Chapter Text
When Fili was born, Erebor had already been lost. He didn’t remember the sweet air of the lower caverns as his mother did or the give of a pick against stone as his father did. He had never walked through the great halls or wound down spindly pathways into the vast caverns. He had never stolen bread from the King’s kitchens or played with flawed stones in the royal creche. Yet these things lived within him, suckled from his mother as readily as milk and poured in his ear by his father’s steady voice.
Fili was of Erebor. He knew this as he knew his parents’ love and the color of the sky.
He was already seven the first time he heard the name Thorin. Later he would wonder why it took so long. Perhaps it had been said to him before and he was too young to grasp the meaning of it.
It was early afternoon in a mild Spring. They were moving again, his father’s cart laden with fine filigree along with pots and pans. Tona, the donkey, stopped on a verdant bank and would not be moved until she had her fill of the grass. Fili’s mother carried him down to the running creek.
“Look,” she pointed, “see how the fish jump?”
“Can I catch one?” He asked, taken by the shining scales.
“Being a fisherman is no easy thing.” His father laughed, breaking off a branch from a tree and tying a bit of string to it. With a few clever twists, a hook was fashioned and his father showed him how to dip his line into the water.
“Don’t let Thorin catch on you’re showing him things like that.” His mother scolded. “It’s elves that dash about in the waters.”
“Thorin’s pride keeps him fed.” His father sighed. “But it will not fill my son’s stomach.”
“Who’s Thorin?” Fili asked, eyes fixed on the ripples his hook made where it bobbed in the water.
“Your uncle, my Beryl.” She smiled. “You’ve met him once, but you were too small to remember. You’ll see him again soon.”
There was a tug on the line and with a gleeful laugh, Fili pulled a fish from the creek.
“Well done, boy.” His father clapped him on the shoulder.
He doesn't remember if they ate the fish or threw it back. Instead, he recalled the sadness in his father’s eyes and the hushed reverence of his mother when she spoke her brother’s name. He knew that the mythical ‘soon’ arrival of his uncle turned into two years.
His father’s tinkering brought them to Pelargir where they settled into an apartment near the port. Every morning, his father would set out with his cart and make rounds to mend the pots and pans of fishwives. His mother took in washing, spending hours over a steaming pot of water until her hair escaped her careful braids and frizzed into a dark halo around her face. Fili helped her, stirring the great pot until his arms ached. In the evening, his father came back tired and worn thin. Fili would bring out the small stool for his feet and his mother would cook. She always complained that this or that ingredient wasn’t quite right, but Fili always though her thick stews, nutty breads and roasts were perfect.
When they’d lived in Pelargir for half a year, his mother made a dinner Fili had never had before: a thick honey cake that oozed with sweet cheese topped with walnuts. She usually said that there wasn’t enough honey for such indulgence and he ate his portion up quickly before she changed her mind.
“I know this bread.” His father rumbled, taking the first tentative bite. “But you have already cooked it for me once.”
“And so I have again.” Her smile was pained. “Not many men can say they’ve had that luxury of it twice in such a short span.”
“When?” His father asked.
“Five months. Maybe six.”
“When what?” Fili asked, licking the last of the sticky honey from his fingertips.
“My Beryl.” His mother knelt down next to him. She took his plate and set it on the floor, then took his small hands in hers. “You’re going to be a big brother.”
“Am I?” He looked to his father, who nodded solemnly. “But why? Aren’t I enough?”
“You are.” She assured him. “Mahal saw fit to bless us with another child, my Beryl. He saw how good you were, you see.”
Yet later, when he was meant to be asleep, he could hear them talking through the crack under his door.
“How will we do this?” His mother wept. “How can we bring another child into this life?”
“It’s not so bad.” His father reassured. “There’s work here. If we save enough over the next few years, I can open my own forge.”
“And what human will step from their own kind’s shop to use your services?” She snapped. “Don’t feed me hope where there is none to be had.”
