Seeking safety
“Uncle Dwaaaaalin!” Fili cried. Dwalin sighed, turned at the right moment to catch the small body hurtling towards him from across the market square.
“Aye, ma wee rascal,” he chuckled, swinging the lad up and holding him securely as he looked around for Dís, frowning at Fíli when he couldn’t see her. Then he realised the tears that were still flowing down the small face, and his frown deepened. “Hush yer tears, lad, tell me what’s achin ye,” he rumbled, looking the dwarfling over carefully, but finding no obvious hurts. Fíli shook his head, hiding his face against Dwalin’s tunic, wetting the green cloth with his tears and snot. Rocking the small body, Dwalin hummed, rubbing his large palm against Fíli’s shaking back.
“Amad…” Fíli whimpered, the rest of his words the kind of oft-incomprehensible almost-speak of the very young. Dwalin frowned. It was unlike Dís to leave the boy running around without supervision, and even if she had taken him somewhere, Fíli knew better than to run away from her or Princess Frís. Thorin had made dwarfling-proof locks for the whole house even before Fíli began crawling, so it was unlikely the little lad had simply walked out the door. Cradling him securely in one arm, Dwalin whistled for the attention of a nearby young dwarf, handing him a copper bit to fetch one of the off-duty guards from the nearest guardhouse to relieve his own post. He ignored the cooing of Lady Jara, who was whispering with her friend about what a splendid figure he cut with a babe in arms.
When the replacement arrived promptly – being Captain had some perks, holding the now-quiet Crown Prince had others in regards to swift obedience – Dwalin slowly made his way to their house. Keeping an eye out for his good-sister – who had all but demanded he call her that, even if he and Thorin were not officially married – Dwalin felt worried that she was not out calling or searching for Fíli.
“Frís,” he called, ducking into the house. “Dís?” Dwalin’s strong voice rang through the rooms, but no reply came. Feeling more than worried now, he made his way through the house, searching for one of the two dams. Little Fíli was sucking his thumb, cuddling against Dwalin’s broad chest. All was well in his world, security restored, but Dwalin did not share his serenity.
“Dwalin?” Frís’ voice was hesitant, and he caught something off in it, a thread of discord he could not place.
“Aye,” he called, carefully covering Fíli’s lips with his hand, but the boy was silent, staring at him with his Durin-blue eyes calm in the face that always reminded Dwalin of Víli. “Just came by for a new tunic,” he lied, inching closer to the room where Frís voice had originated. “Some wee clotheid at the market ran straight into me; spilling water everywhere.” He didn’t know if Frís would realise that he was really talking about Fíli; repeating words he had spoken only that morning when Fíli had knocked over a pail of water, dousing his socks and the kitchen floor.
“Aye?” Frís replied, a note of relief in her speech now that told him she understood. “I’m afraid all your tunics are in the wash, dear. Go get one off Thorin in the forge if you really need it. Oh, and your friend with the red hair was here earlier, he said you needed to visit the holding cells; apparently, they’ve caught the Fox.” Dwalin praised Mahal that Prince Thraín had chosen a clever dam for his wife; Frís was as wily as a fox herself, and she’d managed to tell him all he needed to know. Namely that he should not come to her room, because she was being held captive inside, but call for reinforcements and seek information from Nori, the recently appointed Black Owl.
“Ahh, thanks,” he yelled back. “I’ll be on my way then!”
Closing the front door behind him, Dwalin broke into a run.
In the forge that Thorin used when he was in Ered Luin, he found his One, working on a piece of metal that would eventually become a kettle. Hollering an order to stop work as soon as possible from outside the door, Dwalin waited until he had the attention of the three smiths within. Young Athalrún, Master Kata’s apprentice, was making nails, and finished quickly, staring openmouthedly at the large guardsdwarf holding a sleeping dwarfling. Master Kata herself, apparently making horseshoes, finished second, her stare no less incredulous that Athalrún’s, but Thorin did not look up for a full five minutes, leaving Dwalin’s annoyance and fear spiking his heartbeat into his throat.
“Dwalin?” he gaped, when he finally looked up. “What are you doing here? It’s not yet dinner time.” The Prince of Durin’s Folk – he was King, but refused to be addressed thusly, still believing that Thraín would return to them – asked, confused, but happy to see his One. His happiness dimmed when Dwalin’s expression registered properly, the presence of sleeping Fíli only adding to his confusion.
“You have to come with me,” Dwalin barked. Thorin glared, gesturing at the would-be kettle. Dwalin shook his head. “Frís is still in the house, but she is not alone – and not by choice. I don’t know where Dís is… or Kíli,” he admitted. “Fíli found me at the market, terrified.”
“Kata… can I leave my sister-son with you for now?” Thorin asked, when the implications of Dwalin’s words sank in. Master Kata nodded, young Athalrún swiftly moving to take the dwarfling from his uncle. Dwalin exchanged a nod with the smith, terse and worried, as Thorin threw his tunic over his head, not bothering to tie the laces. Picking up a sword he had finished a few days before, he was as armed as he could get without returning to their home. Dwalin distantly noted that they ought to remedy that oversight.
In the street outside the forges, they were met by the lanky young dwarf with red hair whom Dwalin knew as Nori, but who carried the token that meant the rest of the Guard knew him as the Black Owl, Thorin’s Spymaster. He was accompanied by a swiftly assembled force of Dwalin’s own men, led by the redoubtable Álfífa, who nodded tersely at her Captain.
