Archive of Our Own

Balin walked among the beds of the wounded. It was an unpleasant job, but a necessary one. Not everyone could read and write, and those who could took turns on the non-sensitive tasks that required a literate dwarrow - like taking down vital information from the severely injured. Even three weeks after the Battle, and not everyone had been able to give their information.

One sturdy dwarrow woke up panting, and Balin hurried over, offering them a cup of water. Sweat poured into their beard, staining their heavy moustaches several shades darker green.

“What do you need?” asked Balin gently. Peeking down to the end of the bed, he saw that this was one of the dwarrows who hadn’t been able to divulge anything to the Healers.

“My children … my father,” the dwarf gasped. “I must … They need ...”

Grabbing a stick of charcoal and a well-scraped piece of parchment. “Tell me their names, and yours, and where they live, and I will see to it.”

“I am … Ala child of … Alvi … my children … are Bara … daughter of Barba and Althi son … of Ala.” The dwarf gasped for air, and Balin gave him a little more water. “My father … Alvi … son of Ari. Iron Hills, Flint District.”

“I’ll see a letter sent. They’ll be taken care off.”

Seeing how grey Ala’s face was, Balin gestured for one of the healers to come, but by the time the nearest unoccupied healer had arrived, at a dead run, Ala had expired.

The healer took their signs and added them to the patient's information. Looking at their details, she frowned. Palpitating Ala’s stomach, she sighed. “Well, it looks like that broken rib did them in. A chunk of bone must’ve punctured an organ.”

Balin stared mournfully at the scrap of parchment.

“I’d better add this to the list of death notice letters, as well as inviting the family to come and live in Erebor.”

The healer looked startled.

“I keep my promises, Mistress.”

“Of course, my Lord.” The healer bowed, then walked off, likely to inform the porters that the bed needed clearing. Balin closed Ala’s eyes, and began the recitation for the dead.

***

Dain sat down beside the solid dwarrowdam who was whittling beside the fire.

“Evenin’, Visi.”

She looked at him glumly. “Evening, Your Majesty.”

Dain rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Visi. We trained together in the Hills, I won’t have you ‘Majestying’ me now.”

“Won’t be doing much training now, will I?” she said, bitterness tinging her voice. She gestured to her legs, which ended abruptly at the thigh.

“True enough. But that was a year ago, and you’ve hardly left your apartment since you returned to them from the healer’s wing.”

“Fah, the chair they gave me is a wreck.”

“You and I both know it’s not the chair, Visi.” Dain’s gaze was frank and direct, unsympathetic.

 Visi looked down. “It’s not the chair. I … find myself drifting. I can’t get myself out of bed most days, can’t get the effort together to dress of feed myself. If my cousin didn’t keep coming by, I wouldn’t keep going.” The words, once begun, kept flowing, along with tears. “The world is grey, and my life is gone with my legs.”

Dain reached out and grasped Visi’s hands. “I know how this feels, Visi. Like your life is over, and you don’t know what to do or where to go.”

“Says the King of Erebor with part of one leg gone to the soldier who’s lost her livelihood along with both legs,” Visi spat venomously. “And I didn’t even get the chance to lose them doing something great. Just a routine skirmish with some rogue Men.”

“True enough,” Dain said evenly. “But there is always hope.”

“What could I do? I’ve lived my whole life as a soldier.”

Dain’s mouth twitched. “Well. I might have something for you, then. You worked with the Quartermaster for your unit, correct?”

“That’s true, but I was never so great with numbers that it was a calling.”

“Well,” Dain said, grasping her arm, “it’s something. Dwarrows don’t go down without a fight.”

***

The healer’s wards in Erebor were well-appointed, spacious and full of dedicated activity. Dwarrows moved with purpose, tending to the ill and injured, working to make the lives of everyone under the Mountain more comfortable.

Gimris approached one of the beds in her assigned ward for the day, occupied by an older dwarrow with the callused hands of a glassworker. His head was swathed in bandages.

“Good morning, Edmundur. Did you sleep well?”

The older dwarrow grumbled as he tried to heave himself into a seated position. Gimris guided a pillow behind his back so he could sit more comfortably.

“I can’t tell if it’s day or night anymore.”

“Well, it’s morning, and time for your bandages to be changed.”

Edmundur scowled. “Well, lassie, get to it. Don’t laze about.”

Gimris smiled a little as she prepared for the procedure. “Edmundur, I’m not one of your apprentices any more.”

