Chapter Text
Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin II, and Víli, son of Kori, was blessed with life on the third day of 'af-mahd-danakh, during Mamahduldanakhamrâg, in the year 2860 of the Third Age. His was praised as a lucky birth---a gift from both the Great Smith and the Green Lady---due to both the time of year and the ease of the Princess’s labors. The time of Mamahduldanakhamrâg was a celebration of the harvest that dated back to the Second Age. During the festival, dwarrowdams would adorn their hair with straw of spring barley while dwarves would carry it in their pockets. This practice was conducted to honor the Lady Yavanna, Wife of Mahal, their Maker, who had gifted the same to the Seven Dwarf Fathers, and to serve as a reminder to the dwarrow of their dependence on nature.
Thorin II Oakenshield, King of Durin’s Folk and head of the Longbeard colony in Khagal'abbad, was speaking to the head of provisions in the Culinary Guild when he received news of the dwarfling’s birth. Barely pausing to excuse himself, he ran through his Halls to the royal apartments with his heart in his throat. Dwarven pregnancies were notoriously difficult, lasting up to four years and often resulting in severe, sometimes fatal, danger to the mother. And after nearly eighteen hours of labor, Thorin feared for Dís.
Upon reaching their rooms, Thorin discovered, to his great relief, that his worries were unfounded. Víli met him in the corridor, a wild, elated gleam sparkling in the golden-haired dwarf’s eye.
“A boy, Oakenshield. I’ve a son.” He chuckled, a tinge of hysteria lacing his words.
The dwarf’s grip on Thorin’s biceps was like iron, and Thorin returned it just as fiercely. The panic had receded from his thoughts, though his worries were not banished entirely. “And Dís? How does she fare?”
Víli’s grin only broadened, and he adopted the smitten expression he always wore when thinking about his One. “Oh, she did wonderfully!” His love-struck expression did not waver, “Nearly snapped all the bones in my hand, she did.”
Thorin chuckled warmly in response.
Getting a hold of himself, Víli ushered the King inside their rooms to meet the firstborn son of his sister. Taking in the sight of the small, squirming dwarfling in his sister’s arms, Thorin felt an overwhelming feeling of fondness settle like a weight in his chest. He approached the bed at a sedate pace, his eyes pinned firmly on the babe. His hands felt monstrously large as he offered the child one of his fingers to hold, and he let out a huff of delighted laughter as a small little fist took the appendage into a tight grip. He met the eyes of his sister-son. They were blue like Thorin’s own.
“Shamukh, namadul.” He greeted the child, his vision blurring slightly with tears of joy. He cleared his throat and recited solemnly, “Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin.”
The dwarfling merely blinked in response, his fist still clinging to Thorin’s finger. Thorin was sure his grin was so wide he appeared touched in the head, but he could not muster the will to recover his usual glower, and nor did he want to. He raised his focus from the child to his sister, who, despite being red-faced and exhausted, was beaming fit to burst. He leaned in close and pressed a kiss to Dís’s forehead, before resting his head against hers gently in affection. “He has great strength, namad. What is his name?”
Dís drew back from the embrace and looked down to her son. “He is Fíli,” she pronounced, voice steady as stone, “Son of Dís and Víli, first of his name.”
Thorin nodded and addressed his sister-son formally for the first time: “Be welcome in my Halls, Fíli, son of Dís and Víli, of the line of Durin.” The statement was punctuated by a brief wiggle of his finger in Fíli’s grasp, a near-handshake.
Eventually, the King disentangled himself from Fíli’s strong grip to allow Víli to fill the spot he vacated. Víli saddled up beside the bed where mother and child lay and sat cautiously, his arm outstretched to draw them both into an embrace. Thorin stood back and observed the family in front of him. Both new parents were besotted with their son, cooing nonsensical Khuzdul at him softly.
Despite the levity of the moment, Thorin could not prevent his mind from returning to earlier concerns. Though there seemed to be sufficient crops of barley collected from this spring harvest to sustain the settlement for the time being, there were not enough foodstuffs stored in the mountain to allow for the prolonged feast characteristic of Mamahduldanakhamrâg. If they wished to get by, they would not be able to celebrate the holiday properly, or, more importantly, the birth of the Lady Dís’s firstborn son.
Thorin informed Dís of this apologetically, his head bowed low.
Dís, still smiling down at her newborn, called Thorin a maudlin idiot.
“It matters not. You forget the meaning of Mamahduldanakhamrâg, nadad.” She said. “Do you not see that Kaminzabdûna has once again given us the blessed gift?”
And Dís was correct, as she most often was, for on her son’s head was a mane the color of the purest vein of gold.
For the remainder of The Blessed Green Fest, Longbeards, Broadbeams, and Firebeards alike celebrated the birth of the young prince. And on the final day of celebrations, Thorin stood in the Great Hall before his people, a small, slumbering dwarfling in his arms, and named Fíli, son of Dís and Víli, his heir and future King of Durin’s Folk.
…
Weeks passed, and despite the newfound security to the line, Thorin found himself unsettled. Certainly, he was overjoyed to be an uncle, and every free moment he could escape his responsibilities was spent in the company of his namadul. Thorin also appreciated the effect the presence a legitimate rayad had on the nobles on the council, as monthly meetings regarding food provisions, economic concerns, and the state of mines in Khagal'abbad were no longer waylaid by lectures concerning the necessity of marriage and maintaining a line of succession.
Yet, despite the immeasurable goodwill Thorin felt at Fíli’s birth, he could not shake an itching feeling of discontent that clawed at his breastbone.
Finally, two weeks after his namadul was blessed with life by the Maker, Thorin shot upright in bed gasping for air and knowing with unwavering certainty what he must do. He dressed in a light tunic and breeches, not bothering to fix his braids, and headed straight for the quarry of the Stonemason’s Guild.
At this time of night, not many dwarrow roamed Thorin’s Halls; however, the trek between Thorin’s quarters and the Guild Halls was no short distance, and he was thrown more than one startled look as miners at the end of their late shifts or dwarrow deep in their cups caught sight of their mussed King traversing the halls in his bedclothes.
After a quarter of an hour, Thorin reached the quarry and spotted a lone dwarf chipping away at a block of granite. As if sensing Thorin’s presence at the threshold, the dwarf startled upright from his hulked position over the block of stone. His eyes widened in shock when he realized who stood before him.
“Master Jolof.” Thorin greeted the dwarf, approaching him at a sedate pace, “Lanz galikh, ra galikh ai-mâ. I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I am in need of your services.”
Master Jolof blinked at him for a few moments, as if to make sure he was truly awake. Confirming that, yes, the King of Durin’s Folk stood before him, the dwarf startled again and bent down into a clumsy bow. “Yer Majesty! I apologize fer my lack of manners. I dinnae expect to see the King in my quarry at this time of night.”
