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Far to the south, along the western slopes of the Misty Mountains, a flock of ravens specks the clear morning sky. Many miles stretch between them and the lonely peak they call home, their journey a long and arduous one, yet their spirits soar higher than ever. Their destination draws near; they can feel it in their wings.
Most of them fly with zeal, tirelessly, for they are seasoned birds who’ve long since learned how to bargain with the strongest of winds, but there is one who doesn’t fare quite so well. Young Roäc son of Carc is the weakest and smallest of all, a charming mismatch of feather tufts and hatchling down, and this is his first adventure since leaving the nest. Enthusiastic as he may be, he cannot fly for more than a stone’s throw at a time; the flock must take turns carrying an old garment where he may rest whenever he grows weary.
(Roäc had squawked that it wasn't necessary, that he could keep pace with his elders, but a single look from his father had stilled his tongue.)
So Roäc flies and rests and flies and rests, pondering all the while with a giddy buzzing underneath his plumage. He’s fate-touched, he’s been told. Special. A glimmer of hope amidst a whirlwind of death and destruction that Roäc can’t quite wrap his childly mind around. This very journey is for his sake; for Roäc to meet someone who is just like him. Someone who shall be his companion for as long as Roäc lives.
Now, truth be told, little Roäc doesn’t understand much about fate or omens, nor can he really glean what is expected of him. All he knows is he’s lucky to fly so far this young, and that a sure friend awaits him at the end of the road.
(The fact that this friend is supposed to be a dwarf warrior and a prince hasn’t left his mind for even a second.)
Roäc has just left his makeshift roost to join his father at the lead when the wind surges in a stiff updraft from the land far below. It carries the familiar stench of charred earth and smoke that ever permeates the ravens’ homeland, and Roäc’s eyes widen in horror as he takes in the bleak sight ahead: a sprawling valley with a lake in its center, stripped of all greenery by the ravages of this nebulous, terrible thing Roäc’s been taught to be war. This land languishes, gray and barren, littered with bodies and weapons and blackened piles where luscious trees once grew. Erstwhile crystalline waters flow murky and ruddied, only vaguely reflecting the blue skies above.
Carc’s wingtip brushes against Roäc’s, his expression solemn. “Behold, son of mine! What lies before us is Dimrill Dale. These are the vestiges of battle between dwarves and orcs — a testament to what was lost on the day you came out of the egg. Do not forget this sight, child, for this is your companion’s burden, and you, too, shall bear it.”
Before Roäc can think to reply, Carc lets out a melodious cry that pierces through the desolation. Although he’s never heard it, the young fledgling finds its meaning etched into his soul, ringing in his throat of its own volition as he and the rest of the flock join in. Their song soars over the battlefield, past the lake and beyond the abandoned gate of Moria, mourning the fallen and hailing the living.
To the south, where their destination awaits, a horn is blown.
A few moments later, just as the sun crests ivory peaks, the flock alights on the parapets of the ramshackle walls of Dunland: the dwarves’ temporary home. It is a humble place — a mere smattering of dwellings built on rolling hills, with the occasional glow of a forge or a communal kitchen here and there. A few defensive posts made of scavenged debris bear scorched dwarven banners that flutter with the breeze, and even this early there is a flurry of activity in every corner of the town.
A small committee of dwarves greets the ravens upon arrival, all of them heavily bandaged and scarred. Roäc can’t help but gape at them from behind his father’s proud frame, awed by their flightless bodies, their heavy clothes, the odd way they carry themselves.
Could one of them be his friend?
“Hail, ravens of Ravenhill! May your feathers never fall!” Greets a dwarf with a short dark beard split into two curly ends. It reminds Roäc of a swallow’s tail.
“Hail, Balin son of Fundin!” Carc replies, bowing his head. “‘Tis good to see you hale despite the losses you’ve been made to endure. Your father’s courage shall be remembered e’ermore for he was a dear friend of ours.”
Balin’s brow creases with sorrow. The dwarf next to him wraps an arm around his shoulders. “For that I thank you, good Carc. Say, do you bring tidings from Erebor? Has the wyrm continued its rampage?”
“Aye, tidings we do bring, though not of the wicked dragon that yet slumbers beneath the mountain. Nay, these are most fortunate, and to speak of them I request the presence of your good king and his son. If you may.”
An agreement is quickly uttered, and half the dwarves scatter to search while the others offer the ravens fresh water to drink. Roäc wriggles his talons, picking at his feathers as he anxiously watches his surroundings. Only his father’s stern presence prevents him from following Balin’s retreating form, so great is his anticipation.
