Loving Gin

Age Equivalent; 35 to 7 years after Kili's birth.


Traveling cost money. Every one was aware of it. It would cost money for food, lodging, if available. The wagons used to leave Esgaroth were in need of repair, upgrading. Many nights, in the cold, with snow piled on the panes, the dwarves discussed their options, what they expected to find, what they might find, what they would probably find. The move was the easiest part to arrange; the arrival? That was the great unknown.

But dwarves were thrifty, innovative, industrious, and, if anything, many looked forward to the adventure.

Thorin, among others, worked many months in Rohan. There was no living to made in Dunland; the hills were poor in gems and minerals and the people of Dunland, poorer. Gin remarked often that had the Rohirrim knew how poor their northern neighbors were and aided them, perhaps the Dunlandings would not feel the need to hassle or steal from them.

Thorin thought differently. The Dunlindings were an envious people, wanted what others had and used any excuse to take it.

The Horselords paid well, appreciative of the Dwarves' crafting skills. Others, like Dwalin, hired out as mercenaries, guarding merchants, their caravans. The Dunlandings were suspicious, secretive, and the Dwarves kept to themselves, coming down from the hills to barter for necessary goods. When traveling, they stayed away from settlements, curious eyes. It was safer.

As soon as the snows receded, what was left of Durin's Folk moved to the west.



If one asked Thorin, when it was over, he would state quite emphatically that gaining access to Erid Luin was the easiest part about the first season of returning to the Blue Mountains.

Few had escaped the flooding and now, just as few were returning. The fear of caverns turned into underground pools kept not only the Dwarves, but others, from coming back, exploring.

Not that there was much to steal. Iron.

Lots and lots of iron. Veins of it.

The sea had withdrawn, drained out through the lowest caverns. Or perhaps it had evaporated. In the reshaping of the earth, Mahal saw fit to craft a river of fire - a great forge - through the lowest of the lower cavern, keeping the main inner core of the mountain warmer than the summer.

There was mud, seaweed, bones of fish and other... things... littering the cavern floors.

Bones of men... elves... dwarves. Many, many dwarves.

And mud. So much mud. Dried like mortar.

The forges, equipment left behind in the rush to evacuate, were rusted, some beyond recognition as to what they had been.

"Ah, laddie," Balin whispered, his thumbs tucked in his belt, "we have work ahead of us."

"But we have work." Thorin grinned.

"Do not forget who you are," his father reminded him.

"I am a dwarf." Thorin turned a steely gaze to his father. "And a dwarf is not afraid of hard work!"

And work, they did.

It took years, mostly spent cleaning and shoveling. The forges proved difficult to fire, so much sludge blocked the vents. Word spread through out Lindon, the Grey Havens, and Eriador, that the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, Erid Luin, had returned.

One of the first things the Dwarves did was repair and rebuild the gates. Thorin was concerned as he and others had to leave several times to work in other lands and, as they were so few, protection was high on his list of worries. The entrances had been all but destroyed, the hidden door in sad, sad shape. But eventually, the Great Doors were repaired and this alone raised the spirits of the Dwarves.

Another worry had been food; however, they found that game on the west side of the mountain forest was plentiful and the soil on the east side rich with nutrients. Planting began the moment they arrived.

And there was iron. So much iron.

Tumunzahar was cleared first. It took the better part of three years, the bones and remains taken down to the Great Forge, ancient spirits blessed, praised, and released.

The most challenging struggle was the lighting of the main forge. Mahal, Thorin remembered that struggle well. Days and days of attempts, and trials, clearing vents and chimneys...

But the feast they had once it was set aflame...

And when it was lit, the fireflies returned... and the Dûm - the Great Mansion of Tumunzahar was lit as it had not been lit in six thousand years.

But it was not Erebor and deep inside, Thorin knew it.

And Thráin silently wept.

