Chapter Text
The dead, Thorin was realising, are different from the living in two important ways. The first was that the dead had nothing left to prove. The second was that they had no escape from regret.
Six months had passed since the battle, as the living count it- but time felt different, now, both slipping from the hands like meaningless sand, and heavy with slowness, each time Thorin allowed himself to think of- but no- he would not.
Yes, time felt different to the dead- not just Thorin, but all dead who dwelt under the Mountains of Mahal- at the centre of which was the Hall where the Vala himself took audience. Where dwarrow could look upon their Maker, and even speak with him.
This Hall had been described to Thorin: bright, glowing like a great orb of fire- emanating from the forge within. The orb seemed to float, resting on nothing, and a deep, bottomless chasm yawned below it. The one path to the Hall was a narrow stone bridge impossibly suspended over the chasm. It was over a mile long.
The immense cavern, at the centre of which floated this orb-like Hall, was an orrery- massive models of numerous celestial bodies orbited the Hall. They were incredible works of shining metal. At the furthest reaches of the cavern, glowing constellations traversed the darkness.
At least, that was how it was described to Thorin. What was meant by “numerous celestial bodies,” he wasn’t sure. But the purpose was clear- it was a measurement of time, in a place flung far on the other side of forever.
Thorin had not visited the Cavern of the Hall, had not appeared before his maker Mahal, though any and every dwarf could. Thorin had not been to many places at all in these Mountains of the Dwarven Dead. He avoided places, and people. He did not have to eat, after all, and join them in their feasts. Most days he stayed in his forge, heating and hammering one perfect sword after another. One for each of the hundreds who had died because of him.
Sometimes he would set aside his project, and simply stare into the fire. He felt he could turn into stone, if he stared long enough, sat still long enough. If he turned to stone, then forever would feel like nothing: just like he felt nothing.
This was exactly what Thorin was doing, when Frerin knocked on the door. Thorin knew it was Frerin- only his little brother visited him these days. Others, he’d been able to scare off with his dark words or general cantankerous behaviour. And his nephews… well…
Thorin returned to his work, feeding the fire as Frerin let himself in.
“I see you’re pounding your misery into yet another exquisite weapon- you know your brothers in battle are all feasting at the great table of Mahal for Muhudtuzahmerag? Even if they do accept your Griever’s Gift, none will be interested in using them for swordplay today.”
Thorin grunted, reaching for his hammer.
“There is another, Thorin.”
The seriousness in Frerin’s tone made Thorin look up.
“So late? It’s been half a year. But if I missed one, I shall go see him. Take me to him.”
Frerin led Thorin on a winding path, to a remote corner he had never been to. Again, not that Thorin had been many places. Up many lifts and finally ending on a platform with winding stone steps, by the light of one torch, they climbed. More than a thousand of these steps, by Thorin’s guess, before arriving finally at a chamber open to the sky. It was nightfall. Stars spilled across the sky like face powder on black marble.
The chamber itself was utterly dark, but there were soft sounds and movements here and there, as though perhaps the chamber itself was alive. After a while, Thorin recognised the sounds. It had been a while since he heard them. They were the soft flutterings of wings.
Suddenly, a great shadow descended on the two dwarrow, blotting out the stars. Thorin had no time to think, but brought out his arm on instinct- upon it, a giant raven landed.
“Roäc!” Thorin recognised him immediately- but he seemed restored to his youth- no longer bald and decrepit, blinding in one eye- indeed now in the land of the dead he had seven eyes, and a third foot firmly grasped Thorin’s arm. Thorin politely ignored the changes. He could feel himself smiling- a rare occurrence these days.
“Friend of my Sire,” Roäc tilted his head in greeting, let out a soft squawk. “Let us go to a corner where we will not disturb those sleeping above. Follow me.” He lifted off from Thorin’s arm and flapped in great slow flaps, taking a path for Thorin and Frerin to follow, until they came to an alcove with a window carved out of the side of the mountain and reaching high up. Wind howled and seemed to swirl in the rafters. Roäc’s feathers tousled in the wind- but Thorin could feel it not.
“I did not know such a chamber existed, nor that Ravens could roost here.”
