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babe-bombadil · 5 months

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A Long-Lost Home

Summary: A short story of young Fili and his uncle Thorin

Written for @tolkienfamilyweek Day 3 - Extended Family

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,053

Read on AO3 or below

Thorin kicked off his boots and let out a huff. Winter was coming, and each day the trek from the forge back to the house he shared with his sister became more difficult. He shrugged off his coat and made his way to the kitchen, fully expecting an ambush from his sister-sons at any moment. Young Fili and Kili never seemed to tire of jumping on him as soon as his presence was made known, no matter how difficult his day has been. Eventually, Thorin had learned to accept the inevitable and humor them for a bit before relaxing for the evening. When no tiny arms were flung around him, he cautiously approached the kitchen.

On the counter sat Kili, his tiny mouth and hands covered in pink stains. Dis was furiously rubbing a rag on his face, attempting to scrub some of it off.

“Mum, that huuuurts,” the young dwarf groaned.

“Well, next time maybe you ought to be a little clearer while eating. Or perhaps just stay away from the raspberry bushes altogether!” Dis gave a little shake of her head and dipped the rag into a nearby bowl of water.

“Uncle Forin!!” Kili screamed as he caught sight of him. The boy had recently lost his front teeth and Thorin had to fight a smile anytime his lisp made an appearance. Unfortunately, however, Kili hadn’t yet learned the value of volume control. It seemed he only knew how to yell. The line of Durin’s eardrums sustained continual damage.

The young dwarf reached his hands out to his uncle but before Thorin could lift him off the counter, Dis turned and shot her brother a glare.

“Oh no you don’t! This one’s not going anywhere till I get him cleaned up.” Kili looked back up at his uncle, big brown eyes pleading to be saved. Another time Thorin may have taken the boy’s side, but he knew there was no use provoking Dis when she was already in a sour mood. She too had the legendary Durin temper.

A frustrated shriek and the sound of something crashing echoed down the hall from the direction of the bathroom. Dis, still scrubbing Kili’s face, turned to Thorin with a sigh.

“Would you please go see what that’s about? Fili’s been in there half an hour, doing Durin knows what.” Thorin squeezed his sister’s shoulder and turned in the direction of the commotion.

Fili was standing on a chair and glaring in the mirror. An unfinished plait laid partly done across his scalp. Well, if you could call it a plait. It was more like extra knots added into already very tangled hair.

“Now, now Fili my boy. What’s the matter?”

Fili’s words came out in a rush.

“I was trying to braid my hair but it was so tangled cause me and Kili were playing in the bushes today but I couldn’t brush it out so I just tried braiding it but it won't work and now my arms hurt so bad and-“ Fili let go of his hair and buried his face in his arms with a frustrated huff. Thorin felt a touch of sympathy for his nephew. He very clearly remembered his own frustration when first learning to braid his hair. He laid a hand on Fili’s back.

“I felt the same way when I first learned to braid.”

“You?” Fili turned large eyes up to Thorin. “But you’re good at everything, Uncle!” A gruff chuckle escaped Thorin’s throat.

“Not at first I wasn’t. It took a lot of practice and patience.”

“But I’ve been practicing so long !” Fili cried. “And I’ll never get these tangles out of my hair. I’m doomed to be ugly forever!” Thorin couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth lifting at that. His two nephews quite enjoyed catastrophizing.

“Let me help you then,” Thorin offered. He reached up into one of the shelves and pulled out a brush. Starting at the ends of Fili’s golden locks, he gently worked through each tangle. Fili’s head wasn’t as sensitive as his brother’s, who refused to even have his hair brushed, much less braided. Still, he involuntarily winced a few times when Thorin pulled a little too hard. When the brush finally passed unencumbered through the golden strands, the elder dwarf set it down and began parting the hair. He separated it into five thin bundles and began braiding.

“Um, Uncle?” Fili asked tentatively. Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Can you tell me some more stories of home?” Thorin paused and looked down, swallowing an unexpected lump in his throat. Fili hadn’t yet been born when the dwarves had fled Erebor. He had never known the kingdom under the mountain. Yet, he still called it home. While Kili often begged his uncle for tales of adventure and bravery, Fili tended to like the tales of the lost kingdom more. The home he had never known.

“Uncle?” Fili’s small voice broke Thorin out of his reverie.

