Fic: Timshel (4/5)
Feb. 2nd, 2013 11:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grav_ityMeta and Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Brace yourselves, my darlings!
Chapter Four
The Great Hall is in ruins, the carvings on the walls shattered and the decorations long ago torn down by sharp claws. But the pillars are sound, the roof secure, and it is the only room within the mountain that is big enough to suit this purpose. Once, the Great Hall was for feasts and celebrations. Now it shall see a funeral.
Dwarves and Elves and Men stand next to one another, not quite comrades, not yet, but with greater understanding of one another than in the days before. Three stone beds stand below the table where Thror once feasted, Thorin ahead so that Fíli and Kíli might lie next to one another, and Dain stands by his kinsman’s head. Gandalf, Beorn, and the Halfling stand to the side, and around and behind them stand the warriors of Elves and Men who won the most renown in the fight Men already call the Battle of the Five Armies. There stands Bard, slayer of the dragon, and there also Tauriel and Legolas, and the Elvenking himself.
The remnants of Thorin’s company stand in front of the biers of their princes and king. Nori leans upon a crutch and Bifur’s eyes are glazed, but they will live and prosper in the kingdom they’ve reclaimed, should they choose to.
Dís is the last to enter the hall, and a hush falls over it when she does. Glóin releases his wife’s hand, and kisses the top of Gimli’s head, though his son is too old and almost too tall for such a display. He goes to stand beside his brother, and the others muster themselves into two line to flank Dís’s walk to where her sons and brother lie.
The Great Hall should echo, should ring with sound when it is so full. But there is nothing, save the breathing of the assembled host and Dís’s footsteps upon the scratched and much-marred floor. She passes the dwarves of her brother’s company, and does not see them, their faces set in stone or marred by stoic tears. Outside her kin, she does not know them well, has not yet learned that they loved her sons and followed her brother through fire and water because they chose to see him as a king when he had nothing to be king of.
When she reaches them, she cannot keep her hands still. They have been prepared with utmost care, but she has not seen them, has not touched them one last time. She straightens the braids that frame Fíli’s mouth, and smooths non-existent stands of hair behind his ears. They have not braided Kíli’s hair. He will go to Mahal as unkempt as ever, but she twists the lock that falls across his forehead.
They are, both of them, so cold.
At last she stands at Thorin’s feet, the weight of the Mountain above her head. The Arkenstone gleams upon his breast, and an unfamiliar elven blade rests at his side. His clothes are new, funeral-made, but his boots are stained and worn. They bore him this far, and will take him no further.
Behind her, one of dwarves begins to hum. It’s a cracked sound that wavers on the edge of tunelessness, before it hardens into a familiar buzz. The others pick it up, but do not add the words. Without looking, she knows that they are leaving it to her. She brings her hands to her face, to the beaded necklace that frames her beard, and winds her fingers into it.
Far over the misty mountains cold
Through dungeons deep and caverns old
The tearing sound is muffled by the voices behind her, but the pain roars in her ears. She pulls harder, chunks of her beard coming out as she tears the necklace from where it hangs in the hair that lines her jaw and chin.
We must away
Ere break of day
She cannot finish the song, she feels she will never sing again, and places the necklace between her brother’s feet. She feels the flood coming, and builds stone walls around her heart to prevent it. Not here. Not where so many will see.
The dwarves move forward, ten survivors plus Gimli and another cousin from the Iron Hills. Dwalin is supposed to stand at Thorin’s head, to carry him below, but he stops at Dís’s shoulder, as though he can go no further. Dain meets his eye and nods, understanding that Dwalin’s loyalty is to the living, and then moves to take his place. When Kíli passes them, Dwalin’s hand begins to reach out on its own accord, but he pulls it back before anyone besides Dís has time to notice.
At last, the Great Hall is emptied of the dead and whispers of those who remain grow gradually louder. Dís doesn’t move, they will say after that she turned to stone as they watched, but when Glóin’s wife comes forward to take her hand and draw her away from the crowd, she goes, and Dwalin follows.