Small conclaves of other Dwarves, whose ancestors had not followed Durin's Folk to Moria and then on to the Grey Mountains, returned when they heard the Iron Mines were reopened. Their people had returned. Many had wandered south, into the Grey Havens, in the southern portions of Erid Luin, Rohan, clinging to the shadows of the White Mountains. Many of these Dwarves answered Thorin's call. There were small conclaves of Dwarven Tribes in Langstrand, in the Pennath Gellin, Ered Nimrais, willing to finally join their brethren, so long separated.

And an iron vein was tapped; so large, the dwarves knew they would be pulling it out of the mountains for hundreds of years.

It was remembered these mines and miners crafted weapons of great renown, including Narsil, the Great Sword of Numenorean Kings. Thorin threw himself into the forging, the smithing. He temporarily forgot he was a Prince, the King's heir.

Thráin stewed, angered there were few jewels or gemstones, fewer precious metals or mithril. He now wore the last Dwarven Ring of Power and the Arkenstone began to call to him... beckon him. Like his father, he could now 'hear' the mithril singing from the Misty Mountains, Khazad-dûm crying out to him and worse, the Arkenstone sobbed, accusing him of abandoning it, sacrificing its beauty and power to the dragon, Smaug.

Thráin yearned for home.

His youngest child - Dís - fell in love with a dwarf her age, one who had never seen Erebor, could not imagine the wonders of her childhood home. Hǫggva's forefathers had journeyed south into Belfalas, near Dol Amroth, where they built and maintained the granite halls of the palace, libraries and statues. The exiled Dwarves of Erebor relished this young love, proof they would survive and grow strong again. It was if it were a promise of spring.

There was mention of moving the kingship back to Tumunzahar.

Thráin put it off. There were other things to worry about, consider. Besides, there was no Arkenstone.

The great tunnels and passages to Gabilgathol, the great Dwarven city to the north were cleared. More bodies were found, more bones sent to the Great Forge, more spirits sent to Mahal to his Hall of Waiting. Finally, Gabilgathol's forges were cleaned, vented...

More iron was found and a few - a very few - precious gemstones.

Gin, in determination of providing an heir to the throne, became pregnant, this time almost carrying to term, but miscarrying yet again, much to hers and Thorin's heartbreak. Her arms ached and she couldn't explain her pain to anyone, or so she thought.

But time moved on and as the years passed, the mines grew. Again, the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains were forging axes, both for work and for weapons, pikes, daggers, swords. Plate armor, shields, and helmets. They had work, there was work, and they prospered, but it wasn't like Erebor. There was no great wealth.

Dís married her granite carver. And loved him.

She had a son. Fili. Golden, the dwarfling walking early and looking so much like the uncle he would only meet after he passed.

She then had a second son. Kili. As dark as his brother was light. And doted on, for his smile hung the moon.

And Gin grieved, wept in Thorin's arms late at night, praying and crying to Mahal for a child to call her own.



Two years after Kili's birth, Með, Thráin's beloved mate, went to sleep next to her husband and did not wake up. It was a shock to Thráin, who could not imagine a life without his beloved. For a time, Thorin and Dís feared their father would follow her, take her body and jump into the Mahal's Forge that ran deep beneath the mountain. The King went through the stages of grief; disbelief, despair, anger, and then acceptance of the inevitable. At her husband's request, they took her down to the fires and set her free, watching her spirit rise with the embers to go to the Halls prepared for them by Mahal.

Dís and Thorin grieved as well. Their mother had been a stately Dwarrow, respected and beloved by all.

Thráin was as stone, carved in the hardest granite. His children, his people tiptoed around him. Thorin did not recognize the dwarf as the father he grew up revering and worshiping. He became unreachable. He hated their circumstances, hated the loss of Erebor, the gold, hated everything. More and more of the ruling of the mountain fell to Thorin.

In the spring, Thráin disappeared.



"Gone?" Thorin rolled from the furs, causing Gin to mumble in her sleep. He patted her on her behind. "Shhh." She was showing early signs of pregnancy again and his heart seized at the thought of her enduring another miscarriage.

