Tag: hrera

I know this is a dark question but… Who had the most traumatic arrival to the halls? Hrera or Fris? Thror or Thrain? Fili or Kili? Or even Thorin or Dain? I know this is such a dark question to ask but I’m curious!

ohgod, um. I do have an answer to this, but yeah. It is dark.

This will be expounded upon in the fic itself to some degree later on, but if you want to be spoiled it’s under the cut. And it’s not very nice, sorry.

It was Thrain. Easily.

For most Dwarves who awake in the Halls, they have a moment or two of adjustment, of taking-stock. We see that in close detail in both chapter one of Sansukh, and in Endurance. In both cases, Thorin and later Dain have a period of grace in which they process what is around them before they return to their more recent memories. I rationalise this as Mahal trying to ease them into their new circumstances as best he can.

There’s also the circumstances in which each Dwarf died. Hrera and Fris were TERRIFIED, but they knew their end was upon them the minute Smaug trapped them and cut off their escape. Thorin had basically accepted his death as inevitable, as had Dain. Fili died trying to protect his brother, Kili died trying to avenge his: I can’t see either of them being conflicted about those choices. 

Thror would feel guilty about his death, of course (as does Balin). Khazad-dum ever tempts their pride, and they were so foolish, so blind… but it is done now. Many of Balins’ Dwarves who tried to retake Moria were still caught up in their last fight, actually, but they soon settle. The calm stasis of the Halls is in fact there for a reason: it actually helps them heal.

(Oin had a fairly stupendously horrific entry into the Halls, actually. He still has sweating-nightmares of the flash of teeth, the stink of something wet and rotten, the snap of his own bones…)

But Thrain, though. Thrain was tortured by SAURON for nine years. Sauron the Deceiver, the Lord of Nightmares, the master of phantoms, the Shadow himself. Remember, “his dominion was torment.”

Thrain had no idea of knowing what was real, and what was not. Thrain had been living in induced hallucinations, over and over and over, insensate at times, violent at others, drifting in and out of the horror-scape Sauron created to try and coax his secrets out of him. He has seen his family a million times, only to discover that they are nothing but cruel visions, a taunt, a torture. Thrain does not trust safety. He does not trust his own Maker.

So, when Thrain arrives in the Halls, to him it is another hallucination. Mahal’s presence is a lie, a profane and obscene lie! To him, it is only Sauron once again wearing the guise and voice of Thrain’s own Maker, because there is nothing he holds sacred, nothing of his that Sauron cannot strip from him.

His family is a taunt, an insult. He does not believe it. He cannot believe it. He attacks them, and then retreats into corners, and cries and cries. 

He stares at anything but his family. He will not answer when they speak to him. He shivers, because he is always cold. He was never warm, never. He lashes out and then he scurries back to cram himself into his corner again, trying make himself as small as possible, eyes white and wide and wild.

It takes an entire week for them to coax him out of the sepulchre-room he wakes in. 

Fris stays with him constantly for the first few years. The first months utterly break her heart, and she weeps bitterly in private when he cannot see. Thrain will not look at her or answer her, he will not take anything from her hand. 

But Fris is a Dwarf and she perseveres. His parents spend time sitting with him too. One day, he lets Hrera comb his hair. It feels like a bigger victory than anything else has ever been.

Slowly, fearfully, he begins to believe. Fris sing to him, all her old bawdy and silly songs, and she nearly breaks down when he begins to mumble along. He spends time with Mahal, grounding himself in that presence and that love. The slow, stable, cool healing of the Halls works its magic on him, over time. He devotes himself to caring after his family; his children, his beautiful Fris, his parents, his cousins. He starts crafting difficult, meticulous pieces in order to keep his focus on the here-and-now. 

He still lapses at times.

He has to leave the pool of Gimlin-zaram if he is triggered, because his PTSD and panic attacks are just so extreme. He can hyperventilate or cry silently, he can turn violent, or dissociate to the point of complete nonverbal shutdown.

Those are not good days. Those are the Bad Days. 

And THAT is why Custard is Thrain’s service animal. 

Ais the lady-who-organizes and who puts her grandkids in little theater shows because kids are always needed for parts. Serious kid Thorin being a tiny shrub. Toddler Frerin being the sun. Baby Dis being a baby. Thror being all heart eyes. Hrera thinks its great because it helps the kids get used to being in front of people. Fris and Thrain are so pround. It’s so cute.

*curses my inability to draw from now into the Fourth Age*

THORIN THE SHRUB 

FRERIN AS THE TELLYTUBBIES SUN

DIS MAKING HER DEBUT AT FOUR MONTHS AHAHAHAHA

Having so many feels about Thorin reconnecting with his fam. You’ve already fixed about him and Frerin reconnecting. But also … Thorin and Fris playing together. Thorin and Thrain making things. Thorin going to dinner with his dad’s parents one night and his mum’s the next. Just Thorin slooooowly getting reacquainted with his family and acknowledging that he is cared for, he is loved, no matter how flawed and broken he is. <3

Yeah, I went pretty all-in with Thorin and Frerin rebuilding their relationship in Twelve Months and Fifty Years, I guess! It’s easier to trace that progression, as it is brought into very sharp focus in that fic.

