The days passed slowly. Two Dwarves who had died during the Battle of Five Armies (as they were now calling it) bowed to Thorin upon meeting him, and at least another six punched him square in the face. His grandfather patted his shoulder consolingly.
“You should have seen this place after Azanulbizar,” was all he said.
Can’t blame either group of dwarves, really.
In Erebor, there was a funeral. Thorin watched as they laid the Arkenstone on his cold, dead breast, wrapped his parchment-white and stiffened fingers around the hilt of Orcrist, and sealed his body and those of his nephews in the tomb.
Bilbo cried bitterly the whole time.
As the white stone passed over Fíli’s rent and rigid corpse, Thorin covered his mouth with his hands, pressing them so fiercely against his bloodless lips that he could feel the shape of his teeth beneath. With a savage curse he closed his eyes and fled that sight.
I feel bad for Thorin during this, for many reasons. One of them, though, is because it must be extremely weird, watching your own funeral. And, of course, he blames himself for Fíli and Kíli’s deaths and so watching their funerals was almost impossible for him. No wonder he goes to see Gimli next.
Work was proceeding apace on the Mountain. Everywhere he looked Thorin could see the devastation caused by the dragon and the echoes of his folly. Even as the Kingdom slowly began to rise from mourning, Thorin could barely look at his living companions without seeing the light of the gold-sickness that had once danced in their eyes. No-one had been as thoroughly lost as Thorin himself, of course, but he had dragged them all behind him into his madness nevertheless.
To see the guilt and grief in their faces made his own grow until it felt like a stone chained around his neck.
Thorin’s guilt issues, let me show them to you. With how much he’s blaming himself here, is it any wonder that it takes him decades to finally start accepting that not everything that goes wrong is his fault?
Ori was out of his sickbed as soon as Óin gave him permission, though a racking cough continued to plague him. He immediately began to help Nori with relearning to walk. The former thief was sullen as he clattered about their rooms. With each of his arms looped over the shoulders of his brothers, he winced and cursed with every rattling step until finally he roared with anger and resentment. Ori stood his ground, all his shyness and uncertainty burned away in the fires of battle. He faced his brother’s rage calmly until Nori had exhausted himself, and then helped him back to his chair. Dori made pot of tea after pot of tea, lips white and stiff, before carefully plaiting the drained and silent Nori’s red-brown hair back into its elaborate braids. Then the Brothers Ri held onto Nori’s hands tightly until he felt able to cry.
The brothers Ri are some of of my favorite dwarves in the company (only Bifur beats them out) and this paragraph illustrates why I love them so much. Nori is stubborn, trying to get back to normal as soon as possible and not really dealing with his feelings about the injury, nearly in denial, really. Then, he moves onto the anger stage, ranting at Ori and Ori just takes it, lets his brother get it all out because he knows it’s what Nori needs. Dori is there in the background, making tea and taking care of Nori’s hair, and then he and Ori are there for Nori when he finally accepts it and mourns his loss. No matter what, they’re there for each other, and I love that about them.
“Hobbit,” said Dwalin, and cleared his throat loudly. “Not sure if anyone’s said this t’ you at all.” Then he bowed before the astonished Hobbit and said, with all sincerity;
“Thank you.”
“Aye.” – “Thank you, laddie.” – “We can never thank you enough.” The rest of the company also bowed low. Bilbo looked upset and flustered.
“No, you mustn’t,” he said, and he wrung his little hands. “No, please, my friends…”
Balin rose and winked at Bilbo. “Khazâd-bâhel.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Bilbo snapped, and mopped at his eyes with one of his new handkerchiefs. “Dwarves! Overdramatic, the lot of you! Oh, I am going to miss you all dreadfully.”
Goodbyes are always hard. This is both tear-jerking and a bit amusing, with Bilbo trying to call the dwarves dreadful and overdramatic and everything else, but unable to hide that he’s going to miss them so much. He didn’t expect this when he set out on his adventure, he didn’t know what to expect really, and now he’s leaving and he’ll miss his friends. (And Thorin.)
“I’ll be through in a year or two,” Glóin promised. “I’ll be travelling back to Ered Luin to collect my family. Bombur too. We’ll stop by. Don’t forget!”
With a leg-up from Dori, Bilbo crawled astride his pony. “I’ll lock up my dishes specially,” he laughed. “Farewell, my friends! Write as often as you can!”
