“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, …
“We are going home!” she cried in her ringing voice of diamond and mithril, and a mighty cheer rose up from every throat. Turning, Dís began to walk away from the worked-out mines and the crumbling halls of Belegost that had sheltered them in their poverty, and raised her face to the East. She did not look back. Wagons rumbled along in her wake as she began to march.
As much as I love Dain, can we take a minute to appreciate the awesomeness of Queen Dís, if she had taken the throne? It makes sense why she wouldn’t want to, that throne had cost the lives of her sons and brother, but it’s something I thought of after I finished reading The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings the first time. King Dain is just as awesome, though.
His reunion with Mizim, Gimrís and Gimli upon his arrival at Ered Luin had been nothing short of spectacular. Glóin had wrapped himself around his wife and held onto her tightly, burying his face in her pale hair. She put her hands either side of his head and drew it back, tracing the old scar over his brow with her thumb before kissing him deeply and gently. “Hello, you old bear,” she said softly, her hands slipping into his mane of wild red hair. “You’re late.”
“Jewel,” he said, and his eyes misted over. “More lovely than ever you are, Mizim, crown of my life, light of my heart.”
I wonder when Mizim started calling Glóin a bear. His nickname for her makes sense, since her name means jewel, but I wonder if it’s just something that she came up with randomly and liked, or if there’s a funny story behind the nickname. But also this, the two fo them reuniting? Adorable!
He took her hands and kissed them one after the other before turning to his children – and his mouth slowly formed the shape of an ‘O’.
Thorin privately thought his expression was hilarious. Frerin, of course, didn’t keep such things private. His brother keeled over backwards, laughing his head off.
I’m with Frerin. I probably wouldn’t have fallen over, but I’d have definitely been laughing.
Glóin had gawked for a moment longer before Gimrís was hurling herself at her ‘adad and Gimli was doing likewise, and Glóin was buried beneath the bodies of two mostly-grown Dwarves and groaning.
“Oof! You are too heavy for me now, off with you!” he wheezed, and Thorin chuckled at the sight of the bristly and imposing old warrior spluttering and choking for breath.
Glóin survived trolls, goblins, orcs, spiders, stone giants, and elves, but it’s his kids that knock the breath out of him. I can’t help it, I laugh every time I read that.
Bombur’s reunion with his family had been far louder. Alrís didn’t even have a chance to greet her husband before a veritable horde of Dwarflings swarmed Bombur and Bofur, shouting at the top of their lungs. Bombur’s children buried themselves against his warm and hefty body, snuggling close, investigated his walking staff with curious and grubby fingers, pulled at ‘Uncle Bofur’s’ hat and begged for a song and a sweet and a story. Bombur tried to kiss and tickle all of them at once, his seldom-heard booming laugh ringing out over the din. The oldest of the tribe patiently pulled the smaller ones away, and finally Alrís was able to give her husband a smacking kiss and show him the new baby, now two years old – a boy she had named Albur. He was a chubby, chuckling little thing with brown hair and eyes that danced like sunlight on water. Bombur gave the little one a whiskery buss on the top of the head, and then wrapped one arm around Alrís again and pulled her against him for another ringing kiss.
Everything about Bombur’s reunion with his family. Like, if I had to pick a family from Sansukh to visit, it would either be Orla and Dwalin’s or Bombur and Alrís’. Bombur’s love for his family is something I love about this interpretation of him (one of many things, really).
“What have you done to your leg?” she said breathlessly.
He shrugged. “Got poisoned. Don’t recommend it.”
“Poisoned, Daddy?” gasped one of his middle children, his eyes wide as saucers.
“Don’t get too close to orcs,” Bofur said succinctly, and a chorus of ‘ooooh’s rose from the crowd of children.
“Hospital food,” Bombur said in disgust, and Alrís threw her head back and laughed and laughed.
Only Bombur could play off the fact that he got poisoned by talking about how horrible hospital food is. Another reason to love Bombur.
“That’s an Elf?” Gimli said, wrinkling his nose. “And here I thought they were supposed to be fair and glorious! Hmmph. They’re all stretched and faded.”