“Oh course, dear nephew.” He took a deep breath. “In the kingdom of Erebor lived a great king…”

Fili leaned into his uncle’s touch as Thorin gently pulled his hair through intricate patterns. While he weaved the hair, he weaved tales of Erebor. He let his love for his homeland shine through the stories. He told of the noble king Thror, whose rule was so great that even the elves paid respects to him. He told of the magnificent statues carved of ancient dwarf kings. He told of the vast riches the treasury held, of the prosperity of his people. He described great feasts held in the mighty halls of Erebor, the sound of laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

He did not speak of Smaug, nor of the gold sickness that took his grandfather. He spoke not of the Pale Orc nor the mines of Moria. Those tales could wait. For now, he would speak of happier times. Of golden days spent in his grandfather’s halls under the mountain.

At that moment, Thorin made an oath. He had always known one day he would reclaim Erebor, but today he promised himself that when he did, his nephews would be right there beside him. The line of Durin would return to their rightful place on the throne, where they would rule for centuries to come.

Thanks to @psyche-the-ya-protagonist for being my awesome beta reader!

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Let me know your thoughts or personal headcanons!

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garden-variety-jumo · 1 year

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Lord of the Rings Culinary Culture Headcannons bc I'm bored.

This isn't based off of any source from the books this is just vibes. I love food anthropology though so.

Elves: They don't seem huge in agriculture to me, kind of because it seems tedious for them to do every year, forever, till they die. So instead I think they'd embrace a more hunter-gatherer approach, with certain areas cultivated so the plants pretty much take care of themselves. I also think they favour food that can be preserved like dried meat and jams so they don't have to worry about the food spoiling as fast. I've heard lembas bread can be made regardless of location, so I dont think it's a patiular grain, but more of a special process in preparing the grain or smth that's kept secret (a little like nixtamalisation). Additionally: their most elaborate meals tend to have a very long process to make- it's not unusual for preparation for a feast to begin months in advance.

Dwarves: I think they would have an emphasis on group meals, as more work can be achieved if everyone shares one big meal rather than going off to make individual ones. Spending the majority of their time underground, I feel like they eat a lot of tubers. I think they would at least originate from somewhere with geothermal pools, and to reflect this have a lot of boiled and steamed foods, as well as burying food in pots near the pools so the natural heat can cook it (I can't remember what culture but there's evidence of this being done with bread). Additionally, I think they'd be fans of pit ovens, rather than pots or cauldrons- using the heat from their forges to heat up rocks for them. [I think there's less roasting on a spit over a fire because the hear from theor forges would burn the food too quickly.] I feel they'd also be very good at fermenting, with halls dedicated to maturing cheeses or aging meat. Additionally, if they eat meat, it will likely be a large land animal like a boar or deer- not so much birds or fish because they aren't really adapted to hunting them.

Humans: they're honestly pretty standard. They were probably behind a lot of advancements, like preserves, but the majority of the time, it's either porridge or stew. I feel like they have the most diversity from establishment to establishment, for example if you went by the sea, a lot of communities use the salt to preserve their food, but more inland other communities may not have heard even of the method. Obviously the bigger the kitchen, the grander the meals can be and the more equipment they can afford, but villages usually have a community oven they can use for bread and pies. While the food itself is pretty standard, they're also the most adventurous in foraging, inadvertently making a lot of once-poisonous plants edible through natural selection, humans are usually thr first to try out a new food, as well as the first to find ways to make it edible.

Hobbits: as expected from a culture who values meals and food to that extent, hobbits are the culinary geniuses of Middle-Earth. In Ancient Rome, they had advanced cooking utensils, that after the fall of Rome, weren't reinvented till the 18th(?) century: Hobbits are like that. They have utensils for every food in every variety you can think of, and while it's unnecessary to actually have, and perhaps inconvenient to use, it's a point of pride and great social status. Not only do they keep incredibly well-stocked pantries, but they've very keen to experiment with new flavours and have a decent trade route for these reasons. Recipes are also a point of pride, and it's considered unspeakable rude to attempt to recreate someone else's recipe. While there are recipe books of all kinds in every house, family recipe books are often handed down in wills, and kept secret from others. Cooking equipment is also passed down in wills. While they also partake in standard agriculture, hobbits also often have their own vegetable gardens, where they grow their proffered ingredients to work with. In the perspectives of other races, they can be a bit snooty about food, however they're simply very well-educated about the matter. Certain cultures can identify more shades of colour, because in their languages they give each shade a different name- it's sort of like that, but with taste. ((Many hobbits are able to identify the type of salt used in a recipe.)) Additionally, they have several festivals a year where they partake in food competitions. They're big fans of using edible flowers in their flavouring

