Stone-verse: The Lost and the Found.




Indefinite relation to http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1skpvto

Those who are dead to rest of the world find a clue that one person they thought truly dead might not be.

@DurinUncle ‏@AnvariShadow
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Thirán

The village of the Lost, they were sometimes called. It was name that was not all that wrong either. The little carefully hidden community of dwarves were, to a person, people who would be rejected by other dwarves on sight. Zarg-tagir, orc-slaves, orc-playthings, the defiled, unwanted, dead to all who would be counted as 'good' dwarves. So they stayed away from 'good dwarves' and lived their own lives. The Lost would stay lost, and Thirán would do everything he could to see his people protected.

He had every reason to do so as well, for as he walked through the mines and carefully guarded village there were plenty of young dwarves alongside the older, more damaged individuals. These were who they fought the protect, the children of the Lost, children who did not deserve the sort of contempt their fathers would receive, children who were free and never hurt by orc hands.

The village existed in what was admittedly a perilous location - in the shadow of the Misty Mountains in Rhudaur, east and slightly south of the Ettenmoors, in the crook between the Eastwood and the lower slopes of the mountains. Perilous because over the years the orcs had built up their numbers again and the land of Rhudaur was once again subject to their roving bands of raiders, only resisted by the efforts of the Dúnedain and the Elves of Rivendell.

It was a risk they had to take though, they needed stone to be able to survive - not any stone but the Deep Stone, lest they walk the path that would end up with them becoming Narûg Khazad - 'Non-Dwarves', what Men called 'Petty Dwarves' and Elves called 'Nibin-Noeg'. Having the Deep Stone kept them in touch with what made them dwarves, and though they were lost to the rest of their race in Middle Earth, they were not lost to Mahal.

Living in the foothills of the Misty Mountains also meant they could mine metal and trade it with those who lived near. That mostly meant the Dúnedain and Rivendell, once again, and in Thirán's opinion they had a reasonably good relationship with both, so long as the Wizard did not come bothering them too much.

Thirán knew from talk he heard before his people had found this place what had cut the numbers of orcs in Moria down so much that they could get away. A group of Dwarves had challenged Smaug the dragon and killed him, taking back Erebor. He also knew the leader of the group, a king without a kingdom, had died in the battle the orcs had brought to Erebor's doorstep. When Thirán had, by chance, met the sons of Rivendell's leader, he knew he was right not to even try to go to Erebor. With a dwarf like Dáin Ironfoot on the throne they would never be accepted.

Then there was the time, a few years after they had settled in, when the Wizard Tharkûn had come to see who they were. It showed badly that Tharkûn did not know everything about dwarves when he made mention of Thirán taking his people to Erebor. Thirán had laughed bitterly in the Wizard's face.

"Do you really believe Ironfoot would accept us? You are wrong!" He had told Tharkûn. "He would turn us out with nary a crust of bread, or worse organise a band of soldiers to come here and tear apart the home we have built, telling us we do not deserve to have safe homes to live in, and all because we were once slaves, slaves to *orcs* no less. We are the defiled, the unwanted, the *dead*. The only king who might have welcomed us back is the one *you* failed and let die. No, begone Tharkûn, you have already failed us once, we will not let you fail us to our deaths yet again!"

It had not been a kindly dismissal, but Thirán had been short of patience at the time as he did not want Tharkûn to see the secret that made him all the more on guard. At the time the Wizard had come, Thirán had only known for few weeks that he carried a child of his own. Not the first son born to the Lost, but this one was his, fathered by his friend and comrade Thórálfr. As much as he protected those who escaped the orcs alongside him, it was the children he fought twice as hard to protect, and none more than his own Anvari.

Anvari was older now, close enough to grown that he could go with the groups who took the metal they produced to trade with Rivendell. Thirán still worried when he was away, but Anvari could handle his weapons well had had even faced and killed an orc already. He could face Elves well enough, and bring back what news came through the Hidden Valley.

They may be the Lost, those who were dead, but they survived, they lived, and they had their small families. That was enough.


Anvari

The cart almost slipped in the steep curve of the road and Anvari quickly helped grabbing the spokes to push it further up. The road was bad and purposefully left so, even as it made lives for the trading caravans harder. No one assumed a dwarven settlement at the end of such a bad road, but then, no one looked for dwarves in the cliffs of Rhudaur. The cart gained momentum again and Anvari let go to walk beside it. A short gesture by the driver signaled a swift thank you in his direction.

Grabbing the reigns of the pack ponies again Anvari walked on, as much as he loved the trading expeditions to Rivendell and Bree, his heart always beat faster when they came across the fell cliff and made their way towards their hidden home. Somewhere in the back of the caravan he knew one of his fathers - Thórálfr - making sure that no-one got lost on the last leg of their journey. Many people of the caravan were Anvari's age, and thus Thórálfr was all the more watchful.