The King waved off the apology. “It is no matter. I understand my presence here is unusual.”
Thorin let his mouth curve up into a small, self-deprecating smile. Then he paused, unsure how to voice his inquiry in a way that would not make him appear mad—or, rather, no madder than he already seemed, showing up to the Guild Halls underdressed in the middle of the night. He settled on: “I had a query for you, Master Jolof, as head of the Stonemason’s Guild. I have an interest in carving my sister-son’s likeness, and hoped you would provide insight into the material most suited.”
Master Jolof inspected him oddly but thankfully did not comment on the strangeness of Thorin’s request.
By virtue of the Khagal'abbad being split by the Valar in the Second Age, there were limited stone varieties left available in the smaller mountain range they currently occupied; nevertheless, the stonemason led Thorin to a small section of the quarry littered with blocks of marble in different colors. As they inspected the rows of stone together, Master Jolof rattled on about the specific properties of each sub-type of marble and the benefits and pitfalls that came with carving each.
Thorin was unable to follow the thread of conversation. A distinct hum had overtaken his thoughts, and his hands started to itch with a familiar desire to craft—a sensation he felt when given leave to pursue the creation of his own designs in the forge; It was a feeling of driven purpose gifted to all dwarrow by their Maker.
The humming stopped abruptly.
As if waking from a dream, Thorin found himself standing as still as tempered steel in front of a small hunk of stone. The bulk of the marble was dark gray in color, but dark blue swatches cascaded along the surface in shimmering swirls and thin veins of silver ran through it like mithril. He hesitantly reached out and laid his hands on the stone. He felt an overpowering sensation of rightness settle within himself.
Thorin released a shuddering breath.
“That one caught yer fancy, then, Yer Highness?” Master Jolof reappeared suddenly at Thorin’s side, and the King jumped slightly, his nerves on edge. “Well… I cannae say it would be my first recommendation, but if it suits ye, yer more than welcome to it.”
“My thanks, Master Jolof.” Thorin took a deep breath. “If you could assist me in delivering it to my personal forge, I would be grateful.”
…
With his days spent sitting on various councils and committees, giving audience to his subjects in an informal court, and his very limited free time spent with Fíli, the only time Thorin could dedicate to chipping at his block of marble was during the night. He found that he preferred this, as he felt extremely protective of the stone that sat in his personal forge. The thought of anyone setting their sights on it before he was finished filled Thorin with a panic he had not felt since he was desperately scouring the battlefield of Azanulbizar for his brother and father.
No, no one was to gaze upon the stone until his carving was completed.
Master Jolof had been sworn to secrecy under the pretense that Thorin planned to surprise his brother-in-law and sister with a sculpture of his sister-son for the dwarfling’s first Name Day. Thorin made arrangements to return for chiseling tools the evening after both he and Master Jolof brought the stone to his forge, as all the tools Thorin currently possessed were for manipulating metal and not stone. That next night, he left the Stonemason’s Guild with a chest of albamadhar, felak, zirikfelak, and other such instruments, and a feeling of purpose glowing in his chest. If the master stonemason thought Thorin’s request or his method of stone acquisition odd, he kept his feelings to himself. He was a sensible Broadbeam dwarf and Thorin believed he could count on his discretion. He would have to, in any case.
Thorin performed the first ibreka'bâr that very night, unable to wait any longer to put felak to stone. The first chip of marble was exhilarating. Thorin barely noticed the passage of time as he hacked away at the block. He awoke from a trance-like state early the next morning, the marble still formless stone, but it was much smaller in size and rounder in shape. The impulse to craft still clung to his hands, but Thorin knew he must depart the forge and return to his rooms before the rest of the mountain woke from its slumber.
From that point on, the trend continued: Thorin would see to his duties as ruler and uncle during the day and spent as many hours as possible hunched over his marble at night. Little time was left for sleeping.
Confining his chiseling to the night had the added benefit of saving him from having to explain exactly what he was doing. It was well-known that Thorin was a blacksmith and silversmith by trade. If anyone—Dís, Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, or even Víli—caught him hunched over a four-square-foot chunk of marble, he was sure they would believe he had been gripped by some madness.
He was not certain they would be wrong.
…
As his nighttime ritual continued, a form began to take shape within the rock.
When he began this strange endeavor, Thorin did not have a particular finished product in mind—all he felt was an overwhelming desire to put felak to stone. It was as if an invisible hand was guiding his movements—something telling him when to chip here, when to smooth there, and when to remove the impurities left behind with the albamadhar. He had not put much thought into what he was doing, only following the impulses of his hands as they chiseled at the marble.
Then, one evening nearly a month after acquiring his marble, he emerged from his stupor to find himself bent over what could only be described as the leg of a babe.
Thorin jerked away from his crafting table in shock, his heart beating hard in his throat. He dug the heels of his dusty hands into his eye sockets before returning his gaze to the rock that lay in front of him. Despite his hopes, the image had not changed: The leg of a child, an infant if Thorin had to guess, had surfaced from the otherwise amorphous marble. It was beautifully detailed, with a chubby thigh and calf characteristic of a newborn dwarfling. At the bottom of the leg was a tiny foot with ten perfect toes. And each toe had a minuscule nail crafted with incredible exactness. The entire appendage measured approximately half the length of Thorin’s forearm, and it looked just like Fíli’s had when he had first been born—fragile and awe-inspiring in its smallness. Yet, where Fíli’s flesh had been pink from recent labors, this appendage was a smoky gray and interspersed with stunning ripples of blue and silver.
Thorin’s albamadhar fell from nerveless fingers, crashing to the floor, and the Dwarf King fled his forge without a backward glance.
He did not return for two days.
When he finally did push the door to his forge open, it was only because the itch underneath his skin had become an unbearable ache.
From that point on, Thorin knew that he must finish what he started, no matter his personal feelings on the matter. Something, or more likely someone, far greater than he demanded it. Yet, despite his substantial suspicions, Thorin hesitated for a great long while to put a name to the compulsion that had befallen him.
It was not until nearly five months later, with him having dedicated a handful of hours every night to standing bent over his workbench chiseling away at the stone, that Thorin could no longer deny what was happening to him. And it was madness, of a sort.
Id-Mahajul. The Urge.
As a dwarfling, Thorin had been taught the oral histories of his race by his various tutors. dwarven scribes were notoriously rare; in fact, Balin was only one of five master scribes in the entire Southern mountain range of Khagal’abbad. With so few dwarves drawn to the written word, dwarrow set most of their tales to song to better preserve the record of dwarven kingdoms, warriors, craftsmen, and deeds of great consequence throughout the Ages. Of all his lessons, Thorin preferred the grand epics that spoke of dwarven strength and ingenuity; he was inspired by the historic kings of old, who delved deep into the earth to create magnificent, sprawling cities of glittering gold that protected their people and allowed their craft to flourish. And he loved the ballads that spoke of Mahal, the Vala of Stone and Craft, who favored his children above all else and bestowed upon them incredible gifts.