Soon enough Roäc’s patience is rewarded: Balin returns with two dwarves in tow, one of them majestic in his stride despite his obvious limp. He’s the oldest dwarrow Roäc has beheld so far, with thick streaks of white coursing his richly adorned hair and wrinkles like deep trenches upon his tattooed brow. Even without the circlet on his head, Roäc would know him to be the king by poise and calculating gaze alone, matched only by Carc’s own.
But Roäc can only look at the other dwarf. He’s far younger, just nearing the cusp of adulthood, with long black hair, a trimmed beard, and blue eyes that flick from raven to raven with a weary sort of caution. Roäc’s heart feels fit to burst, little wings wracked by tremors as he ducks behind his father to steal glances without being seen.
Could he be…?
“Hail, Thráin son of Thrór and Thorin son of Thráin!” Carc calls out, stretching his wings and offering a deep bow. Roäc’s tail flips excitedly. “It brings me great joy to be in your presence once more, though much has been sundered since we last spoke. We would see a brighter future for your people, for our friends who lost their rightful home. I bring you great tidings, o’ King of Dwarves! Nay, a boon!”
Thráin’s single eye narrows. “Then let us hear of such tidings, o’ Carc chief of ravens!”
“So I shall and I ask of you complete trust, for this tale is most extraordinary. Hear, hear! As your kind gathered hither in grim battle, my flock happened to witness the first hatching of the year: that of my own offspring. How ill-timed it seemed! And amongst the clutch that bore me five beautiful children, one egg brought with it a most bewildering discovery: why, my Roäc, last to hatch, came to this world with an acorn inside his beak!”
Roäc shifts with discomfort as the dwarves begin murmuring amongst themselves, disbelief and confusion plain on their quaint faces. Thráin and Thorin’s brows furrow in unison.
Carc is not the least bit deterred: he beckons his son forward and Roäc complies, downcast and anxious, the fateful acorn strung around his neck a heavy weight as he’s judged by every dwarf present.
“We did not understand what this could mean at the time, not until we received word from our carrion brethren from the south.” Carc continues, nodding at Roäc in reassurance. “They told us of Thorin Thráin’s son and his broken shield; of an oaken branch raised in defiance; of him earning the name Oakenshield just as Roäc cracked the egg bearing the seed of that tree.”
A hush falls over the dwarves as Carc’s words sink in. Roäc chances a peek at Thorin, but the dwarf’s face is inscrutable.
“The workings of the Valar aren’t ours to decipher, but these old eyes know an omen when they see one, King Thráin. A fortuitous one, I should think, for our children are bonded by fate and shall be together henceforth… should your wishes align with ours.”
Thráin strokes his beard, watching Carc and Roäc in turn. An odd expression clouds his features for the briefest instant, one that reminds Roäc of the terrifying bowels of Erebor, before he cracks a smile and offers his index finger for Carc to clasp in his talons.
“Fortuitous indeed, aye. There is comfort in an alliance between ravens and dwarves in these harrowing times. By my will, it shall be so!” Thráin stares at Roäc intently, a spark of pride in his gaze. “My son’s resourcefulness turned the battle in our favor when we needed it most. If that feat is to be rewarded with your kin’s companionship, we shall honor that in turn and welcome Roäc amongst us.” He turns to Thorin, clasping his shoulder. “What say you, son of mine? Do you accept young Roäc as your companion?”
Thorin steps forward, his icy eyes boring into Roäc’s. Roäc tries his best to stand as tall as he is, to look confident and prepared and happy for what’s inevitably to come—
___
“But what if he doesn’t like me?” Roäc had asked his mother in a fit of nervousness after his first attempt at flying had gone awry.
“Oh, he will, dear. It’s written in the stars,” Sýn had replied with unwavering confidence, preening his feathers. “You two shall be birds of a feather through thick and thin.”
___
—but as Thorin’s lip curls with distrust, all Roäc feels is a cold, sinking dread.
“Aye, ‘adad.” Thorin says without inflection, shriveling what is left of Roäc’s spirit. “It shall be as you wish.”
Their deal now struck, Carc and Thráin retreat to the king’s quarters for further discussion and to share news from both sides. The dwarves roll their shoulders and see to their tasks for the day. The ravens give Roäc reassuring looks before flying away in search of rest and merriment.
Through it all, a young dwarf and raven stare at each other in charged silence, unmoving. Sizing each other up. They are the only ones left on the ramparts by the time Thorin finally raises his forearm, offering it to Roäc with his head held high and a brow raised.