Anvari understood well why it was them who took the long journeys across Eriador to trade. He knew that his father, both his parents really, hoped that his generation was less easily recognized as the Lost Ones. And maybe they would be - but as far as Anvari himself was concerned he would not pretend for those who would shun his parents. 'Dead and proud of it' he had told a stuck-up dwarf he had met in Bree - five minutes before beating him into the ground of the Inn. Thórálfr had not been happy with that, but Anvari had seen that the local guards in Bree had not liked the arrogant dwarf either and they had done nothing to prevent him from getting his dues.

But all that paled at the news he had with him... or was it? Thórálfr had not said much and told him to not read too much into it. Anvari understood, Thórálfr was like that - keeping to what was attainable and otherwise focused on protecting his people and his family. Still, Anvari could not help feel excited when they made it across the last ridge and into their hidden settlement.


Thirán

The way Anvari was all but bouncing on his toes as he entered the central court of the village, leading pack ponies to where their good could be unloaded, Thirán could see he was excited about something, he only got this hyped up when he was eager to tell something he thought important.

The cart arrived and dwarves moved to help start unpack it, while Thórálfr dismounted, catching Thirán's eye quickly, giving him a look of exasperated amusement as he glanced in the direction of their son. Thirán could not say Thórálfr was his One, but their relationship was something built on warm fondness, mutual understanding of the hardship they had both faced, and a measure of being war-brothers as well. It was the understanding they had because of those factors that originally drew them to share a bed, which had resulted in Anvari's birth.

Thirán went to Thórálfr's side and greeted him with a warm hug before turning to Anvari's impatient form, opening arms to hug his son as well.

"Something has you as excited as a landslide in an earthquake, my son."


Anvari

Anvari watched Thirán and Thórálfr embrace if shortly, he could see how Thórálfr's grim mien relaxed into a smile in that moment. When Thirán opened his arms Anvari rushed to embrace him, usually he tried very hard to not behave like a child, but not in such moments. Holding onto his father for a moment, he hugged him tight, though he did blush at the words. "It is true... I have something I need to show you," he said earnestly. "but... I should first see to my duties and help with unloading the ponies."


Thirán

"I'm sure that you will be done soon enough." Thirán nodded, with a grin. "I will be helping anyway." He said, following the both of them to help with packs. Between moving crates and bags, a great deal of which was foodstuffs along with some fabrics and a the occasional crafted good that only the Elves could produce, Thórálfr gave Thirán a look as if he was about to argue some decision he did not agree with.

"What is it, Thórálfr? I know it is something to do with whatever has Anvari so excited."

Thórálfr gave a sigh and a small grin. "You always see through me, don't you?" He set down a bag of grain and looked Anvari's way. "He found something he believes means something important. I only hope it is not a false hope that will lead you nowhere."

That was Thórálfr's way. He was the pragmatic, down-to-earth one, even more than Thirán was. Thirán thought himself realistic about the position they were in, but Thórálfr sometimes went even further, even keeping Thirán grounded. "We will see, when this is done and Anvari tells me what secret he has. It is good of you though that you leave it to him to tell."

"I may not want him to get too hopeful, but even I am glad to see him so excited." Thórálfr shrugged as the last of the bags came down from the cart and were being moved to the storehouses.


Anvari

Anvari carried the last of the heavy sacks into the storehouse and then led the ponies away to the stable, leaving his fathers to have some time alone. When he returned to them, he only carried the small leather pack, which he had not given to anyone throughout their journey back.

Thórálfr cast him a slightly exasperated look. "You two go inside, take the time to talk." he said affectionately, giving Anvari a short slap on the shoulder and Thirán a small hug. "I shall be back within an hour or so." Anvari knew that Thórálfr would check in with Berán, who ran the defense of the hidden settlement when Thórálfr was not here. His father would be restless until he knew what had transpired while they had been gone.

Anvari smiled and looked at Thirán. "I could cook?" he offered, it was a job he had detested when he was younger but was finally getting good at it.


Thirán

"That would be good of you." Thirán nodded as they turned towards their home. Not much more than a handful of rooms carved into the rock, but in their time they had shaped and carved decorative reliefs in the walls and furnished it with comfortable furnishings and hangings to brighten it's walls. For Thirán, who could remember Erebor before the dragon, it was humble and simple, but it was leagues better than orc-infested dungeons or being homeless on the road, so it was plenty enough.

Anvari's cooking skills had definitely taken a leap in recent years, and of all things he had learned a few tricks while on the trading missions, as he had met an aging hobbit residing in Rivendell who had shared some advice on food. Thirán was glad to sit back and watch as he moved around their kitchen, putting together a meal for them.