So, even in his great preoccupation, Thorin could readily recall the Ballad of Nadanu ‘aban kêl.
Most of Middle-Earth knew of Narvi, daughter of Renvi, the great craftsman of the Second Age who, along with Celebrimbor, built the Doors of Durin that guarded the West-gate of Khazad-dûm. However, her origins remained a great secret among the dwarrow, for she was rumored to be Nadanu ‘aban kêl---a Child of Living Stone. The first and only of her kind.
As the tale goes, the Dwarf-Father guided Renvi, a stonemason, to the Kêlith’abanu and compelled her to craft with Id-Mahajul. He imbued her with His gifts, for a time, to grant her the power to complete her Nadanu ‘aban kêl and breathe life into her creation. And this Child of Living Stone, Narvi, the greatest dwarven craftsman, with eyes of ithildin and prodigious skill, served as a light for the dwarrow even in a time of great darkness.
Never before or since had Mahal granted a dwarrow the ability to give life to stone.
Narvi’s status as Nadanu ‘aban kêl was a folktale. At least, that was what every sane dwarrow believed. It was impossible. No dwarf could possibly have the power—have the skill, even—to craft a living being with their hands. That art was reserved for the Maker, and the Maker alone. And yet. And yet, Thorin could so clearly picture the child; the arch of their nose and the roundness of their cheeks; the swirls of their fingertips and the texture of their hair—he could picture it all in his mind's eye. He dreamed of it. It filled his thoughts so completely that some mornings he would awake to find himself already standing over the workbench, his chisel and hammer in hand. Sometimes it frightened him, how much Id-Mahajul consumed his every moment—waking and asleep. It felt dangerous, the power he could feel flowing through his hands as he carved. The idea was insanity, but Thorin knew it was truth.
He had been granted the Gift of the Great Smith.
And he could not stop. And he could not speak of it.
…
Thorin knew that he was almost finished. He could feel it pounding in his blood like a mantra—almost, almost, almost. With every tap of his hammer against the chisel, with every detail uncovered, Thorin grew closer to his goal, and that knowledge burned like a forge fire in his chest. He found himself moving through the days in an almost euphoric-like state. Sometimes he would catch himself grinning madly into the air as he thought of his Nadanu ‘aban. There were only the fine details left—perfecting the folds of their ears, the curve of their lips, and the targîth on their cheeks.
He would often speak as he carved, reciting the poems and ballads of his ancestors or relaying stories from his childhood with Dís, Frerin, and Dwalin. Thorin spoke of his dreams—for Khagal'abbad, for Fíli, for himself—and his fears—of failing as a king, of the decline of Khagal'abbad, of never finding his ‘adad, of repeating the mistakes of his grandfather. Though, most often, Thorin would speak of Azsâlul'abad: “And in the depths of the mountain lie the glittering caves,” he would muse aloud, “where crystals hang like long daggers from the ceiling. I would spend many an afternoon exploring the crevasses and diving deep into the underground lakes. On market days, the Great Market would be overflowing with stalls where dwarrow, men, and even mebelkhagâs would sell wares originating from as far as Orocarni and as near as Dale. Some days, when the weather was mild, I would escape my guard detail and climb to the summit of Azsâlul'abad to look upon the vastness of Middle Earth. It is only there, on the highest peak, that a dwarf may tower above all.” Resting a hand on the polished surface of his Nadanu ‘aban he would swear, “One day, our people shall walk the ‘Urdêk again.”
As his Nadanu ‘aban reached completion, Thorin dedicated every free moment to crafting in his personal forge. He still attended to his duties as King of Durin’s Folk, but he found that kingship no longer held the same importance to him it once did. After all, his Nadanu ‘aban was an incredible boon from the Maker; it was an auspicious omen for the future of Durin’s Folk and the Longbeard colony in Khagal’abbad, on par in providence to the Seventh Coming. It was in the best interest of all Durin’s Folk---all dwarrow, even---that he focus every effort on carving. Once the Nadanu ‘aban was finished, Thorin knew he would be excused for his inattention, for he was the vessel through which Mahal dispensed His blessing to Thorin’s people.
And so, with that in mind, Thorin slaved away in his forge. He would show up to meetings late, his knuckles dry and cracked, and his clothes covered in a sheen of dust. Many times, he would lose the thread of whatever conversation he was participating in or have to request supplicants before him in court to repeat themselves, as his thoughts had wandered back to the marble waiting for him on his workbench. For the sake of keeping his Nadanu ‘aban secret, he would try his hardest to explain away his distraction, but Thorin knew his excuses were flimsy at the best of times.
He would often feel Balin shooting him concerned glances, and Dís had fired numerous pointed comments about the dark circles underneath Thorin’s eyes. Yet, despite the exhaustion tugging at his eyes and limbs, Thorin had not felt this invigorated in decades; not since Frerin, too you and too bright, fell bloodied on the fields of Azanulbizar; not since his ‘adad disappeared with only his battered helm left behind, a helm that sat untouched in a locked desk in Thorin’s study; not since his grandfather, driven mad by loss and gold and greed, entered Khazad-dûm only to be beheaded and defiled by Orc-scum; not since his ‘amad and sigin'amad fell screaming to dragon fire in Azsâlul'abad.
He was nearly done. They would be ready soon.
…
It was two days from Durin’s Day, and nearly six months since the entire endeavor began, that things fell apart.
Thorin knew, peripherally, that his behavior had become alarmingly erratic over these last weeks. As the Nadanu’aban neared completion, Thorin felt less and less of a desire to sleep. Every thought in his head was consumed with the desire to carve, to feel the rush of Mahal’s Gift course through his body, to finish, to finish, to finish. He was so close. A day more, maybe two, and it would be completed. He could focus on nothing else.
Unfortunately, his lack of focus was readily apparent. He had no patience for the council, or his committees, or to deal judgement in open court. He snapped at anyone and anything that interfered with his ability to return to his forge. And eventually, three days from Durin’s Day, he abandoned all other responsibilities entirely. He cared not for lists of food provisions. He cared not for the productivity of the mines. He cared not for the progress of the caravans in the towns of Men or the coin they sent back with couriers to support the settlement. He cared not for his kith and kin. He cared not for Khagal'abbad. All he cared for was the Nadanu’aban that rested on his workbench.
He locked himself in his personal forge and allowed no one entry. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He was fueled solely by the feeling of utter euphoria that came with putting his chisel to stone.