“Not just any can come to this place. We are the Ravens of Mahal, sought out by your Maker and invited to be of service in his mountains. Ravens can do many things after life, but it is certainly an honour to serve one of the Valar, especially the one who made the Sun.”
“So you are dead, then.”
“And at your fault, nadad!” Frerin interjected cheerfully. “Since you love making Griever’s Gifts instead of being with your family or learning from your ancestors, I thought you’d be happy to know you have one more to make.”
Thorin glowered at him, and Frerin met his eye with a glint of real anger. Frerin was the only one who had kept his patience with him, and now Thorin could see that perhaps he’d taken it for granted. He looked away, let out a sigh.
“I am… obligated…”
“You have all of eternity to make Griever’s Gifts, Thorin. Stop this madness.”
“Then why did you bring me here??!” Thorin snapped.
The silence hung thick in the air. Finally, Frerin spoke.
“It isn’t worth anything to see your friend, beyond lamenting how you faulted him?”
“It’s his life, Frerin!” Thorin gestured angrily toward Roäc, noticing dimly how rude he was being. Roäc let out a soft croon.
“You dwarrow are strange, how you think of life and death.”
As if agreeing, the wind picked up in the rafters, letting out a ghostly howl. The wood of the perches creaked.
Thorin took a deep breath, calmed himself.
“Forgive me, Roäc. You are a prince among Ravens, and I am acting rudely. Not just to you, but to all whom I’ve encountered here, even family.” He chanced a glance to Frerin, whose glare softened a bit. “Yet can you blame me, with the burden of guilt I have? I am the cause of so much death and destruction. Even yours, apparently. Praytell, how did you die?”
If Roäc could have smiled, he might have in that moment- it was hard to tell in the light of Frerin’s torch.
“After the battle at Erebor, I braved a journey to the Blue Mountains to deliver the message of your and your nephews’ deaths to your sister, the Lady Dís.”
Dís.
So this is why Frerin brought me here. To fight with me about Dís once more.
“The others said I was too old to fly so far,” Roäc continued, “But I wanted to be the one to tell her. She and my lifemate were close, when she was a hatchling in Erebor. But when I flew too near the Old Forest, I was shot down. By a Man of Bree, I believe, who thought I was an ill omen.”
“I am grieved, to discover this. Especially to hear that you were shot over the Old Forest. Your body fell in dark places. None shall recover it.”
“Only those who are bound to walk upon the earth care where their body is laid underneath it. But as it happens, my body was recovered. By a hobbit.”
A Hobbit.
Thorin’s heart thudded so hard in his chest he was sure the others could hear it. He had not allowed himself to think about the hobbit- whom he owed so much, whom he treated so badly. A thousand years of grieving could not clear his heart of this.
But he could not feel angry at his brother, even if Frerin had known about that. All he could feel was the sorrow flooding him.
The hobbit that found Roäc’s body could not be- there must be hundreds of hobbits. Thousands, possibly.
Roäc continued to preen under his wing.
“Understand well: for Ravens, life is the training ground for death. Life is the nest. In death, we fly the nest. My work has only just begun. You need not offer me your grief. Offer me, instead, your joy.”
“I offer…” It was hard to say it. Thorin had no joy in his heart to give. “I offer you my congratulations.” He reached out gently and stroked the sleek feathers on Roäc’s crest. Then, a thought occurred to him. “If you fell from the sky six months ago, why did you only just now appear here?”
“Ravens are busy folk, master Dwarf,” Roäc had a twinkle in his eye. “We have many things to do and places to go after we die, before we choose our next roost.”
“I envy you then, that you can move so freely between the Realms.”
Roäc’s look darkened, and he tilted his head sharply.
“You have some of that power, yourself, yet you do not use it. Do you truly not wish to speak to your sister?”
So even Roäc has heard.
“I did not mean-”
Frerin shook his head in disgust.
“Five times, nadad. Five times, she has tried-”
Finally, Thorin broke.
“I wish it more than anything!”
Roäc and Frerin went still at that.
“I wish it more than anything.” It was a relief to finally say the words out loud. “I wish to see my sister. More than anything. Of course I do. But she would not wish to see me.”
Roäc seemed to study Thorin for a long moment. Frerin seemed to want to say something, but he refrained, deferring to the Elder bird.
