived. How it looked like.”

He stopped again and this time his face was troubled.

“Why didn’t you just come?”, he asked. “I was waiting for you to come. I was dreaming of showing it to you, I kept inviting you in my letters, and though you always wrote you could not wait for it, there were no plans made, never... I have wondered, actually, if you had not changed your mind and did not dare to tell me...”

I would never have thought of it, but Dwalin did look unsure, and somewhat sad, and I could not bear to think that it was because of me. Not because of what I had done, but because of what I had not been able to do.

“I never ever changed my mind”, I said, firmly. “I don’t say or write things I don’t believe, I would never lie to you. So that’s why they call me overbearing? Because I said I wanted to come but didn’t? They thought I was looking down on the Hills, maybe?”

My voice had turned fierce once more, and Dwalin shook his head.

“Thorin, I never discussed your letters with anyone. What do you take me for? I told you before, you should stop caring about what people say about you, especially if they are called Lóni... His words are always fire in the bush...

- But you backed him up.”

I was facing him again and there was hurt in my eyes – I could not stand the thought that he had seen me only as a distant friend, playing at him with empty promises...

“I did not”, Dwalin said, with a huge, exasperated sigh. “Mahal, Thorin, why do you always question everything just because things don’t go exactly your way?! Did I help Lóni to beat you up? Did I laugh with them? Did I say anything to you except that you should calm down?

- But that is backing him up! That is calling me mad, that is saying aloud and in front of everyone that I did not behave as I should, that he did not deserve it!”

Savage little me, facing my friend between high rocks, in that icy wind stinging my eyes...

“I am not mad, do you hear me? I am not doing things or saying things without a reason, nobody has the right to say I am insane!”

I was shaking now and Dwalin held up his hands, palms up.

“Hey, hey, hey... Don’t get carried away now – you are twisting everything, you are just mixing everything up and my mind is probably sluggish, I’m sorry, because I can’t follow...

- I am not mixing everything up!!!”

I had shouted, clenching my fists, I did not even know why I was feeling so angry, it had all started so peacefully, how on earth did I manage to shatter everything once more?

“Stop treating me like a child!

- Then in Mahal’s name stop behaving like one!”

Dwalin had growled the words at me in that calm tone that always betrayed his anger – he was young still, and even his patience had its limits.

“You want to think everyone’s against you – fine. You want to yell at me and hit me and just pour out on me whatever is eating you away – fine, just go on. But don’t you dare telling me how I should think about you. And I think right now you are so hurt and confused and angry that there’s no point talking. Mahal, Thorin, I held you back only because I did not want you to get hurt – I have almost seen you die, I have been there when your breath choked and your body went still, do you think I can bear to see you throw yourself in such a rage that your lungs sound like a broken bellows while you waste away every dearly acquired strength in a pointless fight? Damn it, I was just worried, you idiot!”

He shouldered his bag and just started walking, leaving me behind – I was frozen on the spot, just gazing at his back, my anger gone, replaced by numbness once more.

“Well?”

Dwalin’s voice echoed between the rocks, he had turned back, his eyes still dark but his face calmer.

“Come on now, we haven’t got all day!”

He waited until I joined him and grabbed my arm again – and his grasp was harder this time but as caring as ever.

We walked in silence for about an hour – I was still pondering his words, and Dwalin could spend ages without talking, that is one of the things I have always appreciated so much in him, that I never had to worry about words with him, that there was always enough room for my thoughts.

But he was mindful, and probably felt bad about my well-deserved lecture, so in the end he was the one to resume talking.

“So, are you still sulking?”

There was a half-smile in his voice and he squeezed my arm. I shook my head wordlessly, actually I was getting tired – I would never acknowledge it, but I needed to sit down for a while, my legs were getting unsteady and I was sweating.

“Good. Because I am hungry.”

He looked out for a spot and soon found it, between two rocks that helped to shield us from the wind’s bite. We sat down, and I leaned against the cold stone, watching him get a fire done and then unpacking his bag.

“There, eat this first, you need some sugar in your body.”

He handed me a thick slice of his mother’s oatcake and I could not suppress a genuine smile – I loved it. I always loved it. I ate, and the shaky feeling in my limbs abided slowly as I did. I wiped the sweat on my brow, watching Dwalin place some potatoes between the embers, and starting to roast the sausages he had carried with him.

“I am driving you a bit hard, I’m sorry. But once there you’ll love it.

- Thank you...”

Maybe it was because I was tired, and had no energy left to rage anymore. Maybe it was because I was with him, as I had always wanted it – sitting with him somewhere in the wild, just the two of us, without having to pretend. Maybe it was because I was watching the pains he was taking to keep me warm and fed, yet never alluding to my weakness. But suddenly I talked.

“I did not come because I could not. I could not leave Erebor. No one forbade me to go, but... I was not feeling able to leave. I did not want to leave my father, and Frerin and Dís dealing with... with Erebor.”

My voice drifted off at the end, it was the closest I could get to the truth without alluding to my grandfather’s behaviour.

But Dwalin ever was a shrewd one. He handed me my share in a rounded iron bowl, but he waited until we had both finished and were cleaning the bowls with handfuls of snow, before asking:

“You mean, dealing with Thrór?”

I froze against the rock, feeling my face turn pale. I gathered more snow, cold sweat drenching my back at the thought that I had just betrayed my King, and I went on cleaning my already spotless bowl, focusing on that small, iron tool, so simple yet so well-made – a Dwarven tool, an iron Dwarven bowl...

“Thorin, it’s alright. It’s just you and me. I never spoke of it and never will. But nobody’s blind, we have long known that something was strange with him – his letters and orders were getting confused, and there were always hurried messages from your father to contradict them. Erebor – it was nothing like heaven those past years, I bet...”

I was taking deep breaths, still ghastly pale. I was afraid to be sick, suddenly, and my grip around the bowl slackened – it fell on the ground with a dull metallic ring.

He knew – they all knew. They had long known it – and my father’s life had probably been a nightmare for the past two years, no wonder his mind had crumbled... I had only acted his part for two months, and I already was beside myself, clinging on to whatever broken pieces remained of me after that...

“Hey... It’s alright, Thorin, it’s alright.”

Dwalin reached out for me and held me against him, steadily, not crushing me this time, just holding me, and I rested my face against his shoulder, covered in sweat, yet feeling my nausea abide slowly as he brushed my back.

“What does he say...?”, I whispered eventually, and Dwalin paused, puzzled. “What does my grandfather say...?”

I was not looking at him. My cheek rested on his fur coat and my body felt weak. He knew. They all knew. They had long known. So many efforts to keep the obvious hidden – so many strengths shattered, such a waste...

“I would not know”, Dwalin said softly. “My father is a guard, Thorin. Grór would not confide in him as much so as to tell him...

- Your father is Grór’s nephew, and a Dwarven-lord too...”, I whispered. “He is not just a guard. Neither is Balin. Balin was never just a guard to us...”

Dwalin brushed my back again.

“I know, Thorin. But still – there are things even close cousins do not discuss when it comes to family... and kingship...

- Why...?”

I had let out that tiny word close to him – his words hit me as so truthful, I never ever had confided in anyone about my family’s madness. Those who knew had witnessed it and acted consequently, but we had never discussed it. The only one who had been brave enough to allude to it was Dís – and it had not made me open up, it had just made me act.

And I knew why I had kept silent. For secrecy – and because of the terrible hurt it caused to acknowledge it aloud. But secrecy was long gone it seemed, and the only thing that remained was pain.

“Do you have to ask that, Thorin?”

Dwalin’s voice was soft, there was none of his usual roughness or playfulness in it.

“Some will say it’s because of the oaths... The King is the King and has to remain such, come what may, for the people’s own survival. Then others will say it’s because to speak of it would be showing weakness, and could allow bad-intentioned Dwarves to take advantage of it... But I think – I think it’s mostly for fear of being judged, is it not? Madness – this must be such a nightmare, such a terrible thing to witness, the pain and sadness that goes with it, and also the look of society upon it... It’s such a taboo. I hate taboos. That’s always Balin’s strongest argument when he wants to close a discussion...”

His voice had warmed up, but I was still hearing his words – how did he manage to read my soul so easily, to say aloud thoughts I had not even begun to acknowledge? And there was not the faintest trace of judgment in what he had said...

I pulled away from him so as to face him. I left my hands on his shoulders because I needed to be steadied – I had never done anything so difficult in my whole life, and my face was pale as I spoke.

“My grandfather turned mad, in Erebor. He is not the Dwarf and King he used to be. And my father – he saved him from the Dragon’s breath, but ever since he is not himself. They have both lost their mind in a different way... but it is not their fault. They cannot help it, especially my father. And I do not want anyone to look down on them. I wish no one could ever know. Please promise me you will not speak of it...”

There was compassion in Dwalin’s eyes – no pity, he knew it would only have been misplaced. But compassion, and sadness, and also worry, for my face drained of every colour as I went on:

“I told you because I trust you, because I don’t want you to think I feel above you and because I know what I owe you. I know you will never lie to me either. So please, Dwalin, if ever once in my life I should... If ever you see me become a different person, if you see my mind become twisted indeed... Please, promise me you will try to bring me back. Promise you will try to tell me before it is too late...”

I was shaking, really shaking, and I could not go on for the life of me – but I had said everything I had to say, and these were indeed the most important words of my life.

I did not know, back then, what a last safety lock I was fastening around my being... But I did, that day.

Because Dwalin kept his promise.

He spoke, when he saw what the Gold did to me and how it made my mind crumble as efficiently as if the Dragon himself had trodden upon it.

He stepped up and did talk – did try to bring me back.

And his words – combined with those of my other dear, lively yet so sweet little friend, and with Balin’s sad look – his words brought me back indeed.

Dwalin – my cousin, my friend, my ever-lasting light in the many shades of my darkness.

That day he locked forearms with me. He did not speak at once, he just held me and looked at me and could not speak either for a while. But eventually he broke the silence.

“Hey...”

That little word of his – I have heard him voice it endless times, and it never had exactly the same meaning. There was a ‘hey’ to say ‘hello’, another meaning ‘stop it right away’, one to say ‘come on’, ‘I’m so relieved’, ‘watch out’... But that day it meant something like: ‘Rest assured. I know. And I’m with you just the same.’

“I promise, Thorin.”

My body sagged against him then, I had no strength left at all, and he caught me, steady as ever, brushing my back again.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, Thorin. You are not your father, or your grandfather – their memories and lives are not yours... Don’t be afraid, you’ll be alright. I promise you’ll be alright, I’ll see to it, I promise...”

I wrapped my arms around his chest and held him. I had done this before, endless times in my illness, but I was only half-conscious back then and had acted out of instinct and of terrible, desperate need. That day it was different, because for the first time since I came, I was alone with him and had enough strength to find my way back to him. To say the words I had wanted so much to speak out loud, during all these weeks on the road, and even the years before, in Erebor that now lay broken.

“I have missed you so much...

- And I you.”

Simple words, and no needless emotion in them, just a calm acknowledgment once more. I pulled away from him and somehow managed to smile at him. And Dwalin smiled back – and it reached his whole being, lightening it and making his face shine. It always did. It always did when he meant it.

We gathered our things and left, then – he was adamant, our goal lay close, but it still took us one more hour to get there.

I was looking again at the landscape, walking next to him, and I kept thinking it was good that Dwalin held me, because despite my heavy iron-clad boots and my thick clothes and fur coat I felt so light, so light inside that the wind howling through the rocks might as well have carried me away, taking me with him in his broken run...

“There...”

Dwalin had stopped, and turned towards me, showing me a narrow entrance, barely visible among the rocks. His eyes sparkled, and his fingers on my arms tightened their grip.

I stepped forward, my hand resting on the edge of the stone entrance – everything was dark inside, dark, cool and silent.

“How did you find it?”, I asked, and Dwalin smiled.

“Luck, I guess... Come.”

He ducked and stepped inside – bending his tall frame with a supple move, brushing the stone with his fingertips as he did so. And I followed him, I followed him without a second thought, and I did not have to bend or shift, I was small and tiny still, and the stone entrance seemed to have been carved for me...

It was very dark inside, and my eyes had to get used to the shadow again before I could indeed see anything. It seemed to be a stone gallery, quite huge once the entrance was passed, but the broad walls inside were unadorned, there was no Dwarven mark upon them...

“I think it used to be a riverbed once... The waters have probably found another way out centuries ago, but the caves remain...”

Dwalin’s voice was not above a whisper, and it added to the feeling of being in a special place, almost sacred... It was biting cold inside, there was frost on the ground, but it was so silent, so peaceful, only rock, stone and cold...

I shifted a little, searching for Dwalin’s warmth again – my left side met his fur coat and I nestled against him when he put his arm around my waist, just as I would have done for Frerin.

“Are you scared? Cold?”

His voice was gentle – we could not see each other’s face, there was no need to tease each other now...

“No... It’s beautiful...”

I felt him breathe, I could see his words swirl in front of us in fleeting curves as he spoke, revealed by the cold.

“Wait until you see the rest...”

He took my hand, and led me on, through that stone gallery that Nature had carved herself, and deeper into the Hill... The cold grew even mightier as the stone around us thickened, and suddenly I felt like in Erebor again, sheltered between everlasting walls, reaching for the depths of my dear, beloved Mountain...

No flames, no torches here, no gold either, but stone – hard stone against which I could rest my hand, my cheek, my brow, searching for its shelter once more...

And Dwalin let me, not urging me on, only waiting... I had taken off my gloves, I wanted nothing between my skin and the stone – I had closed my eyes, I did not need them, my body recognized the stone’s touch without them. The stone’s scent, too, so alive despite its seemingly inert mass – speaking of granite, of running waters, of earth too, earth that had been there, long ago, and had helped to shape it...

I was breathing slowly, it felt as if my lungs were discovering again what it was to have enough air, to feel like my soul itself was expanding in my chest, so as to fill it properly...

The stone, the rock – my Mountain, my dear, beloved Mountain...

It was not mine, of course. Mine was lost, had been taken and it would be years until I would finally be able to touch her again, Erebor and her smooth, cool walls... But that Hill in which the river had carved its own halls, that Hill still felt like home that day...

My fingers were cold when I searched for Dwalin’s once more – yet I felt warmer inside than I had been for days. And he led me on, gently, not speaking, knowing exactly what I thought and felt...

“Wait for me. Don’t move.”

The cave we had entered was even darker than the others, and he had left me against the stone wall, trying to find out what was glimmering in front of me, at my feet and before my eyes...

When Dwalin lit the small lantern he had carried with him, resting it on the ground, letting its flame expand so as to light the cave, it took my breath away.

A frozen lake lay stretched at my feet, its waters as smooth and sparkling as the finest of gems. And around it, I could see pillars, carved pillars stretching themselves high above the ground, transforming the dark cave into a hall where Durin himself would have been honored to walk...

It was ice – it was nothing more or less than ice, ice that had shaped itself into stalactites and stalagmites – bright and pure as crystal, their frames achieving a harmony that we would barely have been able to reach had we tried to copy it.

“When I first came here, I thought of Erebor right away...”

Dwalin had walked back to me and was watching the ice where the light of his flame was sparkling, making unseen gems appear...

I let out my breath, and it was somehow ragged – it hurt to see so much beauty, I had never thought to be able to witness it again, and so soon, it felt as if the ice was trying to atone for the Fire’s deeds...

“I could not wait to show it to you, see if you agreed with me...”

My back was leaning against the stone once more, the view was leaving me powerless, almost unable to stand, and yet I could not get enough, the pillars and halls, the shining floor – it just felt like coming home again...

“I do...”

My voice was ragged too, and I could not say more than that – I was just standing there, next to Dwalin, looking at that reflection of home, feeling rooted and crowned again, just like Durin when he had looked into the depths of Mirrormere, and found the gems of his kingship again through water and starlight...

He did not touch me, he did not speak until the first emotion had abided – and I was glad his light did not reach us, or our faces, for mine was wet again. But would he have seen it, I would not have been ashamed – it felt right to mourn for what I had lost, for it had been so much more than just halls and walls. It had been home, it had been shelter, it had protected all the treasures of our race and most of all, it had harboured so many lives, so many hopes...

We sat down together, after that, sitting close to each other, our backs leaning on the stone. And I was the one to come back to him, once more – I was the one wrapping my arm around his and resting my cheek on his shoulder.

“Maikhmin...^[6]”

He brushed my arm with one of his rough moves.

“A thousand times welcome, you hothead...”

I laughed, softly, and this was a sound I had not uttered for such a long time that it felt almost wrong – I stopped, quickly, but we had both heard it.

“What was he like...?”, Dwalin finally uttered, almost shyly, and I turned towards him, wondering what he meant.

“The Dragon...”

He had put his fingers on my left forearm, where the silver mark of the Dragon’s breath had left its trace – he had seen it during my illness, he had helped Oín, Balin and his mother to undress me, had tried to cool down my skin during endless hours of watch...

I shuddered, slightly, leaning my cheek again against his shoulder.

“Huge...”, I said, finally, and my voice was shaky. “He was so huge, so strong... He crashed down the pillars as if they were made of parchment...”

I had to pause, and Dwalin entwined his fingers with mine and just dragged my arm against his chest.

“He was so big... I did not even see him in his full size, I just heard him and – saw what he did... I saw what he was able to do – one of his breath crushing down years and years of work and care... A single move of him, and dozens of lives just... taken...”

I was looking at the ice, at the wonderful pillars and the shiny floor, but I was seeing other floors, other staircases, other halls, covered in dust and smoke. Not silent, but full of ashes and screams.

“When I faced him I was carrying... carrying Dís. And he spoke to me. He said we would burn – we would both burn, unless I used her as a shield for me. He said I had thought of doing it, deep inside...

- He said what?”, Dwalin growled, and I used his rage to wipe my face once more.

“He knew my name, and he said I had thought of using Dís to run away. But I didn’t. I grabbed a silver plate that was lying on the floor, and when he spat out his filthy breath of flames, it was there to shield us. It burnt my armguard, but we escaped – the Dragon did not get us. Neither of us...

- He did not only burn your armguard...”, Dwalin said softly. “I am sorry, Thorin. I wish I could have been there with you.

- Don’t.”

I had spoken softly, still nestled close to him.

“Don’t wish for that. No one should have been there, no one. I don’t want you to experience that, I don’t want you to ever witness any harm – I don’t want your life to be changed like that.

- But it did already...”

Dwalin had resumed brushing my back with his other hand – he ever was caring, but that winter he was so soft, so tender to me because I needed it so badly and would not have let any other touch me like that, except my siblings, Balin and my father...

“I would have to be blind, deaf and ungrateful to think my life had not already changed... My brother faced the Dragon too – Erebor was also my kingdom... Of course my life is changed now that it fell. Of course it has to change now that we need to think how we can rebuild what we have lost...

- We can’t. We can’t. What is lost is lost.”

My voice was calm – betraying the despair I felt. Dwalin shook his head, and held me tighter.

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that, Thorin. The Mountain may be lost, but those who made it as it was are still there... It is our turn to help now, our turn to help our people, but you must not give up hope... There is always hope, as long as there is a Dwarf breathing under the depths.”

His voice seemed so sure, there was so much resolution in his words... I could not share his hopes, not yet, what I had been through was still too close, too terrible. But I was glad he was there to hope for me.

“I have tried to reach you... I have tried to meet you on the road.”

Dwalin’s voice was earnest and I recovered, trying to gaze at him despite the darkness, but his face remained in the shadow.

“You did what?

- I tried to find you. I packed my bag, gathered my weapons and left the morning after we heard what happened. I could not bear to think you and Balin were out there.

- But...”

My voice trailed off. I could not believe what he was saying, that he had actually cared so much that he set off, not afraid to be all alone in the wild...

“I was so stupid – I did not think like you, I did not think about the water, I just set out like a fool through the same path we had taken... So of course my father had no trouble finding me...”

He huffed.

“The lecture I got that day – Mahal... You should have heard him, and my mother... They actually forbade me to get out for a whole week, and they were checking all the time that I was still there, I could barely breathe! They were almost beside themselves with worry for Balin, obviously, it took weeks to have some news...”

I leant back against the stone, shuddering at my remembrances. We had no means to reach them. The ravens had all left the Mountain, and there was no one travelling to the Iron Hills in the beginning of winter – no one save desperate people...

They had probably heard from us through merchants’ reports, and even then – they had probably known who was alive and who had been taken only when we had all arrived.

“I am so sorry...”

I had uttered those words almost inaudibly and Dwalin turned towards me.

“What for? Why should you be sorry – Thorin, dear me, do you realize what you have been through? I would have – I would never have been able to achieve what you did.

- Of course you would.”

I had spoken firmly, but Dwalin shook his head.

“I would not have known what to do... I would not have known how to lead them, how to handle the fact that they were all looking up to me... I would have gone...”

He checked his words in time but I had got his meaning, and had a sad, silent smile.

“You would not have gone mad. Not you. You are like Frerin, you are far too steady. That’s why people like me cling to you.

- Thorin, stop it. You are steady too. You are the bravest person I know.”

He smiled at me and it was my turn to shake my head.

“I’m only steady and brave when I have no choice, when everything crumbles – and even then, it’s just a mess. It’s just a terrible, freaking, accursed mess.

- Hey, life’s a mess...”

Dwalin’s answer was dealt out promptly, and somehow it made me smile. It sounded so practical, so truthful – life was a mess, and we both could not help it.

“You know what?”, Dwalin resumed, bending his head towards mine. “That Dragon, you said he knew your name...

- Yes...”

My smile had ebbed, and Dwalin pushed a pebble towards the shining lake, watching it spin on the cool, smooth surface, turning, slowing down and lying still.

“Well that’s not fair. We have to find out his, so as to curse him until he dies a well-earned death...

- You think he has one?”

I had raised my eyebrows – so strange that I should never have thought about the Dragon as a being. For me he was like a hurricane, a tempest, Desolation itself, I had never thought he could have something as common as a name...

“Oh I bet he has one – just imagine, something like Lousy-Fume... His mother must have called him just like that when he tried to spit out his first breath...”

I smiled, barely suppressing a laugh – Dwalin was crazy, he was just crazy...

“Or even better, imagine Balin coming out of the library: ‘lads, I have found out the name of the Calamity itself – the supreme worm answers by ‘Ushar^[7], which in common tongue would of course mean Smaug...’

- Smoke?”

I was shaking my head, still smiling.

“What kind of a name is that?

- Not Smoke, Smaaaaaaaaaug!!!”

Dwalin had grabbed my shoulders in a sudden gesture, leaping at me, and I gave a start, barely suppressing a scream that somehow changed in laughter, laughter that was echoing against the stones because Dwalin would not stop repeating that ridiculous name, twisting the vocals in terrifying roars.

“Careful now, I am going to burn you alive, Thorin son of Thráin, because I am Smaug, son of Prissy-Fume, and you will die....”

I jumped to my feet, still laughing, because he was determined to get me, despite his own laughter – he was struggling to keep his voice even, but still kept roaring and huffing like an old kettle, running after me in that cave, around the lake that was shining and on whose smooth, thick surface we finally let ourselves fall.

We were both breathless and laughing, and every now and then Dwalin would let out a soft “Smaug” that just kindled our laughter again.

But in the end we just laid still, our hair wet on the ice and our shadows stretched wide on the cave’s roof, not facing each other, only touching with the back of our heads.

“You are crazy, Dwalin...”, I whispered, and he huffed.

“Good. It makes two, then.”

And I laughed. He was calling me crazy – but I knew he did not mean it, he did not think me mad at all, not in the way I had feared so much and was still dreading, deep inside.

I was feeling light, and strangely happy, despite the Dragon, despite everything, and I knew it was because I was not alone anymore. Dwalin knew, he knew everything and he still had hope, he still found a way to laugh...

I looked at our shadows, so huge and tall – and I smiled, still stretched on the ice.

For that small kingdom was ours, and could not been taken – a kingdom of light and ice, of laughter... and of everlasting friendship.

Chapter Text

It is so silent here, so silent... It should not be – I should be hearing something: clanging, shouting, the crashing sounds that go with every battle... I can only feel the wind and his kind strokes upon my face...

I will be there soon...

There is a noise, though, it is getting faint and fainter, but I can still hear it, it fills my ears, my chest, my head... That drumming, once so powerful, that ever-changing rhythm, I remember days where it was not playing alone, days and nights where that beat seemed to expand, to resonate with the world around me...

Slow down, Thorin. Breathe. Listen. Rhythm is everything – one moment too late, one heartbeat too fast, and you are doomed...

I do remember. Dwarves are not made for silence or stillness – we can find refuge in them, just like the weary traveler enters the Mountain seeking for shelter and rest... But it is not in our blood, to stand by and watch life play its song without us – oh Kíli...

My will-o’-wisp, my quicksilver, you knew that so well, and I wish – I wish I could have told you I felt the same, deep in my heart, despite my harsh words, my grim, collected face and the ever-lasting weight that always restrained my moves lately... There would have been days, Kíli, days where you would have looked at your stern uncle in wonder, and recognized yourself in him – because those days, dearest, those days I still listened, I still believed, those days the drum in my chest was still playing, fighting fiercely to voice its song...

And it did, Kíli. It did. Vibrate, expand, and even sing.

The noise was deafening, that day – crashing, banging, roaring with a fierce regularity... There was order in that noise, it had nothing to do with chaos, and when I would remember that first impression of the Iron Hills’ furnaces, that thought would always recur – that there was fire, and dust, sweat and harsh orders, and Dwarves moving, striving hard, but that it was nothing like the panicked, frantic run caused by the Dragon’s wrath...

Here in the Iron Hills, Frerin and I were looking at one of the last Dwarven strongholds, a place where we were still mighty, able and strong. Where we were the ones guiding the fire, where the metal bent at our own will, where we had even been able to master water – making it flood the furnaces when we needed it, changing iron into steel like a powerful, deafening spell...

The furnaces were not like the mines in Erebor, where the lanterns hung like a thousand stars, adorning the stone, revealing the gold and gems hidden within it... No dark and golden stone here, the rocks were red and rough, baring the iron in their flanks like old, hardened warriors would show their scars...

But just like in Erebor, the bellows never stopped. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills knew that it would have meant a precious waste of  time, and ore... The metal had to be heated permanently, it was brought from the mines to the top of each furnace, and as ore was thrown inside, the bellows blew, hot blasts of air blown through pipes that would help the iron reducing, during its journey downwards...

It made each furnace look like a strange, roaring monster, swallowing iron, breathing it through, and then oozing it – rivers of molten iron that were then carried to the forges.

And the river, the Red River that owed its name to the iron ore, giving it its rusty color, the river had been tamed, so as to nourish the waterwheels that powered the bellows like giant pistons.

Fire and water worked hand in hand here, and the noise might be deafening, the furnaces raging and fuming, the bellows roaring... it was a song still, a grim song – practical, prosaic even, but strong, reliable, promising power and steadiness...

We were both standing above the furnaces, Frerin and I, leaning against one of the thick, iron balustrades, and Frerin had had to rise on tiptoes so as to be able to rest his arms on its edge.

“Mahal, Thorin...”, he voiced, and I only heard him because I was standing right behind him – I did not want him to fall, I knew it was silly, but Frerin ever was reckless when it came to satisfy his curiosity, and that day his grey eyes were wide open, shining with interest and glee.

He turned towards me and I barely had the time to let my arms fall at my side – he would have teased me the whole afternoon had he seen me ready to hold him back, and would have climbed even higher just to see my gaze grow more and more anguished, until I would give in and just drag him back against me.

That little devil – worse than quicksilver, and always smiling.

He was grinning that day, and I soon found out why, because Frerin dragged me close and whispered:

“No wonder great-uncle Grór is speaking so loud... I bet he’s almost stone-deaf from spending his days down here...

- Frerin!”

I was struggling to keep back my laughter, and tried to silence him with my gaze – Grór was standing just steps ahead from us with Thrór, Nár, Náin and Thráin, and he was indeed pointing out things to them, his loud voice clearly audible despite the deafening noise...

“So what? He is shouting, isn’t he, Dwalin?”

Frerin was looking at my friend, his eyes bright and playful, searching for his support, and Dwalin was smiling indeed.

“Yeah. He is. But so are you – and that is not so wise, unless...

- Unless you want your hair combed backwards straight away”, Dáin said dryly. “Boy, Frerin, if you think that’s my grandfather shouting, then you have definitely not seen him at his best...”

Grór was still speaking, explaining how the waterwheels had been improved to my father and grandfather, and I took him in once more – a tall, stout Dwarf, with the same blue eyes as my grandfather, but who looked both stronger and older, even though he was several years younger than Thrór.

His face was tanned and wrinkled, so were his arms, and there were no shiny pearls in his beard, only stern, practical iron clasps that helped to keep his white hair from his broad chest. Grór had always been working in the forge, had always made sure the furnaces were working, had never bothered to look mighty and clean – he just did not care. One of his eyebrows was thinner than the other and Dáin pretended it was because one day embers had set fire to it, and that Grór had only noticed when it was too late, not even feeling the heat on his leather-like skin.

Frerin loved that story, he always would ask for it and laugh, heartily, his eyes shining at the thought of his great-uncle’s strength and courage, but I doubted it was true – there were tiny marks around his eyes, almost invisible, and yet I recognized their silver shade. I had the same on my forearm.

“Mahal, don’t tempt me...”, Frerin sighed, still looking at Grór, and Dáin laughed, boxing him in the shoulder.

“Why do you always ask for trouble, eh? Do you fancy getting yelled at, or what – it’s no fun, I can tell you...

- No. I fancy getting talked to.”

Frerin’s face had become serious suddenly, and his smile had vanished as Thrór and Grór had turned towards us. There was no way they could have heard us, I was sure of it, and I frowned when I saw the anguish in Frerin’s eyes.

“Watch this...”, my brother whispered, drawing slightly back towards Dáin as if searching for his support.

“He’ll come towards us. He’ll look nice and caring, and he’ll ask Thorin to come. Thorin. Not me. He doesn’t talk to me – and I am glad for it, I really am. Just watch. He’s coming. And Thorin will have to go, while I can stay with you and be happy.”

His smile was almost a wince and my frown deepened, I took a step towards Frerin, opening my lips so as to tell him this was nonsense, but the sharp, clear voice cut my speech.

“Thorin.”

I froze, my hand still extended towards my brother, and Frerin’s eyes gave me a short, blazing look, almost defying me.

“I told Grór about your interest for the furnaces. He has been kind enough to offer to show them to you...”

Two heartbeats. That was exactly the time I stood still, facing my brother, trying to understand what he was trying to tell me, what was upsetting him, what he was expecting me to do...

And then I earned a shove in the chest. Soft and swift, so that neither my grandfather nor Grór could see it.

“Well go, you idiot.”

Hurt rose in my eyes, making my throat tighten, and I turned away from him, barely remembering that I had to thank Grór and had better move towards him. Instead I stammered my thanks and added, in a hoarse voice:

“Can Frerin come too?”

My grandfather raised his eyebrows, his gaze cold and displeased, but Grór smiled at Frerin, not noticing how dark his brow was, how still my brother’s body had turned, still clutching Dáin’s arm.

“Sure, laddie. Everybody’s welcome, as long as you mind where you put your hands and feet.

- I thank you, uncle.”

Frerin’s voice was collected and composed, he did not stutter, he did not blunder, he was ever a wordsmith and the weapons his tongue forged were as deadly as swords.

“But I fear I am of no use down there. I would not understand, I would not know where to put my hands and feet, because I’m not sure how many I have. Ask grandfather. He will tell you I have two left hands and always had, which is why you will have to excuse me, and forgive me if I leave you.”

And he turned – wounded but still swift, and fast, not caring for the reactions his words caused. Grór only watched him go, his weather-beaten faced somewhat puzzled – he had not understood him, because Frerin had spoken softly and because his meaning was completely lost to him, he had none of his brother’s twisted mind...

But my grandfather’s eyes narrowed in anger, his face had turned pale and his fists were clenched.

“Durin’s blood was weakened indeed, ever since that son of mine believed he had a will of his own...”

I looked at my father, whose tall frame I could see behind Grór’s shoulder – he was still looking at the furnaces below, and he was smiling, his hand on Náin’s forearm, for he was happy, and proud.

He had worked in the Hills for several years, he had been there when they had built the most recent furnaces, and he had helped designing them. He revelled in their success, recalling the part he had played in it, and it was a considerable part, Thráin had always loved the Hills, and had been loved there – everywhere I went, they spoke of his skills, not only in the forge, but also in designing the bellows, the wheels...

My father would gladly have spent his life at Náin’s side, I could see it clearly, every day. He loved his cousin, and his uncle, his face shone when he was with them, he was talking to them and it made sense – he had not forgotten a single plan or figure, he was so smart and able, even madness did not manage to erase all the ideas his brain had harboured, and to be there with them steadied him.

He never mentioned Erebor, he did not even seem to miss it – the only one he missed was my mother, as always, but with Náin he could share his grief, for Náin knew, Náin had been there when Thráin had felt his heart expand, had finally found enough courage to voice his feelings for my mother... and to face his father’s displeasure at a slightly lower union.

Lower only by birth, for my mother was a noble Dwarrowdam, the only daughter of a mighty warlord that had fallen along with the other brave Dwarves that had fought the Drakes so many years ago...

Her blood had been just as noble as my father's, if not kingly, and what she had brought to our family was anything but weakness, it was steadiness, and love, and warmth – where there had only been hardship, cold and pride...

Even Thrór had not been able to withstand her, he had loved her as dearly as his daughter and had wept when she had died, I had witnessed it, I had not dreamt it...

What he had just said was untrue, it was so unfair, so mean, so low...

“I am sorry, uncle”, I said, very distinctly, crossing Grór’s kind, honest gaze – I did not want to hurt him, he did not deserve it, he was the true lord here, and what did I care if he was rough and somewhat deaf...

“I would have loved to go. I really would have, those furnaces are a marvel and it would have been an honour, but my brother is unwell...”

I extended my hand and touched his broad forearm, bowing my head as I did, and then I turned and ran, following Frerin’s steps, trying to guess where he could have fled, ignoring the repeated calls of my grandfather I could hear even above the thunderous noise.

“Frerin!”

He had run along the balustrade, and then had had no choice but to enter one of the galleries, probably the first one – he would have wanted to hide, I knew his first preoccupation would have been to find a hiding place, because he was crying, I was sure he was crying, I had seen that tiny quiver of his lips, right before he turned...

“Frerin!”

I ran along the gallery, calling his name repeatedly, feeling my heartbeats drumming in my ears, almost deafening me, and when I reached the end I paused, gathering my breath and cursing myself, because I had not found him.

I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. It would not do, to be both running, both yielding to emotion and pain. One of us had to think, and right now it better had to be me – because Frerin was there somewhere, alone and crying.

“Thorin, you idiot...”, I muttered, feeling the thumping in my breast slow down and my breath become even again.

He did not want me. He did not want me to find him, and the best way to fulfill that wish had been to run through that gallery like a maddened boar, warning him of my approach.

I was no wordsmith, no will-o’-wisp. I was just stubborn and determined, and I was the one needing him. I would find him.

I began to walk back along the gallery, but this time my breath was cautious and slow, and every step of mine was guarded – it would not do to make the slightest noise, it was exactly the same approach we always had, Frerin and me, when we were outside Erebor, and wanted to have a closer look at the deer that always roamed the riverbank...

The gallery was only dimly lit – the rails on its floor were unused and I thanked Mahal for it, because it was silent. The furnaces’ noise did not reach it, thanks to the iron wool that had been woven into the red walls, isolating them from sound and cold...

Step after step I walked, and it was around the middle of the gallery that I heard it, on the left – a soft, muffled noise, that took several seconds to repeat itself, barely audible.

Frerin had nestled into a hidden recess that had probably served to store iron bars while the gallery had still been in use, and I had run straight past him, not even noticing it.

But now I saw it, and for several seconds I just stood there, my arms limp at my side, not knowing what I should do, how I could reach him, how I should try to comfort him...

Frerin gave another quiet sob, and I moved. I did not care if he shouted at me or even pushed me away, I just could not bear to leave him there in the darkness.

I went down on my knees and crawled into the recess myself, letting out a curse when my head hit one of the rocks, for the stone there was not carved.

“Go away, Thorin...”

Frerin let out the words in a broken voice, and I just ignored him and settled against the rock close to him, my palm pressed against my forehead.

He gave me a shove when our shoulders touched – and it was not a gentle, playful shove that only spoke of teasing, this one was hard and full of hurt feelings.

“Get away! Go and see those damned furnaces, just be the shiny grandson and enjoy it!

- I don’t want to...”

I had spoken softly, trying to touch him once more, but Frerin pushed me away again, his small palm hard and cold against my chest.

“And I don’t want you there! Can you understand that? I don’t want you to extend your arms behind me and to run after me and to think you can help me! I don’t want you! I don’t need you!

- But I do...”

This time I did not try to touch him. I had even moved away, because I did not want my own emotions to load that cursed alcove that was already crowded enough as it was... Frerin’s hurt seemed to radiate from his small body like a deadly sun, and it felt as if the slightest move could make it burst.

“I need you.

- Oh please... You don’t need anyone. You have everything. Grandfather loves you. ‘Adad only spoke when he saw you. Dís only sleeps when you are there. Dwalin is your new soul mate, and Balin always doted on you. Don’t you dare saying you need me...”

I swallowed hard, feeling my throat tighten – it was unfair, and it was untrue. It was almost mean, but I had enough insight in the blackest parts of my own soul to have some hope that he just lashed out with words, as I did with my fists when I was hurt...

“Don’t be jealous, Frerin. There is no reason to be.

- I am not jealous!”

He had kicked out, this time, and he reached my shin, causing me to flinch in pain and to hold back another curse.

“Why should I be jealous of you? I don’t care for the furnaces, I don’t care for grandfather’s attention, I don’t even want to be like you! What do I care for fighting and running and endless forging? What kind of a life is that – look at you, I mean, you don’t even understand how others can feel close to you!!

- Then explain – Frerin, if I did something wrong, I can try to get better, if I hurt you, I...

- You, you, always you! It always has to be about something you did! You are not the sun, Thorin, the world is wide and manages without you, as incredible as it might sound to you...

- Oh, believe me, I would be glad for some shadow indeed...”

My voice had come spiteful and fierce, despite all my resolutions – it was too much, suddenly, he hit precisely where it hurt and I could not handle it anymore.

“I did not ask grandfather to come and call for me, in fact I would be happy if he forgot my existence, if he could just let me be! I hate his cold gaze and the way he just pretends that everything is fine, that despite what happened to ‘adad, there is still someone he can brag about, it makes me sick! And ‘adad...”

I had to draw a deep breath, I was not even used to talking so much, but the words just left my lips unchecked:

“‘Adad only recognized me because you and Dís spent ages with him. If you would have left it to me, I would never have dared to come back to him. I would have let him rot in that tent, and I would have rotted with him, because yes, Frerin, he saved my life, but he only carried me because he had carried you first! And Dís...”

I did not even notice that Frerin came closer, that he had turned silent and was not speaking anymore.

“Yes, of course, Dís is always sleeping against me, but do you know why? Because she knows that without her, I would not even be able to close my eyes! Do you know what I see, every time I try to sleep, Frerin? I don’t see any shiny faces, I don’t see sun or light, I see Svali, and Lena, and Hergíl’s face, and tell me, kudzaduz, how am I supposed to sleep without holding Dís and thinking that at least, despite of everything, I managed to save her?!”

I flinched when I felt his hand on my arm, I had not finished yet, I wanted it all out, word for word, blow for blow.

“And Dwalin, and Balin... Do you know why they dote on me, as you put it? Because they are the only ones here with open eyes! They both know what a terrible lie grandfather is weaving when he speaks about me, when he presents me as the shiny grandson, the heir he is so proud of! They know that there is not a single moment where I wished I was not somebody else... anybody, not even a Dwarf if it pleases Mahal, just not the heir of Durin’s line everyone is looking at, waiting for the moment where I’ll stumble and ridicule myself and make all of grandfather’s words appear as a lie!”

He was drawing me against him – Frerin was holding me against him, and I gave in to his gesture, inclining my head towards his so that our foreheads touched.

“Believe me, Frerin, I hate it too... I hate that distinction he’s making between us, I don’t want it, I have never wanted it and never will...”

His hands were resting on my back and I could feel him breathe against me, silently, waiting for me to finish.

“I need you at my side. When you are not there, I don’t see the way, I don’t see who I am anymore, and I feel cold... And I do hate the cold so much, Frerin...

- So do I...”, my brother whispered, and then he nestled against my chest, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his face against my neck.

I just held him, feeling the racing of my heartbeats slow down as Frerin’s body relaxed against mine. It was the most uncomfortable of all places, I was half-crushed against the stone, there was a rock that kept digging in my left flank, and one of my thighs was getting stiff, but I would not have moved for the world.

“Do you think they love each other...?”

Frerin’s voice had come low against my chest, and I frowned, slightly.

“Who?

- Grór, and... and grandfather. Do you think they love each other?”

I pondered his words for a while. For several days now we had been among them, getting to know this great-uncle we had never seen before, and watching his interactions with my grandfather. Collected, easy-going interactions, simple speeches, few smiles, respect but neither awe nor needless emotions...

“I suppose they do... I hope they do – I am sure they do, deep inside. They don’t show it, but they are proud of each other... I mean, at least grandfather should be proud of what Grór achieved...

- But he didn’t come to visit him, even when the Arkenstone was found, do you remember? And grandfather, he barely ever went to the Hills, did he...?”

I shook my head.

“No, he didn’t. They both barely left their realm, actually... But I don’t think it is because they did not want to see each other – I think it’s because they felt bound to the places they ruled, both of them... Grór to the furnaces, and grandfather to the golden mines...

- Well that is stupid. I would never let any mines or any bellows prevent me from seeing my brother.”

Frerin’s voice was full of contempt, and I shook my head again.

“Maybe it’s not as simple, Frerin... We are not growing up at the same time – they faced so many things, the Drakes, the death of their father, and their brother, the loss of their home in the Grey Mountains...”

Frerin huffed.

“And what did we go through, Thorin? Another Drake, madness instead of death, and home – well, I guess there’s a dragon sneezing into grandfather’s golden coins as I speak...

- Frerin...”

His voice was so fierce – he had been hurt, really hurt by my grandfather’s behaviour, and he was right. I would have not let anything or anyone stand between Frerin, Dís and me, never, neither conventions nor rock and stone...

“You were the one wishing me miles away...”

I had spoken softly, and Frerin shifted in my arms, holding me tighter.

“I did not mean it, Thorin. You know I did not mean it... do you?”

I bent my face, closing my eyes, rubbing my nose against his head.

“I did not even bother to listen, kudz.”

He pinched the skin on my back and laughed as I gave a start, his hands brushing down my chest.

“Hey... What happened to those tiny ribs – Thorin, your chest, your arms, even your belly...”

He grasped at my stomach and I pretended to push him away, but I was smiling in the shadows, I just loved the way he voiced each and every one of his thoughts...

“What did you do?”

He was resting his palms on my chest, on the hard muscles that were shielding my abdomen again – not as hard and strong as in Erebor, not yet, but I was close, close to become again who I had been...

“Hmm... I... opened my mouth and for each word you said I just swallowed something. Some meat when it was serious, and bread for the jokes and nonsense – actually it was mostly bread when I think about it...

- Thorin!”

Frerin’s indignant tone made me laugh and he felt it, he felt my body shake against his, and my laughter turn into a moan when the cramp in my thigh finally chose to set in.

“Ah, please move... Shift a little, Frerin, it hurts...

- Not before you tell me...”

But he shifted, of course he did, freeing me instantly from his grasp, and I extended my leg, wincing in the shadows, resting my foot against the stone wall.

“Couldn’t you have picked up another spot...?”, I said through my gritted teeth, and Frerin shook his head.

“It was funny to see you crawl in... Hey, don’t push me, I did not ask you to follow... Besides, I hit my head too...”

He bent towards me and took my fingers, putting them against his forehead where I could indeed feel a huge bump.

“Serves you right”, I muttered, but I stroked his skin nonetheless.

“So...”, Frerin whispered, hitting my stomach with the back of his hand. “Tell me.

- Alright. But you have to promise me to keep it secret. I’ll only tell you if you swear not to breathe a word about it.

- I swear.”

Frerin was sitting upright and eager against the wall, facing me, his face earnest and his gaze bright.

“So...”, I whispered, bending close to him. “Every morning for two weeks now, when the sun is about to rise and you just bury yourself back into your blankets, I get up...

- To eat something before us?”, Frerin asked, and I had to laugh.

“No... That’s just like you! So, I get up... and then I take what I have hidden under our bed – and it is nothing to eat, I swear.

- What is it, then? Come on, Thorin, you are the worst story-teller ever, I’ll scream aloud if you don’t spit it out immediately!

- Alright. It’s just my old tunic and my trousers. From Erebor – I just kept them and hid them under the bed. So I pull them on and while I do, I check if you are still asleep, then I grab my boots and I just steal out of our room, and what a dark world it is outside...”

My voice had turned into a whisper and Frerin nestled against me once more – I smiled again when I sensed his interest awake, perhaps I was not such a terrible story-teller after all...

“The embers in the chimney are still glowing and a good thing it is, because without them I would not see the way to the door... I pull on my boots, but only when I reach the carpet so that no one hears me... I am walking very slowly, I don’t want anyone to hear and what’s more, it’s a funny game, the goal is not to make any sound at all and I’m good at it, I really am...

- And when you reach the door?”, Frerin asked softly.

“Then I close my fingers upon the handle, and I turn it, very very slowly, I don’t want the door to creak, just to open up a tiny bit so that I can slip out... After that it’s easier, and I move faster, I cross the corridor and I sneak past the guards, it’s just the time when they change shift, you see...

- Thorin!”

Frerin gazed at me, his eyes wide open, he could feel my voice warm up as I showed him that secret, playful side of mine he had never really witnessed before...

“And then I run, Frerin... After that I run, straight to the western corridor, but silently... At the beginning I could not run, I had to walk, very slowly, and I was breathless when I reached it, but not anymore, now I run and I’m almost as fast as before, the sun is still rising when I reach the door...

- What door?”

Dearest Frerin, he never disappointed me – always so truthful, so spontaneous, putting so much of his feelings into what he heard...

“The door to the training room, of course. I don’t want to go there with the other Dwarflings, not yet, I’m waiting for it, I want to be as strong as before when I face them, I want to show them what it means, to shift and spin, and for now I’m still slow...

- I’m sure you are not...”, Frerin said, but I shook my head.

“I am. I am so, so slow, kudz, I should be ashamed. The first week, when I tried the obstacle course, I got hit every single time. I could not even finish it the first days. The iron bars kicked me off my feet and in the end I was just lying there... I still have bruises and bumps everywhere, Frerin...”

I laughed, silently, it felt so good to share it with him, I loved that secret and guarded it jealously, but it was safe with him, I knew he would understand.

“And I thought your chest was still paining you!”, Frerin whispered. “I saw you wince, sometimes, I was worried... But you, you were just...

- Training.”

I had said the word softly, with care, as I would have voiced an oath.

“I am training. And soon, very soon... I will be dancing, Frerin. I will get back my sword in Dwalin’s house, and my axe, and my chainmail, I will run through that obstacle course once more, and I will be dancing.

- Alone?”, Frerin asked, brushing my chest with his fingertips.

And it was as if he brought me back to the world, because for some seconds my heart had just expanded in my chest, quickening its beat at the delightful thought that I would run again in a few hours – run, spin and shift, not thinking, only moving, in that faded blue tunic that just looked like a royal garment in the rising sun...

Those hours where I could dream to be in Erebor once more, and that I did not want to share, not even with Dwalin, it was too private, too intense... Not lamenting, not mourning, only remembering what I had, and what I still possessed...

That feeling, when the door of the training room closed behind me, when I approached the metallic gears that I would pull down, so as to set the obstacle course moving... It was a complex mechanism that took months to be designed – and the final result was a unique training path, where iron bars roused unexpectedly, where the ground shifted under your feet, where every move had to be precise and deft...

Not a moment too soon, not a heartbeat too late, or you are doomed...

And my heart beat along with the clanging, with the dull thump of the iron bars that were clashing against the walls and that I was avoiding – avoiding successfully, arching my back, shifting my weight, sometimes jumping above them, sometimes cowering on the ground, but always aware of my own breathing, of the drumming in my chest that just sang that I was alive, still able, still fighting, still there and deserving to be...

 “Alone...”, I whispered, and Frerin nodded.

He stayed silent for a while, silent and still in my arms, and then he did something strange. He bent towards me and kissed my cheekbone, pressing his lips against my skin, and I do remember precisely how long his touch lasted.

Enough for me to feel surprised, yet not enough to react. Just enough to feel warmth invade my chest – warmth, love, and also pride.

Two heartbeats.

Chapter Text

‘Afiglêb.

Speaking-Moon, second month of the Dwarven year.

So strange that during that year, every month should have fitted the terrible events that followed the Dragon’s Fire – he had come in the middle of ‘Afdehar, Anvil-Moon, right after Durin’s Day that had been exceptionally late that year.

For our calendar is following the moons cycle, and every three years or so – seven times each nineteen years, as Balin would point out with his usual sharp knowledge, we add a month to our regular year, so that our time remains adjusted with the earthly seasons.

It would not do, to ignore Nature’s time, every Dwarf knows this. That is why the year the Dragon came was actually fantêrâs – a thirteen-moon year, where the last one was ‘Aftharn.

Moon-of-Dare.

The moon that had witnessed my first breath and who shared its name with me – for I had been born late in the autumn, on the twelfth day of ‘Aftharn, and until the Dragon came it had only seemed a very annoying thing to me.

It meant no real birthday, at least not on regular years – and while I was small I would be terribly jealous of Frerin, born in the middle of ‘Afgargablâg, Food-and-Ale-Moon, full of sun, glee and celebrations... He had a real, tangible birthday, he was not doomed to wait for it every three years or so, his age was established and not depending upon astronomical calculations – and it was absolutely unfair and unjust.

How naive and spoiled I was, no wonder my mother laughed at me, brushing back my braids so as to kiss my hot cheeks, vowing she did not need to look at the sky to know how old I was, since I had been the thunder of her heavens ever since I had drawn my first breath...

I was thinking of her every day.

Every day I spent here, in the Iron Hills, after the Dark-Moon of ‘Afdush had witnessed our struggles on the road and my own illness – after so many deaths, by a strange blessing I could not really fathom, I was at last brought back to my mother.

She had died, and she was lying among tombs the Dragon had probably destroyed. She had died too young, but now that I was sheltered in the place where she had come from, in the place my father had met her, I also was reminded that she had lived.

I had never really spoken of her, after her death – and I had been too young when it happened to wonder about the Dwarrowdam she had been. My mother had simply been my mother to me – the earth where my father was a rock, the sun where Thráin had been the moon... and who ever muses about these orbs looking at the sky...?

And so it came that during this one, particular, so well-named ‘Afiglêb, I was indeed awakening. Awakening from cold, numbness, grief and despair – finding my way back to my body, but also finding the strength to be told and listen, for the very first time in my life.

Listen to those that had known her, to find out who she had been.

I did not expect to talk about her, I was not even consciously thinking of her the day I entered Dwalin’s house again – my thoughts dwelled upon my weapons, actually, for it was time to claim them back.

For three days now, I had crossed the obstacle course ten times in a row, and the sun had always been low still when I had finally stopped at the other end of the room, wiping the sweat from my brow, my heart racing and my tunic plastered against my back.

My hair was wet and the fabric of my tunic was damp and smelled of sweat – I would have hated it, to have anyone near me in that state, but when alone, I secretly acknowledged that it held comfort. To breathe in that scent that proved I had strived, that I was alive and able – so I did not wash it. Besides, I did not want anyone to know, it was my secret, and Frerin was its keeper.

I would walk back silently to Dáin’s house, nod to the guards that somehow never wondered how I had got out, and head straight for the washing room. There I took off my Erebor clothes, and let water calm down my heartbeats, wash the sweat off my skin and the flush from my face, and dressed, ready for the new day.

“No bruises?”

Frerin’s voice startled me that morning – he had come behind me noiselessly, before I had pulled on my shirt and my tunic, and he was smiling at me.

I shook my head wordlessly, keeping my face composed, but my eyes were bright and shining, and Frerin knew.

“Then you should get them back...”, he said softly, sitting himself on the edge on the bathtub, watching me getting dressed.

I brushed my tunic with the back of my hand, adjusted my belt and then bent to fold my old clothes, ready to hide them once more under the bed.

“You don’t want to...”, Frerin stated, calmly, and I turned to face him, the faded tunic pressed against my chest.

“It’s not that...”

He waited – he ever was patient with me, despite his liveliness. He knew I had none of his quickness of speech, none of his courage when it came to acknowledge fears aloud.

“What if – what if I cannot wield them anymore? What if... what if I realize once there that... that I cannot move as before, that they have become too heavy, or that I have forgotten everything...?”

Frerin looked at me for a while and I do remember that bright, grey gaze he had inherited from my father, just as soulful but clearer, and steadier.

“What if, Thorin...”, he said softly, and there was kindness in his voice. “Why do you always have to burden yourself with what could happen, and yet may never come?”

He unbuttoned his shirt – he still wore his nightclothes and for the first time I noticed that, though he was indeed tiny and small, he was no true Dwarfling anymore. The roundness of his cheeks and on the back of his hands had gone, almost unnoticed, and it had nothing to do with past starvation that had left its mark upon us all. Though there was still no true beard on his cheeks, only soft, light whiskers, his gaze was steady and strong – my little brother was leaving childhood behind him, and there was nothing I could do about it...