It was Dís who drew him out, after knocking at the door so incessantly he heard the pounding against the rock more clearly that he heard the pound of close, close, close in his blood.
He opened the door. It took him a second to sharpen his focus enough to observe the face of his sister. She appeared furious before him, her brows drawn angrily together and her fists balled tightly against her hips, but there was a deep concern hiding in her eyes that left Thorin feeling wrong-footed.
“Namad?” He questioned, dazed.
Her brow furrowed tighter. Without a word, Dís reached out for him and yanked him through the doorway by the front of his tunic. The momentum had him toppling forward with a yelp undignified of a King, his arms flailing forward to latch onto Dís’s shoulders. The door to his forge slammed closed behind him. Once he regained his balance, he pushed her off roughly.
“What in Mahal’s name—”
He was not allowed to continue.
“You are coming with me to eat, Thorin. Or I will knock you unconscious and allow Óin to force-feed you with a tube.” Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest and her face was as hard as stone. Even through his daze, Thorin knew this look. When Dís adopted this expression, there was nothing anyone—not any of the free folk of Middle Earth, or even the Valar—could do to dissuade her. Thorin could feel a restless anxiety start bubbling in his chest. He was so close. He needed to finish. He had no time for eating. He could not be away from the Nadanu’aban for long. He had to finish!
He started to turn away, waving her off, “I am not hungry, Dís. Leave me be.”
His feet were suddenly unsteady beneath him, and he tripped sideways back into the dwarrowdam’s grip. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he found himself a hair’s breadth away from Dís’s nose, her hands once again fisting tightly in his tunic.
“I said.” She growled with unconcealed fury, “You are coming with me, and you are going to eat!”
Again, he was denied the opportunity to reply as she tugged him roughly in the direction of the royal dining hall. Thorin found that he was unable to muster the proper motor function to pull away from Dís, her grip like iron against his front. Thankfully, the dining hall was in the royal apartments, an area only accessible to the royal family and their immediate kin, so Thorin would be spared the embarrassment of being seen carted about by his scruff like a naughty little dwarfling.
His mind must have wandered because the next thing he was aware of was being unceremoniously thrown down onto a bench at the family dining table. Clearing his blurry vision again, he noticed for the first time that he was not sitting alone.
Dís’s hands left his abused tunic and were replaced with Dwalin’s heavy, broad palms on his shoulders. Thorin craned his neck back to meet the dwarf’s hard stare before flicking his gaze across the table to meet Balin’s troubled eyes.
The anxiety he felt at the forge door doubled.
Then the anxiety tripled as Glóin and Víli filled the seats at both of his sides, effectively bracketing him into the table.
Óin chose then to make an appearance at Balin’s left side, peering at Thorin consideringly before making a discontented sound at the back of his throat.
A bowl of stew was set down in front of him, and Dís then occupied the seat to Balin’s right. Thorin noticed that she was still wearing the same expression from outside of his forge. If he were in his right mind, he might have been impressed with their coordination. They all had trapped him quite effectively.
Thorin’s skin started crawling with agitation, his limbs shaking slightly.
A flurry of thoughts overwhelmed him, He must return to the forge. He could not leave the Nadanu’aban alone. He was almost finished, Mahal damn them! He could not waste time sitting here!
Chasing his thoughts, Thorin slammed himself upright into Dwalin’s hands with all his might. Unfortunately for Thorin, at that moment all his might was not as mighty as it would be normally. Dwalin easily returned him to the bench. “Now, Thorin. Let’s not get wild, now. Eat your soup like a good King and we can all get back to our normal business.”
Thorin snarled wordlessly in reply, shaking his shoulders ineffectually against Dwalin’s grip. The other dwarf pushed his shoulders down in retaliation, getting Thorin’s head closer to the bowl. “Come now, Your Majesty. No one wants this to get ugly.”
“Brother, please.” Balin chided Dwalin, who subsided with a grumble. The older dwarf sent a beseeching look Thorin’s way. “Thorin, we are worried about you, laddie. No one has seen you eat so much as a bite in over a day, and even then, it was just crumbs.”
“I am not hungry, Balin. If I was, I would eat.” Thorin growled lowly. “Now let me up, before I get violent. I must return to my forge.”
“Cannae do that, lad. Ye look as if death itself. I’d be surprised if ye could even lift a hammer over yer head with the sorry state yer in.” Oin shook his head decisively, “Nope, there’s nothin’ for it, ye gotta eat the stew.”
Thorin scowled thunderously at the healer but received only a quirked eyebrow in return. Thorin passed his eyes over the rest of the occupants of the table. They were all peering at him in varying degrees of exasperation and concern, and Dís looked as though she was seconds away from forcefully shoveling the stew into his mouth herself.
A thought broke through Thorin’s feverish haze. “Where is Fíli?” He questioned, looking between Dís and Víli.
Shock briefly flitted across Dís’s face before her scowl returned. “I am surprised you even remember the name of your sister-son, since you have not deemed it important to visit him in nearly three weeks. But if you must know, Mizim is sitting with him while we deal with your foolishness.” She paused, as if considering her next words, and finished in a quieter tone, “I did not want him around you with you like this.”
Thorin flinched as though he had been struck. He found that he could no longer keep Dís’s eyes.
His head lowered to take in the stew again.
The panic was still like a living thing underneath his skin, but he knew then that he could not escape back to the forge without giving in to their demands. Thorin was in no state to take on all of them at once.
Yes, he would eat the stew, and then he would return to his Nadanu ’aban in the forge.
He took a deep breath, trying to settle the tremors in his hands. “Fine. I will eat the stew. But then I am returning to my forge.”
Balin held up his hands in a placating gesture, “That is all we ask, laddie.”
Maintaining his glower, Thorin roughly dug his spoon into the bowl and choked down a bite. The food tasted like nothing in his mouth, but he continued eating to appease his jailers. Soon, nothing remained in the bowl but a few errant drops of broth.
“There,” Thorin slurred, dropping his spoon onto the table.
His vision was darkening at the edges, and he could sense himself tipping forward. It was only Dwalin’s hands on his shoulders that kept him upright. Managing to lift his head enough to glimpse across the table, Thorin noticed that neither Dís, Óin, nor Balin appeared startled at his unanticipated fainting spell.
Before the world went dark, Thorin had one final thought: They drugged me.
And then he knew no more.
…
Thorin shot upright onto his forearms, his heart beating like a war drum in his chest. All he knew was that time had passed, precious time he could not afford to lose. He flailed his head wildly about the room to assess his surroundings. His fear-addled mind was able to deduce that he was in a sickroom of some kind, likely one of the private ones in the Infirmary that Óin reserved for the gravely injured. He tossed aside sweat-soaked furs that were nearly adhered to his body and barreled straight for the door, not even bothering to look for his boots.