Oh, Bilbo, don’t you want to see dwarves tossing your dishes around your kitchen again? I’d have thought you’d enjoy it a second time. I enjoyed it the first time, but maybe that’s because it wasn’t my dishes they were tossing around 🙂
“Kill a goblin or two for me!” said Bombur.
“Oh, but don’t get too close!”
“Aye, and watch out for Trolls!”
“And giants!”
“And rivers!”
“And spiders!”
“And Elves!”
Out of all the things that Bilbo’s supposed to watch out for, elves are hands down the funniest. Not sure which dwarf said it (there are a few different options for which one it could be), but it’s hilarious nonetheless.
Thorin took a last look at their brave little Burglar to whom he owed so much. “Farewell, Bilbo Baggins, respectable gentlehobbit of Bag End,” he said half to himself. “Farewell, wise and kindly child of the West.” He drank in the sight of the curly head, the bold bare little chin, the small leaf-like ears, the shrewd eyes and sharp tongue, clever hands and large furry feet. “I am sorry,” he added, his voice nearly a whisper.
Bilbo abruptly stopped and faced the Mountain, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, his face lifting. “And Fíli and Kíli! May your memory never fade!”
They’re both talking to each other, and each thinks the other can’t hear them. And they’re both a bit wrong and it’s just…ugh, the feels.
Fíli nervously tugged at a moustache braid. “Frerin told me something.”
Thorin sighed. “Do I need to hit him?”
Fíli scowled. “Very hard. Repeatedly.”
I can get where Fíli and Kíli are coming from, it’d be hard to remember to refer to someone younger than you (in years lived anyway, he’s got them beat in years existing) ‘Uncle’, but I can see where Frerin is coming from too. If he hadn’t died, he likely would have been as close to Fíli and Kíli as Thorin is, and they likely would have called him ‘Uncle’ sometimes too. Now, he’s got the chance to have that, and he still can’t, because Fíli and Kíli are technically older than him and don’t feel right calling him that…I feel a bit sorry for Frerin, but it’s amusing too, seeing how good he is at annoying Fíli and Kíli. I can’t really blame Thorin for placing a bet, I’d have been doing the same thing.
“Why did Mahal give you this gift?” Fíli said. “A gift that doesn’t even work?”
“I think perhaps it is because I shouted at him,” Thorin said thoughtfully, and a short bark of laughter escaped Fíli.
“You yelled at our Maker,” he said, and shook his head against Thorin’s shoulder. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”
Only Thorin could yell at Mahal and get a gift out of it. I swear, Thorin’s one of his favorites.
“Hmm,” Fíli said, and pulled back to frown up at his uncle. “Who hears you?”
“Dáin does, now and then. Occasionally Balin, Dori and Glóin as well, and Dwalin quite frequently. And Gimli most of all.”
“Gimli?” Fíli’s mouth dropped open. “Our little cousin Gimli?”
“He’s not so little anymore,” Thorin said, raising his eyebrows. “The lad has more beard than Bofur, is broader than Nori and is most certainly taller than you, though not as tall as Kíli. I judge he’s over four foot six and has further still to grow.”
“I know, I know, but he’ll always be little Gimli with the terrible temper to me,” Fíli said, shaking his head. “Gimli hears you! Well, that is a shock.”
Okay, but imagine Gimli, when he’s finally old enough to pass on, and hearing Fíli call him ‘little Gimli with the terrible temper’ and simultaneously crying (because he missed them so much) and being a bit embarrassed (I’m a dwarf lord! I helped save all of Arda! I’m taller than you are! You can’t call me ‘little’ anymore). And Fíli just saying ‘watch me’.
“I know that look,” Thorin said suspiciously. “That is not a reassuring look.”
That is a dwarf who helped raise these two and knows exactly how much trouble Kíli and Fíli can get into.
“Ah, Náli!” Gimli growled, and brought the handle of his own weapon up before his face. The clash was deafening. “You will have to do better than that! Dwalin would have had me defeated and mopping out the barracks by now!”
I have a feeling that, no matter how old Gimli gets, he’ll think of Dwalin as the greatest axeman he knew, even if he skill does someday surpass Dwalin’s.
“Aye, and rivers will run backward and Elves will live underground and Dwarves will roost in trees, Laín’s son,” Gimli retorted, rather rudely. Fíli and Kíli immediately broke out into snickers, and Thorin smiled despite himself.
Best insult ever! If more people in my life cared about the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, I would use this insult all the time.