Roäc’s feathers ruffle with the irksome sting of indignation. He may be young and inexperienced, that much is good and true, but he doesn’t need long years alongside dwarves to know what Thorin’s gesture truly means. It is no peace offering but a challenge, issued as though he expects Roäc to cower and turn tail.
But Roäc hasn’t made it all this way to be called a coward: he spreads his wings and takes off with a valiant croak, the closest to his father’s he’s ever uttered. His talons sink into Thorin’s flesh with perhaps more force than is warranted, but Roäc thinks he’s earned that much. He savors Thorin’s grunt of pain as he follows the dwarf’s arm up to his shoulder slowly, almost petulantly. Thorin is warm under his talons, and the brush of his bristly hair against Roäc’s feathers isn’t unpleasant. No, Roäc finds he quite likes it here against all reason. It feels… right.
Emboldened, Roäc peeks at Thorin askance and finds that the dwarf’s expression isn’t quite so surly anymore. He looks pensive as he marches into town with Roäc in tow, as if something about the raven on his shoulder had caught him unaware. The tightness in Roäc’s chest loosens. He breathes in, then out.
Maybe, just maybe, not all hope is yet lost.
Once his brethren leave for Ravenhill (after many affectionate pecks and promises to visit), Roäc takes to observing his new companion day in and day out, carefully testing the air between them. Wherever Thorin goes, Roäc comes perched on his shoulder, and it isn’t long before Roäc’s curiosity bids him to ask questions about dwarven customs. There are just so many things to see and learn! Everything is vastly different from home, and though Roäc is quick to befriend some local thrushes and warbles, there is only so much they can say about a settlement that isn’t their own.
Most of the time, it is other dwarves who answer Roäc’s neverending queries. Thorin is hardly ever alone or idle: when he isn’t by his father’s side, he’s at the forges or checking in with the injured or ensuring nobody goes hungry. Everywhere Thorin goes, dwarves flock to meet the little raven by his side, offering Roäc seeds and crumbled cakes as they introduce themselves — At your service, little one! — and share a word or two. From what Roäc can gather, they appreciate the safe novelty of his presence in such uncertain times. It reminds them of home; of an Erebor that was glorious and peaceful, unlike the ghastly tomb of Roäc’s memories. During these exchanges, Roäc learns about dwarven homes and activities, and heavy garments and weapons. He hears many tales of the dwarves’ long friendship with the ravens, spanning countless generations before Roäc cracked the egg.
Sometimes it is Thorin who humors Roäc, if gruffly and far too briefly for Roäc’s liking. Through him, little by little, Roäc learns about the dwarves’ fiercely guarded language, their loves and curious traditions, their food and their music. Roäc is particularly fascinated by the latter, for ravens only ever sing with the wind as their accompaniment. When Thorin pulls out a small harp late one night, Roäc becomes mesmerized by the delicate melody plucked from just a few strings. It feels like magic. He steps as close to the dwarf as he dares, swaying to the rhythm and smothering the innate urge to sing along.
(Roäc thinks he sees a little mirth in Thorin’s gaze then, but it could be a trick of the flickering light of the fireplace. Still, he decides it’s a small step in the right direction.)
Eventually, as days go by, Roäc is able to draw some conclusions about Thorin Oakenshield.
First is that, despite his young age, Thorin already shows clear signs of leadership. His words (plentiful and frequent, Roäc discovers with great surprise) carry weight among the dwarves and never go without heed. He is well-spoken, self-assured and skilled in all manner of things, and Roäc soon finds himself mimicking his speech patterns the way he’d once done with his father’s. (If Thorin notices this, he does not comment on it.)
Secondly, Thorin is completely devoted to those he loves. His admiration towards his father is clear as day, and he never acts more relaxed than when around his headstrong sister, Dís (who takes to Roäc instantly and without hesitation, much to Thorin’s chagrin). His family’s recent losses — a grandfather and a younger brother — bear heavily enough on Thorin for even Roäc to notice, but the raven dares not ask. Not when Thorin makes such a pointed effort to never address them, instead channeling that devotion into helping his father rule, his sister smile, his people recover from the horrors of war…
___
“Some hurts go too deep, son of mine”, Carc had said before leaving Roäc in Dunland for good. He’d furtively glanced at Thorin as they sang their goodbyes, a deep sympathy to his voice. “Don’t go digging them up. Let them flow to the surface, for they surely will.”