He let his shirt fall, pushing it aside with his foot – now that was childish indeed – and then he stepped up to me, so as to get some water to begin washing himself.

“You won’t fail, Thorin. You will see – it will be as if they had never left your hands. And should you find them too heavy, should you feel too slow... I know you well enough to know that you will only see it as another challenge to overcome.”

He removed his hair clasps, putting them next to the basin, and began undoing his braids. He ran his fingers through his hair and yawned, and had already plunged his hand into the water when he realized I was still standing there, gazing at him.

“Well...?”

He smiled, and splashed some of the water towards me.

“Get lost, Thorin. Give me some privacy – and get Dís out of the bed, she has slept enough and taken all of the blankets, serves her just right!”

He was laughing now, and he pushed me out of the room. I soon heard him sing – that was something he always did, he claimed the acoustic was wonderful in washing rooms and definitely made the most of it, in his own way...

“Ge-e-e-e-e-e-et... Dí-í-í-í-í-í-í-í-ís… o-u-u-u-u-u-t… o-o-o-o-o-o-o-f… the be-e-e-e-e-e-ed…”

And Frerin’s vocalizations certainly did not fail to raise my sister. As I turned towards the bed I saw her sit up, her eyes still sleepy, her hair tousled and her cheeks still bearing the mark of the blankets.

She looked at the bathroom door with an unmistakable expression of annoyance, despite her drowsiness, and then turned her face towards me, rubbing her eyes.

“Thorin, make him stop...”, she mumbled, and I smiled, sitting myself on the bed and taking her in my arms.

“Light upon your day...”, I whispered – I loved that moment when she nestled in my arms, still warm from sleep, only half awake.

“Sle-e-e-e-e-e-epy... dro-o-o-o-o-o-o-wsy… Dí-í-í-í-í-í-í-ís…

- Mahimdin gal’mezû, Frerin!”, she shot back, and I pulled back to gaze at her, horrified.

“Dís! You can’t just say such things aloud – it’s not proper, it’s not even polite... Who taught those words to you?”

She had blushed slightly, but her blue eyes held my gaze.

“You did. I heard you – that’s exactly what you say when Frerin calls you things you don’t like.”

I shook my head – I would have to watch my tongue when Dís was around, I would make sure of that. It was not a good thing for her to spend so much time with us, probably – she had indeed turned into a kind of tomboy, refusing to wear dresses, pulling on trousers like a little Dwarfling... It pleased Náin, and made his wife sigh – so a compromise had been found: Dís could dress like a boy whenever she felt like, except among the women, and except in my grandfather’s presence.

“Alright. I did. But it was not right. It is not because I do things that they are always right, Dís, remember?”

She smiled at me, handing me her brush – she enjoyed to have me untangle her hair in the morning, running the brush through her silken locks. Then she would put her tiara upon her head and sit still, while I braided her locks around it, fastening it into her raven mane just like stars.

Itô had done it, every day on the road, and I remembered the Dwarflings looking at them, silent, full of awe – little gestures full of meaning, and grace...

I had not been taught to braid women’s hair and the patterns I was weaving into my sister’s locks were somewhat rough, less feminine, but Dís flatly refused to let any Dwarrowdam in the Iron Hills touch her hair.

“Thorin does it, or Frerin, and nobody else.”, she said to Dáin’s mother, fiercely.

“But dearest, it is not proper...”, Dáin’s mother sighed, and Dís’ eyes flashed, bright and ablaze.

“If it’s not proper, I cut it!”, she threatened, and Dáin’s mother gave up, sighing again, while I felt my heart warm up with unexpected pride for my little sister’s temper, and fierce and jealous love.

Yet, as I was running my fingers through Dís’ hair, I wondered, suddenly – was I not acting against her, in letting her have her way? Was it not my duty, as her elder brother, to try to make her act as she should, despite my own – and her own inclinations?

She had ever been motherless, and with Erebor’s loss and Itô dead, she had no real feminine figure to look upon, to guide her steps, to show her how to deal with society’s conventions...

I sighed, and Dís turned towards me. I had finished combing and braiding her hair, and the sight she offered was both lovely and heartbreaking – her hair and face so serious and regal, looking so much older with the tiara, and her tiny body still wrapped in her nightclothes, like a child just roused from sleep...

“I won’t say it again, I promise, Thorin...”, she said, and I pulled her against me, wrapping my arms around her and rubbing my palms against her back.

“Good. Neither will I.”

When you are around, mamarlûna, I added silently, and then we both ran back to the bathroom, to chase Frerin out of there and get Dís dressed at last.

She would dress as a boy that day – she did not care for the fact that her tunic was adorned with patterns no Dwarfling would have worn, she simply pulled on her trousers and her leather boots, and then she adjusted the belt around her slender waist, just as I would have done.

“Other way round, Dís...”, Frerin teased her. “The buckle closes on the other side for girls...”

He had dressed in warm clothes – Dáin had promised to take him out, they both enjoyed training with bows and Frerin was doing really well, he ever had sharp eyes and his aims were sure. Dáin and him had ever been close, they both shared jokes and laughter, and my cousin had always missed having a little brother, so Frerin was often spending the day with him and his friends.

I was more savage – I did not really care for their looks and admiration anymore. I had Dwalin, I had Dáin, I had Frerin and I had Dís – and it was enough. I would make sure to spend some time with my father every day, usually when he was with Náin – I enjoyed seeing him so full of quiet joy, so much like his former self... He never talked much, but he would touch my arm or my hair, pull me softly against him while listening to Náin – just like when I was smaller, just like years before.

And I could not help thinking that there was some sweetness in the damage his mind had undergone: Thráin had simply erased several years of striving in Erebor, and the Dragon’s coming – he just remembered he had three children and had lost his wife, the rest seemed to have vanished to him. Or so it would seem.

I would let him touch me, I even yearned for it. I had loved him so much, and I still did – it just made me sad to witness every day that we were close again, and yet did not manage to meet.

And I was also hurt by the depreciating looks my grandfather cast upon him. For Thrór’s madness was different – treacherous and inconstant. He had been beside himself on the road, but now, now that he was among his people again, put into the King’s position again despite his lost riches – he had pulled himself together once more. Or so it would seem.

And Thrór barely hid how ashamed he was of his son – and it was unfair, and terrible... but I could understand him in a way. To look down at Thráin, to purse his lip when he was unwilling to answer him, his eyes getting anguished again and his hand searching for support – any support, Náin who was always close thank Mahal, but often me, and sometimes Frerin, even Dís – this was just my grandfather’s way to face his own sadness, and failure.

Because he had failed. There was no way around it – he had failed. His harsh temper and the damage caused by Dragon-sickness and greed, but above all by all the losses he had already faced had estranged him from his son. And my father had strived so hard, all his life, to try to earn his love, not knowing that he already had it, and that Thrór probably yearned for him despite his harsh words... but it was too late.

The Dragon’s coming, and Thrór’s last outburst when he had saved his life, combined with the terrible injuries Thráin had suffered, it had just been too much. I have often wondered how and when my father’s mind broke, one loss among many that day, yet so full of consequences...

I have never really found the answer – but now I know. I know, and it makes my heart ache and my breath come out painfully...

It broke in a few seconds, after years and years of struggling. That last ache – and it was huge and terrible – that last ache broke him, the pain both of body and soul just made his mind burst. And at the beginning Thráin had raged, like a wounded animal, but now he slowly recovered, acknowledging only the elements that felt safe to him, like a child hiding itself behind its hands, looking at the world through its fingers...

Three children. An uncle he respected. A cousin he loved. A friend he trusted. A healer when needed.

Thráin did not need more, did not want for more – and his father unsettled him and set off waves of fear and anguish that were painful to witness. For us, of course. But probably most for my grandfather, who hid behind spiteful words and cold looks, as often.

So I tried to be there, and give them both what they needed.

Thrór yearned for keeping up the appearances of strength and ability – I was there to answer his requests, to be at his side when he wanted to take a walk through the Hills, not noticing that most of Erebor’s Dwarves actually only bowed because I was there.

Their eyes were cold when they looked at Thrór, but they would bow, and as I passed I would feel a palm upon my forearm, witness a smile, and sometimes even hear a soft whispered ‘ubnad’. And it was both hurting and warming my heart – I did not know how to react, usually I just gazed back, unsure and wary, but the other Dwarves understood and their attentions soon dropped to a soft, silent touch.

And my father needed me to anchor him when facing Thrór. I would move towards him as soon as I heard my grandfather addressing him, and take his hand between mine, stroking it gently. It irritated my grandfather, but it soothed my father who was facing him, his grey eye wide with fear and pain as he poured out his anger at him.

“Just pull yourself together! Can you not even manage to do that? What kind of a Dwarf just clings to people like you do, can you not take care of yourself? Can you not even walk alone and tend to whatever it is you have to do here?”

Thráin would be shaking by then, his strong, capable fingers closing upon mine, almost paining me – he was afraid, and hurt, and losing his ground, and I just could not bear it.

“Give him a break, Thrór. Just let him be.”

Grór’s loud, calm voice usually helped to soften my grandfather. As much as it irritated him to have to be the guest of his brother, and depending upon his hospitability, I think he really enjoyed being with him again after all of these decades. They were brothers, after all, and they had both raised a son – Grór had the right to speak up to him, and Thrór obeyed, thank Mahal.

He would leave my father then – he had only been with him some minutes, but it took so much more to calm him down again. My hand would be numb and sore when he would finally let go of my fingers, and his shaking did not ebb in minutes.

Once I even saw him cry – silent, desperate tears running down his cheek. I had looked away – I could not bear to witness him in such a state, but I had not freed my hand. I had just waited for his tears to stop, it was Náin who had held him against his chest, silently, his own face full of sorrow, and his gaze had crossed mine for a second, sharing my pain.

Usually it was Frerin who would drag him back from those depths. He would enter his room, well-knowing what had happened, only needing a quick look at my father and my own drawn face.

“’Adad, guess what...”, he would say, coming close to Thráin and putting his arms around his neck, pressing his body against his back. “Your favourite scarf is back!”

And he would bend and press countless kisses into his neck, tickling him and making noises, and after seconds my father was smiling again, laughing even, turning towards Frerin, trying to shake himself free.

“Dashtith...”, he would voice, grabbing my little brother around the waist and dragging him against him.

And Frerin would smile, and laugh, but his eyes were still aware of everything, watching my father with gentle concern, and searching for my gaze once he had assured himself Thráin was indeed better.

He knew what I had witnessed, and how it pained me, emptying me of all strength and joy.

‘Go. I will take over’, he signaled in Iglishmêk, his small fingers moving softly against my father’s back.

‘Thank you.’

My own fingers felt numb and icy, but Frerin smiled at me, and I would leave the room then – it happened every second day, and it should have been routine, but I still had to get back to our room and close the door, because after that I could not go on for a while.

I would slide along the door, pressing my palms against the ground and my face against my knees, and just like my father, I needed more than minutes to be able to get up again.

And when I did, usually, the only thing that really helped, that really made me feel warm and alive again was finding Dwalin. I knew the way to his door by heart, but sometimes he even found me before – I do not know how he managed, but somehow he ever seemed to be close when I needed him.

And Dwalin did not need more than a quick glance to know what was going on, and how I felt.

“Society be damned”, he would grin. “I’m off – are you?”

And of course I was. Sometimes we took long walks, exploring the rest of the rocks yet always careful not to leave the Hills, and sometimes we just climbed, searching for a place to rest and be together – not even talking, just sitting...

We also smoked, sometimes, small amounts of tobacco Dwalin would have got from his father’s reserve, and it was funny. I was good at making smoke-rings, they would leave my lips and get big and bigger, but Dwalin’s were even better, because they spun softly on themselves – he claimed he had no idea himself how he managed to achieve that, but I never really believed him. I think he pretty much knew, and wanted to keep that skill secret. The rascal.

We blew out smoke-rings, but what truly left my body was that sense of loss, and pain, and terrible sadness. With Dwalin I felt free and light again, I saw a life that also held joy – a deep joy, aware of the fact that it was a blessing in a hard world.

He kept me whole, preventing me to break down, just as my siblings did. And I was so grateful, so grateful to have them.

“I don’t care for buckles, and what girls do! I want to be a boy!”

Dís fierce voice only made Frerin’s smile widen. He bent down, crouching in front of her, feigning to take a hard look upon her body, huffing and hemming in a perfect imitation of Oín.

“Well laddie, you still have a long way to go...”, he grumbled, his voice gruff – you could almost think he was in the room, and it made us all laugh.

Yet, as I was walking along the corridors to reach Dwalin’s house, holding Dís’ tiny hand in mine because she had insisted upon coming too, she resumed the subject that seemed to occupy her mind.

“Boys can do whatever they want, and no one says anything to them...”, she said, her silvery voice ringing clear in the corridor despite her soft tone.

“Girls are always told what to do. And when we want to do something that pleases us, it is never proper. That’s why I want to be a boy. I want to be like you.”

I paused then, looking down at her, taking in her decided face and the way she was chewing her lower lip to look firmer.

“Why would you want to be like me, mamarlûna?”, I asked softly, crouching in front of her to face her better. “It is not as wonderful as it seems... You don’t really want to be like me...

- Yes I do!”

Dís looked up at me and there were tears in her eyes.

“You are strong. You don’t wait for people to save you, you just act and fight and win. I want to be just as strong as you, and Itô. I don’t want to depend upon anyone – next time I don’t want you to carry me and get ill because of me. Next time I will carry you.”

It was not really making sense, and yet... I dragged her against me, pulling her face close to my chest, and suddenly she was crying, silently but so hard that her small body was shaking.

There was no one around us, and had there been anyone I would not have cared – I only thought about Dís and the terrible fear and guilt that must have weighed her down for weeks.

“Oh dearest... It is not your fault... It never was your fault...

- Yes it is...”

She was still crying, and I could only brush her back and hold her tighter, leaning my face against her hair.

“I heard Dáin’s mother speaking. She said ‘amad died because she had bled too much – because I had made her bleed too much... It’s all because of me – and she said it was a sad story because ‘adad had done just the same...

- How can she say such things to you?!”

My voice was fierce and loud, anger had just risen in a tidal wave and Dís lifted her face from my chest, her cheeks still wet.

“She did not... I heard her speak to a friend of her, she did not see me... She would not have told me... Nobody ever told me...

- Because it is not true.”

I had voiced the words loud and clear, looking earnestly at my little sister.

“If you begin to think like that, it just never ends. It’s ‘adad’s and ‘amad’s fault because without them you would never have been born, and it is Oín’s fault because he could not save her, and maybe it’s Frerin’s fault, and my fault too, because our births might have weakened her... You cannot begin to think like that, Dís. It doesn’t lead to anything good.”

She was looking at me, and tears were still streaming down her cheeks.

“But with you it was my fault. If you had not been forced to carry me... if I had not weighed you down as I did, you would never have been ill. You almost died because of me.

- I survived because of you”, I said earnestly. “I was lost... lost in that white desert, I could not...”

The memories that arose were still so painful, I shuddered and felt my voice getting brittle, but still... I managed to get on.

“I thought I was alone out there, but I was not. You were there, and Itô, and ‘adad, and Frerin also... I would not have survived without you. Without any of you. And it has nothing to do with being a boy, or a girl, mamarlûna.”

Her face fell then, and I brushed her cheeks with my thumbs, repeating that word softly. Mamarlûna. You who have been loved, you who are blameless and should not have known guilt.

“Come, let’s see what Dwalin’s up to...”, I whispered, and Dís nodded.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her little face crumpled and still wet, and I pulled her up and hoisted her on my hip.

“I told you I don’t want you to carry me...”, she mumbled, but she still rested her face on my shoulder and I smiled at her.

“But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to carry you...”

She wrapped her fingers around one of my braids, relaxing against me, and I rested my palm against her back, brushing it every now and then as I walked, hoping I had eased her pain.

Dwalin’s mother was the one opening the door, and I smiled at her, while Dís shyly buried her face in my neck – she knew Dwalin’s mother, but they had never talked much and moreover Dís had just cried and was always shrinking from people after that.

“Come in, sweetheart...”, she said, smiling at us, but avoiding the mistake to try to touch Dís.

“You are just on time, because I am making butter cakes – but if you want to see Dwalin, you will have to wait a bit. I send him off with Fundin to get more firewood...”

She had already closed the door behind us, and we both followed her into the kitchen, sitting down on the bench, Dís staying on my lap.

“We are sorry to disturb you...”, I began, but Dwalin’s mother cut my speech at once.

“You are never disturbing. I told you, you are always welcome. You and your family.

- Frerin as well?”, Dís asked, and she smiled.

“Of course. Frerin as well.”

She went on with her dough, kneading it into a round, soft and flexible ball between her fingers, and Dís stirred on my lap, before getting down to join her.

“If you want to roll it out, you have to pour some flour on the table”, she told Dwalin’s mother earnestly. “Or the butter will stick. That’s what we always did in Erebor.

- Really? Would you mind pouring it, then?”

Of course Dwalin’s mother knew how to roll out dough – I did not, back then, because I never had meddled with fine cooking before, I just knew how to prepare the basic rough meals that went with a campfire. I watched my sister pour the floor and stretch the dough with some help – Dwalin’s mother putting her hands upon her tiny fingers as she moved the rolling pin.

“I liked to watch it done in Erebor”, Dís said once the dough was rolled out, looking up to her to see if she was pleased.

“It is not so easy...

- No it is not, sweetheart. A lot of little things that look easy are actually quite difficult to achieve and require practice...”

Dís pondered her words for a while, putting one finger upon the dough so as to feel its thickness.

“But it is not useful...”, she said softly, and again my heart tightened.

Dwalin’s mother looked at me, then at Dís, and then she gently huffed.

“Not useful, dearest? Wait until Fundin and my boy are back... Then you will see if it is indeed useless – you will hear them beg for a tiny little cake, sitting there in those big armchairs claiming they are weary, and unable even to wait patiently for the cakes to be cooked...

- Frerin was just the same in Erebor!”, Dís said with a smile. “He said he would give his kingdom for one of those cakes... Now he has nothing to give anyway, because Erebor is lost.”

She was laughing – my little sister was actually laughing, voicing those words with childish innocence, and Dwalin’s mother looked at me again.

“Oh I bet he’s sorry for that”, she simply said in a good-humoured voice, and Dís nodded.

“Oh yes. I know he misses it, actually. I am sure he misses the kitchen most...

- And you, what do you miss most?”, Dwalin’s mother asked gently, beginning to cut the dough into shapes of tiny cakes with little cutters made of iron.

Dís stayed silent for a while, helping her and concentrating on her task, but she had heard her and her answer astonished me.

“I miss the music...”, she said softly, putting one cake upon the baking tray.

“There used to be music, and Frerin, Thorin and me we used to sing. I used to dance, too... ‘Adad said I was dancing beautifully, and I loved it, but actually what I loved most was listening to music...”

She did not look up at me but I knew what she was hinting. I had not said a word ever since their conversation started, I had been content to watch and listen, and Dís had gained enough confidence to almost forget I was still there...

My chest tightened painfully and my body tensed, as I waited for Dís’ next words, that soon came.

“Thorin plays the harp beautifully.”

She was still putting cakes on the tray, and her face was bent upon her work.

“I wish he would play again.”

She was biting her lower lip again, and her eyelashes were glistering, her unshed tears looking like pearls – but Dís worked on, her voice staying even, and Dwalin’s mother pretended not to notice.

“The harp – that’s a lovely instrument indeed, I had a friend who loved it dearly. She said the name in itself was so telling – the long-line instrument, isn’t that a fitting one for Durin himself? She played beautifully too... she was so gifted, she managed to make us hear the rain when she played, and the wind upon the Mountain, and the soft voice of the wanderer singing about home...

- Where is she now?”, Dís asked, and for a while Dwalin’s mother stayed silent, probably waiting for a sign that she could go on.

But I was unable to move, unable to speak, and thank Mahal she went on, taking it as a yes.

“She has gone to the Halls of Waiting”, she answered softly. “And there I am sure she plays. I am sure she is the one sending those soft rays of sunshine you see sometimes, when the sky is full of clouds, do you know what I mean? Those clear, broad rays that look just like a road heading to the sky...

- I have not really seen it...”, Dís said haltingly. “I have not been outside the Mountain so much... Did she – did she see them?”

She had stopped working for a while, gazing up at Dwalin’s mother, and I was waiting for her answer as well, my whole body yearning for her next words.

“She did, sweetheart. She loved to look at the sky and to feel the wind upon her face. She never liked being in a cage... just like you. So she found the key out. First through music, and then...”

She smiled, helping Dís to rearrange the cakes on the baking tray.

“And then?”, Dís asked softly.

“And then through love. She found someone who hated being encaged just like her, someone who was struggling to get rid of heavy chains himself, and who saw through her instantly. He looked at her and asked her if she would dare to come out with him, and do you know what she answered?”

My sister shook her head, and Dwalin’s mother bent towards her.

“She said he had better run fast and catch her...”

And Dís smiled, then, slowly, her blue gaze clearing up at last. She leaned against Fundin’s wife, beginning to cut the next cakes, and it took her three cakes to ask the next question.

“And where is her harp now?”

Stubborn, steady little Dís. Of course she had understood – had she? Or maybe it was just a way to reassure herself she had, and could begin to picture that mother she had never known...

“Oh, that harp has been through many journeys... It has crossed this earth many times, and been through many seasons... It has seen sun, and riverbanks, and flowers – fields of wild flowers smelling of spring... And harvest feasts, with bonfires and happy songs... But it has also seen greater fires, and cold, and snow. And now it rests. Until someone calls for its song again.

- And where does it rest?”, Dís asked. “Who saved it from the snow?”

This time Dwalin’s mother wavered. She was not sure of my reaction, not sure of the proper words to say.

“Balin did”, I said softly. “Balin saved it. ‘Adad brought it back, and Balin laid it to sleep in his room. I have seen it.”

Dís looked up at me, and there was a silent pleading in her eyes.

“And can you...?”, she whispered, and my own voice was hoarse when I replied:

“Can I what?

- Make it sing. Awaken it - can you?

- I don’t know... I don’t know, Dís.”

My eyes were burning and I struggled to keep my voice even.

“But I’ll see what I can do.”

I got up, then, and Dwalin’s mother dried her hands to open Balin’s room for me. Dís followed her, but once the harp was brought out, still covered in faded velvet, and was resting upon the floor in Fundin’s sitting room, I gently said:

“It will take some time. You should finish those cakes - you really should, Dís, they smell wonderfully.”

And she understood. Of course she did. She knew what it meant to me, to unveil it again, to hold it against my shoulder again – that harp that was a symbol not only of my parents’ love, but also of my father’s madness... Or perhaps not his madness – the visible strings of his heart, probably, that had tied him back to this world somehow, even on that desolate day upon those forlorn hills...

And she knew I could bear no witness, that this taming had to take place unwatched – yet not unheard.

And a taming it was indeed.

As I unlaced the strings of the velvet tissue, my heart was racing – and it was not the joyful anticipation of movement and quickness I felt in the training room, it was a much greater challenge.

I was afraid to touch it again. I was afraid to hear the sound I was going to create – it reminded me too much of my father and that frightening sight he had displayed, on the hills next to Hergíl’s tomb, where he had seen me as my mother...

But I was also afraid to discover the harp had broken – that the damage the snow must have inflicted upon it was too serious.

And I was afraid to have forgotten. I was afraid to be paralysed and frozen, to be unable to remember how my fingers were supposed to move – I was afraid to have lost this other key of freedom I had shared with my mother.

And so I just held it, my heart beating fast in my chest, once the velvet tissue had fallen on the ground. I just held it, against my shoulder, my fingers tight around the polished wood, and for a while I froze indeed, only aware of my hurried breathing, not even daring to really look at it.

I could hear Dís and Dwalin’s mother in the kitchen, they were just a few steps ahead from me – I could still go back there, say it was damaged, tell them it was hopeless.

But I did not want to. Not really. And so in the end I turned, and forced myself to look at it. My fingers felt for the wood, searching for cracks and other damages the snow could have caused, but there was none.

My father had carried it on his back every day, taking care of it just as if it was his axe or sword, and it had not even touched the snow.

The only impact that terrible journey had had upon it lay in the tuning of the strings. They were loosened, and had suffered indeed – the sound in itself told of that injury, for it was like a moan, hurting the ears, terribly out of tune.

I looked at it for a while, unsure of what to do next. Give up, and ask for a new set of strings – surely it could be found here, all Dwarves liked songs and even Grór was found of music, I had heard him sing old Northern song down in the furnaces...?

Or try – try to fix it on my own...?

And in the end I took the harp back on my shoulder. My fingers brushed the polished wood, the old silver runes, the symbol of the Seven Stars that indeed had always reminded me of Durin, and rested upon the metallic tuning pegs.

“Do not worry. You will be fine.”

I whispered those words, and then I began to tune it – and it was hard work indeed, requiring as much skill as forging, perhaps even more, because iron once bent stays so, whereas strings ever had a will of their own...

Every once in a while I would have to go down the tone ladder once more, because a string had chosen to get deeper again, unable to bear the strain I had imposed upon its peg.

And I was not even aware of the fact that I was not simply pulling at the strings, but that I gradually began playing fragments of melodies so as to get assured they stayed tuned.

I was frowning, bent upon my work, and my hands had warmed up when I reached the last, highest string – back then I had already played several of the songs I knew, but I had not noticed. My fingers ran down the strings, making them sound one after the other in a swift, sonorous cascade... and I smiled, eventually, when the sound ebbed.

“Good.”, I whispered, and then I began.

My left hand struck a chord, and another – the same chords, a two sounded, repeated melody, regular as raindrops. For raindrops they were supposed to be, falling softly upon our walls, failing to reach our halls but nourishing the earth...

And my right hand began to play then – the song’s true melody, that spoke of stone, enduring that steady fall, welcoming it after so many dry days.

Shivering maybe, if stone could be said to shiver, and then revelling in the rain that intensified – I could hear it as my fingers moved, they had to be fast and strike the same chord again and again so as to show the drumming of those drops...

Drops falling on the ramparts, I was standing there with Balin, gazing up at the sky, wondering... Wondering...

Softer now, brighter – the rain slackened, the melody was changing, sounding more cheerful, this was Dale, golden roofs the rain had polished, making them shine, making the people down there step out of those porches again – had it stopped? Was it safe outside...?

It was not – the rain poured even more, my fingers were getting faster, the melody got deeper and my hands were flying. Behold, everyone, this is thunder, this is lightening, this is storm...

And this is rain. Falling gently once more – falling softly. Upon stones and leaves, almost caressing them to apologize for its previous harshness – falling softly. Falling gently.

And stopping.

When the last note ebbed, I took me a while to remember where I was. I had closed my eyes while I had played, and as my gaze fell upon that cheerful fire, those broad armchairs and the low table where cakes had been disposed, I frowned, puzzled – where was I?

But then my eyes met others, and they were all there. Dís of course, seated at my feet, her small fists pressed against her cheeks. Fundin and his wife, leaning against the table, holding each other close. Balin standing next to the door, silently.

And Dwalin. Looking at me as if he did not really know me – he was not supposed to be there, I had never thought of playing in front of him, that side of me... it did not fit, it did not fit with what he thought of me, I was brave, a fighter, and nothing else – I could not be anything else...

And yet...

As I was ready to put down the harp again, to grasp Dís’ hand and tell her it was time to go, that we had already been there far too long... it was Dwalin who held me back.

“Please, Thorin...”

I did barely recognize his voice – it was so soft, so full of wonder.

“Go on. Please...”

There was no mockery in his brown eyes, nothing but genuine pleasure, and wonder.

He sat himself close to Dís, and then he simply listened. I forgot what I played afterwards, probably dances, and other songs – I just know I played long enough to see Dís nestle in my friend’s broad arms, leaning her back against his chest just as I had done.

Long enough to forget why I had come here in the first place, for when we finally left to get back to our rooms, Dwalin accompanying me and carrying Dís who had fallen asleep, I realized only as he had gone that I still had not fetched my weapons.

It did not matter. They could stay there some hours longer, I was not afraid to be unable to wield them anymore. I already had back what I needed.

I had not forgotten.

Chapter Text

Seven stars, above the crown, the hammer and the anvil – the crest of the House of Durin.

Seven Houses of Dwarves, dwelling in different Mountains, pursuing their own aims, seldom mingling with each other – delving, forging, mining for their own kin.

But aware that we were still One – seven children of the same father, like rivers springing from the same source – and would unite, if circumstances called for it.

A rare occasion it is, a meeting of the Seven Houses, and I have only witnessed three. The last one right before this journey – and there I was King in Exile, asking for help that never came. The second one before war – and Mahal must have been looking away that day. And the first one here, in the Iron Hills, where I was still a boy, a lad of twenty-four, not even really bearded – the youngest among the lords seated there, for I had come in my father's place.

I was seated at my grandfather's right and had Balin next to me – he was my father's mamarrakhûn, and I needed him. I was feeling so small, so out of place, despite the chainmail I was wearing above my tunic, despite the heavy leather jerkin that was covering my breast, and the reassuring weight of my axe behind my back, of my sword against my thigh...

I had braided my hair with care – yet as I had fastened my hair clasps, I had wished I could actually go there my locks untamed, forming a tangled curtain behind which I could hide...

"You are so handsome...", Dís had whispered as I was waiting for Balin to come and fetch me – but I had not been able to smile at her, I was too nervous.

My grandfather had asked me to come, and it was an honour – even if it meant acknowledging my father was still unable to tend to his duties. I could not appear as an anxious little Dwarfling – it was just out of the question, and so I kept silent, my fists clenched.

"You look queasy...", Frerin said, his grey eyes playful. "Pick up carefully, before you threw up your dinner – aim for the Stiffbeard fellow, their hair is said to be sticky anyway, he won't mind..."

I groaned, and must have looked white indeed, for my brother stepped up to me, hugging me from behind so as to rub my shoulders without facing me, avoiding the blade of my axe with a swift move.

"Don't worry, Thorin... You won't be sick, you haven't eaten anything since yesterday..."

I could feel the concern in his voice, and leaned slightly into his embrace, trying to gather some courage from his warmth.

"I wish you could go in my place, kudz...", I mumbled. "If I have to say something – what if they ask me to talk? Just imagine what they will think if I stutter and get all red and...

- I told you already", Frerin gently chided me. "Just leave 'what if' out, it is only unsettling you. Don't hide – you have every right in the world to speak."

He brushed my hand and I could feel Itô's ring circling my finger. I drew a deep breath and braced myself. I had faced the Dragon, fought against Orcs and crossed a white desert of ice and cold. I would manage. I had to manage.

"Here, Thorin..."

Dís' gentle voice made me look down at her, she had taken my other hand and was tying something around my wrist. One of her ribbons, its silvery pattern faded by dust and snow.

"This way you'll know we are with you, and you won't be afraid."

She tied it carefully, entwining the knot with the ribbon – and it did not look like a garment, it was barely visible, almost hidden under my sleeve.

"Thank you...", I whispered.

"Remember you promised to tell us everything about them", Frerin said, his gaze earnest. "Stonefeet, Ironfists, Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams. Don't forget to take them all in...

- I won't...", I said dryly, fighting back my anguish. "They will probably be busy taking me in...

- Imagine them naked", Frerin replied, unmoved, and I had to smile at last, wishing I could take him with me.

Balin had come shortly afterwards, putting a warm hand on my forearm.

"Ready, lad?", he had asked, his smile showing as always in the wrinkles around his eyes.

I had nodded, and he led me to the vast Hall where the council was going to be held, giving me his last advices.

"Now, laddie, remember – don't get unsettled by the rough ways of Ironfists and Stiffbeards. They come from the far North – they are mostly dealing with wind and snow-storms in the Orocarni, don't expect too much concern from them. With Blacklocks and Stonefeet, it's different – they might challenge us actually, they are strong and independent, always have and always will. Stay calm, let them position themselves, once they are done there will be room left for speaking..."

We were almost there and my stomach tightened painfully – I was trying to make a note of every word, it was so important to gather some support, we had come here numbering almost two thousands, and the Iron Hills could not harbour us all...

"Firebeard and Broadbeams are kinder. They remember brighter days... they never challenged Erebor's power, were always glad to leave the ruling to Thrór. They are not rich, but as such they understand what it is to endure – I would count upon them, definitely, and avoid the mistake to look down on them..."

I nodded and Balin brushed my arm, gently.

"Let them speak first, anyway. Listening is the best way to keep the upper hand – but that advice is not new to you, Thorin..."

He winked at me and I smiled, or rather tried. I only wished that meeting to be already over. And I wished I had enough courage or craziness to shake myself free from Balin's arm and just run away.

But of course, I followed him inside – I had to handle this, and I would. I was representing my father – and Thráin could be called many things, but he had never run away from duty while his mind was sane. Neither would I.

Náin and Grór were already there, as was my grandfather. Grór was seated at my grandfather's left – he was Lord of the Iron Hills, but he was not King, and as such he did not occupy the main place. The Hall was set deep into the Hills, and was dark and mostly unadorned, only harbouring several huge stone tables that were disposed so as to form a square. Torches were lit though, set in heavy iron rings on the walls around us, throwing light upon the tables, drawing our shadows on the ground.

At the top were the Longbeards, our tribe, and I could see Fundin at the left end of the table, close to Náin and Grór. My grandfather was in the middle, then I came, and Balin and then Nár – faithful Nár who would not leave Thrór.

Facing us six Dwarves were seated, doubtlessly the envoys of the Firebeard and Broadbeam clans, because three of them had indeed beards and hair so luxurious and red that it made Náin's look almost brown – they had woven their beards and hair like huge collars around their necks, a wonderful protection against the draughts that kept gushing through the seldom used Hall.

The Broadbeam-Dwarves had nothing truly special – they looked like us actually, or so I thought while I saw them seated. I have long lived among them – have ruled among them and felt honored to do so, for despite their poor riches and their humble abodes, they are straight, honest and warm-hearted fellows, once past the initial distrust, once overcome their anger of being treated as lower Dwarves.

Broadbeam-Dwarves had none of the tallness that was the mark of Durin's line – we were all tall, and Frerin and I were often actually called slender, simply because we were not bulky and never would be. Erebor Dwarves were swift and lighter than others – lightweights, as Dwalin would tease me, and yet... weight can be both a blessing and a curse, as many attributes indeed.

Broadbeams were shorter, and made up for it with an unusual breath of arms and thighs – they were also strong, and definitely able, their hands as mighty weapons as mattocks.

They looked at us with interest as we sat down, and one of them actually smiled at me – he had brown, curly hair that he kept unbraided, not caring to let it flow freely upon his shoulders. His name was Jónar – and I would forget him, after this meeting, forget his face but not his kindness... before recognizing it decades later, and wondering at Mahal's strange designs.

On the left side, close to Fundin, I could see the envoys of the Stiffbeards – well-named indeed, their beards similar to pine leaves, bushy and thick yet straight, as if their hair had been coated in ice once, never forgetting the frost afterwards. Their eyes were light and small, as if they were perpetually blended by a blazing light or facing a strong northern wind. I thought about their lives, up in the cold North, where they faced white deserts I still dreaded – and I shuddered, or perhaps I just felt that nasty draught again.

Close to them were seated two Dwarves belonging to the Ironfists – I could not discern if that attribute was indeed suiting, for their hands were gloved and their arms crossed. They looked quite bored, actually, their faces expressionless yet weather-beaten – masses and strengths that were not to be moved easily...

My gaze shifted to the right, to the envoys that were seated closest to me, and I was almost startled by the scowl I witnessed in three tall, grim Dwarves, who had the most impressive beards I had ever seen. Not because of their length, or the refinement of their braids and adornments – but because they seemed to mock ours. For their beard was unkempt, black as coal, thick and tangled as brute wire, and it made them look savage and ruthless, those Blacklocks looking down at me.

"They pick them out of the cradle, lately...", one of them growled, his voice just audible enough for me, and I did my best to pretend I had not heard, and was not in the least unsettled.

The Stonefeet-Dwarves smirked – they had heard, and looked almost as rough and hard-nosed as their kinsfolk. I don't remember any of their attributes – I think I did not really dare to take a closer look at them, I was desperately trying to fill my chair and to assure myself I had the right to be there.

It was my duty, I owed it to my people – I would not let any Blacklock or Stonefoot draw me out of that Hall.

"Right, everyone, let's get it done...", Grór began in his loud, sonorous voice, and I could see my grandfather wince at this unceremonious introduction.

"Welcome again to each and every one of you – it can't have been easy to cross those lands in the late winter, and we want you to know that we greatly appreciate your coming. My halls and fires are yours."

I could see that his simple speech had pleased both Firebeards and Broadbeams – again I witnessed the smile on Jónar's lips, a warm smile that reached his eyes. The Stiffbeards nodded, while the Ironfists never stirred, but both Stonefeet and Blacklocks looked unmoved – at least they were not smirking anymore.

Grór had made sure to offer them food and rest before beginning the meeting, and drinks were being handed out – ale, of course, but also a strong, sharp-smelling drink whose scent was indeed reminding me of fire. My glass got filled as well, but I never tasted it – I only raised my glass with the others and pretended to drink, I did not want my thoughts to get clouded.

Grór and my grandfather did not shrink from the fiery drink, though, both of them had been born in the Grey Mountains, and I have no doubt that they recalled those years – Grór with a soft clicking of the tongue and my grandfather with a satisfied sigh.

"This, Thorin...", he said softly to me, bending down and putting his cold, broad fingers upon mine. "This is what we call a prelude indeed..."

He smiled – Grór was still adding a few words of well-wishes and welcome, but I was looking at my grandfather, trying to sort out his mood. Was he simply enjoying a reminder of rougher, yet not unhappy days – or had he forgotten why we were all seated here, lost in his memories and dreams of grandeur once more?

"You should try it...", he added, but then his gaze fell upon me – and I was a lad still, try as I might, his hand completely covering mine.

"Or perhaps not...", he said softly, and there was a half-smile on his lips, almost gentle, so unusual for him. "We don't want you rolling under the table, do we?

- No, grandfather...", I whispered, not daring to smile back but revelling in the touch of his palm against mine – please Mahal, just leave it like that, don't make him move, let him stay like this...

But Thrór moved, of course, focusing again on the meeting that had begun, ready to speak again, and plead for his people, as he had done so often. His hand left mine, and he turned from me once more, forgetting about me as soon as he did so.

"Oddur Oddvaldurul...", my grandfather began, his Khuzdûl ringing clear and loud in the cold, silent Hall, as he greeted the envoy of the Blacklocks, who had a slight bow of the head.

"Vinar Vindarful..."

The Stonefoot bowed, his gaze unfathomable.

"Nyr Nyrathul... Stígur Steinurul..."

He was greeting the other envoys, switching to the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, and I wondered how he was able to remember all their names, that sounded like incantations to me...

But I should not have marvelled too quickly, for when he came to the Firebeards and Broadbeams, Thrór wavered, his gaze narrowing, suppressing a smile that had none of its former gentleness.

"And..."

They were facing him, their faces calm, seemingly unmoved despite the insult – the King had not seen fit to remember their names, they were the less important clans, what did they expect...?

"Balin...", I whispered, and my friend reacted instantly, slipping me a piece of parchment where he had scribbled a few runes – and I could guess his repressed anger at the unusually sharp angles of his writing.

I stood up then – I did not really think about it, and I had indeed forgotten my anguish for shame of my grandfather's behaviour.

"Íthi Ímundurul... Jónar Jararul..."

I had not stuttered, I had not even blushed, but inwardly I was feeling cold and tense, and my knees were shaking – they were all looking at me, even though I had spoken softly.

Jónar bowed, and so did Íthi – and as I sat down again I felt Jónar's gaze rest on my face. And somehow it gave me courage, and enough strength to endure the iron grip I soon felt around my left thigh.

"Indeed...", Thrór said, his voice soft, but his fingers closed upon my knee, crushing it to the bone.

It hurt – it really hurt, it spoke of terrible anger and promised punishment, for I had dared to cross him, to speak up when he had not deigned to do so, and it was unforgivable.

And I had to hold my breath and grit my teeth so as not to wince, but I did not stir. I only got paler, and when Thrór finally released me the pain was so intense I could not really focus upon the words he spoke next – he was mentioning Erebor, unlucky circumstances, the tragic loss of the King's Jewel... who cared for the Arkenstone now, it was lost, lost forever, and it would not help us here...

A soft touch on my hand – Balin was enclosing my wrist in a gesture he shared with Dwalin – and it helped to keep me grounded, just as his brother did.

He had witnessed what just happened, his jaw was clenched and his gaze was burning, but neither of us moved or spoke, it was unthinkable.

"How many dead?", Oddur asked, his black gaze sharp and almost as cold as my grandfather – and Thrór wavered.

"Two thousands...", he said, almost haltingly, and he turned towards me then – he actually dared turning towards me...

"Two thousand seven hundred and forty eight...", I said, and my voice was still faint, but it grew stronger and louder as I went on – I owed it to them, I finally had the right to acknowledge that pain.

"Two thousand six hundred and three lost in Erebor...", I added, and my gaze was bright and burning.

Panicked feet, screams echoing on the staircases... That small Dwarfling, lying motionlessly on the ground near the riverbanks, warriors whose bones had been crushed, Dwarves whose lungs had not been able to recover from poisonous fumes... And I was leaving out Dale - Dale where Girion had fallen, where Lena had died, where my friend Cillian was perhaps going through the same struggles...

"One hundred and thirty six on the road, eighty three from injuries caused during the sacking..."

Their wounds festering, without any possibility to save them - and Oín had tried so hard...

"Twenty slain by Orcs and seven dying from injuries afterwards..."

And one of them had braided horse-manes, had been a friend, had kept calm and smiling despite everything - Hergíl who had been shooing horses with me...

"Twenty six dying from starvation..."

Oh Svali... That soft, warm breath against my neck, that white tomb that still haunted my dreams...

"And nine dead in the Iron Hills."

And Itô among them – my batshûna, my proud, unbending shielder in the snow, with the dancing axe...

Itô, dead for me.

The silence that fell after my words was deep – I think even Náin was astonished by the exactness of my answer, but I had cared, I had cared so much, I had never forgotten a single soul trapped in Erebor and Dale, or fallen along the river, and I could voice it at least, even though I was small and young and crushed by my grandfather's cold, indifferent madness.

My grief was strong and burning, just like the drink that filled their glasses before them – and it silenced them all.

"Well, that is what I call accurate, son...", Oddur finally voiced, and I cut his speech at once – I hated his gaze, still unmoved by so many dead.

"Thorin Thráinul...", I replied, my voice fierce – I was no son, I would not let him shush me or reduce all those losses to mere facts.

He bowed – and when I look back at that day, I think he actually meant it, that somehow I had stopped appearing as a mere Dwarfling to him and the rest of those Dwarves. They could all sense I had been there, really been there, and that no one could take that away from me.

"And how many survived, Thorin son of Thráin?"

Jónar's voice was gentle, he was not smiling, he was looking earnestly at me and there was sadness and compassion in his gaze. Of course he would be the one calling us all back to the true issue – those who were still living, those who had been saved, those who mattered even more... And of course he would be addressing me, and not my grandfather, returning the slight to him in the sensitive way that goes with true dignity.

"One thousand nine hundred and seventy three..."

My voice was low – it had been such a burden, and it was such a burden still. It was almost as much as the whole population in the Iron Hills – we would manage for the winter, but not much longer, every single house was crowded and hosting one, if not two families... I had never voiced it, I had tried not to think about it – I had needed to rule out facts for a while so as to find my way back to myself, but I had always known it.

There was no way we all could stay there – the question was not if we had to go, but when. And where.

Nyr of the Stiffbeards let out a long whistle, expressing his own awe in front of this colossal number, and his neighbour Stígur unfolded his arms, putting his palms on the stone table.

"Indeed, mates...", Grór said, and his easy-going tone did us all good. "That's why we are all here, see?"

He filled his glass again with the fiery drink and cheered towards them, his blue gaze standing out in his battered face.

"As much as it pains me to say so, there is no way we can harbour all of them... A third of them, yes – my men's kin, and the injured, and the children. Them I can keep – the rest...

- Do you honestly expect us to take care of the rest?", Vinar of the Stonefeet voiced, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Erebor was the main stronghold – you were the ones meddling with gold and gems, trading with Men and Elves. We have only scarce business with Men, and none with those pointy-eared creatures – we all earn our keeping, and our lives are hard. That's no place for Dwarves used to a life of food and shelter.

- But surely you could use a few skilled craftsmen more?", Balin interjected. "There are some among them, used to handle both metal and stone – you could use them for your dams, and to fortify your places... You could even use some warriors..."

Vinar huffed, but I could see the thought taking shape in his mind. He leaned back against his chair with a frown, gazing at the floor without seeing it, but my grandfather's voice roused him.

"Just remember who these warriors have pledged their allegiance to in the first place. They are my warriors – my guards...

- And you have no food to offer them", Oddur said, flatly, and there was a smirk in his eyes. "Just try it – make the experience. Ask them how many would come with you, should you leave those Hills where you enjoy shelter..."

I am not sure those words shaped my grandfather's decision – he had long been uncomfortable with using his brother's hospitality, and had probably never thought of staying long in the Hills. But we still could have – I had harboured the hope that he would think of us, at least, of my father who was still recovering and in no state to travel, and of Frerin and Dís who were still so young...

We had the right to stay – we were Grór's closest family, my father and Náin were like brothers, there was no shame in staying, we could have helped to develop the Iron Hills even more, of trying to rebuild some of our former strength here...

But that veiled insult shattered it all – or rather triggered Thrór's selfish, foolish impulse, and so I had to hear them, those words that cut through the small amount of strength and confidence I had strived so hard to get back the past few weeks.

"Oh, do not worry, we will leave those Hills indeed... Do you think I can bear to stay there where I have no use – I have earned my keeping long before you were born, and my kin and guards will follow me, even if it means to go a-begging, rest assured. They have to. They have pledged their lives to me. We will leave as soon as winter is over – and you will see, they will all follow. Mark my words, Oddur son of Oddvaldur."

His voice was low, but fierce and fearsome – the Arkenstone had robbed him of his senses, but it had also bestowed power upon him, a power that did not ebb with the stone's loss, and Oddur felt it.

As for me, I sagged against my chair, my face ashen. I did not care for looks and impressions anymore – my worst nightmare was returning. I would soon be on that road again, without any assurance of food or shelter for my siblings, for my father, for those I held dear... I had done it before, but what had kept me going was the promise of reaching safety, in the end. And ignorance as well, for had I known what was expecting me when I left Erebor, I would not have dared to stir, I would rather have died right away...

And now I knew... I knew exactly what I had to expect, and it was worse, ten thousand times worse, because there was no relief to be expected, never, no home or strong place to reach...

I did barely listen anymore – I cared about my people, but Balin was there also, listening closely and making suggestions, whereas I could only think about my brother and sister who were expecting me back, eager to hear about all these other Dwarven tribes that never cared for them, were unmoved by their past struggles and those to come...

My fingers closed upon Dís' ribbon and I bit my lip, so hard that it cut – but it was better than to cry, and what could I do indeed save crying, when faced with such a dreadful future...

"Laddie, don't fret...", Balin said softly, placing his hand on my forearm, aware of my distress, of the fact I was barely following, my eyes looking down at the table, at that glass still full of that strange, fiery drink I had not tasted and never would.

"Nothing is written down in stone yet..."

I almost laughed – what did he know about how I could feel? He had his family there, and Grór had been adamant, he would keep those who were kin to his men... Him and Dwalin, I would soon lose them, I would be lost to them, because I would be looking for shelter and food and try to hold the pieces of my family together – and failing, of course, failing because there was no way out of this nightmare, no way out of that never-ending curse I wished to no one...

He kept his hand on my arm, and I did not shake him off – but I was not finding any solace in his touch, I only bore it because I did not want to attract attention more than necessary...

The meeting lasted a good hour more, and I don’t know how I managed to follow, to give the appearance I was fully aware of everything that was being said and discussed.

Later I would be able to try distinguishing between emotions and facts, to ignore some of the feelings raging in my heart when I had to negotiate or to plead the cause of my people... Not always – and I would be careful to let more skilled speakers second me in those journeys, speakers such as Balin whose tongue was gilded indeed.

Perhaps I actually never managed, to sever emotions from facts, when I think about it... I would always consider both, and often rage, inwardly and outwardly – but as the years passed, I think I can say safely that I have not always handled blinded by feelings... That though in the end I failed, just like my grandfather before me, there were times where I have been wise, and many others where I have listened, keeping the upper hand as Balin had advised me...

But that day I was so young and so distraught... I stopped considering the other Dwarves at envoys who could not sacrifice their own interests, despite the sympathy they felt for us. The world was still black and white for me, and I drew a clear barrier between them.

Blacklocks and Stonefeet I distrusted and hated – they would only take our most skilled craftsmen and warriors, they never asked for the families, for those less gifted but still in need...

Ironfists I despised because of their indolence, they never voiced a single opinion, and only followed the Stiffbeards that agreed to take in several warriors as well, and some of the families that could travel.

Firebeards and Broadbeams gave me some hope, but their influence and riches were so small... Jónar spoke kindly, and asked many details about the families that were still without shelter – the Ered Luin where they came from harboured coal mines, and they were always happy to welcome new workers, but the lands were poor and their relations with Men had dropped to the strict necessity – coal against food, which was always scarce.

I was looking at him, still biting my lip – he had such an open face, such a warm heart, but he had nothing more to offer. As much as I felt drawn to him, he could not help us – he could only offer hard work, and no promise of true shelter, but he did so with all his heart.

The meeting’s conclusion was predictable. The weakest among us would stay in the Iron Hills, the rest would go, either to offer their services in other Dwarven settlements, either setting off on their own, for those who felt themselves able to do so...

And those who had to follow my grandfather and be damned would form the rest – a tiny troop it would be, I could already picture it, the pitiful remaining guard of Thrór, once King under the Mountain...

I was barely able to breathe when the talks finally came to an end. As soon as the other Dwarves began pushing their chairs away, I stood up myself, freeing my arm from Balin's hand, getting away from him – away from him and my grandfather.

Náin came up to meet me with Fundin, he raised his hand to touch my shoulder and I let him – the other Dwarves were still around, I had to manage, I had to keep up that pretence of calm and strength my grandfather’s words had just shattered...

“Well done, lad. Your father will be proud of you.”

How could he say such words? How could he indeed believe my father would be proud of me – my poor, crazed father who did not know he was doomed again to stumble along on barren lands, not understanding what was going on, why everyone kept pushing him, why we were always supposed to move...

My poor father... My poor father who still believed I could do him some good...

Náin’s smile vanished when he saw my face – I must have looked so distressed, so desperate, but I did not let him talk to me, for I was afraid of my reactions should I stay a moment longer...

“Thank you, uncle...”, I whispered, and then I turned.

I walked out of the Hall, trying to keep my steps slow and even, and once the door closed behind me I ran at last.

I ran, and as I did so my thoughts arose, full of self-hatred and contempt – what had I expected, how could I have been so blind, how could I have forgotten that happiness and shelter were just gone, gone forever without any hope of returning? What did I need more, to learn that there was no justice at all in life, had I not witnessed Svali's death? Had that not been enough to teach me that everything that was soft and kind would be crushed and trampled on, that the only way to survive was to brace yourself and fight?

How in Durin's name could I have thought that those precious, sheltered, happy moments could last forever? Had I not already seen that we were doomed, that there was no way out but to grab your weapons and tools, and fight, and endure?

I had reached the training room's door at last and thank Mahal it was late, thank Mahal there was no one there – I did not even stop running, I just pulled the gears down, and ran straight through the obstacle course, and what did I care if I was barely seeing anything, if it was the first time I was crossing that path in full battle gear, and with an injured knee?

The iron bars rose, and I just fought my way against them through the path – I was not avoiding them, I was thrashing down at them with my axe and sword, gritting my teeth so as to keep my breath even, so as to prevent myself from screaming... But when I reached the end of the course I still felt as shattered and desperate and brittle, and it would not do, it would not do at all...

So I started again, and again, and again.

Until my legs were shaking and my breath uneven and hurting, until I was sure I was a mess, only yearning to break down and cry...

"Just watch and learn...", I voiced, my voice hoarse, and then I pulled the last gear down.

I had never used it before – I had been through that path with my father and Dagur in Erebor, but never alone, for the obstacles that were rising in that course were no iron bars, but blades.

Sharpened blades that did not care for the opponent facing them, that had no compassion for training Dwarflings – my father had never let me cross it alone, he had always been there to be sure the blades did not reach me, parrying the blows I had not been able to foresee.

But my father was not there, and could not help me. No one could help me.

I took a deep breath and then I ran, again.

"Thorin!"

The first blade had risen and I parried it with my sword, feeling air’s sharp move against my cheek. The second I hit with my axe, and I went on running, and what did I care for that voice that was calling me, the fear in it unmistakable, I had a lesson to learn, I had to pay for that shameful illusion of happiness in which I had deluded myself...

Sssish!

The third blade rose inches from my face and I pulled back, shifting my weight to the side, or at least trying to, because suddenly my injured knee gave way and I fell, dropping my axe so as to rest my palm on the ground.

Sssish!

The pain arising in my right forearm was sharp and unforeseen – the next blade had shot from a hole close to the ground, and cut right through my sleeve... Rise, I had to rise...

"Thorin!"

Blood was trickling down my arm, my fingers were getting sticky and I just abandoned the thought of picking up my axe – too heavy, it  would only slide... Rise and keep running, fight them off...

I was staggering, and I was so slow, suddenly, so slow...

Sssish! A blade against my chest – meeting only my chainmail. Sssish! Another one I parried with my sword, my left hand shaking, but my teeth gritted – just watch and learn...