Also, Náli was pretty fair. Yeah, Lóni was the one who attacked when Gimli’s back was turned, after the fight was over, but Gimli also didn’t need to hit him in the nose. Lóni was already stopped because of the ale in his face, he should’ve let the teacher handle it from there.
“Hold that to your nose, I have to clean up all this ale.” Gimli eyed the mess and grabbed another cloth before hunkering down on his knees and beginning to soak up the spilled ale. “I’m not going to apologise for being good,” he said as he scrubbed, blowing a lock of fiery hair out of his eyes. “Neither am I going to feel sorry for a Dwarf who tried to axe me in the back! But a training partner with more strength and reach than me – now, that is of interest. You can get the recognition you crave so badly when you knock me on my back fair and square. What do you say?”
I gotta say, Gimli’s more forgiving than I am. I probably wouldn’t have forgiven someone trying to axe me in the back this easily. He’s got a point about Lóni being a good training partner, though.
“Is old Borin’s tavern still running then?” Kíli wondered, and then quailed at Thorin’s sudden dark look. Fíli gave a weak little laugh and hushed Kíli with a hand over his mouth.
“Just… an academic interest, Thorin.”
“Yes, never stepped foot in it ourselves,” Kíli said, muffled by Fíli’s palm.
“Or broke a table.”
“Or a lamp.”
“Or Borin’s teeth.”
“Lies and conjecture.”
“Must have been two other Dwarves that looked like us.”
“Yes, and with the same names. Imposters, no doubt.”
Thorin rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for patience.
Fíli and Kíli trying to cover up for each other when they reveal something that they didn’t want Thorin to know is hilarious, as is Thorin’s reaction to it.
Gimli blinked, and then he shook his head sharply. “Surely I can’t get drunk from a few fumes,” he said to himself, and Kíli snorted.
“You’re not drunk, lad,” Thorin said, and shook his own head in disbelief. “We’re here.”
Gimli squinted, peering straight past Thorin. “Must be imagining things. I can’t be drunk and I do not think I am mad…”
Fíli smacked his forehead with his palm.
Thorin resisted the urge to do the same. “Not mad either, cousin. Mahal grants us this, that we can see you from beyond the mists. To me he gave a greater gift. Some may hear me.”
“I’m of Durin’s line,” Gimli continued, his brow creasing with worry. “I could be mad. I’m too young for it, though.”
“Steady,” Fíli said quietly, putting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder as he shook with anger and shame.
“You are not mad,” he said shortly. “Only very, very dense.”
This is hilarious. A bit sad for Thorin, because of the mad bit, but mostly hilarious. Anyone’s reaction would probably be similar if they thought dead people were talking to them, though, so I can’t really blame him.
“He was her brother,” Gimli whispered, and then he pulled at his vibrant hair. “Oh, I am such a fool! Of course my conscience would not let me rest until I had seen her. I lost my cousins, but she lost all she had left in the world. Not drunk, not mad, not tricked, but surely a blind and selfish fool!”
“He… he thinks you’re his conscience,” said Fíli blankly.
Thorin looked at him helplessly.
I laughed a bit here too, imagining Thorin with a little button that says ‘Conscience’ and standing on Gimli’s shoulder like Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio.
“How’d a boulder-faced shrub like Glóin end up with a Dwarrowdam like that?” Fíli said, eyes wide.
“He was kind, honest and respectful,” Thorin said. “And he made her laugh.”
I’ve said it before, but I kind of imagine it as a Roger and Jessica Rabbit situation. Everyone was chasing after Mizim because of her looks, but Glóin loved her for who she was and won her over by making her laugh.
“I’m in love,” Kíli declared fervently.
“I saw her first,” Fíli snarled.
Thorin gritted his teeth. “You are both dead.”
Kíli gave him a wounded look. “That was uncalled for.”
What I really want to know is that, if Gimli played with Fíli and Kíli as often as they say, how did they never see Mizim or Gimrís before? Did Gimli just always go over to their place? Or did they just never visit each others’ homes? Honestly, I don’t care though, because this piece of dialogue and the previous one I talked about are more than worth it.
“Brother,” the lass growled. “I hope you have your axe on you, because after waking me you are going to need it.”
Me, whenever my brother’s loud early in the morning when I had a late shift the night before.