___
The third and most important conclusion is that Thorin Oakenshield does not trust easily, nor does he take kindly to strangers. He’s a stubborn young dwarf, tempered by strife, and all hardship in his life has been brought upon by forces outside his control — a terrible dragon, a swarm of orcs, the elves turning their backs when dwarves needed them most. This has led him to trust only his own kind, and to regard even passing merchants with a cold, intimidating glare.
This, in turn, explains Thorin’s mistrust of Roäc. He acquiesces to the raven’s presence in his home as per King Thráin’s wishes — a nest is prepared in a corner of Thorin’s room, and he takes to wearing leather braces to withstand Roäc’s sharp talons — but Thorin remains ever standoffish no matter how much Roäc prods him. Dwarf-friend notwithstanding, Roäc was brought to Thorin as an omen, as something set in stone without his consent. And if the dirty looks Thorin shoots Roäc’s necklace are anything to go by, that is exactly what he resents the most.
Unfortunately for Thorin, Roäc also has stubbornness in spades. He keeps trying, again and again, even when Thorin’s whereabouts make it difficult to strike a conversation.
Whereabouts such as, say, a loud forge.
“How do you know what ore is good to mine?” Roäc asks from atop a ceiling beam, safe from the blistering heat. He’d learned his lesson after scorching his tail feathers the first time he accompanied Thorin to his family’s smithy. Thorin had not been amused.
“The stone sings to us.” Thorin huffs in between strikes, not bothering to look up. “We listen.”
“It sings? Is it like the wind, perhaps?”
Clank. “How would I know?”
“Right… you know not of an afternoon breeze’s sweet voice. A pity, that is.” Roäc tilts his head to the side, trying to hear anything remotely melodic amidst the racket of iron against anvil. “What does it sound like, then? Is it jolly music? The gales’ song is beautiful, you see. There is nothing quite like it, every raven knows this, but perhaps wind and stone could sing together sometimes.”
Clank. Clank. The dwarf wipes his brow. Clank.
“It isn’t music,” Thorin grits out.
Roäc deflates. “But you said it sings to you!”
“It calls to us.” An even louder clank. “Tells us where to mine, what it yearns to become.”
“So it speaks!” Roäc beams, his curiosity reignited. “Does it speak Khuzdul or does it have its own language? A rock-language? A gravelly one it must be if so! Do all dwarves know it from birth or does the stone teach it to you? Do you—”
“ENOUGH!” Thorin’s sudden outburst almost knocks Roäc off his perch. His face is reddened and twisted with anger when he looks up, teeth bared. “I’ve grown weary of your endless prattling, bird. Leave me! Begone!”
Oh, it stings — a sharp ache in Roäc’s chest, behind his eyes. His feathers are unsure whether to ruffle or droop. The sweltering air rings. Roäc thought he was making a little progress, that perhaps Thorin didn’t hate him as much anymore…
So much for that. Roäc turns his back to Thorin and flicks his wings with as much dignity as he can muster. This was a mistake.
“I will not say what I think, yet I shall indeed take my leave, O’ Thorin son of Thráin. Worry not, I will bother you no more.” Roäc caws bitterly. He takes off through the open window, and he flies far, far away from where he is so unwanted.
___
Had Roäc looked back or lingered for even a moment more, he wouldn’t have missed Thorin’s outstretched hand, his eyes blown wide and mouth agape, his hammer flung into a wall in a fit of frustration… and more than a little guilt.
Dusk finds Roäc perched on a distant rooftop, picking at his feathers and watching the busy road below with great sorrow. The dreary gray skies and cold drizzle suit him just fine, for he would rather get soaked here all night than return to his so-called companion.
What am I doing here?
He tugs his necklace loose and glares at the little acorn that doomed him, with half a mind to toss it into a ditch somewhere. Perhaps the Valar made a mistake sending him here, or the ravens simply got it all wrong. An acorn could mean anything! Who is to say he must follow that prickly dwarf around because of it? Roäc could send word home; he could return and never have to bear the brunt of Thorin’s temperament ever again. It would serve him right!
Roäc inhales shakily, eyes watering at the mere thought of his old nest, of his parents and rowdy siblings. Of home. He’s been so immersed in learning about dwarves and coaxing Thorin out of his shell he didn’t realize how much he misses Ravenhill until this very moment. What he wouldn’t give to hear the Lonely Mountain’s song once more, with its howling winds and crunching snow! To preen his brothers and sisters. To feel loved and wanted once more.