He could not bear watching her suffering another loss and truth be told, he could not bear it either.

But now, he had a serious problem. He grabbed his leggings and pulled them on, unmindful of the guard in his room. "Has anyone roused Dwalin? Balin?"

"Someone else has gone to wake them," the guard whispered. "Would you like anyone else?"

Thorin pulled the rawhide belt around his waist, grabbing a tunic from the chair. Crooking his finger, he beckoned the sentinel to follow him from the sleeping chamber to the main room, shutting the door softly behind him. "Trackers. Our best trackers. Call the guard from the main gate. Have them meet me in the King's quarters."

Within ten minutes, more than a dozen dwarves, including the sons of Fundin were standing in the King's Chambers. The guard at the front gate was young, originally from Dol Amroth, not an Erebor refugee, and shaking in his boots. The Prince of Erebor terrified him.

"I wasna asleep, I swear it." The dwarf was damn near stammering, sweat dripping from beneath his helm. "He dinna use the main gate. I was scanning the tree line an' saw movement." He dipped his head at Thorin's glower. "I recognized the King's armor. Tha's how I knew 'twere him." He looked back up, more sweat falling from his brow and dripping into a newly formed beard. "I called out, but he kept movin', as if he dinna hear me."

"How long ago?"

"I sounded the alarm immediately! I swear it!"

The youngster now had drops of perspiration trickling down his braids and onto a sparse - by dwarven standards - beard. Thorin saw the terror in the young one's eyes and reached out to reassure him, noting that the dwarf flinched, as if he expected to be struck. "I am sure you did. How long ago and who stands guard now?"

"Steinn does, from Erebor," Balin spoke up. "He says had the boy not seen the shadow in the woods, he would have missed the king himself. Thrain hasna been gone moren half an hour, at the most." He smiled benignly at the watchkeeper. "You have done well, young Standa."

"Grab packs, provision. Group into clusters of three and head after him. Can you be ready in ten minutes?" The group nodded. All dwarves were packed at the ready to leave, hunt, at a moment's notice anymore, as they had ever been. "Good. I will meet you at the gates. You," he pointed at Standa, "have earned the rest of the night-"

"But I want to go!" Suddenly, he wasn't wheezing so much anymore, nor sweating. "My father was a tracker and he taught me as well."

"Is your father here?"

"Aye."

"Wake him. Bring him as well."

The group dispersed, all heading in different directions. Thorin re-entered his and Gin's chambers, to find the rooms lit, Gin up and his backpack readied with his ax and sword.

"Do you want arrows as well?" She set down a rucksack, filled with Mahal knew what and two water skins.

Thorin shook his head. "My father has gone on a journey and has decided not to take anyone with him." He moved passed her into their sleeping chambers, grabbing clothing suited for heavy travel.

"He is not himself," Gin whispered. She turned and watched Thorin's shadow play along their bedroom wall. "He mumbles to himself." She lifted sad eyes to her husband, hunting him out. "He hates what his greed is doing to him. He hates the Ring of Power he wears, he hates his crown."

"And yet he falls deeper and deeper into sickness." Thorin's voice echoed from the semi-darkness. There was a thud, the sound of a body banging into a sturdy piece of furniture. "OW! Mahal's Balls!"

"THORIN!" Finally Gin went into the room, lighting lamps and pulling a few things from baskets. She tossed a heavy coat to him. "It is still chilly in the night and you will be traveling through brush and Mahal knows what." She stopped his retort and shook a finger at him. "Do not start with me about the heartiness or stubbornness of dwarves; I know this for fact."

He caught her gently by the wrist. "Some are more hearty and stubborn than others, beloved." His voice was a caress. "When I return, we will speak of the secret you are keeping from me." He kissed her before she could respond. "I know the signs as well as you now. Do not insult me by saying you did not know." With that, he picked up the satchels and left, headed to the front gate.