#hopefully this makes sense and you cant tell which one i wrote seperately to the others #im not an expert or anything this is just fun to me #lotr #lord of the rings #headcannons #hobbit culture #elven culture #dwarf culture #cooking stuff!!#straight from my brain #worldbuilding

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blankdblank · 1 year

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Garlic & Clover

Pt one of a mini series that is currently unfinished. Now, for this it might seem a bit hard on the Dwarves, I love them, but sadly this plot bunny was not the kindest on them at the culture habit Dwarves have to not overshare outside their trusted circles and kin. They will make nice in the end, promise. Just have to get there first.

If you wouldn’t mind let me know what you think and if you also want to be tagged or taken off the tags let me know. Stay warm and cozy out there in yoru corner of the world. :)

@theincaprincess, @lilith15000, @devilishminx328, @jesevans, @tigereyesf

...

“She reeks of garlic again,” you could hear the words echo through the stone halls. Not an uncommon occurrence, nor the silent forced grins and greeting nods of the head you mirrored on your way to an invitation only dinner at Oin’s home.

Once one of the bubbliest of the members of the Company, rules and social decorum had you back to those days at your final foster home. The one you were told you had to bear or you would be cast to a group home, the one you could never do or be respectable enough to be kept around when guests came over.

Middle Earth was nothing like the tiny flower bed of clover you had been allowed to grow up in the attic to focus on while you were pretending you didn’t exist. A magical forest like any you hadn’t seen before in your wildest of dreams. And it was there you found what your Gran would have called a sign from the Saints. A four leaf clover on which you wished in a return visit to clear out your things before they would throw them out and found yourself in the middle of a band of Dwarves accompanied by a Hobbit and a Wizard.

“I miss you,” echoed deep down in your very core to your long lost Gran and lost loved ones.

You studied hard and still it was never enough, all the way to a pair of Masters Degrees in Psychology and Linguistics. You hoped it would be enough, sent to live with one of the top Criminal Psychologists in the world and one of the most renowned masters of Dead Languages and forgotten histories contacted for the most essential of rare cases that had them living in infamy. Another notch on their belt. Another trinket to boast about and never touch.

The door opened and you smiled bowing your head to the servant who allowed you in after seeing you had brought the servant you had been forced to hire to act as your morality compass for others to see you were never alone to be improper in public situations. One who kept their distance by the very scent of you.

While your nose burned in a now tolerably miserable way behind the servant you strolled through the uncomfortably homey dwelling filled with hearty chatter and laughter. Through the roar of painful pasts you kept a grin in greeting all of these supposed friends who eyed the towel wrapped dish in the basket you bore with both hope and dread. “I brought some boiled potato slices and some oiled veggies. We can never seem to have enough.” You said convincingly with a weak chuckle the others laughed gladly at in ease for not having to relive your first dinner invitation while you convincingly held back the wish to act on this latest crack in your heart.

Four years you had lived here and still to this day the appalled looks on the faces of your supposed friends stabbed at you in a stunning refusal of your chicken pot pies in a try to surprise Thorin at his first meal out of the healing tents.

“I miss you,” again it echoed in your heart while in the taking of your seat at the table as the final guest and around the simple dish of yours free of anything personal to you or your past their clan dishes had every memory with your Gran roaring. Family dishes with hints from around the world that had tears brimming in your downward cast eyes to every bland, bitter or oily to the oddly edge of being burnt while being perfectly moist. Every bite unflattering to the next no matter how you tried it with some of the most lifeless bread you had ever tasted.

Somewhere out of the back of the apartment a soft sound of the twins Dis had given birth to had your free hands clench atop your lap in a faked adjustment of the napkin laid there. Enabling a touch of the ring on your right hand, rose gold and meant to memorialize the husband and child lost long before the pull to this world. A teardrop diamond angled at the tip out of the band that drops into a V, the band topped by small diamonds, an heirloom from your grandmother paired with the newer similarly diamond topped rounded halo band like a crown to hint to your son’s name meaning of King. War had taken the one and an infection set in by injury from an accident took the other who were buried together where you couldn’t visit anymore. Not far away from the joint plot holding the parents you never met.