A large dwarven body suddenly obstructed his exit. The shape quickly resolved itself into Glóin, who lunged forward to intercept him. He slammed Thorin back onto the bed, holding him down.
“Easy, Thorin!” He yelled, obviously trying to alert whoever was standing guard outside the door. “Calm down, cousin!”
Thorin lashed out at him like a cornered animal. The anxiety of the day before had evolved into full-blown hysteria. His heart hammered in a cacophony that was impossibly loud in his ears. Thorin managed to shove Glóin off by virtue of pure, animalistic strength. His cousin stumbled back towards the door, but before Thorin could make a break for it, a flood of dwarrow swarmed into the room.
Thorin halted. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears and got into a defensive stance. He felt a growl rumble out of his throat. Dwalin, Balin, Óin, and Dís stood between him and the door, and Glóin was rapidly recovering himself, huffing in exertion.
“You drugged me!” Thorin raged at the betrayal.
Balin stepped forward, arms outstretched in supplication. “You left us little choice, laddie. You had eaten little and slept even less in the last weeks. We felt we needed to do something before you killed yourself.”
Thorin froze and came to a horrible realization.
“How long was I asleep?” He demanded.
No one answered him.
“Mahal damn you all! How long was I unconscious?!” He yelled with unrestrained fury.
He was sure every dwarrow from the Infirmary to the Great Hall heard his shouting, but Thorin could not find it within himself to care. All he cared about was the Nadanu ‘aban. He needed to get back to his Nadanu ‘aban.
“Thorin, you need to calm down.” Dís insisted firmly. She looked ready to approach him, but Óin held her back with a firm arm and a shake of his head.
“What I need is for one of you to tell me how long you have kept me locked as a prisoner in this Mahal-forsaken sickroom!”
Balin shook his head sadly. “You are not a prisoner, lad. You’ve been asleep here for twenty hours.” Balin continued speaking but Thorin did not hear him. All the blood drained from his face and the itch of Id-Mahajul was painful as it crawled up his forearms underneath his skin. He had not spent this long away from his Nadanu ‘aban in months.
“Twenty hours.” He whispered, horror-stricken. Again, no one replied.
“Twenty hours!?” He screamed in frenzied disbelief. All the focus in the room was once again pinned firmly on Thorin, and, finally, he exploded.
Thorin turned his back to his kin sharply and grabbed the underside of the metal cot on which he had slept. With a strength he did not know he still possessed, he flung the cot—furs, mattress, frame, and all—into the far wall opposite the door.
“You do not know what you have done!” He roared in a desperate fury, panic zinging violently up his spine. He felt wholly incandescent with rage, unable to even draw together the words to express himself. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart as it screamed at him: late, late, late. He could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets, and he could not get enough air into his lungs to breathe. Thorin’s hands tore into his own hair, grabbing chunks at his temples as he let out a stream of incoherent and unintelligible Khuzdul.
His companions stood frozen around him in shock at his outburst.
Dís looked afraid.
She had not ever been afraid of Thorin, not even when he loomed over her, nose-to-nose, and shouted at her for being an empty-headed fool for ceding her right to succession for the love of a poor Broadbeam miner. Then, she raised herself onto her toes and screamed right back that he would not know love if it bit him in the arse. Now, she was shrinking into herself, staring at Thorin as though she was watching him descend into madness right in front of her.
It was that, more than anything, that finally allowed Thorin to draw breath.
He drew in great heaping lungfuls and slammed his eyes shut, unable to stand the look on his sister’s face for a second more. Slowly, he loosened his fingers from where they were buried in his hair. He doubled over in recovery, holding his weight on his knees and willing his heartbeat to slow. It still pounded painfully in his ears, a never-ending mantra of late, late, late, but he knew he would never be allowed to leave the sickroom to return to his forge if his kin believed he lost his mind.
Thorin had been dreading this moment since he found Kêlith’abanu and Id-Mahajul had slowly overtaken his every thought—his kin recognized Mahal’s Gift as madness, and now Thorin must explain it to them without giving away the Nadanu ‘aban kêl. For if he told them, the ritual would fail. He just knew it.
After one last deep breath, Thorin opened his eyes and raised himself to his full height. Balin appeared caught between movements, his left hand outstretched as though he sought to offer comfort but thought better of it. Dís, too, stood rooted in place, tears glistening brightly in her eyes at the sight of Thorin’s crazed tirade. Dwalin and Glóin had taken up guarded stances in front of the princess, and Óin continued to inspect Thorin with a healer’s scrutiny, though he, too, seemed concerned for Thorin’s mental welfare.
Thorin scrubbed both hands roughly down his face. He put a herculean effort into looking as normal as possible, trying to readopt his kingly facade to properly convey the authority necessary to order them all away so he might leave.
After collecting himself, he held his hands together behind his back and addressed the onlookers: “I apologize for my outburst. I understand you are all concerned, but, truly, I am fine.”
“Fine, he says! Fine, my hairy arse! Thorin, you’re twitchin’ like an animal in death throes!” Dwalin exclaimed in angry disbelief as he gesticulated wildly at Thorin’s frame.
Thorin could not deny that he probably was a sight to see: His pulse still jumped in his neck, his clothes, skin, and hair were coated in a fine layer of dust from sanding the marble, and he had begun convulsively clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to offset the near maddening pain of Id-Mahajul in his hands and forearms.
The fleeting pretense of normalcy was swiftly abandoned, it was not doing him any favors.
Perhaps intimidation, then.
He stalked toward Dwalin. “I will be fine, once you all allow me leave to return to my forge! We are wasting precious time standing here! I must finish!”
“Finish what, you great numpty!?” He and Dwalin were nearly toe to toe now. “You’ve done naught but lock yourself away in that damned forge for weeks! Balin and Dís have had to take over your duties, and half the council thinks you’ve lost your mind entirely!”
Growling in frustration, Thorin made a grab for Dwalin’s armor, but he was shoved roughly away before he could get a proper handhold.
“Harkulul!” Dís shouted as she shouldered her way in between Thorin and Dwalin. “Both of you, enough!” She pushed Dwalin back by the center of his chest and pointed sharply into his face, “You are not helping, Dwalin.”
Dís’s expression softened as she turned back to Thorin, but she maintained a distance that spoke of wariness. “Thorin, just tell us what is going on. What is so important that it has kept you in the forge, day and night? You have never been this dedicated to a project before.”
Thorin felt his arms trembling. He could not tell her, he could not.
“That is not your concern, Dís. I cannot tell you.”
Dís narrowed her eyes at him, “Thorin—”
“I said, I cannot tell you!” He bellowed. “It will all be ruined! I cannot say!”
Thorin tried again for the door but was blocked by Glóin.
