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Thorin rested his chin on Raina's knee. His new sister had spent the whole morning crying, and though he'd done his best to soothe her, it had been no use. Her red, squished little face hadn't un-squished, and she'd landed a solid kick to his nose when he'd tried to cuddle her. Yesterday she'd been so full of smiles, and she'd held his finger for hours. Today it was like she hated him. It had hurt both his face, and his feelings.
He'd just wanted to make her happy.
After running to his room and refusing to appear for lunch, his grandmother had come in with her harp and a bowl of candied fruit pieces. He'd tried to keep up his pretense of being asleep, but the sugary smell of the fruit and the gentle notes from the harp were too distracting. After a few minutes he'd turned over with a sniffle, snuggling into Raina's arms.
Now he was stretched out on his bed, his grandmother's fingers in his hair as he chewed on a strawberry.
“Is my new sister gonna cry on my fourteenth birthday, too?” he asked, fiddling with the beaded hem of her tunic.
Raina chuckled, giving one of his short braids a little tug.
“Like you cried all the way through your poor mother's when you were newly carved, hmn? Why, you wailed so loud and so long we thought you were trying to bring the mountain down.”
“I didn't mean to,” Thorin grumbled, plucking a raisin out of the bowl and sitting up a little more.
Raina smiled, her dark brown beard now more grey than any other colour. Thorin reached to touch at the little gems and beads threaded through it, leaning against her.
“And Dís doesn't mean to cry, nor kick your poor nose. Pebbles don't know what they're doing, yet.”
Thorin sighed heavily and nodded.
“I suppose not. I still love her, after all.”
“Of course you do,” Raina said. “And she still loves you. Here, sit properly. Let's see if you remember the tune I taught you.”
Thorin shoved a few more pieces of fruit into his mouth before he sat nicely on the bed, wiping his hands clean on the end of his tunic and holding his arms out as the harp was placed on his lap. He ran his hands over the curved wood and the wide sound box at the bottom, and then over the strings.
“Sit up nice and tall, or your back will hurt.”
Thorin straightened his spine, bringing his fingers into position. He furrowed his brow, concentrating hard on hitting the right notes as he played the short tune Raina had taught him.
“Very good,” she said when he looked up at her, a smile on his face. “You've remembered it well.”
“Will you play me one, now?” Thorin asked, wriggling under the heavy instrument. Raina took it back, settling it easily on her lap. “Will you play the Misty Mountains one, with your words?”
“I will,” Raina nodded. She took a moment to retune some of the pegs, and then drew her fingers along the strings. The golden rings shimmered in the light, diamonds and sapphires twinkling like stars. His gaze caught on the wooden ring she wore around her thumb, pride puffing his chest. He’d whittled it himself for her birthday.
The air shivered around them, sensation prickling along Thorin's skin. He closed his eyes. Sound filled the room, and he clasped his hands together as she began to sing.
“Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We must away, ere break of day,
to shape our pale enchanted gold.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
while hammers fell like ringing bells.
In places deep, where we will sleep,
in hollow halls beneath the fells.
Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
They lay there long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We must away, ere break of day,
to shape our pale enchanted gold.
Spring grows the pines on the height,
Winter comes slowly in the night.
Our fire burns red, and warms our bed;
the forges burning blaze with light.
The bells are ringing in the dale,
And men give thanks while drinking ale.
The mountain's wealth helps even elf,
our strength leaves no one lost and frail.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We must away, ere break of day,
to shape our pale enchanted gold.”
The last notes died out and Thorin opened his eyes, heaving a sigh.
“Why does it sound different when you play it, sig'mad?”
“It's magic,” Raina replied, her kindly face crinkling as she smiled.
Thorin pouted, crossing his arms and slouching.
“Don't tease me...!”
She chuckled, reaching over to gently tug his braid.
“I'm not, jatith. It's magic. Come here, and your sig'mad will tell you about it.”
Raina set the harp aside and held out her arm. Thorin snuggled into her side immediately, resting his head against her shoulder and idly reaching to touch the beads threaded through her beard again.
“A long time ago, dwarves wielded magic as easily as the elves did. Mahal taught us how to craft with magic. How to carve runes that glowed under moonlight, how to read the portents, how to weave mithril into feather-light armour. He taught us how to forge weapons and jewellery with spells in them. Secret doors which opened with a password.”