“I miss you,” pooled into your chest like a slow flood of inescapable melancholy to chase off the thought you had to be cursed to lose all you loved. Not unacceptably long your hands left your lap to adjust to help you finish this meal. Muffled compliments came from those who dared to sample your safe dish while you stomached your small yet un-insulting portion.

Dessert would be next and yet still under thirty you took your required leave to return home, or at least to the four walls you were granted. Down nearer to the markets and workshops where the young lived supervised to protect their morals, even those not of Dwarf blood where you had been given lessons and chances to conform. Not one who understood how badly this hurt. Behind your door your breaths wavered as you glanced at the apron from your Smithing lessons, for which you had to change and get some rest to attend in the morning.

…

“How long do I have to bother with this? The Lass has the patience but in the time to teach her the craft her life would be spent. She’s no metal in her bones.”

Audibly for you at least the crack of the dam was heard and a glance over the shoulder of your teacher the Wood Smith he had been speaking to shifted his gaze with lips parted at the astonishing to them quiver of your lip and instant tears you forced a smile through.

On the verge of buckling to their knees at the unexpected reaction, that had every student and Master in this forge in stunned silence. All watching the folded leather apron you had intended to put on set on the station to your right. And in a frail but determined tone you said, “I am unquestionably thankful for your efforts to teach me, and I cannot put into words how painful it is to know I will never be enough to be worthy of it.”

Straight around you turned and in a flurry of sniffles and wiped away tears that had every Dwarf and namely the Dams stare your way at the unthinkable tearful young female on her way back to her protected quarters. No one had died and so there was clear fault to have stirred such a reaction and since there was no family involved one of the Ruling Clan would have to be sent to investigate.

Not that you would know them personally, as since the moment you met them it was made clear that any in depth information on family or their internal workings beyond the simplest of things such as hunger, exhaustion, or wish to smoke, play music and be merry was not permitted. Only outside of kin signaled and intention of courtship alone. So those degrees you had worked so hard for were all but useless and there was apparently no way to find employment as a therapist here.

All the way to the door you had managed to keep just a few feet ahead of your assigned shadow, and once at it your trembling hands worked the lock to open the heavy stone barrier that after another step through the small opening you said, “I plan on peeling and cooking with garlic. No need to sully your reputation any more by lingering to reek like me. I know you have plans to marry into a good clan. I won’t be leaving again today.”

The door was shut in the servant’s mid step a good six feet away and for an awkward moment they paused and waited as if you would change your mind then turned away. Inside however your face scrunched up in a collapse of that façade while you blindly found your way to the kitchen to stress cook.

Even behind tears you could feel your way on muscle memory alone. You knew just what you wanted, what she would make you. A surefire cure for a breaking heart. Garlic bread, lasagna and a ratatouille to go with it on top of several servings of a cake you had baked the day prior in some pretend game you always held as if you could be welcome to stay for dessert and intrude on time to discuss personal things.

“I miss you,” again and again the words were pressed into the dough for the bread and the making of the pasta on a press you had made yourself in now past tense lessons never to be had again. A project that had them scratch their heads along with the other tools you made to help with noodle making and other baking tools. Possibly saltier that usual due to shed tears you missed their falls while you worked the meal together, including the Dwarf loathed garlic.

Dinner wouldn’t do much as you had to eat it alone again except for the knitted pair of otter dolls you had made on your nights in when you got tired of stabbing your fingers in tries to learn embroidery.

Above the front door a small hawk flew through the messenger door that spun behind it to shut again and landed on your raised arm as the minimal counter space was already taken up.

“Hello,” you said. From around its neck you accepted the pouch with the letter inside you brought out with a soft, “Thank you,” small offering of treats and some water on top of your table you carried it to allowed it to rest while you sat down to read the letter from King Thranduil.

*.*.* Thranduil *.*.*

‘King Thranduil,

I know we only met and spoke a couple times but I was wondering if you might be able to possibly offer an official invitation so I might take up your generous request to visit your kingdom?

I understand if the offer has been revoked after all these years, yet Lord Elrond lives too far away to write to conveniently for a response.

Could you still issue an invitation anyways with a symbol of a flower in the corner to show that it is fake to just me so that I can follow Dwarven tradition and have a proper reason to be able to take leave of King Thorin’s Halls?

