Chapter Text
Fili knows he has to learn this, has to learn this until he knows it perfectly. Can say things without stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables, can read things without his uncle sighing and his mother trying to hide a heartbroken smile. So he tries. He tries.
Every morning before the others awake, he repeats the words to himself, screwing his eyes tight in hope that this will loosen his tongue. He can say the words perfectly when he’s going slow and concentrating hard, but as soon as he speeds up the phrases, his accent slips through. Who would have ever imagined, a Dwarf with a Common-tongue accent!
Every night before he falls asleep, he takes out the thick tome. It’s his mother’s treasure (because everything saved from Before is a treasure), so he’s careful to put it back before dawn, before she notices. Anyway, he doesn't want anyone to know that it’s been taking him so long to go through this book, when it contains nothing deeper than adventure stories his mother enjoys.
Fili’s heard the adults talking; he knows that his uncle is unlikely to settle down, so one day it will be up to him to lead their people. It is for their sake that he tries, for their sake and for his uncle’s. After all, what Dwarf would follow a leader unable to even say proper greetings in Khuzdul, unable to even read short treatises in Khuzdul?
Speaking Khuzdul, reading Khuzdul.
No matter how long he practices, his tongue is lead-heavy in his mouth and the words just don’t stick in his head. He tries, he tries, but his tongue never rolls back far enough, his vowels are never rounded well enough, his mouth is never fast enough. He conjugates the verbs incorrectly, he uses the wrong tense, he forgets the proper honorifics. He tries, he tries, but it takes him hours to get through a chapter of his mother’s tome, a chapter he knows she finishes in minutes. He can manage Kili’s old children books just fine, but for more complicated things Common is just so much easier (and he hates himself a little bit more for daring to think this).
Reading Khuzdul, speaking Khuzdul.
He tries, he tries. It should be like returning home, like standing under the sweet rain to wash away grime.
But it isn't.
Even his metaphors aren't Dwarvish.