“Like the doors of Durin...!” Thorin said, looking up at Raina's face. She nodded, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Exactly. Legend says there's even one here, in Erebor. Our very own secret door.”
“Really?” Thorin gasped, eyes widening.
A secret door, here?! In Erebor?! None of his teachers had mentioned it, nor had sig'dad, and he knew everything there was to know about Erebor.
“Really,” she nodded. “Though its location is lost to us. Perhaps one day you'll find it, hmn?”
Thorin nodded, already formulating plans to convince Dwalin to go searching for it with him.
“Mahal also taught us how to play music. He taught us the notes, the songs, and all the instruments he had devised. Not only that, but Mahal taught us how to craft our magic into them, so they'd play the sweetest music in the whole of Middle Earth. But,” she said, shifting their position so she could hold Thorin closer to her. He moved easily, more than happy to rest his head against her shoulder. “Not just anyone could play a magic instrument, and use the magic.”
“So that's why my tune sounds different?” he asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand.
The soothing tone of his grandmother's voice always threatened to lull him into sleep. Some of his earliest memories were of being tucked between her and his grandfather, listening as they read him stories.
“Exactly. Dwarves who wish to play a magical instrument practice and practice and practice, and when they have practised enough, they join the Music Guild. Then they are taught by the masters, and teach students of their own. Just as I teach you, hmn?”
Thorin nodded obediently, shifting so he could clamber more firmly onto her lap and sitting sideways so he could see her face. He leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder. Her arms were thick and broad around him, and he felt utterly cocooned in them. Safe. Warm.
“After they spend many, many decades in the Music Guild perfecting their craft, they are taught how to build their own instrument, and how to carve the magic runes into it. You write three things,” she said, moving so she could rest her back against the footboard of Thorin's bed, keeping him in her arms.
One of Thorin's feet dangled off the edge of the bed, his fingers fiddling with one of the large golden pins on her belt.
“Three things?” he asked.
“Three things. The first is a dedication to Mahal, and the music taught to him by Eru, and all his own music he dreamed of afterwards and gave to us. The second is your name. Not your sky name, your true name,” she said, gently tapping Thorin's chest. “And then you inscribe a line of music you wrote.”
Thorin hummed, scratching his chin through his short beard.
“What if you're a singer?”
“Ah, well, if you're a singer, it’s a little different. Instead of creating your instrument, you must make a special paper and a special ink from herbs you have gathered yourself. Then you write your inscriptions on the paper, and you burn it and breathe in the smoke. The runes etch themselves inside you.”
He wrinkled his nose, looking up at her.
“Amad said you mustn’t breathe in too much smoke or it’ll make you cough, and it'll make your tummy sick.”
Raina laughed, leaning in to press another kiss to his forehead.
“And right she is, my pebble. But this is a special smoke, and only you may breathe it. After your instrument is inscribed, all your music will be full of magic.”
“Can I see your inscriptions, sig'mad?” asked Thorin, looking over to the harp set aside by the bed.
“No, amralê. They only show when I am playing music, and they are not for anyone else to see. Those runes are a bond between me, and Mahal. When you are older and you have chosen your craft, you will forge a bond, too.”
Thorin nodded. Then he pushed himself up to sit straighter on her knees, determination on his face.
“Sig'mad, I want to learn the harp, too. Properly. When I'm older, I want to play just like you do, and I want to teach my sister how to play, and when I'm old like you are, I want to teach pebbles, too.”
Raina chuckled, lifting Thorin easily as she stood and carried him over to a chair. She placed him down on it before drawing another close, sitting to face Thorin and putting her harp on his knees.
“If it's what you wish you to do, then you will do it, Thorin. If you do something to your very best, right up until the very end of it, you will have succeeded. No matter where you finish, if you can look back and say with your whole heart that you did your best, that you left behind no regrets, then you will do what you set out to do. In all mines of life.”
Thorin nodded solemnly, clutching the harp to him with his feet dangling in the air.
“I will, sig'mad. I'll do my very best.”
Raina smiled, her face full of love as she cupped Thorin's cheeks and kissed the top of his head.
“I know you will, Thorin. You will make me very proud. I feel it in my bones.”
He grinned, plucking a few twanging notes on the harp and wriggling out from under her hands.
“Teach me another song! I'll play it to Dís, and maybe she won't cry so much.”
*
“Uncle Thorin,” Fíli whispered, peeking over the sheepskin blanket Thorin had bundled him and Kíli into. “Will you play us a song?”