He lets the necklace dangle over the heads of passing dwarves, held by the tip of his beak. A kind artisan from Dale had put it together in exchange for one of Carc’s shiny trinkets, shortly after Roäc came out of the egg. It is simple yet fine work, meant to be worn with pride.
The acorn swings back and forth and back again, shiny with rainwater. It mocks Roäc. He wants to let go of it. Yes, he’ll just let the darned thing drop and go—
A sudden burst of uproarious laughter leaves Roäc’s feathers standing on end, and he barely catches himself from falling off of the roof. His curiosity piqued, he clutches the necklace (for now) and flies down to the source of the noise: an open window overflowing with warm light and conversation. The wooden sign above it creaks and flaps with the wind, engraved with a tankard of mead and words Roäc cannot read. The spacious chamber inside is full of dwarves making merry, while a weary-looking lass weaves between their tables balancing trays of food and drink.
At the table closest to Roäc sit the three dwarves responsible for most of the racket. They’re deep in their cups, making toast after toast, and Roäc bristles when he realizes what — or rather who — they’re talking about.
“To Thorin Thráin’s son Oakenshield! May his beard grow back twice as long as it once was!” bellows the oldest of the three. “Nay, thrice! Thrice, I say!”
The one to his right raises her tankard. “Aye, the lad’ll need it if he’s to rule this lousy lot one day. He’s got the makings of a great king in ‘im, mark my words!”
“Pah! He’s got the stubbornness, that’s fo’ sure,” scoffs the third and drunkest of all. “Ye’d be be’er off askin’ an orc to dance than convincin’ lil’ Oak’nshield to get his head outta his princely arse!”
Roäc very nearly drops his necklace on the dwarf’s balding head as he suppresses a scandalized laugh. That’s a prince he’s talking about! Isn’t he supposed to show deference? Carc had impressed upon Roäc the importance of respect, especially towards his companion and the king. He’d been adamant about it.
The dwarves seem utterly unperturbed. They chortle and clap the offending dwarf on the back, taking a swig of their drinks.
“You dare call ‘im little, old fart?” Cries the dwarrowdam. “He handed your sorry arse to you last time you sparred!”
“An’ I handed it to ye after, so what’s yer point, eh? Aye, a pigheaded lil’ lad he is, but a mithril will he’s got an’ that’s a mighty thing to hav’n times like these.”
The eldest nods. “Mighty, aye. Perhaps that’ll protect him from the curse that befell his grandfather and others of his line. May he lead us home one day, when Smaug is no more,” he leans forward and beckons the others closer, as if to share a secret. Then he exclaims: “If he can tell east from west on a map!”
Their laughter is an eruption, and Roäc can’t help but giggle along with them from his spot on the windowsill. He is fascinated by how these dwarves talk about their future king in equal parts admiration and pointed jests. There is no falsehood or unfairness to their words either, for Roäc has been privy to Thorin’s obstinacy and poor sense of direction on multiple occasions. He figures, given how freely they speak their minds, that blunt honesty is the norm amongst dwarves regardless of station. How very curious!
As Roäc tends to his damp plumage and muses on this discovery, the beginnings of an idea gnaw at him, tempting and completely against his father’s advice. He lingers at the window and lets that thought grow alongside the blanket of nightfall, bolstered by the dwarves’ lively conversation about one Thorin Oakenshield.
Outside, the rain slowly peters out.
Unbeknown to Roäc, the forge he abandoned hours prior remains lit late into the night, past the time when most dwarves retire to their homes. The shrill sounds of smithing continue to pour into the quiet streets as hours crawl by, only interrupted by brief lapses where a young dwarf sticks his head outside to search the clearing skies in vain. With each attempt, his expression grows more troubled, his strikes become louder.
And yet, he continues to wait.
“Thought you agreed not to overwork yourself at the forges anymore, nadad,” comes a familiar voice as Thorin quenches a steaming blade. He glances up to see Dís enter the smithy, her arms folded. “It is past time for supper.”
“Worry not, I have not been here long,” Thorin lies, ignoring the way his muscles protest his every move. His stomach grumbles. “And I’m not hungry.”
There is a flash of silver in a corner of his vision. Thorin raises his hand just in time to catch the flask thrown his way. It is blissfully cold to the touch, filled to the brim with fresh water, and it is a struggle not to down it in a single gulp. Instead he takes small, casual sips as Dís watches him keenly, eyes narrowed.