“And do not abandon it so easily.” His father didn’t sound angry, only very tired. “Fili has been our jewel, our riches. Maybe I cannot double our fortunes, but you can.”
There was a quiet pause and Fili flung back his blankets to creep to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood. The silence went on too long and though he couldn’t say why, he became afraid.
“In my parents’ rooms there was a cradle.” Said his mother at last. “Worked iron that shone like silver. It was my mother’s once and then mine. She often told me that one day it would belong to my children.”
“Aye, my family had one too. Though I doubt ours was as fine.”
“Every time I think that I have mourned the last bit of it and there are no more tears....” She stirred, her thick skirts rustling against the floor. “How good it would have be to put my baby down in that cradle.”
“We will forge a new one.” His father told her. The silence came again, stretching so long this time that Fili began to yawn. He went back to his nest of blankets and heard no more.
The very next evening, his father swung Fili up onto his shoulders and took him outside to the cart. The cradle was the first thing Fili helped to create. Each bar had been held by his small hands, waiting to be handed to his father and every joint bore a few smacks of his own hammer.
“I helped!” He crowed when his father unveiled their masterpiece.
“Did you, my Beryl?” She picked him up and held him very tightly. “It’s very beautiful. What a good smith you are.”
“Don’t be sad.” He buried his head in her shoulder.
“I’m not sad.” She kissed his cheek. “How can I be with such a clever little boy?”
The cradle took a place of honor near the fire though it stayed empty for many more months. Fili watched his mother’s belly grow rounder and his father’s smile widen. Now when he came home in the evening, it was mother who sat and put her feet on the stool. Father cooked in her stead. He added more spices and tried different dishes. Fili learned to like mutton the way the humans cooked it and fell in love with mince pies.
“You’ll turn him into a Gondorian.” His mother complained as she stripped meat from bone with her teeth.
“It will take much more than dinner for that.” His father laughed. “Or are you in danger of shaving off your chin hairs and wearing linen skirts?”
“What a terrible thing to say!” His mother scolded through her own giggles.
“I want a Gondorian sword.” Fili mashed his peas to a pulp, then ate the mash.
“A human blade?” His father tsked. “Nay, when you’re old enough I’ll take you to a proper forge, my lad. You’ll make your own weapons as it should be.”
“You made your axe?” He asked, peas forgotten.
“When I was fifty, my father showed me the way of it.” His father gestured wildly with his fork. “I forged three and melted them back down again until he was satisfied with my work. Then he took that axe and sold it and made me do three more. ‘One day this will be all that stands between you and death’, he told me, ‘so make it perfect.’ And when you’re fifty, I’ll say the same to you.”
“Fifty?” Fili whined. “But that’s so long from now.”
“I’ll come quicker than you think.” His mother added another scoop of peas to his plate. “Eat, my Beryl.”
He ate, submitted to a wet washcloth on his hands and face, then retreated to the fire to play with his wooden soldiers. His mother and father sat talking at the table about nothing interesting. Then his mother grunted softly, one hand pressed to her belly.
“Is it time?” His father asked and she nodded once sharply. “I’ll fetch Bana.”
“No.” His mother righted herself. “I bore one child with only you by my side, I can do it again.”
“You don’t have to be without the company of women.”
“What use is Bana to me? She isn’t my sister, mother, aunt or cousin. Did she ask me to let down her braids when she got married? Did she light a candle for my dead with me on Zokar? Did she offer me sweetmeats when I told her I was pregnant?”
“She’s not of our halls. Those aren’t her traditions.”
“Exactly.” His mother heaved herself to her feet. “I bore one babe in the wilderness with only our arms as cradle and branches as roof. Surely I can do another in the comfort of our own room.”
“What about Fili?”
Fili sat back on his haunches, one soldier firm in his hand.
“I can help.” He offered.
“You can.” His mother decided. “There is still washing to be folded for Malis. Can you finish that for me?”
