@filisleftmustachebraid, inspired by @saraduvall who drew a lovely picture of Víli and Fíli.
What is the origin of: the mustache braids?
Dís’ sure brush-strokes had captured Víli’s likeness in many situations even before her favourite subject perished in the mines. When she woke from the greying state of numbness that had enveloped her since the news of Víli’s death, Dís was thankful for the many sketches she had made. It had been Dwalin – far more emotionally insightful than most gave him credit for – who had asked her if she would object to displaying at least a few of the drawings around the house. At first, Dís had objected vehemently, having no wish to be reminded of her dead One every time she turned a corner. Dwalin’s reply had simultaneously broken her heart and made it feel whole and full to bursting.
“Dís,” he had said, taking her hand in his warm one and squeezing it lightly. “Your son is too young to remember much of Víli, and this little one,” he pressed his fingers gently against the swelling bump under her tunic, which pushed back, making both of them stare in awed wonder at the first sign of the pebble’s rambunctious spirit. “This little one won’t ever know his Adad, unless we show him everything we loved about Víli, everything that made him your One and our brother. We owe it to Víli and to the pebbles to ensure that they do not forget that side of their family.” He paused, and she could see, even through her own fog, how much his next words pained him. “I wish… I wish we had more pictures of Amad. Some days I don’t think I remember the precise way she smiled.”
“I don’t know if I can, Dwalin,” Dís had replied hoarsely. “I still expect him to come home, whistling some new tune of Bofur’s and tickling my cheek with his ridiculous moustache.” Dwalin had laughed, and suddenly the world around her seemed less grey; the spectre of a dwarf loved in the room with them.
“You see? We can’t let them forget things like that. Remember the time he braided it into his eyebrows because young Nori dared him?” Dwalin smirked, and he was right, Dís thought, as the memory made her laugh more than she had thought herself still capable of.
Coming out of her daze, Dís found herself staring at one of the many sketches that hung around the place. This one showed Víli holding a sleeping Fíli, whose hand was securely wrapped around the braid on his chin, as his Adad tickled his cheek with the long unbraided strands of his moustache. Tracing the blonde strands with a finger, Dís felt happy that she had taken Dwalin’s advice so long ago.
“Amad! Amad!” Fíli ran into the room, jumping up to sit beside her. Dís automatically wrapped her strong arm around the small lad who had only recently learned to run properly and now spent most of his day darting from one end of the house to the other.
“What is it, barzith?”
“Amadel says I’m going to grow a beard like Adad’s!” The little boy confided, in a conspiratorial tone that made his amad laugh.
“Aye, perhaps you will, barzith,” Dís smiled, picturing it in her mind as she bussed his as-yet hairless cheek. She could imagine the proud smile Víli would have worn on the day his golden son sprouted his first hair clearly. “I hope you’ll wear it in a less ridiculous way, however,” she added, mock-sternly, “no braiding your moustache into your eyesbrows!” Fíli gaped up at her, and Dís suddenly wished that she had captured that episode on paper, even if it was only to show Fíli that his Adad really had done such a daft thing.
“Adad did that?” Fíli asked, his eyes wide as he tried to make his own long locks follow the shape of his face from his lips to his eyebrows. Dís couldn’t help her laughter at the sight. Fíli mostly resembled a small bundle of straw, the hair entirely obscuring his eyes.
“Aye, he did, barzith,” she smiled, “and I’m sure you will have a beard to rival his one day, but I better not catch you braiding your moustache in such silly ways.”
“I promise, Amad,” Fíli swore solemnly, his earnest expression making Dís chuckle again. “I’ll have the best moustache braids, you’ll see,” he said, a small yawn punctuating the sentence. Dís smiled, kissing his forehead.
“I’m sure you will, barzith,” she murmured, stroking Fíli’s golden locks as her son fell asleep in her arms. “I’m sure you will.”
