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'Azughâl (Those who are warriors)

Summary:

Twenty-seven years after the Battle of Five Armies, as each year at the beginning of spring, Dwalin visits Thorin's tomb. He offers words. He offers memories.
This is the story of Thorin's fourth ring, as told by Dwalin son of Fundin.

Notes:

This fic is for Guest. Because you asked me for it and because I love your reviews, and the thoughts you share with my about my stories.
It was supposed to be part of Dwalin's fic and somehow did not fit. I hope you will like it as it is here.
Thank you to you all for following, and enjoy I hope! Take care, Meysun.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

The sun shines brightly, today – throwing its rays through Erebor's narrow windows, through the adorned lattices of her sanashîl. The Mountain is full of secret lights, her marble embracing us as in a soft, green canopy, announcing spring and all the hopes it brings.

Hope, but also remembrance.

And Zulu 'Azughâl.

The day of those who are warriors – the day we remember them even though they are no more. The day we kneel upon their tomb, laying down a gift to tell their Souls they are still revered, and cherished, even though the Dwarrows we loved are no more.

We are all warriors. There is no difference between miner and swordsman, between toy-maker and goldsmith, between Dwarrowdams and Dwarrows. We all endure. We all strive. We all fight hard for our days to hold meaning and purpose, to endure and entrust our children with a better world. We lead our wars, day after day, in our never-ending quest for peace.

And this you knew, Thorin. Do you remember Zulu 'Azughâl, in the Ered Luin – the way it became more than a day for battle-deeds, the way you managed to share Erebor's strong-word with each and every Dwarrow, Longbeards, Broadbeams and Firebeards alike…?

Mahizli.

Remember.

The word your grandfather chose, to fuel his ardour in rebuilding something, in telling the world that he remembered friends and allies, and never forgave traitors and foes.

The word you chose to try and unite them all – the remaining Longbeards, left broken and bleeding, and the Broadbeams and Firebeards that had lost their trust and their hope. Gauging you. Waiting for you to show them what was in you, what you would give them – if you would treat them right or simply use them, looking down on them as lower tribes.

You never did. Never.

They had lost Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol, long ago. And we had lost Gundabad, Zeleg’ubraz, Khazad-Dûm, and Azsâlul'abad. We had all suffered losses. We all had memories of better days engrained in our mind and Souls, like veins of ore in rock and stone.

You were no King of gilded Halls, Thorin. You knew dirt, and mud, and soot – you shed sweat and blood for them, and tears of anger as well, because people still dared to look down on us, because some Dwarven tribes turned their back on their own kin.

Not anymore. Dáin has us united again – and though I wonder what you would have said, and done, though I cannot help but think you would have found it very hard to forgive the Orocarni for their coldness and carelessness, I am glad we are.

I have had enough of war, Thorin. I am still fighting, teaching the lads mostly – it is my way to stay close to you, somehow each time I move in battle I see you, the shadow of a swift, dark-haired shape, so skilled, so unique… Sometimes they must wonder why I smile, what I see beyond their tiny shoulders – but they never ask. They just do as I tell them, because believe it or not, Thorin, they actually fight for a lesson with me…

And I take them all in. One after the other. Because they all deserve it, because none of them is above the other. And at the end of each lesson, they bow, gravely, just like you used to with your own masters – and the smallest of them hug me, tightly, because I help them cleaning their weapons, and because I never repeat any secrets they entrust me with, in the sheltered corners of the armoury that is now restored, just like you would have loved to see it.

Of course I remember, Thorin. Who do you take me for? Whose name would fill my Zulu 'Azughâl but yours, and the lads'...?

 

Hers.

 

Is it a whisper or the echo of my own thoughts, Thorin? I often have this strange, doubtful impression that something between us endures – how else is it to be explained, that bone-deep conviction that you just spoke, that I can almost feel the silken touch of your hair against my shoulder, as if you had just leaned against me…?

It has been twenty-seven years, Thorin. And the first hurt so much I can barely remember them. But gradually, it has lessened. Not the sense of loss, not the pain of having nothing but a marble tomb to kneel upon, and runes to trace with my fingertips, knowing you have found eternal sleep underneath… But the numbness. The feeling of having lost my way.