"So did the caravan have any trouble along the way? I know orcs have been growing more active, Elrohir has been by here on one of his and his brother's hunts."


Anvari

Anvari looked up from cutting up a number of onions. "There was a bit of trouble - one group attacked us, the other we spotted in time and evaded them in the night. But we heard that the Dúnedain lost at least one settlement to a raid last autumn. Thórálfr slightly exasperated the Dúnedain chieftain, whom we met in Rivendell, by suggesting that his people draw closer together and built fortified settlements to be able to repel raiders better." He reported on what had transpired on their journey. "Thórálfr got us around at least two more ambushes, I swear he can sense them from miles away. Albeit, the last ambush might not have been Orcs but Menfolk raiders."

Pushing the onions into the kettle, Anvari added a few other "roots", working on a simple recipe he had learned from Bilbo in Rivendell. Most of the roots involved like sunroot, katniss, parsnips and skirret were things one could find in the wilds, supported by some other things that could be gathered, they made a really tasty stew, even as Anvari had been skeptical at first, when learning it.

"We met some interesting traders in Rivendell and on the road. Among them Karanos, that windy trader from the South."


Thirán

"The Dúnedain have a long history of losing fortified positions and try to follow more the example of the Elves and stay unnoticeable." One did not have the relations with both the northern Númenórans and the Elves without learning some of the history of the lands, and how Arnor eventually fell under Angmar's onslaught. "What works for us... may not work as well for them, especially that chieftain, Aragorn. I do know the talk in Rivendell about him, and he would draw the eye of enemies as quickly as Elrond would."

The stew Anvari was making was starting to smell and Thirán smirked as he felt his stomach grumble. "So is it something you heard from Karanos that has you so eager then?"


Anvari

Anvari looked down for a moment, trying to not come across like an eager child. "More like something he had.", he replied. "I had noticed that he had some really pricey blades among his wares - and I mean pricey. Arcane weapons all three of them. He had customers for them too, who were willing to pay that much. But one - an elf Lord with an unpronounceabley long name - objected that the blade did not just come with a dagger, but with a small dagger as well - you know the type that can slip through the cracks of an armor. He called that small thing dishonorable and would not take it with him. Now, Karanos did not mind overly much and it gave me a chance to take a peek at the offending blade."

Anvari had all the roots in the pot and went for the bundle he had with him, unwrapping it and procuring the slender short blade. "It has... it has the sigil of the Raven, father. The Raven with a Lightning..." He gave the blade to Thirán. "and it was newly made. He let me have it, because I helped him with that trader from the Woodland realm..." He had more to say, but he wanted to hear Thirán's opinion on the sigil first.


Thirán

Thirán took the fine blade, turning it in his hands, looking at the craftsmanship. Though the shape did not have the characteristic straight lines and angular detailing of dwarven style and followed more along the lines of weapons of Menfolk, to the eye of one trained in smithcraft it had all the signs of dwarven work. But it was not just the details seen with the eye, as Anvari said, it was the work of an arcane smith, something that was few and far between in these days, with a handful of Elven masters residing in Rivendell, maybe a few surviving dwarf masters living hermetic lives in the Grey Mountains to the northeast, and the redheaded Elf Thirán knew lived up beyond the ice line. If there were dwarven crafters in the south, he would suspect the old stories of the Hidden Kingdom to be true and that to be their home.

Thirán himself had begun his training in smithing before Smaug, and even in the early exile, even his lower level of skill had drawn in needed money to feed their people. The main reason that he had not suffered the worst of treatment from the orcs while he was a slave was because the Easterling watchers understood arcane skills and kept the orcs from wasting such a resource through using an arcane smith for sport. After gaining freedom, Thirán had some further instruction from some of the Elven smiths, enough that he could craft well enough for his own people, even if by Elven standards he was still on the level of an apprentice.

Apprentice level was still enough to see the patterns in this blade, patterns that held many of the characteristics that were unique to the line of Durin. He had done his best to teach those patterns to Anvari as well, even if his son learned more of his craft from the Ñoldor smith, Aelin.

The Raven mark was the smith mark of Durin as well - while the hammer and anvil might be the royal insignia, ravens were more personal to the family. It was said that Durin the Deathless was guided by ravens when the dwarves had to abandon the Silver Throne all together, and that the black birds had guided the way back to Kheled-zâram, from where Durin had found the caves that would become Khazad-dûm. A lightening bolt meant...

"Stormchild..." Thirán murmured. Did this mean his nephew lived? Son of his brother, adopted son of his sister, living somewhere in the south?