++
“You’ve your own who’ll want to see you.” Dís can hear the murmured voices in the corridor outside her quarters.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” is the reply.
“She won’t be.” And then a pause, and Dís knows that an understanding has been reached.
It’s Dwalin who comes back in. He stands on the threshold, uncertain as always of his welcome. He has new scars, some quite recent and some less so. It makes sense that he should. It has been a long count of years since she has seen him.
“You can put your coat on the chair,” she says. There is only the chair and the bed. The dragon has ruined so much of her old home, and she is lucky to have a space of her own in these new days.
He moves slowly, laying aside coat, hammer, axes, armour, and lining up his heavy boots in front of the hearth. At last he is clad only in his tunic and hose, and he comes to sit beside her on the new mattress.
“I do not think I will stay,” he says, at length. “In the Mountain, I mean.”
“We have halls still in the Blue Mountains,” she reminds him. “You have always had a place there, though you have never seen it.”
“Thorin spoke of them, when we met in the Wild,” Dwalin says. “And Kíli…”
“Kíli had a room he insisted was yours,” Dís says. “They kept their toys in it after they outgrew them. It’s still there.”
Silence falls between them, sad and yet not overwhelming. Already they plan for the future and do not let themselves be crushed by the weight of the past. Dís leans on his shoulder, and his arm comes around her back.
“Will you stay?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “There is no place for me here, save in mourning. My work is in Ered Luin.”
“I will follow you there, if I may,” he says.
“Yes,” she says. “Always.”
++
Chapter Five
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Brace yourselves, my darlings!
Chapter Four
The Great Hall is in ruins, the carvings on the walls shattered and the decorations long ago torn down by sharp claws. But the pillars are sound, the roof secure, and it is the only room within the mountain that is big enough to suit this purpose. Once, the Great Hall was for feasts and celebrations. Now it shall see a funeral.
Dwarves and Elves and Men stand next to one another, not quite comrades, not yet, but with greater understanding of one another than in the days before. Three stone beds stand below the table where Thror once feasted, Thorin ahead so that Fíli and Kíli might lie next to one another, and Dain stands by his kinsman’s head. Gandalf, Beorn, and the Halfling stand to the side, and around and behind them stand the warriors of Elves and Men who won the most renown in the fight Men already call the Battle of the Five Armies. There stands Bard, slayer of the dragon, and there also Tauriel and Legolas, and the Elvenking himself.
The remnants of Thorin’s company stand in front of the biers of their princes and king. Nori leans upon a crutch and Bifur’s eyes are glazed, but they will live and prosper in the kingdom they’ve reclaimed, should they choose to.
Dís is the last to enter the hall, and a hush falls over it when she does. Glóin releases his wife’s hand, and kisses the top of Gimli’s head, though his son is too old and almost too tall for such a display. He goes to stand beside his brother, and the others muster themselves into two line to flank Dís’s walk to where her sons and brother lie.
The Great Hall should echo, should ring with sound when it is so full. But there is nothing, save the breathing of the assembled host and Dís’s footsteps upon the scratched and much-marred floor. She passes the dwarves of her brother’s company, and does not see them, their faces set in stone or marred by stoic tears. Outside her kin, she does not know them well, has not yet learned that they loved her sons and followed her brother through fire and water because they chose to see him as a king when he had nothing to be king of.
When she reaches them, she cannot keep her hands still. They have been prepared with utmost care, but she has not seen them, has not touched them one last time. She straightens the braids that frame Fíli’s mouth, and smooths non-existent stands of hair behind his ears. They have not braided Kíli’s hair. He will go to Mahal as unkempt as ever, but she twists the lock that falls across his forehead.
They are, both of them, so cold.
At last she stands at Thorin’s feet, the weight of the Mountain above her head. The Arkenstone gleams upon his breast, and an unfamiliar elven blade rests at his side. His clothes are new, funeral-made, but his boots are stained and worn. They bore him this far, and will take him no further.