“Yer covered in rock dust, and more than one dwarf saw ye returning from the stonemason quarry in the dead of night months ago.” Glóin’s tone was suspicious, and it set Thorin more on edge. “What’re ye carving, cousin?”
A feeling of intense desperation flooded through Thorin’s system, and Id-Mahajul felt as though it was burning the skin off his arms. Thorin just stood there in the sickroom, shaking like a newborn fawn. Frustrated tears blurred his vision, prompting Thorin to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hunched forward into himself and shuttered.
A hand was cautiously set on his shoulder. “Nadad, we just want to help you.”
Thorin grabbed Dís’s shoulders tightly, ignoring her startle at the contact. He allowed the full force of his panic and desperation to enter his voice, “If you want to help, you must allow me to return to the forge. Please, Dís.”
“Yer not well, laddie. Ye need more food and rest.” Óin commented, but Thorin ignored him and kept staring into his sister’s eyes. Despite Óin’s status as a healer, it was only Dís’s opinion that mattered now.
“Dís, please. It is of the utmost importance that I finish what I started.” His voice shook in tandem with his body. “Please, namad. I will tell you everything once it is done, but I cannot speak of it until then. I cannot!”
His sister was extremely discomforted by his distress. Thorin was not one to plead. If Thorin had been in a state to think on it, he likely would have tried to conceal his hysteria to spare her. Dís had never seen him in such a state of torment, Thorin had never allowed it. Not even when he returned to Khagal'abbad with word of their brother's death and their father’s disappearance had Thorin let the full force of his anguish show. Dís had only been thirty-five at the time, and he had held her for a long while, rocking her and stroking her back as she sobbed into his chest.
Despite her unease, Dís did not brush him off. She gripped his upper arms as if to settle his tremors and stared deeply into his face. After a long moment, she nodded.
“Sulliglukhul, Thorin. You may return to your forge.” Thorin let out an explosive breath of relief, but his profuse thanks were cut off, “You have a turn of the sun.”
She ignored Thorin’s sound of protest. “You have been neglecting yourself for too long. If it really is almost complete as you say, then you can finish whatever it is before Durin’s Day tomorrow. I will not have you dropping dead over foolishness.”
If Dís made a decision, no one would challenge her. Thorin could return to his Nadanu ‘aban. He nodded rapidly in agreement. He had not realized that the new year was upon them. Durin’s Day. Yes, it could be done before Durin’s Day. He sagged forward and rested his forehead against Dís’s.
“By Durin’s Day,” he promised, certainty imbued in his words, “Aye, by Durin’s Day it will be done. I swear it, Dís.”
…
Nearly twenty-two hours later, Thorin raised himself from the stoop he adopted over his Nadanu ‘aban and set aside the sandpaper he was using on the surface of the marble.
As he predicted, no one had spoken out against Dís’s ultimatum, but it was obvious all of them disagreed with her decision (and no one more strongly than Óin); nevertheless, Thorin was escorted back to his personal forge by all five members of his kin. After a disagreement over whether Thorin should be allowed to enter unsupervised—Dwalin was the most outspoken member against the idea and he nearly came to blows with Thorin over it—Dís once again ruled in Thorin’s favor, though she added the condition that at least one of them would remain standing guard outside. At that point, Thorin was frantic in his desire to resume his work and agreed readily to Dís’s stipulations.
Thankfully, once he entered the forge and set eyes on his Nadanu ‘aban, the burning in his limbs eased. Thorin collected the large mass of his hair and tied it back, leaving only the frayed braids at his temples to swing about his face. And from then on, Thorin resumed working tirelessly to finalize the finishing touches the stone required.
Now, filthy beyond belief, covered in a thick layer of dust and sweat, Thorin took a step back from his workbench to observe the sculpted stone before him. His Nadanu ‘aban was otherworldly in its beauty, possessing such intricate details it was impossible to fathom that Thorin—a blacksmith who had never so much as raised a felak before—could have crafted a sculpture of its caliber. The marble had an adorable, cherubic face with soft rounded cheeks dusted with targîth.
Truly surveying the overall appearance of his Nadanu ‘aban for the first time, Thorin could identify his own features hidden within the stone face—the beginnings of his hawkish nose, a prominent brow bone adorned with thick eyebrows, and the similar shape of the ears.
Thorin stood before his Nadanu ‘aban and was struck dumb by an epiphany: This was a child. His child. His.
If the ballad truly did ring true, then soon—within a few moments if the crescendoing hum in his mind and underneath his skin was any indication—Thorin would be a father. Somehow, through all of this, he had never allowed himself to think on this fact. For months, he viewed it as simply an abstract concept: He was granted the ability to create this beautiful, impossible thing—a work of fiction, truly—by Mahal. A blessing for his people. Thorin did not ponder Mahal’s choice, or why he had been chosen for the task, or what would occur once the carving was complete. A reality in which his Nadanu ‘aban would become a living, breathing child sat untouched at the back of his mind.
Before this moment, Thorin never seriously considered having children of his own. It had been unfeasible.
Unlike Dís, Thorin had never felt The Longing, and he lacked the extroverted personality that had gained Frerin so many admirers, even at his young age. For as long as Thorin could remember, he behaved in the manner befitting a firstborn of the line of Durin---reserved, serious, and beholden by responsibility. The streak of youthful waywardness he had adopted briefly in his tweens was abruptly halted after the beheading of his grandfather at Khazad-dûm, and then stamped out completely during Thráin’s subsequent four-year-long campaign against the Rukhsel in the Misty Mountains. Kingship was thrust upon Thorin swiftly at Azanulbizar, and he ascended the throne at barely a half-century with the sight of his nadadith’s bloodied body burning against the backs of his eyelids. There was little merriment for Thorin, after that.
He possessed little interest in matters of the heart, and by virtue of his homely appearance, he never expected to find love. If anything, Thorin figured he would eventually be pressured into a mutually beneficial marriage with some noble’s son or daughter. And after Dís’s marriage to Víli and Fíli’s birth, the chances of even an arranged marriage decreased exponentially, and along with it any possibility of fatherhood. At the time, Thorin had been content with remaining an uncle; with a colony to maintain, it seemed easier to focus all his attention on providing for his people---it was one less thing for Thorin to worry about. However, now faced with this very singular opportunity at fatherhood, Thorin found himself uncharacteristically jittery with excitement.
Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King of Durin’s Folk, was to become a father in his one-hundred-thirteenth year. The reality of the situation was dumbfounding.