Anvari

Anvari had anxiously watched the expressions on his father's face. He knew that any such hint was painful, and he did not wish to cause him new pain. When he whispered a name - Stormchild - Anvari could not quite place it. But then, what he knew of their family - or the family that once had been theirs, was sketchy. He gently grasped Thirán's hand in his, wanting his father to know he was not alone.

"I got Karanos to talk to me over a few mugs of ale, one night." he said. "He was not really willing to talk until he finally could complain a bit. He said the blades are the works of a swordsmith who lives in the Undercity of Minas Tirith - or lives there at times. He complained a lot about said smith dedicating no small amount of time to the armies of Gondor, serving in Osgiliath or whatever other battlefield needs him. And he went on that it explained why he was fairly well connected inside the southern realm. Karanos' former contact must have tried to cheat the blacksmith out of a pay and suddenly found himself at dire odds with the city guards." Anvari shook his head. "As he got more and more drunk Karanos complained on that it was hard to get the blacksmith's best work these days, because he other things than trade priority."


Thirán

"If he's working for the army, he would be very busy. Every smith with even the slightest arcane ability is of value, from the lowest son of Nar right through to princes." Those words came straight from Thirán's memories of Azanulbizar, when both he and Thorin were working on weapons before the disastrous assault.

"The lightening bolt is a mark that would have been given to Thorin's son, Kíli, as there was a great thunderstorm on the night of his birth." He started to explain, so Anvari understood what he may have found. "Common word says that he died at Erebor alongside Thorin and Fíli, but we know little about what really happened up there."


Anvari

Anvari closed his eyes, he had held back one detail for a good reason. "Kíli..." he said softly. "that was the name Karanos gave, though his pronunciation shifted the more he got drunk and alternated between Kíli, Keali and Kelan..." he held his flow of words. "That means... that means one of your nephews might be alive... and not living on stuck-up Erebor." Which meant that maybe he would not mind to see them, maybe he would not shun them outright for what they were. If what Thirán said was right, then this Kíli... was said to be dead, as dead as they were too.


Thirán

"And knowing how Thorin thought, he might not have been raised with much of the old traditions either." Thirán nodded, recalling how exasperated his older brother had been at the way their father and the other elder dwarves had lead the Exiles, clinging so hard to traditions that Thorin believed would only cut their numbers down if they continued.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep. The thought that maybe at least one nephew lived... it was something that made his chest ache, wanting know for sure, to find out if it truly was Kíli. "I... would like to know..." He spoke in a quiet voice. "If it is him, I would be glad to have at least one piece of our family who is not against us. But it is a question of whether we can afford to be away as long as a journey to Gondor would take us." He did not give any thought that Anvari would accept staying home if he did something like this, after all, it was a cousin of Anvari's that they might find.


Anvari

Anvari could hear the familiar steps of Thórálfr, who had returned to the house. How much he had heard he did not know but that question solved itself by the way Thórálfr stepped close to embrace Thirán. "If you have to go, you have to go," the warrior said in a hush and Anvari could tell that Thórálfr was more worried for the hurt this might cause Thirán than for anything else. "and anything else will see to itself."

Anvari had to rush back to his stew, or it would burn, it also allowed him to give them some space. He knew that Thórálfr had not been happy with Anvari's theory, and worried about the pain it would cause Thirán, but he'd be there for Thirán no matter what.


Thirán

"Thank you, Thórálfr." Thirán said in a low voice as he returned the embrace. "I know it is possible that it may not be him, and if it is not... I will take it out of the imposter's hide for using the mark of a dead prince of Durin, but I do want to be sure, one way or another." He knew Thórálfr worried for his own well-being, and Thirán truly could not say how bad it would be for him to find it was not Kíli, but he knew how he had taken it when he heard Thorin had died, so he had to brace himself with a possible alternate result.


Anvari

Thórálfr did not let go of the embrace, holding Thirán. He had been there the devastating day they had learned that Thorin and his nephews had perished, that Dís had died even before... it had hurt Thirán more than words could express. And now there was the chance of going through all that hurt again, if this lead proved false. "I hate the thought of you going alone, even if that overeager youngster -" his eyes went to their son who was preventing the stew from getting burned, "goes with you." Especially if this ended in another heartbreak for Thirán.


Thirán

"I know, but I also do not want to take more away from the village than my absence would already take, and you are our most dedicated defender. I trust you to keep our people safe while I'm not here." Thirán spoke, pulling back to look Thórálfr in the eye. "I will try not to let it get to me, and I will come back, one way or another."


Anvari

Thoralfr sighed, accepting Thirán's decision. "Come back, please," he said. "no matter what you find down there in the South." He could not say more, there was nothing he could say. He would not ask Thirán to not go, not when he knew what it meant to him. And that he'd avenge Thirán should this lead to his demise went without saying.

He cast a glance to Anvari, knowing it meant they'd both go. "You have his back, young hawk."


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