Still, peppered throughout the whole of the Behemoth itself are moments in which Thorin reconnects with Thrain and with Fris. It’s not fast, and it’s not always nice, but it certainly happens! 

You got me thinking about this progression again, Nonnie! I’ve had my thinking cap on all day, ever since I got your message. I can remember baking my brain about this very topic when I first began the story a gigazillion years ago. I quite deliberately set Thorin’s family relationships as a foil to the more dramatic events of the quest and the much more fiery development of the Gigolas (and the eventual Bagginshield) relationships in the fic. Thorin’s relationship with his family isn’t like that. It’s not dramatic: it’s steady. It’s slow, and quiet and everyday and mundane and ever-present. Fris and Thrain’s support (and Hrera’s and Thror’s, for that matter) is there from the start, of course, but the knowledge of each other, and the trust and the depth and the love, is so powerful now. What we see in that first scene in Chapter 1 is the first rush. It just grows and grows and grows.

It’s Fris waking Thorin because she knows it is important to him (tools do not belong in sleeping quarters inudoy, and oh, when did you grow so tall), and it’s Thrain listening to him speak about Bilbo (so that was the one, then?), not judging or commenting, just accepting. It’s Thrain suggesting and then insisting that Thorin bring the rest of their people on board to watch the Fellowship (we’re here, use us!), and it’s Fris braiding Thorin’s hair, while telling to stop blaming himself for things he could not possibly be at fault for (Gandalf was the one to recruit Bilbo Baggins, not you!).

It’s Hrera’s dumpling soup, and her comforting brand of loving bossiness in the middle of the night, telling him stories of her own youth. It’s Thror giving Thorin his own work-room as a meeting-place, giving up his own space for Thorin’s needs. It’s Vili joking with Thorin about which of the boys is a better swimmer, and which is a better climber. It’s all those breakfast scenes in the Halls, all of them existing together and sharing food and time and gentle teasing. 

Where we’ve currently paused, at Chapter 39, Thorin has actually learned to lean on them. A LOT. He relies on his mother enormously, she is basically handling all the information for him. Thorin returns time and again to Thrain’s calm acceptance. There’s a reason why Thorin went to Thrain as well as Thror when he wanted to talk about the dragon-sickness. It’s no mistake that Frerin stays in Thrain’s rooms to decompress and recover, after he reached his melting-point at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. There’s a reason why Thorin trusts Thror to keep an eye on Erebor while he stays with the Fellowship and with Gimli. There’s a reason why Hrera keeps watch over the pool in the Chamber, seated in a chair with a rug over her knees, ready to pass on any messages. 

Thorin has now actually reached the point where he can give it back. He’s SO secure in their love now, and he can comfortably show his own in return. It’s taken him a long time to feel that way: he’s been generally pretty awful to himself, on the whole. But now he can see that he is loved, and that he is worthy of that love, and so he is becoming better at expressing his own care. He gently needles Fris when she is overworking (a trait they have in common) and he is constantly aware and watching for anything that may trigger Thrain, ready to leap into action. 

Like I said, it’s not a dramatic relationship arc. None of the relationships in the Halls are – that’s quite deliberate! Not only are they contending with the enormous inertia of the Halls, but also against Thorin’s own guilt and anger and self-recrimination… not to mention their own painful issues (looking at you, Thror). Dwarves are stubborn as heck, after all. But it’s there. It’s quiet and subtle, but believe me, it’s there!

(and yeah – I’ve spoken before a bit about Fris’ folks, Ais and Folgar, and they’re around! But as they’re not the focus of the Behemoth and Ricky might actually kill me if I extend the character list any more I might have to one day write a little side-fic detailing their exploits in reconnecting with Frerin, and later Thorin!)

Loss That Burns – applepieisworthit – The Hobbit – All Media Types, The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (Jackson movies) [Archive of Our Own]

flamesburnonthemountainside:

I wrote a sad thing… (very) short modern au of a house fire inspired by Thorin’s line "You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us" in DoS

determamfidd for you! I borrowed Frís and Hrera for this story 😀 and for liketotessecret who has written many sad things, so in retaliation, here you go!

Also tagging docmanda justatouchofgoldsickness renioferebor and dragonmad and the rest of the Sansukh cast.