“Yes.” He got to his feet at once and went to the wicker hamper full up with fresh clean shirts.
“Good.” She kissed him on the forehead. “When you’ve finished, drink a glass of goat’s milk then go to bed.”
“But I’ll miss the baby coming.”
“I’ll wake you.” His father promised, guiding his mother by the elbow into their bedroom.
It didn’t take long to fold the rest of the washing. He did the neat tucks and folds that his mother had taught him. His father sang in the other room, snippets of melodies and lullabies that had coaxed Fili to sleep on many less exciting nights. With exacting obedience, he poured a glass of goat’s milk and drank it down even though it was too warm.
He brought a stubby candle to his bedroom, intending to stay up, but his body betrayed him. He woke to his father’s hand on his shoulder with the candle long ago snuffed out.
“You have a brother!” His father crowed. “Would you like to see him?”
“Yes.” Fili scrambled out of bed, leaving behind slippers and robe.
The cradle still stood near the fire, but the blankets his mother had piled in over the past few weeks were no longer empty. So swaddled up was the baby that all Fili could see was the small face, relaxed into sleep.
“What’s his name?”
“Kili.” His father reached and plucked the layered bundle out. “Fili for joy and Kili for laughter. What do you think of that?”
“I like it.” He decided.
“Would you like to hold him?” His mother came through the doorway, dark circles under her eyes.
“Yes, please.” Fili didn’t really want to, but he didn’t like how she looked and thought it best to be agreeable.
“Sit here then.” She sat down in the wide chair, patting the cushion next to her. Fili scrambled up. “Hold out your arms and be sure to support his head.”
She kept her arms around him, supporting them as his father settled the baby into his arms. Kili didn’t wake, only let out a soft breath. The soft down of hair tufted out from under the blanket. Black like their mother, instead of their father’s blonde.
“My brother.” Fili tasted the words on his tongue.
“Say ‘ah haza’.” His mother told him.
“Ah haza.” He repeated.
“It’s good that these are the first words you should know in Khuzdal.”
He frowned. He knew many words in Khuzdal though he wasn’t supposed to be studying it yet. He heard his father and mother speak it all the time, over his head as if he could not piece together what this or that phrase meant. For that matter, he knew his name. And his mother’s name, Dis for sweetness, and his father’s, Arin for wisdom.
“When you are twenty, you will begin to learn in earnest.” His father smiled. “But it isn’t wrong that you should know this and that before you begin.”
“Ah haza.” Fili repeated again dutifully. “Kili, ah haza.”
“Mahal watch over you both.” His mother kissed his forehead and lifted Kili from his arms. “Now back to bed with you.”
The next few months passed by in a blur. Their life went on much as it had before. His father went out with the cart and his mother stayed in with the washing. Though she paused often now to feed or change or cuddle the baby. Sometimes she left the last two up to Fili. He became adept at whisking away dirty cloths before he had to smell them. He was less accomplished at the cuddling, too small to get a proper hold and rock at the same time. Kili didn’t seem to mind.
Then one night, it happened. The fire was already dying a little in the hearth and Kili had been settled in his crib. Fili was wheedling story after story from his father to avoid being sent to bed. His mother kept scolding, but she didn’t pluck Fili from his place on the hearthrug and tuck him in herself.
“And what do you think the Dain said to such a thing?” His father asked.
“No?” Fili guessed.
“No!” His father agreed.
A knock sounded on the door. They all froze. Fili tried to remember if anyone had ever come knocking. The few other dwarf families sometimes visited, but they were always planned things with meals set out in advance. No one showed up late in the night unannounced.
“Sit quiet.” His father rose from the chair and picked up his axe from where he had left in leaning against the door. “Who calls?”
“Open the door and find out.” A bellow challenged.
“Thorin!” His mother jumped to her feet, fairly pushing his father out of the way. She flung the door open.