“Aye, and I called her ‘Aunt’ and she bounced me on her knee, I remember,” Gimli said, and splashed water over his face. “If she does not wish to see me, then I will try again another time. She has been left alone all this time and so she must feel that she is alone. She should know that we think of her and that she is still cared for as a Dwarf, not just as the Regent of Thorin’s Hall. I am not her son or her brother, but I am family and I care. And I loved them too.”
Reason #10000 why I love Gimli. A lot of the other reasons are from this story, although many of them are from canon too.
“You’re a good boy, my son.”
He squirmed away, batting at her with wet hands. “Mum, I am sixty-three soon! I am not a boy!”
She snorted. “You are such a boy, Gimli. I’ll find your clasps. I hope you still fit your engraved boots.”
I laughed a bit because I did this when I was a kid. Everyone would say I was a little girl, and I’d say, indignantly, that I was [insert age here] and so I was /not/ a little girl. Never thought I’d related so well to a sixty-three year old dwarf, but that’s part of the magic of this story. The characters are dangerously relatable, both canon and OC.
“You must have been fighting a thornbush. And those trousers don’t suit that tunic either. You won’t be able to wear it much longer, you know. Your shoulders are about to come through the seams.”
“Not my fault,” Gimli said defensively. “I grew too fast.”
“You ate too much, you mean,” she said, and he sent an elbow back into her stomach.
“I had to eat, I was growing!”
This is only a snippet of it, but I love all of Gimli and Gimrís’ bickering. Gimrís uses loving insults as a way to let her brother know she cares about him, and Gimli knows what she’s doing and goes back and forth with her and it’s just adorable, really.
“Where are we?” Thorin hissed, following closely behind. “I do not recognise this part of the Halls.”
“Don’t tell me you’re lost!” said Kíli.
Someone needs to make Thorin a map.
“Mining?” Thorin frowned. “His father is a Lord. He does not need to mine for a living.”
“Thorin, everyone worked, even you. You took on blacksmithing, I was a jeweller like Mum, and Kíli was a bowyer. No doubt Óin took Gimli into the mines; I know he still treats the miners now and then for their injuries.”
Thorin, dear, did you forget how much smithing you did over the years between Erebor’s fall and Erebor being reclaimed?
“Gimli, son of Glóin,” Gimli said with a polite bow. “I am here to see the Lady Dís, if she will.”
“The Lady sees no-one,” the Dwarf said shortly, and began to close the door. It stopped on Gimli’s heavy engraved boot, and the younger Dwarf gave the guard a pleasant smile.
“Announce me,” he suggested. “Perhaps she will make an exception.”
“Are you deaf, boy? The Lady sees no-one,” the guard with impatience, and kicked Gimli’s foot away.
“Perhaps I should make myself clearer,” Gimli said, still smiling. “Gimli of the Line of Durin, here to see his cousin, if she will.”
The guard’s sneer dropped like a stone. “I’ll announce you.”
“You do that.”
“All right,” Thorin said. “Now I believe the boy is related to me.”
If that didn’t make it clear, Thorin, I don’t know what would.
“She’ll see you,” he said. “But don’t expect her to be pleasant.”
“I don’t expect her to be anything other than as she is,” said Gimli with admirable calmness.
I love Gimli.
To the three children of Thráin, they had said, Mahal gave one a voice of golden thunder, one a voice of silver bells, but the third – the third had a voice of mithril and diamonds, more lovely than the voices of Elves and as pure as the snowmelt from the peak of the Mountain.
Another thing I love about this story? Sentences like this. It’s so marvelously descriptive, and it fits with the one voice we have heard (Thorin), and gives you a basis for how his siblings might sound.
Gimli blinked, and then he looked down at his hands. “You’re not my Aunt,” he said slowly. “You’re my cousin. And we… we lost some of our family. There’s just me and Gimrís and you, because everyone else…”
“Is dead,” Dís croaked, and finally looked up from the fire. “Everyone is dead. My whole family, but for cousins like you. My sons, my last brother, my One, my father… we were so proud, so strong. Well, Mahal has punished us for our pride, at least.”
“No!” Gimli blurted, and he took another couple of quick steps towards her. “Not everyone is dead!”
“You?” Dís laughed. It was utterly unbearable to hear. “Your sister? Balin, Dwalin, your father and uncle? You are not my family. We are relatives, no more than that. No, my family is dead and gone. The line of Thrór is ended.”
“They’re not all dead,” Gimli repeated, and he lifted his eyes to hers. “There’s you.”
She froze, and then sagged. “Me.”