“Eh, that’s all for the best. A heavy-handed apprentice got me into this mess. Not that you were ever heavy-handed.”

Edmundur had always been sparse with his praise, so even this side-stepping complement was a gift.

“Thank you. Now, I’m going to start removing the bandages now.”

Gimris carefully began removing the layers of linen bandages, making sure that she didn’t cause her patient undue pain. The flesh underneath was a wreck, the eyes gone and the surrounding skin a mass of burns and mostly-healed lacerations.

“I need to put more ointment on your burns. Please try and keep still.”

Soon enough, the new bandages were in place and Edmundur was propped against his pillows again. Gimris consulted her notepad.

“You’re good for another few hours. Please tell us if you need your pain medications or something to eat. And the Guildmaster wants to know when he can visit you - he mentioned something about wanting your advice about a new stained glass window?”

Edmundur snorted. “I don’t know how much use I’m going to be when I’m blind. I cannot design the window, or direct the project.”

“I believe the Guildmaster wanted to consult with you about color. Few people have studied color production to the depth you have.”

“True enough. Have him visit this afternoon.”

**

Oin tapped the floor ahead of him as he went down the hallway to the main common room used by the dwarves of Moria. He muttered to himself as he walked, a habit he had taken up once his ears had started failing -  the vibrations from his speech and his stick helped him navigate.  

“Can’t believe Balin went out alone, again. He’s going to get himself killed one of these days, and I’m a healer, not a miracle worker. Can’t cure death, not I.”

Nali came running down the hallway towards him. He stopped before Oin, gasping.

“Oin! Something’s happened to Balin! When he didn’t return before nightfall, a scouting party went out after him and found him collapsed by Mirrormere with an arrow in him. They’re bringing him in now.”

Oin swore. “Let’s go.” Running for the common room, Oin grabbed his kit and waited for the scout party to return.

It arrived solemnly, in song, with a limp body wrapped in a cloak, carried in on the shields so carefully scrounged from the ruins,

Oin does his duty, does the checks to confirm the death. He closes Balin’s eyes, and stands.

“Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria, is dead.”

The singing starts again, a low wail of grief that rises like the coming in of the sea that Oin had seen, once, as a child during the Great Exodus.

**

Dori was tired. The shop he was working at was overrun with orders for winter-weight cloth and several tapestries, meaning extra hours, and Ori, at eighteen, a challenge. Ori was a joy, but always so full of questions. And though his drawing and writing skills were improving (the latest picture of Dori looked rather like him, in Dori’s totally unbiased opinion, if one discounted the nose bigger than the rest of the head and that one foot was significantly smaller than the other), Dori was having trouble acquiring enough material for him to draw on. Ori seemed to have a gift for it, and Dori didn’t want that gift squelched because his siblings couldn’t come up with enough scraps of writeables and charcoal.

And Nori. Always sneaking out of school, Dori didn’t even want to know where he went, and how he came home with groceries, and yarn for Dori, and new clothes for Ori - which were always in good enough condition to be used until the lad grew out of them, but not so good that the quality would be remarked upon. And he was so skinny. Dori could feel the bones in his hands, and didn’t want to think about the knives he had started to feel in his middle brother’s clothing when they hugged.

Dori was tired, but he would persevere.

***

“Again.”

Dis, twenty-nine and small for her age - as being chronically underfed since the age of ten tends to do - struggled to lift the overlarge practice sword, eventually managing to get it into the en garde position.

“Now, come at me,” grunted Dweris.

Dis ran forward, attempting to connect her blade with at least some portion of Dweris’ armour. The older dam swatted her away. Dis, panting, tried again, with the same results.

“Think before you attack, Dis! Now, again.”

Dis circled, looking for one of the opportunities that Dweris and Thrain were always telling her about. Seeing one, she dove in, jabbing her sword at the poorly-armoured back of Dweris’ knee. Dweris rolled to avoid it, but Dis jabbed the blunted end of her blade into the mail-coated joint.

Straightening, Dweris gave her charge a small smile.  

“A touch.”

High praise.

Ten years later, Dis is sorting through the blood and the mud and the broken bodies of Azanulbizar, and she finds Dweris and Fundin, who died almost side by side. The throat cut that ended Dweris’ life had been preceded by an arrow wound to the back of her left knee.

Dis wept, skirts coated in red mud and tattered leaves.