“Are you sure of that?”
Thorin had no answer to that. He looked between his little brother, from whom he was parted for a hundred years, and the Raven he met just days before his death. He could not tell what was behind the eyes of either- except perhaps a growing impatience with him.
“As it is,” he mumbled after a moment, “I have no words. There is nothing I can say to comfort her or take her down from this ledge. I have nothing to offer her.”
The first time Fíli, Kíli and Thorin saw Dís, it was like a veil had been drawn back. Dís was kneeling, in snow, clouded as though in a vision, although her voice was clear as day. Fíli and Kíli sank to their knees and wept. They called out to her, begged her to not yet come. To wait for them, as they were now waiting for her. They reached out, tried to touch her.
But Thorin held back.
The winter that unfolded from there stormed with brutal snows. Another Fell Winter, the Men in the towns were calling it, though the mountains got the worst of it. But even so, Dís kept returning to the woods, kept trailing the Stag that brought her to the brink of death. Five times, she found him again. Five times, she could do nothing but sink into the snow. But it bought her a few minutes- a precious few minutes- to see her sons, to talk to her sons once more.
But never Thorin.
He didn’t think he could explain it to them, even if he tried. How it felt to see her there, in the mists behind the veil. Her pleading eyes, her living breath. She would not see him, unless he appeared to her. But how could he? He robbed her of her sons. Her behaviour was so reckless. What might she do, if she saw him- worse- what would it do to her?
“You might be surprised,” Roäc crooned, as though reading the path of his thoughts. “I’ve delivered messages for a century and a half. Those who dare to speak can often find the right words, when the moment comes.”
Thorin gave a small nod. He did not agree- could not agree- but he would argue no longer. “Frerin is right.” He turned to his brother. “You’ve been right all along, nadai. Should she appear again in the mists, I will step forward, and I will speak to her.”
Frerin broke into a grin Thorin hadn’t seen in- he didn’t know how long. He stepped forward so abruptly, Roäc had to lift off. He clapped Thorin’s shoulder.
“I knew it. I knew you would see the truth. I must go- I must tell Fíli and Kíli right away. We will make preparations-” He stopped abruptly to regard his brother once more, suddenly embracing him. “I’ll see you soon. Do not worry. We will help you. You will be ready.” He took off down the winding steps.
Roäc had landed nearby, on a low perch.
“He loves you greatly, Thorin King Under the Mountain.”
“Do not call me that- please. If I could go back in time and leave behind that claim, I would gladly. I’d pass it on to Dís- she would have done a much better job with it, I think.”
Roäc fidgeted on his perch- perhaps still getting used to his third leg- then finally settled, letting out a low croon of agreement. They shared a moment of quiet.
Finally, he couldn’t bear it any longer.
“This hobbit…”
“A lass,” Roäc was so fast in his response, Thorin couldn’t doubt he’d been expecting the question. “Just began her tweens, if my judgement is correct. She found me within the Old Forest, and brought me to a farmland on its border. She and her friend buried me at the foot of a scarecrow.”
“A nice touch,” Thorin was able to rasp. It wounded deeper than he realised it would, to hear of the raven’s death.
“A kind gesture, and imaginative, as young hatchlings usually can be.”
The Raven tilted his head, regarding Thorin carefully.
“Your hobbit is heavy on your mind, I see.”
Thorin shifted uncomfortably. “He is not my hobbit. I have no claim over him.”
“No claim, no claim,” and Thorin remembered that Ravens tended to repeat words they found senseless. “We can watch over him, you know. We Ravens of Mahal can choose to render to a dwarf any service of which we are capable. We are invisible to the living. We would not be seen. We can even deliver things, as long as they are already in that world. Sadly, I cannot take anything to him from here. Nor can I speak to him. None can hear us- none of the races that walk on two legs, at least.”
Thorin knew he had no business considering Roäc’s proposal.
“I cannot impose on him like that. He would not want me reaching out to him.”
“So certain, you always are, that you are not wanted.”
Thorin closed his eyes.
“Some things are easier to destroy than most would like to admit,” he growled, “and my mistakes have been destructive, indeed.”
“Destructive, indeed. What about your sister, then? Your sister-sons already have a team of ravens watching her. And they have reached her through the Chamber of Mysts.”