This has lessened, Thorin. There are still hard days, but it is better now. It is better because there is so much to build, every day, because there are so many little Dwarflings so eager to show me that they matter, that they have life before them and want me to be part of it…

It is better because the fear has gone, as well. The fear of forgetting you. Of letting you slip away and become nothing but a memory. I was so afraid to forget your face, the sound of your voice, the touch of your hands, the swiftness of your moves…

But you are everywhere, Thorin. Everywhere, in a soft, soothing, and deeply right way. You are with me. Sometimes I close my eyes, I fold my arms against my chest and I swear you are here, caught in my embrace for a second… It always warms me up. It makes me feel so alive inside...

I never told anyone. They would think me nuts. Gone soft in the head. I have a reputation to hold, after all, have I not? And what's more… this is private. Between ourselves. I know you, sparrow. You wouldn't want them to know your Soul is such a tender one, would you? If it is your Soul, and not one of my delusions…

You would rather have them abuse you, calling you flawed and mad. Discuss your faults openly, and have them turn away from your tomb. You, the mad King who led his nephews to their ruin…

But you did not.

How many times do I have to tell you, how many times do I have to run my thumb on the runes adorning the marble below which you are stretched, gently removing dust, thinking it looks almost like míthril there, in that secret, shaded light of the crypts…?

She never resented you.

She simply wept. For all of you.

My sarnûna. The greatest warrior of you all – my Queen, my other love, who is now free, and whole, and at peace, because she joined you that autumn, because her tomb is right there, without any dust. Close to the grave of the mother she never knew. Facing her sons'. And yours.

Aye, Thorin. She is in each and everyone of my thoughts. Of course she is. But I only feel relief, now that death claimed her. It has been soft. It has been swift. She has not suffered, and she has lived enough to witness Erebor rise again from her ashes, and help the Mountain to do so.

She left once peace was achieved for good. Once there was nothing left to bind her – no duty, no pressing issue, no need for another leader but Dáin.

And I have been with her, this time. She asked for me, that evening, asked me to come, and she embraced me, as you would have done, her silver-streaked hair spread across my chest.

This time I have been there, Thorin. And she must have known how much it mattered to me – must have known that despite the pain, it also brought healing. To have been able not to fail her. To know I have done everything I could for her. To let her go knowing it had to be so.

This is why I do not weep for her, not today. I just bow before her tomb, I just say her name softly for myself – there is nothing left to say, between us. We already shared it all.

But you, my sparrow…

You, I need to tend to properly. It is so strange, the utter surety I have that, though you are the eldest, though the lads were mere children compared to the warrior you were, it is your Soul that remains restless. Your Soul I have to soothe, once more, because it struggles and quivers like the wings of a caged Raven – and do not deny it, Thorin.

I feel it. Deep inside. I cannot explain it, but I feel it. It aches right below my heart, like a soft sob I cannot seem to get rid off, and it always happens on Zulu 'Azughâl.

Because that day, they say Souls are closer to this world, waiting to be appeased.

 

My fault.

 

My failure.

 

Forgive me.

 

Oh Thorin…

There is nothing to forgive. No fault. No failure.

And yet it hurts. I can feel it. You are so stubborn, Thorin, I bet the Maker Himself is beginning to wonder of which rock exactly your skull is made…

I have a gift, Thorin. I have saved it for today – shaped it, in the past weeks, knowing it would be needed. I could not wait to share it with you – it has been my own, very private silver line to come down and offer it to you.

Because I miss you.

Because I could never get enough of you.

Your turn, now, Thorin. Listen. For my gift to you is a memory.

 


Neo-Khuzdûl translations :

 

- Sanashîl: ahem. No proper Khuzdûl. Arabic actually. It's another word for mashrabiya – oriel windows enclosed with carved wood, their main purpose other than decorating being “see without being seen”, something I find very Dwarven, which is why I use it here.

- Zulu 'Azughâl: the Day of those who are warriors. A completely invented Dwarven celebration where they honour those who have fallen – and as Dwalin says, it does not have to be in war…

- Tumunzahar: Nogrod, lost Dwarven city in the Blue Mountains

- Gabilgathol: Belegost, lost Dwarven city in the Blue Mountains.

- Gundabad: lost Dwarven city in the Misty Mountains.

- Zeleg’ubraz: Golden Stair, a Longbeard city in the Grey Mountains where Thrór grew up – and I think it is canon, this time...

- Khazad-Dûm: uuuuhmmm, Moria? You shall not pass...

- Azsâlul'abad: he he he, it's the Lonely Mountain! I thought that now that Dwalin has found a true place to call home, he tends to name them more openly in Khuzdûl...

- Sarnûna: dancing-lady, Dwalin's nickname for Dís.