Bofur chuckled. “Don’t be fooled. They might look like skinny, insipid twigs, but they’re stronger than they appear and their eyesight is much better than ours in daylight. An Elf will put an arrow through your eye as soon as look at you.”
“No beards at all,” Gimli muttered under his breath, and shuddered.
But no, if Bofur remembers this and brings it up at some point to Legolas, I can see the both of them laughing about it and teasing Gimli who’s all embarrassed because he was just a kid then and it was the first time he’d seen elves.
“Is that a Hobbit?” whispered Gimrís to her brother.
“Again, no beard!” Gimli said, and shook his head in sympathy.
I love Gimli. ‘Elf? No beard, not fair and glorious at all’, ‘Hobbit? No beard at all, poor thing’.
“You should hear the ruckus down at the Green Dragon,” Bilbo was saying. “Poor old Odo is convinced it’s an invasion and has the whole pub in an uproar. Half of Brandy Hall – that’s the Brandybucks, by the way – want to come out and see for themselves. The other half want to sound the Horn-call of Buckland. The Bracegirdles are wringing their hands and fainting, the Grubbs are calling it none of our business, the Boffins are trying to organise a welcoming party, and the Tooks are giggling up their sleeves and egging everyone on indiscriminately.”
“And the Bagginses?” said Bombur, smiling.
Bilbo laughed gaily. “Are pretending they’ve never even heard of Dwarves, or dragons, or adventures, or rich mad cousins. Whenever someone brings it up they begin talking loudly about the weather or about pie-eating contests or Farmer Maggott’s dogs or some such. It’s terrifically funny.”
I love how the various groups of hobbits are reacting, especially the Tooks. And the fact that Bombur remembers enough about Bilbo’s family to know that his family would be the funniest group of the lot is amusing too.
“Here, Bilbo,” Bombur said into the ensuing silence. “You should meet my family! That’s Barís, my eldest, and over there’s Bomfur, Bolrur, and Bofrur, my terrible little trio of redheads, and the two big dark-haired lads there are Barum and Barur; then there’s Alfur and Alrur and Alfrís and Bomfrís tormenting that poor pony. Barum, stop that lot, would you, before the pony dies of nerves? And over there is my lovely wife Alrís, and our two littlest ones, Bibur and Albur.”
Alrís sketched a bow, her arms filled with squirming child. “At your service,” she called cheerfully.
Thorin was a little dizzy after all those names.
Bilbo seemed to have no trouble with such a crowd, and bowed to Alrís, smiling. “At yours and your family’s – although I may be a little pressed to accommodate so many. Good gracious me, Bombur! I’d think you were part-Hobbit!”
Changing the subject like a boss. Take notes, Bilbo. And Bilbo thinks the same thing I do, that Bombur and Alrís are part hobbit. Alrís being able to bow while still holding onto two squirming kids is cool, though. I love Thorin’s reaction to all of the names, though. I had the same reaction at first, I had to re-read that paragraph to make sure I’d gotten all of the names right.
Bilbo perked up. “Yes, yes, quite right! I brought a few little things for us to share, though now I hope they’ll stretch far enough…”
“We’ve seen how Hobbits eat,” said Glóin dryly. “I’m fairly sure we’ll do fine, laddie.”
“And just think, Bilbo! No washing up!” Bofur nudged him. Thorin wished everyone would stop touching the Hobbit.
Bilbo rolled his eyes theatrically. “Thank heavens!”
Now I’m imaginging ‘Blunt the Knives’ only with dwarflings as well as four adult dwarves and dwarrowdams.
“Here now! First you have to meet my set,” said Glóin. “This is my lad Gimli, and my lass Gimrís. Over there tying down the cart is my darlin’ Mizim. Mizim, come here! Come meet our Burglar!”
“I’m a little busy, you daft old bugger,” she snapped, “in case you haven’t noticed!”
Glóin gave them a sheepish grin. “She’s the jewel o’ my life, she is.”
Have I mentioned how much I love Glóin and Mizim’s relationship? Because I do, so much.
“Doesn’t your face get cold?”
Bilbo burst into giggles.
Glóin tugged at his own beard to hide a smile. “Ah, Gimli m’boy, Hobbits don’t grow beards.”