I was stumbling on, waiting for the next blade threatening to cut my skin – are you not even able to avoid them, are you so useless, can you not even take care of yourself...?

But no blade came.

With a grinding sound, the obstacle’s mechanism came to a halt – some blades half risen from their sheaths, but unable to harm. Someone had pulled down the gear, and brought them to a standstill.

I fell then, down on my knees, still clutching my sword, and moments after I felt hands on my shoulders, holding me upright.

Shaking me fiercely.

"Are you mad?! Have you completely lost it?!"

It was Dwalin, Dwalin who was pale with anger, who had pulled down the gear and run towards me, dragging me from the course, not caring that my blood was trickling down everywhere, staining the floor, my clothes and his own.

"Mahal, Thorin!"

This time he was shouting – fear made him lose his last reserve, and he pushed me against the wall, almost slamming me against it, making me sit, before tearing at the hem of his shirt, and pulling up my sleeve.

There was blood on Dís' ribbon.

That was the only coherent thought that entered my head – I had trouble focusing, and sitting upright, and I was shaking.

There was blood on Dís' ribbon.

"Of course there is, you idiot, you just cut yourself with those blades like... Thorin, it could have severed your bone!"

He was tying a shed of cloth around my arm, and I watched the fabric soak up the blood with strange indifference. Dwalin tied three or four shreds around my injury, and suddenly the bleeding stopped – at least, no blood could be seen anymore.

Nothing could be seen anymore, everything was getting dark, but suddenly I felt sharp slaps against my cheeks. Dwalin was hitting me, he was actually hitting me and though I was determined to make him pay for it, I had trouble moving and opening my eyes.

"Come on, you stupid, crazy..."

I was lying on the floor and Dwalin was kneeling next to me, his brown eyes wide with fear and his face still ghastly pale. I heard him breathe out his relief as I looked at him, and he stopped slapping me.

"What in Mahal's name got into you?!"

I was still shaking, shaking so hard that he had to help me to sit up, and for a while he just faced me, his hands upon my shoulders, taking in my bruised face, my bloodied lip and the look of utter despair that still had not left my eyes.

"Thorin, you almost killed yourself..."

His voice was low and there was fear in his eyes – not fear of me, a deep fear of what might have been, and that I could not bring myself to share.

"Thorin, what happened?"

He was speaking gently now, his anger had ebbed as swiftly as it had risen, he was too worried to keep shouting at me, I was offering a much too alarming sight...

"'Adad said you were wonderful at that meeting, that you did really well, that what you said helped them all realize how serious the issues are, but that you left before Náin could properly thank you..."

I drew a shuddering breath and my friend brushed my shoulders.

"What happened, Thorin...?"

And when he saw I still could not answer, that I could only sit and face him with mute, terrible despair, he dragged me against him and held me. He crossed his arms on my back, pulling me against his chest, forcing my face to meet his shoulder, and then he waited.

Endless minutes where the only sound that could be heard in the dark training room was my own ragged breathing.

"I... we have to leave."

I had said the words in a choked voice – I would not cry that day, my grief and anguish were too strong, they robbed me of air and made my voice sound tiny.

"My grandfather says... he wants us to leave."

Dwalin stayed silent for a while and my despair only grew – even he had nothing to reply to that, there was no answer to that terrible prospect...

"Then I leave with you."

His voice had not wavered, he was still holding me against him in that strong, steady embrace of his. I tried to pull away but I was so weak, I could not even look at him.

"No. You are not. You are staying here with Balin.

- Balin won't stay here. Meaning I won't either. You'd better face it, Thorin, I am going with you.

- How can you say such things?!"

The hurt in my voice was so strong that he let go of me slightly, and I could face him at last, I could look at his kind, deep brown eyes that met mine, not lowering their gaze.

"You have everything, you are safe, you are loved, you have a house, a father who's strong and able, and a mother who's loving, and kind, and smart! What do you know of the wilderness outside, of starvation, of death, of illness, of injustice?! Why would you even want to know?!

- Astû zamarakhmi.

- No, you won't! You can't shield me, because it’s not a game! It's nothing like that training path, there are no gears one can simply pull down to make it stop!"

I was clutching his shoulders, I was the one shaking him in anger this time, my gaze burning with unshed tears.

"Astû zamahshumurmi.

- You can't protect me – I have to leave you, and there is nothing you and I can do about it!

- Ya astû zabinganagmi...

- No! You won't stay with me, you won't be going with me, I forbid it, do you hear me?! I don't want you, I don't need you!

- ...ra astû nê zaserejmi.

- You will leave me. You have to leave me. Please don't go with me, Dwalin please stay safe...

- ...'ashur nurtu kuylê...

- Dwalin, please...

-...la' murudmi."

He had said it.

Every day of his life, until his dying day.

Every word of the oath that pledged him to be my mamarrakhûn, should I accept his vows.

His voice had been unwavering, but there were tears in his eyes also – he knew what it meant, he was aware of everything he was leaving behind him, and yet...

I could read in his eyes that his only fear lay in my refusal. It was in his blood, had always been in his blood. His father was a warrior, his brother was my father's mamarrakhûn – and I was his best friend, the one that had saved his life when we had both been mere children.

As he had just saved mine.

"Thorin, please..."

He said the words softly, and I had to turn from him for a while – he really wanted it. He really meant it. He could not bear to stay at home knowing I would be alone on a road of wilderness and peril, he was so brave, so steady, so generous and kind...

I brushed my eyes with my hale arm, my face still averted.

"If you leave, I go with you... Just look at you, you would not last a day outside without me..."

He was teasing me, but the issue was crucial, and we both knew it. Our lives would never be the same after that – there was no way back, not for him who was offering everything to me, and not for me who would always be responsible of that tremendous gift.

"Of course I would...", I said, my voice hoarse. “I have done it before.”

And it suddenly it did not seem an impossible thing to do it again. Not with him at my side. Not if I had him to back me up, and to tease me – his brown, mocking eyes keeping me whole, preventing me to fall apart. He knew my strength, he knew how strong-willed I could be, how pride and honor would make me reach for my last limits... But most of all he had seen me at my lowest, and knew I was my fiercest and deadliest opponent – harming myself as efficiently as scorching fire or the sharpest of blades.

Yet he still loved me, still yearned to be at my side – and I did not know why Mahal was so kind to bestow such a friend upon me. I did not know, and it made me feel weak and fragile, so undeserving – but I still yearned for that gift, for that friendship that has always been the private, guarded treasure we would both strive to protect.

My shield. My everlasting light in the darkness, always there to save me. Always there.

So I put my hands again on his shoulders, and my right arm was shaking, blood spreading slowly on the fabric again.

"You know what I am supposed to do now?", I asked, trying to sound firm and commanding, and Dwalin nodded, his gaze earnest.

"You know that it's disgusting, but that I have to do it nonetheless?

- Just make it quick...", Dwalin replied, and it was my turn to nod.

I drew a deep breath and then I closed my eyes and bent towards him, kissing him on the mouth, as it was custom to seal an oath ever since Dwarves had roamed the world.

It only lasted a second, and we both pulled apart straight away, wiping our lips with a fierce, shy move.

"Mahal, this was so revolting...", Dwalin said, but he was grinning, actually, yet his smile vanished as he looked at my arm.

The fabric was red with blood – it was close to trickling once more on the ground.

"Alright, my lord...", Dwalin sighed, tearing again at his already damaged shirt. "Let's strip me off to wrap you up... You idiot...

- Just watch your tongue..."

I did not offer any resistance, though, I let him wrap my arm up again, and then drag me on my feet to lead me out of the training room, leaning me against him as I staggered.

"Hey – you won't be doing that kind of stupid stuff every day, will you...?

- 'Course not..."

My voice was getting faint again, the corridor walls were spinning around us and the only thing I kept being aware of was Dwalin's arm around my shoulders, and the steady weight of his body against mine.

"Have to keep you entertained..."

He huffed, and after that I don't remember much. He said I managed to walk until we reached Oín, but I'm not sure, I just remember asking him not to cut the ribbon around my wrist – I had to keep it there so as not to be afraid, and strangely enough, he obeyed.

Oín bathed my wound and stitched it up – and he did not ask anything from me, or from Dwalin. His serious gaze rested upon me, every now and then, but he did not voice his thoughts, and I was glad for it, I did not want to talk, did not want to explain, I had barely realized what had just happened and did not even know how to begin to handle it...

Dwalin left me straight afterwards to clean up the mess we had left in the training room, but after that he came back.

He stayed with me until I recovered a little, and he brought me something to eat as well.

He stayed with me, that evening where he pledged his life to me – it would have been weird to leave each other after that, and in the end I just slept with him in his room.

It was late anyway – and neither of us could bear to stay alone that night. We locked forearms together, and then we closed our eyes, not talking, not even whispering, for everything that mattered had already been voiced.

If you leave, I go with you.

And he did.

He did.

Chapter Text

The snow was melting. The Red River’s waters swelled with thawed ice and were roaring fiercely among the Hills, and though the earth was still barren, without blossom or flower yet, the winter was withdrawing, defeated at last.

There would be no more shining pillars in that wonderful cave Dwalin had been generous enough to show me – it was probably damp and dark again, waiting for the next winter to adorn the cool walls that had reminded me of home.

The wind was still cold, and it would be weeks before we would be able to take off fur coats and warm tunics – but the snow had vanished, and the Iron Hills stood red and proud, victorious once more, ready to welcome spring.

How I wished to be able to rejoice in it – I should have been glad to see the sun throw its rays at the snow, reducing it to pools of water, unable to harm anymore... That winter I had hated so much, feared so much, now I was clinging to its last days, wishing it to endure forever, because its downfall also meant the end of peace and shelter for us.

The wound on my arm had healed, leaving a thin scar on my skin that was easily covered by my clothes – no one but Dís and Frerin ever noticed, and I had told them it had been a training accident, staying close to the truth but keeping my despair from them. The different Dwarven tribes I had described to them as promised, answering Frerin’s many questions – but my brother was still too young to realize fully what the issues had been, and asked about appearances and characters, not about words and decisions...

So in the end I had not really managed to tell them we would have to go. I just could not – my grandfather had not alluded to it again, and neither had Náin. My uncle had not spoken to my father about Thrór’s decision and had never mentioned it to me – so I chose to wait, and to let Frerin and Dís enjoy their last carefree days. There was no use in clouding their skies already: my brother was so happy with Dáin, he was always outside now that the snow had melted, roaming the woods with him, practicing his new-found bow-skills – yet not hunting. There was no killer instinct in my little brother. Not then and not afterwards.

And Dís was enjoying her days here too. She would often accompany me at Dwalin’s house, and sometimes I would play the harp there for her – but most of the time she was seeking out Dwalin’s mother, who had indeed found the way to her heart.

There she would go, dressed as a little Dwarfling, her tiara fastened in her long raven hair with stern warrior-patterns, but she would still be content with helping Dwalin’s mother in her many errands, as long as they could talk about our mother. She was happy in Fundin’s house, my Dís – and she made Fundin’s family happy too. Fundin would call her his little star, pulling her on his knee and letting her play with the braids of his beard – and he was listening earnestly to her when she told him she wanted to learn how to fight.

“Sounds reasonable enough...”, he said, his brown eyes smiling kindly at her. “With those rascals you have as brothers...

- Oh no!”, Dís would voice earnestly. “I would never fight them – well, perhaps Frerin sometimes when he calls me things I don’t like, but not Thorin. I would never fight Thorin...”

She would look at me then, her blue gaze so loving and faithful – oh mamarlûna... Have we ever fought each other? Was there no day those childish, loving words came untrue? I know I have made you unhappy so many times, that I have wounded you, called forth your tears and quenched your laughter... I remember that day where you hit me in the chest, the only way to make me aware of the fact that you were still there, breathing, living and loving me. And that other day where you screamed, and struck me wherever your hands could reach me – thinking I could not understand your grief, that I had not been through that ache, and yet you were wrong...

And if you could see me now, knew the terrible things I did and what became of me – and what I have done to you, taking your ultimate treasure from you and leading your sons to peril and death... No doubt you would rejoice in seeing me clawing for air, no doubt you would wish for the pain in my chest to be greater even, and for that agony to be infinite and even more painful...

Or perhaps – perhaps you would not... It would be so unlike you, to rejoice in other’s pains, revenge is a feeling you never could revel in... I am not even sure you were resentful, mamarlûna... I am not sure anymore of what you are, and what I only believed you to be – maybe I mixed it up, maybe I never understood...

I just know that I want you at my side. I do not care if you would crush me or hold me – I would give anything, every breath, every heartbeat, every drop of blood my body still harbours, to be able to see you one last time, and ask for your forgiveness.

And to thank you, because you kept your promise and never fought me, staying at my side despite my faults, my harsh temper, my broken soul that could harbour so little joy, despite of everything we built together.

Every ray of sunshine I got ever since my darkest days, I owe to you. Everything I achieved I did for you. And I wish... I wish I could offer you more than a desolate Mountain scattered with bodies, and tombs, and memories that will fade away with you...

I give you my last tears, Dís. That’s the only thing I have left – I can feel them slide along my cheek, so warm against the cold wind... I wish I could turn them into diamonds, and make a necklace out of them, that could embrace your slender throat – do you remember the one I gave to you the day you wed him? Your One... your worthy One... You were so beautiful...

She was always so beautiful...

But the day I was recalling was long before, a day where we were both children yet, I leaving childhood, and her, my Dís, still fully living it...

She got Dwalin and me to train her in the end – actually only Dwalin, I was too scared to hurt her and did not like the thought of her fighting, I just wanted her shielded and at peace...

But Dwalin was not afraid. He was so tall, so strong and yet his moves were smooth and perfectly mastered – he never dealt a blow that could harm her. He smiled at her and found her a wooden stick that was light enough for her to wield, and then he made her move, teaching her the elemental parrying moves, and then some attacks as well, as the days would pass.

“She’s gifted, Thorin...”, he would smile, letting Dís touch his chest with her stick so as to encourage her, not caring for my wince.

“You are gifted, sarnûna...”

Dancing-lady... That’s what he called her, and he was right – Dís was so gracious with that stick, and after a while she asked for another, and fought Dwalin with two sticks, one in each hand... Not fighting actually, rather dancing, wielding them like torches, and he was unused to it and revelled in that training.

“Thorin, that’s the perfect way to train against ambidextrous opponents... What hand do you write with, Dís?”

She blushed then, looking at me.

“I don’t write really well yet...”, she whispered, and Dwalin smiled again.

“What hand do you draw with, then, sweetheart?”

She bit her lip, facing the ground, touching it softly with her sticks.

“The right hand...”, she said shyly, and I cleared my throat audibly, still backed up against the wall, almost smiling – it was so sweet to see her struggle with harmless lies...

She looked at me then, and I winked at her – it was alright, it was only Dwalin and me, and we would not tell...

“Actually...”, she whispered to my friend, coming close to him. “I only draw and write with my right hand when Balin is around... I can do it with both hands, and I prefer the left. But Balin says it is not proper. And ‘adad used to say it as well... and grandfather...”

Dwalin huffed then, shaking his head.

“Not proper indeed... I will tell you something, Dís. I write with my left hand, and there’s nothing wrong with it – the only thing that ever was crooked were my runes when someone tried to make me hold the quill with the other. I write with the left hand, eat with the right... and make sure to strike down every one who’s not happy about it with both.

- Dwalin!”

He had the grace to look slightly guilty – after all Dís was still young and it would not do to have her fight like an untamed Dwarfling... But my sister was laughing, revelling in his words and in the skill they shared, and it warmed my heart to see her smile.

Yet my happiness and serenity were gone, ever since that meeting. The nightmares that used to plague me had returned, stronger than ever: an endless, barren road I was treading, every single night, carrying someone – Dís, Frerin, Svali, but often just an indistinct body I was desperately holding against me, aware of its weakness, of its hunger, listening to its moans and knowing I would not be able to save it...

But the moans were mine and they woke me up. Me, and also Frerin, who would usually shake me awake so as to make that dream end. He would look at me, trying to understand, watching me getting up, leaving the room so as to bathe my drenched face, and then come back, lying down again, my eyes wide open in the dark room.

“Sleep. It was just a nightmare. I am sorry.”

He did not ask anything from me – he just held me against him, gently stroking my chest, waiting for me to fall asleep again, yet always giving in to sleep first, still so young...

Now that the snow was melting it was even worse. For a week now I had been waiting for my grandfather to react, to call us all to him, to tell us to pack our small belongings and join him on the road. Many Dwarven families had begun their packing, ready to leave for the White Mountains or other Dwarven settlements, or to seek for their own good fortune. But Thrór did not voice his own plans, and that anxious waiting was killing me.

For three nights now, the same nightmare had caused me to wake up drenched in sweat once more, barely able to reach the bathroom to throw up. I closed the door and retched, just like the day I had come here – and I was getting gifted at doing it swiftly and almost silently. Frerin always followed minutes after and only found me bathing my face, seemingly composed, yet inwardly trying to shake off the fear I fought at day and that returned in full victory at night.

“What’s wrong with you?”, he had asked the previous night, gently rubbing my back, watching me dry my face.

“Nothing...”, I muttered, and Frerin shook his head.

But he still did not ask anything. Perhaps he guessed what the cause of my nightmares could be and did not want to face it – or rather, he was waiting for me to be brave enough to confide it him... But I ever was a coward when it came to facing my worst fears and had none of his courage – so I stayed mute.

The night that followed, however, I dreamt of the Dwarflings again. I saw Itô carrying them out of the tent, and this time I could see their faces clearly, both pale, the shiny gems of a tiara adorning the raven locks of the first, and the thin, golden braids circling the face of the second... So small, so lifeless...

Frerin shook me awake and this time I was not moaning – I would have screamed but no sound came out, instead I felt my stomach heave and got up once more, staggering in his arms. He helped me reaching the bathroom – I was still struggling to fight back the terrible images of that nightmare, and Frerin held me as I knelt down on the floor, throwing up once more, unable to fight the dread that had invaded me.

After that he handed me some water, and then he sat himself next to me, circling my waist again, gently brushing my back, waiting for my breath to become even again.

“Right, Thorin...”, he whispered once we both were sure I would not be forced to bend upon the bathtub again.

“Either Náin’s cook has sworn to poison you – and she will indeed, if she keeps serving us potatoes every single meal...”

He rolled his eyes, still rubbing my back – he was trying to cheer me up and managed indeed to summon the ghost of a smile on my lips.

“Or there is something else turning your stomach upside down, and you’d better tell me, because I’m fed up with shaking you awake every night and watching those rings under your eyes getting deeper and deeper...”

I leaned against him then, resting my head against his – he was right, it had lasted long enough, what was there left to hide anyway, Frerin was no idiot and would guess it soon enough...

“Those potatoes...

- Hah!”, my brother said, gently rubbing his forehead against my temple. “I knew it...

- No, you don’t... You will soon wish you would still be able to eat them, because in a few weeks... In a few weeks, Mahal only knows what we will be able to put in our plates...”

It was so strange – usually night hours hold so much more anguish than daylight... Nightmares creep in, and every fear is distorted, but not that night. That night I was glad to have it out – to have told Frerin whose kindness and sense I always treasured. He deserved to know – and I needed him to tell my father what awaited him, I could not bring it to him alone...

“So it is true, then...”, Frerin said, and there was no surprise in his voice, only weariness.

I pulled away from him, gazing at him.

“What do you mean?”

Frerin shrugged his shoulders.

“Dáin told me about grandfather’s projects. He does not want to stay here, does he? He never wanted to come here anyway – he does not like to be his brother’s guest, it hurts his pride... There are few things that don’t, when I think about it, still... That one was predictable indeed...

- You... you knew?”

I was barely able to mouth the words, I could only stare at him.

“Well, yes. I was waiting for you to tell me if his plans were confirmed – he would tell you first, would he not? You or Nár, or Balin... and they would have spoken to you...

- He... he did not... Frerin – how can you be so calm about it? How can you bear it – how can you bear to think he is dooming us all to exile and starvation once more?”

There was so much despair in my voice and my brother resumed brushing my back, gently pulling my head against his shoulder.

“He won’t...”

Frerin had answered calmly, stretching his legs so as to touch my bare feet with his. I could feel his toes against my skin and they were warm – he was always so warm, like baked bread coming out of the oven, he could walk for hours on bare stone floor and still warm me up with his feet...

“He won’t be dooming us, because we will be ready...”

I moved my leg, entwining it with his – my feet were slightly taller but not so much, actually, and they had the same shape, the second toe slightly longer than the first, just like my father’s...

“What do you mean...?”

I was still resting my head on his shoulder – I was so tired, feeling so empty, and I just let his words guide me, for once, let him decide what was to be done, I did not know anymore...

“How can we possibly be ready...? We cannot empty the Iron Hills of their food supplies...

- Of course not, Thorin... Let them keep their potatoes...”

He was laughing softly, gently grazing my skin with his small foot, and I could feel weariness settle in as my body relaxed at his touch – it did not matter that my back was resting against the hard, cold surface of a bathtub in which I had just thrown up, helpless as a child. It did not matter – my brother knew, and he had a plan.

“We both know what’s making you sick, don’t we...? It’s always ‘what if’, and will always be... You cannot bear to sit idly and wait for fate to reach you – so let’s just consider every single eventuality. It’s not like that Dragon, coming out of nowhere, finding us unprepared, making us leave in haste, wounded and without means. If we go, we go knowing what we’ll find and how we’ll face it – we will leave being ready.”

He sounded so confident, so positive... My shiny brother who was always brave when I was not – who was expert in waiting out and planning, and finding words to pull me back on my feet...

“What eventualities...?”

He pondered my words for a while.

“Well – we have to think about the road he’ll make us take. And also where he plans to settle down – grandfather would not want us to be wandering forever, he must have an idea of where he wants to build his new halls...

- I’m not sure he wants to build new halls... He keeps talking of Moria – his mind is set upon Khazad-Dûm...

- But there is a slight problem there. Actually a big one, crashing down walls and wielding fire, and no – not a Dragon this time...”

He was grinning, actually. Moria and its dangers did not frighten him that day – oh Frerin...

“I don’t think he’ll take us straight to Moria. He’s much too shrewd and twisted for that. No... tomorrow we look at the map, and we just search for a place where there are Mountains, but no Dwarves – that is not too far from Moria but still far enough not to arise any suspicion, where there are Men but no King and... where we’ll find people who’ll welcome our fighting and forging skills...

- I don’t need to look at the map...”, I muttered, closing my eyes and burying my face in my brother’s neck. “The way you make it sound, it can only mean Dunland...

- Right. But we’ll still look at it because one never knows with grandfather. We’d better not leave a single eventuality out – we’ll think about the route we might take so as to ration supplies, we find out about the people who live there and we ask every one that could help us to do so. Balin first, then Fundin and Náin. And also ‘adad – we don’t need him to know about grandfather’s plans yet, but ‘adad travelled. I’m sure he knows every road and every tribe of Men we could find. What we can picture, we don’t fear.”

He was stroking my back, holding me against him and suddenly I just gave in, whispering those words close to him.

“I don’t want to leave, Frerin... I want Náin to take care of us, and of ‘adad... I don’t want to live through all this again – I just can’t, look at what happened while I had to lead... I don’t want to mess up again...

- You never did”, my brother said softly. “I never regretted following you. The only thing that hurt me was witnessing that you thought yourself stronger on your own... I wish you would ask for help, sometimes... Why don’t you just ask, Thorin? Why does it always have to end like this...?

- Always? Hold on – you are the one getting sick usually...

- Yes – because I have drunk too much, or because I have taken wine for raisin juice... Not because I’m half sick with anguish and not breathing a word about it!

- You were glad enough I did not breathe a word to anyone that day with the raisin juice... I thought I’d never get you back to Erebor...”

I was actually smiling, and Frerin laughed softly.

“Yes... I think you could just trace back our steps from Dale. Five steps, puke, ten steps, puke again – and you... you were just shaking your head and holding me. It was so funny...

- Not while it happened – you kept repeating you were dying...

- I was... You’ll see, one day it will happen to you and I’ll be the one laughing at you.

- I was not – I was not laughing at you...

- Alright, you were not. Still – it’s not about me, Thorin. You are the one unable to sleep. And sick every single night – don’t think I haven’t noticed, I have just been respecting your feelings.”

I huffed, still holding him tightly, and he rubbed his forehead against my temple once more.

“Do you feel better?”, he asked softly. “Think you can sleep a bit now? Tomorrow we will look at those maps, it will be fun...”

I nodded and he pulled me up, keeping his arm around me, gently leading me to the bed again. He pushed me in the chest, making me lie down, and this time I was the first falling asleep, my head resting on his chest while he was stroking my hair. Keeping nightmares away.

Pulling me back on my feet.

“Did you tell Dwalin...?”, Frerin asked the next morning.

I had just woken up, feeling somewhat hazy – it had been my first unbroken rest for weeks and I could hardly believe I had slept so soundly, almost like a child.

“Does he know we have to go?”

My cheek was still resting against his tunic, and I could feel his warmth through the fabric, and hear his soft heartbeats.

“Yes...”

My voice was so low that Frerin only heard it because he was close.

“He said he wants to leave with us. He... he promised.”

Frerin’s hand ran through my hair once more, his fingertips stroking my braids. I had closed my eyes – every time I thought about Dwalin’s words, I felt weak inside... I did not deserve such a gift, I still could not understand it, and though I did not doubt him, though I wanted him at my side, I also could not bear to tear him apart from his family, his home, the Hills where he had grown...

“Dwalin is worth more than gold...”

My brother’s voice was low, yet full of warmth.

“That is good, Thorin... That is very good indeed...

- I should never have accepted... How am I to face his parents...? We already took Balin from them, and it made a lot more sense for him to go, back then...

- We did not take Balin from them. He chose to come, of his own free will – he loved and cared for ‘adad, shared his visions and wanted to serve and help him. It is the same for Dwalin, is it not?

- I don’t know...”

Frerin bent his face towards me and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Doesn’t matter. I know, that’s enough. His parents will understand. They know it already, deep inside. They know there is no way Dwalin won’t follow, wherever you go.”

He had so much wisdom, so much insight – my little brother I had thought too young to understand... Only weeks before I had been the one holding him close to me, trying to shake off his worst fears – foul creatures that had come out of nowhere to sow death and destruction...

It was long past, the time where such monsters could frighten me – my fears were more insidious, and often I could not even name them. I was just afraid of losing those I held dear – of seeing them die... Of being helpless while their life was taken away, blown out like a candle while I could only watch...

But Frerin, the wordsmith, the little soul-reader – he knew exactly what he was doing in making me look at the maps... He summoned us all, Dwalin, Dáin and even Dís – he made Dáin bring us all the maps he could find and unfold them on the floor in his room, and then we bent upon them. Red, black, brown and golden hair – bent together to guess where our steps would lead us...

The incredible happened then, and I still want to smile and thank my brother for what he did – he knew me so well, he knew exactly what my dreams had been, long ago, while my days had still been carefree, and he gave me the key back to them, somehow...

As I bent down to look at those maps again – I could feel something stir in my soul, my eyes begin to shine while a smile was stretching my lips.

I knew these words. I knew these drawings. I had looked at them endless times – thinking of the day I would finally be able to see what they looked like for real.

I had read so many books, raced through every diary I could find... I had always wanted to explore, to reach for the horizon – I just never had pictured that there would be no home for me to come back to, no shelter to think of while I was discovering the wild...

But suddenly I was a boy again – talking to my cousins about what I had read, and listening about what they knew from the tales of guards that had had to travel far on expeditions as well...

We were lying flat on our bellies, north, south, east and west of that map – Dís switching like the wind, not understanding all of our talks, but still determined to hug us one after the other, gathering a gentle shove from Frerin, a loud kiss from Dáin that made her laugh, a strong embrace from Dwalin, while I would search for her hair with my free hand, burying my fingers in her silken locks.

I still remember her nestled against me, letting me play with the braids I had woven in her hair without really noticing it – I was too busy pointing out names that had always intrigued me...

“Rhûn...”, Frerin whispered. “Look at the size of that lake...

- There are four rivers reaching for those waters... It is so big that actually, some of the first Dwarves that reached it though they had found the sea... The world must have looked a lot smaller on those maps...”

I was smiling, and then my finger went south, closer to the place I was stretched, following the Ash Mountains, jumping above Udûn – I would not touch that accursed place – and then resting upon softer hills called Emyn Muil.

“The Blue Mountains... That’s the place Jónar comes from...

- Oh, that’s far away...”, Dís said, her small hand trying to bridge the distance between those Mountains and our Hills.

“We will be going even further, sarnûna...”, Dwalin said, meeting my eye, and his broad hand took Dís’ in a fond gesture, enclosing her wrist as he made her finger brush the places he named.

“We’ll walk on, on and on, say hello to Fangorn’s forest without entering it – what do we care for wood when we can have rocks, eh?– and then we’ll reach the gap of Rohan, and cross it, and there we will reach Enedwaith – and Dunland...

- Do you know why there is a big tower here, Dís?”, Dáin asked, his brown eyes sheepish as often.

My sister shook her head – dearest Dís, how on earth would she know about it, the name Orthanc was no clue to her...

“It is because Men are too stupid to guard their own lands – they have to ask their neighbours...”

My little sister frowned, and looked up at me. I recovered slightly, seating myself on the ground, my arm wrapped around her waist.

“Do you see those lands, Dís, below the White Mountains, close to the Sea? Gondor... Once it was a kingdom, actually it still is, but there is no more King – their line has ended, it is said... So now there are only Stewards, keeping the key of the main City, waiting for their King to return... That tower you can see, here, it is guarding the Gap of Rohan, another kingdom, home of the Horse Lords, north from Gondor...

- Guarding it from what?”, Dís asked, and Dáin answered:

“From Men who have become hostile to Gondor – they had war with Rohan, and now they don’t like kingly lands anymore...

- Why?

- Because they are jealous, Dís!”, Frerin said, huffing in annoyance. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

She did not answer, I could only feel her body press itself against mine as her small fingers clutched my tunic.

“They don’t like kings?”, she asked in a tiny voice – and I could read her fear, after all, she had not seen much outside Erebor, and had never met anyone who doubted kings and questioned their power.

“They don’t know kings”, I simply answered, smiling at her. “They have never seen one in their entire life. Don’t be afraid, Dís – they won’t see your crown...

- We should make a song”, Dís said, still holding me tightly, yet less anxious. “A land without king, a king without land...”

She was smiling, and Frerin grinned.

“Great – we’ll sing it on the road all the time...

- No you won’t, silly...”, Dwalin said, amused yet with an earnest tone. “You don’t want everyone to know we are coming.

- Well, perhaps not”, my brother mused. “But I’ll still think about words for it, though... A land without king, a king without land - just look, and remember the ring on your hand...”

He did not go further that day – he simply bent upon the map and resumed his musings. But eventually he would finish that song, just as he promised... and we always loved to hear him sing that one, even on the road – it reminded us of that day, stretched around the map, joking about the places we would discover...

Strangely enough I struggle to remember how it became official we would go – and it would indeed be Dunland, my brother had guessed right. I do not recall my grandfather telling me, nor do I remember discussing it with Náin but we must have – surely we must have...

Try as I might, I can only recall that day we laughed around the map – and the tragic day where my father suddenly understood we had to go, that there was no way we could stay in the Hills he loved so much...

Dwalin was not there, that day, and neither was Dáin. I don’t remember seeing Dís in the room either – she must have been at Dwalin’s house, she must have, because after that he came, and brought her with him... But I forgot...

I just remember being with Frerin, in Náin’s sitting room, with my father – and my grandfather coming in. Náin had not told my father yet – he was bringing it to him softly, telling him most of the Dwarves had begun to leave the Hills, had been forced to exile, and it weighed heavy on Thráin’s mind. He would stand on the Hills, Náin at his side, and watch them go, his tall frame still under the cold spring’s sun – watching his people go without a word, his face closed and sad.

And strangely enough – despite his madness, despite the fact he could not even properly speak to them... most of them still turned, and bowed – bowed to the Prince who had faced the Dragon, and drawn blood-Orc for his people...

Thráin the lord of raging fire...

That day my grandfather came in and simply asked him:

“Get ready to leave in a week. We have lingered long enough here, it is time to go and to seek for our own fortune.”

He used exactly the same tone as he could have saying: “Get out of the bed, you have lingered long enough, it is time to earn the bread I have been bringing to your mouth for so long.”

Harsh, and commanding – ever since my father had been a small child, a little boy growing up motherless, never earning a kiss or a fond embrace, always torn from everything that was soft to strive, and reach for more than he could give...

And Thráin had always obeyed. He loved his father – at least he had loved him, until sorrow, grief and pain simply erased what he had always been able to see. Respect, and also care for this aging father – he had lost it, because Thrór had forgotten to show him he cared, and respected him as well...

But that day – that day he did not obey. He simply stood there, rigid, his face aghast, clutching the back of a chair to steady himself, and I heard him voice the first meaningful sentence to his father ever since he came here.

“What do you mean, ‘adad?”

It was so strange to hear him call his father like we used to call him... It spoke of days where he had been young – a boy, looking up to him like we had done with him before the Dragon came.

“I mean we are leaving. In a week. Grór won’t keep us here our lives long, it is time to relieve him from the care he shows us, and to leave.

- You... and me, ‘adad?”

Thráin’s voice was low, a little shaky, but he was still clinging to the chair, determined to steady himself – he had to manage, he would try to face it, that barren road with his commanding father, he had done it before...

“What wrong did you do to Mahal to be cursed with such a brain? You and me? What would we do on the road, all alone? We are all leaving – you, me, the lads, and those who are still loyal enough to follow me!

- Not... not the children.”

My father had spoken in a soft voice, but it still was firm. He looked at Frerin and me, and then he looked at Náin, as if searching for support.

“Not the children.”

It was almost like a prayer, and somehow he found the strength to look at my grandfather, adding softly:

“They stay safe. They stay warm. They stay... away...”

And there his voice broke – ‘adad... He found the strength to voice the words that were tearing his heart apart – and suddenly I simply could not bear it, I’d rather be on the road at his side, cold and starving, than to know he was alone, thinking of us and weeping...

“No, ‘adad, we follow.

- If you go, we go...”, Frerin added, biting his lip that had begun to quiver at my father’s words.

“Of course they go. They are my kin, my grandchildren, and they have sworn to follow me. We leave in a week.”

And there he turned, and would have gone but for the desperate cry my father let out, pushing the chair he had been holding, not caring for it to crash down on the ground.

“No!”

Thrór turned, very slowly, the contempt in his face visible.

“Stop behaving like a child – save me that humiliation, would you?

- You... don’t even know... what a child is!”

Thráin had stammered the words out in a broken voice, his eye bright with unshed tears and his face ashen.

“You did not raise them. You did not hold them in your arms. You say... you say they are yours, but they are not. And I... I won’t... I won’t let you send them to death – I... won’t, ‘adad.”

He was shaking, shaking all over, facing my grandfather who was looking at him, his gaze cold and collected as ever, and suddenly Thrór laughed, a short, barking laugh.

“I’d like to see that done...”

Thráin clenched his fists and Náin stepped up to him, putting his hand on his forearm, but my father shook him off, desperate anger building in his chest and raging in his mind.

“Just look at them! Just face them! What kind of a grandfather are you – what kind of a King are you to ask them to follow you?!

- ‘Adad, don’t...”, I whispered, seeing him walk towards my grandfather, his face white and his gaze bright – I knew that look, I knew what it could imply...

“Just look at you...”, my grandfather said coldly. “Where would your children be, had they been left to your care... You don’t even remember their names!”

He was still laughing softly and my father’s face got even whiter as Thrór went on:

“How dare you speak to me in that tone? I am still your King, and your father, and you – you have failed me in every possible way and still dare to speak up to me...?

- Grandfather, please...”

My voice was shaky, there were tears in my eyes – I just wanted them to stop, both of them... Frerin had stepped up to my father, was holding his arm, dragging it against his chest, while I extended my hand towards Thrór, trying to make him stop.

And suddenly Thráin lost all restraint. He shook my brother off, so hard that Frerin tripped and would have fallen on the ground, had not Náin caught him in his arms – and then he ran towards my grandfather.

“Dís – Frerin – Thorin!”, he screamed, and there was so much despair in his voice, so much anger.

“I know their names! They are my children, not yours, never yours!”

He hurled himself at his father then, ready to strike him down, and he would have – he was so much stronger, and my grandfather was old already... But he met my chest instead – I could not bear to see him lift a hand against his King... He might have every reason in the world, nothing could justify such an action, only madness and despair – and they did not atone for betraying every oath...

So I stepped between my father and Thrór, trying to hold Thráin back – but he still hit me, did not have enough time and too much anger to stop himself. He hit me full in the chest and in the face, making my head jerk back against my grandfather’s chest who caught me when I fell against him.

My ears were ringing and my jaw was hurting, I could not move, not talk, and I could not breathe – air had left my lungs, and I was unable to take it in again, I could only hang limply between my grandfather’s arms, looking at my father who had stopped dead, horror invading his gaze and draining his face of all colour.

“See...?”, Thrór said softly, and his voice was shaking this time, just like his hand – I could see it as he was stroking my chest, not noticing I could not breathe, that I was gasping for air...

“See what you have done...?”

My father’s moan seemed to tear his own chest apart, and suddenly air found its way back to my lungs – it had to, I had to get to him and tell him it was nothing, that I was fine, that it was much better that his blows had found me, and not Thrór, that it was not his fault...

 “’Adad...”, I whispered, gently breaking free from my grandfather’s embrace – Mahal how it hurt, every single breath was painful, his blow had found my ribs, his fist crashing against them...

I tried to walk towards my father but somehow I did not really manage – it was Thráin who met me, holding me fiercely against him, kneeling on the ground. Burying his face in my locks and sobbing.

“It is alright, ‘adad...”, I whispered. “It doesn’t matter... I know you did not mean it, do not worry... We will be fine, we will all be fine, as long as we stay with you, as long as we don’t fight each other... Don’t cry, ‘adad... Please don’t cry... We will follow grandfather, you know we will, we always did, but you must not despair, ‘adad, you must not cry, we will all be fine, I promise you...”

Talking hurt – everything hurt actually, even my father’s embrace, crushing me against him, desperately trying to atone for his blows, terrified by his own violence, and weeping despite my words...

The only touch that helped was Frerin’s. He held me against him once Náin was able to take my father away, and I waited for my grandfather to leave as well – I had nothing to say to him anymore, I just wanted him gone, I just wanted them all gone...

But Thrór still stood there, facing us, I seated on the ground and Frerin kneeling next to me, his arm around me, feeling for my jaw, brushing my cheek, his grey eyes bright and fierce.

“Thorin, I...”, my grandfather begun, but Frerin cut his speech – that day he was not afraid to do so, what had happened had been too serious.

“Leave. Just leave him alone. He said we would follow you, you got what you need, just leave us!”

His voice was low but there was a savage undertone in it that I had never witnessed – and my grandfather obeyed. I heard the door fall shut, with a soft click – we were alone in that room, alone at last.

For a while we both stayed silent – we could still hear my father’s screams, his desperate words and his sobs, hovering in the room around us.

“Are you hurt?”, Frerin asked, and his voice was shaking, thick with unshed tears.

I shook my head slowly, and then I felt my face fall. I leant my forehead against Frerin’s shoulder and closed my eyes, trying to hold back my own grief. There was such a rift in our family, such a rift between my father and my grandfather – and I had not been strong enough to mend it... I had failed to prevent them from fighting, one with fists and the other with words...

The door opened again and I brushed my eyes, still leaning against Frerin. A warm, strong hand stroked my shoulder and as I turned I saw it was Náin, who had got down on one knee to reach us.

He did not say a word – what could he say indeed? We all knew how narrowly Thrór had escaped from being hit by my father, and Thráin from being charged with treason against his King... It was better to remove him indeed from Dwarven society, where such actions could never be hushed away – but the true solution was to keep him away from my grandfather, and we all knew it was impossible.

“I wish I could keep you all with me...”

He was still stroking my shoulder and I gazed at him, silently, holding Frerin’s hand, thinking that he was kind, and strong, and worthy to be loved – a true lord indeed we would all cruelly miss.

“It would not be right”, I said finally, and Náin nodded.

“I will accompany you until you reach the Brown Lands. I will take several of my men, and we will make sure you meet no harm until you reach safer territories. Balin and me, we will get Thráin used to that idea, I promise you. He loves you, lads, he never meant to harm you. And I will get my father to speak to Thrór, try to hammer some sense into his brain. Give him the lecture he deserves.”

He got up, then, his broad joints cracking as he did so, and he reached out for us. Frerin and I, we both took one of his hands and he pulled us on our feet, before dragging us against his chest.

For a while we just stood like this, and then Náin led us away, entering our room. He made me take off my tunic and brought me ice for my ribs and my jaw. He had me lie down, leaning against Frerin’s breast, the pain in my chest receding slightly as weariness came over.

I did not talk, I just let Frerin stroke my hair every now and then. And when Dís came in with Dwalin, she instantly saw I could bear no question. She nestled against Frerin this time, letting Dwalin sit himself at my side.

He looked at the ice that had begun to melt and went out, fetching fresh ice, applying it gently against my ribs that were starting to get crossed with blue, while I was still pressing a cool fabric against my jaw.

“Keeping us entertained, eh...?”, he whispered, and I met his kind, brown gaze – so full of unspoken sorrow, and sympathy.

“Don’t make me laugh”, I answered, trying to smile at him and only managing a wince. “It hurts.”

Dwalin smiled, and his hand went on pressing ice against my chest, until it began to melt while my skin was getting numb. Frerin’s fingers were still buried in my hair, and Dís held my hand, her head resting on my brother’s chest.

We would be gone in a week. That room, those Hills, there would soon be only memory. And yet – despite the pain I could feel, in my chest and every time I thought of my father, I realized the despair I had felt was numbed, just like my skin, soothed by the ice’s touch.

Everything I had in that room, every embrace, every gentle stroke – they would still be there on the road. My siblings and Dwalin would be at my side – and there would be other bruises, other blows... but I would bear them, because there was also solace, and kindness.

I did not know where our steps would lead us – but I knew at whose side I would be walking. And somehow, despite the pain and the anguish, despite sorrow and sadness... it was enough.

As long as I was not walking alone, as long as they were there at my side – it was enough.

It was enough.

Chapter Text

No belongings. Almost no belongings. At least packing was easy – I kept repeating those words silently in my head, trying to lull my thoughts to sleep, that last evening in the Iron Hills. Our last sheltered night, in walls of stone, among people we knew and called our kin.

I was standing in our room, facing our bed where Frerin had spread our clothes, our weapons being already cleaned, carefully sheathed in their scabbards.

“Dáin said I might keep my bow...”, my brother voiced, looking at the small bundle displaying what we still owned.

Tunics, breeches, some underwear, a pair of warm trousers. And socks – without holes, speaking of love and care.

“Won’t it be too heavy?”, I asked, my voice low. “You will have your bag, your sword, and your axe...

- I’d rather leave my axe...”, Frerin answered, and I looked at him – he was fingering his bow, running his hand along the rich wood where Dáin had carved ornaments for him.

“Don’t say that, kudz... You know you can’t say such things...”

I had spoken gently, reaching out for him, circling his waist.

“No Dwarf ever leaves his axe behind. For now, you might only find it heavy – a burden, a weapon you dislike because you cannot wield it properly yet... But you will need it soon. Be it only for firewood, you will be glad to have it on your back. Your axe... It is home, in a way, Frerin...”

He leaned against me, his cheek finding my shoulder.

“It is home for you...”, he whispered. “You are not afraid to wield it...

- Neither are you...”, I answered, but Frerin shook his head.

“I don’t manage... Fighting with an axe... it is too close, it is too... too violent, Thorin.”

I pondered his words for a while. It was true – there was violence in everything this weapon implied. Well did I remember my fight against those Orcs, where I had dealt blows that had cut through their foul beings as if they were made of wood, drawing dark blood... They had been so close indeed – it had been either them or me, and I had acted instinctively...

The sword was a completely different weapon – speaking of close combat as well, but where each blow had to be dealt with a precision the axe could not achieve, and required less strength...

And the bow required even more skills, a sure hand and keen eyes, killing from the distance, long before foes could reach you...

“It is a wonderful training weapon”, I said, in the end. “It allows access to others – you don’t need to be perfect with an axe, Frerin. But if you know how to wield it, you will be strong with a sword, as well as a bow. I do prefer the sword, I should think... But I would not be as deft with it, had I laid down my axe...”

Frerin shifted slightly so as to face me, drawing his arms around my chest, his gaze bright and full of fondness.

“Oh, but you are such a fighter, Thorin...”

His words were warm, and he touched foreheads with me. I closed my eyes, feeling his soft skin against mine. And words left my lips before I really thought about them.

“I would rather not have to be...

- And what would you like to be...?”

Frerin had kept his head against mine, and my eyes were still closed. It was late in the afternoon – we were supposed to finish our packing, but somehow I clung to that moment, that last moment where we both could still pretend to have dreams...

“A goldsmith...”, I whispered. “I would have that forge, and carve necklaces, rings and bracelets, with stones I would have brought back from all around the world, and I would display them on black velvet, so that they could shine like stars... The most beautiful I would keep, for Dís... and the others I would show, for my friends to see...

- And me...?”, Frerin asked, softly, and I could hear the smile in his voice, so close to me, so close...

“You... you would be the most renowned Dwarf in Middle Earth – the Dwarf with the magic toys... Every child would have heard of Frerin, and yearn for one of his horses, music boxes and drinking glasses... There would always be noise at your working place, some mechanisms chanting, hopping up and down... a small world hidden behind your door...”

I could almost see it – the image was so vivid, my brother standing there, surrounded by toys in being, smiling, whistling a song before carving the box that would shelter that tune...

“Then let’s just do it...”, Frerin whispered.

I rubbed my forehead against his – looking one last time at that dark-haired silhouette, bent upon a shiny necklace, at that other golden-haired frame, smiling among toys...

And then I opened my eyes, and met my brother’s gaze.

“In another life, Frerin...”

He did not let go of me at once. I had spoken softly, and we both watched that dream spin one last time around us, before it shattered, leaving us as we were, facing the bed and the small bundle of clothes scattered upon the quilt.

“Socks and breeches it is, then...”, Frerin said – and we both smiled, taking our bags and piling the clothes in them, without another word.

It did not take much longer, after that. It was not our home we were leaving, after all, there would be memories, but we did not have to choose between objects we held dear, or among clothes...

But Dwalin – my heart bled for Dwalin, my chest tightened every time I imagined him, facing his bag, his mother helping him to pack, probably rolling one last warm cloth to keep her son warm, on dreary nights, and stuffing it between others...

He did not have to leave all this behind him... He had never been obliged to leave shelter – as a matter of fact, he was the only Dwarf in the Iron Hills leaving home for uncertain roads...

It did not make sense. It was so unfair for him. And it was so generous, so selfless – and so heartbreaking for his parents, especially for his mother, who would see him go tomorrow, while Fundin at least had some time left, escorting us until we reached the Brown Lands...

I did not want to intrude, that last evening with his mother. The last evening they would be all together, him, Balin and their parents... Perhaps he would be able to return, every now and then – but Dunland was miles and miles away, the journey would take months... And Dwalin was my mamarrakhûn now – we had been mad enough to seal that oath, he was doomed to stay at my side, and I doubted my steps would carry me back to the Iron Hills ere long, perhaps never...

We stayed in Náin’s sitting room, Dís on my father’s lap – for Thráin had understood we all had to leave, had obeyed his father and packed his belongings as well, helped by Náin. He had not really spoken, ever since his latest outburst – he was grieved, and drained of every will, only obeying, his only solace being to keep us close.

And we all let him hold us, because we loved him – it had been so clear again for me, the day he had hit me instead of my grandfather... Just like that night in the tent where he had almost choked me – somehow, it just made me see how much I loved him, because of that terrible ache I could see in his eyes right afterwards, showing plainly he could not help it, that he had only felt threatened and abused...

I would rather be beaten by him every day, than to stay sheltered while he strived. And so, when he searched for me the morning following his fight with Thrór, I let him pull me against him, stroke my bruised ribs with his palms, trying to atone for the pain I felt... His touch was so gentle, so caring, it was hardly believable it came from the same Dwarf whose fist had crashed against my bones...

I had leant against him, sitting on his lap like a child – I did not care what others said, I just wanted him soothed... And his touch was wholesome, somehow, I never could explain it, but it felt different, when it was his hand stroking my skin – probably because I had known it ever since I was born...

That day I was seated at his feet, leaning against the armchair, my head resting against his knee. Frerin was seated cross-legged in another armchair, looking at the fire, absentmindedly undoing one of his braids and humming a tune. My father was rocking Dís gently, and every now and then his hand would also touch my hair.

And we heard a soft knock on the door, looked up – and Dwalin was standing there, as well as Balin.

“Would you... would you care to join us?”

It was unlike Dwalin to stutter, but he was not used to my father yet – and his brother added, in a more composed voice:

“Thráin, my parents would appreciate very much to have you with them this evening. You, and the lads – if you feel like it...”

I had risen to my feet, slowly, while Dís had turned, staying in my father’s arms. I looked at my father, and Thráin seemed surprised, but not unsettled – he soon turned his gaze towards me.

What should I answer, dashat?

I was becoming so used to reading the thoughts he was not voicing...

“Do you want to go, ‘adad? You do know Fundin – Balin’s father, he is often staying with Náin, and his wife used to... used to be ‘amad’s friend... You do remember, do you?”

We all had got used to repeating names and special details to him, always the same one detail associated with a person, so that he could remember more easily. And it worked, most of the time – reassured my father... And then, there was also the magic key held by my mother’s name...

So Thráin smiled, and got up slowly, letting go of Dís who jumped down the armchair, running towards Dwalin who crouched to catch her in his broad arms, smiling as she kissed his cheek.

“Hey, sarnûna, what are you up to, eh...?”, he asked tenderly, and Dís beamed at him, bending slightly so as to kiss Balin.

“Everything is packed! And I’ll have a bag to carry too...”, she said proudly, and my friend nodded.

“Good. Very good, Dís. It will strengthen your back, and your arms”, he answered, adding in a lower voice: “Good for training...”

She smiled, and I looked at him, searching for his face above my sister’s locks – was he really so calm and content, or was he only pretending, hiding his sadness away...?

“Hey there, you plague...”, Dwalin smiled at my brother, boxing his shoulder as my father and Balin began to walk away. “Didn’t forget your underpants?

- Nope”, Frerin grinned. “And just in case you might forget yours, they are not for sale.

- Heartless little rascal...”

He let go of Dís who took Frerin’s hand, following Balin, and I could face him at last, asking him silently one last time if he was really sure, if he still wanted it – it was all right to pull back, I would not resent him, I would understand...

“Don’t you dare...”, Dwalin said simply, entwining his arm with mine.

There was so much surety in his voice – and I was so glad to have him at my side, so glad... I yielded then, dragging his arm against my chest, my throat too tight to speak.

“Dáin is coming too...”, he added, his voice even as we walked. “He asked Náin to accompany us, and he said yes.

- Good...”, I said – the word was so shallow, compared to what I felt, but what was there left to say?

“Your chest...?”, Dwalin asked, softly – and I would have to get used to him asking, it would not do to hide injuries away from him anymore, I had to be able to rely upon him...

“Fine. No pain.”

Almost no pain – the bruise was still wide, but nothing of consequence, I would be able to carry bags and weapons alike.

“Good.”

It makes me almost smile, now... I certainly was not, back then – I was struggling with so many emotions: guilt mingled with grief because I tore him apart from his family, relief because he still wanted to come, gratefulness because he was there, and love as well, something close to what I felt for Balin...

It makes me smile because we still felt obliged to discuss things – it made everything more official, more serious... We were only boys, back then... Afterwards there would be no need for words. I would look at him and always guess it, when he was hurt or tired, and so would he. There would be no need to ask – how often has he simply stepped behind me, taking some of my burden away...?

Even during the quest – Mahal, how exhausted I have felt, so often, without being able to rest, it was never safe, there was never enough time... There was only Dwalin, removing some of the weight crushing my back when he saw my face getting too drawn – Dwalin, quietly undoing the straps of my sword belt so as to spare my damaged ribs, without doing me the dishonor to take my weapons from me... Helping me out of my chainmail every night, after I faced that Orc, because I was not able to do it on my own – never asking, only coming back quietly after me, and helping me...

But back then we both were still awkward... Yet we both trusted the other – there were no more secrets between us, and his family knew about my father’s madness, I had allowed Dwalin to speak of it now that he was coming with us, they deserved to know...

I do remember that evening. I remember it, because it was so quiet, and peaceful – because everyone knew we were going, yet nobody spoke of it.

We all just tried to enjoy it – had a meal together, sat quietly with each other, and I could see some of the grief in my father’s eyes fade away as he sat there, close to Balin, facing Fundin and his wife...

They were both so kind, so thoroughly reliable... He was brushing her arms sometimes, never obtrusive, well-knowing what Thráin had lost yet still speaking to him naturally – about the furnaces, about the way they had improved isolation lately...

Themes that were safe, and interested my father, making him open up. And her... The former friend of his wife, he knew her well, remembered her at once, said her name softly, gently clasping his hand around her forearm...

He did not speak about my mother – he just looked at Dís every now and then, and there was always love in his gaze. My father never resented her for our mother’s death – he only hated himself for it...

“Hey, relax...”, Dwalin said softly, squeezing my arm. “He’s fine. Your father won’t break down because you are not there to look at him...”

Frerin was in the kitchen with Dís, helping Dwalin’s mother with dessert, and I was in Dwalin’s room – that room I knew so well, in which I had almost died...