AUGH OH MY GOD MY HEART OHHHH DISSSSS

BATTLEPIG YOU ARE MORE EVIL THAN I COULD EVER HOPE TO BE

TEACH ME YOUR WAYS

Loss That Burns – applepieisworthit – The Hobbit – All Media Types, The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (Jackson movies) [Archive of Our Own]

Now I’m having a bunch of feels about Dis in the Halls. Chasing her boys around. Teasing Thorin and Dain. Building Frerin up. Spending time with her parents and grandparents. So much Dis/Vili love.

zksdgfjlsdhgjfalsgfaljshdgfsakjhfdajsh AUGH DIS FEELS AUGH OH NONNIE YEOUCH

It’d take some time, I think, for her to get to the stage of teasing and chasing again. My version of old!Dis is not cheery and brisk and sassy, after all… she is grim and hurt and hard hard hard, turned very nearly to ice by everything she has lost. Song of Steel, her Dark-name means. It suits her.

I think she would need to learn to smile again, to laugh and tease freely without bitterness. She has been alone so long, and that doesn’t just evaporate… She should never be left alone, not ever.

Her boys staying close, their heads resting on her knees or lying on the floor as they read or play a game or talk… her brothers always flanking her as they show her the Halls together… Hrera working beside her at her jewellery-table, Thror bringing her meals… Dain plopping a sweet and sleepy piglet into her lap… Thrain kissing her brow and never letting go of her hand, Fris always humming so that Dis can hear her, stroking back her hair…

Vili, holding her tight at night, so that she never wakes and thinks herself back in her huge and cold bed in Erebor, so very alone, always alone.

kailthia:

rococo-girls-shrine:

Although he is now less well-known than Lalique, Vever and Fouquet, Lucien Gaillard was one of the greatest jewellery designers of his time. This relative oblivion can be explained by the fact that his original production that was briefer and less spectacular than that of his more famous fellow craftsmen.

This comb illustrates the artist’s pronounced taste for humble plant species. In his work there are no human figures, or combinations of motifs taken from flora and fauna. Nor are women’s faces and bodies entwined with vegetable arabesques. A single motif is sufficient for each piece of jewellery.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cult-of-Aphrodite-Vintage/223418931020816

Like vintage & history? Follow me!)

determamfidd, this is some serious Hrera jewelry. 

So. How bad is it that I am REALLY looking forward to Dis dying and being reunited with all of her loved ones and seeing her parents and her brothers and her sons and VILI (oh god, Vili, you heartbreaking sod, you, visiting her EVERY DAY) and just being able to let go of all of the emotions she’s held in for so long and – oh god. I just want her to be able to be happy. But also dead. And maybe making fun of Thorin because what else are younger sisters for?

Oooh, Nonnie.

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her parents. Thrain running his thumb gently across her face, across her cheekbone and stroking the side of her beard. Don’t imagine him smiling at her with trembling lips, telling her that he is so proud, nathith, so proud. Don’t imagine Fris wrapping her arms around her last child and holding her to her heart; don’t imagine Thrain tugging them both close and tight, cocooning them with his body, pressing whiskery kisses to his daughter’s temple. Don’t imagine the words they would say. Don’t imagine the tearing sound of Dis’ sobs.

Don’t imagine her grandfather kissing both her cheeks and her forehead, and then gathering her close. “Sparrow, our little sparrow,” he would murmur, and she would remember what it cost to lose him, what it cost all of them. Her grandmother’s clever hands stroking Dis’ hair, her soothing, no-nonsense voice, calling her “Dis, darling,” as she did, so so long ago. They have the same hands.

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her (little) big brother. It has been centuries, she can’t even remember him clearly, but at the smell of his hair and the sound of his voice, it comes rushing back, so fast and powerful it is nearly a physical blow. His weight against her is so small, so slight. 

Whatever you do, don’t imagine her reunion with her sons, her madcap bright-eyed darlings. Don’t imagine her crying into their hair. Don’t even entertain the idea that she cannot stop kissing them even for a moment, her grasping hands frantic, her eyes half-blinded by her tears, gripping their clothes so tightly that her arms shake. I’d advise against dwelling on the whiteness of her knuckles, the tenderness in her kisses, how her head bows and her shoulders shudder at the sound of those voices calling her ‘Amad’ again, at long last: Amad, Amad, we missed you Amad.

Whatever you do, don’t think of her pressing her forehead against Dain’s, her cousin, her borrowed-brother, and cursing him for leaving her as well as he throws his arms around her and rocks her back and forth. The last one, she was the last one. Don’t think of Dain gently prying free and wiping her eyes (hopeless, a hopeless task) before turning her around to face the one standing behind her. Don’t picture him giving Dis a little push towards her eldest brother. 

You definitely shouldn’t visualise the look in her eye as she stares at Thorin, stricken. It’s not a good idea to imagine the harsh rasp of her breathing as she curses him and curses him, twice as hard as she ever did Dain, all the while stumbling over to him and throwing herself at him with outstretched arms. Don’t imagine how she clings to him as though he is a tree against a storm, how she buries her head against his shoulder and cries and cries, her whole body wracked with it, and he too smells just the same.

And the last thing you should ever do is imagine her greeting her husband. 

No, you shouldn’t do that at all.