“Oh, some do, but only those of Stoor families,” Bilbo said, still giggling. “Even then, it’s nothing for a Dwarf to boast of. I remember catching you all staring at me for the first couple of weeks when you thought I wasn’t watching. And for the record, not one of you is any good at being sneaky – well, except Nori, but the rest of you were not exactly subtle about it. Was it my poor naked chin, then?”
“That and your riding, laddie,” Glóin said, and then snorted at the Hobbit’s expression of half-amusement, half-exasperation.
“Were we that rude?” said Bofur, grinning.
“You barged into my house, pillaged my pantry, drafted me into an adventure and sang an extremely insulting song,” Bilbo said, poking Bofur in the side. “Staring was the politest thing any of you did!”
“Ah, my apologies?” mumbled Gimli, scratching at his head.
Poor Gimli, he’s so confused. Just let them bicker, they’ll sort themselves out and it’s a bit amusing to watch too.
“Here.” He pushed a bundle of papers into Bombur’s hands. “All my mother’s recipes. She was a Took, you know, and collected recipes from all over the Shire, all the way as far east as Midgewater.”
Bombur looked down with wide eyes at the crushed bundle and then pressed it protectively against his chest. “Bilbo!” he said, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish.
Perfect gift for Bombur. He’s already been working on hobbit style recipes, now he’s got recipes to do even more of them. If he wasn’t already king of the marketplace, this would seal it.
He handed Bofur a strange configuration of sheepskin and dyed leather, with neat little stitches in the Shire-fashion around the edges. “It’s your hat, do you see,” Bilbo said, anxiously wringing his hands. “I bought the skins from the Proudfeet, and I had it copied by Bell Gamgee. Yours was such a wreck, after all, and I thought you might like to have a new one. I do hope I haven’t upset you?”
Bofur slowly opened up the folded brim of the new hat, dyed a handsome red-brown, and suddenly smiled. He pulled it onto his head, lifting his chin and tugging at the flaps. “What do you think, lads?”
“Oh, thank Mahal, I was going to burn the old one in his sleep,” said Bombur with relief.
Again, I love Bombur. Him, Dori, and Bifur are my favorite canonical dwarves.
Thorin growled under his breath. Would nobody stop touching the Hobbit?
Thorin, your married is showing.
“Glóin, this is for you.” Bilbo handed him a polished wooden box, its lid and sides carved with leaves and grapes. Glóin admired the carving for a moment, and Bilbo huffed. “Well, woodworking is probably the only Hobbit craft that you fellows might appreciate. Still, it’s not empty. Open it.”
Glóin cracked it open, and Gimli peered over his father’s shoulder to look inside. “Pipe-weed?”
“Not just any pipe-weed, my dear Dwarf. That is Longbottom Leaf. It’s the year of ’32 – a very good year indeed!”
“My dear Hobbit!” Glóin said, and eyed the box with new appreciation. “I am deeply in your debt!”
Bilbo knows what Glóin likes.
“Now,” Bilbo said, straightening his coat, “the inks are for Ori, and the bottles are delicate, so be careful! These herbs are for Óin. So are these notes. I translated a couple of healing texts from the Elvish – and it was a lot of work, so don’t you dare throw them away! Ah, this is for Dori. It’s an embroidery pattern-book from my Aunt Hildigard, and some of those patterns are old enough to impress even Dori, I dare say. I hope he can get some use out of it.”
Bofur opened the little book and smiled down at the curling designs with their friendly motifs of flowers, leaves and vegetables. “Who knows? Perhaps Hobbit stitching will become the new exotic fashion. You could start a trend!”
“I fervently hope my trend-setting days are done, thank you very much,” said Bilbo dryly.
I love how Bilbo knows well enough to tell them to not throw away the notes just because they came from Elvish healing texts. He knows them all so well. And Dori and Ori’s presents are perfect for them both. Granted, dwarves seem to favor geometric shapes and designs, but hobbit stitching would be exotic and a new challenge for Dori to master.
“Now, this is for Nori, from one Burglar to another.”
Bombur’s forehead creased as he took in the candlesticks, the cheese-knife and the little silver gravy-boat. “What’s this?”