The desk was cleaned of parchments and quills. The books were still there – he would not need them on the road. The map pinned to his wall had vanished, however, as well as Dís’ drawing. His bags were packed – two small bags, containing clothes and some food, while his fur coat was hanging on the back of a chair, his weapons lying ready on the closed chest.

We were both sitting on his bed, not facing each other – sitting next to each other, looking at that room where he had lived, and dreamed, and grown up...

“I am so sorry...”, I whispered, my throat sore from repressing what I felt – and Dwalin got up swiftly, closing his door quietly and coming back to me.

I could not speak, I had a lump in my throat and my eyes burned: I knew what it was to lose a room, and memories, and the shelter of a long-known home, I had been through it, I had learned I could face it... But to see Dwalin go through the same ache – it was unbearable, suddenly, I could not deal with that pain anymore, it just yearned to break free.

He circled my shoulders and I realized my body was so rigid my back hurt. I had clenched my fists – I had to brace myself, he was the one to be comforted, not me...

“What is it, eh?”

He had asked softly, was pulling me against him with a gentle move – not rough this time, knowing I would tense even more. And I yielded – almost brutally, hugging him so fiercely he could barely breathe, wanting him to feel that I knew exactly how much he was giving me.

I must have hurt him, with that embrace; I have never been able to be only gentle when feelings overcame me like that – when the dam just broke, my arms could only crush at first...

But Dwalin was strong – and he knew me. He crossed his arms on my back, in that special embrace that was as close to safety as I could ever feel...  And he just waited for me to speak, for my embrace to soften, for my body to feel alive again, not made of steel and stone...

“I am so sorry...”

I had repeated it, feeling so unworthy... But Dwalin just brushed my back, holding me against him – so calm, so gentle...

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Thorin...”

He had spoken quietly, in that earnest tone he would employ, sometimes – when I needed him to oppose me, to be as strong as I had to be, and even more...

“It is not – your – fault. No need to burden you with that. Please, stop believing you should feel sorry for me – I chose it, alright? I won’t ever feel sorry for it – and I don’t want you to be.

- But what if... you feel sad, and all alone – and...”

My voice choked then – it just choked. I was still holding him tightly, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, clenching my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as my heart broke.

- I won’t be”, Dwalin answered, and I could barely believe he was smiling – I could feel it in his voice...

“You will be there, and Dís, and Frerin... And have you forgotten that Balin is coming as well? I will have my big, annoying, fastidious elder brother to look at everything I’m doing, make sure I’ll change socks every day and that I am speaking proper Khuzdûl and not misbehaving – how else do you think I would have been able to go, eh?”

Somehow, his words lessened the hurt in my chest, freeing my breath again as I was becoming fully aware of their meaning.

It was true – I had forgotten it. Not that Balin was coming, and that he was Dwalin’s brother – but what it implied. They would go together, Fundin’s sons, and Balin was reliable, Balin loved his little brother and would be able to understand some of his grief, he would be able to talk about home, and his parents, and his friends, with someone who could rely to his feelings, because they shared the same blood and the same roots...

I pulled away from him, slowly, meeting the soft half-smile on his lips that lightened his eyes.

And in the end I voiced it – that crushing doubt I felt, every time I looked at him, every time I was thinking of him at my side, leaving his home to follow me...

“And... when I will disappoint you – what then...?”

My voice was so tiny, hardly above a whisper.

“I am nothing special, Dwalin. They all think I am, but I am not... and – when you will find out, when you will realize that you have just left everything for... someone who is not even what you believe him to be,  you will...”

I had to stop, had to draw a shuddering breath – oh Mahal, we were both so young, so young still... And I was so scared – I was so afraid to let him down, to be unworthy of his sacrifice...

Please, Mahal, tell me I have only be unworthy these last few days – that he is not resenting me for this life of hardship, that I still gave him a reason to go on, that following me has not been the worst decision of his life...

My chest hurts. It hurts – it’s the only part of my body I can still feel, somehow, the only part that is still warm, because of the blood, there’s so much blood soaking my side... It’s getting so hard to breathe – just as hard as it was that day...

I wish I had him here – I wish I could hear him say the same words he used that evening, easing my pain, taking some of that burden away and locking forearms with me.

“I don’t need you to be special”, he answered, quietly. “I just want you to be yourself. At least when you are with me – because you know what...? I am nothing special either.

- Not true...”, I whispered, and Dwalin smiled.

He pushed me on the bed, lying down next to me, so that we both faced the ceiling, our arms still entwined.

“Alright. We are both amazing Dwarves. The most amazing Dwarves that ever roamed the Earth, and they will sing songs about us – Thorin son of Thráin who was nothing special, and Dwalin son of Fundin who wasn’t either and did not give a damn...”

I gave him a little shove, but I was smiling actually, my fingers tight around his arm. I felt lighter than I had in days, somehow – I would still feel guilty, all my life it has both warmed my heart and made it ache, to have him at my side, him who gave me everything when I had nothing... But that fear of breaking down in front of him, of letting him down and disappointing him – it had gone.

I had broken down, had shown him clearly I was not that cold-headed, brave and strong Dwarfling, not deep inside, not when no one was looking...

And it had not made him look down on me or turn from me – and it was such a relief, such a relief...

“What are you up to, in there? Dessert’s ready! And we won’t leave any for you if you don’t make haste!”

Frerin’s voice was cheerful, mocking us on the other side of the door – we both smiled, and then got up.

He caught me, though, before I reached the door, preventing me to move, pretending to wrestle, his brown eyes sparkling, his arms around my chest, just for fun, to show his fondness...

I resisted him for a while, I was not facing him, my back resting against his chest. I put my hand on his wrist, and then I ducked under his arm, getting past him with a swift move, hiding my smile away as I heard his laughter.

And then I left his room – not looking back, aware that he was following. And so glad he was.

They gave it to me then – Dwalin’s mother and Dís. Once we had all pushed back our plates, I saw my sister fidget, and Dwalin’s mother smiled and whispered something to her.

“Thorin, close your eyes...”, Dís said, her voice commanding, and I looked at her, puzzled – almost frowning.

She got up, circled the table and climbed on my knee, her small palms shielding my eyes.

“Just close them...”, she repeated, smiling, almost laughing, and I obeyed, still backed up against my chair, feeling people move around me, hearing them push away plates and glasses...

“I’m sure you won’t guess”, my sister said, her small body quivering with anticipation – how happy she sounded, how sheltered we all were, sitting there around the table...

“Ready?”

I nodded – I still could not see, and had no idea what was going on, I just wanted to please her. Dís removed her palms from my eyes and I blinked, feeling her slide down, freeing my sight.

And I blinked again, my body freezing against the chair, my hands clutching the wooden edge as I realized what I was seeing.

It was my jerkin.

The dark, so well-known leather jerkin I had brought back from Erebor, that had been covered in dust, soiled by Orc-blood and drenched in snow. That had shielded my chest until I had reached the Iron Hills, that had been declared damaged beyond repair.

But it was not. Dwalin’s mother and Dís had taken so much pain – to treat the leather so that it became supple and strong again, to undo the embroideries that had half-vanished, and to weave them again, taking care to respect the initial pattern – craftsmanship from Erebor, almost lost, and yet...

I kept it all my life. It stopped fitting me, after several years – I had not reached my full height yet, and after a while I had to fold it, but I never gave it away. Frerin did not wear it – he was too close in age. But Dís... Oh Dís...

She was the one packing our clothes, after all. Those years where we had to move, all the time – she was the one who wrapped it up carefully and made sure it stayed with me, knowing what it meant to me, and probably wishing it would make me remember that some things could be mended, even when there was little hope...

I do remember the day I saw it again – on that small body that had no idea the terrible things this jerkin had witnessed. He had rummaged in our cupboards and found it, thought it pretty – he just liked its smell, because it smelled of me, that’s what he said, standing there and beaming at me, unaware of my shock, unaware of anything but his childish pride...

My boy – my little boy, standing there dressed like a living ghost...

I could not move either, the day they gave it back to me. I just stared at it – I could only stare at it, realizing just how much Dís and Dwalin’s mother knew me... They must have spent hours, trying to mend it so that I could wear it again – so that I could be pleased...

“Don’t worry...”, Frerin said – I could hear his voice from far away, I was still looking at that cloth, speaking of home, and shelter, and memory...

“He’s happy. He’s really happy. He just doesn’t know how to deal with it, does he, ‘adad?”

My father was sitting close to me, and he was smiling, I saw it as I looked up, trying to hold back my feelings, to find back my voice. He smiled, as he bent towards me, and undid my belt gently. He was the one removing the jerkin I had got from Dwalin, the one I would also wear, on the road, and like just as much...

He wrapped the cloth around me carefully, adjusting it on my shoulders, and he clasped my belt around my waist, nodding slightly as he did so – because it was right.

“Thank you...”, I whispered, once I was clothed again – and I felt both weak and strong, wrapped in those garments that were truly mine...

“Thank you...”

I could only repeat it, on and on, letting Dís come back to me and embracing her closely, and finally getting up, reaching Dwalin’s mother, my arms around her waist and my face against her breast.

She was so loving – so generous, and truly loving. She is one of the women I loved most, in my life – I never forgot her, or her scent, and the soft caress of her hands against my hair.

I took everything from her – and yet she only ever gave, always, so much, her goodness warming me like a second sun...

“You keep walking, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. Just because it winds and turns doesn’t mean you are taking the wrong road...”

She was with us every day, on the road – and just like she had said to Dís, she was there through small, seemingly unimportant things, yet so crucial...

She was there when Frerin unpacked his bag, the first evening on the road, and gave a cry of delight in discovering a small parcel full of butter cakes.

She was there every morning Dís awoke – sleeping close to my father this time, and so proud to show us she knew to braid her hair alone. She had left her tiara in the Iron Hills – she did not want her crown to be seen, and had made Dwalin’s mother promise she would keep it safe. After all, she was the one who had taught her how to tame her hair, using the same woman-braids my mother had used before she wed my father...

She was there, that famous first evening on the road where I saw Dwalin unpack something, and freeze, his tall body getting still close to me.

We had left the Iron Hills early in the morning – and I do not want to try and remember how it felt exactly. What is there to be said, when parting is so hard, so full of uncertainty? What words could possibly describe how it felt like, to walk away, turning our back on those proud, red Hills, knowing that there was a Dwarrowdam grieving silently, yet standing tall, erect and even smiling against the stone door, waving us away until the last moment...?

What words can describe the heaviness there was in every step, in those early hours where the sky was still dark, and the road barely visible, winding among the rocks, and leading to the woods...?

And how is it to be explained, that strange, almost indecent transition between a state of grief so crushing that you cannot even look around you, and that shy, yet unbending curiosity that will make you lift up your gaze eventually, look at the woods around you, discovering that the sky is getting clear and blue above you, and that you are eager to know what could be hidden behind those pines...?

We were a small company, heading out for the Brown Lands. Náin, Dáin, and about twenty of his warriors, including Fundin. My grandfather and Nár of course, my father and Balin, Dwalin, Dís, Frerin and me... And Dagur who had followed as well, several former guards from Erebor, their wives, and then mostly families with elder Dwarves, and no children, that had not found a better way than following us...

We must have been a bit less than a hundred – and Dís was the youngest. There was no Dwarfling save us, on that road, and I could only feel relief – it removed some of my fear, to know that I would only have to take care of my siblings, that there would be no second Svali this time...

The Hills soon vanished behind us – and I did not look back, I knew how it had to be done, one step after another, following the road, making sure I kept walking so that I could stop thinking...

The pine trees were so high, and the smell so intense – and yes, I remember that moment indeed, when I truly looked around me and felt that small spark of curiosity, that desire to explore...

And it was wonderful – truly wonderful, to have Dwalin walking at my side. It made the world around me look... simply so full of promises, not only full of obstacles to overcome, but worth to be explored, and commented...

“See – those woods we kept, they are a good fence against foes. Grór never touched that forest – the wood for the furnaces comes from trees further north...

- What foes?”, I asked – we had not come from there, we had only followed the river, and I did not remember any trees, just a white, barren and hostile landscape...

Dwalin shrugged his shoulders, smiling at me.

“Lost Dwarflings with shiny jerkins?”

I poked him in the ribs – but I was so relieved he was there, completely himself, full of genuine pleasure, showing those landscapes to me while he still knew them...

We had not even crossed Dwalin’s private boundaries when we stopped that night. We all carried bags, but there were also carts we dragged along with us, where we had piled tents, and blankets, as well as some goods...

And I did not have to worry about safety issues this time – Náin was still there, as well as his warriors, and it felt completely different... I could think about what I had seen without torturing myself about a place of rest that was truly safe, without even sharing night-guards, without being scared to light a fire...

I was still marveling at that strange, carefree feeling as I put down my back and stretched my roll on the ground – no one really wanted to fold out tents that night, we were still so close to the Hills and the fires were warm...

Dwalin had already done the same, had begun to unpack his bag – and suddenly he froze, close to me. I looked up, and he was staring at a small, leather-bound booklet he had found between his shirts, and opened. He did not move for almost a minute – and I watched him, kneeling close to my own bag, my hand still resting upon it.

He gave a painful breath – and then he got up, silently, taking the booklet with him, leaving the fire’s light and warmth...

I would have hated it, to be followed in such a moment – I have run away so often to hide my feelings, and yet, if I am truly honest, I am not sure I have resented it, every time there has been someone brave enough to go after me...

For a while I just stayed as I was, unfolding my blanket yet only yearning to assure myself Dwalin was all right – I did not know what to do...

Frerin was unpacking his bag too and had just discovered the cakes – and suddenly I decided I had to try.

I got up, and walked towards the edge of the trees where I had seen Dwalin disappear. He had not run away, not really – he never was ashamed to acknowledge his feelings, there was always so much constancy him...

He was happy to be with me on the road – he truly was. And he was also distressed because he had had to leave his mother behind – and for him, there was no problem in dealing with both feelings at the same time, he did not even see how hard it was to live through all this, he was simply feeling it...

He had sat on a trunk, and was staring at that little booklet, brushing it every now and then with his thumb. He was not crying, he was only breathing unevenly – I could feel it when I sat down next to him, circling his waist with my arms.

“Hey, you...”, he just said, his voice thick – and then he wiped his nose, only once, with the back of his hand.

I did not say anything, I just held him, and this time he was the one leaning against me.

I did not ask about the booklet, either. It was so private – I had no right to ask, I just wanted Dwalin to know that I was there.

“You know, my mum...”, Dwalin began, and then he drew a shuddering breath, before turning towards me – and that grin, that wonderful, strong smile he managed to summon...

“She’s completely, completely crazy, but I love her.”

And then he stood up, just like this. He was still smiling, despite his bright eyes – no conflicted feelings in his heart, no bitterness, and so much courage...

“Come. Let’s get some cakes before Frerin just eats them all.”

We both returned – and I still had my arm entwined with his, not knowing if I was truly leading him back or if it was him dragging me back to fire and light, and what did it matter...

He showed them to me, though, years after – the words his mother had written on the first page of that small leather booklet, well-knowing which son she was addressing, and loving him just like she loved Balin...

So strange that I should recall them now, so strange that, though there is no one next to me now, I feel as if she is addressing me as well, trying to soothe me just as she wanted to comfort her son...

“Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams ^[1].”

She had quoted sacred words I had never really noticed and understood before – but after them she had added words from her own heart, words that did not speak of universality, but of that very special and unique love of a mother towards her son:

“Write to your old mother, if you feel like it.

Dream and live always.

You are my blessing, as is your brother, and will always have mine, no matter where you go and when we will meet again.”

She did not sign – she did not need to. And I do not know what Dwalin wrote in that booklet – I do not know how many letters found their way to her, before they met again at last...

All I know is that she was there. Always there, with him and also with me, no matter how crooked and twisted my road might have been... And I hope – I hope she will not judge me too harshly, when I will have to look at her, when I will have to answer for what I put her sons through...

I hope she will still embrace me, in the end, just like she did the day she gave me back a part of my soul, and enough strength to face the road once more.

Chapter Text

The smell of earth. Always earth. Sometimes mossy, rich and wet, sometimes dry, or covered with fallen leaves. That is what always comes first to my mind when I think of the road... I have seen so much of it – so much that it has often seemed to me that my only true abode lay there... The road that took me further from home... The road that brought me back home at last...

There is no earth below me. There is only ice, and wind. And stone – stone I can feel close to my shoulder, stone coated in snow, but hard and reassuring. No earth.

No warmth either.

It feels right, though – earth and warmth, they do not belong here, not on Ravenhill whose fallen tower cannot offer shelter anymore, and stands there, forlorn and empty, scattered with bodies of foes, and kin...

The Ravens did not flee, did not seek for shelter this time – they fought along with the Eagles, proud and savage, led by their own lord... My friend Roäc... My old, dear friend...

I do remember the first time we met. But what really warms my heart – even now, even so close to the end – is to recall the day his name found its way back to me.

We were advancing quickly, and it was so easy, to cross those lands – we had enough supplies to move on without having to stop, work and beg for food... There were no wounded, no sick, only hardened Dwarves, and warriors that would make sure their King reached his new destination unharmed...

We were not really heading for the Brown Lands – that desolate area had been burnt by an evil worse than Dragons long ago... Náin and his warriors were escorting us all the way to the Anduin River – our path led us down the Red River, and then we travelled close to the River Running once more, but on its other bank. It was not the same path we had taken during exile, for after that we would walk close to Elven trees – not entering Mirkwood, only passing its border, until we would see the Blue Mountains rising in the horizon.

We would not reach them, though – not that year, not before decades... The Ered Luin where Jónar dwelt – where some of my people had gone, embracing a hard life in coal mines... We would cross the Anduin where the river Longlight came to add more water to its streams, and then we would head for Dunland, avoiding Lorien and the forest of Fangorn, entering our new abode as Dwarves – through the Mountains...

Our path laid us through water and trees – and that day we had just crossed the River Running, thus leaving Dwarven lands behind. I had looked, searched the horizon – had not been able to repress the urge to see my Mountain once more, one last time...

But the sky was clouded, and it was so far away – it could not be seen, it was hidden behind trees, behind leaves and heavy clouds... And my heart was just as heavy, as I crossed the River, helping Frerin to cross the banks, for there was no real bridge.

We had chosen a spot where the waters were low, and where they could be crossed by walking upon wet rocks, but the stream was strong and the way slippery – I did not care for Frerin’s pouting, I just took his hand in mine, firmly, and made sure each step he took was safe, leading on slowly, carefully, hearing the water roar around us, pooling around the stones...

Trying not to think about the last time I had heard the River roar around Dís and me, toxic fumes swirling around us while embers replaced stars in the dark sky...

Following Dáin who had already crossed the River, and was helping his father and my own with the carts – the warriors were dragging them across the water and it was dangerous, they were moving with caution, had stretched ropes between trees so as to be able to withstand the current...

“Thorin, you are such a bore – let go!”

We had crossed the water, had reached the other bank, and Frerin jumped from the last rock, making sure he splashed water upon me, not caring to be drenched himself, only laughing at me, shaking himself free from my grasp...

“Stop it!”, I snapped, glaring at him. “It’s not funny! I don’t want you to fall into the water, Mahal knows where the current would take you, we don’t know these banks...”

He made a face at me, ready to mock me – but then Dwalin crossed the river, carrying Dís on his back, and joined us quietly, putting my sister down on the ground, and Frerin thought better.

“One day you will have to let go, Thorin...”, he simply said.

And then he shouldered his bag, his weapons and went on walking, shaking his hair free from water drops, following Dáin and the other Dwarves through the trees without a look behind.

I huffed in annoyance, brushing my trousers, shifting the weight of my bag on my other shoulder, and Dwalin laughed, softly.

“Mahal, that look on your face is just priceless...

- Just stop it...”

But I had to smile, nonetheless – because he was there, and because of Dís who was gravely pulling up her trousers, determined to keep them from getting muddy, now that our path would lead once more through the trees. She was dressed as a boy again, and her hair was floating freely around her face that day – somehow she had not fastened her braids properly, and her hair clasps had slipped...

“Mamarlûna...”, I said, and she looked up at me, not even noticing that her hair brushed the ground.

I just touched my own hair, and she got up, looked at her locks and bit her lip – and I just had to laugh, she was so lovely, my little sister who was so determined not to be a burden...

I stepped up to her, I made her stand before me, and then I gathered her hair clasps, placing them between my own teeth, and quickly braided her hair. I divided her raven mane in two, and when the braids were woven I wrapped them around her head, carefully, fastening them with the clasps.

“There you go, mamarlûna... Trousers are all fine, but you...”

And then I bent down, and I kissed the soft spot on her neck that was now bare, exposed, so fragile... She turned, I heard the silvery sound of her laughter as she struggled to break free, and in the end she just threw herself in my arms with a growl, like a fierce little cat, determined to get her vengeance – she kissed my neck, my cheek, even my ear, pretending to bite me, and all along I was laughing, carrying her away, forgetting the River and what its boundaries implied...

We were both dishevelled when I put her down, and she did not let go of me at once.

“Who won?”, she asked, her tone commanding, and I could not bring myself to answer at once, I just smiled at her, pretending to waver.

She wrapped her arms tighter around my chest, pulling me closer.

“Who won, Thorin?”

I pretended to choke, and she barely suppressed a laugh – but she did not let go, and I suddenly wished this moment would never end.

“You.”

I had whispered the word close to her ear and watched her smile widen, silently, as I went on, tickling her hair with my words:

“You won, because you are my little queen and will always be.”

She hugged me, then, resting her face against my shoulder.

“Are you happy, Thorin? Because I want you to be – I want you to be just as happy as now, I want us to stay like this forever...”

Once more her thoughts had echoed mine, and I stood still for a while, struck mute by her words.

“I... I am very happy now, mamarlûna. My heart is always full when I hold you... Yet Frerin is right – we cannot stay like this forever, holding each other close and forgetting the world around us. But what I really, really promise you is that I will try – I will work hard, I will take life as it is and I will never, ever complain, I promise you...”

Her small hands moved, rubbing circles against my back.

“But that’s not happiness, Thorin...”, she said softly. “You are so sad inside, marlel... Is there really nothing more you can hope for? Working hard without complaining – is it the only future you can see? Why are they so many shadows, when you imagine the road that lies before us – why is it that Frerin jumps over the river, while you are holding his hand, afraid to see him fall, afraid to see me fall...? Tell me how I can free you, please, Thorin, just tell me, it is the only thing I want, the only thing I yearn for...”

I had turned rigid in her arms, my smile had vanished, and my face felt icy. I looked at the trees around us, focused on their bare branches, where buds could already be seen – a promise of spring, of emerald robes covering the barren trees... Anything but facing Dís – those ageless eyes that could always discern every truth I so desperately tried to conceal...

“Don’t run away...”, she whispered, and I looked down at her, my arms still around her yet barely feeling her body against mine.

“I’m here, Dís...”, I said, but she shook her head, still brushing my back, her face so earnest, her gaze so loving...

“You are locking yourself away.”

I let out a deep breath – the other Dwarves had moved on, we were among the last close to the river, we had to get away from the water...

“I...”

I was struggling with words once more. I did not know how to answer – how to find the strength to reply to such words, that showed me so clearly that she was not fooled by my smile, by my daring steps, not even by my loving words...

“I just miss the Mountain...”

Now this was definitely not what I had wanted to say. Especially not in that tiny voice, where I could barely suppress a quiver. But I still heard myself add:

“I know I shouldn’t. I know it was wrong to hope to look at her one last time. But I still hoped and – it was wrong... She’s not there... She will never be there anymore... And – it just makes me unable to see... I know I should try to picture a new home, to be confident, to see the halls we might be able to build but I... I can’t... Every time I look at the trees, I wish they could part, I wish I could just see her, before I move even further from her... And it’s just so wrong...

- Why do you say that?”

Her small arms tightened even more around me.

“What you feel is not wrong. It is never wrong. It just shows that you loved the Mountain – that you love her still, and that you are worthy of her. Of course you miss her. Of course you would wish to erase every tree just to look at her. You would not be you, should you feel otherwise – it would be wrong of you to feel differently, Thorin...

- But I... I should... I should be like you, like Dwalin, like Frerin... I should stop dreaming of Erebor, I should stop thinking that I will only truly reach home the day I will come back, I should be able to be happy with what I have, and...

- Marlel... You are Erebor’s Prince and heir. You are a Dwarf – not a Man who changes home as quickly as the weather, when he has taken everything from Nature he was able to get... And every true Dwarf has his One Mountain, will never forget her, and always yearn for her...”

Her voice had turned fierce when she had spoken of Men and I recognized something of Itô, suddenly – for my batshûna had spoken of Men in that tone of contempt, she had crossed many lands and seen many things, and had always hated the way Men just stripped the landscapes off their riches, thinking they ruled Nature, while they were only guests, as we all were...

“Never stop dreaming of Erebor, Thorin, for she is your treasure, and you are her keeper. No one wants you to be different – and everyone is aware of how much you give us and how deeply you love us. Dream of her. Miss her. Mourn for her. But just remember you are not the Mountain yourself – you can move, you are strong, you are brave, and daring, and worthy of a happy life... Do not think you are doomed, Thorin, please... Please, marlel, just try to be happy...”

I dragged her against me then, I buried my face in her hair, feeling her braids against my cheek, closing my eyes fiercely, determined not to cry. She wanted me happy. She was begging me to be happy. And I had sworn to myself I would always grant her every wish – because she never asked, because she was my treasure, because I loved her even more than the Mountain...

“I will...”, I whispered. “I promise I will try. Just be patient with me. And don’t be angry if I... if I just pretend, for a while. I promise I will get better... I’m just not as quick and wise as you, and Frerin...”

I had pulled away from her and smiled at her – a shy little smile that made her stroke my hair.

“You are my king, Thorin. And you will always be.”

And with those words she took my hand and led me among the trees, her fingers entwined with mine – my mamarlûna that was marvelling at the buds, at the snowdrops that were blooming between the roots and the moss, pointing them out to me, comparing them to small bells, and smiling at Dwalin when he plucked three of them and placed them in her hair...

That evening, when we stopped walking and spread our rolls around the fires, I went back to the River to wash – and my heart was free of doubts and guilt, I did not go there to search vainly for my Mountain, because her slopes stood out crystal clear in my mind, and would always be there.

I just went there to wash, and I went with Dwalin, because Frerin  and Dáin were too lazy and claimed they had already washed crossing the River, not caring for our teasing, while we had already brought back some water for Dís and the women, making sure they would not have to be exposed on foreign riverbanks.

I laid down my clothes, stripping myself from my boots, my trousers, my breeches, my jerkin and my tunic.

“Turn around...”, I said to Dwalin who had done the same, and he obeyed as I took off my shirt, throwing it on my clothes and then getting into the water as soon as I could, still wearing my underpants.

“All right...”, I added, and he shook his head with a broad grin.

“Do you know you are a frightful prude, Thorin?

- I’m not!”

But of course I was making sure water covered me – he was my best friend, he still is, and Mahal knows there have been moments where we were both forced to see the other naked, fragile and exposed because war or sickness had brought us low... But these were extreme moments, and I ever was shy, I had not even shown my full body to Frerin ever since I had left childhood...

“You are, sparrow... And now turn around, just in case I should be a prude as well...”

I turned, and closed my eyes, letting water drench my hair and cover my face – it was cold, but I liked to feel it on my skin, it reminded me of our swimming days with Frerin...

“Thorin...”

I could hear Dwalin’s voice from far away, and then suddenly I felt his grasp around my ankle. I jerked up, water splashing around me, ready to ask him why in Durin’s name he had just tried to drown me and ruin the moment... But Dwalin dragged me closer, and I realized we had drifted off, our clothes were further away than I thought...

“Careful with the current, silly. You said it yourself, we don’t know those banks...”

His voice was a bit gruff, and I just nodded, thanking him silently.

“Sorry...”

He grunted, letting go of me, and we both waded closer to the riverbank, grabbing the soap and washing, not really looking at the other yet glad not to be alone.

We were drying ourselves when I heard them. Foreign voices, unknown voices. Speaking about us.

“I am sure they are Dwarves. They are smaller than Men – and they both look stronger than children...”

I froze, almost dropping my towel, and Dwalin frowned.

“What is it?”

I raised a hand, trying to find out where those voices came from.

“He said we should look for a young one. Black hair, blue eyes... and an onyx ring on the left hand... Maybe we should get closer... Maybe we should try and look at his fingers...”

My eyes widened in fear, then – but I was still able to move my fingers, signaling to Dwalin in Iglishmêk that we were watched.

Careful. Voices. Talking about me. Coming closer.

But Dwalin – he did not move, he just looked at me, completely puzzled, and he shook his head as I added:

Hear them?

“You go. You said you were not afraid.

- No, you go. You claimed to have the sharpest eyes...”

Right there. Behind me. Hear them?

Concern was clouding Dwalin’s gaze, and I did not like it, it made my heart race – they were so close, I had no weapons, and he did not seem to realize I was serious, for that oaf actually talked.

“Thorin, are you alright?”

I tried to shush him, and heard the voices behind me get louder, almost excited:

“Did you hear that? He called him Thorin, it must be him, we found him, we found him!”

I dropped my towel then, completely forgetting I was just wearing my pants, while my soaked hair was dripping against my chest. I bent, gathered some rocks and then I said, in the most daring voice I could muster:

“Just come closer, I’m not afraid! Stop hiding, you cowards!

- Thorin – there are no voices, there’s no one there...”

Dwalin’s voice was low and I could sense some fear. He had picked up my towel, was wrapping it around my shoulders, but I shook him off, because the voices had risen again:

“Did he just call us cowards? We are no cowards – that’s a harsh word, we certainly do not lack courage...

- Perhaps he meant you? Because let me just point out you did not move, when I asked you to take a closer look...

- I beg your pardon – you were the one who froze on your branch, all trembling and afraid...

- Me?! I never...”

I looked up to the pines, desperately trying to discern what creatures were hidden behind the branches – it was clear the voices came from above, now that I was aware of it...

“Stop arguing! Just get down there, or I’ll throw these stones at you!

- Thorin...”

Dwalin had put a hand around my wrist – why was he restraining me, did he not hear them?!

“Thorin, there is no one there... Please, is it an act, or something? Because if it is... it is not funny...”

His voice was shaky and as I met his frightened gaze, my heart skipped a beat – he did not seem to hear them...

“No one there?! That one must be blind and deaf indeed...”

I lowered my hand, my lips getting dry.

“Dwalin, please tell me you hear them... Right above us... Two voices.”

And as I watched him bit his lip and shake his head, concern showing in every line of his face, I suddenly felt sick. He could not hear them – and he had a strong, sound mind. Meaning I had just lost mine.

“Of course we are two, we are always together... Enough of idle talking, let us introduce ourselves...”

And with a fluttering sound, they suddenly left the tree above us, jolting out of the pine, drawing a proud curve in the evening sky, and then settling down on a rock close to the riverbank, facing us, their head tilted and their gaze black.

“Cornix. And Corwin. Anything but cowards, if you please.

- Ravens...”

I had let out the words in a sigh, almost sagging against Dwalin – I was so relieved I was actually shaking.

“Begging your pardon, but we are not! We are Crows, not Ravens...

- One can tell...”, I growled, suddenly feeling furious.

I picked up my shirt, trying to find back some dignity. I pulled it on, wringed out my hair, and then I faced the Crows again, my gaze even blacker as theirs.

“Why didn’t you show yourselves? Do you know it was incredibly rude to pry upon us like that – I almost threw stones at you, mistaking you for foes!

- Rude? Rude?!”

I winced as they both began to caw in an upset tone of voice – my head was beginning to ache furiously...

“All right, I am sorry, I am taking back my words, please just stop talking at the same time, it’s... it’s just unbearable.

- Well, you are definitely rude”, one of the Crows voiced, in a pinched tone of voice – and Mahal forgive me, I did not care if it was Cornix or Corwin or whatever name the accursed birds who raised them had been mad enough to chose...

I did not answer, I just drew the towel against my waist, searched for my dry underpants, pulled the wet ones off and the dry ones on with fierce moves, and then I slipped into my trousers, wrapping my jerkin around me – I was shaking, I had been so afraid to lose my mind...

But it was obviously Dwalin’s turn to doubt his own senses.

He had sat on the ground, gazing at me open-mouthed, and suddenly I had to laugh – it was just too much, him sitting there in his pants, aghast and clearly wondering which one of us was crazy...

I gathered his towel, crouched in front of him and wrapped it around his shoulders, still laughing.

“I’m sorry, Dwalin... I... I... I understand now, it’s obvious... I’m so sorry I’m laughing at you, I don’t mean to, it’s not... not... not your fault, but...

- Glad you are having such a great time...”, he let out, and his voice was hoarse, he was all pale and I felt even more sorry for him.

I rubbed his shoulders, gently, still kneeling in front of him.

“Thorin, you just... I don’t know what you did with your voice, but it didn’t sound like Khuzdûl, and it didn’t sound like Common Tongue. It didn’t sound like anything natural. And it definitely... definitely doesn’t look natural when you are standing there, facing those... those birds! And it’s not funny!”

He was so fierce, poor Dwalin, his bushy eyebrows gathered close and his kind, brown eyes glaring at me... I tried to repress my laughter, but all I could do was drawing my arms around him and pulling him close.

“I’m not laughing at you. I promise I am not. I had just forgotten... I had forgotten I could talk to them and understand them. The Ravens. And the Crows also, unfortunately...”

I had whispered the last word close to him, still smiling, and gradually I felt Dwalin’s tension ebb.

“You mean... That language I heard you speak... Is it Raven Tongue?”

I nodded, silently, and then I handed him his shirt. Dwalin grabbed it, but did not pull it on.

“But Thorin... That skill was lost long ago, Náin, and Grór, and... all the Dwarves, I thought they were speaking Common Tongue with the Ravens...

- They are. But... not my father. And not Frerin, and... and me. Pull on your clothes. You are shaking.”

I had spoken softly, and got up to gather his clothes for him – he seemed so in awe, so puzzled, and afraid, somehow, he still could not really understand...

“I will explain. I promise, Dwalin. Just let me get rid of those...”

I winked, and then I turned back to the Crows, folding my arms on my chest, trying to suppress my smile – they looked so stiff and full of ruffled dignity, perched upon their stone...

“I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude – I just had to explain who you were to my friend. I am Thorin – I think you have been looking for me, but I would like to know who is the one sending you...

- Sending us?

- We are no letters – we are birds! Sending us indeed!

- Who told you I have this ring?”, I asked, mustering all the calm and patience I possessed. “Who asked you to look for me?”

They took their time to answer – those birds were so stuffed with silly pride I really struggled with the idea of throwing something at them, not a stone, maybe, but perhaps splashing some water upon them...

But I was rewarded when they answered – I actually had to sit down, slowly, feeling my legs begin to shake.

“Roäc did. Roäc asked every Raven, Crow and Sparrow to look out for you – so that he could find you.

- Roäc... is alive?”

I had breathed out those words, pressing my palms against the ground – my head was spinning, it felt like racing back in time, because suddenly I was brought back to the Mountain, to Erebor and its cool slopes, and to Ravenhill...

I was just a boy, when we first met.

My hair was unbraided yet, and my father had made me rise with the sun. I was already waiting for him, sitting awake in the bed – I was so small he still had to help me with my jerkin and my belt...

He took my hand and led me out of Erebor – I can still hear the echo of his footsteps on the stone, sure and even... And mine, lighter and hurried, determined to keep up...

We left the Mountain as the sun was sending its first rays on her cool slopes – and then we walked, between rock and stone, to reach Ravenhill. We did not talk – we simply walked. And I remember looking up to him when he stopped, close to the tower’s door, and turned towards me.

“Come along, dashat. Don’t be scared.”

I was not – not really. I was just in awe of that cold, tall tower, of the deafening sound the waterfall voiced as it fell – it was summer, that day, I remember warmth, and the smell of sun-baked earth, and yet it was the same place where I am stretched now, in snow and silence...

My father looked up to the tower and spoke – but I did not understand him. He was speaking a language I had never heard before – it was not Khuzdûl, and it was not Common Tongue either...

His voice was low, but there was intensity in his speech, and it made his eye shine – how grave he looked and yet, how much he revelled in what he was showing to me at last...

I heard noises, suddenly, a flutter of wings, and excited caws – and my father laughed when I reached for his waist, hiding my face in his chest.

“You are frightening my son...”, he voiced, his hand finding my head, brushing my locks. “Be gentle. He is young still...

- Young he looks indeed. ..”

And I was so young I did not notice – did not marvel at the fact that my father was still speaking in that strange, foreign language, but that I suddenly understood it...

“You were not scared when you first came here.

- I was older .”

There was a smile in my father’s voice – a smile that spoke of long-lasting friendship, of remembrances that covered decades...

“But you were alone.

- I was lone, Carc. It atones for my courage...

- Well, you are not lonely anymore ...”

The strange voice had softened – I was still clinging to my father, but somehow I felt able to move, raising my face slowly, and looking around me.

The Hill I had seen baked in sun, housing the tall, cold tower was now black. They had come out, were perched everywhere around us, on the hills, upon the tower, at our feet...

“Bahazanâsh...”, my father voiced softly.

I had seen them engraved upon our shields. I had heard my mother call me her little raven-haired Prince. But I had never seen them – had never been able to look at them for real until that day, that day that was also the first day I had left the Mountain.

One of them was facing my father, perched on a tall rock – and I knew instantly that the strange voice belonged to him. His feathers were black still, as were his eyes – but there was wisdom in them, betraying his age.

He was taking me in, backed up against my father – Thráin had drawn his arms around my waist, and my locks mingled with his beard, both dark, his beard carefully woven, and my hair still unruly.

“On which moon did you tell me he hatched, Thráin?

- ‘Aftharn...”, my father answered, unmoved by his strange words.

“So it would seem... You have daring eyes, Thráinson. You have been well named...

- How do you know my name? ”, I asked – and after that I froze, and looked up to my father, astonished, almost upset, for the words that had left my lips were unknown to me...

The Ravens around us moved, their wings fluttering again in delight.

“He speaks it... He speaks it...”

My father smiled at me, pulled back one of my locks, and bent down to kiss me – I was so small, and he was so proud...

“He knows it because I told him. As I promised him you would speak his language, as soon as he would revel himself to you. This is Carc, Thorin, lord of the Ravens of Erebor – and he is the eldest friend I have got.”

I bowed, and Carc the Raven tilted his head slightly.

“Do not seek why your mouth forms bridges between us. Rejoice, Thráinson – for our hearts are full of glee in welcoming you here.”

We entered the tower afterwards, my father and me – and I was surprised, because it was empty, void of guards, of weapons, there were only Ravens housing here...

“But how can it be a watchtower, ‘adad...?”

I had spoken in Khuzdûl, but Carc still answered:

“We are keeping watch here, young Prince...”

I was silenced, then. And when my father took me to the top of the tower, and showed me the small Ravens that had just hatched, and were clustered to each other, barely feathered yet... That is when I smiled at last – they were so small, so cute...

“What is ailing him?”

My father had asked in a concerned voice, looking at a small hatchling, who was bedded in straw, alone, away from the others.

“That one was too daring. He hatched early. We are not confident.

- He is cold ...”

I had bent upon the straw, looking at the hatchling, taking in his bare skin where no feather could be seen, and that I could see quiver slightly. He was Carc’s first hatchling – the Raven lord had taken wife late, and joy was already mingled with sorrow, because he had no hope for his eldest’s life... but back then I did not know it, did not even bother to ask, I was just a small child looking at a little bird.

“He is cold, that’s all...”

I extended my hand then, unaware of Carc’s surprised look – my small fingers closed around the hatchling with care, taking some straw with me, so as not to disturb his rest.

And then I placed him against my chest, wrapping my tunic around him, cupping him with my palm, feeling his small body gave a small start, and then nestle close to me.

“What is his name?”, I asked, and I was smiling – I did not know death back then, all I could see was a sweet little bird that was yet too small to talk, just like my younger brother...

“We did not name him. Names are full of hope, and we have few.

- I think you should name him. How else is he supposed to know he has to wake up, if you don’t call him? ”

I was stroking the little Raven, my eyes shining – and I did not notice the silence around me, I was so happy, so carefree and innocent...

“How will you know it’s much more interesting when you’re not asleep, eh, little Raven? Why do you keep your eyes shut, when you could fly around and tell me what’s going on in Dale, because I still can’t get there... I wish I could get there... I wish you were big, so big that I could climb on your back and just fly there...”

I was still talking to him while I climbed down the stairs, carefully – I was not paying attention to anyone anymore, my heart was full of that little bird, and no one asked me to place him back into the straw.

I kept him against me the whole day – I skipped training, asked my mother for some warm shreds of fabric I could wrap around him, and only placed him in a little box with straw and wool because she pointed out I would crush him in my sleep...

I spent a whole week holding him against me, even while I ate – it made my grandfather huff, but my father let me. And when he opened his eyes and gave his first, shy little cry I smiled again.

“Roäc. I will call you Roäc, because that’s how you sound.”

I did not need my father to climb back to Ravenhill – I carried my little friend back to his kin, still featherless, still small and fragile, but alive, with a name and a long life before him.

And I went to see him afterwards, nearly every day, until I was sure Roäc would live, to become the Raven prince he was supposed to be... Even when he was no hatchling anymore, when his dark feathers began to grow while my father placed the first hair clasps in my hair, I still would go there with Frerin.

Frerin who was not even astonished to discover he could talk to Ravens, and who sat down among them and began to ask them a thousand questions, causing them to caw in what has ever been the closest sound to laughter I have ever heard birds voicing...

“Of course he is!”

The shrill voice brought me back to the present and I almost gave a start.

“Roäc, and Carc, and the Ravens, they are all alive, they left that strange Mountain where they persisted in keeping watch ,for the Ered Luin... They claim they saw a Dragon, though I must say...

- Though I really must say I doubt them, the way they always have to draw attention towards them, just because they are Ravens...

- Please...”

My voice was still faint, I did not really bother to chide them, or to correct their silly, prejudiced notions of what had happened – I was just overwhelmed to know that something of Erebor had survived indeed, that my people were not the only wanderers from the Lonely Mountain...

“Please would you be so kind... Would you do me the honor to fly back to Roäc and tell him you have found me? Tell him Thorin is still close to the Running River, that he won’t leave its banks for several days, so that Roäc can find him... Would you please grant me that favour...?”

And what did I care that they were Crows, and did barely understand who I was – I had tears in my eyes as I asked, as I spoke the name of my old, dear friend...

“Well... We certainly can...

- We certainly will...

- We have never ever been addressed as civilly...

- It will be an honor...

- A favour...

- A pleasure indeed!

- Rest assured, Dwarf, Corwin will fly to Roäc...

- As will Cornix, do not fret...”

I stopped listening, then, I just made sure to thank them – and when they finally flew away, when I saw them dart into the sky and heard the frantic fluttering of their wings, knowing they were carrying my message away... I just dragged my knees against my chest, buried my face in my arms, and cried.

I cried in sheer joy – and it was such an incredible feeling, that pure, wonderful joy to know that my friend had survived, that Roäc would soon be there, that I would touch his black feathers once more and be able to ask him what happened, to share my memories with him...

“Hey...”

Dwalin’s arm around my shoulders, once more, always caring... I turned towards him, I hugged him, still crying – I did not hide my face this time, those were tears of joy I just wanted to share...

“What’s wrong? What did those stupid birds tell you?

- Nothing is wrong... They told me something wonderful...”

And it took me a while to explain it to him, to tell him about Roäc, and Carc, and that wonderful bond with the Ravens I shared with my father, and to a certain extent with my brother...

“Roäc is nothing like those Crows. He is smart, he is brave, and he speaks many languages, just like his father – Common Tongue, Khuzdûl, and of course Raven Tongue...

- A bit like you, then...”, Dwalin voiced softly, and I pulled away, wiping my face, still feeling shaky.

“Well... Roäc knows more of the world, because Ravens fly and come back with news and knowledge... I think Roäc has been travelling much more than I have – though he never really told me much, he said it was much better to discover it on my own... Sometimes he could be so secretive...”

Dwalin laughed softly, and I looked up at him.

“What?

- Well... You don’t lack secrets either! Durin’s beard, I won’t forget that, rest assured – you facing those birds, barely dressed, yelling at them in that strange language... Oh Mahal, Thorin, really, I’m so glad I left the Hills, be it only to witness that!”

He was still laughing when we left the River, and I did not even mind, I just ran back to find my father, and Frerin, and Dís, telling them about the Ravens, my eyes bright – I was so happy...

And Thráin smiled – a real, deep smile, pulling me close to him and hugging me, pressing a kiss on my forehead.

“Well done, dashat. Well done.”

And then he whispered in Raven Tongue to me:

“Ask him about the road. No need for scouts, if you have Roäc...”

I felt a shiver run through my spine – I had not thought about that, and it was such a bright idea, so full of hope, and so shrewd... I pulled back, I looked at my father, taking in his face, his gaze – could it be that his mind was mending, that he was somehow coming back to himself, now that he realized we were back on the road and that there was no other alternative than moving on...?

Thráin smiled at me, and pulled me close again.

“My little raven-haired Prince...”, he murmured, rocking me gently.

And I nestled against him – my father who had been such a lonely boy, long ago in Erebor, that Mahal had pitied him, awakening a long-forgotten blessing, making him able to talk with the Ravens, revelling in their friendship, dreaming himself away through them...

I was not sure his mind was mending. I was not sure it could ever be mended – he had suffered so much, had been so broken, had lost so much and was still so fragile...

But I was so proud of being his son. I was so proud to know I did not only share rage, fire and losses with him – there was also that secret, that wonderful gift that came with being his son...

I would hope.

As I let myself be rocked by my father, settling into his warm embrace, I swore to myself I would hope. I would wait for Roäc – I would wait for my old friend to join me, and to help me with the road that lay ahead.

If Mahal had saved Roäc, Mahal could also bring back my father. My wonderful father, Erebor’s first raven-haired Prince, so brave, so caring, so intent and loving.

I would hope for Thráin, and wait for Roäc.

Chapter Text

I would always guess it, the precise moment when he would arrive – those seconds where I felt a small tug in my chest, where I would hold still and then raise my head, searching for the sky. His flight was almost noiseless – he was graceful and strong, mastering the wind just like we reigned in stone and fire. There was this light breath of air against my cheek, playing with my locks, a silent command for me to be ready, and hold out my arm for him...

That day was not different.

We had moved on, still following the River, and were close to reach the Elvenking’s Forest. As much as I hated the thought of reaching that realm – the main memory of that ageless face looking down at us while Erebor burned being enough to set my blood ablaze – I was beginning to think the trees would be a welcome shelter, because the rain had not stopped for three full days.

Not the honest, plain and straightforward rain that drenches the earth, fulfilling its nourishing role, and eventually emptying the clouds of their wrath – it was that sly, treacherous rain that looked like a mere drizzle, and still managed to drench us and chill us to the bone.

We had been forced to mount the tents every night, and the damp and cold was annoying almost everybody. My grandfather walked in brisk steps, barking his orders, Náin’s men pulled the carts, their faces grim, Oín was grumbling softly, looking at the sky, while my father was walking quietly, often carrying Dís, sheltering her in his wide fur coat so that she could stay warm.

He was singing to her, softly – songs I recognized from my childhood, for they had also helped to lull me to sleep in my own time. And often Dís’ eye would close indeed, overwhelmed as she was by everything she was seeing, by days and days of hard walking – the rain did not trouble her, my sweet little sister, nestled against my father’s chest. And neither did it unsettle Thráin.

As for my brother, after several hours spent in trying to cheer up Dáin who considered the rain as a personal outrage, he had given up and was amusing himself alone. Jumping into pools, proud to declare his boots were not even wet inside. Sloshing mud towards the trees, a sheepish grin on his face as he saw how high his kicks caused the mud to rise, splashing against the trunks. Walking with his face towards the sky, open-mouthed, to see how the rain tasted that day.

And I kept telling myself that he was ridiculous and childish, that I really had to rein him in – the sight of him, his trousers inches covered in mud, his cheeks wet with rain as he gaped at the sky... Mahal, what could I do but laugh indeed, he was so sunny, always making the best of every greyish situation...

Of course he paid for it in the evening. Once the tents were mounted and we were all ready to undress and have some rest, I realized Frerin was so cold that he could barely manage to open his bag. His little fingers were numb, his whole body was drenched and his hair was dripping on his bag as he frowned, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“If you go on like this, you’ll be sneezing soon...”, I said, having put down my own bag and removed my boots.

“Pull those off.”

I had pointed to his own boots, and then I opened his bag. I shook my head when I saw its state – clothes balled and stuffed inside without a second thought, his towel not better, stained with soap because it had slipped from its box.

“Mahal, kudz, you cannot travel like that!”

And what did I care for Dáin and Dwalin’s broad grin that soon turned into laughter – I pulled out every single cloth from Frerin’s bag, tossing them on the ground, searching for clean and dry clothes.

In the end I gave up. By then my cousins were holding each other to keep seated, tears of laughter running down their cheeks, and Frerin was still shaking, his face a mixture of shame and helplessness.

I undid his belt, pulled his wet clothes from him, and rubbed him dry with my own towel, not caring for his half-articulated protests – his teeth were chattering too much. I made him pull on one of my shirts, his other pair of trousers and a pair of my socks, before wrapping him up in his blanket, still brushing his back and shoulders.

“Can you do that for me as well, Thorin, please?”

Dáin was hiccupping with laughter but I ignored him, I was waiting for Frerin to stop shaking and then – Mahal, he would hear me, it was the last time I would help him out like that...

“I-I-It feels better now...”

Frerin’s voice was tiny and he turned to face me. He still looked cold and suddenly I could not bring myself to yell at him – he was just a little boy, after all, had spent all these past days with Dáin who was certainly not one to remind him how to take care of his things...

“Kudz, you cannot... You have to grow up a bit, you understand? You have to take care of yourself alone, make sure you always have something dry and clean so that you don’t let the cold have the better of you. You really have to, because no one else will. We are not in Erebor, we are not in the Hills. Here, if there is no towel, no dry shirt, you can go on shivering and catching death, no one will care.

- You had no right to search my bag!”, Frerin replied, and he had tears in his eyes. “And it’s not even true, what you say! I won’t catch death and people do care! And my things are clean! I washed them myself! They are just wet because nothing dries with that rain, while yours are only dry because you did not even think of washing them!

- I did”, I answered patiently. “But I spread them close to the fire during the night, and I don’t wash them all at once so that nothing dries and soaks everything in my bag...”

I was still holding him, and I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close – I did not want to humiliate him, I just wanted to help him and make him understand that he had to be the first to take care of himself...

“Everybody learns, kudz, it’s all right...”

He was getting warmer now – and suddenly I could not stand Dáin’s laughter. Mahal, Frerin was but a boy, he could have made sure he was fine and helped him out, at least a bit...

“Dáin, if you do not stop laughing straight away, I swear by Mahal that I will open your bag and see how you are doing!”

My voice had turned fierce, and my cousin’s laughter ebbed instantly – I guess I had struck the right chord indeed.

“Oí, you’re not my mum, right?!

- No, thank Mahal I’m not”, I growled back. “You’d probably drive me mad!

- Well you are already!”

His words hit me full in the chest and I froze, turning pale, while Frerin’s grip around me tightened.

“I beg your pardon?”, I asked, with a voice so low that it was almost a whisper, as Dáin went on:

“Thinking you can talk to Ravens, while everybody knows that skill was lost! Waiting for your friend the Crow, thinking he’ll tell you everything...

- Roäc is a Raven...”, I said. “And you...”

I shook my head, I was tired of them all, suddenly – I freed myself from Frerin’s embrace and got up, reaching for my boots, not even bothering to take my coat, I just wanted to be out, away from them and alone.

“Thorin, don’t be silly...”

Dwalin’s voice echoed behind me as I left the tent, but I did not even care to turn around.

“Save those words for Dáin”, I growled, and then I left.

The rain’s faint drizzle met my face at once and I relished it. I did not care to be cold, or wet – no one would talk to me outside, everybody save those on guard were in the tents, and I relished it.

I walked towards the edge of the camp, looking at the River that was shivering under the rain, barely visible now that daylight was fading. There was a pool of rain at my feet, only two steps away, and I stared at it grimly, my fists clenched, gauging it for some seconds.

And then I jumped, imagining it was Dáin, or at least that Dáin was close and would be covered in mud. Water splashed around me, drenched the grass, my weight and my boots mightier than stone, and I smiled.

A soft chuckle behind me startled me, I turned, my smile fading – but it was Balin. He had sat on a rock, and I had not noticed him because he ever was gifted in staying motionless, his frame almost melting with the stone, lulling foes into false safety.

“Neat footwork to witness, laddie...”

I sloshed out of the pool as fast as I could and Balin patted the remaining space on the stone next to him.

“No means to light a pipe tonight – I could do with some company...”

I sat down next to him, still feeling ashamed, and he immediately unlaced his fur coat, wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me close, making sure the coat covered me too.

“You won’t be able to reach for your sword...”, I whispered, but I leant against him nonetheless – his hard chainmail, the warmth of his coat, it was exactly what I needed right now.

“Doesn’t matter, lad. I have you with me, have I not?”

I gave him a half smile, and for a while we both gazed at the River silently, listening to the night’s noises – an owl’s cry, every now and then, the cracking of branches and the roaring of the water.

“So, laddie – why so grim? It’s not the rain, surely, you never were one to mind drops, always out there with me...”

He rubbed my forehead with his temple – and it reminded me of Erebor, of these many night watches on my beloved ramparts where I had so often stood next to him... I did as I used to, then, when I was but a child trying to keep my eyes open in the cold – I placed my hands between his chainmail and his beautiful, thick beard, and suddenly I was warm, I felt sheltered, and Dáin’s words lost some of their power...