For some days, no one saw braid nor hair of the trackers, the king, or the prince. Outwardly, his wife was a paragon of serenity and stout hope, but Gin fretted privately, as did Dís and Thorin's nephews.

By week's end, most of the trackers had returned, coming up with nothing. As the sun set on the sixth day, Thorin trudged up the main walkway, exhaustion on his face. Upon hearing that her husband had returned, Gin met him in the Main Entrance, embracing him.

"You are tired, worn. What news of the king?"

Thorin let her lead him back to their chambers, promising his father's advisors he would speak with them in the morning. Once the door was shut and their privacy ensured, Gin set food on the table while heating the water for a bath. Seeing the tired set of his broad shoulders, she poured warming, relaxing oils in the bath, watching as Thorin stuffed himself.

"You eat as if you've not eaten since you left."

"Only what you packed. We were busy moving through the lowlands, trying to catch my father."

"Too busy to hunt food."

"Aye." He picked up the chalice of ale set before him with an appreciative grunt. Only when he was finished and was stripping his clothes off in a path to the bathtub did he speak. "Dwalin and Balin joined me. Dwalin is the best tracker we have and the brawniest arm." This was true. Dwalin's skills were better as a strong arm than a miner; the only dwarf Gin knew that was taller than her husband - who was very tall for a dwarf. The burly Ereborian was known to track the stealthiest wolf through the densest forest to his death. "I had no idea my father was still capable of moving so quickly. It took three days to catch up with him." Now stripped to his skin, Thorin climbed over into the tub and sank into gratefully.

"You didn't bring him back."

"No. He is determined to reclaim Erebor. He is traveling back, hoping the dragon is dead or he can convince the other dwarves to aid him in reclaiming it." He accepted the goblet of ale, freshly refilled. "There is a madness in his eyes, Gin. A different sort that my grandfather's." For a time, he stared off through the steam, at the rocky wall, while his wife sat next to him silently. "Balin and Dwalin have joined him, hoping to bring him to his senses. They would not have him travel alone."

"And you did not join him?"

"And who would care for our people?" Finally Thorin sought out her face. "I hated leaving him behind. But he refuses to be king, so I must be in his stead. At least he agreed to allow Fundin's sons to join him. Twice," he snorted, "he called Dwalin, Fundin. I think it amused my friend." With that, he took his wife's hand, squeezing it. "I fear... I fear I will never see him alive again. I do not wish this burden."

Gin sat quietly, knowing that words would not help her husband's situation. He would be damned by some of their people no matter what choice he made - to follow his father, leaving them leaderless, or returning back to Erid Luin as he had, leaving his father. At least Balin and Dwalin stayed with Thráin, keeping him as safe as possible.

She prayed they kept him safe. The decision was a no win for Thorin, and they both knew it. There were those who would grumble regardless of what decision Thorin made. It was a shock when she felt Thorin's strong fingers caress her beard, finger the sapphire beads in the braids. "When did you plan to tell me?"

Gin knew what he was talking about. He stated such before he left. She hung her head, peeking up, hoping that coy look would soften him. "I was not sure-"

"Do not lie to me." The rebuke was not sharp and stated with a smile.

"I was not sure," she reiterated firmly. Seeing he was not going to back down, Gin sighed. "I would have mentioned it by now. This is true, husband."

Thorin snorted in what would have passed as ire to most. He stood up, the water cascading down his body and reached for a bath linen. He reached for the plug, before stepping out of the tub, leaving water everywhere, as was his wont. "We need to talk."

"Should we not rejoice?" she snapped.

"GIN! We have discussed this!"

"No, we have not! You made a decision and did not take my desires into consideration!"

Thorin's look darkened. "I have taken your health, you very being into consideration because you refuse to do so!" This took her aback. Never had Thorin raised his voice to her and as he continued, his voice grew louder. "You have refused to use the herbs and lore to prevent a pregnancy and I have done everything possible to prevent it!"