Bilbo rubbed a hand through his hair and smiled a trifle wickedly. “I discovered after I got back that it wasn’t only my frightful relatives who were a little too free with my belongings. A certain light-fingered chap had made off with a few small things on the night of the party. I thought he might like the rest of the set, with my compliments.”
Nori’s going to be so irritable! But he’ll also be a bit proud, probably. Bilbo learned his lessons well, he knew when Nori stole versus when Lobelia did.
“Did he faint?” asked Bombur, leaning forward eagerly.
A wheezing little sound of glee came from under Bofur’s hat.
Bilbo paused, and then he sighed. “Yes.”
This is one of my favorite bits in this chapter. Conkers is a bit higher on the list, but this? Especially Bilbo’s little ‘nope’ and them all laughing again? I laugh every time I read it.
“An’ being Hobbit and all, it’d seem pretty special and out of the ordinary,” Bofur said, smoothing down his ruffled moustache. “Wonder if we could make a model Bag End?”
“Oh no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no! If I have an entire generation of Dwarves trooping through my house, I will hunt you down and sting the pair of you!” Bilbo said sternly.
Bombur closed his mouth with a snap, but Bofur looked entirely too innocent to be believed.
Bifur’s going to love his toy, but I wouldn’t trust Bofur’s innocent look. That’s probably the same look that he had when he told Dwalin that he wouldn’t make a Dwalin warrior toy.
“Traditional Hobbit weaponry,” Bilbo said, a gleam in his eye. “I in particular have some skill at it. If you must know.”
“No,” said Bofur in disbelief.
“Not…?” said Glóin.
“Conkers?” Thorin said, utterly incredulous.
Traditional hobbit weaponry at it’s finest. Although I always wondered why, in canon, Bilbo never told the dwarves how good at throwing and aiming hobbits are. They would’ve taught him to use a bow, probably, he might have taken to it faster than he took to the sword…again, I need to stop before I give myself more ideas.
Bilbo leaned back, sighing with satisfaction and slapping his knees. “And that’s the game to me!”
“Are all Hobbits so good at throwing and aiming at things?” Bofur said, staring dismally at his halved horse-chestnut. He hadn’t won a single round.
Bilbo shrugged. “Bit of a hobby, really.”
Poor Bofur, you’ll get better with practice. Gimrís seems pretty good at the game, maybe she’ll help you out.
Many of the other Dwarves sent curious glances over to the Hobbit and his odd little game, his bare face and furry feet. Thorin bristled at their interest and barely restrained himself from barking at them to show their Burglar the proper respect.
Thorin, your married is showing again.
“Dís, daughter of Frís, I make known to you Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He’s a Hobbit,” he added unnecessarily.
“I can see that, akhûnîth,” she said, her mithril-pure voice lilting with amusement, though her face barely moved. “Dís. At your service.”
Bilbo pulled himself upright and tried to look as dignified as a Hobbit can whilst holding a horse-chestnut painted bright yellow. “At yours and your family’s.”
Dís smiled at that, rather sadly. “You already have been.”
There was an awful silence, and then Bilbo burst out, “You look so much like him.”
She froze, and then she dropped her eyes.
This always kills me. If Thorin had lived, this meeting probably would have been a lot happier. As it is, Dís is meeting the little creature who left his comfortable home to help dwarves that he had never met before that night. It’d be worse if she knew how much Bilbo had loved Thorin, but I don’t think she knew that yet. But just…this whole bit right here is so sad and full of feels.
The young Dwarf shifted his weight between his feet for a moment, looking uncertain. Then he said, “Mister Baggins was showing us a Hobbit game, Aunt Dís.”
All heads turned to him, and he flushed as red as his hair, before ploughing on bravely. “It’s a mite tricky to get the hang of it, but I was starting to see how it was done. D’you want to try it?”
Bilbo can take notes from Gimli about how to change the subject, but Gimli needs to take notes from Bombur.
“Here,” said Glóin and handed Dís the red horse-chestnut, his hands gentle as he gave up his place. “Sit down, cousin. I’m going to see if I can find Bombur a chair.”