“I just... don’t manage with people, Balin. I wish I could be like you – everybody listen when you speak, and everybody likes you.

- Oh laddie, I wish it was true...”, Balin chuckled. “I do not have as much luck with others as I have with you... You listen indeed, lad, once the first storm has passed, and I’m lucky to have your love, but it does not mean I have everybody’s. I was not even half of the Dwarf you see, when I was your age...

- I don’t believe that...”, I said, shaking my head so that our braids mingled. “You must have been so smart, Balin...

- Oh, I was, lad, and it made me pretty lonely. See, knowledge, now that’s a strange gift indeed... One craves for it, one cannot get enough of it – but to share it, oh, that is a peril one cannot undergo lightly...

- I don’t understand”, I said, my voice low, and Balin’s grip around me tightened as he smiled at me.

“What I mean is... See, lad, if you know things about the world, or about other cultures, and try to talk about it with people whose main goal is to keep exactly as they are – do you honestly think they listen? It’s just unsettling them, they don’t bother, and their best defence is to laugh at you... And if they are interested indeed, you still have to look out for the jealous ones, those who resent you for knowing more than they do, even though you never dreamt to look down on them... When I was your age, laddie, I did not really like people – it took me ages to understand it was better to keep silent about knowledge as long as it was not asked for, and to adapt. Perfect other skills, such as fighting and forging. Of course, it was before I met your father...”

He smiled again, and I looked up at him, feeling my throat tighten – I could see him indeed as he was before, my father, so strong and able, so full of knowledge, and yet so sensitive...

“When I finally got to know him – oh Thorin, how my life changed then... For the first time, I had somebody who matched me in absolute every field – not only about iron, or strategy, but also about culture, and history, and languages... Someone who looked perfectly balanced to me – a warrior and a scholar...

- But he was not balanced”, I said sadly. “He just pretended to be.”

There were tears in my eyes, and Balin stroked my hair gently.

“Don’t we all pretend, Thorin? It’s a daily struggle, to keep balanced, laddie – but I guess the key to achieve it is to make sure you do not repress who you truly are. If you want to jump into pools, do it, lad. And if you relish in talking to Ravens, don’t restrain yourself because it unsettle others...

- How do you know Dáin and me argued about Roäc?”, I asked, and Balin smiled once more.

“I did not. I just see you search for the sky with your soul in your eyes – and I do know how much awe I felt whenever I heard your father speak to Carc... Of course there will be some slight jealousy, even among Durin cousins...

- You think Dáin is jealous?”, I asked, and the thought made me break free from Balin, to cast an incredulous look upon him. “Why in Durin’s name would he be?

- I would not know, Thorin. Perhaps he is not. But Dáin is a strong, brave lad who is very proud of his Hills, and has always been admired there. And suddenly, there you come... You, who have fought and led while he could only stay at home... You, who assisted a Dwarven council while he had to wait for his father to tell him what had been decided... You, who Dwalin is following when he has always stayed with Dáin... You, able to speak to Ravens when that skill is lost to everybody but Thráin’s branch... Perhaps this is a bit much, even for a straightforward lad as him...

- I did not mean to take Dwalin away from him...”, I said softly. “I did not mean for anything to happen as it did. I don’t even want to be me, Balin, why can’t he see it? Sometimes I wish I could go to sleep and just never wake up. Not until I’m at least a hundred years old, and have nothing to prove to anyone anymore...

- Now like that you would miss many lovely things, laddie”, Balin answered, still stroking my head. “And we would miss you too, very cruelly. I know it’s hard, lad. But everybody has to live life day after day, and year after year, otherwise you do not grow up, you would just flee, don’t you think?

- I don’t know...”

My voice was low, my hands were still sheltered below his beard, and I could feel my eyes getting heavy – still I pondered his words: was it fleeing indeed, to wish to grow up faster...?

“Well, I think my little Thorin is just tired and cold, now... How about getting back under your blankets, laddie? You don’t have to stay out there, that’s one of the good things in being a lad still...

- No, I want to stay with you.

- Well, at least the rain has stopped...”

He did not push me away. He kept me close to him, brushing my hair every now and then, and I just looked at the river, feeling my body getting numb and heavy against Balin but determined to keep my eyes open – I did not want to get back into that tent, not yet...

“Got yourself some company, Balin?”

Dagur’s gruff voice stirred me from my half-slumber. It was dark and late, and Balin’s shift had ended – I had not been of much use to him, but we had kept each other warm, and Balin smiled as he freed me from his embrace.

“Guess you won’t stay with me, lad, eh? Come on, get yourself back into bed, long day ahead tomorrow, we’ll reach that accursed forest at last, won’t want to miss that...

- Go, Thorin...”, Balin whispered, pushing me towards the tents, and I obeyed.

My body was stiff and sore, and it was cold outside – I could finally see some attraction in that tent, and I entered it swiftly and silently, taking off my boots, as soon as I passed the threshold, determined not to wake up anyone.

I knelt down, only to find that someone had already spread out my sleeping roll, and unfolded my blanket. I could hear my cousins snore, and Frerin’s even breath, and I shivered slightly as I finally pulled off my clothes, only keeping my shirt, slipping under my blanket.

I raised my knees, curling up against the cold, and I had already closed my eyes when I felt warm and tiny fingers search for my body.

“Thorin...?”, my brother whispered as his hand found mine.

“Are you still mad at me?”

I brushed his fingers then, and moments after there he was, wrapping his arms around me, spreading his blanket on us both and simply holding me.

“Your skin is icy... You did not even take your fur coat... I was worried for you, where have you been? Why don’t you talk back, Thorin?

- Because you keep chatting when I want to sleep...”

He froze then, my little brother, and I immediately added, bending towards him and tickling his braids with my breath:

“And because I love to listen to you, kudz...

- The clothes are all spread out...”, Frerin breathed out, careful not to wake the others. “I did as you said. I even spread out your coat. I am sorry, Thorin.

- Don’t be. I’m glad you are warmer.

- That’s because I’m wearing your shirt.”

I smiled in the darkness, feeling his warmth spread against my chest and legs, radiating from the places where our bodies touched.

“You were right, though, Thorin.”

Frerin’s voice was still not above a tiny whisper, but I could feel the earnestness in his words, and I turned slightly to face him. It was so dark that I could not distinguish more than shadows, and I had to raise a hand and outline his face with my fingertips.

“If I look thoroughly... nobody cares.”

I frowned, still brushing his cheek, but Frerin went on:

“Nobody cares but you.”

There was such fervour in his words, but they sounded so sad...

“That is not true...”, I whispered. “Everybody loves you, because you are a ray of sunshine, kudzaduz.”

But my words only caused a tear to fall, silently meeting my thumb.

“But you are the only one who cares when I don’t shine. The others just laugh when I mess up, thinking it was only expected of me, and when I’m sad or angry they don’t even notice. I’m just there for making people laugh. That’s the only thing I’m good at...

- Don’t say such things...”

I was holding him close, trying to brush his tears away.

“Please don’t. It is not true. You are one of the strongest and bravest persons I know because... because you have so much energy. I know how hard it is to smile when it is just raining upon us, how hard it is to cope with everything, and you never, ever complain... You make it so easy for me – you make me try hard to be as brave, to see the world as you do, even though I know I probably never will... I never meant to make you think you are not able, I just want you to stay warm, always.

- I know.... That’s what I meant. You are the only one who truly sees me. For the others, I’m just a smiling face, and it doesn’t matter if I’m here or not...

- Not for Dís and ‘adad. Not for anyone... Frerin, how can you say that? Dáin...

- Don’t talk to me about Dáin. I’m not speaking to him anymore. I’m done with him.”

I shifted slightly, so that he could rest his head on my chest, as usual. He was tense and fierce, so unlike himself, and I could feel his silent sobs as I brushed his back.

“What in Durin’s name is that supposed to mean, kudz?

- What I said. I’m done with him.”

I waited – it was the only thing I could do save stroking his hair.

“He insulted you. He even abused you, called you a liar because you said you could talk to Ravens. So I yelled at him – I told him you could speak Raven-tongue, and that I could too, but he only laughed when I showed him some words, saying I sounded like an old wench with a cold... Then I told him I would never ever speak to him again before he took back all his words about you, but he laughed. He said he did not care, and that silence would be a welcome change.”

He had another soft sob, and then he went on:

“See...? I have spent so many weeks with him, I thought I finally managed to find someone who really liked me, not because I’m a Prince, or your brother, just because I’m me. I told him so many things about me, about you as well, he knows how much I... how I never could do without you... And then – he insults you, and... and me as well... And here I am again, clinging at you and crying. I’m so useless and stupid, Thorin...”

His hurt was also my hurt, I could not bear to see him so sad and broken, it made my own chest quiver, and my grip around him even stronger. I almost crushed him against me, and Frerin seemed to find comfort in it, for he also held me tighter.

“We should both learn – we should both learn not to take Dáin’s words too seriously, Frerin”, I said eventually, almost haltingly. “I don’t think he really means to hurt, when he says such things. He’s just tired, and bored, and angry because of me – it has nothing to do with you. And I’m sure – I’m sure he’ll try to make amends with you tomorrow, because he really loves you.

- But I won’t speak to him until he makes amends with you.

- You don’t have to be like this, Frerin. You don’t have to shut yourself away from people just because they have issues with me.

- If they have issues with you, they have issues with me”, Frerin said stubbornly. “What when you will be King? Will he still insult you like that, just because he’s jealous and thick-headed and moody?”

I had to smile at such a description of Dáin – unfair, yet not entirely wrong – and eventually I bent, touching foreheads with him.

“It’s just that... he never had a brother, see? So he doesn’t understand what it feels like. It’s a craft in itself, to take care of your brother, we both know that, don’t we?”

Frerin brushed his cheeks, wiping his tears away.

“Sure. And you’re a master in that craft, Thorin...

- As you are... Who’s warming up my feet right now? Who’s making sure I don’t get a single minute of sleep so that we both make the most of that chilly night?”

He had a soft laugh and I could feel his body relax at last.

“Dwalin also told me not to mind Dáin. It was Dwalin who called him thick-headed and moody – he wanted to help me with my clothes, but I did not let him. I don’t want any help... except yours. You are the only one who truly knows me, and there’s no one I trust and love more. I told them so – after that they were silent.”

He nestled against my chest, making himself more comfortable, and he did not notice that I too was silent, struck mute by so much love and faith, even after so many sorrows.

“Are you warm now, Thorin?

- I am...”, I whispered, and Frerin sighed.

“Good.”

His embrace was slackening slowly as he fell asleep, while I kept staring at the shadows, thinking of his words, and of Balin’s words – thinking of Dáin as well, wondering what I should do, how I could be on friendly terms with him again, I did not want us to fight, I did not want him to be jealous, I wanted everything to be simple, why in Mahal’s name was it so hard to achieve...?

“Up there, lazy ones...”

I had fallen asleep only a couple of hours ago, and I groaned as my cousin shook me awake – my eyes burnt, I just wanted to sleep...

“Come on, Thorin, time to eat...”

Dáin was facing me, and there was laughter in his eyes as he took me in – I was dishevelled and tired, just like Frerin. I sat up, and my brother clung to me, looking at Dáin with fierce eyes.

“The sun is shining outside...”, Dáin said, reaching out for Frerin’s arm who jerked away, almost knocking me down.

“Kudz, don’t...”

I yawned, and then I looked at them both – Frerin grim and fierce, still holding me, and Dáin looking embarrassed, yet still smiling.

“Mahal, just sort it out between yourselves, would you?”

I pushed Frerin away, gently, and then I fell back against my roll, hiding under my blanket, closing my eyes – I just wanted to sleep a bit more, my body was still sore...

“Hey!”

Frerin shook me, and Dáin removed my blanket – I let out another groan, and then resigned myself to facing them, still lying on the ground.

“It won’t work that way! He has to say he’s sorry to you, not to me!

- We both fought because of you!

- Look, I’m the one sorry here. Just stop arguing, would you? I don’t care for what happened yesterday, all right?”

They both looked at each other, and I could see a half smile begin to spread on Frerin’s lips – and another lighting Dáin’s eyes. But my relief was short, for I should have known better: seconds after they both leapt at me, tickling me, Dáin holding me while Frerin grasped for my chest, and when they finally let go I was breathless, close to begging... and definitely awake.

I watched them leave the tent, their arms entwined – and then I got up myself, stretching my limbs, reaching for my clothes, and dressing slowly. I was braiding my hair when Dwalin came, and I just smiled at him.

“Where have you been?”, he asked quietly.

“With Balin. Keeping watch a bit. Talking.

- About what?”

I shrugged my shoulders, and Dwalin let go – it was always easy with him, he was certainly not one to lose time with jealousy issues. He simply waited for me to be done, handing me my fur coat before we left the tent – and it was dry and warm indeed, I wrapped myself in it gratefully, sitting down with the others around the fire.

I was finishing breakfast when he finally came.

Suddenly the air around me seemed to grow still and I stiffened, laying down my plate and brushing the crumbs from my palms. I stood up slowly, whispering his name – I walked away from the fire, searching for the sky, not caring for my cousin’s perplexed looks, and then I extended my arm and suddenly there he was.

His hard claws clasped my forearm but it did not hurt – it never hurt, Roäc ever was careful, always seemed so light, and yet he was strong and tall for a Raven, his black eyes bright and changing like the noblest of onyx gems...

I did not touch him – I knew better. Roäc was a Raven-lord, not my pet, and the days where he had needed my warmth were long gone – my throat was tight and I think I was shaking, still I did not touch him, I just said his name again, softly, and then I greeted him.

“May the wind ever carry you swiftly, my friend.

- And may your days ever be lighted, Thorin son of Thráin.”

His voice was even, fresh as a gush of winter-wind, and I had missed it so much – somehow it still spoke of home, of long-past days where I would come and tell him of what I had learnt, while he would listen patiently, occasionally perching himself on my shoulders. On special days, he would even rub his head against my cheek – and his feathers ever had that soft and cool touch reminding me of clouds...

“I wish I had found you sooner, Thorin. Fire parted us, and I can see you have been cold. You have faced icy days, on that road, and I was not there. I hope you will forgive me.”

He shifted slightly on my forearm, and his claws embraced my wrist with such care that I had to look away. I had him all for myself, I was away from the fire – and the other Dwarves were too stunned by his arrival to come and search for me.

“You were powerless against that Fire. I am glad you escaped. I hope all the Ravens escaped.

- There have been deaths...”, Roäc answered, his voice as even as mine, despite our grief. “Yet as soon as my father understood what was coming, he made us all leave the Mountain. Faced with such Fire, there was nothing else to be done, Thorin, and yet I wished he had let me remain. I have thought of you every day, my friend.

- You had to lead your people to safety...”

I had whispered these words, and as I did so a tear made its way down my cheek at last. My face was still averted, and Roäc gently left my forearm for my shoulder. His head met my cheek, and it was as I remembered it – so soft for so strong a Raven, moist with raindrops that shone like pearls on his brow.

“It is as we feared, then, Thorin... It was your steps they followed, that winter – your will that urged everybody forward.”

He did not mind my tears – he was sorry for them, determined to keep them between us. I had walked away, I did not want my father to hear my words – and yet I still had to say them, I could not let Roäc ignore such sad truths.

“Erebor has crumbled... but, Roäc... I think... I think it also destroyed my father... and my grandfather...”

I had never said such words aloud, and another tear met my dear friend’s feathers, yet Roäc’s head never left my cheek.

“The King under the Mountain has long been acting strange, Thorin. It grieves me to hear he has not been able to fight back madness, but it does not surprise me. Thráin and my father have long known how fragile Erebor’s head truly was.

- He should have told me... He should have asked me for help... If he had not been alone to carry that burden, perhaps he would have... Perhaps he still would be...

- There was nothing more you could do, Thorin. You have always been there. You never left his side. You, your brother, your sister – his children have always been Thráin’s pride and joy. You never added a cloud to his troubled mind – you helped keeping them at bay. You still do... I am only sorry to see you have been so cold...”

I brushed my eyes, then, and my fingertips met his feathers. I was just a boy, facing a grown-up Raven, and the wisdom and compassion in his dark eyes seemed infinite.

“I am warmer now, Roäc. I am not alone. I am going to work very hard – so hard that no one will ever have to be cold again. There will be fires, and forges roaring again, one day – and I do not care how long it takes. We will endure, and one day we will be mighty again, I promise you.

- And I will help you, my friend.”

I smiled at him, then, and Roäc touched my cheek one last time, before perching himself on my wrist again.

I told him about the Crows, then, and he smiled as I described him our encounter. He told me how he had fared, as well, how the Ered Luin were a much smaller realm than Erebor, their Mountains softer, and without many riches, but where Dwarves still had a willing heart and had looked at the Ravens’ arrival with pleasure...

“These are poor lands that dearly need a King, Thorin... But you should not go there. Not yet. Let Men be the ones you trade and work with, for a while – it will be a hard life, but you will find some treasures there still, I am sure.”

How my heart warmed at these words, then... I had such desperate need to know we were taking the right course, that we would not be lost and doomed, following my grandfather’s strange ideas...

And Roäc’s advice ever was precious. He would stay at our side the whole journey to Dunland – it had been his own private oath to offer his service to me until he was sure I had settled down once more, and I never could thank him enough for it.

Somehow, Roäc’s arrival soothed everyone – disbelief and jealousy were all forgotten, because Roäc looked at every Dwarf with kindness and respect.

He made sure to greet my grandfather first, and his Khuzdûl must have reminded him of greater halls indeed, for I saw Thrór smile for the first time in days as Roäc bowed, slightly. It was my grandfather who remembered to ask him if he had been able to feed himself, and who made sure he would always have his share of meat and bread – and it warmed my heart indeed.

And then Roäc turned towards Thráin, and left my arm for my father’s. There he was, perched on his broad armguard where Ravens were engraved, my father’s long, dark locks spread on his shoulders – Erebor’s Raven-haired Prince indeed...

Thráin asked for Carc, and I saw his face relax once he knew his friend was safe. He stroked my friend’s feathers then, and Roäc did not mind – Thráin was a father and as such had some claims...

“Thank you”, my father said eventually, in a low voice. “Thank you for making my son so happy. Long have I yearned for his face to shine as it does today.”

I looked at Thráin – he was facing me, his eyes grave and loving. He was smiling, but suddenly I understood that he had witnessed more than I had thought – that I had never been able to keep my grief from him, and that, though his mind was not whole, he had ever wanted to be able to help me...

And I resolved silently to hope, and to keep my grief from him should these hopes crumble, for it was not his fault, and I was not to add a single cloud to the darkness that was so often engulfing his mind.

How I rejoiced in seeing my friend greeting all those I loved... Náin was used to Ravens, and bowed low. So did Fundin, and Balin, who had known Roäc for years indeed.

But the best was to see him with my siblings and my cousins. Dwalin was so in awe that he barely said a word, at first – but Dáin was reduced to silence as Frerin ran towards Roäc, his face beaming.

He offered him his arm, and my friend perched himself upon it, smiling at Frerin’s joy, and my brother was prattling half in Raven-tongue, half in Khuzdûl, explaining to Roäc Dáin had doubted him, and informing Dáin he had been wrong, but Roäc only smiled.

And Dís... my lovely little Dís...

She searched for Dwalin’s embrace, letting him wrap his arms around her shoulders, keeping her safe. She was watching Roäc silently, looking at Frerin and me every now and then, not moving forward.

And when Dwalin bent, asking her softly to greet Roäc, she stiffened against him, burying her face in his chest.

“What if I don’t speak Raven-tongue? What will they all think of me?”

He hoisted her up on his hip then – he was so tall she was perched high indeed, and then he brushed one of her loose strains from her small face.

“It won’t change anything, Dís. Never. You will always be worthy to them, and to everyone.”

Roäc must have heard his words, for he turned towards them – and his dark gaze warmed as he took Dwalin in, and as he saw my sister’s troubled, serious face.

“Be greeted, Thráindaughter. Words are bridges, and the wanderer does not mind the shape of the stones, as long as he can cross water to pursue his journey. You do not have to speak to me. But should you choose to do so, rest assured in knowing I will treasure every word, in whatever language you chose to address me.”

She pondered his words, and then she bowed, her locks meeting Dwalin’s chest who was still holding her.

“I am glad you came. Thorin was waiting for you.”

She wavered for some seconds – and then she added:

“I think I can speak your language. But I won’t use it now, because Dwalin is there – he does not speak it, you see, and I don’t want him to be unable to understand what I say. It would be very rude, very unfeeling, and Dwalin does not deserve it.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around my friend – and I could see Dwalin’s cheeks get slightly coloured behind his whiskers. He looked at Dís in deep surprise, and Roäc bowed.

“You are a true Princess, Dís daughter of Thráin. The treasure of Durin’s line indeed...”

He flew back to me, in the end – he would always fly back to me, after the talks ended, and when he would come back from his scouting flights... He knew how much I loved him, how much I needed him to remember who I was – not just a boy strolling through the wild, all my belongings on my back, my boots muddy and my rings turned towards my palm to keep them from the dust.

I was a Prince still, a Prince who had resolved to strive hard, for I remembered where I came from, and was determined never to forget it – one day there would be halls, and fires, and forges roaring again...

He made us keep clear of the Elvenking’s Forest – his black eyes earnest, so wise that even my grandfather agreed almost at once.

“Do not enter these woods, for they are against you. The Elvenking has shown his face to you – and it is no longer a friendly one.

- It never was”, my grandfather growled, and then he urged everyone to keep clear of the trees, and stay close to their border.

We left the riverbanks then, having made sure our water supplies were full, for there would be no stream until we reached the Anduin. We were sure to have rain again – it would be a two full week’s journey, and though the sun was shining, the clouds had not entirely left, for it was early spring still.

We kept clear of the trees – and as we left Roäc whispered to me:

“I am glad he did not hurt you in Erebor, Thorin.

- Who?”, I asked, taking a last look at the River Running and then turning my back on the water.

“The Elvenking.

- I wish he had tried”, I answered, my voice full of repressed fire and hatred, and Roäc’s claws tightened their grip around my shoulder – he would perch himself there as I walked, for I needed my arms to keep free.

“Did you not wonder why he came so swiftly, after the Dragon’s attack? Why his men stood ready while yours struggled to keep their ground...?”

I looked at him, and his beak gently touched one of my hair clasps as my gaze clouded.

“No... I thought you had warned him. I did not think, actually, Roäc. There was no time.”

I was walking with such rage that some earth rose against my boots, falling against the faded iron cladding its tips.

“We think he had planned an attack upon Erebor. He wants these white gems back, Thorin. Even now, he still does – perhaps he even thinks you have them. That is why I do not want you to enter those trees. He has shown you mercy the day the Dragon came – I am not sure he will do that again...

- Mercy, Roäc?”

My voice was so fierce that my friend had to squeeze my shoulder again – and I remembered then that he was not the Elvenking, that I had no right to speak to him in such tone...

“Forgive me, Roäc. It is just – there was no mercy in what he did. He rejoiced to see us hurt, dying and barely able to breathe – he who has an everlasting life... He could have helped us... I did not ask him to enter Erebor and fight the Dragon – I did not ask it of you, I would not have asked it of him. But he could have helped us with the wounded... brought us some supplies... That would have been mercy, indeed...”

Roäc placed his head against my cheek – he always did when I raged, and it always helped to calm me down. Even as I was struggling, back in Erebor, even while words around me seemed twisted, where I did not know anymore who was a friend and who was a foe... I could recognize his touch, that cold, soft stroke against my cheek...

He was not always there, though. There were long hours where he was away, hunting or scouting, and also those where I slept or had to eat myself – the first days he stayed longer with me, because we had missed each other, but afterwards we both gave the other back his freedom, and I would treasure those conversations with him.

We had reached half of the journey towards the Anduin – had kept silent while trees were in sight, and they were still, a broad line on our right, while the desolate Brown Lands stretched on our left.

The Ered Luin could be seen as soft, tiny curves on the horizon, but we would not go there. Yet I smiled, as I saw them – these were Mountains, this was Roäc’s new home...

But my friend did not smile, there was worry on his brow as he scrutinized the desolate, burned hills that gave their name to the Brown Lands, and he soon left my shoulder, reaching for the sky, telling me he would be back.

Night was closing in when he did, and we had just decided to rest, were ready to plant the tents in the shelter of two low hills, when Roäc came back.

I barely had time to extend my arm, this time, and Roäc spoke at once, using Khuzdûl so that everyone could understand.

“No fires tonight, Thorin. And double the guards.”

I looked at him, puzzled, yet his next words made my whole body tense and a shiver of dread run down my spine.

“A pack of forty. Only a mile away – they might not catch your scent, but if they do... try to face them by daylight.”

Wolves.

Chapter Text

Many battles I have faced, against evil creatures – Goblins, Orcs, Wargs, Spiders... The Dragon, twice. And the Pale Orc, three times – there he lies, on the ice. That evil is silenced, unable to harm, at last – I made sure, I made sure this time, I watched him die, his limbs slackening and his breath dying in his foul mouth...

He is dead, and it does not matter that I am dying as well. All that matters is that I made sure this time, so that he will never rise through ice and fire again.

I faced Men, as well – Men who did not believe in anything anymore, who were cruel and blood-thirsty, but sometimes only desperate and starving... Some I have killed, and it was because I had to – I never relished in that, for Men are different... Men have faces like us, breathe and love like we do – and though they are tall, their bones break easily, their muscles are soft, they often seemed as made of clay to me, and I never could rejoice in their deaths...

I hope he is not dead, the Bargeman I will never be able to meet again, to tell him how I wish we had had more time, that circumstances could have been different – I wish I could tell him about Cillian, and about those I loved among his kin, but I cannot. I can only pray that no arrow broke through his lean frame, that no sword harmed him, that he still stands tall on Dale’s shattered walls...

But that day, so long ago, we did not face creatures twisted by evil, and we did not face Men... That day it was different – for the first time in my life, I faced raw instinct, where no feeling could prevail, neither hatred nor fear...

For these wolves were no Wargs. They had been drawn from their territories by starvation and savage hunting, and their number in itself was unusual. I had read about wolves, and I knew they were generally moving in smaller packs, that they would even rather hunt alone so that they could be faster and deadlier...

Forty wolves – it could only mean they had been forced to flee and regroup, that they would not recoil from attacking us, for we were made of flesh and blood, and they were starving... And when I recall that day – I think it stands out so clear in my mind because in a way, the wolves and us, we were the same, we were all fleeing, trying to survive, and ready to die trying...

Of course they found us. It did not matter that we moved at once, regrouping the carts in the middle of the warriors, the women and the elderly sheltered between them, and Dís secluded in my father’s iron grip, while we boys had pulled on our chainmail and our armguards without a word.

We walked swiftly – and I remember the awareness in my grandfather’s gaze, for Thrór knew wolves, and how to face them.

“I want every man and boy able to hold a sword to be ready. The warriors in the outer circle, and don’t you dare to utter a sound – I want you to walk silently, and swiftly. If they approach, stay still – let them come, don’t rush towards them, this is what they seek, to chase you, we won’t let them make us run.”

His eyes were shining – and I suddenly realized he relished in that perspective. Thrór never shrank from battle, and though he had not fought for many decades, he had faced the Orcs in our exile just as if he was still a young warrior. The wolves did not frighten him, and I even wondered if he did not look forward to an attack.

We moved, we walked fast and swiftly, and the night was dark when we heard the sound we had all dreaded – causing us to freeze.

A howl, shortly followed by another, its low moan stretching and echoing against the forlorn hills, making my flesh creep.

The carts were instantly dragged together, the women and those unable to fight regrouped in the space thus delimited, and the warriors formed the outer circle, while the rest of us stood between the carts and them.

“No”, my father simply said, when he saw Frerin ready to take his place at my side.

Thráin did not care for Dís’ small arms clinging around his chest – he simply kissed her tiny brow, and then he placed her in my brother’s arms, his grey eye commanding.

“You guard your sister, dashtith...

- But...”

My father did not even let him finish, he simply pushed him back among the carts, and then he moved them so that the protection ring was closed, before turning towards me.

He wavered for an instant – but I was ready and so were Dwalin and Dáin, we had all pulled our weapons, and the days were long gone where he would have had the right to forbid me to fight: I had already fought, we had even fought each other...

Náin and Fundin did not waver – they both clasped their sons’ shoulders, quickly touched foreheads, and I think Fundin whispered something into Dwalin’s ear, but I was looking at my father, waiting for him to do the same.

Thráin only bowed – a small nod of the head, not even touching me. And now I know why – I know that had he touched me, he would not have been able to let go, that he would have me there behind the carts with the women and my siblings, sheltered and safe.

And this could not be.

“Maimhid, dashat”, he only said, and then he left.

It was the first time I stood next to Dwalin in battle – and it was not even a real battle, at first, we just held our ground, the night around us a single black void, where no sound was uttered anymore and where the only shape we could discern was the even line of the warriors’ backs.

There he stood, next to me – he was so tall, almost as tall as my father, and I remember hoping I would soon grow, that Mahal would please make me as tall, that I would soon grow out of the child I felt next to him, despite my battle gear...

Such were my thoughts – what a child I was indeed, so worried to be worthy, not realizing it did hardly matter, that Dwalin did not even care...

I grew as tall, in the end – it took me five years, for five summers he had more than me. By then of course, he had grown himself, and in the end I never fully reached his height – his forehead he always kept above mine, but I never cared, and neither did he.

Other howls scarred the night, and my fingers tightened around my sword, but nothing happened. My grandfather had been right – the wolves were reluctant to attack as long as we stood our ground, and it took them a while.

But in the end they did – attacked us in groups, and soon we could see frames fighting through the night, three warriors for one wolf, in a fierce and ruthless embrace.

The first circle broke between minutes – the warriors spreading through the lands, still fighting, but some had remained and they urged us to stay still and hold our ground.

A strange night it was – broken by sounds, yet without any battle-cries... And we could only watch, it was forbidden to move, we had to be ready should there be another attack.

It was still dark and cold, dawn was not yet reaching us. I could feel Dwalin breathe next to me, we stood so close, both ready, our bodies tense and wary...

And suddenly they came, breaking through the warriors who were still fighting – three tall, fierce, hungry wolves who came running towards us, each one hurling itself at one Dwarf.

I could hear screams behind me, and next to me, and then we both saw it approach. We reacted instantly, not even having to talk. As the wolf jumped, we both shifted, Dwalin on the right and me on the left, and we hit the wolf’s flanks, causing it to run back with a whelping sound.

“It’s gone...”, Dwalin whispered, and I nodded.

“Wasn’t too difficult...”, he added, and I turned around to make sure no one was injured – it did not seem so, the three wolves had withdrawn and suddenly I felt uneasy.

“They might come back...”, I whispered, and I was right.

This time there were more wolves – or so it seemed to me, perhaps they were only five, and just seemed many to me. They came, leapt at our ranks, tried to snatch one of us away – yet always failed, because we stood so close to each other, because no one ran, everybody holding his ground...

It happened ten times at least – and it was unnerving, the endless waiting, the sudden attack, and the fear, for the wolves were tall compared to us, and their fangs razor-sharp.

The night was withdrawing slowly, and we could finally see – see that the warriors were still fighting against twenty wolves, five of the beasts already dead, while no Dwarf seemed seriously injured: it was a fight of both strength and nerves, but Thrór’s experience had led us safely until dawn, and the battle would probably soon be over...

And then he came.

A huge wolf, running fast, his grey fur almost white in his speed – he had golden eyes, savage and unyielding, that only spoke of raw force, unleashed, drawn by hunger... I know he had no feelings, could not have any feelings, that the only thing drawing him was instinct, and yet – it did not seem entirely natural, that run, that determined leap, for he hurled himself straight at me.

He jumped at me, because the odds stood very clear for that instinct-driven creature: I was the smallest, the tiniest, yet I stood in the front – and somehow I did not shift, this time, it just happened so fast, and the golden eyes were telling me so clearly that I didn’t stand a chance, that I was just too small, not fierce enough, and afraid...

He leapt at me – and suddenly I felt pain, so much pain, his fangs had buried themselves in my right shoulder, he was dragging me back, running away from our lines, and I tried to pull free, tried and only felt more pain in my shoulder, making my vision darken for precious seconds while my sword fell from my hand.

I know Dwalin hurt him – I know he thrust his sword, that it hit his flank and caused a deep, gushing wound, for I have seen it afterwards.

But the wolf had already drawn back, his bite around me deepening, causing me to moan – I could not even scream, I just could feel these fangs, and the ground against which he was dragging me: my head, my back, my legs, even my left arm, they were scratching against earth and stone, and I tried to lift my arm, tried to hit him with my axe, but I did not reach him, I could not see, and it hurt...

I could hear the wolf’s hurried breathing, feel it against my face, he just kept running, his paws inches from my body – I tried to hit him once more, found his ear somehow, heard him howl without releasing his bite...

And then – just as I was feeling my body getting limp and numb, because I could not stay conscious, the pain was just too sharp, I could not even feel my arm anymore, I just hung there while he dragged me away...

Then I suddenly heard him howl, loudly, with such rage and pain that his jaws parted, his fangs releasing my shoulder.

I fell on the ground, hit it with a thump that seemed to echo through every bone – and I instinctively drew my knees against my chest, I still had enough wit and strength to do that, I had been well-trained...

I wore my chainmail, but it slips in battle and even our bodies have their weak points – where there are no bones, only muscles that remain flesh, and where nearly every wound is deadly... I had been trained to shield my abdomen, dragging my knees against my chest, and it saved my life.

As I lay there on the ground, my right arm useless and my vision darkening, I saw the wolf bend upon me – saw these golden eyes once more, and that grey, luxurious fur that was stained with blood, an arrow pointing out of his left flank...

And I... I did not... did not understand how this arrow could be there, because no one... no one used arrows, and I... I was far away from the other Dwarves, I was... so far away and the wolf, he was... breathing so close to me... he was...

Pain, reaching through the thick fabric of my trousers, his fangs had found my leg, and I moaned.

Pain... and no weapon, my ax... I had let go of my ax... I was going to... I was going to die... I was too small, not fierce enough, I did not deserve to survive, I had lost, I had failed...

A strange wheezing noise, and suddenly – suddenly the wolf’s head reached my chest indeed, causing my breath to leave my lungs and my whole body to quiver, it hurt and I was so afraid...

But the wolf lay still. His fangs had released their grip around my leg, and as I looked at his head, searching for that golden, unforgiving gaze, I realized his eyes were closed.

An arrow lay deep in his head, and the great wolf was dead.

I pulled away, tried at least, I could not recover, my arm hurt too much, I just writhed my body and kicked myself free, I dragged myself away from the wolf’s fangs, my body shaking violently and small, strangled moans leaving my lips – I did not understand, I couldn’t move, I was so afraid, I could barely move and there were more wolves, I could not recover and yet I had to, they would leap at me, bite me, I had to fight them...

I struggled and kicked indeed, as my body met another, I even tried to scream but only managed to let out the same choked sound – and suddenly voices reached through my pain:

“Thorin, it’s me. Thorin, don’t struggle, it’s over.

- You are safe, he’s dead – he’s dead, I made sure of it.”

I turned – and it was Dwalin, holding me upright, and it was Frerin, gazing at me, cupping my face between his palms, brushing my skin to calm me down, because I was shaking, and not able to breathe properly – not even able to ask how he could be there, he was not supposed to be there...

“It’s all right, Thorin, it’s all right, he is dead, he is dead. He is there, lying on the ground, he won’t reach you, he won’t harm you, just breathe, listen to me – listen to me, Thorin...”

Someone was moaning, someone was breathing like a frightened, injured child, and it took me a moment to realize it was me – I was just gazing at Frerin, my body still rigid with fear, my face between his hands, unable to understand what he was saying...

But gradually his words got through my fear – and my breathing calmed down, I was not making these terrible sounds anymore, I was just looking at my brother who had killed that wolf somehow, who had saved my life, and I could not understand.

“I shot him”, Frerin said – he always read my eyes and soul, and his voice was calm as he went on:

“There was no way I would stay there, shielded and hidden away while you all fought! I climbed on the carts as soon as I could, I made Dís promise not to move, and I was there the whole battle. I saw the attack, and I had my arrow ready, but somehow it was not needed, you were all pushing them back... And then I saw that wolf arrive.”

A painful, shuddering breath left my lips, and Frerin brushed my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

“Ssshhh, Thorin, it’s all right. It’s all right. I told you, I shot him. In the flank first, so that it could let go of you – I could not risk aiming for his head, your own face was too close, and we don’t want you scarred now, do we...?”

He smiled at me – I could not believe he was so calm, that he had managed to keep his nerve so as to act...

“But once he let go of you – I shot him straight in the head. I tried to be quick, Thorin, I just had to place the next arrow, I tried to be as fast as I could...

- Maikhmin...”

My lips were so cold and numb I barely managed to speak, I think I even stuttered, but I had to say it, I had to say it again and again just to make sure he heard it, and to make sure I was alive indeed.

Maikhmin. Maikhmin. Maikhmin.

My kudzaduz, my brave brother, my treasure, my little archer, for you it seemed a game, you were so proud, you did not waver, you killed that wolf because he had me, and yet you never liked giving death, except for saving a life...

“A craft in itself...”, Frerin said softly, his eyes shining with love.

And I buried my face in his chest, Dwalin slowly letting go of me so that Frerin could embrace me. I breathed in his scent – it smelt faintly of earth somehow, fresh earth after an early spring rain...

“I... I can’t move my arm...”

I had let out the words through my gritted teeth – I wanted to wrap my arms around him and I couldn’t, and now that fear let go, slowly, I was struggling to keep upright. The pain was washing out everything in my mind – I could barely see, I just knew something was wrong with my right arm, I could not move my shoulder, it did not even really feel like my shoulder, and this was terrible.

It meant I could not fight, not work, it meant I was a burden, a failure, a dead weight – I had to be able to move again, I just had to, it was nothing, it could not be...

“Don’t move it, Thorin...”

My brother gently supported my arm, his hand getting under my elbow, and I let out a groan. My left hand moved, clutching my wrist – I stirred at last, letting go of Frerin, dragging my arm against my chest and doubling up in pain.

“Let go, lad.”

Oín’s gruff voice reached through the hurt – somehow he was there, though I did not remember him coming. I could feel his hand against mine, trying to undo the grip of my fingers.

“Let go, I’m holding your arm.”

He was there, kneeling next to me, black-eyed, grim-faced as ever, and I let go, slowly, my breath uneven as I felt his other hand search for my shoulder, feeling for my bones under my chainmail. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, sweat drenching my forehead – but I let him.

“It’s not broken. But your shoulder’s out of place. Have to push it back.”

I nodded, my eyes still shut. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth and I could not speak.

“We have to remove your clothes. No matter how, it will hurt, lad.

- It’s all right...”

I did not recognize my voice, it sounded choked and tiny. I opened my eyes and my vision was swimming – Frerin was still close, only inches away from me, while Dwalin knelt behind me so that I could lean against him.

“I’d rather have you drink something first. To knock you out a bit.

- No. We have to move on... just do it without.

- Thorin, take it.”

Frerin’s voice was earnest, he felt for my hand and squeezed it gently.

“Please.”

I looked at him – saw worry in his eyes, he looked nothing like a child, suddenly, and I did not know how to oppose that earnest plea, he had just saved my life, had not wavered, had not missed his target despite of the danger... I was the failure, I had no right to protest...

I nodded again, and a flask was raised to my lips – and I swallowed fire, or so it seemed. I coughed, averted my face, meeting Dwalin’s strong arm, but Oín clicked his tongue.

“One more...”, he said, and I obeyed.

Soon my vision began to swim for good, and I felt light-headed, leaning deeper against Dwalin. Oín’s voice seemed far away when he spoke once more.

“Right, lads. Dwalin, you hold him. Frerin, you help me remove his clothes and chainmail. No matter what he does, you keep pulling, got it?”

My brother nodded, and suddenly I felt pain again. They were moving my shoulder, they were pulling my chainmail from me, and Mahal it hurt, causing me to moan despite my gritted teeth, beads of sweat reaching my eyes. I was shaking when they finally tossed my chainmail on the ground, along with my belt and jerkin, and Frerin whispered:

“Can’t we just cut his tunic and shirt?”

But I shook my head. I only had three shirts, and as many tunics, I could not afford to lose them, I would have to endure.

“Just get them off. I am fine.”

Yet I moaned again as they freed my arm from my clothes, and when Oín touched my shoulder again, I grasped his hand, holding it at bay. I stayed like this for several minutes, my jaws fiercely clenched, sweat clouding my vision, shaking against Dwalin who was holding me steadily.

“I am sorry. Go on. Just do it.”

I did not look at my shoulder, I simply could not. I could feel it was out of place, causing my arm to hang limply at my side, sending off searing waves of pain engulfing my chest.

But it was nothing compared to what came next.

Oín made Frerin hold my valid arm, while Dwalin was asked to restrain me, maintaining me firmly against him. And Oín pulled, and turned, and pushed, and he did not care for the quivers that went through my whole body – he simply went on pushing.

And suddenly I heard an awful noise – a clunk of bone meeting joint again, and pain washed through my body, so intense that I gladly would have fainted, but I did not. I just sagged against Dwalin, felt something hot rise in my throat, and gave back some of the strong, burning drink I had just swallowed.

“Well, that went fine...”, Oín said almost good-humouredly, patting my knee as I wiped my mouth, my face ashen and my body drenched in sweat.

“That went quite fine...”

I stared at him, watched him get up, telling me he would come back to dress my shoulder, his black eyes serious once more.

“Don’t let him touch me again...”, I whispered.

Dwalin laughed, I could feel his body shake against mine, and Frerin smiled too, brushing the back of my hand.

“He patched you up alright”, Dwalin said.

It was paining me, though. The wolf’s fangs had dug deep into my chainmail, and had left huge bruises that spread on my chest and back. My shoulder was swollen, and the rest of my body was grazed where I had been dragged against the ground.

There was blood on my trousers as well, where he had bitten me, but I did not feel anything, and I looked at the crimson patch spreading slowly, thinking again and again that I had failed.

Oín applied ointment upon my shoulder and then bandaged it tightly. He made me pull on my shirt and tunic and then he placed my arm into a sling, maintaining it against my chest with another shred of fabric he tied around my arm and back.

“Thank you”, I whispered once it was done.

“Don’t lay any strain upon that shoulder for a week”, Oín simply said.

He bent upon my leg then, removed my boot and sock, pulled up my trousers, his large hand behind my knee. There was blood everywhere, trickling down my knee, reaching my foot, and Oín wiped it away silently, looking at the wound I owed to the wolf’s fangs.

“Looks worse than it is...”, he let out at last, bending my knee and tensing it, unmoved by the fresh gush of blood his movement caused.

“Can’t stitch it up, lad. Would only cause infection. You’ll be fine – we’re used to wolf bites, I don’t think it will swell. You have a family heirloom there to keep you from harm – King Thrór, and Thráin, their blood’s immune, that’s for sure...”

He grinned – he was in a good mood that day, Oín, because there had been no serious injuries, no deaths. Several Dwarves had wounds similar to mine, but nothing vital, nothing that could prevent us from moving on.

The fight had not lasted long after my fall – the great wolf was the leader, as soon as he was brought down, the rest of the pack soon dispersed, fleeing from us, withdrawing.

Following instinct.

“Now let’s clean it, laddie, and bandage it, and then you’ll rest a bit. That drink was strong...”

I winced when he cleaned the wound, using the same liquid I had swallowed – and I did not wonder anymore at my spinning head, for it burned my skin like fire.

“There you go, lad.”

He had bandaged my knee quickly, and he actually patted my foot once, smiling at its size, still smaller than his hand – and he was still smiling as I tried to draw it back with a fierce move.

“Wait, laddie...”

His chin pointed to my shoulder – and I had to let him put my sock back on my foot, but then I grabbed my boot and pulled it on myself, and covered my wound with my trousers, my eyes glowering.

“Thank you, Oín.

- Rest a bit”, he repeated, still looking amused, and then he left.

And I leant against Dwalin again – my head felt light, but my heart was racing. I still could feel the wolf’s fangs around my shoulder, I remember the terrible fear I had felt as I had hung between those mighty jaws, I still could see these golden eyes, so full of raw force. There had been no pity, only hunger and determination.

And then blood, and death.

My fingers tightened around Frerin’s once more, and I clung to his hand – his able little hand that had saved my life. Alone in the wild, I would have died – Nature’s laws were raw, and ruthless. But I had not been alone, not that day...

“Maimhid, kudzaduz.”

He just entwined my fingers with mine – and he did not let go. Not even when my grandfather came, and ruined the peace that had finally got through my pain and fear.

“What happened here?”, Thrór asked, and I recovered, breaking free from Dwalin.

“He was injured, uzbad”, Dwalin answered quietly. “His right shoulder was dislocated.”

The cold gaze of my grandfather met mine – and I could read displeasure in these icy orbs, causing me to rise to my feet, staggering yet able to stand.

“Well, it looks back into place now”, Thrór said, his broad hand actually clutching it, while I repressed a start.

“My grandson is tough, he does not sit idly while others strive, he fights, always, and he knows no pain. Get your weapons and your bag, Thorin. Come on, I want you at my side today...”

I nodded wordlessly, repressing a shiver. I was without chainmail, I just had my tunic, and I was feeling so cold: the wind was icy and I was still drenched in sweat. My head was spinning, my knees felt weak and I cursed Oín’s drink silently as I bent down, gathering the sword Dwalin had brought back to me, searching for my ax.

“Grandfather, he is hurt...”, Frerin said, and there was a challenge in his voice. “He can’t carry his weapons, he has to spare his shoulder.

- Of course...”, my grandfather said softly, and there was such contempt in his voice that Frerin took a step back.

“You would have him curl up like a Dwarfling, nursing his little grazes... Sometimes I wonder if you realize who we are – have I really passed on nothing to all of you?!”

Frerin swallowed hard, but he only grabbed my chainmail, holding it against him – his own, silent way to tell me there was no way I would carry this burden, not while he was here.

“Grandfather...”, I whispered, having found my ax, holding both of my weapons with my uninjured arm.

“I will join you. Lead on. Let me just clean my blades.”

He smiled at me, then – and it did not warm my heart, it was a hard, cold smile that only spoke of misplaced pride. He wanted me at his side as a proof that his line was still strong – that he led in battle and that I followed, that we both were unbreakable, defying death just like Durin had done. There was no room for hurt and weakness in his mind – and I knew I would have to strap my weapons on my back, and lift that bag with Mahal’s help, because I had no choice.

I had already failed, had already been a disgrace today – I would not fail again, I could not bear the shame of it.

“Thorin...”, Dwalin whispered once my grandfather had turned his back, but I cut his speech at once.

“Please. I will be fine. It doesn’t really hurt anymore.”

I was lying, and the three of us knew. But I did not let them voice their thoughts, I just asked Dwalin to help me, silently, and I remember how dark his eyes looked as he lifted my bag and watched me hoist it up on my back.

I looked at Frerin, giving him a sad little smile – it was lighter than it should, he must have removed some items, but my brother only looked at me, his grey eyes bright and full of grief.

Then Dwalin helped me strap my weapons on my back, taking care to fasten the leather-band around my left shoulder. And I left them, trying to walk evenly, to ignore the crushing weight of my bag upon my injured shoulder, and the throbbing pain in my knee.

My grandfather smiled at me when I met him, and his hand searched for my left arm, squeezing it almost with care. He entwined his arm with mine and dragged me along, his steps wide and brisk as always, and I followed.

“I am happy to walk with you, Thorin. I have missed you at my side...”, Thrór said, casting a side-glance at me.

It took me a while to answer – my teeth were clenched and I was struggling to keep up with his pace, but I was determined to achieve it, he wanted me at his side, where I had sworn to be...

“I was not far away, grandfather...”, I whispered, and Thrór smiled.

“I know... You have always been reliable, Thorin. You are strong. You are brave. You make up for everything... everything my son is not.”

His voice had become colder, and my throat tightened. My father did not even know I was injured, everything had happened so fast – he had fought bravely as ever, at Náin’s side as so often, he had not failed, he was not the one who should bear shame...

“Grandfather... He is brave. He is strong. He is... he is my father.”

I had spoken in a faint voice and my grandfather’s hand brushed my arm, once, almost gently.

“See, that is why I want you at my side. Loyalty, Thorin... This is what a King needs most, and loyal you are, always have been and always will. You won’t fail me, Thorin. You are not like your father, not like your brother, you know where your duties lie...”

I did not answer, this time. My gaze wandered around – I could only see dark, burnt, barren land, and the curves of that forlorn landscape seemed to waver before my eyes, it looked so desolate...

It was such a lie, such a lie – I wished I could scream out what a lie it was, they were both brave, they both knew their duties, I was the unreliable one, not even able to fight and save my own life...

“I need you to listen to what I have to tell. I want... There are things I need to pass on to you... I tried with your father, but he did not listen, somehow it was lost to him, I failed to...”

And there his voice trailed off.

I have never seen my grandfather cry. Not even when Erebor was lost – I have seen him rage, spit out his scorn like curses, but I never witnessed any tear. I guess his eyes dried once and for all when he was very young – when he saw his father and brother slain by Drakes, and was forced to lead on, forgetting he had the right to shed tears as well.

Thrór hated tears, just like every form of weakness – just as he hated himself for not being able to finish that sentence.

His grip tightened around my arm, he drew a deep breath, and then he asked me:

“Are you listening, Thorin?

- Yes, grandfather.

- Will you remember it?

- Yes, grandfather.

- Promise you will, Thorin.

- I promise.”

My breath was short – he was working so fast, with such rage and urge, dragging me along like a helpless bundle... and suddenly he slowed down, gazing down at me once more. His broad hand found my face and he cupped my cheek, brushing one of my soaked braids aside with a move that was almost tender.

“You remind me of him, you know... Your father used to walk at my side just like this. I told him to come and he came. I told him to go and he went. He was always easy to deal with, often I even wondered what was going on in his mind, he was always so calm... Sometimes he would get angry, though – but he knew it annoyed me, he kept it low, he was a sweet lad, Thorin... And yet I wish he had been born with more strength, more strong will. I wish he had been more like you...”

The sorrow in his voice was deep, but it was nothing compared to the pain I felt, for his words cut through me like knives.

“Please, grandfather, do not say such things... He is your son. He has served you well and loyally. He is worthy of your love...

- Oh yes, I suppose so, but Thorin... One day I won’t be there anymore. One day he will have to be King. And I do not think he can be – and it... it grieves me beyond measure.”

He spoke so calmly... I think that is when I realized how terrible his grief and disappointment actually was.

“So I have to plan, and act. I have to explain it to you, what it means to be King. I have to help you realize how you have to behave, so that you know how to rule and lead... So that you can do it when and where your father cannot.

- Grandfather...”

There was a desperate plea in my voice, and Thrór’s hand left my cheek as his gaze hardened. And I swallowed my words, and just bowed my head.

“I am listening...”, I whispered tonelessly.

And when he began to walk again, I followed – when he began to speak, I stayed silent, not cutting his speech a single time, letting every word meet me fully, for I owed it to him.

Yet how it hurt.

“Golden Stair, Thorin... Zeleg’ubraz... I haven’t told you about that place yet, have I? Stairs covered with golden engravings, leading into the Mountains – you could see them shine in the morning sun, ablaze in the snow, they were so bright, Thorin, so bright... I used to play there with my brothers, we would chase each other along the stairs, running down the steps – we were foolish, I know, but we enjoyed to see them shine... Erebor was nothing compared to that glow, I wish you could have seenthem, Thorin... The Grey Mountains...”

He had a dreamy look in his eyes, his hand had slackened around my arm, slid along my wrist so that his fingers entwined themselves with mine – and I held them. I held them, my throat tight, watching his gaze cloud and his face darken again.

“But we were fools. I have learnt my lesson there, Thorin. You cannot display gold the way we did, for everyone to see. This world is greedy, this world is mean – some will tell you it is not true, that there is kindness and love and mercy somewhere, don’t believe them. Don’t let their words fool you, grandson, there is no safe place, no one you can trust but yourself – hide your treasures, Thorin. Don’t share them, don’t let anyone see them, otherwise they will be taken.”

His face was grim, he was crushing my knuckles, and I could only gaze up at him, my body meeting his hard, mighty, imposing frame, his bones even harder than his chainmail...

He looked down at me, and I must have looked as small and tiny as my nephews always seemed to me as children, for he released his grip and stopped, for a while. He crouched – his move was supple, he still was strong and able, despite his age – and then he faced me, his gaze searching my face, his broad palm brushing my cheek.

“Am I scaring you with my words, grandson? Your skin is cold and you are pale... I have to say such things to you, I have no choice, you have to understand, I cannot let you cling to pointless dreams, I have seen what dreaming led to, just look at your father...”

I shook my head – I did not really know what I was doing anymore. My injured arm rested against my chest and I could feel my own hurried breathing, but I still faced him. And when Thrór dragged me against him, when my cheek met the pearls adorning his magnificent beard, I let him – I leant against him, for a while, while my grandfather’s chin rested against my head.

“The Drakes came because we displayed our gold like fools, and there was blood and fire everywhere...”

My grandfather’s voice was calm, his words meeting my braids – and I shivered, thinking of my own Fire, of my own, dear Mountain where there had been no golden stairs, where beauty lay inside, dark and secret, where wealth could be seen yet where treasures kept hidden...

