Title: Aknâs’abban
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Length: 300
Content notes: N/A
Author notes: Thanks go to Zana & Morgynleri for encouragement & sanity-checking. Title means ‘sensitivity [to] stones’ or ‘Stone-sense’. “Hurley” is what we called <a href=“https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cornish_hurling”>Cornish Hurling</a> when played at the Northern California Renn Faire. I think Dwarves would be all over that game.
Summary: Fíli sees things not everyone does
Tag: hobbit
It was hard to be Thorin’s younger brother. Certainly, Frerin loved him. That was part of the problem – everyone loved
Thorin. He was serious,
responsible. He studied hard in his
classes, his weapon training, and the special classes his had to learn how to
be a king one day. He listened to
everyone and was kind and gentle. He was
so perfect that it hurt.And Frerin was just the extra son. He wasn’t as interested in books or weapons,
and he didn’t need to know all of the diplomacy. He was a pretty good artist, but that didn’t
mean much. And he didn’t have his
brother’s patience. He heard mutters
from his parents and the servants whenever he was doing something he probably
shouldn’t be doing – which Thorin never did.But Frerin couldn’t be angry at Thorin. His brother played with him and read to
him. He wanted to see Frerin’s drawings,
and praised them fairly. Frerin’s
childish drawings were hung around Thorin’s room in prominent places that
masterpieces were usually. And he knew
that there was a small picture that Thorin had in a locket that he carried
around with him.Thorin was Frerin’s favorite person, but he wished he could
be less perfect.
The queen of Erebor died bringing forth a son, and Thrór died with her. He could feel his heart break inside of him, and he wanted to lay down and never rise again. His kingdom would continue without him, after all. He didn’t do anything that couldn’t be done just as well by someone else.
But Thráin needed him. Thráin, the last part of his mother to exist on the earth. And Thrór turned everything in him – every broken shard of his heart – to raising his son, even if he couldn’t quite show the love that he knew he should.
Thráin grew and learned, and Thrór was satisfied with his son’s progress. He was able to pass some of the responsibility on and turn to remembering his beloved. Her eyes had shone bright, like diamonds nestled in coal. Her hair had been veins of silver and gold. She had wielded sledgehammers for brute force and tiny delicate tweezers. Her soul had been a jewel beyond price.
When the Arkenstone was presented to him, his mind fired with the mad thought that it was her – it was his queen coming back to him. And his thoughts turned to the diamonds and silver and gold that could complete her return.
The diamonds and gold that were his – his – and no one else would have any piece of it.
Balin’s back was stiff from bending over to write, but paper was expensive and precious, so he wrote as small as he could. He leaned back, pressing a hand to the small of his back and closed his eyes. They weren’t as young as they used to be, and the amount of small writing he had to do made him see stars sometimes.
Thorin had asked him to write a contract for someone not a Dwarf. Balin knew very little about what the grey wizard had said to his King and cousin, but it had started him on a road they had all thought closed many years ago. Balin didn’t have to know his brother to know he would be on this quest, and he thought he knew others well enough to know who might come.
But an outsider. Taken on the word of a wizard or not, an outsider could be trouble. He wouldn’t know how Dwarves did things, and might have to be brought in on secrets. He might become heir to much Dwarf wealth. Or he could die along the road – as could they all.
Balin thought he had thought of every eventuality. He opened his eyes to look at the contract and bent his mind away from the dire possibilities he had been forced to consider. There was still a chance that Thorin would listen to reason and call it off.
Bofur was more laughter than sense. It was a well earned reputation that he held for years. Everyone knew if you stood him a pint he’d sing or play his flute or pass on all the bawdy rumors. He was easy to talk to, easy to be friends with, easy to tumble.
His family despaired of him. Bombur begged him to settle down, Bifur shook his head. But they couldn’t be mad at him and never thought of cutting him off. He was their Bofur, and even if he lacked sense they loved him.
It was only natural that the promise of free drink would have him having off on a crazy suicide quest. His brother and cousin grumbled, but they followed to keep him safe. They hoped that when it was over he would finally calm down.
That didn’t happen, though he was serious enough about ensuring the mines were safe. Still, every evening saw him singing and drink, head thrown back in laughter at what the returning Dwarves told him.
When some of his new drinking buddies were escorted out of Erebor in chains, it made Bombur shake his head. Trust Bofur to make friends with the worst sort without realizing it! It was only lucky that Nori’s spy network was as good as it was.
And if Bofur decided not to tell his brother who the spymaster really was, well, that was his own choice.
The wealthier but less noble were often in a tight spot, Dáin found over the years. The Iron Hills were a good home for Dwarves. They had built a good life there, a life of plenty and lived on their own terms. It was not a life of gold and grand things, but industry was what Dwarves were made for, and there was plenty for all in the Iron Hills. He grew up with tales of Khazad-dûm before Durin’s Bane and Erebor before the dragon, but he looked around the halls and forges of the Iron Hills and it was always enough for him.