“The Princess-Consort is unharmed, your sister is seemingly unconscious, and the pebble is with Lady Frís,” Nori rattled off quickly. Neither Durinson asked how he knew, simply accepting the stated as fact. “There are four assailants, though my observations lead me to believe they want your head, King Thorin, and feel quite content to let your sister take the throne.”
“Plans?” Thorin asked. Dwalin nodded.
“Beryl-2.” he growled. They had long since gone over their home with the aid of some of the best criminals – Nori was surprisingly devious and simply pretended that he’d stolen the floor plans and wanted to rob the Royal Family – in Ered Luin. The result was a list of plans of attack, designed to enable them to subdue any intruders quickly, using different access points and even a few secret tunnels they had added after the blueprints for the large house had been shown to Nori’s crew of would-be robbers.
The execution was flawless, and the whole thing was over in less than five minutes. The only casualty was a deep slash across Dwalin’s eye, from temple to nose, that he had suffered when one of the rebels had decided to abandon their plans and simply kill all the Durins, beginning with the unconscious Dís. Clever use of a few of Frís’ silk scarves had the assassins bound at Thorin’s feet, their own socks stuffed into their mouths. One of them lay dead in the corner, Nori’s dagger sticking out of his eye; that was the one who’d gotten lucky enough to cut Dwalin’s face up. Frís remained seated, holding on to her youngest grandchild and glaring death at the trespassers. Dís was quietly snoring, she’d been sedated somehow, though Nori had at least picked her up off the floor and placed her on Frís’ sofa. The Black Owl had sent off one of the guards to fetch healer Óin, the rest standing watch over the prisoners as Thorin tried to calm his raging heart by stemming the bleeding with strips torn from his own shirt. Dwalin submitted to the ridiculous treatment, forgoing to mention the rolls of bandage material they kept in the pantry. Dwalin knew that his beloved needed to feel useful, feel the life pulsing beneath his skin, to keep away the images his mind would conjure whenever Dwalin was badly injured, the images of his dead brother, but superimposed with Dwalin’s own face as Thorin lit the pyre. Azanulbizar was still too close for all of them, even now, 70 years after the terrible day. Knowing all this, Dwalin just sat still, letting Thorin hold the wad of cloth against his face and running his warm hands gently up and down his sides, calming strokes of hands on skin, much like he had done with Fíli earlier.
“Aye, ye’ll have a nice scar, Cousin,” Óin murmured – he’d always been a bit odd like that, Dwalin thought, but he was a good healer – after he’d cleaned the cut. “I could stitch it, but it’s not that deep, might heal better without; it’s already closing nicely.”
“And his eye?” Thorin barked, his hand tight on Dwalin’s shoulder.
“Don’t have a problem with me eye, kurkarukê,” Dwalin rumbled, bringing his hand up to squeeze Thorin’s, to still the panicked memories of the last time he’d been injured – the warg-bite had been far more severe than this smallish cut, however, Dwalin knew.
“Indeed,” Óin nodded his agreement, “the blade missed his eye-lid, bouncing off the eye-brow’s bone. Like I said, you’ll have a scar, but that’s all, Cousin.” That didn’t stop him from slathering some salve – Óin was very keen on his ‘Óin’s to-mends’; they’d been referred to as ointments for years now, but he insisted on pronouncing it properly – on Dwalin’s cut, the pungent herby smell making him sneeze.
“And it won’t be… like last time?” Thorin mumbled.
“No,” Dwalin replied, glaring at Óin who wisely kept silent. “That was a warg’s bite, Thorin, they’re filthy creatures.”
“In all likelihood, the wound was beginning to fester even before you got home,” Óin agreed, “once the rot has set in, there’s little to be done besides bringing the fever down and washing out the pus.” Sometimes, Dwalin thought, he really hated his cousin. Thorin was turning pale; he had a protective streak a mile wide, much like Dwalin himself, which made him a caring ruler, but also a fretting bear every time someone he loved got hurt.
“Can ye wake up Dís, Cousin?” Dwalin asked brusquely, turning Thorin’s mind away from the time he nearly died from wound-sickness and redirecting both their attentions to Dís. In Frís’ arms, the pebble was beginning to whimper in hunger – a sentiment Dwalin currently shared, his rumbling gut pointed out.
“Oh, sure, sure,” Óin muttered, shuffling – for some reason he always moved like an old dwarf – over to the sofa to study Dís’ lightly snoring form.
“Where is Fíli?” Frís asked, as the summoned guards swiftly bundled off the captured plotters, hauling off the dead dwarf too.
“The forge,” Thorin replied absentmindedly while staring at Dís.
“Mayhap you should go get him, while Frís and I get started on supper?” Dwalin suggested softly, one of his hands still wrapped around Thorin’s.
“Dís will want to see him safe as soon as she wakes,” Thorin nodded, giving Dwalin a wry smile. “I’m being annoying, aren’t I?” Dwalin chuckled.
“Nay, Thorin, you just… I love you.” Getting to his feet, Dwalin stole a quick kiss before heading off to the kitchen, hearing Thorin’s laughter fill the room behind him. Dwalin smirked.