“They all died. My father, and my brother. Everyone but Grór, and me, and some warriors. I was forty-seven years old – I was barely of age. And Grór, he was... I think he was barely older than you. That winter, Thorin, we fed ourselves with bats. We chased them, in every cave, and we ate their wings. And we fought wolves, as well – the dogs we have faced today, they were mere puppies compared to those we faced...”

He brushed my hair, then – I think that somehow he tried to reassure me, for my body was tense, I was so full of dread, imagining his despair, his hunger, his fear....

“Don’t be afraid, son, they all died. We made ourselves coats out of their furs, and they kept us warm... Borin, my uncle – he had travelled, he knew how to skin them so that we could use both flesh and fur to keep alive... And when spring came I knew. I knew I would have to search for another Mountain, a place where I could try to make us mighty again, and feared... I wanted a strong place, Thorin – a place where no one could get in uninvited, and Erebor... Erebor lay there, abandoned, unthought-of... I did not really choose it, you know. I had no choice in that, Thorin, it was the only Mountain left save Khazad-Dûm.”

His voice was so hard – and it was then I realized it, when it suddenly became so clear to me why I was feeling so estranged from him, and sometimes even from my father: they did not love Erebor the way I did. Thrór had returned to it guided by reason, not by love... and he had grown to be proud of the Mountain again, but love it – no, I could hear it in his voice, his heart still lay on those golden, shiny stairs, somewhere in the Grey Mountains, buried in ashes and smoke...

And my father – my father had been born there in Erebor, but he drew his first breath in dreary times. Fifty years had passed, and it was nothing in Dwarven age, there still was so much to do, so many mouths to feed, and battles to lead – and he was the only child, because just like Dís, his birth had also caused his mother’s death. He was unhappy in that Mountain, always had been – and I had only realized it in the Iron Hills, when I had seen him with Náin and Grór...

“I knew it was a hard path, and many doubted me. Borin – he said I should heed for the Iron Hills first, and Grór liked the idea, ever was one for forges and furnaces, that one... It was safer there, Thorin... So I made my brother go, but I did not want that road of dust, and iron, I wanted something better, something mightier, and so I headed for the Mountain, and some followed me...”

He smiled then – and I knew he was thinking of Nár, the friend that had never left his side, that I could see walking close to us, not listening to our discussion, he ever was discreet, but never far away...

Thrór brushed my hair, and then he pulled away from me, resuming his walk, keeping his hand upon my forearm.

“A hard road it was, Thorin, and even when we reached the Mountain... As long as there was food, my nights were safe – but remember my words, son... People will stab you without a second thought, if they are starving and hold you responsible for it... The ones you led, who would not have survived without you, they are always the first to bring you down... Several times, I almost got killed – Dwarves thinking I was unfit to rule, that I was leading them to death... They got death, Thorin, I killed them all, ruthlessly, I did not show any mercy to them, I drew their blood and broke their bones, and I still do not regret it...”

His face was grim, his eyes were icy – and I could see it was true, I could see how fiercely he had fought for his own life, for his power, how he had been forced to put kindness aside forever...

“You don’t have to show any doubt, if you want to rule. Mark my words, Thorin – don’t let them see you waver, don’t let them see you hurt. Stay strong, no matter how deep your wounds reach – I know it is hard, I know you yearn for some rest and that you are in pain, I’m not blind... But you are brave, and I can’t let you, they will think you weak, they will seek to break you, and I don’t want you to fight for your life, son, I don’t want you to live through that fear...”

His voice was firm, he kept walking, not even looking at me – and yet I think these were the most loving words I ever got from him.

“I’ll tell you how I did it, when I was injured and still had to lead. I spent a whole winter on battlefields with three deep, gushing wounds on my back. They opened every day, and every night Nár had to dress them again, change the bandages and try to patch me up... I breathed in, and breathed out. And every time I did it, I thought that if I had done it once, I could do it twice. Just breathing, in and out – hah! I wish they knew, Thorin, sometimes I wish they all knew, I hated them all so much, with their whimpering and whining, and I pushed them hard, I did not care for the blood on my back, I just pushed them, and we won that war, we fought these Orcs back and finally earned Men’s respect...”

And though I had promised him to listen, though I had given him my word I would not forget – I cannot recall more today... I know that every single word he said reached me, that on this terrible, forlorn day, there was a bound between us that never was as strong again, and that I always thought about his words, about this terrible life of hardship and war, where mercy and love had no place anymore...

I know he spoke for hours more, that he disclosed memories and feelings he had long forgotten, that I learnt more about him that day than I had in the twenty-four years where I had known him.

And I remember how he urged me to stay strong, to stay grim and fierce, to show no mercy, no kindness, no doubt – to use fear to be revered and to rule, to hide every deep feeling away. To be careful with my trust, and even more with my love – for these were weaknesses a King could not use...

And I breathed in, and breathed out – I stayed at his side, hurrying along, my arm prisoner of his mighty grasp, and my shoulder hurting so much that my face was grey. I breathed in, and breathed out, and every now and then my grandfather would stroke my cheek, brushing my sweat away – I was learning my lesson well, I was making him proud, he loved me in his own, hard way, and I breathed in, and breathed out.

I could not even feel my body anymore when we finally stopped, when I finally let down my bag, my weapons, and watched my grandfather walk away, leaving my side at last.

Fires were being lit – we had covered several miles and the lands were safe, Roäc had assured us of it, taking shelter upon one of the heavy rocks that were barring the landscapes.

They offered protection against the wind, and the tents were not needed that night. My back met the hard stone, I let my bag and weapons slide on the ground, and for a while I just stood there, feeling nothing, watching the flames, not even able to think.

And then I let myself down as well, sliding slowly against the rock. My left hand felt for my shoulder, acknowledging the pain at last, and I raised my knees, resting my face upon them, closing my eyes.

“Thorin...”

A whisper, and a warm arm around my waist – I was so cold, so tired, I could not even look at Frerin, I just stayed as I was.

“Is there anything –

- No. I am fine. I just want to... I just want to sleep.”

I knew it was unfair. He deserved more than this – but I could not tell him the truth, tell him I ached, inwardly and outwardly, that I ached so much that I actually wanted to scream out loud, hit the rocks with my fists, and weep.

Instead I just stretched myself on the ground, turning my back on him, letting my cheek meet the cold earth, not even bothering to undress, curled up against the rock, my eyes shut.

And I drifted off almost at once – I only remember feeling something soft and warm against my skin, someone was probably spreading out my blanket, but I could not open my eyes, I just wanted to be gone, to lose myself in sleep, the only place where I could still escape, where I could still afford to whisper I would never be able, that I would never be strong enough...

That I had failed, that it was all a lie, that these golden eyes had been right in telling me I was too small, not fierce enough, not strong enough, that I did not deserve to survive...

That I had not even been able to speak up to Thrór, tell him he was wrong, that my father had every right to be King, that the true hero that day was my brother...

That the only weak blood here was mine, that I hated myself so much for it, hated and despised myself.

For the grief I felt, for my grandfather’s life and for my father’s. For the fear I could still feel somewhere in my body. For the weakness that was spreading in my limbs, making me unable to move. For the tears that were choking my breath but that I would not shed. For the pain that was burning in my accursed shoulder, because I had failed.

I had failed, I had failed, I had failed, I was weak, a burden, a dead-weight, a disgrace, and I kept whispering it deep in my heart, my eyes shut and my body huddled against the rock, until darkness mingled with sleep, and pain with oblivion.

Neo-Khuzdûl translations:

- Maimhid, dashat: be blessed, son.

- Maikhmin: thank you.

- Uzbad: King.

- Zeleg’ubraz; Golden Stair.

Chapter Text

When I woke up it was night still, and for several moments I was unable to remember where I was. I could only remember what had happened: the wolf’s fangs in my shoulder, his bite on my knee, but somehow it mingled with my grandfather’s words.

A cave in the Grey Mountains, bats, wolf flesh and wolf furs, to survive... Kill so as not to be devoured, for the weakest were doomed...

I recovered slowly, resting my hand against the rock, my blanket sliding from my body. I felt crushed, like rubble smashed to pieces between sharper rocks, every movement hurt and my muscles were stiff and sore.

My hand felt for my shoulder, pain throbbing against my palm – the sling was still in place, and my fingers felt numb and cold, resting against my chest. I felt for my knee – bending the leg was painful and my trousers felt sticky, but I could move it and for a while I stayed like this, clutching my knee, staring at the dark night looming around, where not a single star could be seen. It seemed that the world stopped existing past the dying embers of our fires, and it felt as dark as my own mind and heart.

Don’t let anybody see you are hurt. They will seek to break you, all of them. You promised, grandson.

His words of steel helped me so often in dark days, helped me when no kindness could reach me, when grief and hurt were so strong that I could only breathe in, and breathe out...

I thought of him every day – he was always there, somehow, his broad hand clutching my shoulder, his hard features shaped out in my mind, every time I was on the verge of being crushed, of becoming nothing more than rubble to be trod upon...

I have feared him, and what became of him. I have felt rage and despair because of him, I have opposed him again, and again – I have even promised myself never to become like him, I could see his faults, his weaknesses, his madness... And in the end I failed, because we were the same – we shared blood, and thoughts, but above all, we shared fates and there is no escaping this, is it...?

He is the only one I am not afraid to meet, in the Halls where I hope to be carried soon. He is the only one who will not judge me – he might have been hard and harsh alive, but I know he will understand, when I will tell him about each heartbreaking decision I made... He will understand, when I will tell him I tried, tried so desperately to make it better, to build something, and to reclaim what was ours so that our people would never have to deal with cold and poverty again...

But above all, he will understand my failures – the way my mind just broke, and even this, that wound in my chest killing me slowly, because I have gone there alone, by myself, not waiting for any support, determined to avenge them all...

I know exactly what I will say, as soon as I will meet his cold, blue gaze I missed so much, every day, without daring to breathe a word about it, not even daring to acknowledge it – and yet it was true...

I am sorry, grandfather. I should have loved you more, I should have told you, clung to you like Frerin did with ‘adad, so that you would have known, at least... Known that you could have let your guard down, that it would not have changed anything, that I would have followed you nonetheless, and even more gladly... I know how hard you tried, I know now that you could not help it, that it was not your fault, that it was so hard to bear, that it was only a shield...

Don’t look at me, just hold me, please – I don’t want to see the others, I don’t want them to tell me everything is fine, nothing is fine, and no one can understand, no one but you...

I yearn for your arms, for your crushing embrace, for your fierce glance – it is the only thing that still can mean home and kin to me now...

I am so sorry to have disavowed you – I am not my grandfather, I have said endless times, just as if it was a curse... Oh Mahal, are they going to say it as well, Dáin, Dís, and Dáin’s son he was silly enough to name after me – are they going to say I am not Thorin Oakenshield, in the same contemptuous tone I used, thinking myself above you...?

It was only fear, grandfather. It was never contempt – how could it, you were strong, you had achieved so much and I never saw you break down the way I did...

I want you to know it was you, after Azanulbizar.

You who helped me to walk – Dwalin and Dís, and Balin, even Oín, they patched me up, helped me to stand again, but they persisted in telling me it was not my fault, that the blame was not to be placed upon my shoulders... They never understood what it felt like – they never understood it was their love and care that almost made me crumble, these dark hours where I remembered blood, and all these ashes in the crimson sky, making me choke...

But you – you would have yelled at me. Barked at me to stand up and do whatever I had to do, without delay. Death and losses were no excuses, we knew about them, we had faced it before, and tears were useless when there was work to do.

You who had watched your father and brother slain, who had picked up your smaller brother and taken up the mantle of leadership without a second thought...

It was you, you who helped me to walk – not to feel, not to love, but to keep functioning, because I had to. And I thank you for it – there might have been another way, but it was the only one that worked for me. You will understand. Perhaps you will even feel pride, but I only want you to hold me, and shield me, because I know you will not judge.

Yet that night... That night I was still a small boy, a child, terrified by the wilderness and its savage laws – and they were cruel, these words about strength, loneliness, hardness and leadership...

And should my older self have been there, next to the small Dwarfling huddled against that rock, desperately trying to pull himself together, I would have cradled him, pulled his head against my shoulder and whispered to him not to take every word as seriously – not every deeds were the same, and it was one thing not to bare every feeling so as to keep shielded, and another to shut yourself away from everyone because a King had to...

That day, I had only lack of experience to be blamed for... I was so soft still, so innocent – oh yes, I would have cradled that boy, be it only for everything that would come next... I am not feeling sorry for myself, I am not avoiding the blame or trying to find excuses for my behaviour – I know what I have become, and their words of hatred and contempt I truly deserve.

But not the boy I was, and that no one will remember. Not that small boy, always trying to achieve more, to be stronger, to make everyone proud – full of doubts and hurt I could not deal with alone...

I was not alone, though.

As I recovered, wiping my hand against the rock and stretching my injured leg, I realized I was not the only one awake.

Dwalin was sitting two steps away from me, draped in his fur coat, one knee raised and his hands resting against it – I have seen him keep watch like this so often, backed up against a rock, a tree or his saddle, his axes ready on the ground beneath him, yet always looking so relaxed, just like he was enjoying a quiet smoke...

That night he was only a boy as well – his hair was still long and thick, tied back with a heavy hair clasp, and there was no beard no tattoo on his face, it was still bare, almost bare, just like his hands. No blue patterns speaking of battle deeds, no fierce knuckledusters, no scars, just the bare hands of a boy resting against his knee...

His eyes never changed, though. These brown eyes he shared with his brother, but had expressions of their own, just like Balin’s – I loved them both, I loved them both so dearly, Fundin’s sons, I needed them both so dearly as well...

He was looking at me but did not say a word, did not make a gesture, and his silence hit me just as if he had slapped me – it spoke of anger, of contempt, of disappointment, and I could not blame him but it hurt, nonetheless. It hurt so much that I could not bring myself to speak for a while, I had to swallow first, ball my fist and then – then I looked up at him.

“Why don’t you sleep?”, I asked, and my voice was tiny, desperately trying to sound firm and collected.

“Same as you...”, Dwalin answered, in that calm, even tone that always spoke of anger.

I looked up at him, my eyes searched his body, panic flaming up in my heart at the thought that he might be hurt – I had not even looked, had assumed he was fine, but what if he was not? I had not been with him the whole day...

“Are you hurt?”, I asked, crawling closer to him.

He shrugged his shoulders and it prevented me from touching him. I just faced him, my heart beating loudly in my chest and my throat tight.

“Are you hurt?”, I asked again, my voice quivering.

“’Course not.”

His voice was fierce, despite of his even tone, and I had to swallow again. My nose was beginning to run, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. Once. And a second time, because he did not add anything.

“It was a mistake.”

My voice was shaky but I was determined not to lower my gaze.

“What was a mistake?”, Dwalin asked, and I wiped my nose again.

“What we did”, I answered, and he arched his eyebrows, his face still hard.

“It is all right. It does not matter. Nobody knows. They think we are just cousins and friends...

- Are we?”, he asked, and I could feel his anger rise, still I answered:

“Yes. You are my friend. You said... you said you were.”

I took a deep breath, clenching my fist even harder.

“But it does not mean... It does not mean you have to be forever. It is all right. You can still...

- I can still what?”, Dwalin growled, and I had to repress a sob, this time, but still I did not look away.

“You can still go back. Just like Dáin. It is better this way. It is just better this way... There is no point in you staying with me, it is just... It is just wasting your life away.”

Dwalin balled his fists, and for a second I thought he would hit me, but he only glared at me.

“Do you know what you are asking? Do you realize what you are doing, when you are saying these words? Do you actually know what it means, when you say that it’s fine, that it’s alright? That it doesn’t matter?!”

He reached out for my hale arm, grasped it fiercely, and then he shook me.

“Damn it, Thorin, it might not have mattered for you, but it did for me! I don’t... I don’t twist words like you do! I don’t say yes when I mean no, fine when I mean terrible, go when I mean stay! I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not!

- I know...”

I let him shake me, I could not even wipe my nose, I just rubbed it against my sling.

“I know... I’m the one who pretended... I’m the one who lied...

- About what?”

He had stopped shaking me, he was gazing at me, his eyes bright – he was so strong, so tall, so full of heat and anger.

“About...”

I dragged my arm free and wiped my face.

“About... me... I... I... I don’t... I am not... I am not what I... I don’t manage... I am just not... They want... He said... I...

- Thorin...”

He had his hand on my forearm again, and I looked up at him, blinded by tears I still managed not to shed – that I would not shed, come what may.

“I don’t understand a word of what you are saying, you idiot.”

And his voice was soft, yet void of anger at last, as he added:

“And it is better this way. It does not matter. It is all fine.”

He was grinning, the rascal, had used a high-pitched voice to mimic me, and his fingers gently pinched my forearm, but I could not pick up his jest, I could only back up against the rock, feeling so small.

“I left your side. I left your side. I just had to hold my ground, but I didn’t, I didn’t hold my ground, I...

- Thorin, did you look at that wolf? Truly looked at him? Do you realize just how big he was?”

I stiffened, by body getting rigid again despite my will. Of course I had looked at him. I had only been able to look at him...

“There was nothing you could do... Even if you had shifted, he would have come back, he would not have withdrawn, not that one...”

He was still clasping my forearm – he probably felt my shivers, for I was shaking again, my muscles hurting from trying to repress it.

“I was the one leaving your side. I did not manage to free you. I watched you being dragged away and all I could do was running after you... I was so scared, Thorin...”

His voice had grown even softer, and I looked up at him, still huddled against the rock. I met his earnest gaze, these features I knew by heart, they were so dear to me, and I knew he was not lying.

“I could not keep you safe... Is that why you want me away?

- I don’t want you away.”

The words had broken out like a cry of pain and it startled Dwalin, I felt it as I leant forward, desperately reaching out for him, not caring that my injured arm was pressed against his chest, that it hurt so much I could barely speak.

“I don’t want you away. I don’t want you away. I never want you away.”

My fingers found the back of his tunic, balled themselves around the thick woolen fabric – I clenched my fist around it this time, so hard my knuckles turned white.

What my grandfather’s words had not been able to cause, Dwalin’s achieved in a few seconds – there I was, clinging to him, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder, because he was my friend, had promised to be, and that I could not bear to lose this treasure, one of the few things I still had and could not part with.

“Good”, Dwalin said then, crossing his arms on my back and holding me close. “Because I didn’t mean to go anyway. I have given you my word, remember?”

I nodded, my face still hidden in his shoulder, my fingers shifting slightly to tighten their grasp around his tunic.

“I won’t let you carry that bag, mind. That thought you can thrust back where it belongs, among with other bright ideas – such as walking a whole day sweating in a light tunic, Mahal, what are fur coats for, I wonder?

- Hey, you are not my mum...”

I had mumbled the words straight into his shoulder, not bothering to lift my face, and it made him pinch my back.

“Nope. But I can be stubborn too... Speaking of mums, if you would please let go for a while...”

I shook my head, smiling at last, turning my face just enough to meet his gaze, and he pinched my back again, rolling his eyes.

“Mahal give me patience, strength and endeavour to bear that little plague, sticking to me like moss upon a rock...

- Did you just call me moss...?”, I breathed out, hitting him, making him bend towards me – but then I winced, and let go indeed, for I had forgotten my arm, and the searing pain in my shoulder.

He backed me up against the rock, all teasing forgotten, and reached for his bag. I watched him empty a pinch of dried powder into his bowl, mixing it up with some water then handing it to me.

“What is it?”, I asked, taking the bowl.

“Willow-bark. Have it from my mum – she must have guessed what we would be up to.”

He grinned and I smiled back. The pain was sharp, and I was not against something to alleviate it, as long as it was not Oín’s accursed fire-drink...

“Eat something with it. It’s bitter.”

He handed me some bread and salted cheese – it was only then I realized how hungry I felt. I had not eaten nor drunk the whole day, and I had been too exhausted to notice, but I was starving and ate gladly, nestled against Dwalin who had sat himself at my side.

“I have to train harder”, I voiced in the end, once I had filled my stomach properly, looking at Frerin’s and Dáin’s stretched silhouettes.

They slept like rocks, both of them. My cousin, tired by the hour-long fight where he had not disgraced himself, holding his ground and pushing back wolves until they withdrew. And Frerin...

He had fallen asleep shortly after me, the day’s terrible strain taking its toll – he had fought like the true warrior he was too, had carried his own bag and my heavy chainmail for hours. In the end he had just nestled against the rock close to me, making sure to cover me with my blanket – and now he was sleeping, his breath soft and even. Hopefully dreaming himself away from blood and violence.

Dwalin grunted and pulled me against him, his arm around my waist.

“I’m useless without my right arm”, I added, frowning in the darkness. “I could not reach that wolf properly with the left. When we will get to Dunland, I’m going to make sure to become deadly with both arms, just like you.

- Going to train against Dís?”, he teased me. “She’s pretty deadly with her sticks, I promise you...”

I smiled, shaking my head.

“No. She’d beat me up. I had you in mind.

- Oh, I’ll beat you up all the same...

- Can’t wait...”

My voice was trailing off – I was feeling tired, suddenly, the pain in my joints and shoulder lessening slowly and my eyelids getting heavy. I yawned, and Dwalin put his palm against my mouth.

“Hey, that’s awfully rude.”

He was laughing silently, and he laughed even more when I pretended to bite him.

“Be nice, shift a bit...”, I mumbled, pushing him in the chest so that he could lie down at last.

I settled my head on his shoulder, rested my injured arm against his chest, dragging my blanket upon our bodies. Dwalin’s hand clasped my forearm gently, keeping it from sliding and hurting me, and I closed my eyes.

“Mahal, I’m the nicest Dwarf breathing under the skies...”, he teased me, and I huffed into his neck, earning a soft nudge.

“I’m the nice one. Keeping you warm and all..”

I was drifting off actually, and my words were only half-articulated. I remember the warmth of his strong body against mine, the silent laughter shaking his chest. But I also recall soft words, seriously spoken once he was sure I could not answer, a heartbeat away from sleep, already drifting away.

“Don’t let the wrong fires bend you, Thorin.”

He kept his promise.

I did not carry my bag, not that day nor any other day, until Oín confirmed officially my shoulder had healed – oh, he threw a proper tantrum, Oín, that morning, once he had got me to remove my clothes so as to dress my arm again.

“What word in ‘no strain at all’ is too obscure to enter your wind-beaten head?! See how swollen it is? See how it hurts, when I bend it like this, and like that?”

And I winced indeed, biting my lip hard, facing his fury as bravely as I could, trying to soothe him, nodding at every proper moment.

“Oí, I am going to say that in front of everyone and everybody – if I say something has to be done, it’s because it has a purpose, because there is a good reason, and if you want your son and grandson to be maimed and never to move his arm again, you just go on like this but don’t ask me to watch and stand by!! There’s plenty of work among you thickheads, I can tell you, no need for me to stay!

- Now Oín, old chap...”, Náin threw in, amusement twitching his lips while my father and grandfather just stood there, Thrór too surprised to speak, and my father too worried.

“Don’t you old-chap me! I don’t meddle with your furnaces, you don’t meddle with the lad’s sinews and bones, right? Now you all get away, get your things done, whatever that might be, I have work to do!”

I still have to smile when I remember him raging and fuming – grim-faced Oín, black-eyed and black-bearded, still perfectly able to hear every whisper, fiercer than the fiercest warrior...

“And don’t you dare saying I overdo it!!”, he yelled, as they shuffled away, facing me grimly, huffing something like “overdoing it, me...” in his beard, applying ointment on my shoulder with rough moves.

“Don’t hurt him, please, Oín...”

Dís was the only one who did not mind his outburst, she was standing behind him, peeping across his back, and at her words his anger seemed to deflate instantly, thank Mahal.

“I won’t, lassie. I’m just making sure he mends, right?

- Can I help you? I can put it on his shoulder, Oín, you said I could...

- Did I now, lass?”

He was smiling, actually, tiny wrinkles showing around his eyes – and it made him look so young, not fearsome at all, almost like another Dwarf... She nodded, and I was grateful for the change, her tiny hands brushing my shoulder gently, trying to spare me unnecessary pain, rubbing the ointment in my skin with soft circles that sent down shivers into my spine.

“Better off for it like that, eh lad?”

Dís’ eyes shone with pride and she smiled as I nodded, while Oín bent down to take care of my knee.

“Moonlight and moonshine, moon-shadows peeping

Moonlight and moonshine, brave little Dwarfling

Moonlight and moonshine, my sweet, dearest son

Moonlight and moonshine, pain will be gone.”

She had sung the words as earnestly as a prayer, just like a spell – the same words my mother always made sure to whisper in my ear whenever I had come to her injured and crying... I had made sure she would hear it too, every time it was needed, twisting the words slightly so that it could fit her, and she had remembered...

I stared at her, smiling at me, her blue eyes so bright, so sure her words held magic, and they did, they did...

And then I moved my arm, gingerly, very slowly, yet making sure I could have her against me, closing my eyes, our cheeks touching without a word until Oín finished.

He did not speak either – he was all silent and soft, no doubt her words had reached him too, no doubt he was seeing her, the Dwarrowdam who had always been so caring, smiling and making sure there would always be love and light even in darkest halls...

He bandaged my shoulder with care, he even helped me with my clothes, and when he tied the sling around my chest and back, he actually brushed my cheek, once, with the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry, lad. You’ll move that arm again soon, I just had to frighten them a bit so that they let you be, for a while.”

I looked up at him, puzzled, and he brushed my cheek again, roughly.

“I’m leaving him in your hands, Dís. Make sure he doesn’t carry anything. No bag, only weapons if they are strapped on the left shoulder. If he does otherwise, you report, right, lass?

- Righty-right!”, she let out, her silvery voice ringing clear against the rocks, making him laugh silently, as he gathered his bag, flasks and bandages, leaving us alone.

“Can I do your hair, Thorin?”, Dís asked eagerly, but I refused, horror-struck at the thought of being caught with my hair being braided by my little sister.

“No. Leave it like that, the braids are still holding.

- But it looks messy.

- Then it will keep messy.

- You are so stubborn!

- And I will keep stubborn.”

I was smiling, actually, because she was pouting, but she didn’t insist, waiting for Dwalin to fasten my fur coat for me and strap my weapons on my shoulder. She was watching him closely, her eyes narrowed, and he smiled at her.

“Everything as it should, sarnûna? Anything bothering you?

- Nope”, she grinned, and I sighed.

“It is no, Dís, as long as I am listening.”

She mouthed the word ‘grumpy’ and I arched my eyebrows, until she looked down, simply holding out her hand for me. I clasped it, tenderly, dragging her against me.

“Grumpy yourself, mamarlûna.”

And gone we were, leaving these desolate rocks behind us, Roäc leading on in the sky while we followed, his black eyes warming up as he saw us advance, Dwalin and Frerin sharing my belongings on their backs while Dís held my hand, and Dáin falling into a song when he was told the Anduin was only seven days ahead.

Fundin and Náin shaking their head at us – summoning a smile even on my father’s lips, the worried furrow between his eyebrows vanishing as Náin reminded him of their own performances.

And Oín chuckling behind us, sharing his good mood with Balin whose eyes sparkled and laughed – they were ever close, both of them, they both had this superiority of knowledge, of seeing clearly through minds... Never using it to hurt or to harm, but enjoying these little moments where they had managed to wrap everyone around their finger – small victories that had nothing to do with battle.

Even my grandfather did not say a word, that day. His mood was changeable, and I am not sure he recalled everything he had told me – he had wanted these words to be passed on, but it had been the urge of a moment, he had already forgotten my shoulder, was not even searching for me at his side, kept his thoughts fixed on reaching the River...

It was our last week with Náin, and Dáin, Fundin and the rest of the warriors. Seven days, and then we would part. Seven days, and then we would head into unknown lands, seeking for work and shelter, a new life beginning for us, among Men, away from halls and kin...

Seven days – and yet it still seemed long, among these hills we were treading, together still, walking, singing sometimes, laughing at each other... My sister’s fingers in my hand, my brother’s in my hair, on the second morning because my braids were messy... Dwalin’s silent joy, lightening his eyes, when he saw me able to unlace my sling, using my arm again, not carrying anything of course, but moving it again.

And my father’s hand on my neck, every now and then, quiet and loving, telling me silently not to worry, that it was all right to be happy and careless every now and then – that it had nothing to do with shutting my eyes, that it was just making the best of our last week together, that there would be enough worries afterwards but that we would still try to face them, that it would be all right...

I tried. That week at least, I have let other carry my burden, a tiny hand lead me on, nimble fingers help me to undress and to braid my hair, and my father stand guard against darker thoughts...

That week I was happy, and would I be able to face him, the small Dwarfling I was, clinging to those I loved, because they were everything to me, because I had still enough wisdom and softness to see what really mattered – I would take his face between my hands, softly touch foreheads with him and tell him he was right.

Tell him I should never have choked him, that I should have listened to him more closely, made sure to remember him as well, and not only my grandfather’s words – that I did not have any choice but still regret it, and that I am glad he seized these seven days to claim them his, to be a boy still and let others love him.

For that boy, that small boy no one will remember and who had so many thoughts, and questions, and doubts...

That small boy was right where the warrior and King erred, and I still grieve for him.

Chapter Text

The thundering of water. This is the parting song I have always known – a song that has already turned to silence, here, lying on frozen water, on a waterfall caught still by frost and ice. Every time I had to bid farewell, there it has been, the sound of a River flowing close, moving on, following its course unmoved by our struggles...

I can still see us, on the shores of the River Running, blinded by ashes, smoke and tears, the day the Dragon came, that day I parted from everything I knew...

When we left the Iron Hills, the Red River’s song had covered my own thoughts – one step after another, heading for Dunland...

The last time I have seen my father, he was standing among the few warriors I trusted enough to accompany him, and as he clasped my shoulders I had heard it, the faint roar of the Anduin’s untamed waters in the Ered Luin, echoing our goodbyes...

The same river that stole my sister’s happiness, because I had not been able to act quickly enough, because means were failing me, because I just wasn’t there, once more...

Even in Rivendell – in the last Homely House west of the Mountains, as they called it... Even there, among so much beauty, for I am not blind and stubborn enough to deny it, that place was kingly, and breathtaking, harbouring both memory and peace... But even there, surrounded by these white cascades, these chiselled arches and so much peace...

Even there I only said farewell, in the end: farewell to any hope save that aching, burning fire – the hope to reach home, and reclaim it before Durin’s Day would fade away... The rest of the Elf-lord’s offer I dismissed, once and for all. I would not stop to rest and remember. I would not be content with few scraps of iron when my people needed silver. I would not pause, and let my fingers leave blades for music strings. I would not be at peace, because I could not, because no one believed me capable of it – not even the Elf, or the Wizard who called himself my friend, and least of all me.

A strain of madness runs in that family.

The words were barely audible, covered by the waterfalls’ turmoil, but I still heard them, and I remember the shocked, concerned look of my dear little friend who only ever wished me to be at peace, the way his expressive face just said I’m sorry, and then I bade farewell.

Farewell to peace, farewell to music, not for me, you wise Elf-lord, you shrewd Wizard, you sweet, witty Halfling... Not for me. And the River roared, and thundered, and flowed, and I turned my back and left, once more.

I can still see them, the broad waters of the Anduin, swelled by the river Longlight, running tumultuously south, towards the Ered Luin, and down to the Sea, deep and dangerous, stretched between tree-covered banks while we searched for the bridge.

It was supposed to be there – at least, there it had been the last time Dwarves had crossed these lands, and that day we were following the banks, our boots sinking deep on the sandy shores, walking silently, seeking for a long-forgotten path to lead us across water...

The sun was setting when we reached it. A stone-bridge made of rough, solid bricks – six heavily-built arches stretched between pillars broader than houses... The waters broke against them, I could see white foam where the stream met brick, where the current pooled around stone, threatening to bring it down...

But there the bridge stood, its path broad enough for a cart to pass, carefully paved, its only adornments rough stone reinforcements, every ten steps... There were small-shaped towers, built against every pillar, sticking to the brick above the water, and as I gazed at them, my eyes narrowed by the sun’s red light, I wondered what their purpose could have been.

They were too small for anyone to enter them, there was no sign anything could be stored there, so why had Men bothered to build them – was it to tell the River they did not fear her waters, that they still stood above them...? Or had there been guards, long ago, so long ago that no one could believe it anymore...?

“This is Men’s work”, my grandfather voiced, rousing me from my musings. “Let’s make sure it holds.”

He nodded towards my father, ordering him on, and Thráin obeyed, without looking at him or touching him. He stepped forward and took a look at the paving, at the first pillar, his hands brushing the stone as he moved on, frowning slightly, and we watched him cross the bridge. Slowly, crouching every now and then, his fingers testing the bricks all along, his shadow stretched broadly across the stone in the fading sunlight, as the River roared below him.

“Good Men’s work.”

His deep voice did not utter more. He caught Dís who had run towards him – she had been afraid to see the bridge tumble down, and I had felt her small body press itself against mine, rigid with fear despite my embrace. He lifted her, smiling at her, but he still did not look at his father, and did not see Thrór nod.

Thráin had ever been a fine craftsman when it came to build and reinforce – my father knew how to deal with weights and counterweights, how to take in Nature’s restraints to make walls and bridges hold.

“If you say so...”, Thrór replied, coldly – and yet it was his way to thank him, I see it now...

“We shall cross the bridge tomorrow.”

And with these words we were finally allowed to rest, sit down together for the last evening we were to have with Náin and his warriors. We did not mount the tents, that night, it would only have been a waste of time. We sat close, and I remember Frerin searched for Náin’s embrace, that evening, probably because Dáin had already begun acting tough and strong, keeping at his father’s side because he would be the only Dwarfling going back.

Yet Frerin was not one to lose a precious moment with his cousin: Dáin was sticking to Náin? Fine, Frerin would make himself comfortable there, it did not matter...

My father was close to him as well, not speaking, just touching Náin’s shoulder and forearm every now and then, as he would extend his arm to stir the fire, Dís still in his lap.

And Fundin was with his sons, both of them. He had Balin at his left side, and had drawn his arm around Dwalin’s waist, dragging him against him, holding him close – that night Dwalin had not protested, had not even said a word. Fundin smiled at him, opened his arms and just said: “Come here, mugrê...”, and Dwalin came.

It was night, and I was shivering in my fur coat, listening to the River. I had sat among the warriors, silently, watching the shadows drawn by the fire upon all these hard faces, my knees dragged up against my chest, alone because I did not know where to sit.

My shoulder was healing, it was still sore but I could move it, and the following day I was to try and lift some weight again. I looked at Dwalin, holding Fundin tightly, at Dís, slumbering in my father’s arms, at Frerin and Dáin who had ended up falling asleep embracing each other – and as I did so I caught Náin’s eye, who beckoned me silently to join him.

My father had closed his eyes, and as I sat down close to Náin he did not stir, not even when my uncle pulled me into one of his bear-like embraces, drawing his strong arms around my waist and settling me against his broad chest.

“Trouble sleeping, laddie?”, he asked, rubbing my arms because he felt me shiver. “Cold?”

I shook my head wordlessly, getting used to my uncle’s arms – he had rarely held me like that, not even while we had lived with him, but then Náin was warm, he was safe, he was my uncle and he was still there, for now... His callous hands rubbed my back and he smiled as he felt me relax, slowly.

“So, where do you hide it, laddie, eh...?”

He had whispered the words close to my cheek and I felt his beard tickle my ear as I looked up, puzzled.

“Hide what, uncle?”

Náin’s chest quivered slightly as he laughed, his palms still rubbing my back affectionately.

“The key to silence that brain of yours, lad, so that you get some decent rest at last... Look at my boy, and at your little brother, they do that quickly enough, once they have gone through every silly idea their minds can conceive – thought I’d never get rid of them teasing each other to cross that bridge alone during the night...”

He huffed good-humouredly, shifting slightly so that he could hold me more comfortably, and in the end I just laid my cheek against his warm fur coat, listening to the vibrations of his voice as he spoke.

“So, lad – ready to switch it off...?”

He looked down at me, saw my wide-open eyes and grumbled:

“Thought as much. Thráin’s son to the bone, that one.”

His hand patted my back, and he went on with soft taps, every now and then – Náin’s own way to rock children to sleep, that had always proved itself strangely efficient, especially with Dís.

“Alright, tell me then, for I could use a good story – what’s going on under those raven locks, eh? What beautiful landscapes is it you see – nice, broad and tall Mountains, so high they pierce the clouds...? A big, shiny lake where you can see moon- and starlight alike...?”

I shook my head – by then I had drawn my arms around his waist and was embracing him tightly.

“A bridge.”

I had spoken so lowly it was barely audible, but Náin still heard. He looked down at me, saw me biting my lip – and instantly knew I was fighting back tears.

I was so afraid. I was terrified to say goodbye, I did not want it, and the prospect of being hours away from it – of having hours still to dread that terrible ache, it was pure torture. I would have given anything to follow Frerin’s and Dáin’s idea, though not for the same reasons: run over that bridge at night, while no one was awake, without saying goodbye, just to put it behind me, and then wait until those remaining at our side would follow...

I did not want to leave Náin, or Dáin. And most of all I did not want to see Dwalin leave Fundin, I could not bear it, it was just too dreadful, and nothing could possibly make it better, nothing...

“I see...”, Náin said quietly. “Tonight, everyone seems to think about naught but that stone bridge...”

His broad hand searched for my face and his thumb gently wiped my cheek, still holding me close.

“It’s alright, laddie. Let it out, it’s alright, it’s just your old uncle who loves you dearly, but this you know, right? I would give all the gold in Erebor to keep you close, you, your shiny brother, your lovely little sister, that big Dwalin-lad, and your father... But as it is, and since that brain of yours is determined not to sleep...”

He smiled, I could hear it in his voice – I had closed my eyes, hiding my face in his fur coat, and Náin went out brushing my cheek, on and on, his thumb rubbing soft circles against my skin.

“I just want you to know that bridges mean anything but farewell – even when people are very far away. The bridges we build go from here, to there, and you don’t need to bother about distances, or time, for they will hold as long as you live, and even afterwards...”

He had touched my chest, and his chest, and as I looked up at him he smiled at me again.

“Now you are a strong lad, Thorin, and a brave and clever one. You won’t need much help, I’m sure of it – you are going to become an amazing Dwarf, believe me, as you all will because your souls are pure míthril... But even if you are far away, and even after years or decades – if you need help, ask for it, and I promise you I’ll make sure it comes. Tomorrow we say goodbye, but we do not say ‘live your life on your side while I live mine’. We say ‘goodbye, until we meet again’, because that’s what true bridges are.”

He was looking at me earnestly, still cupping my face between his hands, and in the end I nodded. He pulled me back against him, then, brushing my hair, patting my back gently as I nestled close to him, closing my eyes, my arms around his neck.

And he must have felt my body get heavier, slowly, for when he spoke again his voice was so soft I barely heard it.

“What do you see now, Thorin...?

- You...”, I muttered. “And Dáin... and Dwalin, Balin... and ‘adad... and – and Dís, and Frerin and... and...

- Good. That’s good, lad. That’s what it’s all about...”

He kissed me, then, his lips meeting my hair softly, and I wanted to lift my face and thank him, but I couldn’t, I could only press my cheek harder against his fur coat, making sure his chest met my chest, because he was there, and so was I, for a few precious hours more... And as I fell asleep I still felt them, his soft pats on my back, speaking of care and love that would not fade in time and distance.

I can recall it so clearly, that sad, silent morning close to the old stone bridge... That day I dressed silently, pulling on my chainmail because we were to cross foreign lands stretched between two forests – the strange, enchanted woods of Lorien, and the still stranger trees of Fangorn we would make sure not to enter.

I pulled on my chainmail, my jerkin, my belt, I fastened my ax and sword on my back, I braided my hair looking at the bridge, my face closed and my heart mouthing the word that had always kept me going.

Endure.

I think I made sure no one could embrace me easily, that day. There were blades on my back, and I had lifted my bag as well, my fists clenched and my eyes dry.

We had all crossed the bridge, even Náin and his men – they had promised to escort us until we reached the Anduin, and would stay true to their word until the end.

Dáin and Frerin had raced each other, crossing the waters in the blink of an eye, while I had done it slowly, Dís clinging to my elbow, her small feet silent on the pavement, her little fingers shyly brushing the bridge’s stony edge.

“Look, Thorin. Who is she?”

I lifted my gaze, and noticed a tiny statue, carved into one of the reinforcements, a small frame time had turned faceless. It looked brittle, but after a closer look I understood it was caught in cobwebs.

Dís extended her hand, haltingly, but she was small and did not reach the statue. She looked up at me, still clinging to my elbow, and watched me reach out for the stone, freeing it from dust and cobwebs, until the shape of a long-haired woman became truly visible again.

There was no face, no crown, nothing that could enlighten us – but Dís was certain she was the bridge’s long-forgotten Queen, the bridge-maker’s One, probably, watching over the Anduin...

“Now she can see again”, she whispered, as I wiped my palm against my trousers, and then she clasped my elbow again, and resumed walking at my side, not afraid of the water’s turmoil anymore.

In the end we all stood on the western shore, facing each other one last time. Two of the carts we would pull with us, the three others had been full of supplies and were to return to the Iron Hills, emptied, with Náin and his twenty warriors.

My uncle had nothing to add – he clasped my forearms, looked at me, his brown eyes so warm, and then he simply touched my chest, telling me silently to remember.

I bowed to every warrior, gravely, thanking them for their pains – and was surprised to feel the strength of their grip around my forearms. I barely knew them, they were not from Erebor, and yet they squeezed my bones just as if I was one of them, uttering a rough “Maimhid”, and then letting go.

And Fundin... I was taking his treasure from him, I was ripping his heart open – his eyes were wet as he faced me, and I could barely look at him, but he still pulled me against him, not caring for my axe and sword, just holding me like a son.

“There is nothing I can give that you do not deserve”, he whispered. “There is nothing for me to give you don’t already have. Take care of yourself, boy, please do, will you?

- I will...”, I manage to let out, my voice hoarse. “I will...”

And with these words I pulled away, and turned, clenching my fists, biting my lips, turning towards my cousin – anything but look at Dwalin who was in his father’s arms, now, I could not take it, it hurt too much...

“Oí, if he misbehaves, you can always send him back, right?”

Dáin was grinning at me, but his eyes were moist – Frerin was clinging to him, his arms tight around his chest, his face buried in his tunic, sobbing silently.

“Come on, you pebble, you don’t want me to rust, do you?

- I don’t... want to...”

Frerin did not care – that he looked childish, that it was not warrior-like, that he didn’t exactly make it easier, he just gave in to what he felt, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Yeah, neither would I, spending all my days with Thorin, Mahal what a dreadful thought indeed... Get him drunk, once in Dunland, will you, it might cheer him up!”

Dáin was trying to fight back his own grief, and despite his words he truly looked miserable, gazing at me above Frerin’s looks, patting his back, calling me for help.

“Come on, kudz...”, I whispered, stepping up to him, gently loosening his arms from Dáin. “Let go, kudz, let him be...”

Frerin only turned from his cousin to fall into my arms, clinging to me with all his might, almost choking me. And so it was that Dáin did not hug me – he could not truly reach me, could only lay his hand upon my shoulder, and he did, for a second, before stepping back.

- Will you be alright?

He had signaled the words in Iglishmêk, and so did I.

- Yes. Don’t you worry. Take care.

- Take care yourself. Idiot.

- Thank you. Hothead.

- Raven-babbler.

- Iron-digger.

- Goodbye, Thorin.

- Goodbye, Dáin.

And in the end they turned. We watched them cross the bridge again, Frerin still embracing me tightly, his cheeks wet and red, while Dwalin stood tall and silent at my side, his expressive face unreadable, while Balin gently brushed his forearm.

And we watched them weave us goodbye, one last time, before they turned, and soon vanished between the trees – and the River roared, and thundered.

“Right. Let’s go.”

Frerin had spoken in a fierce voice, glaring furiously at his bag, axe and bow he shouldered with brisk moves.

“I’m sick of that bridge. I’ve seen and spilled enough water for a lifetime.”

And with these words he was gone, one of the first to set out in the path leading through unknown lands, towards the Misty Mountains we would cross to reach Dunland.

“He’s right. I’m off.”

Dwalin had spoken quietly, and as he turned from the water I saw him brush his cheek with the back of his hand, only once – but enough to prevent me from following him too closely.

I looked at Balin, feeling so helpless – and he gave me a little smile, somewhat sad but as warm as ever.

“Give him some time, laddie. Come. Let us go.”

And in the end I turned as well, walking close to Balin but only thinking of the friend I could not comfort, who was setting out so bravely on a path no one in his right mind could have chosen... I did not talk to him, the whole day, it was Dís who caught up with him and slipped her tiny hand into his – Frerin who made him smile, inventing silly stories about trees coming alive to tickle our toes in the middle of the night; Dagur who teased him about just how many axes a Dwarf should carry, was one truly not enough...?

He didn’t talk to me, either, not really, not for the first two days – not because he resented me, but because his grief was just too overwhelming. It took him three nights, actually – by then we had just entered the Mountains and were camping among rocks, relishing the feeling of being surrounded by stone again.

That night he rolled out his blanket close to me, as usual, and I earned a gruff “g’night” once we both lay down. He had put his axes close to his head, I remember them because I mentally drew the shapes of their blades, on and on, for I had trouble falling asleep, as usual, and even more so these last days, because I worried for Dwalin and could not find any answer.

I stared at these blades for so long that in the end, I could have drawn them with my eyes closed, and I was on the verge of falling asleep when I heard it. A soft noise, so quiet it almost seemed an illusion.

But it was not. Dwalin was crying.

Dwalin was crying – and he had made sure to do so while no one could hear, probably thinking I was asleep. Maybe he had done so every night since we crossed the Anduin, quietly, unobtrusively – but what did it matter, actually, he was crying now, his tall frame still and silent next to me.

I did not really think. I just moved, almost silently, until my arm circled his back – tried to circle it at least, while I pressed my body against his side, wanting him to feel warm, anything but cold, and lone, because he was almost everything to me.

He was not facing me, and I did not say anything. I just felt his sobs, every now and then, and held him, my cheek against his shoulder-blade. And after a while, as Dwalin slowly calmed down, I felt his fingers upon the hand I had laid against his chest.

He clasped it and I held it tight, brushing my thumb against his knuckles – just once, to tell him I was there, that I knew, that I was sorry, that I was so, so sorry and loved him more than words could tell. That I would never forget what he had offered to me, and treasure it always.

He did not talk, he did not even turn, and I did not move. But when I woke up the next morning my head was resting against his chest and Dwalin’s arms were wrapped tightly around my waist. He was awake already, and when I found his gaze he smiled at me.

“Sticking to me like moss upon a rock”, he teased me.

“You snore”, I replied, unmoved – I was overcome with relief, and joy, because he was there, smiling at me, so warm...

“You talk in your sleep”, he retorted, and he grinned at me as he added: “Though in which language, I cannot tell...

- Khuzdûl. I’m at my best even when I sleep.”

He pinned me down, then, laughing silently, and I let him, gazing up at him, my eyes bright, so relieved to have him there, so grateful to have such a friend staying at my side.

After that, there was no awkwardness, no cold silence, no distance anymore. We were even closer than when we set out – and it has been one of my life’s pride and joy to see that every year we passed together brought us nearer.

I crossed the Misty Mountains at his side, and I had no trouble falling asleep, as long as he would let me rest my head against his chest, and draw my arms around him.

I was not even afraid when the Mountain-pass opened, when I saw the huge, green valley stretched at our feet, where houses and villages were scarce and hidden, and knew that we had reached Dunland.

That day, I did not know we would not find a true home for years – that it would be mostly wandering, accepting work where we could find it, taking shelter where Nature and Men allowed us.

I did not know I would spend the last years of my childhood working like a grown-up Dwarf, scraping bits of craftsmanship here and there until I managed somehow to defend myself at the anvil – and that afterwards I would learn to become even more skilled with blades, using these abilities to defend Men against thieves and bandits who were often wealthier than us...

I had no idea how hard it would be – years and years of feeling so hungry, because I was growing while there never seemed to be enough, not enough food, not enough money, and no guarantee, never, always suspicion and greed and distrust, until they got it, in the end, until I stopped trusting Men as well, and saw them almost as black and false as I viewed Elves.

But there was also joy, and friendship, and love, because we were happy in Dunland, despite of everything – because we managed to stay and grow up together, and because, no matter how hard they were, these years still were years of peace.

And as I entered Dunland at Dwalin’s side – still smaller, and tinier, full of fears but also harbouring the shy hope that we would make it, in the end, that we would all be fine... somehow my heart was not heavy, not only full of grief, sorrow and regrets – still curious, eager to be surprised, and to trust and love.

Hard years of hunger and labour indeed, but happy years, for we still had peace, and were together, sharing joys and sorrows alike – and this was priceless.

Neo-Khuzdûl translations:

- mugrê: my bear

- Maimhid: be blessed.

Chapter Text

“Thorin, you go and fetch Dís, I'm fed up with her.”

Frerin was pulling me by the hem of my shirt and I let out a groan. I had just rinsed myself from the soot I was always bringing back from the forge, had barely had the time to pull on a clean tunic and was basically just yearning for a moment of peace and silence, where I could be alone – not thinking, not even moving, just watch the sun set on the Dunland hills after another hard day of working.

It had been two years. Two years since we had crossed the Misty Mountains, and entered this broad, savage lands – the carts full with the few belongings we still had, pulled by grim-faced Dwarves who knew they had nothing else left to lose. Not in this land where there seemed to be no King, and no God – only black-faced, swarthy Men who had sworn everlasting hatred to Helm's descendants, ever since they had been defeated by the troops of both Rohan and Gondor, pushed back in Dunland and left there to rot.

Or so they said, snarling the words, their eyes wary, always narrowed in suspicion, even as they watched us carve whatever they asked of us – arrow-heads, flails, knives, asking us to make them sharp and light, and making me shiver as I obeyed, wondering in which bodies these rough, savage hands would bury them.

“Animals”, my father said softly, one day, as he noticed my uneasiness, watching the three Dunlendings walk away, shouldering heavy bags, turning from the smithy we had rented for that day in one of their settlements.

“We help them to hunt, dashat. Their war ended long ago.

- What war?”, Dwalin asked, for he was there as well.

Following Balin in the forge, pursuing the apprenticeship he had begun in the Iron Hills, getting used to these limited tools, ovens and metals swiftly, trying to make the best of it, as usual, while I usually worked with my father.

His hands enclosing my wrist, helping me to bend the metal while it was hot, showing me the exact spot to hit so that it could be done in a few, swift moves. Teaching me how to master the fire, adapting it to the work that was required – and never scolding me when I failed to repress a start, as the flames would leap up higher than expected, bringing me back to a greater Fire I would never be able to forget.

“This fire is ours”, he would say softly, taking the bellows from my hand and showing me how it was supposed to be done. “It only dances the way we blow it.”

I would nod, my throat dry, so relieved that he was there.

Because he was.

Had been, ever since that day I had felt his hand on my neck, the morning after that Wolf had almost killed me. Not in the obvious, harsh and resolute way my grandfather was, appointing tasks and deciding, every evening, what was to be done the next day.

Not in Balin's way, smiling, explaining, making sure we could learn something in every village we crossed – be it the settlement's name, or getting a closer look on agricultural techniques while we forged ploughs and scythes.

Not in Dagur's loud, thundering way – making sure we kept trained, didn't lose our sparring and fighting skills, prompting us to practice, almost every day. Even Frerin – and I can still hear Dagur's laughter as he wrestled with him, allowing him to spend all his energy and frustration at being so young and small still. And Dwalin and me, of course – and we would, facing each other even as our muscles ached from our day, determined to remember that we were both more than smiths-to-be.

Both sons of warriors. Their kingdom lost, but their blood still flowing.

And so we would fight, and spar – and how strong he was, Dwalin, how strong... I had to spin and shift like the wind, to use my lighter weight as a tool and to give up the axe for the sword if I ever hoped to defeat him, and even then, I would often bite the dust, pinned down, his broad hands upon my shoulders, my breath short and my locks plastered to my head.

“Thorin, I'd feel better if you would just use your other hand...”

He would always release me instantly, taking no pleasure in victory – while I just felt glad, glad that he was not letting me win, glad that I could trust him so as to see where I was still weak, and in need of more training.

I would sit up, my heart racing in my chest, shaking my head.

“No. Tie it back, please, it slipped.”

And he would, his brown eyes somewhat dark – tie back the small rope that was restraining my right hand against my back, forcing me to fight with the left. Until it would become as natural to use that hand than it was for me to breathe. Until I could face him with both arms, as an equal.

“It's hurting you. When I pin you down. I don't want to break your hand.

- You won't. It doesn't hurt.”

And we would resume our fighting, sword against sword, our bodies dancing in the twilight, colliding, avoiding each other, falling down in a wrestle that was almost an embrace. Only stopping when I was the one seated on Dwalin's chest – not because I had won, not really. Because the rope had slipped, had gotten loose, because we were both tired, and sweaty, because my hands were around his wrists, yet had no strength left to restrain him.

He would drag up his knees and let me rest my back against them, closing his eyes while I desperately tried to gather my breath again.

“Enough?”, he would ask, his fingers following the bruise the rope had left on my wrist – and I let him, still leaning against his knees.

I always let him, especially these moments where I was so exhausted I could have laid down on the ground next to him and fall asleep at once.

“Yeah...”, I would whisper, finally, forcing myself to free him and to get up, drenched in sweat and so, so tired. “Enough. For today.

- You'll be the death of me. You know that.”

I remember that smile, that way he had to get up in a single move, shaking himself like a fierce dog so as to get rid of the dust, and picking up the swords we had both discarded...

“Yeah. Have to keep you entertained.”