Oh Dís! She’s so alone, and Gimli’s trying to make her see that she /isn’t/ alone, not completely, and that there are still people left who love her for who she is, not because she’s the princess, and who mourn Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli for who they were, rather than just the king and princes.
Gimli snorted. “Oh, Kíli’s hair.”
To Thorin’s amazement, she laughed – rusty and unused, but a true laugh. “Kíli’s damned hair. I used to struggle with him every morning to at least get most of it out of his eyes. Mahal only knows how he ever aimed at a target through that curtain.”
“I feel I should be offended,” Kíli said.
Fíli gave him a sad half-grin. “The truth offends no-one but you, brother.”
“Don’t look at me,” Thorin added. “I remember the fits you had when your mother brought out a comb.”
Just everything about this. I love it. I’m with Kíli, though, I never have patience to do more than just brush my hair, and to pull it up into a ponytail on days I have to work.
“Gladly.” Gimli settled at her feet and launched into a tale of three Dwarflings and a hammer ‘borrowed’ from Dwalin. Dís listened closely, and laughed at the terrible predicament the three found themselves in; at the clever plots put into practice that only compounded the problem tenfold; at Dwalin’s outrage when the hammer was finally recovered and the terrible injustice of the punishment (polishing every weapon he owned until it gleamed). Her eyes were glossy, but she no longer wept. Her hand remained on Gimli’s vibrant hair, and every now and then she stroked it absently.
I wonder if Dwalin remembers this story, if he ever teased Gimli about it when he got older (like when Legolas is around?).
“Gimrís said she would come with me next time. Would you like that?”
She blinked as though coming awake, and then she smiled. It was still tinged with her fathomless sorrow, but she no longer looked or sounded more dead than alive. “That would be lovely. How old is your sister now?”
“Fifty-four,” Gimli said with a shudder.
“Ah, the fifties. I feel for your poor mother, with two Dwarrows under the age of seventy in her home.”
“I am very mature!” Gimli protested, and Dís laughed softly.
“Indeed you are. Bring Gimrís, and I will tell you of the time my brothers and I stole Dwalin’s favourite toy Oliphaunt.”
Gimli choked on his breath, and then laughed loudly and merrily. “Aye, that sounds like a tale not to be missed!”
Everything about this, but especially little Dwalin having a toy Oliphaunt that Dís and her brothers stole.
omg good point – I didn’t think of it at the time! OKAY SOLUTION – Gimris was besties with Baris, and mostly played with her. She was only a little ‘un when her big bro and his noisy friends were racing about together, and wasn’t really a part of that gang, being a whole 9 years younger than Gimli (who was a hell of a lot younger than Kili himself). Also, she was one of those kids who looked VERY different when they grow up to when they were little: no real signs of her adult beauty at that age. She hadn’t yet grown into herself. That massive wealth of hair? Mostly a gigantic mop, when she was a kid. Eyes unnervingly too big, like some kids too. Explains why she gets a teensy bit vain every so often, too, now that she’s all grown up and gorrrrgeous!
(ALSO I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOUUUUU!? HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I LOVE YOU???)
well! if there IS an Oxford professor of language and linguistics somehow hidden somewhere in this shortarse skinny meatsuit, then it would be A+++ if he stopped being a freeloading moocher, and helped me pronounce some of the pieces we’re teaching our choirs this year
I ain’t never going to have no chill when it comes to Sansukh. May I present Merilin, trans elleth of Mirkwood.
she is absolutely and utterly GORGEOUS
I LOVE her eyes! And her ears! And her HAIR omg the detail you have put into those rows is amazing! She has such an elegant face, aslkdfjhal I could cut myself on those beautiful cheekbones! AND YES A NOSE W A BRIDGE-BUMP, YES YES YES I AM BEYOND THRILLED TO SEE THAT LOVELY NOSE!
she is beautiful! And SO ARE YOU! Thank you so, so much!
Okay, posting of chapter 2 ended up being delayed, because I had to run to the store and then crashed after I got home (getting up at four, five, and then six in the morning for three consecutive days will do that to you). Good news is, it’s a new day and I have very little that I need to do, so I can indulge in one of my favorite hobbies (reading, it’s tied with writing for first place), and squeal some more over this amazing story 🙂
Dwarrows centuries-dead greeted him, and as his sight returned he occasionally found himself brought up short by a familiar face or a vague family resemblance. Surely that was a Durin nose – surely those were the family ears! He walked around in a haze of recognition and bewilderment.