The tallest dwarf Fili had ever seen stood on the other side of the door. He had a great dark beard and fierce eyes. He opened his arms and Fili’s mother threw herself into them with a joyful noise.
“Too long have we been parted.” Thorin held Fili’s mother tightly.
“You travel too much.” She scolded. “You should stay in one place a decade or two.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Come, sit and have a bit of ale.” Fili’s father held out a hand for Thorin’s cloak.
“I will, but first I should like to see my sister-sons. I fear I have already left it too long.” Thorin strode towards Fili, towering over him. “You are Fili?”
“Yes.” Fili stared upward, undaunted. “Your belt looks like Mama’s.”
“As it should. It’s embossed with the crest of our family.” Thorin leaned down a little. “Do you know your lineage?”
“I am Fili, son of Dis, daughter of the Thrain, third of that name, son of Thror, son of Dain, son of Nain, the second of that name, son of Oin, son of Thorin, first of that name, son of Thrain, son of Nain, the first of that name and then five Durins, back to the Deathless.” Fili took a deep breath. “I am also the son of Arin, son of Darin-”
“I think that’s enough.” Thorin put a heavy hand on Fili’s shoulder. “Someone has taught you well.”
“He listens well.” Fili’s father offered over a pint of ale which Thorin took readily.
“And is this my other sister-son?” Thorin asked, peering into the cradle where Kili slept. “I had not yet heard the chosen name before I set out.”
“His name is Kili.” Fili put a hand on the cradle. “Ah haza.”
“Ta haza.” Thorin agreed. “Ah haze-chun. Tan ach ah haze-chun.”
“Don’t confuse him.” Fili’s mother tsked. “You know he hasn’t begun his study yet.”
“He said that Kili is his sister-son and I am too.” Fili declared.
“A sharp one.” Thorin smile was slight, but there. “Why do neither of them carry our forefathers’ names?”
“Because one can never have enough laughter and joy.” Fili’s mother lifted her chin. “If you had the good sense to travel with your family, then perhaps you would have had a say.”
“Nonsense.” Thorin peered into Kili’s blanket. “You’ll do as you want as always if I’m there to protest or not, sister. Fine looking lad. He’s got the Durin hair, I see.”
“Just so.”
“Are you hungry?” Fili’s father asked. He stood back from the scene, watchful.
“Food would be welcome.”
No one said a word about Fili going to bed. He perched quiet as a mouse on the stool, watching as his mother warmed a pot of rabbit stew and listening as Thorin recounted his journey. Fili’s father didn’t speak, only filled Thorin’s beer when it ran empty and offered up pipeweed when the food was gone.
“Will you stay?” Fili’s mother finally asked.
“Not in Pelargir, but Linhir is only a day’s ride away and I know of work to be had there.” Thorin puffed at the pipe politely, but set it aside soon after. “I will bide there awhile.”
“I have heard Gloin stopped there recently. Did he stay on?” His mother asked.
“So it appears. I’ve heard he courts a woman though I don’t know her name or parentage.” The last of blue smoke curled out from his nose. “A wedding would be a good thing. There aren’t enough of them these days.”
Kili let out a whine then, a precursor to tears. Fili reached between the bars to quiet him, but it was too late. Their mother was upon them.
“Fili! What are you doing still awake?” She picked him up against his protests. “You’ll be a right mess in the morning, my Beryl.”
“Beryl?” Thorin lifted an eyebrow.
“For his hair.” She rubbed a hand over Fili’s back soothing now instead of tsking. “My yellow gem.”
“Not much of a nickname for a boy.”
“And did not our mother cluck over you and call you her pearl?” She sniffed. “Maybe you are a mighty warrior to the rest, but I remember a boy with dirty knees, forever chasing after bats.”
“Speak no more.” Thorin lifted his mug to his lips to hide his smile. “All your words are nonsense.”
She carried Fili into his room and tucked him under his furs.
“He’s better than the stories.” He told her as she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.
“I think so too, my Beryl.”