The building sensation of Id-Mahajul jerked Thorin out of his musings. Though he was more loath than ever to let his Nadanu ‘aban out of his sight, Thorin knew the marble must be cleaned of dust before the final steps could be completed. Retreating to a basin at the far end of the forge, he filled a small bucket with water and ferried it back over to the workbench. He picked up a small sponge and got to work smoothing away the dust from the surface of his Nadanu ‘aban. The swipes of the sponge against the stone were slow and reverent, as if he were observing the steps of a ceremony. Thorin halted his movements with a final caress of the forehead before discarding the sponge to the side; a feeling of gleeful elation tingled in his bones and his blood sang to him: finished, finished, finished.
Thorin released a trembling breath and went to retrieve the dagger he kept concealed in his boot. As had been the case with everything else, Thorin knew his next steps with unwavering surety. Gripping the dagger in his left hand, he made a small incision to the pad of his right thumb, stopping just before the first knuckle. The dagger dropped unneeded onto the floor of the forge. Thorin leaned forward and grasped his Nadanu ‘aban securely behind their curly little head, supporting the neck instinctively.
Thorin stooped low and began sweeping his bloodied thumb across the surface of the marble.
First, a horizontal stroke was bestowed along the forehead;
His thumb slowly circled both biceps;
He caressed along the heartline of each tiny palm;
And a last vertical swipe encompassed the entirety of the sternum.
Once finished, Thorin briefly rested his hand over the tiny stone chest, where the heart would lie.
He paused, breathing heavily in emotion. Joyful tears hung stubbornly to his eyelids, and he felt the Id-Mahajul reach a fever pitch in his soul. It crooned out to him—finished, finished, finished. Thorin hoisted his Nadanu ‘aban fully into his arms, one hand still cradling the head while the other supported the lower back. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, a few errant tears escaping, and pressed his forehead securely against that of his Nadanu ‘aban kêl. He breathed out raggedly.
The feeling of Id-Mahajul filled his being entirely, starting first as a point of light in his chest and then expanding rapidly outwards to his limbs. Where it was once an itching compulsion, Id-Mahajul was now a rapturous buzz that was almost painful in its sweetness. Thorin did not dare open his eyes. He held his Nadanu ‘aban in a firm, yet gentle grip and kept his forehead fastened to marble.
A sudden, blinding light exploded behind his eyelids, but he remained as still as if he, too, were stone. Through the dazzling brightness encompassing his vision, Thorin could sense a transformation occurring beneath his hands: Hard, unyielding marble slowly began to soften, and he felt cold stone transform into warm flesh where his hand braced the lower spine. The body in his grasp became pliable gradually, lessening in density and weight until he felt his fingers sink into fine, curly hair at the nape of the neck.
As quickly as it began, the euphoric sensation of Id-Mahajul diminished until it was nothing but a memory. Even with the feeling gone, Thorin dared not open his eyes.
Time seemed to still. The only sounds in the forge were the popping of the fire in the hearth and the shaky, uneven breaths of the Dwarf King. And then, a third sound joined the others: A soft blurbing coo of a babe. Thorin could feel small exhales buffeting against his chin, but still, he did not move. It felt as though his heart had stopped in his chest.
Despite the undeniable evidence at his fingertips, Thorin doubted his senses. He feared, more than anything, that he really had gone mad; that Id-Mahajul he was swept under for the past six months was just the figment of his addled mind; that the madness of his line had somehow passed to him; that once he opened his eyes nothing would lay in his hands besides cold, dead stone.
His thoughts were brought to a crashing halt as a small, soft fist gripped the tip of his nose firmly. All at once, Thorin’s eyes shot open, and he was greeted with the sight of the soft, flushed skin of a newborn babe. Thorin exhaled heavily through his tears and slowly removed his forehead from its resting place against the dwarfling’s softer skull. He blinked rapidly a few times to clear his blurred, teary vision and was met with the first glimpse of his living, breathing child. The dwarfling’s blue eyes locked with their father’s, and Thorin was shocked to see that they glowed slightly in the darkened light of the forge.
Now no longer frozen in repose, the dwarfling’s resemblance to Thorin was even more apparent. The thin, hawkish nose and stooped brow bone were prominently featured, but now that the child was living flesh instead of marbled stone, Thorin saw a shock of dark raven hair at their head and dusting lightly against their rounded cheeks. Their skin was a shade darker than his own, likely influenced by the darker marble from which they were carved, and their lips were fuller than Thorin’s and painted a soft pink. Thorin watched in rapt fascination as the infant broke into a huge yawn.
The dwarfling blinked owlishly up at Thorin, finally taking in their father’s face now that he was far enough away to see properly. A small hand extended toward him, and the King acquiesced to the silent demand, lowering his face back down into their reach. Thorin let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle when the tiny hand regained its hold on his nose.
With Id-Mahajul no longer pounding fiercely in his blood, Thorin was once again clear-headed and firmly present in his body. He stared down in wonderment at the child in his arms. He had made this. This child was his.
As if sensing his thoughts, the dwarfling tugged more firmly at his nose. Thorin scrunched it in response, smiling beatifically. Such an overwhelming feeling of fondness overcame him at that moment, as though he were so filled to the brim with love that it was overflowing and oozing out of his every pore.
“Idmi, nadan,” he whispered to his child, his voice cracking with emotion. “I am your ‘adad.”
Looking down at the newborn, Thorin vowed that his child would never know the sorrow and hardship that had plagued his own life. This child would know joy, and laughter, and be loved so fiercely that they would not know what it was to live without it. It was a Kingly vow, a vow of a father. Thorin tapped their foreheads together once more.
“I have dreamed of you, ‘undanuh.” he laughed wetly in awe.
His dwarfling gurgled in response. Their hand abandoned Thorin’s nose and made a grab for the braids that swung from his temples.
The slightest of shivers ran through their little body, and Thorin was abruptly shocked by the chill that had overtaken the room. In dedicating all his time to carving these past months, Thorin had not lit his forge in many moons and the small hearth lying at the far end of the room was only giving off a scant amount of heat.
Swinging his head around as much as he was able with a braid clamped tightly in his child’s fist, Thorin searched almost frantically for some cloth to wrap around the wriggling, nude dwarfling in his arms. He cursed his inattention while under the spell of Id-Mahajul—if only he had the foresight to prepare linens for the newborn. Thorin looked down at the dusty, soiled tunic hugging his frame.
Well, he reasoned to himself, that will just have to do.
With as much care as he could muster, Thorin slowly extracted his arms, one at a time, from the filthy tunic he had been wearing for an unreasonable and disgusting amount of time. Pulling the cloth over his head one-handed, he resituated the child in his arms and clumsily wrapped them up before cradling them securely to his bare chest. Surprisingly, the dwarfling offered little protest to being manhandled, they simply snuggled closer to Thorin’s warmth, eyes wide and curiously observing their surroundings. Thorin could not help but continue grinning madly back down at them.