But it was never enough for his cousins. He understood that nothing could replace their home – they could never replace their memories and childhoods. And he did his best – always! – to ease the poverty they found on the road. But Erebor’s folk were Durin’s direct line. So when Thrór called to take back Khazad-dûm, many answered, fire in their hearts. And in fire they finished their journey, because few returned home again.
When Thorin settled in the Blue Mountains, Dáin thought that was the end of it, and he was glad. He traded with them all he could, providing money and iron enough for them to build their homes and create a new place for themselves. And he was content in his small halls, raising boars and smelting iron and steel.
And then Thorin came, as his grandfather had, expecting Dáin to provide men and money to take back a home of legend. As if he hadn’t lost his father and enough of his people to the first failed attempt. As if Thrór and Fundin and so many beyond counting of Erebor’s own still lived. As if it was his duty.
Dáin said no. He wasn’t sure if Thorin would ever forgive him.
AU where Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli die. How do I come up with these things?
Some of the Men and Elves had instruments with them, but it seemed wrong to use them in the praise of Dwarf heroism. Dwalin scoured the mountain on his own, missing the funerals, to find something right.
It meant he missed his final look at them – they were stone when he found a viol with a bow that had made it through the century and more of dragon. It didn’t really matter. Stone was as responsive as dead flesh, after all.
He settled himself against Thorin’s bier and leaned his head back against it. His eyes were on fire with unshed tears, but they just wouldn’t fall. To fall would mean they were really gone, and some part of him felt that if he could just hold the tears back that it would keep them with him. That they would wake, if only he kept strong and didn’t mourn.
He set bow to string. The tears that wouldn’t fall came out in his music, and he bid them farewell.
Doing some catch up for Khazad November.
Kíli bit his lip and kicked his feet as he carefully drew the letters at the bottom of his picture. He put his pen down and looked at it closely, noting the smudges and how shaky his lines seemed. "Do you think he’ll like it?“ he asked aloud anxiously.
There was a snort from the other side of the room and Kíli turned, mouth set in anger. "I know he’s my uncle! That doesn’t mean that he’ll like it, just that he’ll say he does!”
Fuzzy opened his eyes and rose, stretching and yawning while Kíli continued to glare. It was only when he padded across the room that the boy’s lip started to shake in worry as the Warg cocked his head and took a long look at the drawing. After a moment he snorted again and Kíli’s smile blazed forth.
“You really think so?”
Fuzzy settled himself at the boy’s side and licked his face. Kíli giggled and snuggled into the Warg’s side contentedly.
Nori, 8 for the asks :)
Nori was a baby in Erebor and he had imaginary friends like
many children did. They would tell him
stories and warn him of danger. They
couldn’t give him hugs and kisses or help him when he tried walking, but he
liked them anyway.He stopped talking about them after the dragon came. His family assumed that he had outgrown
them. He did as well, as he wandered the
length and breadth of the continent.
They stayed in temporary shacks or tents at the edge of towns of
Men. He grew windblown and sunburnt and
hardly remembered the imaginary friends of his youth as he started to slip his
hand into the pockets of those who didn’t notice.He didn’t notice at first.
They reached the Blue Mountains and were allowed to open up the ruins of
an old Dwarf town for use. It was in
poor condition, the mines all but tapped out.
Nori’s family claimed a broken home and worked together to make it whole
again. Nori stole some of the things they
needed, because the nearby Men charged far more than was fair for them. Occasionally, someone would be lookout for
him without asking a share of the profit.
And once or twice he thought he saw someone make a turn in the market
before the road turned.It was only when someone walked right through his lookout
that he realized he was seeing things that weren’t there. He had a lot of time to think as he hid on
the ceiling beams, and he remembered his childhood imaginary friends. It seemed strange that they would come back
now that he was grown.Suddenly there was a figure on the beam with
him. It was the first time he had seen
one so close and been paying attention, and he saw the bruises of strangler’s
fingers on the other Dwarf’s throat. The
Dwarf smiled at him and began to whisper stories of ancient kingdoms.
Compared to Dwarves, Men had short lives. Many Dwarves didn’t realize this at all, and even most of those who understood had learned it as adults. Dís, refugee princess of Erebor, knew many things that children often did not.
As they travelled, they relied on cities and villages of Men for their livelihood. A child who was a playmate one year might be married the next time they passed through. A youth who wanted to learn their methods would be considered an expert when they met him again. A midwife who helped keep Dwarf women alive died before they saw her again.
The worst was watching the leaders of Men. Dwarves and Elves they could easily gain the measure of – one they were known, they were known. But Men were so spread out! They seemed to be everywhere, and each town had at least one leader – some might have a mayor and a land owner who had the same amount of power; and if there was also a religious leader or a sheriff…. Every one needed to be appeased, often in different ways and with differing amounts of success. And they were different in each home of Men and often different each time they passed through.
Dís had diplomatic skills that were he envy of Dwarves twice her age. She was able to smile kindly and say all of the right things while calculating what they could get away with. She became her brother’s right hand when they settled in the Blue Mountains, all the more because Dwarves underestimated her.
But even though their aging mad her angry and sad by turns, she still played with every baby who could get a hand on her beard.
There's a Mirror on the Wall 