“If I were to venture an educated guess,” she says airily, plucking a finished axe and testing its weight in her hands, “I’d say you stuck your big stinking foot in your mouth and sent Roäc away when he did not deserve it.”
Thorin lowers the flask, glowering. “My feet do not stink.”
Dís smiles sweetly. “So I’m right.”
Mahumb. “I know not what you speak of.”
“Tell yourself that all you want, perhaps you’ll end up believing it.” Dís gives the axe another twirl, then looks out the window. “But you needn’t worry: he’ll return. That little one is as pigheaded as you are.”
Thorin lets out a deep sigh. “What Roäc does is none of my concern, namadith. He’s free to go wherever he wishes.” Back to Ravenhill, if he cannot bear me anymore, he doesn’t say.
Dís clicks her tongue. “Dismissing counts as lying, nadad, and you’re terrible at both.” She approaches him, palm up. When Thorin makes to return the flask, she seizes his wrist and turns it around, leaving Thorin’s blisters and scrapes on full display. Her smile sours. “Never worked on Frerin, will never work on me.”
Thorin’s throat constricts. A frigid void he knows all too well seeps into his chest with a vengeance, coating the back of his mouth with bile. He sees Frerin’s cheeky grin before him, feels a playful kick in his shin, hears the blood in Frerin’s labored breaths, smells the pyre…
Like he’s done many times, Thorin swallows it all down and grits his teeth until his jaw clicks. He holds his sister’s gaze and finds that same chasm staring back at him, an unbearable sympathy in the depths of her eyes, the brimming desire to talk. To confide. To comfort and be comforted.
Not here. Thorin wrenches his hand free and squeezes Dís’ shoulder. Not ever. “It’s fine.”
Before Dís can open her mouth to fire another retort, a flapping comes from the open window. Thorin whips around to see Roäc arrive at long last, talons skidding to an ungraceful stop on the slippery windowsill. The raven bobs his tail and folds his ruffled wings primly, beady eyes gleaming with the dancing flames of the forge.
Relief courses through Thorin, welcome in its warmth.
“Good evening, Dís daughter of Thráin.” Roäc croaks, offering her a little bow. The withering look he gives Thorin would no doubt be paired with a tightly gripped axe if Roäc were a dwarf. “Thorin.”
“Well met, Roäc.” Dís greets, her pinched expression softening. She mutters a smug ‘told you so’, then strides to the window. Thorin reluctantly follows. “Ah, but it is good to see you! Thorin and I were just talking about you.”
Roäc blinks owlishly. “Is that so?”
“Aye, quite remorseful he’s been. And rightfully so!” Dís gives Roäc’s neck a good scritching. “Won’t you forgive my oaf of a brother? I assure you he bears you no ill will despite what his countenance might suggest.”
It is all Thorin can do to not scowl and prove her point further.
“All is well, kind Dís. I have pondered long and hard upon your brother’s actions and realized there is nothing to forgive,” Roäc hops towards Thorin. There is something about the way the tiny ravenling moves that makes Thorin wary of him. “For, you see, such harsh words are inevitable when one talks out of their arse.”
A heavy silence falls over the room. Thorin is left gaping, trying to process what came out of Roäc’s beak. Did he just…?
It is Dís who breaks first with an explosion of boisterous laughter that makes Roäc’s plumage double in size. She bends over, snorting and slamming her fist on Thorin’s worktable, and Thorin—
Thorin hasn’t heard her laugh like this in weeks. Not since Azanulbizar. Something tightly wound within him loosens with the sound, and he feels the corners of his mouth quiver with the almost forgotten desire to smile.
Through it all, Roäc watches him and Dís cautiously, shifting from foot to foot. Thorin notices it then: the unraveled necklace held between his talons. Roäc has never gone without it before, not even when the mere sight of it would send Thorin into a fit of pique. Was he planning on disposing of it? Flying away? Thorin wouldn’t have blamed Roäc if he did; he’s been far from welcoming.
But if so, why did he come back?
“Oh, this is just too good!” Dís manages in between wheezes. “You tell Thorin loud and clear every time he’s being a shithead, you hear? He desperately needs someone to keep him in line. You would be doing us a great favor.”
“I suppose I deserve that much.” Thorin rasps, still dazed. He reaches for the necklace and stops, waiting for Roäc’s permission. Only when Roäc slowly retreats his talons does he take it from him, letting the little acorn that nettled him so dance across his fingers. He looks Roäc in the eye. “You speak the truth, for I have dismissed you at every turn and treated you unfairly since your arrival. I would take back my words if you can find it within you to forgive me, Roäc son of Carc.”