Kind of reminds me of one of my thoughts about the afterlife. If there’s something after death, will you get to see /all/ your family? Even people related to you but you’ve never met? No wonder poor Thorin’s confused, especially after how sudden his death was. Fíli and Kíli seem to be bouncing back a little faster, but they are younger and they don’t have as much grief and guilt as Thorin does, even if they’ve got their fair share.
Thorin’s grandmother, Queen Hrera, fussed and tutted over him more than she ever had as a young dwarfling. It took all his patience to refrain from reminding her that he was in fact older than her now, and had more white in his hair and beard than she had ever managed. Not that she would have listened, anyhow. The women of his family had always been even more mulish than the men. Fíli and Kíli smirked a lot whenever she managed to corral him and tweak his cheek.
He had his revenge when Hrera descended on them in turn and promptly began to plait Kíli’s hair.
Another OC I love? Hrera. Prim, proper, and still completely able to put you in your place if need be. Likely while sitting and sipping tea while her family looked on in amusement because they know better. She reminds me a little of the dwarf version of Queen Clarisse, so I love that too, but there’s just a lot about Hrera that’s amazing. Especially as the story goes on, and we see more of her (like her reactions to learning about Dís and Durin Bomfrísul and her interactions with Radagast).
A Dwarf with a multitude of honey-coloured braids and a puckish, mischievous face came near, and Thorin’s mouth opened on a soft intake of breath. Then he grabbed the Dwarf’s shoulders and drew him into a rough embrace. “Víli.”
His brother-in-law silently pressed their foreheads together. “Thank you for raising them,” said Víli son of Vár. “Thank you for being there when I could not.”
Thorin fumbled for Víli’s hand and grasped it tightly. “They are the best of my life,” he said, and Víli’s eyebrows rose and the ghost of the impish grin that had captured Dís’ heart passed over his lips.
I’ve read a lot of stories that reference Dís’ husband, some who I like more than others, but Víli is one of my favorites. He’s the perfect compliment to Dís, especially at the time of her life when they’d met, and it’s easy to see that Fíli and Kíli inherited more than just some of his looks, even if they wouldn’t know that until they joined him. Also, imagining Víli watching over Dís, Fíli, and Kíli all their lives, desperately wanting to be able to join them, to comfort them when they’re upset and join in on the laughter during the good times? Recipe for tears.
His cousins Náin and Fundin, both Burned Dwarves of Azanulbizar, instantly crowded him with enthusiastic pleas for news of their sons. Though Mahal had mentioned that any Dwarf in the Halls could watch over their kin at any time, it appeared that the immediacy of his tales was greatly appreciated and sought after. Though it tore at his heart, Thorin told them all that he could remember. His old cousin Farin, father to Fundin and Gróin, was quiet and calm, a smile tugging at his lips as he listened to the stories of his four heroic grandsons of the Company – Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin.
Gróin was the worst of the lot, however. He was so proud of his grandson he was likely to explode, and asked Fíli and Kíli for any tales of their young playfellow at any and every opportunity. At these times, Thorin would take the opportunity to slip away and explore.
Gróin reminds me a lot of Glóin, unsurprisingly. They’re both so proud of their family that it isn’t even funny. And Thorin knows enough from being around Glóin for awhile to know that slipping away is a good idea. I can’t really blame him, though, since he hasn’t really gotten to interact with Gimli and it’s been years since he’s seen either of his sons. Things like this, and like Víli’s story, are why you’ll be wishing for deaths on a Game of Thrones magnitude, alright? Because they’re all able to be together with their loved ones when they’re dead (except for poor Narvi and Kíli). This story takes ‘death is but the next great adventure’ to a whole new height.
It was all a mystery to Thorin. Where were the Halls located? Aman, yes, obviously -but where? Were these great mines and workshops located in the Halls of Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar? Or did the Dwarves bide their long years of waiting within the mountains of Mahal, their maker?
And for that matter – whence came the wood for the forges? Where the cloth for the clothes? Where the food for the meals? No Dwarf could tell him, and most seemed grudgingly resigned to never knowing. Thorin’s temperament was not well-suited to such mysteries, and he began to eye each meal suspiciously until his mother told him to stop it and eat.
Can’t blame Thorin for that. I’d be curious too, although I’d probably be in the grudgingly resigned camp before too long. I’d work myself up too much otherwise. Good thing Frís is able to get him to stop worrying about it for the moment.