“Oh, don’t bother on my account!” Bombur protested, but tucked by his side, young Barís nodded vigorously. Bombur grunted and poked his daughter in the shoulder, and she wrinkled her nose.
“Your leg’s going to get all cramped sitting like that, Dad. Best to stretch it out.”
I love Barís. She’s not my favorite OC (that’s undoubtedly Orla), but she’s lovely, an amazing singer, apparently a good daughter and big sister, and she seems pretty witty too. There’s a lot to love about all of the OCs in this.
“Aunt Dís?” Gimli said softly, and she hesitated for a moment before sitting down beside her young cousin and patting his knee.
“Don’t fret about me, young one,” she said. “Time for your sister to watch her back.”
Where’s Nori when you need him? My money’s on Dís winning this round.
“Yes, well,” Bilbo sighed, straightening slightly and resting his head against his hand. “I should really trade in that ‘lucky number’ title of mine, shouldn’t I? I had all the luck in the world, but it wasn’t enough.”
“Never is,” Bofur said in a voice that was nearly a whisper.
“You won’t need luck, I swear it,” Thorin vowed fiercely. “Mahal be my witness! You won’t need luck. You’ve got me.”
Thorin is 100x better than luck, apparently, because with his help, things end up mostly okay for Bilbo.
lkjshgdlakhsdgfljadsghfaljh
All the love, floating across the seas from me to you
AHH MORE GLOIN AND BOMBUR LOVE, more appreciation for my two most unappreciated faves ❤ you give me wiiiiings!
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.
-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)
I had a whole lengthy and very personal sort of answer here and it’s just not even enough so I deleted it – even with all that context, even trying to say WHY it means so much, I still can’t put into words how much this affected me.
I am honestly and ridiculously happy. And just so grateful. SO GRATEFUL That’s just the best thing ever to hear, and thank you SO much. SO much.
Okay, first, FlukeofFate and a-sirens-lullaby did amazing art for this and it always reminds me of the cover art on certain books, fancy and giving you hints of what the book’s about but not spoiling anything. That really doesn’t have anything to do with the writing, but it’s amazing! Also, all of the art people have done for this? Amazing!
This is also probably a good time to admit that I read this before I had finished reading The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings books and before I’d watched all the movies. I knew that Thorin, Fili, and Kili died, it was impossible to avoid those spoilers on tumblr, but I’d put off starting this (despite how cool it sounded) because of that. I caved, however, and thus there were a few things that I read here before I was able to read them in the books (I think there were fifteen or twenty chapters of Sansukh by the time I finished reading both books).
Where was the Hobbit? Where was the frozen lake? Last he recalled, he had been bleeding to death at the edges of the silent battlefield. His madness had passed, but it had exacted too high a price. His family was spent and gone, his nephews cold and stiffened in death and rent with many wounds. Their soft-handed and great-hearted Burglar had forgiven him, even as he wept over Thorin’s broken body.
He did not deserve such forgiveness.
Poor Thorin, he’s got so much guilt and it takes him so long to work through it 😥 I really just want to wrap him up in a soft blanket and tell him that he’ll be okay.
Thorin opened his new, useless eyes and glared into the darkness. “Then why, may I ask, did you make me so flawed?”
Thorin yelling at his Maker is both heartbreaking and a bit funny. Heartbreaking, because everything that he says, he believes. He really thinks that Mahal made a mistake, that he was flawed, that he was the reason things had gone wrong and that nothing else contributed it. A bit funny, though, because Thorin is literally yelling at a supremely powerful being who can’t even touch Thorin without him feeling the amount of power Mahal holds. And Thorin literally doesn’t care, he’s speaking his mind and Mahal just lets him vent.
“I lived less well. And amends are not of use,” Thorin spat. “That is not the point of them!”
Thorin understands this better than 90% of people I interact with on a daily basis.
“Everyone, this way! Found him, finally, how many sepulchres are there in this place?”
“Mahal only knows. Actually, he probably does. We should ask.”
As soon as I read the summary for this story, I was honestly hoping that someone would make a ‘Mahal only knows’ ‘Well, then why don’t you ask him’ joke, and it happened in the first chapter!