He would drag me against him, then, still carrying the weapons, leading me back to the tent he was sharing with me, Frerin and Dís, while my father occupied the other with Balin, leaving the largest to my grandfather.

Tents were our home, these two years – because we were roaming Dunland, settling close to a village for a while, buying food and using the smithies they let us work in to forge our own weapons and tools, as a matter of payment. Trying to see where it could be possible to settle down into harder walls, and always finding it would have to remain a wish.

Because there was not enough work, or food – and often, because there was not enough goodwill, for the Dunlendings were a fierce and distrustful folk, wondering who we were, this sparse troop of Dwarves that had come out of nowhere, just as if earth had spat them out, or so they said...

“What war?”, Dwalin asked, and my brother came closer as well.

He had swept the forge, had gathered the dust with a broomstick and a shovel he had emptied endless times, only stopping when he had finished. I had seen him bend upon the soot with a grin, dipping his finger into it – but then the Men had come and we had all resumed our forging, and I had forgotten about it.

“That war!!!!”, Frerin yelled, hurling himself at him – and it startled him, before he burst out in laughter, because my brother's faced was smeared.

Covered in black drawings that didn't really help to make him look fiercer – and neither did his small, pearl-white teeth he was still determined to bare.

“Look, 'adad, I have the same tattoos as you! I'm going to win, I'm going to pin you all down and they will all be afraid and beg me to be as merciful as Mahal...”

I do remember him, that day, in the forge, so determined to make us see he was also there, worthy and willing, even though he was too small to help us with the heavy tools we forged and carried, even though he would often fall asleep in my father's arms as we walked back to our settlement, spent by his efforts and his striving...

And I do remember that sound – that amazing, blissful sound that never failed to fill my heart with wonder: my father's low, deep laughter, filling the forge with more love and warmth than the fire, as he scooped Frerin up to hold him against him.

“Let them all tremble...”, he whispered, and Frerin anchored his legs around his waist and settled against his shoulder, pleased beyond measure.

“Do they look like yours, 'adad?”, he asked, turning his face towards him, smearing soot against Thráin's working shirt, and causing my father to smile.

“Almost”, he answered, searching for a clean spot in my brother's face, finding one close to his eyes and kissing him carefully there.

“What war, Balin...?”, Dwalin whispered, still determined to get his answer, and yearning for some respite, I could see it in the way he leant against his hammer, and in the hunched set of his shoulders, for the day was late already.

Balin saw it too – as well as my brother's heavy lids, who had grown still and silent against my father as Thráin had begun to brush his back. And I believe he also guessed it from the way my gaze kept searching for the sky, yearning for the sun to set, finally, so that we could smother the fire and go to whatever place it was we called home.

He looked at my father, and Thráin nodded, discreetly.

“Right, lads. Gather the tools. Leave that place as clean as it was before we came, and make sure not to forget anything. I'll tell you about war while we get done...”

Dwalin smiled, and Frerin slid down my father's arms, determined to act his part as well. And as we obeyed – washing our tools carefully, piling them up in the cart my father would push back, making sure the fire was dead, we listened to Balin's tale, our shadows getting longer in the setting sun.

“It was not so long ago... The year where open war between Dunland and Rohan begun. The Rohirrim fighting from the kingly place they call Meduseld... and the Dunlendings from the fortress of Isengard. Fighting each other for land.

- When?”, Dwalin asked, and Balin smiled.

- In the year 2746 of the Third Age. A year that was fântêras, for us.

- But that's was long ago...”, I muttered, frowning as I wiped a stripe of leather across the anvil, and Balin chuckled, because it was actually the year I was born.

“So... They fought each other and the battle lasted years. And there was this Man, Wulf... They say here he had Dunlendish blood, for his father was dark-haired and shorter than the Rohirrim, who have golden hair and clear eyes...

- Just like me”, Frerin whispered, making a few dancing steps around the broom he was sweeping on the ground.

“Aye, laddie, just like you. So, he was the son of a Horse-lord too, but Wulf's father had defied their King, Helm – coming to his court with armed men, asking him to wed his daughter to Wulf. And the King refused, striking him down with a single blow – that is why they called him Helm Hammerhand, ever since that day... But Wulf never forgot, and years afterwards, he took his revenge with leading the Dunlendings against his own King and kin, determined to get the throne by force, since he could not get it by marriage.

- Traitor...”, Dwalin grumbled, wrapping up hammer and thongs in a cloth and tying the knot in brisk, fierce moves.

“About twelve years later he fought King Helm's men at the crossing of the river Isen... And he was quite successful, actually, for he forced the Rohirrim to abandon Meduseld and to withdraw to a fortress named Hornburg – a place they now call Helm's Deep...

- And that's where they are now?”, Frerin asked, frowning at the injustice, while my father gently ruffled his hair, taking shovel and broom from his hands.

“No. For that year, Nature stepped into war – inexorable and not caring about King, traitors or children. That year, the winter was hard and so cold that everything was buried under snow. Meduseld, Isengard and the Hornburg. Cold, and starvation – hitting both sides alike.”

I paused in mid-move, my fingers frozen around the knot I was trying to bind. I paused, and as I listened to Balin's voice, taking in the tale, I was also dragged back. To that hard, cold, white world that always meant so much pain and fear... That terrible morning where I had felt a soft breath against my neck and known that it meant death. The day I had lost Svali, close to a white tomb of ice and snow...

“Wulf was sitting on the throne in Meduseld, but the true King was holding the fortress in Helm's Deep, no matter how hard and terrible his losses. They say he lost both of his sons. One in battle and the other in the snow, but that he still went on fighting and raging. Warning his foes sounding the great Horn, deep into the Suthburg, and then setting out in the snow to slay them with his bare hands... They were all so afraid of him, so afraid... They said he died in the snow, as well, that one day he set out, never to return, and his sister-son took up his throne instead.”

Balin quenched the fire, slowly pouring water upon the embers, unabashed by the smell, and then he went on, quietly.

“His name is Fréaláf, but they call him Hildeson, for that was his mother's name. Hild, sister of Helm, who gave birth to the first King of the second line of Eorl's house. And he managed it, as soon as spring came. Took back Edoras and killed Wulf, avenging his uncle's and his cousins' death, and driving Dunlendings away from Rohan, with the helps of the troops Gondor had finally been able to send to them... And so – Dunland is no longer considered part of the realm of Rohan, despite its fertile lands. The Rohirrim will not forgive the Dunlendings for their deeds, just as the Men in Dunland vowed they would always seek to avenge the slight done to them with Wulf's death – the only lord who remembered them, and fought for them and their rights... Or so they say...

- This is sad”, Dwalin said, simply, and his brother nodded.

“Aye. Like every tale of war.”

Balin sighed, and his eyes swept across the place, searching for tools we might have forgotten, and finding me still kneeling on the ground, my fingers numb around the knot I still did not manage to tie.

“You are all right, lad?”, he asked softly, stepping up to me and finishing my knot for me.

Dwalin was already outside, helping my father to load the cart, and hoisting Frerin up with the tools – I could hear my brother laugh, that tale of blood and snow seemingly forgotten as soon as the words had been spoken.

“Yes...”, I said, trying to steady my voice, and to banish those raging images from my mind.

Of snow, covering everything. Of dead bodies of Princes, fallen in battle – lost in white nothingness. Of a King – so fierce, charging out in the snow after a final blow of his mighty Horn. Of starvation. Of cold, cold, cold...

Just as I feel it now .

“I am fine...”, I whispered, though, that day, forcing myself to get up.

It was warm, it was summer, it was Dunland, and I was alive. Alive, with Balin, Dwalin, my father and my brother. No need to be afraid of snow, or fire. Heading to that place we called home, that tent where my sister was waiting for us, where I could lose myself in her soft, childish world...

“You go and fetch her, this time.”

And of course I went, as soon as Frerin released his impatient grasp on my arm and ran away, searching for Dwalin instead. I knew where I would find her – in the small tent she had built close to trees, a week ago, using our winter-scarves and old fur-coats, spending her days there, since we were all gone, since there was no other Dwarven child to play with her.

Not bothering anyone, only coming out to eat, and often taking her small ration there, the old Dwarrowdams in our settlement too weary to scold her.

Waiting for our return, yet hiding as we would come back, trying to shield herself against the ache of having to see us go, every morning, without being able to follow. She had cried, at first, but gradually she had found another way. Built herself a dream-world where she pretended not to need anyone, making us fight hard for one of her kisses – since we were going, always going and leaving her behind.

“Dís...”, I called, softly, crouching in front of the tent's narrow entry. “It's me, mamarlûna.

- Come in...”

Her voice was soft, and sounded far away, I got down on my knees and pushed the fabric aside so as to cast a glance into my sister's small haven.

She had spread one of my father's old fur-coats on the ground, and was sitting backed up against the trunk of a tree that served as a pillar, her knees dragged up, the small iron figurines Dwalin and me had made for her with scraps of iron from the forge carefully displayed at her side. There were empty nut-shells she had placed between daisy-heads, forming a decorative border on the ground beneath her, and she had also gathered pebbles she was currently sorting out, frowning as her fingers pushed them back and forth before her.

It was hot in the tent, and her locks were plastered against her forehead, but she didn't seem to mind – just looked at me and repeated her offer.

“Come in.

- I can't, Dís. I'm too big.

- Not if you lie down...”

Her eyes met mine and I nodded – knowing there was no other way to coax her out and bring her back to us. I lay down and carefully made my way in – half of my body still outside, yet managing to squeeze in up to the waist.

I folded my arms and rested my chin upon them, and just watched her sorting out the pebbles. She had made several piles, and I noticed she had picked up only black, green and grey ones, and that she never wavered in placing them in the right pile.

“Onyx... Emerald... Moonstone... Emerald... Emerald... Onyx...”

It was hot, in her small tent, yet her voice was soft and had a soothing note. It always had. I never could get enough of it – never. Not her voice, not her touch. And so I just stayed there, and watched her, until she finished.

“You like it, Thorin?

- Very much.”

She smiled then, and her fingers brushed the corner of my eye.

“There's something black here. It's all smeared now.

- Soot”, I said. “I must have forgotten that part when I washed.

- Wait...”

She licked her thumb and went on brushing my face, and I closed my eyes, wishing I was small enough to fit in that tent as well – to be able to think of rough pebbles as emeralds and moonstones, to see flowers and nuts as magical adornments, and to wash soot, weariness and memories away.

“There. All clean. Now you can meet Lela.

- Lela?

- Yes. She's there. Sitting next to me. She thinks you are handsome. She says she wants to hear your voice.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her – and there must have been fear and worry in my gaze, because I knew there was no one else in that tent... But then I remembered Frerin shouting at Dís a few days earlier, mentioning that name and calling her a liar.

I looked at my sister, who was looking at me defiantly. Daring me to tell her there was no one, that she was feeling so lonely that she was actually imagining her – that friend sitting in the tent next to her, keeping her company.

“Hello, Lela”, I said softly, and Dís smiled, radiantly, almost giggling as I went on: “Moonlight upon your eve.

- She says the same to you. She asks you how you find her...

- Oh, I find her... Forgive me, I find you very agreeable, Lela. These silver ribbons are very fitting, very fitting indeed...

- They are blue”, Dís giggled. “She says they match your eyes. She's so stupid...”

I smiled, taking in my sister's flushed cheek and damp hair. It was too hot here, and she was getting over-excited – but she was happy, and eagerly waiting for my next words.

“Now that's not a very nice thing to say to a friend, is it? See, she's all sad, chewing her lip, trying not to cry... She didn't mean it, Lela, do not worry, she is just hungry...

- I'm not!

- But I am. And so, dearest Lela, I wish you a pleasant evening and an even more pleasant night. If you meet my sister, would you be so kind to tell her I came, and yearned for one of her kisses but had to leave, for I am expected at dinner. Thank you very much...”

And with these words I slowly crawled out of the tent, hearing Dís' sounds of both laughter and begging.

“Thorin, she wants you back...

- Goodbye...”

I dragged myself up, brushed my hands against my trousers and turned, pretending to walk away slowly. Repressing a smile when I heard the fierce way the heavy fabric was pushed aside, and when a hot, small body crashed into my side.

“Oh, hello, mamarlûna...

- Bend down...”

She was pulling at my arm, and I gave in, feeling her lips press themselves fiercely against my cheek, making me laugh as she finally pulled away with a grin. I brushed her hair, putting back a loose strain behind her ear, and Dís leaned into my embrace again.

“It's beautiful. Your tent. What you did inside. It's beautiful.

- Frerin doesn't like it.

- Frerin is jealous because you don't let him in. But I'm sure he'll love your precious stones, and the flowers you picked.

- No. He makes fun of Lela. He says she's in my head. She's not in my head. She's there, and she's my friend. She picked up the flowers.

- Beautiful flowers...”, I simply said, and then I picked her up, like a flower indeed, hoisting her on my hip, slowly walking back towards the tents.

My sister rested her head against my neck and I could breathe in her sent – she smelt of fresh sweat, of earth, of daisies and of the honey-flavoured soap we all used, and I loved it.

“Are you leaving tomorrow again?”, Dís asked, and I shook my head.

“No. Tomorrow we rest, remember? Every seven days. Time to wash the clothes, and to hang them, and...

-... to mend your socks. They all have holes. I'll show you.

- All right. Show Dwalin as well, remember? His socks are worse than mine.

- Maybe...”, Dís voiced, slowly, and I had to laugh.

“Will we read tonight, Thorin? There's almost no light, it's late...

- There will be time tomorrow. Do not worry, mamarlûna. We will read a bit tomorrow, and then you will write and count with Balin, will you? It's important. I want you to learn everything we were taught, Frerin and me, so that everyone knows how smart my Dís is.”

She smiled then, and we both walked back to the fires where dinner was being cooked. There was no time to read that night – it was late, and she was exhausted, almost falling asleep above her soup, such as Frerin was. My father had to carry them both into the tent – neither of them was willing to walk, and when he came back he simply looked at Dwalin and me, leaning against each other, our lids heavy and our eyes lost in the fire.

“To bed. Both of you. You have strived enough.”

Neither of us tried to argue. We just stood up, slowly, and as we passed him he brushed our arms – both Dwalin's and mine.

“Maikhmini.”

The soft word was enough to fill us with pride, and we both lay down, so tired that we fell asleep before reaching our pillow, ready to sleep heavily until sunrise.

Yet that night, I woke up with a choked scream, shaking and struggling to breathe. There was lead on my chest, and ashes in my mouth – ashes or snow, I did not know, I did not know...

“It's alright... It's alright... It's just a dream, sparrow, it's just a dream...”

And a dream it had been. A dream of snow, and war, and fierce deeds in a world that snatched children and warriors away – no matter how worthy and brave they were... A dream that came shattering my peace, unwanted, unexpected, without any reason, leaving me breathless and covered with cold sweat, huddled against Dwalin, exactly like two years ago.

“I'm sorry...”, I whispered, as soon as I was able to frame the words. “I'm sorry...”

He just held me. He knew it was pointless to ask me to stop apologizing, that it was just my way to realize I was back. In a tent, yes, but not that tent. A tent where he was too, where it was warm, because it was summer, because we were sleeping in green hills, forging and fighting, until we would be wealthy enough to build a true home.

“What was it about?”, he asked softly, but I just shook my head, burying my head in the crook of his shoulder.

“Nothing...”

He sighed, simply holding me close. That night he slept next to me, unwilling to release his embrace, determined to shield me even from my dreams. And I did not lift my head, did not move, my arms wrapped tightly around him, even as I felt his breath getting deeper and began to hear the familiar, soft noise of his snoring.

I did not lift my head, not even as I felt tears begin to stream down my cheeks, falling softly against his tunic. Tears for Itô and Svali, even here, in green lands and summer, where war was supposed to be only a memory, but seemed to be ever-present.

Tears of fear – for that King charging out blindly in the snow, after he lost everything, his Horn a last warning of his cold, wild wrath...

Just as I did, in the end.

And tears of relief. For the snores so close to my ear, telling me I was not alone, no matter how afraid and lost I felt. For the sound I had heard, the day before – my father laughing, his grey eyes full of love and awareness. For my little brother's soot-stained face, that looked anything but fierce, and that was now clean as he slept soundly on his roll next to me. For Balin's twinkle, and the quiet way he seemed to guess each of my father's thoughts, easing his burden and anchoring him to us. And for my sister, so sweet and yet so full of temper, who saw moonstones and emeralds where there were only pebbles, and whose voice always meant home to me...

I had heard my father speak to Balin and Nár, these days. I had heard them discuss the option of staying here – for that spot offered the shelter of trees, and clean water. It was also close to three villages, only half a walking day away, and would allow us to run our own forge, should we decide to fold the tents and build more solid houses instead.

“No stone, except for the forge”, I had heard him say. “There are not enough guaranties. But wood. It could be wood. Try and bring it to my father, Nár. I think it would be good to settle down, be it only for a while.”

They had nodded, and I had felt some hope – because I wanted it so badly, to know that I wouldn't have to pack my bag once more, not for a while, and to leave that tent that only brought me back to the road, even in my dreams...

A house of wood. Where there would be a room for my father, another for Balin, one for Dwalin and me... No, we could not afford that. One for my father, another for Balin, and another for the rest of us. And my grandfather... He would have a house of his own, probably. He wouldn't want the noise we all made, wouldn't want to deal with my siblings and me – yes, he would have a house of his own and we would all stay together and my father would go on laughing and smiling and working and teaching me how to rule the fire...

A house of wood. And pebbles, and daisies on the windowsill – and a place to put down my mother's harp, as well...

A house of wood was enough already. Enough to lull me back to sleep, still tangled in Dwalin's embrace, forgetting about snow, war, Kings and weapons.

Letting dreams chase old nightmares away.

Chapter Text

It was not stone. It was no Mountain. It was not even a hill, and it was not remotely big enough for three Dwarflings and a grown-up Dwarf – but it was a house.

And a home. Carefully built by my father, who had used all his craftmanship and practical thinking so as to make the best of that small, crowded space. Using only wood, careful to reign in his plans, and to take from Dunland only as much as it was able to give.

Wood it was – and Thráin had been happy, all these long days of striving where he had left the forge for the trees, helping to fell them, bringing them back to what was to be our settlement, directing all the able Dwarves among us so that every family could have it, that small house of wood telling silently we would not leave, at least not immediately.

There were many capable Dwarves, but my father... My father was no match – not when his mind was intent, and clear-sighted, and focused on the sole aim to see us all settled safely, in harder walls, be it only wood.

Thráin was no match – and it was wonderful to see him like this, working from dawn to dusk, dressed in the rough working clothes he loved so much, not caring for my grandfather's displeasure. Cutting, shaping, carving, piling, shifting – and smiling, every time his gaze met mine, or Balin's, every time Frerin pressed his small body against his, every time Dís would bring him water, earnestly handing him his cup, her face brightening as he kissed her.

He was so strong – his muscles hard as iron beneath his shirt... He was so determined. I could read it in his eye, in the way his hands closed upon his tools, never stopping, his able fingers transforming thoughts into actions – making him whole, for a while, standing tall under the warm, red sun. Building a home for those he held dear.

He made one for my grandfather first. A small house, that had only two rooms – one that remained private, and another where Dwarves could be received, if required – where matters could be discussed, and councils held if needed, but where there never was any space for children, not even a spare bed for a son, or a friend. Just a big table, with many chairs, and a broad fireplace that was the only element of stone and iron Thráin allowed himself to build.

“I don't need that”, Thrór growled, fiercely, as he saw my father kneeling, carefully paving the floor of the fireplace, his hands stained with a mixture of crushed rocks and burnt lime that would help sticking the stones together.

“Keep the stone. I have no need for fire. Never had. Leave it for the lads.

- I will. There is enough for us all...”, my father replied softly, not looking up, still bent upon his task, his fingers unwavering as they made sure the stones were paved in an even line.

“You are wasting your time – you know that? You know that, Thráin...

- Aye. I know that.”

He had whispered the words still kneeling on the ground, and I saw him close his eye for some seconds, as his palms rested upon the stone. Trying to muster his strength once more – because he would build that fireplace for his aging father, he would not see him cold yet too proud to shiver, would not let Thrór's pride be the death of him, no matter how hard his words, and how icy his gaze.

“It will help to light the room, grandfather”, I said, shyly stepping up to him. “When you will have Dwarves sitting there... and asking you for advice... They will be glad for your fire...

- And you think it will make them listen more?”, Thrór snorted. “I have no need for drowsy, heavy-lidded, whimpering men – cold helps to clear up thoughts, and it has never done much harm, has it now?”

I did not answer. I just stormed out of his house, that day, grabbing a shovel and some tools, pretending they were needed elsewhere – because I was afraid to lose it, right there, before him, and shout at him on top of my lungs that it had, it had and he had no right to snort and bring my father's efforts down, no right at all...

“You dropped that one...”

Frerin's voice was low, somewhat wary, but as caring as ever. He had followed me to the brink of the trees where I stood, trying to calm myself down, to fight back that helpless rage threatening to drown me, making my pulse throb and my chest burn.

“The shovel. I suppose you don't need it. Unless you want to bury someone alive. I'd advise you to choose another spot, however... It's a bit exposed, and muffled screams are a nuisance when one tries to sleep...”

I huffed, despite of myself, feeling some of my anger ebb, and relaxing slightly when I felt my brother's body against my back.

“What is it?”, he asked softly, drawing his arms around my waist and resting his cheek against my shoulder blade. “You look like a storm cloud on the verge of bursting...

- Beware then”, I let out, still staring grimly at the soft, green hills that seemed motionless under the hot summer sun.

“Oh, I'm not afraid...”, Frerin whispered. “Could use some rain and thunder... If it helps...

- You always help. You know that.”

I had turned – had drawn my arm around him and had dragged him against my side, and my brother smiled, gazing up at me, his grey eyes lightening up.

“'Adad said I can help him with the beds. He said no one has ever seen beds like those we are going to build. They will be benches during the day, and beds at night – yours, and mine, that is, I think he's planning something else for Dís but he said it's a secret. Thorin – there's no one like 'adad, is it...?”

I stayed silent for a while, my gaze averted once more.

“No. There's no one like 'adad”, I answered softly, brushing my brother's shoulder.

He was so small, so tiny still... While I was growing, struggling to get used to these long limbs, to that body that seemed to get taller every time I slept – how else was it to be explained, that awkwardness I felt every time I moved, every time I spoke as well, because my voice tried to get deeper yet was only managing to break, most of the time, making me wish I'd never have to use it again...?

I hated it, when my father made me stand before him and extend my hands, showing my tunic had gotten too short again, after barely two months of use – it was awful, to know they would have to alter the clothes again, just because my limbs were so determined to get longer, it made me feel like a freak.

Especially that I was not gaining any weight. I was still thin, and lean, and it looked ridiculous compared to Dwalin's strong body, filling me with rage every time I had to undress. I was strong, was striving to prove it every day – but I had abandoned hope to see my muscles develop as well as my bones. Doomed. I was just doomed.

And tired – always tired, my limbs hurting and my chest filled with explosive feelings that I barely managed to rein in. Exactly as today – and it was driving me mad. Fed up with that awkward body I didn't control anymore, with the scratchy beard that was beginning to cover my cheeks but was still determined to grow slowly, and to shame me.

“There's something bothering you...”, Frerin said, his face pressed into my chest. “Don't say no. I know there is, when your eyes get that special I'm-going-to-burn-you-alive kind of glare... And I'm not afraid, even with you all tall and lanky, mind.

- Hey, watch it, kudz.”

My voice broke – once more. I cleared my throat, and my brother just held me, knowing I hated it with a passion, the way it broke and hitched, desperately trying to get deeper, and still failing.

“Watch it yourself. And don't pretend to forget I asked you something.”

I just groaned. And in the end – seeing he did not let go and still stood there, waiting for me to speak and holding me – in the end I spoke, not caring for the hoarseness in my voice, for my brother never laughed at me when he knew it truly hurt.

“It's grandfather. He's... he's just impossible.

- Aye. But that's not new, is it?”

There was a grown-up dryness in Frerin's voice that made me smile, despite of myself, and in the end we both sat down, close to each other, our shoulders touching as we leaned against the trunk of a tree too broad to be felled.

“No”, I whispered. “It's just that... now... it's getting hard to... hard to bear. I don't know how 'adad manages it. I just don't know... I could... I could have...

- Say it”, my brother said, and I heard the begin of a grin in his voice.

- No.

- Say it aloud, Thorin, come on.

- No, don't be silly, one cannot just...

- Don't you be silly. Say it aloud. There's no one around, it's just me and you know I won't tell him, why would I, I regularly curse him in a way that would make poor Balin swallow part of his beard...”

He was grinning openly now and I gave him a soft nudge in the ribs, with my elbow.

“Coward...”, Frerin whispered, turning towards me. “Big, lanky coward...

- Watch out...

- Brave boy. Brave boy, shiny, well-bred, sweet little grandson...”

I snarled then, and hurled myself at him. And he laughed, even as I pinned him down, his chest quivering with laughter, even as I bent his face down to rub it against the moss growing there. And then I let him push me away, still laughing – push me against the tree, his hands around my wrists, pressing them against the bark while he sat himself on my legs.

“You braaaaaave boy...

- I could...

- You braaaaaave little boy...

- I could have punched him in the face.”

I had let out the words in a single, fierce, breath, looking straight at my brother who simply arched an eyebrow.

“I could have... taken the shovel from 'adad's hand and rubbed cement all over his face...

- In his beard...”, Frerin whispered, his knees tightening around my legs.

“Yes. In his beard. And then... And then I could have yelled at him to leave 'adad alone and stop talking and pretending that what 'adad does is worthless and also told him that I'm so, so glad he's not living with us because it would have been a nightmare, and... and...”

I paused, somewhat breathless, overwhelmed by the terrible boldness in my words – and my brother laced his fingers with mine, determined to prevent me from feeling any shame.

“And...?”, he asked softly.

“And – I would have felt awful and been charged with high-treason and probably deserved it, and it would have been the worst thing I ever did, but...

- But you would have felt better”, Frerin said, and I groaned, closing my eyes.

“Not better. Just... Relieved. For a short while, mind.

- Aye. That's why it's good to do it like this. Shout it to the trees, they don't bother. And they don't charge brave boys for high treason.

- Stop that, kudz.

- Look at that sweet shiny grandson...

- I said stop it.”

He grinned at me, letting go of my hands slowly, still seated on my legs. And in the end I smiled, as well, dragging him against me and rubbing my nose against his head.

“You know, Thorin, actually it's somehow frightening...

- What?

- The way you manage to hide it so well... the punch in the face and the cement-smearing, oh Mahal, I thought I'd wet my pants when you said it, it was just so... unexpected...

- Told you to beware”, I muttered. “I'm not shiny. I'm not good. I'm not even well-bred.

- I know. That's what I love so much in you”, my brother laughed, settling against my chest. “Promise me we'll do that again. Calling him names and cursing his beard. That way we can keep up the pretence, and be all nice and sweet, as expected.

- As expected...”, I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the tree. “I'm so fed up with this, kudz, you have no idea...

- I do. Of course I do, Thorin.”

He squeezed my legs gently between his knees and then he gave me a soft nudge.

“Come on. Time to bring that shovel back, don't you think? Hey – it's going to be so great once it will all be finished, just imagine that – we'll have beds, and a table, and when it's going to be winter we will be able to actually cook and eat our meals in the same room...”

His eyes had gotten a dreamy look and I reached out for his face, pushing one of his braids back, marvelling at his ability to see light and happiness absolutely everywhere.

“Yes. It is going to be great”, I whispered, and then I got up, dragging him with me and walking back to my father, and his beautiful dream of wood and stone.

It was not grand – it truly was not much.

But my father made it great, somehow. Because his strength and love was absolutely everywhere – because his ideas shaped the walls, his mind working hard to make us all feel comfortable in such a crowded space.

He had a room of his own – he was Thrór's heir, after all, and had a right for intimacy, but he made it very small, so as to leave us all more space, since we were to be crowded in a single room, the three of us, along with the fireplace and the kitchen.

Yet he tried to give us all something.

Filled Dís with joy, causing her to jump excitedly up and down once she spotted her bed, because it was so high and wonderful... It was a loft bed, actually, and she could climb into it using a wooden ladder, leaving enough room beneath for her to store her toys, and even to build a tent should she feel like it – and I can still see her, embracing my father tightly, thanking him with a quivering voice for that bed that seemed made for a princess...

And as he promised Frerin, he also thought hard about our beds. Made them seemingly narrow, looking like benches, one close to the kitchen table and the other next to the fireplace – and yet... Once the table was pushed aside, one just had to pull a wooden drawer beneath the bench, and it expanded, leaving enough room for a full mattress, and blankets that were carefully stored into the drawer during the day.

My brother never tired of them. To him, it was always pure bliss to pull the drawers, and prepare our beds – it was actually hard to prevent him from meddling with mine, no matter how loud I yelled, pointing out the basic needs of intimacy to him, causing Balin and my father to chuckle quietly, and Dwalin to hide a smile.

He was not living with me.

Dwalin and Balin had a small house of their own – because it was possible, and because it had to be so now that the tents were folded, now that a seemingly normal life had begun for us once more. They were our cousins and as such, lived right next to us – but they did not have to live with us, and so they settled down in their little house.

Balin in a small room, like my father, and Dwalin in their common room, in a bed similar to mine, so that they both had their space and could rub along more easily.

It was so hard. So hard to lose him, so hard to have to get used to nights without his snoring, without his chest under my cheek, rising and falling slowly – without his arms around me, every time I would wake up, at night, not knowing where I was, having to reach out for the solid wooden frame around my mattress to remind me it was home...

Not the first few nights, where it was still funny and so amusing to think of our houses, to visit each other and to compare beds and rooms. But once novelty faded – I would feel a pang in my chest once the day was over, once I had to go back to my own house and climb into that bed I had desired so much, forced to face the night alone again.

That is why I never forced Fíli – never could bring myself to it. Never forced him out of the room he shared with Kíli, not even when he began to leave childhood, because I knew what it felt like, to miss closeness and safety... Knew it took time, to desire for intimacy and a private room when childhood was still so close – and that it was better to wait for that wish to come from Fíli himself. As it did in the end, causing Kíli to camp on his bed until he was dragged out and wailing – until he understood and started to love his own, private space as well...

My boys... My boys I never could bear to separate...

I wish it would stop. I wish it could stop – that endless dance of thoughts, flaring up and mocking me, with their sweetness... They ache, they ache and I cannot bear it anymore, I cannot bear it, I lost them, I lost them all and I just have my thoughts, so vivid and clear, sharp as a blade and just as deadly... Oh Mahal please take me, please take me, take me with my boys, my little boys, they are so small, so young, so afraid, they need me at their side, they need me...

But they won't want me.

They won't want me.

I can feel a fresh gush of blood against my palm – because my heart races madly, because I have been breathing like some kind of terrified animal... I cannot believe I feel this – terror, panic, Mahal, surely there is no sense in that, not anymore, surely I cannot fall lower than I am already, surely You will be merciful and give me strength to face even this...

The shame – and the knowledge that of course, should I reach Your Halls, they will be right to turn from me, just as everyone else...

I will try not to shame them. I will try to keep my breath even, as I watch that sun bleed out – they have the right not to be more ashamed than they already were, because of me... I will stay calm. I will stay silent, won't cry out or weep or move frantically to hasten death...

I will lie there as long as You wish me to. Give in to these memories and thoughts as long as You will have me to. I won't ask You to take me a moment sooner than the one You appointed to me – I will bear them, these thoughts, these aches, I promise...

I promise...

Dwalin. I want Dwalin. I want Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin...

Just as I did, these first weeks where we settled – and as my mind races back to these years, as I recall the way my childish self yearned for him, and the quiet, kind way he had to reassure me, as we worked close to each other in the forge, brushing my arm, telling me silently nothing had changed, that he still was there, and always would be...

As I recall him, focus on his face, on his touch, on this memory – I can feel my heartbeat slow down at last, can feel the pain in my chest recede slightly, and I cannot believe he is doing me good again, even without being there...

He always did.

Even back then, that evening we had been able to sneak out so as to meet each other for a late pipe, sharing some words or simply a private moment together that was not in the forge, not in our kitchen with my siblings around...

Just the two of us...

I remember this special evening. Where he could have shamed me – truly shamed me, yet only did me good, as always, showing me once more the true meaning of a friend. A friend so close that it was almost a brother.

That evening, I was upset – had not told anyone about it, of course, and yet that worry had been weighing down my mind for so long that I had almost resolved to talk to Dwalin about it... without ever managing to do so, shame always holding me back in the end.

It had begun several weeks ago – something was happening, in the morning, something that was not normal at all, and yet, it was so embarrassing I couldn't speak of it to anyone. I just knew something was wrong with my body, and that there was no way I could seek help.

And it was weighing me down, even as I sat close to him, next to the brooklet, watching the sky's reflection in the silvery water, having found little comfort in the pipe we shared, unlike Dwalin who had blown smoke rings contentedly as usual, watching them fade in the darkness, one knee dragged up and the other leg stretched comfortably against mine.

“So...”, he said quietly, in the end, putting the pipe away and leaning against the huge rock shielding us from the wind.

“Are you going to tell me?

- Tell you what?”, I asked, not looking at him, sitting upright and still at his side.

“What it is that makes you so quiet... Not that you ever were much of a talker, mind... But you outdid yourself tonight. Hello Dwalin. Thank you Dwalin. Tell you what. Eight words. Goodness Thorin, they say Dwarves are stingy – I call that generosity itself, bless my soul!

- Hey...”

I had dragged up my knees, giving him a half-hearted nudge in the ribs, but I did not add anything, I just stared at the brooklet, not knowing what to do. Feeling so helpless.

“What is it, sparrow...?”, Dwalin asked, his voice somewhat softer, and I drew my knees even closer to my chest.

“Nothing.”

I buried my face in my knees and for a while Dwalin stayed silent, watching the stars in silence, careful not to touch me.

“I think I'm ill.”, I whispered, eventually, and he flinched slightly, turning towards me in concern as I recovered.

“What's wrong?”, he asked, and I looked at him for a while, biting my lip.

“Something's wrong down there...”, I whispered, eventually, my voice so low that he had to come closer to hear.

He frowned, looked around – even though it was plain we were alone, I had already assured myself of that before I let out the words – and then he circled my shoulders with his arm.

“Tell me.”

It took me a while. It was so embarrassing that I struggled to even frame the words, and I doubt I would have managed to speak had it not been night.

“I'm sleeping. I'm not even dreaming. I don't remember what I dream, I just know it's no nightmare. I wake up, and I'm feeling... both fine and strange. It hurts, also, a bit, down there. It hurts, it feels swollen and I don't know if I want it to stop or to go on, and suddenly... something happens... It's horrible, Dwalin... Suddenly it's... all out and... I can't stop it and... it's in my pants and my trousers and at first I thought it was pus but it isn't... I don't know what it is, Dwalin, I just know I don't want anybody to be aware of that...”

I'm so scared.

I did not voice it but he must have felt it – and Mahal bless him for his kindness that day because I swear, he did not laugh at me. It didn't even enter his mind, because it was not in his nature, and I think he must have pitied me. For my fear, and innocence, because nothing had ever been voiced in my family.

“You didn't tell anyone, Thorin?”

I shook my head, and he sighed.

“How long has it been going on?”, he asked, quietly, and I had to think for a while.

“A year or so. It happened once and then it stopped... but now it happens more often and I... don't know what to do...

- There's nothing to do”, Dwalin said softly. “There's nothing to do because it's no disease. It's all perfectly normal. Every boy has it. Every Dwarf, once he stops being a Dwarfling.”

I pulled away from him and looked at him, aghast.

“Yeah, sparrow. I have that too, every once in a while. We all do. See... when we begin to grow a beard, and when our bones begin to harden – that's Mahal's way to tell us we are no little boys anymore. That we are growing, and that... well... down there, it's growing as well. And so... things we do not think about as boys, they – they can please us as we grow. And when we are pleased, it swells just like our hearts do when we are happy, and what happens afterwards... That's our body telling us it's so filled with happiness that it cannot stop from showing it.

- But I... I'm not... I'm not pleased or happy when it happens... I hate it! I don't like it, it's disgusting and embarrassing and... it hurts.

- Yeah. That's the problem. It always hurts a bit before it's out. Just like... just like very, very strong feelings.

- Can't we repress it?”, I whispered, my face so pale and full of horror that Dwalin had to smile, at last.

He pulled me close, again, and the next words he voiced very gently. Careful not to hurt me or to scare me away, I see it now...

“Yes of course. We are no animals, are we? But... It's difficult, to fight deep happiness, is it not? It's a bit hard, to force yourself to think of very serious, boring stuff, just to cool down, so that you can forget your body... I don't like that idea. I think there's no shame in that. If I'm happy, and am on the verge of acknowledging it, I don't want it to stop. So sometimes... This is a secret, don't tell others, Thorin, promise me that.

- I won't...”, I whispered, still leaning against him, overwhelmed by what I was hearing and actually not knowing how to deal with it.

“Sometimes when I feel it swell and hurt – when I'm feeling that wave rise and know there's nothing I can do about it save enjoy it... I just touch it. Let my fingers feel it, and what comes of it. And... yeah, it's a bit awkward but I don't want to feel any shame because of that. It's just me being happy and me acknowledging it. And it feels... it feels quite good. Even though a lot of people will always tell you the contrary.

- No one... No one ever told me...”

I was shaking, actually. I had been so scared, and I still was. I also felt a bit sick, and awkward, and disoriented – and Dwalin understood it all, instantly.

“I know. That's why I told you. I don't tell you to do the same, I just tell you how I deal with it. Because I don't want you to be afraid, and to think you are ill or... not normal. It's all... right and natural, Thorin. It happens to us all.”

I didn't answer. I just stayed close to him, shivering slightly – a boy caught in a growing man's body, having just begun to discover what it meant.

“I don't like that”, I whispered, eventually. “I don't want that.”

He brushed my back, shaking his head.

“Don't be silly, sparrow. It's just something our bodies do. No need to feel disgusted or ashamed – and no need to brag about it either. Just respect that as you would... as you are taking care of the rest of your body, so that it stays strong and reliable. That's what 'adad always told me.”

There was nothing to answer to that... And when I think about his words – I cannot help but marvelling at the simple, caring way they had to free that truth from every judgement.

I wonder if that's how Dwalin loved... If he was as calm and truthful and caring, when he lay down with someone – I know he did, much more than I ever did, because he always acknowledged his need and refused to be ashamed of it.

I did not manage to shake off the shame. It took me decades – a war, and years and years of struggling to keep alive – until I finally found some peace and replaced it with the kind of quiet acknowledgement that was all I ever managed to summon when it came to loving, or lying down with someone else.

A quiet acknowledgement. As close to peace as I could get...

I remember the morning where it happened again. Where I woke up with a groan, tangled in my blanket, Frerin and Dís still fast asleep. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and I let out another groan, struggling to find out what it was that was bothering and pleasing me at the same time...

I remember breathing fast, my heart racing and my brain unable to focus. I remember the way my hand got down, hesitantly, touching what was going on below for the very first time, and the way my body reacted instantly. Tensing. Swelling even more under my fingers. Bursting in waves of boundless pleasure, washing out the room in my mind, leaving me breathless.

I remember getting up as soon as I could, I remember the way my heart was pounding in my ribcage, the way I still shivered with the aftermath of what just happened as I ran down to the brooklet – and my frantic attempts to clean my hand, so as to keep it to myself. Myself alone.

I remember standing, close to that small house that had witnessed me leaving childhood once and for all, overwhelmed with what had been going on in my body, unable to find a better way to deal with it.

And grinning, in the end – watching the sun get up, leaning against the wall my father had built with so much love, thinking oh Mahal I hope no one will ever know, without being able to stop smiling, yet still shivering.

After that it got better.

We never discussed it again, not in so many words. But ever since that day, I knew. Knew that there was nothing I could ever be ashamed to tell Dwalin. Knew that I could trust him so wholly that I didn't even have to speak about things anymore.

And I know he knew, as he saw the way I was taming that growing body of mine so as to master it fully, and slowly stopped feeling so awkward and helpless. He knew I was learning to take care of it all, and I knew he was doing just the same. And sometimes, as we sparred and would begin to wrestle – as I would pin him down or have him sitting on top of my chest, we would both feel it, that awkward feeling in our lower bodies, making us harden and shiver as they met.

“Enough...”, I would whisper, and Dwalin would nod.

“Yeah”, he said hoarsely, letting go of me.

“Sorry...”, I would add, and he would give me a nudge, grinning at me.

“Remember. Don't be.”

I smiled back. And of course we repressed it, every time it happened, because we both knew it had nothing to do with real love. It was just the way our bodies had to tell us we were feeling well and safe together – and also, that we were simply growing.

Both of us. Together.

Together... Together... Dwalin and me... Dwalin telling me there is no shame... No shame... No shame... They are so soothing, these words, so soothing indeed...

No shame...

No shame.

Chapter Text

Time was passing so quickly. One day I was twenty-six, discovering what it meant to leave childhood for good, and suddenly I was almost thirty, almost battle-ready, still working in the forge from dawn to dusk, occasionally leaving it with my father, Dwalin and Balin, either working for Men or joining one of their ragged marketplaces to try and sell our weapons and wares there.

I had grown, was almost as tall as my father now, and I was slowly looking less gaunt, though I still was lean. There was something beginning to look like a beard shadowing my cheeks, and I knew I was strong, not only made of bones but of hard muscles as well.

I knew it because, every second day, I was the one pinning Dwalin down as we sparred. I was not as tall as him, and not as strong – not in the same way. He had the perfect body for a warrior, he was tall, broad-chested and his arms were so strong they could crush a Man to death. But I was swift, and fast – and I had trained hard to force my left hand to be as deft as my right.

It was not Erebor's perfectly thought-out training room, with that wonderful obstacle course that had helped to shape so many warriors, turning them into deadly foes. It was just an open space somewhere in Dunland with my friend facing me, and yet... And yet I could not have dreamt for a better sparring partner.

Pushing me to outrun my last limits. Asking for more than I could give – more than I thought myself able to give, and still managed to find deep inside, every single time I just forced my lungs to breath harder, my body to move faster, my mind to think, think, think in the blink of an eye where I could shift my weight so as to use his own strength against him, and have him lying under me, or freezing as my blade touched his throat.

“Mahal, sparrow...”, he would whisper, his face drenched in sweat and his eyes brightening with absolute happiness – because he never resented me for any defeat, simply feeling joy at seeing me succeed.

“Do you surrender?” I would force myself to ask, my lungs burning, my body almost trembling with exhaustion, yet full of quiet joy because we had achieved it together.

“'Course I do”, he would grin. “I'll beat you up tomorrow.”

And he usually would. I could not defeat him every time, and those moments where I had pushed myself beyond the line were usually followed with aches in my muscles, sinews and bones that made it hard for me to move the day afterwards. For back then I was still a boy in a not yet full-grown body, and had given more than I even knew I possessed.

Yet I did not regret it for the world.

Happy times they were despite of the hardships, these four years we spent in tiny houses of wood – me learning my craft, and my siblings growing up the best they could.

Frerin helping us in the forge with the lighter work, also tending to the five ponies we had been able to purchase so as to help us with carrying wares and tools. Naming them, stroking them, weaving their manes and tails in a way that never failed to remind me of Hergíl, so many years ago.

And Dís eager to follow him, taking care of the chickens that amused her so much, helping the women with the weaving of clothes and blankets, always so glad to escape, slipping in the first trousers she could get and following my brother everywhere.

They had such a strange way of rubbing along. On difficult days, they seemed like two parts of the same soul – when food became scarce, when it was cold outside and when some among the elderly Dwarrows grew weaker, sickness and death looming around.

They went to see them, together, Frerin carrying whatever food could be spared, and firewood as well, while my sister made sure to ask Oín what else could be done. These days she and Frerin hugged and cuddled, once evening came – two small Dwarflings, exhausted by their strivings, having seen struggles beyond their age, clinging to each other so as not to cry.

Thank Mahal they both talked. Once my father and me had washed soot and sweat away, they would come and tell us what they had done, and how we could help as well, and though their tales were heart-wrenching, I could not helped but feel moved at the way they both had to praise the other.

“... and then Frerin said he would come and carry firewood for Agda every day, be it just to see her smile because it made his heart melt, and she laughed so hard we thought she'd never stop coughing!

- … and Dís was amazing. She helped Oín to dress Virfi's wound anew, even though it was all bloody and sodisgusting that I actually wanted to puke.

- Because it has to be. He's old. His blood doesn't flow well in his feet, not anymore, so his wound has to be cleaned every day and then you have to wrap shreds of fabric around his foot, tightly, so as to force the veins to pump the blood back up. And Oín also said he should have perfectly fitting shoes, not these old boots he shuffles in.”

She was so serious saying these words, her blue eyes shining with knowledge far beyond her years, and my father smiled and took her in his arms.

“I'll make sure of that”, he said quietly. “And I'll also chop more firewood for you to bring Agda, Frerin.

- I can do that”, I threw in. “Just remind me of it, kudz. I'll do that tomorrow before I go.

- Good”, my brother said, his eyes shiny, and it warmed my heart to know I would at least be able to help a bit.

But other days – when all was quiet, when there was no serious issue to think about, where all seemed to run as smoothly as it could – they argued. Violently. As if Mahal had been bored with too much calm and sweetness, and was urging them to fight viciously, throwing blows and words at each other like two maddened dogs.

“I have the same right to ride them as you do! You are not even that taller!

- You are so small they could sit upon you and crush you! You are a girl, and you are not even fifteen, that's no age to ride a pony alone and I've no time to sit behind you!

- And what is there so urgent to be done, anyway?! You have no trade, no apprenticeship, nothing, because you are too small, because nobody needs you in the forge, they just pretend!

- You shut it! Of course they need me...

- Yes, for sweeping the floor and carrying light things around – you know what it is you actually do? Girl stuff!”

He lost it, that day. Throw himself at her and pinned her down, and she fought back, hammering blows on his chest, biting his hand and tearing at his hair, and Frerin usually was careful not to hurt her too much, restraining his blows because he knew he was taller, and older, and able to harm her seriously.

But that day he truly lost it, in an eyeblink, and it was so unexpected I did not have the time to prevent it. I had heard their shouts as I was coming back from the brooklet where I had washed and had made sure to run up home as fast as I could, thus hearing the end of their fight, but when I entered the kitchen Frerin had grasped her by the shoulders and made her hit the wall, his eyes full of tears.

“You are a plague. I hate you. I hate you so much there are no words to describe it!”

She hit the wall with the back of her head and was dazed, for a while, and I ran towards them and pulled him away from her, fiercely.

“Have you lost it? Have you truly lost it, Frerin?!

- Well of course! Just take her side, you always do! The perfect little sister, so cute and sweet, and the perfect elder brother, always there to protect her!

- How can you say such things?! How can you...”

But I had to turn from him and to rush towards Dís instead, because she let out a gasp and I could see her slide down the wall, slowly, shaking from head to toe and ghastly pale.

“Love, it's all right. It's just a heavy blow, see, there's a bump already forming behind your head because you have a thick skull, all Dwarves do, don't be afraid, I know it hurts mamarlûna, but you'll be all right, you'll be all right, Dís...”

I had cradled her in my arms, was holding her on my lap, one hand stroking her hair, carefully brushing the bump Frerin's blow had caused, and suddenly I heard her draw a deep breath and let out a terrific sound, half shout and half wail.

“'AMAAAAAD!”

The word made me freeze, and I could see Frerin flinch as well, while Dís was sobbing, sobbing so hard her small body was shaking against mine.

“'Amad, I want 'amad, I hate you, I hate you all, I hate you, I want 'amad, I want 'amad, 'amad, 'amad!!!

- Dís, sweetheart... Love...”

My voice was quivering slightly, I felt so helpless, helpless with so much pain, knowing deep in my heart there was nothing I could do to lessen it.

“I don't want you, I want 'amad! She would let me ride ponies, she would never say I'm too small, she would never say I'm not able... and hit me... and... and... and...

- You hit me too. You bit me, and kicked me. Don't you dare call out for her!”

There was so much burning pain in Frerin's voice that I looked up, and I saw my brother was crying. Silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes glowing, his small fists clenched.

“Don't you dare! Without you, she'd still be...

- Frerin!”

I cut his words just in time – but Dís understood all the same and suddenly she was kicking, struggling and fighting in my arms, hammering harmless blows on my chest.

“'Amad, I want 'amad, I want 'amad, 'amad, 'AMAD!!!”

The word seemed to stretch, like a terrible wail – and she kept repeating it, gasping for air, her small body shaking in my arms. Ripping us all open.

My brother, losing it once more, screaming at her to be quiet every time she voiced it, unable to stop himself from crying as well.

Me – because I could only hold her, feel her struggle, knowing we had reached it, the moment where I could not replace the one she needed most, not anymore...

And my father.

Standing in the doorframe, his face drained of every colour – I placed my hand on Dís' lips as soon as I spotted him, my fingers trying to hold back the word, trying to keep her grief between us, where it belonged... And she felt it, saw him too, and instantly stopped screaming, freezing in my arms – but it was too late.

He had heard it, and for a while he just stood there. Staring at us – Frerin crying silently against the wall, Dís hiccuping in my lap, desperately trying to hold back her sobs, and me, meeting his gaze for a second, begging him to ignore this, to forget this, not let this shatter his well-deserved peace...

And then Thráin left. Turned silently, and left the room. We all heard the soft click of the door as he shut it behind him – and it was worse than any angry move, worse than every possible word he could have uttered.

He left, and for a while all was silent – at least the shouting and wailing had stopped, and I clung to this thought for some seconds, my hand still pressed against Dís' mouth. And then I met my brother's terrified gaze, speaking volumes about the dread we shared – of that forbidden word, forbidden because it was the key to throw my father off balance.

I remember him, huddled against the wall, his grey eyes wide and still brimming with tears, staring at me, begging me to do something, anything to reassure him, tell him it would all be well, that it was not as serious as it seemed. And somehow – somehow I managed. To let go of Dís' lips, freeing her mouth, brushing her cheek roughly with the back of my hand, setting her down on the ground and getting up slowly.

“Thorin, I'm sorry...”, my brother whispered as I moved towards him, dragging him up, wiping his tears with the same determined move as for Dís, and then turning from him.

Walking out of the house, and running in the end, searching for my father – I rounded the house, ran down to the river, reached the nearby houses but did not enter them, because I did not want to explain, did not want anybody to know...

And walking slowly towards the house, once it became clear that my father had gone and that I did not know where to search for him. I entered our room finding my siblings exactly where I had left them – both gazing up at me with wide eyes, full of guilt and fear.

I took the water pitcher and poured them a glass – and if they saw my hand shaking slightly, they didn't say so, they just came closer to the table, taking the glass I handed them without a word.

“You both drink that, and cool down, or I will never speak to you again.”

My voice was low, and yet it did not break. Not this time, because it was too serious. And neither of them tried to defend himself, they both drank, and when they finished Dís snivelled, and wiped her nose with her sleeve, staring down at the floor, while Frerin just stood there, listening to her, and searching his pocket for a crumpled handkerchief, in the end.

“There. Blow your nose”, he whispered, and she took it, not looking at him, her lip quivering slightly as she obeyed.

“Did you find him?”, he asked, softly, and I glared at him – for the answer was obvious, and anger was better than the breath-taking anguish that was threatening to choke me.

“I don't want you to stop speaking...”, Dís voiced, and her tone was hoarse, all broken and desperate, both pleading and full of guilt.

“Then in Mahal's name...”

But I couldn't go on. The words just trailed off and I had to close my eyes for some seconds, trying to brace myself once more – because it was useless to shout at them, it would not bring him back, and enough damage had been done already.

They both rushed towards me – not thinking, simply colliding against my side, almost throwing me off balance, and I could feel my sister's arms around my waist and my brother's savage embrace around my chest.

Begging me not to shout, not to hate them for what had happened, and how could I? Of course I placed a hand on Dís' neck, and on my brother's back, of course I held them close – but deep in my heart I was afraid, just as they were. Wanting to slide against the wall and cry, like a child, but a child I was no more and as such, I just stood there, for a seemingly endless moment, trying to find some sense in what was to be done next.

“Right”, I whispered, in the end. “I want you to prepare the beds, both of you, and then to wash your faces and get dressed for the night. I'll make dinner.

- But you never make dinner, Thorin... I always do it with 'adad...”, my sister voiced, still clinging to me, and I swallowed.

“I'll make dinner”, I just repeated, and my siblings soon let go of me, obeying me silently – even helping each other, just like nothing had happened, and yet it had.

I remember breaking eggs against an iron bowl, and then scrambling them, my hand clenched around the bowl, while the other just went on with whipping moves, watching white and yellow melt until foam formed.

I remember placing some butter into the pan, watching it get warm and then pouring the eggs in it, my throat so tight that it hurt to swallow. And I remember cutting cheese and bread in slices that were as straight and even as my heart felt brittle.

“How many plates...?”, Dís asked, her voice shaky, and I did not turn as I answered.

“Two. I'll eat with 'adad later.”

Unwavering. That was how I sounded, and how I had to be – and dimly I was glad, glad to manage at least to look assured where I only felt doubt, and fear.

“It looks good...”, my brother said shyly, and I just placed their share on their plates, watching them eat, helping Dís to cut her eggs and sitting next to her.

It was only when they finished and when the plates were all cleaned and dried – Frerin and Dís having insisted to do so, while I wiped the table, that they both faced me again. Waiting for my next words, knowing I had to say something.