Thorin gave his brother a quick glance. Frerin’s normally merry face was solemn, his bright blue eyes dark. He noticed Thorin’s regard and the corner of his mouth twitched ruefully. “I spent a lot of time here,” he said, “sitting upon that bench. That one just over there. I watched you and Dís and Dwalin and Balin, watched you all grow older. Older, and harder… and colder.” He swallowed hard, and tugged absently at his forked beard. “Mother and I nearly broke down when you finally smiled again after Fíli’s birth. We’d almost forgotten what it looked like.”
It must have been painful, watching his family and friends change so much, getting so closed off, so worried and stressed and angry, and not being able to do anything at all about it. Again, things like this are why people advise you to stock up on tissues before re-reading this. The happy ending’s coming, but there’s a lot of angst they have to work through first.
“You bloody fool,” Dwalin sighed, and scrubbed at his face before standing awkwardly and making his way with careful steps to a shelf. There he pulled down a flask, tore out the cork with his teeth, and took a long swig.
“Somehow I don’t think that will help, brother,” came another familiar voice. Thorin whirled to see Balin in the doorway, his white hair covered by a filthy bandage and part of his magnificent beard cut close to reveal a nasty, jagged cut along his cheek and jaw. “And I’m fairly certain it wasn’t in Óin’s orders.”
“He’s got his medicines, I’ve got mine,” Dwalin growled, and took another sip.
Knowing Óin, that might have actually been in his orders. Yeah, you’re not supposed to drink when you’re injured, but Dwalin’s stubborn enough that he probably wouldn’t have accepted any normal pain relief, if they had it to spare, and considering that Óin gets blindingly drunk later on, it seems to be his way of dealing with emotional pain. Drink first, deal with it after the headache goes away. So, he probably would have realized that Dwalin needed it to help him? Not that Balin’s wrong, Dwalin needs to be talking about it instead of bottling everything up and drinking alone, but I’m thinking that Óin’s so busy that he wouldn’t have even lectured Dwalin if he’d found out.
Thorin closed his eyes, and when next they opened he was looking out at a hall covered in a sea of sluggish bodies. The hundreds upon hundreds of wounded were filling the air with their groans and cries, and Thorin bit down on a cry of his own as he saw the carnage the orcs had wrought.
Óin looked exhausted. His curled braids were frayed and his eyes were deep black pits in his sunken face. Glóin, Dori and Bilbo moved around him with mechanical movements, washing the wounded, feeding them, boiling water and smearing ointment on injuries. In a corner in a great rotted chair sat Nori, tearing cloth to make bandages. His left leg came to a shocking stop below his knee, and a metal peg – obviously Bofur’s work – sat half-finished beside him. Amongst the beds trudged Óin, drooping and ceaseless, his hands never still as he stitched and cut and wrapped. None of them spoke.
The ugly side of war that no one ever talks about. Even if it’s something like this, life or death battling against the orcs, that doesn’t mean that there will be no casualties. I mean, I love reading stories where all the good guys survive without any sort of injury as much as the next person, but this is a far more realistic look at it.
Dori’s face sagged, though his voice was brisk. “Yes indeed we will, Mister Glóin. This time, however, I’ll do it. Your sewing is atrocious, if you’ll pardon me saying.”
“I’m a banker, not a weaver,” Glóin retorted.
Oh Dori.
Dáin watched him go with weariness written all over his face, before turning back to the Elf. “Forgive him, Prince Legolas,” he said. “He suffered at the hands of your… hospitality, shall we call it? And later, of course, it seemed that Men and Elves alike would happily clamber over their corpses in order to steal that which rightfully belongs to our people. Dwarves do not quickly forget an injustice.”
Dáin might be better at using tact than Thorin, but he’s not going to just lie back and let anyone walk over him. Honestly, I love Dáin so much, and this fic only added to my mental image of him.
“Durin’s hammer and tongs,” Frerin whispered. “Did he… do you think he can…”
“I told you,” Thorin said thickly, “Mahal gave me a gift. They will sense my words in their deepest minds.”
Frerin stared at him.
“I know.” Thorin closed his eyes. “I am unworthy.”
“Not that,” Frerin said. “You must watch what you say! This is a power no Dwarf should have.”
Thorin frowned. “Why? They cannot hear my words as you do.”
“You could influence them without their knowing,” Frerin said, his bright youthful face unusually serious. “You must be careful, Thorin. They could act without knowledge of their actions.”
