beargirl1393:

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.

I laughed so hard at this bit.

OH MY GOSHSHSKASGLAJHS