"Thorin, I am your wife!" This stopped him for a moment. "It is my duty to provide you with an heir!"

"I have an heir!"

"You have nephews!" she cried. "Younglings I adore, as do you! But you need an heir of your girth, your body!"

"Gin-"

"You do not hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. Thorin, Prince of Erebor, heir to the throne choose a barren wife! A wife he should set aside-"

"No!"

"-Yes! A wife he should set aside so he can marry a fertile Dwarrow! They say you should take a mistress, anyone, to bear you a child! They say I am a failure of a wife, not fit to stand by your side!"

Thorin's look grew darker. "Who is saying this? I will carve out their tongue!"

"I would not tell you!" Her voice fell. "I feel I am a disappointment to you."

He hung his head. Whether her words were true or not, they rang proper in her mind. His wife, felt as a failure for something she could not control. Suddenly, things made sense. More times than he cared to count, he awoke in the night, to find his wife had hardened him in his sleep and was riding him to completion. As erotic as it had been for him, it now took on a more sinister, desperate meaning.

"Gin. before we married, I asked you if you would marry me if I were a simple miner. Do you remember your answer?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I was furious you would think such."

"Well then. If I knew then that bearing a child would be impossible for you, I would have married you anyway and I would be furious at anyone who said I should not chose you to wive. I am equally infuriated you would think such." He took both tiny hands in his huge one. "Listen to me. If you miscarry this babe and refuse to use the lore afterwards, we will take up separate apartments. I would rather spill my seed on the ground than worry for you losing yet another child. You mean more to me than an heir. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye." It was reluctant sigh.

Gin was put to bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. She hated it, Thorin hated it, but if she were so determined to bear fruit...

Weeks passed. The mountain settled back into a routine, a routine that included a wandering king, and a prince who worried about his father and his people as much as he worried about his wife.

Late in the fall, Dwalin and Balin returned to the mountain, without Thráin. He wandered off and despite the brothers best efforts, no sign of him was found. Both were bereft.

A month after that, Gin miscarried again.

They called Thorin from the iron mine, where he was digging his frustration at the lack of information about his father out on a particularly deeply imbedded vein of iron. Tearing through the caverns, he arrived in his apartments to find healers, midwives, Dís, carrying bloody sheets from their chambers, the looks on their faces... he knew, he KNEW this would be the last time. He entered the chamber, ignoring the basket with the small, yet perfectly formed baby girl, prematurely snuffed from life.

"Thorin?"

He made it to the furs, swallowing back. "Yes, Gin. I am here." He climbed in, not knowing what else to do.

Gin reached up and stroked his cheek. "A girl. We have had a girl. I heard her cry. She is well?"

Thorin's jaw flagged. He looked at Dís who shook her head. No. The babe had not cried, but what need to tell his wife that. "She is beautiful, Gin. Just like her mother."

"You should name her." Her breath was light, a whisper. "You should name her."

For a moment, Thorin looked upwards, focusing on the fireflies gathering in the upper reaches of the cavern. "Hyrr-hrjóta. We will call her 'Hyrr' for short."

Gin snorted. "Only you... would name our... baby... 'Bug'." She snuggled into the embrace of her husband. "I am cold, Thorin. Why is it so cold?"

He motioned for more furs and held her tight, waiting for that final breath.

And when it came, Thorin held on for some time, before rising from their bed. He looked in the basket, noting that yes, this little... bug... was definitely beautiful.

Then without saying a word, he went down into the caverns, ignoring the looks, the condolences from those he passed, to where they stored the granite and began to shape a coffin.

tbc


Steinn - Rock, stone
Hǫggva - Carve
Standa - stand (firm) (v); get up; take up a position; be in a place
Tumunzahar. - south Dwarven strong hold of the Blue Mountains
Gabilgathol, - north Dwarven strong hold of the Blue Mountains
Hyrr-hrjóta - Fire-fly