Roäc makes a warbling sound Thorin has come to associate with surprise. “I can and I will, Thorin Thrain’s son Oakenshield. All I’ve wished for is your companionship, for it seems we have been brought together for reasons far beyond our understanding.” He scoots forward and gingerly pecks at Thorin’s fingers. “Now… would you kindly bestow upon me my necklace once more? I cannot do it myself and it is most vexing.”
“Aye,” Thorin makes quick work of it, marveling at the smooth feeling of Roäc’s feathers against his skin — something he hasn’t allowed himself to enjoy until now. He pats Roäc’s back awkwardly as he retreats, and Roäc rewards him with another peck and a gentle caw.
Just like the first time Roäc perched on his shoulder, this feels right.
“As for you,” without further warning, Thorin springs on Dís and traps her in the crook of his arm, rubbing his knuckles against her head. She squeals and thrashes wildly, but his grip is solid. “What was that about me being a ‘shithead’?”
“Let me go, you big lump! Ugh! You need a bath!” Dís elbows him in the ribs. Thorin wipes his sweaty hand on her cheek and she shrieks. “Mahal, you’re the worst!”
“Aye, you’ve made that very clear.” Thorin chuckles and releases her. Dís lets out a string of muttered insults as she scrubs her face with vigor and fixes her tousled hair. Before she can get out of reach, Thorin cups the back of her head and presses his forehead to hers. “Thanks.”
Dís sighs wearily. “You owe me, as always. Now can we please go eat? I’m starving!”
As they part and look around, they find that Roäc is staring at them intently, his feathery expression unreadable as ever. Thorin hurries to put away his tools and douse the forge’s fire, then offers him his arm. “Will you come?”
And little Roäc, despite his persistent longing for affection and home, croaks his answer without hesitation.
Much later that night, at the hour where darkness clings thickest to every edge and hidden corner, Roäc startles awake in his nest. It takes a few quickened heartbeats for him to blearily recognize his surroundings — Thorin’s desk, the large bed in the opposite corner, a pair of boots by the door — and a couple more to realize what it is that woke him.
Piercing through the hush, Roäc hears a muffled whimper.
He is wide awake in an instant, peering across the room at the shape of Thorin on the bed. The dwarf is not lying flat against the mattress, but sitting up with his head bowed and his hands clasped over his mouth. If Roäc holds his breath he can hear the stuttered gasps of Thorin’s own, laced with another terrible cry Thorin can’t quite stifle.
Roäc hurries towards him; Thorin’s head immediately jerks up. A sliver of pale moonlight makes his eyes gleam with unshed tears, features stiffened in a rictus of pain. His hands drop, leaving deep crescent-shaped indents on his cheeks.
“Stay away,” he rasps.
Roäc falters mid-air and stumbles to the foot of the bed. He hops forward, and Thorin recoils with an aborted sound.
What do I do? Roäc recalls seeing one of his brethren in similar distress once, at the base of the Lonely Mountain. Her wing had been pierced by a wayward arrow and, despite her dire need for assistance, she’d lashed out at anyone who dared touch her. Maybe Thorin is similarly hurt? A dwarven ailment Roäc doesn’t know about? Roäc thinks of Dís, of King Thráin, of the healers just down the road…
“I-it’s alright, Thorin,” Roäc soothes, valiantly ignoring the ice-cold panic coursing through his veins. I can do this. “You’ll be fine, I… I can go get help, just—”
“Don’t!” Thorin’s voice cracks around an almost-shout that roots Roäc to the spot. “Please… don’t. I beg of you.”
Now Roäc is truly lost. He doesn’t want to ignore Thorin’s plea, not when they’d just managed to come to an understanding hours prior, but he cannot just leave him be. It hurts to see him like this. Roäc could pry, try to discern what exactly is wrong, but… what if Thorin shuts him out? Sends him away? What good would Roäc be, then? Not for the first time in his short life, Roäc feels as if eggshells still clung to his plumage. He’s in over his head — a tiny, pitiful thing in a big complicated world.
Unbidden, Carc’s parting words resonate in his mind once more: some hurts go too deep. Roäc ponders them as Thorin curls in on himself. He has studied Thorin with great dedication over the past few weeks, particularly when the dwarf is offered sympathy for his losses. He’s seen the white-knuckled grip on his axe, the gritted teeth, the storm that roils behind Thorin’s eyes sometimes, when he’s left alone and he forgets that Roäc is watching, always watching…
Perhaps that same storm has now broken out, too strong to be contained, and Thorin can only endure it until it passes. Perhaps there truly is nothing Roäc could do to help brave such a thing, this unspeakable grief Roäc has never experienced, bigger than the whole sky.