Kíli nodded, his slightly grubby face almost entirely hidden by his long hair, and his brother's own locks. Thorin leaned forward, tucking the woollen scarf up higher around the tiny pebble's cheeks. With only five years under his belt, Kíli's beard had barely grown in beyond patches of down.
Guilt squeezed Thorin's chest. The lack of food and the cold wasn't helping the youngest Durin grow, and even now a freezing wind whistled through the cave he'd carved with his own two hands into the depths of the Blue Mountains.
Dís had gone with a group of dwarves to work in the towns of men scattered around the mountains, bartering what skills they had for food and meagre coin. This time he had stayed behind, working to carve new homes from the rock. The smell of salt was thick in the air, and fire seemed to do little to warm them.
It had been a long, harsh winter.
“I will,” he said, stroking his hand over Fíli's golden hair, sitting on the side of the bed. “What song would you like?”
“Mih-tee moon-tin,” Kíli said, his voice muffled under the layers of wool and fur. Thorin smiled and reached over to lift his harp from a nook in the rock.
“Misty Mountains,” he nodded, settling the instrument on his lap. He drew his fingers over the strings – made of cheap metal wire, cold and brittle to the touch. The body had been whittled from wood he'd salvaged from the shores of the ocean, and he'd let Fíli and Kíli paint coloured ink all over it.
Fíli peeped over the top of the blanket again.
“Sing the one about Erebor, but not the dragon one, please,” he whispered.
“I will,” Thorin said again, tucking Fíli back into the blankets. He cleared his throat, and started to play.
“Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We could not stay, we must away,
and leave behind our long lost gold.
In Erebor were mighty feasts,
of fowl and fruits, and many beasts.
In homes carved deep, where we did sleep,
in hollow halls far to the east.
Toys they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
Their beards were long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We could not stay, we must away,
and leave behind our long lost gold.
Spring grows the pines on the height,
Winter comes slowly in the night.
Our fire burns red, and warms our bed;
our hearts are burning, full of light.
And I have you, we're whole and hale,
And we find work in yonder dale.
We have our wealth in love and health,
our strength leaves no one lost and frail.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
with caverns deep and dwarves of old.
We could not stay, we must away,
and leave behind our long lost gold.”
By the time he had finished Kíli was fast asleep, his face squished against his brother's chest. Fíli rested his cheek on Kíli's head, lying in silence as Thorin put the harp away.
“Will amad come home soon?” he asked, looking up at Thorin.
Thorin nodded, smoothing his hand over Fíli's braids as the pebble looked down at his brother again.
“She will, madtithbirzulê. Before you know it.”
“But adad is still sleeping?”
Thorin swallowed past the sudden clench of pain in his chest.
“Yes, he is.”
Fíli nodded and went silent. Thorin leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, the crackle of the small fire in the corner of the cave the only sound. Fíli glanced up at him.
“Uncle Thorin, can I learn to play the fiddle, like Mister Dwalin can?”
Thorin smiled and smoothed down the sheepskin over his nephews.
“Yes, you can. He would be happy to teach you.”
“What if I'm not very good?”
Thorin took a moment to consider his answer, stilling his hand over the two pebbles.
“Someone very wise once said to me, 'If you do something to your very best, right up until the very end of it, you will have succeeded'. No matter what you do, you must always try your very best. Even when you must make difficult choices, or do something you don’t want to do very much. If you wish to play the fiddle well you must practice and practice, even when you don’t want to, and if you do your best then you will succeed.”
Fíli nodded seriously.
“I will, Uncle Thorin. I'll do my very best.”
Thorin pressed another kiss to his head, drawing back a little with a smile on his face.
“I know you will. I'm already very proud of you.”
Fíli flashed a wide grin before he yawned deeply and closed his eyes. In seconds he was asleep, too. Thorin watched them for a moment, his heart caught between the choking heaviness for all they'd lost and all they had to endure, and the buoyant love he held for his nephews.
He went to his chair by the fire, taking some of the wood he'd been planning to carve into handles for the farming tools of men. He would take four strings from his harp for the fiddle, and hair from his own braid would make for a bow until he could trade for hair of a horse. Dwalin would have a little resin left, and while his whittling skills were hardly refined, he could make a tiny fiddle for Fíli.
The look on his nephew's face in the morning would be well worth a night of toil.
It always was.