A loud crash sounded from the entrance to Thorin’s forge, the door slamming open abruptly and smacking hard into the opposing wall. The Dwarf King looked up in surprise to find five sets of eyes staring at him in bewilderment. Based on his appearance, Thorin could not blame them for their confusion: Thorin stood before his workbench, shirtless and caked in all manner of blood, sweat, tears, and dust, clutching his balled-up tunic while surrounded by heaps and chunks of marble of various sizes and shapes. Not a single surface in his forge was free of rock dust.
Thorin stared back in shock, too caught up in the euphoria of the previous moment to deduce why most of his extended family was suddenly watching him warily from the doorway of his forge.
“Thorin, what in Durin’s name—”
He hastened to cut Dís off, “Namad, I—”
Thorin was not able to continue, for the clamor at the door unsettled the child at his breast. They whined loudly in protest at the disturbance, smushing their scrunched little face into Thorin’s chest. Eyes abandoning his sister, Thorin immediately began to soothe his dwarfling, rocking them gently and murmuring quiet words in Khuzdul to settle them once more. So focused was Thorin on the child that he missed the synchronous and comical widening of dwarven eyes as Dís, Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, and Víli caught a glimpse of what exactly the King was holding.
Another clamor followed shortly after.
“What the—!”
“Durinu-me turg!”
“Glóin, go run and get Óin. Now!” Heavy footsteps followed the demand, barreling out of the room and down the corridor.
“Thorin, whose child is that?!” Dís' voice rang out the loudest amongst the din, and Thorin sighed quietly. He supposed that explanations were past due.
“Mine.” he said, and the steel in his tone brokered no argument. Glowing blue eyes stared up at him, startled at the way Thorin’s reply rumbled through his chest. The corners of his lips twitched upward against his will, and his next words were thusly softened by affection, “Look what I made, namad.”
Thorin raised a tiny hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the fingers. “They are so much more beautiful than I imagined.” he breathed out, and small fingers chased the sound, spreading wide at Thorin’s lips and grabbing at his beard with a surprisingly strong grip. Thorin chuckled wetly, “They have great strength, too.”
“What do you mean, your child, you—Oof!” Dwalin’s exclamation was halted by an elbow to the stomach and silence descended over them all.
A moment passed before Dís worked up the nerve to approach Thorin, though she did so cautiously, as though he were a wild animal. Once she was within arm’s reach, she joined Thorin in staring down at the dwarfling bundled inside the filthy tunic. Dís released a startled exhale when the child blinked up at her from the King’s arms.
“The eyes, Thorin!” she exclaimed, gobsmacked.
Thorin continued to smile besottedly at the Dwarfling. “Yes, I know. I believe they are of ithildin.”
“By the grace of the Maker…” Balin breathed out by the door, unmoving. “Thorin, laddie, have you done what I believe you have?”
“What in the name of Mahal has he done, Brother?! It looks to me as if His Royal Highness has taken a sledgehammer to an entire block of marble and afterward gone out and stolen some poor sod’s child!”
Thorin gently untangled the babe’s fingers from his chin. Though he was loath to look away from his child, he knew he must properly address the adults in the room. When he finally broke his eyes from startling blue, he was met with looks varying from disbelief to veneration. He fixed Dwalin with an unimpressed glower, “I have not stolen anything, Dwalin. You never did pay attention to the Ballads. This child was made by mine own hand, carved from the block of marble you see before you.”
He turned back to Dís. “This is what I was keeping from you. Id-Mahajul would not allow me to speak of my Nadanu ‘aban kêl before I was finished. If you were told, the ritual would have failed and they would not have been granted life by the Maker.”
The dwarrowdam gaped wordlessly back at him.
Balin finally stepped forward, “After Glóin heard you’d been to the quarry, and with how you’ve been acting, I did wonder…” His graying beard fluttered about as he shook his head disbelievingly. “But the Ballad of Nadanu ‘aban kêl is considered naught but folklore. I never truly believed this was what you were up to here.”
“Aye, with the way you’ve been wandering about grinning like a madman, we assumed you’d just lost your mind.”
Despite normally appreciating Dwalin’s bluntness, Thorin only glared at him then, unmoved. The guard captain received another nudge in the side from Thorin’s brother-in-law.
“Nah, ye worried us is all, Oakenshield. We thought ye might’ve been having difficulty shouldering the weight of ev’rythin’. Certainly not, well, this.” Víli interjected with a nervous grin. Thorin nodded in acceptance at the comment—reflecting now with a clear mind, Thorin could not deny how erratic and worrying his behavior had become under the influence of Id-Mahajul.
Dís, who had been silently observing father and child throughout the exchange, abruptly let loose a gasp of laughter, as if it had been punched out of her. Astonishment still clung to her frame, but it was slowly being replaced by a tremendous fondness as she looked down at her nadadul. Thorin followed her gaze to see that his dwarfling was still perturbed by all the noise in the room, and they were not shy about making it known. On their tiny face was a scowl that did the line of Durin proud.
A chortle escaped Thorin’s chest, startling the child further. The little scowl deepened.
“Well, now there can be no denying they are yours, Thorin.” Dís snickered. Thorin rolled his eyes, swaying in place to soothe them. Dís’s expression sobered some before she asked, “Nadad, what is their name?”
She laid one of her palms softly onto the child’s raven head, and they blinked up owlishly at the contact.
“Khalil.” Thorin replied immediately, eyes locked upon the bundle in his arms. He had never considered naming the Nadanu ‘aban kêl, but then, he had never held his living, breathing child in his arms before now. Khalil was a strong Sky Name, worthy of the child of a King. “Khalil, child of Thorin, son of Thráin, of the line of Durin.”
“Be welcome in our Halls, Khalil, child of Thorin,” Dís recited solemnly, hand still resting on their head. Then, she bent down to place a lingering kiss on their forehead. "Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin."
Khalil cooed at the sensation of their aunt’s beard against their skin.
Before backing away, Dís raised herself onto her tiptoes to rest her forehead against Thorin. “Congratulations, nadad. You have been blessed.”
Thorin’s grin was so wide it was beginning to hurt his cheeks.
Moving away at last, Dís smiled sweetly at him in return. “Now that this whole mess has been settled, we can announce them during the Durin’s Day feast tonight.”
Thorin nodded in acquiescence. It was time to face the music. Though, Thorin privately hoped he would be able to rest before he addressed his subjects in the Great Hall. Six months of minimal sleep tended to catch up on a dwarf, especially one suddenly devoid of divine power.
A sudden smirk appeared at the corner of his namad's mouth, immediately setting Thorin on edge. “But first,” Dís grinned, “I believe a bath is in order for you both. Thorin, you smell worse than one of Dáin’s boar pens in 'Arsadrân.”
Dwalin guffawed loudly in mirth from the doorway.
…
TBC