And yet, Roäc has to try.
Inhaling deeply to quell his nerves, Roäc opens his beak and attempts to replicate his mother’s soft crooning — the kind she always used to lull him and his siblings into sleep. It comes out closer to a gurgle and the pitch is a little off, but it matters not: Roäc pushes through, repeating the same notes over and over as quietly as he can. Seconds stretch on, growing thin and brittle.
After what feels like an eternity, Thorin lifts his head the slightest bit, peering through his tousled hair at him. Unblinking.
He doesn’t tell Roäc to stop.
Carefully and singing all the while, Roäc takes a small step towards Thorin. Then another. And another. Whenever Thorin’s hands clench or his breath grows too ragged, Roäc halts and croons a little louder, bobbing his head to the gentle rhythm. Only when Thorin’s tension eases does Roäc tread over the covers at a snail’s pace, backtracking when he must, gaining ground when he dares.
So focused is Roäc on his task he startles when he comes upon the dwarf’s legs. Here Thorin watches him more warily than ever, head hung low, a tremor coursing through his body. A single misstep could cost Roäc dearly. He feels it in his bones.
And still Roäc takes a leap of faith: he hops onto Thorin’s knee and presses his head to the dwarf’s clammy forehead, mimicking the tender gesture Thorin and Dís shared in the smithy. Thorin goes rigid against his feathers. Roäc squeezes his eyes shut, braces for the worst…
Instead, trembling fingers brush against Roäc’s neck, carding through his patches of wispy down. A wretched sound dislodges from Thorin’s throat, and before Roäc knows it he’s wrapping his talons around a knuckle and nudging it with his beak, gentle yet firm. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…
They stay like this, forehead to forehead through the remnants of Thorin’s storm, until the dwarf’s breaths slowly even out and his hands grow steadier. The otherworldly glow of predawn washes over their silhouettes, heralding a new day for them to greet side by side.
Eventually and with great effort, Thorin draws back and speaks.
“I heard it from my father… what you were told before coming here,” The hand on Roäc’s neck falters, then stops altogether. “I am not what you wished for.”
“Nor am I what you desired,” Roäc pecks Thorin’s fingers until the dwarf resumes his ministrations. “Do you resent it?”
“...No.” A mirthless laugh. “Though it pains me greatly to have brought you nothing but hardship, I am thankful for your presence all the same.”
Roäc’s eyes narrow. “Now that's terribly unfair…”
“I know, I… if you wished to return home, nobody would—”
Roäc bites Thorin’s thumb hard. “To speak of yourself as some harbinger of woe is what’s unfair, I should think! Did you not grant me a place to stay despite your mistrust? A shoulder to perch on? Did you not teach me what lies within a dwarf’s heart? Your heart?”
“Roäc—”
“Did you not apologize?”
“A measly apology hardly befits the likes of what you deserve. What I did—”
“I’ve already forgiven!” Roäc caws angrily, flapping his wings. “So will you please put an end to this needless spiel and accept that I wish to stay by your side? Or is your head still too far up your rear end for you to hear me?”
Thorin holds Roäc’s fiery gaze for an instant, until whatever fight is left in him abandons him in a rush. He flops backward onto the mattress, huffing an almost-laugh and shaking his head. “May namadith never find out you took her words to heart so dutifully.”
Roäc climbs over Thorin’s torso, fluffing up his chest feathers in triumph. Outside, the sky grows brighter. A thrush starts to sing.
“What you just witnessed,” Thorin says tiredly. “...I cannot say for certain it won’t happen again.”
“I know.”
“You need not stay.”
“I will.”
Thorin’s jaw clicks. “I know not what lies ahead.”
“Nor do I.” With a quick flap of wings, Roäc lands where Thorin’s hair pools over the bedding. He settles there, tucking his talons underneath him, and he does not waver. “Thus we face it. Together.”
It is here, haloed by the break of a new day, that Roäc sees Thorin’s eyes soften with a budding fondness for the first time. Something swells in Roäc’s heart at the sight; a certainty unyielding like stone, stronger than any wind…
“Together.”
And as dwarf and raven drift into exhausted sleep, that certainty etches its simple truth into the very core of Roäc’s soul: there is one Roäc could follow; there is one he could call friend.
(Art by y97dgu)