“Listen...”, I began, and my voice was very low – so low they both had to come closer. “I don't ask you to stop arguing. I don't even ask you to get on well together. I don't care who began it, and who said what to each other. All I ask... and truly, it is not much... is that you just – keep – it – between – yourselves – as – long – as – 'adad – is – around. Can you do that? Is it too much to ask? Because if it is... if it is just say so, and I'll make sure, believe me, I'll make sure to achieve it for you.”

There was a burning undertone in my voice they had never witnessed before – I was not threatening them, not really, I was just making sure they understood they had gone too far, and they both looked at the ground, their faces burning in shame.

“Now get into bed. Both of you.”

They did not argue. They just obeyed, and I could hear them fussing around with their clothes and their blankets, without a word, while I sat myself outside, leaving the door open so that I could lean against the frame, and watch out for my father while keeping an ear on my siblings.

I sat, and then I watched the night, wishing to be able to guess what was going on in my father's mind. Where he was, what he was doing, if he was just walking, trying to forget my sister's word, or if he was with someone, anyone to keep him from his thoughts...

I wished to be able to be sure he would return, but even after more than five years of his steady presence at my side, I still knew there was no guarantee. Never would be. And that thought made me shiver, causing me to wrap my arms around my chest, trying to fight off the cold that had invaded me.

“Thorin, don't be angry... we are going back to bed, we promise...”

My sister's shy voice startled me and I wheeled around, to find that she was dragging my fur-coat with her, handing it to me, while my brother had lit a candle and brought it to me.

“You can't keep watch in the cold like that...”

Dís' voice was soft, and Frerin helped her to wrap the fur-coat around my shoulders, placing the candle in a lantern he put on the ground beneath me. I had not moved, and when they finished Frerin rubbed his forehead against mine – just once, while Dís pressed a quiet kiss on my cheekbone.

“We are sorry, Thorin. We promise we will never do that again.

- Good...”, I whispered, feeling my eyes begin to burn, and forcing myself to push them back inside. “Get back to bed, it's cold.”

And cold it was. It was autumn already, and the wind was icy – I could feel it creep under my tunic, and I curled up in my coat, feeling the soft furs against my cheek, tucking my hands in my sleeves to keep them warm. The lantern was throwing shy rays upon the doorframe, and outside – I could see dry leaves fall slowly, only to be roused again by the chilly breeze.

I remember that watch, indeed. The light fading slowly as night grew darker – and the slow stirring of the leaves, their faint rustling as they fell, once more, covering the ground with copper.

“Frer...?

- Hmm..?”

Soft whispers in the dark... The night so silent around me that I could hear them, as clearly as if I was in the room with them – one high up in her loft bed, the other huddled in the depths of his own blankets.

“It's not true. What I said. I don't hate you. At all.”

Silence stretching between them, and then tiny noises. Bare feet climbing down a ladder.

“Frer...?”

The rustle of sheets, and then a soft whisper, once more.

“Frer, I didn't mean it. I just wanted to ride with you... Are you crying?

- No...”

The quiver in his voice telling her so clearly that he was. Of course he was. The softest among us, the one needing hugs and kisses and love as much as breathing.

“I think you are the best brothers in the world. You and Thorin. And... I don't think you're useless. You are the best with horses, and with stories, and... with braiding my hair. The women always think it's 'adad who has done it, when it's you.

- Really?”

So strange that such were the words helping to ease his sorrow... I heard him move, guessing from the soft creaking of the bed he was letting her creep under his blanket.

“Yeah. They should have guessed, though, you are doing just the same with the ponies.”

A soft giggle, and another rustle of sheets.

“Not the same, Dís. You're no pony.

- Maybe I am...”

Another giggle, and then silence. Stretching again between them, yet so different from before. Without hurt, or awkwardness.

“I'm sorry too, Dís. I never meant to hurt you.

- It doesn't hurt. It's just a bump. If it had been on my forehead I could have said I'm a unicorn now, just like the one in Balin's story...

- The white one?

- Yeah...”

His fingers in her hair – I could almost feel them. I knew he was stroking her locks, knew it from the soft sigh in her last word, and because I had done it myself, so often, when he was the one huddled against me.

“I'm forgetting her face...”

Sad, earnest words – a wound so deep it could only be spoken under blankets, huddled against each other, Frerin's sentence hovering above them for a minute.

“It's been more than half of my life. More than half of Thorin's, even. I guess it's normal. There is no drawing, no picture, nothing. But it still hurts.”

And it did. So much. Even looking at the dark ground outside, even clenching my fists, withdrawing even more in my fur-coat, almost feeling guilty to overhear the words – but then, as it occurs to me only now, Frerin actually knew I was there...

“I'm sorry, Frer. I shouldn't have...

- No. It's fine. She's your 'amad too.”

A quiet kiss on her brow, and my sister's small sigh.

“Frer... One day I asked Dwalin's mum. One day it was just the two of us. I asked her what she looked like, and if she had a picture or something. And she said no. There was no need for it. She said I just had to look at your face, and replace your eyes with Thorin's.”

Another rustle of sheets, Dís dragging herself up to face him.

“So you see, it doesn't matter if you forget.

- She had brown hair, though...”, my brother whispered, and I could tell from the hitch in his voice that he was holding back tears.

“Yeah. But still. The face is what matters most.”

Silence again. And then my brother's voice, hardly above a whisper:

“Let's sleep now. It's late.”

Soft words. A soothing balm on a wound that would never truly heal, and yet... They were silent after that, and their quiet breathing seemed to fill the space between us – my siblings sleeping, finally, and I keeping watch.

I never moved. Not even as I heard his footsteps, and watched him return. I just stayed as I was, seated against the wooden doorframe, the candle in the lantern flickering madly, close to extinguishing itself.

He stopped a few steps away from me, clearly taken aback, and then he bridged the distance between us, pausing at the door. I was still seated, my arms folded against my chest, numb with cold yet determined to look up at him, and my gaze did not waver.

Not even as our eyes locked – and I could see his drawn face, the sadness in his eye, and the grief that lined the corners of his mouth, never truly erased. And yet I did not utter a word – not of comfort, not of apology. I just stared at him, determined to show him.

That I was not crying, not freaking out, not asking him where he had gone or if he would do so again. That I was no boy anymore – and would keep watch, always, guard my siblings and shield them, even if he chose to walk away, because they had only me save him.

That I would never walk away. That I would wait, always – always wait for him to come back.

The candle died with a hissing sound, leaving us both in the dark – and it was better like that, it forced us both to move. I unfolded my arms, and as I did I felt my father's hand on my forearm. Hesitant, yet warm. Asking me if I was ready to let him in.

I let him drag me up, and he closed the door softly behind us. I turned from him as soon as we were inside, heading for the kitchen, placing his share of eggs and bread on a plate and handing it to him, wordlessly.

And then I ate mine. Facing him on the other side of the table, without looking at him – feeling cold and exhausted, now that we were all back inside, finally.

“Dashat...”, my father whispered, in the end, as we both lay down our forks – and I did not look up, because my eyes were burning, because his soft, deep voice was tearing at my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.

The silence seemed to stretch between us, and then Thráin spoke again.

“There will soon be more of our kin.”

This was so unexpected that I looked up, meeting his gaze, frowning slightly, pushing unspoken thoughts aside for a while.

“We received several tidings, these past weeks. From the Orocarni. There seem to be no future in these Mountains for our people – they say they are not part of them, and are planning to join us. Several families.”

I stared at him, wordlessly, thinking of the Council where I had met them, the Blacklocks and the Stonefeet, and known they had no compassion, no love for the once so mighty Longbeards...

And I thought I had been right to hate them.

“I... had to see your grandfather tonight, so as to determine how to answer. There are not many riches here. We already struggle. But these are our people.

- How many?”, I asked, in the end, and my voice was steadier than I felt.

“Probably a hundred. They come from different settlements. Twenty... thirty families, maybe. Not only warriors. There will be craftsmen. Women. Children.”

He said the last words softly, his gaze shifting to Frerin, and Dís – their frames mere shadows in the dark room. And I knew then that he must have pleaded with Thrór to let them all come. Be it only to have his children grow up among their kin – be it only to have a sliver of the warmth and life Erebor had harboured as well as gold and gems.

“When will they come?”, I asked, and my father smiled softly, his hand searching for mine, his warm palm closing upon my unmoving fingers.

“I knew you would understand...”, he simply said. “I knew you would ask exactly that.”

I bit my lip, feeling the stinging in my eyes return. This was bordering on madness. There was not enough work, not enough food, and the lands were hostile save for our small settlement. It was autumn, winter was close and try as I might, I could not conceive how the work in the forges and the little other trades we had managed to establish with the Dunlendings could ever suffice.

And yet...

And yet I could not bring myself to feel it was not right. These were our people. We had walked away from Fire, crossed ice and snow together. We had shared hunger, and cold, sickness and blood – and I would rather have them all around, and strive even harder, than to know they were despised and struggling elsewhere.

“Spring”, Thráin voiced softly. “They should not travel during winter. It should give us some time...

- Time for what?”, I asked, my hand moving slightly under my father's who squeezed it gently, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb.

“To be a bit more ready. You already are, dashat... You do not need me in the forge, not anymore. Time and experience have to be your teachers now.

- Time for what?”

My voice was toneless, and I repeated the words like a prayer, already dreading the blow.

“It is time for me to go. For several months, so that we can manage a bit more easily – get some wealth we cannot achieve with me staying here. There are enough warriors. I can take five or six with me, and offer our services to merchants, to escort them through Dunland, towards Rohan or Gondor. They pay. There will be enough food for all.

- 'Adad...”

My throat was tight, and for a while I struggled to speak.

“Will you take Balin with you?”, I whispered, in the end – and no, I did not ask him to stay, did not ask him why he could not send other warriors, why he could not stay with us and keep us safe and stay with me in the forge forever.

I was not a boy, not anymore.

“Aye, dashat. I will take Balin”, my father said softly – and I withdrew my hand, slowly.

Clenched my fists and stared down at the table, its rough, unpolished wood we still made sure to keep smooth and clean. For a few heartbeats, thinking I should be glad. Feel relieved. Because with Balin with him, I could hope, and be reasonably sure he would keep whole, and focused.

“Good”, I whispered, forcing myself to open my palms and look at him.

And it did not matter my voice quivered. It did not matter my father shook his head, pushing back his chair, embracing me and leading me to his room, because I managed to repeat it. As it was expected of me.

“Good. Very good.”

We were sitting on the edge of the bed, he was holding me tightly, one hand against my neck and the other around my waist, and his lips were pressing quiet kisses against my hair, my brow, my skin, echoing my words, every single time.

“That's good.”

I do not know when I stopped saying it, not really. I just know he never stopped holding me, never stopped kissing me and had me close to his chest the whole time, running soothing fingers through my hair.

Until I found us both stretched on his narrow bed – and he had removed my boots and wrapped me in his blanket, somehow... I was huddled against him, my face resting against his chest and I could feel his warmth trough his tunic because I was clinging to the fabric, my fists clenched so hard my skin seemed white.

His hand was resting against my back, so warm. So warm, and when I shifted slightly I felt the softness of his beard as well – his beard in which my hair was tangled, exactly like years and years ago, when I had been just a boy.

“It is not fine, dashat.”

His deep voice gave me enough strength to unlock my grip, slowly, and he stroked my back, his move both soothing and determined.

“It is not what I want. I want to hold you like this forever. I want you to know I will always be there. That I will always try to keep you from harm. That you can trust me to come back. Always. Because there is no life for me where you are not – you, your brother and your sister.

- I didn't mean to...”, I whispered, but my father shushed me, his thumb stroking my lips.

“Neither did I”, he answered. “I am so sorry to ask this of you. But I know you are ready. I know I can trust you. I know my Raven-haired prince has grown enough to stand tall on his own, and let me rely upon him. I am so, so proud of you, dashat.

- I'm proud of you too...”, I said, my voice broken – and what a child I was, actually, what a childish answer it was to such loving words, and yet I could not think of any better...

“I promise I will manage, 'adad. I promise it will... it will be good.”

He smiled at me, then, and drew me closer.

“Come here, my boy”, he said softly. “Come here. Of course it will be good. Of course it will be. My boy. My sweet, wonderful boy...”

And that night I let him. Let him hold me close, allowed myself to stay huddled against my father despite the fact that I was almost as tall as him, my face pressed in his chest and his fingers in my hair.

I fell asleep against him, and he never pushed me away. Held me the whole night, like a Dwarfling, careful not to wake me once his bed became even more crowded. He shifted, resting my head against his chest and holding Frerin close with his other hand, allowing Dís to rest against one of his thighs, making sure we all stayed warm.

“Perhaps I should have made it broader...”, he smiled once dawn found us all crowded and cramped in his narrow bed.

I frowned, felt myself blush and made a move to get out, but my father held me back, his arm still around my shoulders.

“No...”, Frerin let out, still half-asleep. “It would not be the same... I like it when we are all tangled. I like to be squeezed against you, 'adad...

- You kick...”, Dís mumbled accusingly, and my father smiled, bending to pull her up and let her rest against his chest, lifting my arm to make it circle her tiny back.

“No broad bed, then...”, he said softly. “Squeezed and tangled.”

My siblings giggled and I smiled, too sleepy to feel awkward and simply glad to have them all against me. I would not think of what was to come, not now... I just wanted to close my eyes and listen to that nonsense, because soon that bed would be empty, my father gone for months with nothing more than a Raven to tell us how they all fared, every ten days...

“Oh 'adad, that's a good watchword! Squeezed and tangled. I want that on my shield when I'll be big. They will all think I crush them and make knots with their very limbs, and no one will know it's actually us...”

His eyes were shining and my father smiled, but I mumbled:

“They'll think you are nuts, kudzaduz. That's what they'll think.”

Frerin just huffed, making himself more comfortable.

“Not with you having written 'scowl don't smile' all over yourself... I don't care for what they think. Orcs don't think, they just snarl anyway...”

And if there was the slightest shake in his voice, I did not comment upon it. I just reached over Dís' back to entwine my arm with his – because I knew he had his own secret fears though he barely ever voiced them, and because I loved him.

I loved them all, squeezed against and tangled with me – and I just closed my eyes, for a few moments where I could still be just a boy, before I would have to pretend I was ready.

I did not cry the day they left, and neither did my siblings. I just stood as tall as I could in the icy wind and watched them go – my father, Balin, Dagur and three more warriors that were to accompany him, Thráin's kiss still lingering on my skin.

Dís was in Dwalin's arms – had climbed there herself, settling on his hip, determined to be tall as well, but Frerin had drawn an arm around my waist and was leaning against my shoulder, his golden locks spread on my fur-coat.

“I wish he could have stayed for Durin's day...”, my brother said, his voice slightly trembling, and I placed a hand upon his locks.

“It would have been too late... The merchants will want to cross the Mountains before winter.

- And how will we know where they are?”, Frerin whispered, and I brushed his hair, softly.

“You heard 'adad. He said he has asked for a Raven to meet him on the road.

- Roäc?”, my brother asked, his grey eyes shining, and I shook my head.

“No. Not Roäc. I do not think he can leave his people like that. They have a new life now. In the west, very far away...

- But he told you he would always come should you need him. He promised when he left, Thorin, don't you remember?”

Of course I did. Of course I remembered – these words had kept my eyes clear of tears when Roäc had left us, already years ago. He had promised to accompany us until we reached Dunland, and Dunland we had reached. His promise was fulfilled, and to feel lost, and robbed of every rock I could think of was no reason to make him leave home, and shelter – and ask him to abandon his duties. I had to face mine alone.

“I do. He will send one of the Ravens, kudz, you will see.”

My brother sighed, well-knowing that I had eluded the question, and that is when I heard Dwalin's gasp, his cough as he got it down the wrong way, and then stuttered:

“Come again, sarnûna...?”

My sister gazed at him, puzzled, and then her clear, childish voice rose.

“Thorin said he wants you to sleep with him. At our place. While Balin is away. He said it would be a waste of firewood, to have you in your house and us in ours, that you'd be cold alone and on your own. So when I asked him if you could not share his bed, he said yes.

- Dís, I didn't...

- Oh Mahal!”, Dwalin let out, and he had to put my sister down and sit himself on the icy ground, because he was shaking with silent laughter.

“So that's your plan, eh...?”, he hiccuped, and I glared at him, and at Dís who was still at a loss to understand what she had gotten wrong.

“No! I never said that! That's what she wants! You know how Dís is, once she has something in her mind, she won't budge! I didn't say you could share my bed or... or sleep with me or anything like that!

- But you said you would ask him...”, Dís pleaded, and her eyes were bright and full of hurt. “You said that if he wanted, he could sleep in your bed and you in 'adad's so that we could all stay together at night...

- Yeah...”, Frerin supplied, breaking away from me, and I felt utterly betrayed, suddenly – because it made me look like a fool and a Dwarfling.

“Didn't”, I let out, and then I just turned, walking away as quickly as I could, entering our house so as to grab my tools and apron, and heading for the forge, cheeks and eyes burning – furious with my siblings, and most of all with myself.

That day I did not even speak, I think, save some words with Nár who was watching over us – not truly helping us, but supervising us for the first weeks we would have to learn how to manage without Balin and my father.

It went surprisingly well. There was more space, and I could move more easily, I soon lost myself in work and found it calmed me down. I loved to shape iron, always have. It required strength, but also concentration – it kept my mind focused and the tools I shaped were there to prove it, plain as they were.

I could do it. I was strong enough, I had learnt my trade. Had we been in Erebor, I would have needed years and years of practice, but we were not. There was no silver to carve, no delicate piece of work to frame, these were nails, tools, and heavy weapons – and it was what I needed, that day.

The sun was low when I wiped my brow, at last, and as I laid down my hammer I found Dwalin already sweeping the forge, quietly. Nár had already left, long ago – he was getting older and there was no need to keep him there endlessly, and so we were alone.

The broom made a soft, regular noise and I suddenly realised I was tired. There was no fire left in me, I could only watch Dwalin sweep the dust, while the embers guttered in the fireplace.

“She got it wrong”, I whispered, in the end, and Dwalin did not stop in his task, the broom brushing the floor steadily.

“She made it sound wrong, and I don't want you to think...

- Think what?”, Dwalin said, his rough voice strangely soft as he placed the broom into its corner at last.

“That you... that I... Oh, curse it, Dwalin, she made it sound like I was in love with you and I'm not, you know that, don't you?

- Yeah. Even though you kissed me.

- It was an oath, Dwalin! I had to!

- Yeah. I remember.”

He was still quiet, and strange, and suddenly I felt dread come all over me. I was on the verge of speaking – or leave him there, I'm still not sure, when I heard it. That quiet chuckle, soon turning into bellowing laughter. He was leaning against the broom, struggling to keep upright, and he was laughing.

“Oh sparrow... That face of yours! Oh Mahal, you might not be in love with me, but goodness... That face... I really made you doubt, didn't I...?

- You are... you are...”

But I couldn't even speak. I was too angry, too hurt, too overwhelmed and it suddenly made me want to cry, it made me want to lash out and throw things at him but I could only stand there, and Dwalin noticed. Forced his laughter to ebb, and slid down the wall, slowly, gazing up at me with that brown, kind gaze that always helped to unravel whatever knot I had inside.

“Oh Thorin, does it have to be so tragic? Can't you just have it simple, this time? If you want me to stay with you, ask. If you don't, there's no problem. I'm used to sleeping in our house, even without Balin. I don't mind. I just...”

And here his voice trailed off. He was still looking at me, but had drawn his knees up and was resting his arm against them – and it made him look younger, more vulnerable than I had ever seen him. It made anger leave my body, almost despite myself, and cross the forge slowly to sit down next to him. Not touching him, but waiting for him to go on.

And eventually, once the silence had stretched so much that it would have been awkward not to answer, I whispered:

“You think it's childish. That I'm childish.

- No.”

That is all he said, his brown eyes flaring up for a moment, as they gazed up at me defiantly.

“Then Dwalin...”, I said, very softly – and it was not easy, I was not used to asking, I did not like to voice such things aloud...

“Come and live with us. Until they return. I don't want you to be cold.”

I had spoken quietly, still seated at his side – earnest words trying to hide the wish behind an order, and it made Dwalin smile.

“Aye, uzbâd. I'll come.

- Don't call me like that...”, I whispered, nudging him in the ribs, but when he entwined his arm with mine I let him drag me up.

“Thank you”, he said, quietly, once he was facing me, and I frowned.

“For what?

- Remembering to keep me warm”, he simply answered, and then he left the forge, carrying his tools away, striding determinedly towards his home to gather the few belongings he had.

He slept in my bed, that winter. Night after night – his presence having a soothing effect upon my siblings, who hardly argued anymore, cuddling against him in the evening and often falling asleep right there.

And I moved to my father's room. Stretched myself on his bed, trying to find his scent in the sheets the first days, and falling asleep gazing at the soft curves the moon was drawing on the wall, its rays falling upon my mother's harp.

Thinking I missed them both, more than words could tell – but that I would be strong, and keep these wounds hidden, because I had promised my father I would manage.

I was no boy anymore. I was almost thirty, almost battle-ready, and I had siblings and a friend to take care of, as well as my people. And I would manage. Carry us all through the winter, until my father and Balin returned.

And so I buried my face in his sheets, stared at the soft curves on the walls, and fell asleep in my father's bed, night after night, waiting for the winter and yearning for spring, my fingers curled around one of his old working shirts.

Chapter Text

I remember the moon on Durin's Day that year.

It looked exactly like the one we saw, lightening the rocks, shining upon the keyhole. It was so bright. It shone so purely, because the sky was freed of every cloud. It looked so perfect, autumn's last jewel before it bowed to the winter.

“Do you think someone is living up there? There are spots on it. There might be Mountains, and even Dwarves...

- Hold still, mamarlûna.”

I had helped Dís into her best attires and was fastening the laces of her collar and sleeves. She had pouted at first, thinking very little of robes and dresses, but had remained silent after I had reminded her that they did not prevent anyone from acting strong, and that it mattered to our grandfather.

“Thorin, I don't want that gown...

- Of course you do. It's biting cold outside. You don't want to sneeze and shiver while we all dance and eat, do you?

- I don't care. I want 'adad. There's no Durin's Day without 'adad.”

She was staring at the ground, biting her lip, and I closed my eyes briefly. It had been twenty days, and we had still no news. No Raven. No tidings, not even a word. And yet I had to pretend it did not worry me.

“Come on, Dís. Don't you remember? Agda has promised to make some honey-cakes. And there will be dances too. You will dance. And Thorin and me. Just like every year. And if you are lucky, you might even get a dance with Dwalin...”

Frerin's voice was cheerful as he wheeled her around, and Dís' eyes brightened. I had finished to lace her clothes and she let him drag her towards the bed, sitting between his spread legs while he began to braid her hair.

“Don't sulk, Distle”, he whispered, kissing her behind the ear. “Otherwise the Moon-dwarf will be very, very sad.

- There's no Moon-dwarf. You are making this up.

- Of course there is. He's the one shaping the moon. He cuts her all tiny when she's tired, draping her in a big dark gown, just like yours. And when she's rested he uncovers her and polishes her until she's as big and bright as today...

- Thorin, is it true?”

I was already dressed, my braids tight and stern, having pulled on my light chain-mail, and my best jerkin. The one from Erebor had become too small, and this one was almost new – the women had used one of my fathers', had polished the leather anew and had altered it for me, taking pains to embroider the edges with tiny silver threads.

I tied my belt and slid my sword into its scabbard, and then I fastened my axe on my back. Dís was looking at me, and she seemed so small, seated there, her shiny eyes gazing up at me with absolute trust and love.

“And what do you think, mamarlûna?”, I asked, and she frowned, knitting her tiny brow while my brother's nimble fingers wove one braid after the other.

“If it's true, then he's very lonely and cold up there, and I'm sorry for him”, she voiced, decidedly, and Frerin laughed.

I smiled, and then I left them, crossing the settlement to find my grandfather while checking out the preparations. Huge piles of logs were laid out, promising roaring fires at least for one night, and benches had been disposed around the dais where my grandfather would hold his customary speech, leaving room for music and dances afterwards.

It was not much, but it promised a cheerful night, and I smiled at the guards I met, rounding the settlement to make sure our defences stood.

“We will bring you your share of food”, I promised them, laying a hand on their forearm. “You won't be forgotten.

- We had no fear of that, Uzbad-dashatê”, they answered, one after the other.

And the last one who was also the oldest added :

“As long as a bit of your music reaches us...

- I will make sure of that”, I said quietly. “I will come and play for you, if you wish.

- No, lad. Stay warm. Stay safe. Your notes will find us, do not fret.”

I looked at him and he brushed my arm, once.

“And so will tidings. Have faith. Your 'adad... He has lived through worse. I'm sure he leads them all to safety and wealth.

- Aye”, I whispered, somehow finding the strength to tighten my shoulders and nod, firmly. “Thank you. Durin bless you.

- And you, Uzbad-dashatê. And you.”

His dark eyes found my face and I saw the tiny wrinkles time had woven around them, speaking of warmth and care even beneath an iron helmet. And then I turned, heading for my grandfather's house.

I was going there every day, now that my father had gone. Every morning, before I headed for the forge, finding him already dressed up, the leather-bound books in which we kept records and sums spread out before him, his tea long forgotten and cold.

I would place some logs close to the fire-place and stir the embers, determined to have him warm, and then I would take his cup, emptying it and brewing fresh tea for him and for Nár. I would pour it into tin-cups, making sure not to fill them up completely – the utmost silent insult in Dwarven customs, as it basically meant drink it and be gone...

It also allowed them to add a few drops of that fiery beverage Nár brewed, and that was pleasing my grandfather so much. They would often sit there, together – two old, hardened warriors who had almost nothing left, save books telling them how much they had lost, and drops of fire reminding them of even rougher days...

“Who's chopping that wood?”, Thrór would ask briskly, every now and then, and my reply never varied.

“I do, grandfather.

- Shouldn't you be learning your trade?

- I try, grandfather.

- Trying is good. Achieving it is better”, he would snort, but sometimes he would add, in a softer voice:

“And what will you carve today, son?”

And I wished I could tell him I would make the most perfectly balanced sword the world had ever seen. That I would carve silver-shields, bearing his crest so that his name could spread, mighty and wealthy once more. That bracelets, rings and necklaces were springing from my forge, for everyone to see and to desire wildly.

But I was no liar, and that dream had broken long ago.

And so I always answered truthfully:

“Nails, grandfather. Ploughs. Arrow-heads. A knife. Some shoes for the ponies.”

He would fall silent then, and his gaze would cloud. And then his broad hand would find my head and linger there, for a moment, always puzzled to find out I had grown so much.

“Go then, lad. Go, my boy.”

That day, however, I had the hope that I would bring him some pleasure. I had dressed in my finest clothes, had washed my hair and braided it with care. I bore my rings as well and had polished them so that they shone, their tarnished silver brought back to life once more. I had no proper beard yet, just whiskers and stubbles that darkened my cheeks, but I had done my best to appear as a Prince so that he could be proud.

I found him dressed up, his beads fastened as usual in his grey beard, and his clothes neat and proper. There was no day Thrór would dress casually, he would always make sure to wear clothes both practical and displaying his kingship, even though he was not one to dwell much on dresses and attires anymore. And as such, even on Durin's Day, I found him standing in front of the fireplace much as he always was.

I bowed to Nár and he smiled at me, and then I stepped up to my grandfather, noticing that, for the very first time, a fire was already burning below the mantlepiece.

Thrór was staring at the flames, and he did not look up as I approached him. He simply said:

“I could use a good pipe with you, Thráin.”

I frowned, thinking he must have spoken too fast, but he turned towards me, casting a scowl upon me.

“Well, son? Is that how I raised you, to keep your father and King waiting?

- Grandfather, it's me...”, I said softly, feeling my heart begin to throb wildly in my ribcage. “Thorin.

- Oh...”

He blinked, twice, and my throat tightened, because for a few seconds I saw a look of confusion and anguish cross his face, making him look more helpless than I had ever seen him.

“Oh. Thorin. Of course. It's the light. It makes you look so tall.

- I have grown a bit, grandfather. Maybe one day I will reach your height...

- Now, now...”

And he smiled, actually, as I stepped up to him and took his hand, but his fingers were cold in mine and I knew then.

That it was not the light.

“Do you want your pipe, grandfather?”, I asked, still brushing his hand. “Shall I fetch it for you? There is time left before the feast...

- No. Leave it. Pour me a cup instead, and take one for you as well.”

He pushed me away, as so often, and I try to hide my worry while I obeyed him, watching him turn to the fireplace again. My eyes found Nár's, and my fingers moved, discreetly, as I poured the tea for them.

- What is it, Nár? He seems... odd.

- Just a bit distraught. Has been, for a few days.

- Distraught?

I put the tin-cups on a plate and Nár swiftly added some drops of firewater for him and my grandfather, after I had shaken my head wordlessly, covering my own cup with my palm. He smiled at that, but his green eyes were thoughtful, and his wrinkled face somewhat sad.

- He misses him, lad.

- 'Adad ? Is that why he...?

- He longs for news. That's all. And they will come soon. Do not fret.

These words kept returning, everybody was telling me not to worry, and yet I could not fight back the silent dread clinging to my chest. It had been almost three weeks, and my father had promised he would send a Raven every ten days. Something had happened. Something had happened to 'adad, to Balin, to Dagur and the other Dwarves – and yet I could not let this thought show in my gaze or on my face.

And so I drank my tea, smiled at my grandfather and tried to bring my share to the conversation – but I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed his request.

“I wish you to speak tonight, Thorin. Are you listening, boy?

- I...

- I said I wish you to speak tonight. It is time you learn how to address your people. How to let your words reach them, so that they remain faithful.

- Grandfather, I...

- Well?!”

His light-blue eyes flared up and I could see irritation begin to darken his face. I straightened my back and squared my shoulders.

“It is just... Will you speak to them first? I... I am sure you already know what you want to say...

- Of course I know. It's the same thing every year. Thank them, thank the Maker, explain what is to be done and express your faith in getting it done swiftly.

- Thrór, you are shocking the lad...”

Nár was smiling, and gently put a hand upon his forearm – and my grandfather shrugged, without being able to suppress a smirk.

“So what? They just want to eat and dance. And to know we are here to drive them and get things done – their best excuse to complain and grumble, which is what they do best. No way to get it wrong. No way.”

And he emptied his cup, laying it back against the plate with a thud, rolling his eyes when he saw me staring at him.

“Mahal, lad. Of course I'll speak first. Add a few words, will you? That's all I ask. Can't do worse than your father, can you? Not even able to send a Raven, that one...

- Aye, grandfather”, I whispered, and I soon laid down my own cup and got up, bowing and leaving the house.

But my eyes were burning and all the feelings I was so carefully trying to repress were choking me – I did not trust my voice, did not trust my face, and I broke into a jog, running down the slope until I reached the brooklet, and the broad stone where I used to sit with Dwalin, when we wanted to be alone.

And there I crouched, leaning my back against the rock and pressing my fists against my eyes.

“Shit”, I voiced. “Shit. Bloody – accursed – freaking – tremendous – shit.”

I exhaled, shakily, my elbows digging into my thighs, my palms pressed so tight against my eyes dazzling spots were beginning to appear, and then I forced myself to breathe evenly. In and out. Twenty times in a row, one for each day without news – enough to calm myself down.

The brooklet drew itself in fragments, blotted out by dark spots, once I opened my eyes and got up, still leaning against the rock. I waited for my vision to focus, looking at the water who was swelled by autumn's rain, dragging dead leaves along.

“Shit”, I whispered, one last time.

And then I turned, to face Durin's Eve at last.

I entered our house to find Dís and Dwalin fully dressed, and I smiled at him, because he looked exactly as he should, a warrior's son, his grey woolen tunic, dark leather-jerkin and his chain-mail fitting his body like a second skin. His two axes were fastened on his back, and he had tied some of his thick brown hair back with a hair-clasp, showing more of his face – where a beard had clearly begun to grow.

He smiled back, and resumed his game with Dís, showing her magic tricks involving a woolen thread, two of her fingers and one of his. She was looking at him in mute adoration, seated on the bench, so small that her feet did not reach the ground, and I resisted the urge to bend down and kiss her neck, not wanting to disturb them.

Instead, I knocked at my father's room-door, where my brother was getting dressed.

“Frerin?

- Come in... And don't bother knocking, Thorin, you're my brother!”

I shook my head and entered – expecting a mess of clothes discarded in every corner of the room, the main heap lying on my bed. But instead...

“Oh.”

Frerin was fastening his axe on his back, and his tiny fingers were struggling with the buckle – he was frowning, a look of impatience in his grey eyes that reassured me my brother was still there somehow, because the Dwarfling I was facing had little to do with his ordinary self.

He only wore weapons and chain-mail when he was training, discarding them in ordinary life, walking around in tunic and jerkin, his braids the only adornment he cared about – and even then, his hair being somewhat unruly, they would get loose several times a-day. Until Frerin was fed up with braiding them again and would end up with his hair-clasps askew, his locks curling around his face, often sweaty and covered in dust, because he did not shirk duty and work and tried his best.

I never scolded him for that, I just made sure to bring him warm water, and every once in a while, I was the one washing his hair. We shared turns, Dwalin, Dís and me – and Frerin loved it. We almost suspected him of dirtying his hair on purpose, but I would not have exchanged these moments where I had him sitting before me, his eyes closed in delight as I poured water on his hair and digged my fingers into his skull. Somehow it made me feel I was finally able to set things right – that I could wash dirt and dust away and have Frerin look as the bright, carefree Prince he should have always been able to remain.

But that day I faced him – that day I saw him dressed as the true Prince he was, and always had been, I could only look. At that wonderful boy who had pulled on weapons and chain-mail, who had braided his hair with such care that his clear, smart features stood out even as he frowned – my little brother who was growing just as I was...

“Give me a hand, will you, Thorin?”

He was still fumbling with the buckle and I stepped behind him, quietly strapping his axe on his back – and it was all I could do not to pull him against my chest and squeeze as hard as I could.

“I would have worn my bow, but I don't want to give grandfather the satisfaction.”

He huffed and turned towards me as I winced.

“So, how is he? Growling about preparations? Rehearsing his speech? Did he give you a break with 'adad and the forge today?

- Hmm...”

I just groaned, and Frerin sighed.

“Right, he didn't. Mahal, Thorin, he's such a bore!”

I winced again and my brother's gaze softened.

“All right, all right. Sometimes I wonder what he has done to deserve you.

- Don't”, I mumbled. “He's our grandfather. He's... It's hard for him, Frerin.

- Aye. Just for him, of course.”

He had spoken drily, straightening his tunic, and I picked up the shirt he had pulled off, starting to fold it, quietly... until Frerin snatched it from my hands.

“Hey, that's mine! I'll do it, don't you dare... what is it, anyway? You're all quiet and stern. It's Durin's Day, remember?

- He wants me to speak.”

I sat down on the bed as I spoke, and my brother arched his eyebrows. And then he sat down next to me, circling my waist, squeezing his arm between my axe and my back.

“Well, that's good, Thorin...”, he said, quietly. “I would love to hear you add a few words. I think it would please them. To hear what you have to say. It's important. They need to bond with you – to know you are a full support to grandfather, but that you are there as well. It reassures them, to have you there, Thorin. And I think grandfather is aware of that too. That's why he asked you to speak.”

I looked at him in surprise, and Frerin rubbed my stomach with his fist, smiling like a boy when he tried to dig his way through my clenched muscles.

“Soon they'll turn to iron”, he grinned, and then he grew thoughtful.

“Do you think one day I'll look just like that? There are no muscles in my belly. It's all soft. I try, though, Thorin.

- I know, kudz. But you don't need that.

- 'Course I do! I'm going to be just like you. Just like you and 'adad. Strong and stunning and unwavering and absolutely ama-a-a-a-a-azing!!!”

He had twisted the word, breaking away from me and made a few dancing steps through the room, opening the door and yelling at Dwalin and Dís:

“We're off, come on!!

- About time”, Dwalin muttered, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, and soon we were heading for the dais, joining the processions of Dwarves and Dwarrowdam who had all come to gather there.

I remember the moon, that night. It was bright, and had risen fully, casting enough light upon the days to see dozens of silhouettes, massing themselves around the dais, waiting for my grandfather to speak.

Dwalin stood among them, but my siblings and me climbed upon the dais to join my grandfather. I heaped Dís up, took my brother's hand and helped him up as well, and then I got up myself, standing at my grandfather's side, at the place my father used to be every year - listening quietly, his face intent and his gaze fixed upon the Dwarrows before him.

Thráin never held a speech. He just listened, and when my grandfather finished he bowed his head, quietly, only adding his own wishes to his people, a soft, heartfelt sentence that somehow never missed its aim, quiet and modest as it was.

He had no wish to outshine his father. He simply was there, and back then it meant the world to me, because I knew it could have been so much worse. He could have stayed mad, shut in his own world – he could have been lost in anger and hurt but he was there, just like in Erebor, at his father's side, and though he never seemed to take any decision, leaving the ruling to Thrór, I knew it was not so.

He was the one who had made us all settle down. He was the one who had thought of the houses, who was helping my grandfather with the records, who was quietly watching over the elderly, making sure no one was left alone to struggle. He was the one who had decided to leave, to offer his services to Men so that he could afford to take more Dwarves in, and now he was away.

He was away, and I had no news. He could be injured, lost – they could all be lost, and I had to be there, standing on that dais, listening to my grandfather who was speaking steadfastly about success, about hard and hostile ground that had never stopped any Dwarf from thriving, about work that had been done and would have to be done, and I wondered...

I wondered if he doubted. If somewhere, in his hard, strong heart, he was afraid too – if it unsettled him to know his son so far away, or if it was simply old age that made him stick to these thoughts of hard work, of having to fight. If it was old age that had caused him to mistake me for my father – or something worse, a foreshadowing, or even that obscure desire to replace him with me he had voiced several times, making my heart sink...

Thoughts kept raging in my head, and yet I stood silent and grave, my face betraying nothing. And when he finished we all bowed, us of course, and the rest of the Dwarves, and a quiet rumble went to the crowd – approbation, probably, but a resigned one.

My grandfather turned towards me, and laid a hand upon my shoulder, nudging me forwards. And I looked at these tired, battered faces – these faces telling me clearly they knew the course to take, that they had no choice anyway, and that they had known from the very beginning what their King would say to them. That it was hard, but that they had abandoned the very idea of complaining long ago, and that they were simply weary, in want of one precious evening where they could try to forget exile and strives.

I looked at them – and I felt my chest tighten. I was not my father. I did not have it in me to wish them a wonderful Durin's Day, I did not have his quiet strength that always managed to convey just how much he was there.

I just had them. These battered faces, these tired looks who had brightened up, somehow, who were looking up at me eagerly, and suddenly I heard myself speak.

“May the moon shine brightly upon your evening – as brightly as it shines upon ours, because I see you all gathered there around us and know it is a rare blessing.”

My voice was slightly trembling, but it was not breaking – and I felt as if it was another one speaking, reaching out from the very depth of my chest to find words I would never have dreamt of harbouring.

Because I had them. I had them, and I cared for them – cared for them so deeply that I silenced my awkwardness, my shyness and my fear for a moment, only yearning to give them everything I could, and even more.

“And today, today and every day, my siblings and me want you to know that we... that we are very much aware. Of what it means, that you are there, at our side, here in Dunland. Of every day you work, and strive, so that we can all hope that tomorrow will be brighter. Of every night where... where there is a light burning, in each house, showing we are still there. And... I want you to know that... that we are there for you as well. And always will be.”

I had spoken as clearly as I could, my gaze never wavering from the silhouettes of the Dwarrows I could see standing before me, crowded close to the dais. I was glad for the darkness, because it shadowed my face – but suddenly the moment broke: my cheeks were glowing, and I felt awkward, too awkward to become aware of something else than my shaking hands and the race of my heartbeats.

And so I failed to notice the silence, at first. It took me some seconds – but then it hit me with all its fullness. It was absolutely silent, so silent that the only sound was the soft cracking of the fire around us. And then they moved. The old Dwarrows in the first rank – and the others.

I saw them bend, kneeling down in a slow, yet determined wave – their gaze upright, so bright in the darkness. And their voices rose just like a wave as well, a whispered word that crossed the rank of Dwarrows, passed on from lip to lip until tears found my eyes at last – because I was afraid, and young, because I missed my father, because I could not take it all and yet would, for there was so much love, so much love and faith they all gave so freely...

“Uzbad-dashatê... Uzbad-dashatê... Uzbad-dashatê...”

My fists were clenched and I drew a deep breath, once the last murmur had faded – and then I said, loud and clear, and with as much warmth I could muster, just like Thráin had always done it:

“A wonderful Durin's Day to you all.”

Cheers rose, I smiled – and my grandfather put a hand on my forearm, claiming the feast begun. And there, in the twilight, shielded by his massive frame – there I wiped my eyes, determined not to let them spill. Roughly, fiercely, with the inner part of my wrists, right before I jumped down the dais behind my siblings to find Dwalin at last.

“Hey, you...”, he whispered, smiling at me and pulling me in one of his bear-like hugs. “Quite the talker tonight, are you...?

- Cut it, Dwalin”, I muttered, feeling some tension leave my body at last as I leaned against him, finally able to hide my face somewhere. “I was terrible.

- Aye. You were. Thank Mahal it was short”, he teased me, and I groaned.

And then Dís came to squeeze her tiny body between Dwalin's and mine and I had to laugh, breaking away from him.

“Thorin, why did they all kneel?”, she whispered, once she had made sure to be hugged, and I stayed silent, not knowing how to answer.

“We kneeled because we trust you”, Dwalin voiced, eventually – and there was no wavering in his voice, just warmth, and love, and strength. “Because we know what Thorin said is true. That we have to work hard every day, and be there for each other – but that it is worth it as long as we care, and try to reach for our best. We kneeled because we know you do. You, Frerin, Thorin... and your father and grandfather. And this makes us proud.

- I'm proud of you too...”, Dís said, instantly drawing her arms around his waist. “You work just as hard as Thorin, and you are just as strong.

- Am I now, sarnûna?”, Dwalin said with a wink, and she nodded.

“Yes. You pick me up just like he does – up and on your hip.

- Right. Got it, lass – you ever were a subtle one...”

And with these words he hoisted her up and on his hip indeed, smiling at her delighted laughter, making sure her gown stayed tightly folded around her shoulders. She made him head for the fires, eager to join the crowd, and I was about to follow with Frerin when my brother held me back, dragging his arm across my chest.

“Frerin, what...

- Shh, Thorin, she's away – she can't hear. Now tell me. You didn't, before, and now the speech is done, so no excuse. Tell me.

- Tell you what?

- What is going on inside. Don't lie to me, I know your face and looks. Don't think I'm too small... I know how to fake too, I've learned with the best...”

His grey eyes found mine and he had that special smile of his, the one telling me he was deadly serious, and suddenly my throat felt tight – almost too tight to speak. I took his hand and we withdrew from the feast, taking a few steps towards the trees – and then he resumed speaking, his gaze fixed upon the fires, careful not to attract attention.

“Come, Thorin. There's no one but us. Tell me. We have to dance for them, in a few minutes, we might as well be honest with each other...

- Kudz, I...”

But I could not go on. I could not say the words. To say them aloud meant to break down, and I could not afford this. I just stood rigid and upright at his side, and when I spoke my voice was firm, if low.

“What looks, Frerin? I... I was just nervous to speak. I guess.”

I even withstood his gaze, the flash of his eyes as they swept my face. Not fooled for a minute. Not judging either. He simply unfolded the arms I had crossed, his fingers thin and strong on my forearms.

“That look”, he said. “I guess.”

And then he leaned against me, placing my arms around him and circling my chest.

“Please stop pretending”, he whispered. “Not with me.”

I buried my face in his locks then. He was smaller, he was my little brother – but he was one of the last rocks I still had, with Dwalin and Dís, and the only one who truly remembered days where we both did not need to pretend yet.

I was no proud King, no able Crown-Prince – I was not my grandfather, I was not my father, I was just a boy waiting desperately for news, for a word, anything...

But I did not say a word. Frerin said them for me, quietly and lovingly.

“I miss him too, Thorin. I can't bear to think he might be in danger. Sometimes I close my eyes and I wonder if I'd be able to feel it, should harm reach him...”

I shivered, and my brother tightened his embrace.

“But... But you remember, Thorin? The tales he told us, when we were small. All these places he had been. All these strange creatures he had seen. And the fights, and the way he always managed to come back full of new-found knowledge and experiences... He... He is not like us. He is not a boy. He's strong, and he knows how this world runs. He won't let harm reach them. Him and Balin... there are too clever and strong a match...”

That voice. His voice. The way it unravelled every knot in my chest. The way it dragged me back to shelter, to warmth, to whispered words close to a fire, small legs straddling huge knees, golden locks pressed against raven hair, a hand against tiny backs, holding us close while we felt our father's deep voice vibrate through our chests, full of awe and fear...

I miss his voice.

I miss their voice.

I thought I had them back. I thought I heard them again. I followed them – down the broken staircases, rounding fallen pillars and crushed stone, straight into the Treasure they promised me to be golden as my brother's hair, warm as my father's voice... Piles and piles, a coin for every word I missed...

Gold beyond measure, and I lost everything. I was fooled. I fooled myself. I missed too much. I missed them too much. I forgot to fold my arms tightly against my chest, I forgot to squeeze my lids shut and press my fists against my eyes until dazzling spots reminded me this was the only gold to be found in the darkness...

I am scared.

I do not want to die mad, my brain clouded and their voices fading like empty promises... I wish I could be sure to find them – I feel so lost, the sun is bleeding out on the snow and I... I can only look at the uneven curves high above me... I am so tired... I wish I could close my eyes but I am scared, I closed my eyes too often lately, I squeezed them shut and let the sickness take me, and I cannot think... cannot think straight anymore...

The sun is golden – his voice was golden – his hair his words Fíli's braids Kíli's eyes...

The sky is golden when I look up and I know I passed out, for a few seconds. Just a few seconds – the curves are still there and so is the dying sun. I am the one bleeding out here, and I shiver and cough and it hurts, but it does not matter. Darkness took me for a moment and there was no gold there, just silence and oblivion – and I long for it.

I am tired of pretending. You win, kudz. You always won, remember...?

Even that day. Because you made me smile, in the end. Made me smile and break away from your embrace because you had given me enough strength to hope, once more...

“Maybe 'adad has only found Crows...

- Mahal have mercy...”, I whispered, with a shaky laugh, and Frerin brushed my back.

“I have no idea, actually, Thorin. But I trust 'adad. And... for what it's worth... I trust you as well. You are doing great – and you do not need to pretend. You already are, and you proved it long ago.

- Kudz, you can't say such things...

- 'Course I can. Come on. Let's go back. We have to dance for them, remember?”

I did indeed. We had done it every year – ever since we had both been old enough to wield wooden sticks and begin our training : Usrunu Kalmân, the Dance of the Crowned.

It was not as magic as Usrunu 'Arsâna, the Dance of Fire Dís had learnt to perform with torches, so long ago, along with Erebor's Dwarrowdams who would not dance tonight: too old, too weary, they would not draw runes in the autumn sky, for their moves were made for Mountain and stone.

But Usrunu Kalmân was a dance made to be showed. A challenge, a daring, a proof for everyone to see. That the Longbeard-Princes knew the sacred moves, and renewed them year after year – moves made for fight ing , for battle, for drums ringing between rocks.

And for grace. Movement. Strength. Pride.

Usrunu Kalmân was life. It was a promise. A promise for the line of Durin to endure, year after year and dance after dance. Because my father had been blessed with two sons and that, just like steel is forged by iron meeting iron , Thrór's line would not break easily.

It did, though.

I broke it.

I broke it, and it makes me shiver – because I was the one awakening Usrunu Kalmân again with my boys. I brought these long-forgotten movements back to light – I used it to train them, to make them both fast and strong, because I wished for drums and moves once more, because I thought I had it back, the steel I needed so badly. I thought I could have him back. That it would please him, to see a golden and a raven-haired Prince dance under the moonlit sky once more. That it would atone for that abrupt standstill – him fallen, stretched on the ground, and me staggering, reeling, forever reaching out for a hand that was no more...

There won't be any Usrunu Kalmân, not anymore. The moves have died with them, and will soon die with me... I broke it all... I broke it all and I cannot have it back – there is no way back. A golden-haired Prince died once, now another lies slain, along with his brother, and I know I did it, both times, I was the one unable to treasure, unable to protect, unable to endure – I tried to wash away the blood, to fill the screaming nothingness inside my chest with a new life, and I failed.

I failed, and it makes me tremble. It makes me cough and taste iron on my lips, it makes my chest fall apart as pain sears through my ribs, and I want to scream but only manage a choked, weak sound, I cannot even ball my fists, I am just stretched there and I am crying, silent tears spilling and stinging my cheeks, because it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

Shhhhhhh....

A soft whisper, close – so close. The ghost of a hand cradling my cheek – but it is the wind. I know it is. It has to be.

Hush, Thorin.

I swallow and taste blood. I blink and feel salt. I try to move and feel cold. I breathe, fast and painfully, I breathe like a caged bird throws itself against iron bars, and in the end I give in, give in to delusion, to the fear of being deluded, and let out a whisper.

“Kudz...?”

There is no answer. It is just the wind, and I shiver. But my tears have stopped, somehow. And I lean my cheek against the stone, turning from the snow, the sun and its gold. I close my eyes, and I think of that Usrunu Kalmân where everything was still possible – of that Durin's Eve among foreign hills that seems almost magical to me now...

The fires were burning high when we joined the Dwarves, casting long shadows upon the hills, and drawing a warm circle around us. And I remember Dwalin's face, as Frerin and me unbuckled our axes and put our swords onto the ground, and Nár's face as well as he handed us the wooden sticks, his green eyes bright in his old, battered face.

The Dwarves cheered and my brother smiled at me. And as the drums began their slow, entrancing rhythm, echoing among the hills like a huge, strong heart – as the moon cast its silvery light upon us all, crowning the firelight with míthril – I smiled as well, feeling calm invade me at last.

I loved these moves. I loved the way Frerin and me danced, rounding each other, our sticks raised, each of our movements soundless and fluid. We were swift, we were almost silent – but that ballet was a combat, displaying each battle-move and each existing parade, and we hit our sticks to answer the drumming, smiling at each other, finally forgetting space and time.

A drum, a move, a spin, and hit.

A smile, a heartbeat, a move, and hit.

A raise of his stick, and me arching my back, hearing the cheers dimly, smiling at him as my hair brushed the ground, because there it was – drum, drum, hit.

He knew every move, and so did I. We used to warm up like that in Erebor, as little boys, we used to dance it on, and on, until our small bodies grew supple and yielding, until we did not even need drums to make our own rhythm: hit, hit, spin, move, hit.

Usrunu Kalmân had us both smile, our eyes locked and our souls one. And when it ended, when we hit our sticks one last time – hit, hit, spin and hit – we stood still for a heartbeat, still gazing at each other, because this was life, this was daring, this was us and this was brotherhood. Brotherhood, and a promise as well.

Oh yes, I remember his gaze that evening – that evening where joy and music found us at last, where every Dwarf enjoyed a sound, hearty meal and where Dís got her honey-cakes and was spoiled beyond measure, cradled and hugged by almost everyone, because she was the youngest, and because we Dwarves ever loved children.

She danced – we all danced, because fiddles, drums and flutes were to be out that night, and I remember her swirling and laughing, her gown discarded, as Dwalin wheeled her around.

And I remember us all singing, once the night was so advanced stars joined the moon, the fires still burning, casting a soft light on the sleeping hills. I had brought out my mother's harp and had been playing for a while already – dancing songs first, and then old ballads that had made several Dwarves join in with glee.

But as night grew darker – as my grandfather finally sat down as well, accepting a steaming cup from Nár, and somehow being softened so much by the strong drinks offered that night that he smiled when Dís reached out for him, and actually pulled her on his lap...

As everything seemed to quieten, my fingers fell into a slow, ancient song – a prayer of blessing that was said to be passed on ever since Durin's golden days. Everyone knew the melody, but the words were not determined and they varied, every year, according to the needs of each year to come.

And my brother's voice rose. He was sitting close to me, backed up against Dwalin who shielded him from the cold, and I could see his small fingers brush my friend's knuckles, regularly – Frerin's way to soothe himself, cradling Dwalin's hand even as he began to sing.

“A land without king, a king without land

Just look and remember the ring on your hand

He stands, he watches and his gaze is so bold

No doubt in his eyes, no fear of the cold

His arms are mighty, his strong frame unbent

There stands our King, his armour unrent.

Durin protect him

Durin please shield him

Remember your son in cold lands and bless him.”

The other Dwarves repeated the last three verses, and I could see my grandfather frown – clearly puzzled, maybe even moved. My brother did not look up, he simply went on brushing Dwalin's hand – he had withdrawn into his own mind, but such was Frerin's nature that even then, he was generous enough to share.

And I needed his voice – I loved his voice, and I tried to give him what I had, my hands stroking the chords, my notes reaching out to his words.

“A land without king, a king without land

Just look and remember the ring on your hand

He wanders, he strives, he forges and carves

Silent and strong, a Prince among Dwarves

Five men he took with him, but he will return

And with high flames of joy our fires will burn

Durin protect them

Durin please shield them

Remember your sons on the road and bless them. ”

They all joined in, and I whispered the words too, intently, closing my eyes even as my fingers moved. For my father. For Balin, Dagur and the rest of the brave warriors who set out, praying for their safety and for their return.

“A land without king, a king without land

Just look and remember the ring on your hand

A light in the forge, a spark on the anvil

No words, no smile, just courage and will

Holding us upright, keeping us strong

The notes woven here entwined with my song

Durin protect us

Durin please shield us

Remember your sons and daughters and bless us. ”