That took Thorin aback. He had heard of the Chamber of Mysts- every dwarf learned quickly of this way to speak to their loved ones. Most, however, rarely tried it, if ever.
“That is a dangerous risk. Do they not deepen her torment, reaching into her dreams?”
“A dangerous risk. The ravens say she is calm in the mornings after they speak to her stone.”
“That is my sister-sons, however- not me.”
“Not you, so you insist,” Roäc might have sighed. Thorin couldn’t tell.
“What about the hobbit?”
“What about the hobbit?” Thorin realised that dwarrow, too, might have a habit of repeating things incomprehensible to them.
“Have you tried to speak to him, in his dreams?”
“Even if I could- but you know as well as I, I cannot. The Chamber of Mysts is for dwarrow alone. And even then, it must be close kin.”
“Dwarrow alone. You cannot. How do you know?”
“You must call on them by their dark name, of course. You must be close enough to them to know their dark name. That is how the danger is lessened.”
“And the hobbit doesn’t have a dark name?”
Thorin fell silent. But only for a moment.
“Of course not,” he said. “He is not a dwarf.”
“Of course not,” the Raven echoed.
***
Thorin couldn’t sleep. And sleeplessness led to walking for long hours along the exquisite corridors of the Halls of Waiting. But after many nights, Thorin could no longer deny that his wanderings were leading him to the Chamber of Mysts.
In front of its grey doors, in the silence and the torchlight, Thorin stood now.
He stood still as stone for long minutes before finally opening the door.
Thorin had not dared enter here before. Fíli and Kíli told him in energetic detail what he would find here. But that was not the same as finding it.
The mist was thick as the steam of water quelching hot iron- yet still as a tomb. A narrow path of crumbled stone laid before him was all he could see. He followed the path, his steps upon the gravel echoing all around him. This path knew him, as Fíli had described it would- it was for him and him alone. It would lead him to a stone that could help him.
Finally, he came to a small stone statue, little more than a pillar with delicate prongs holding a crystal. A large quartz-like crystal, clear yet laden with many deep and lovely cracks and fissures, reflecting softly the light of two torches at its sides that for the moment bade away the fog.
Thorin dare not try to reach his sister in her dreams. Not in the state she was in. Not until they could speak face to face- if through a veil, then at least with no illusions. But Roäc’s suggestion would not leave him at peace.
He spoke in a whisper out loud, knowing that first, the dark name was needed.
“Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.”
It wasn’t a dark name. It was a common name. But hobbits were straightforward folk, with few secrets. Maybe a common name would suffice.
The crystal glowed not. His nephews had said: when the crystal could grant his wish, it would glow. Thorin tried again.
“Bilbo son of Bungo. A Baggins of Bag End.” But for the torches, the air remained dark.
If Bilbo had a dark name, surely it was of a dwarvish nature. Dark names were a gift to dwarrow. What was Bilbo to his dwarf friends?
“Burglar.”
The crystal did not light. Suddenly Thorin caught himself, shook his head with almost a chuckle. His intended recipient may speak Westron, but these stones surely didn’t.
“Akdâmuthrab.”
Thief.
For one brief moment, it seemed like the crystal pulsed with light. But it was gone so quickly, Thorin could not be sure. So he pressed on.
The hobbit was not just any thief. He was contracted by Thorin and his Company. There was a different word for that.
“Tharabâl.” Burglar. Expert Treasure-hunter.
Nothing.
What did the hobbit steal, after all? It was not so simple as the boon of a troll’s pockets, or a dragon’s cup, or even the Arkenstone, from the line of Thror. From the Mountain.
From Thorin himself.
What did Bilbo steal, really? Beyond contracts. Beyond promises kept and broken.
Thorin took a deep breath, let his voice come out low as the song of the earth.
“Akdâmuthrab Kurduaz.”
Heart Thief.
The crystal glowed as quick as a candle. It glowed a bright light, a glow that seemed to live and pulse.
The way was open, for Thorin to speak.
But, Roäc’s advice be damned- He could not find the words at all. All he could find himself saying, over and over, as he sank to his knees, was:
“I’m sorry- I’m sorry-
I’m so sorry, ghivashel.
I’m so sorry.”
***