Behind her, one of dwarves begins to hum. It’s a cracked sound that wavers on the edge of tunelessness, before it hardens into a familiar buzz. The others pick it up, but do not add the words. Without looking, she knows that they are leaving it to her. She brings her hands to her face, to the beaded necklace that frames her beard, and winds her fingers into it.
Far over the misty mountains cold
Through dungeons deep and caverns old
The tearing sound is muffled by the voices behind her, but the pain roars in her ears. She pulls harder, chunks of her beard coming out as she tears the necklace from where it hangs in the hair that lines her jaw and chin.
We must away
Ere break of day
She cannot finish the song, she feels she will never sing again, and places the necklace between her brother’s feet. She feels the flood coming, and builds stone walls around her heart to prevent it. Not here. Not where so many will see.
The dwarves move forward, ten survivors plus Gimli and another cousin from the Iron Hills. Dwalin is supposed to stand at Thorin’s head, to carry him below, but he stops at Dís’s shoulder, as though he can go no further. Dain meets his eye and nods, understanding that Dwalin’s loyalty is to the living, and then moves to take his place. When Kíli passes them, Dwalin’s hand begins to reach out on its own accord, but he pulls it back before anyone besides Dís has time to notice.
At last, the Great Hall is emptied of the dead and whispers of those who remain grow gradually louder. Dís doesn’t move, they will say after that she turned to stone as they watched, but when Glóin’s wife comes forward to take her hand and draw her away from the crowd, she goes, and Dwalin follows.
++
“You’ve your own who’ll want to see you.” Dís can hear the murmured voices in the corridor outside her quarters.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” is the reply.
“She won’t be.” And then a pause, and Dís knows that an understanding has been reached.
It’s Dwalin who comes back in. He stands on the threshold, uncertain as always of his welcome. He has new scars, some quite recent and some less so. It makes sense that he should. It has been a long count of years since she has seen him.
“You can put your coat on the chair,” she says. There is only the chair and the bed. The dragon has ruined so much of her old home, and she is lucky to have a space of her own in these new days.
He moves slowly, laying aside coat, hammer, axes, armour, and lining up his heavy boots in front of the hearth. At last he is clad only in his tunic and hose, and he comes to sit beside her on the new mattress.
“I do not think I will stay,” he says, at length. “In the Mountain, I mean.”
“We have halls still in the Blue Mountains,” she reminds him. “You have always had a place there, though you have never seen it.”
“Thorin spoke of them, when we met in the Wild,” Dwalin says. “And Kíli…”
“Kíli had a room he insisted was yours,” Dís says. “They kept their toys in it after they outgrew them. It’s still there.”
Silence falls between them, sad and yet not overwhelming. Already they plan for the future and do not let themselves be crushed by the weight of the past. Dís leans on his shoulder, and his arm comes around her back.
“Will you stay?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “There is no place for me here, save in mourning. My work is in Ered Luin.”
“I will follow you there, if I may,” he says.
“Yes,” she says. “Always.”
++
Chapter Five
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-02-02 04:58 pm (UTC)Drowned in my tears.
This is the only thing I have so you're getting it again.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-02 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:13 pm (UTC)The reviewers on AO3 have been all "OMG, IF PJ DOES THIS I WILL DIE!" and I'm all "Yeah, that's kind of where I was when I wrote it..."
no subject
Date: 2013-02-02 07:01 pm (UTC)You really owe everyone some serious fluff.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:13 pm (UTC)Sort of.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 12:02 am (UTC)http://youtu.be/v7Gsx1sFZro
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 07:20 pm (UTC)And I think Dustbowl Dance (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2e8-ZmtU7c) is the Thorin-est song that ever Thorin-ed, in tone and subtext, if not the actual words.
Basically, I spend too much time listening to Mumford and Sons.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 05:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 09:54 am (UTC)*bawls*
no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 09:02 pm (UTC)Also, I am writing Spooks fanfic. What is wrong with me? It isn't even Lucas fanfic, for god's sake. It's Ros. The thesis is destroying my brain.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-05 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-05 08:24 pm (UTC)