Opening his mouth to retort, Thorin abruptly recalled the subtle power of the gold and his desperate determination to see the treasures of his people safe in Dwarven hands. Troubled, he turned back to Dáin. “Aye.”
I was waiting for someone to say it, and Frerin didn’t disappoint in the slightest.
Dís blinked back her tears, and her hand tightened about the crushed message. “That prideful fool,” she rasped, her voice harsh with weeping.
“Aye,” Thorin said, and smiled through a fresh storm of shame. “A prideful fool who loves you. Though I die, that will never change. No veil of death can stop it.”
“Nothing ever stopped him,” she said, and buried her face in her hands once more. “Why did he never stop?”
“Line of Durin, sister,” he said, and swallowed roughly. “A proud… family trait.”
“Damn the Line of Durin to the nethermost pits of Moria,” she hissed into her palms, and her voice began to rise with barely-contained anguish. “Damn our line, and damn our pride, and damn our name, and damn our blind, wilful madness! Let the dragon have Erebor if it would bring them back to me! I would have them here! How am I to go on alone? My sons are gone! My brother gone! Our line is spent and I am alone!” She whirled and took up a cup on her dresser and flung it against the wall with a cry of rage and misery.
“You will go on,” said Thorin. “You will, daughter of Kings, best of sisters. You are as stubborn as the rest of us.”
She collapsed across her bed, and her tears began anew. Thorin stood and sighed.
I’m going to be saying this a lot, but poor Dís. Her husband, parents, brother and grandparents have been gone for years, and now her sons and only living sibling are gone as well and she’ll feel like she’s all alone. It’s around this point (if it didn’t already happen back when Víli was introduced), that you’ll hope that Dís joins her family soon. Instead, she lives a fairly long life, but she’s got a star to light up the darkness of her post-war life (yes, I know, I’m not even remotely subtle).
Thorin watched the young Dwarf work for a moment longer, noting the mechanical movements and the dogged persistence that kept one foot stepping in front of the other. “The lad is mourning his playfellows, and seeks to exhaust himself with work rather than weep,” he said.
“I have wept long enough,” Gimli muttered to himself. “Aye, and loudly too! Work is what is needed. Work will tire my mind and keep my thoughts quiet.”
“Thorin!” Frerin’s eyes widened in astonishment. “He hears you!”
“He hears me well, even more clearly than Dáin or Dís,” Thorin said slowly, and he tilted his head as he studied his youngest cousin further. Gimli laced his fingers and made the knuckles crack loudly, and then he hefted a sawn tree-round to the block and unslung a wood-axe from his belt. A strong boy, then. “He must be quite a perceptive lad. Glóin does well to be proud of him.”
Gimli’s more perceptive than anyone (in fandom especially) gives him credit for. He’s strong, yes, and great with an axe, but that’s not all he is. He’s smart, and he’s pretty good with people too. (There’s more, but if I start listing Gimli’s good points, this post will end up about twice the length it is already).
“Lofty ambitions,” Frerin said, and leaned against the parapet. “See that swing? He’s a natural axeman, and already a talented warrior. Dwalin trained him along with our nephews. It was rather entertaining to watch them – they are both equally as pigheaded as each other.”
“He’s a Dwarf, of course he’s pigheaded,” said Thorin.
And I would LOVE to compile it all together into an ebook, with all the art and all the sidefics and everything, the sheet music, even the recipes. That would be ASTOUNDING. But it would be a hell of a job!
I would have to ask every artist involved whether they wanted their art to be a part of the project, for instance. I never link or embed without permission.
It’d take some time to do, Nonnie! I’m not ruling it out, though 🙂
(I KNOW, I can’t believe I’m so close… nearly four years later!)
-Life doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes and we keep living anyway-
This song just seemed to fit to @determamfidd wonderful fic about a horse of Rohan, loyal like a dwarf and free like an elf.
*grabs queen’s face and COVERS IT IN KISSES*
AHH THANK YOU omg AAAAAAAH YOU LIKED IT SO MUCH TO SCREENSHOT??? *twirlfaint* you lovely soul! Thank you, I am stoked you like it! and laskjdgfhlajhdfa HAMILTON AAAAAAAHHHHHH
Awwww, Arod ❤ my fave infernal torture device!! He trained Gimli well!
(I had so many comments along the lines of ‘GEE THANKS FOR GIVING ME FEELS ABOUT THE DAMNED HORSE’ for this fic, lololol)
Aw Yiss 