“Best move out of the way,” Thrór muttered, and Thráin chuckled again.
“Aye, she won’t be patient much longer.”
“You mean she can be patient?”
“Don’t insult my wife, you old coot.”
There’s a lot of feels in this chapter, but it’s the funny bits like this that help me keep from breaking into tears so soon. I need to pace myself, after all, or there’ll be none left by the time I get to Dís and Dísith.
“By the way, Grandma is kind of terrifying,” Kíli said, and then he yelped as the lady Frís, daughter of Aís, Princess Under the Mountain and wife of Thráin, presumably pinched him.
“Behave, young one,” she said sternly, pulling back to stroke Thorin’s face again and thread her fingers through his close-cropped beard. “I’ll get to you two in a moment.”
“Terrifying,” said Fíli admiringly. “I kinda see where Mum gets it from, now.”
“Our grumpy little Dís as a mother,” said a young, laughing voice, a voice that rang like bells. “Let Middle-Earth tremble.”
Have I mentioned that I love Frís? Because I do, so much, and it’s things like this, as well as how compassionate she is, how organized she is, how loving…okay, there’s a lot to love about Frís. She’s one of my favorite Sansukh OCs.
“Shut up,” Thorin choked, and Frerin threw back his head and laughed his silver laugh and oh, Thorin had missed him, missed him so much.
“You shut up,” he said gently, and then Frerin was pulling his braid and abruptly Thorin was struck with a memory so vivid that he reeled with the strength of it, sent back to a hazy, golden time when he was five years old and the new baby kept chewing and tugging at his hair.
How every sibling reunion ever probably goes, minus the hair pulling. Or with more of it, depending on who the siblings are.
“I’m dreaming, yes?” he asked of no-one in particular. “Thorin doesn’t tease. He got brought back wrong. Mahal made a mistake.”
“Oh, you think you two were bad?” said Thrór archly. “These two had you beaten.”
“Why do you think he already knew most of your tricks?” added Frerin. “We thought up that stuff a century before you two.”
“It was always your idea,” Thorin muttered.
“And you always led the way,” Frerin said, and nudged him. “Such a dutiful Prince!”
Kíli wailed aloud, and Thorin could just picture the look of betrayal on his face. “Everything I knew is wrong,” he moaned.
Thorin smiled through his tears and Fíli chuffed a laugh. “Poor Kíli. He’s pulling at his hair again.”
“Tell him to stop. He doesn’t have hair enough to spare,” Thorin said, and Kíli’s outraged yelp made him smile all the harder.
Poor Kíli, he doesn’t know half of the things Thorin and Frerin got up to before he was even thought of. His pranking title is in serious jeopardy in light of this new information.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” said Fíli into his ear. “Why didn’t you or Mum ever tell me I looked like your mother and brother? I always thought I was the odd one out!”
“In this family?” Frís snorted. “When it comes to odd, we are rather spoiled for choice.”
I’ve said something similar to this so often in real life, that I actually laughed when I read this bit for the first time. My dog looked at me funny, apparently I’d woken her up from her nap.
“You weren’t so nice to us,” accused Fíli. “Mobbed us, you did! I thought we were under attack at first! I punched my own father on the nose!”
That surprised a true laugh out of Thorin, thought it hurt his chest. “You hit Víli?” he said.
“He did. And I stamped on Grandfather’s foot,” said Kíli.
Thráin cleared his throat. “And bit my hand,” he added sternly.
“Well, you try being blind as a bat and naked as a mole and having your dead grandfather commenting on your lack of beard, see how you like it,” Kíli grumbled.
Poor Víli, that’s probably not how he expected his reunion with his sons to go.
“Oh, it’s Thrór all over again, someone stop him,” groaned Frís. “We’re going to drown in the combined guilt of the Line of Durin before we ever lay a stone of Arda Remade.”
If all of the Durins are like Thorin, then Frís is probably right about that.
I’M SPEECHLESS AND ALSO DEAD
*clings to @beargirl1393 like a maddened koala* ;zfdgh;askhdgfaljshdfglsajhdfgksjhfdgskjhsdfhglsajdhfga
Aw Yiss 