Either way I shall forever be in your debt.

Yours Sincerely,

Jaqiearae Pear

P.S. If you cannot recall me I am the one who kept you from treading on the ducklings between two of your meetings.’

The words across the page had the King pulled back to that first week when you had stayed in his guest rooms, fully bound and yet as the guards had tried to bring you to him the curious stares up at the architecture and questions had him curious himself and offering much more comfortable rooming for you and the Company. Moonlit snow like white unruly curls to match the deep purple eyes containing silver flecks like mesmerizing constellations on a petite body slightly taller than any Dwarf yet far too short for any race within the East only adding to his prisoner’s alluring mystery.

Just a sudden hand in the center of his chest while his eyes were on a set of pages held him in place. And that same curious stranger with that same curious innocent glowing gaze was behind that hand that held him in place so effortlessly even when both wrists were bound in mithril chains linked to a belt that could be grabbed by a guard if need be. Much unlike the Dwarves confined to their rooms between meals with the King. From your hands downwards his eyes followed yours to the smile worthy sight of a line of ducklings he almost had broken in his distraction in a shortcut through a garden.

“Why would Miss Pear imagine I would rescind my invitation?” he murmured to himself and then promptly moved to his desk to write out a lengthy invitation to be taken as open for as long as you wished.

He had crossed paths with you a few times in Erebor since then, far beyond chance of forgetting you.

The last time after being turned out after a few minutes of a fruitless trade talk when in passing he greeted you kindly and rather boldly you offered him and his group a meal. With your shadowing servant to a delicious yet unfamiliar meal the group spoke of the change of the seasons in the Kingdom to keep the known decorum.

Since that first meeting he knew there was something you wished to say and that was why he allowed you to roam at your whims and keep his best architects enthralled with someone who was hungry to learn everything they could.

With a hawk regrettably two weeks late after returning from a trip to Lothlorien he sent off his reply and hoped the wait had not been taken as a refusal to aid in most likely some time away from the strict lifestyle of the Longbeard Clan compared to that of the Silvans.

*.*.* Jaqiearae *.*.*

“There’s no flower,” you whispered to yourself in your own tongue that had the bird’s head cock to the side as you sat mesmerized that the kind King who didn’t spread the distaste for who ruled the Company you were a part of onto yourself. Across your lips a grateful grin eased that at least in all this you might have a glimmer of a friendship somewhere since Gandalf had left you here.

They were supposed to be your friends and you stupidly assumed they might smudge traditional rules to still keep daily meetings. Yet you barely caught a glimpse across the crowded marketplace or the bustling streets of Dale when you were able to shop there as they each had their own roles in the final stages of the rebuild of that ring of the city.

Now you were merely a ward of the King Under the Mountain and nothing more. Not even allowed to be employed or courted until you reached your 50th birthday and set to live off of a set allowance from the Crown as you were laughably also too young to enter into contracts and left out of a slice of the ocean of gold shaped pie.

With a sigh the knock on your door that clearly belonged to your assigned shadow had you on your feet and in a childlike tantrum stomping your way to the door you opened to find her there with a bow of her head, “Miss Pear, Prince Dwalin is here to see you.”

Through the door you stepped and at the set of chairs you were to use when meeting a fellow unmarried person alone you sat down with a cross of your ankles. Ignoring the chill of the marble floors on your bare feet and the wooden seat on your lower thighs your shorts didn’t cover, not even with your oversized flannel you had changed into from the more conservative thick layered shirts and pants supplied to you by the trunk full to keep you like the few other wards well dressed as per order of the King.

Across the small table from you Dwalin bowed his head in return for your flash of a grin and cleared his throat. “Miss Pear, we were made aware of an upsetting earlier today in the forges and we wished to settle any misunderstanding or discomfort any of the Smiths might have caused you.”

You shook your head and said, “They didn’t do anything but state the truth. I’m absolutely useless here.”

His head shook and still holding his far from familiar tone meant solely to absolve this issue on official business alone, “Miss Pear you are a ward-,”

“I am my own person!” you cut him off and his mouth parted, “A fully grown adult being treated like a useless child! You’re supposed to be my friends and I can’t even get any of you supposed friends of mine to even talk about anything of substance or try a single nibble of what foods aren’t remotely Dwarfly to sate your comfort!

I wear your clothes, eat your demanded dishes in monthly dinners, speak your language and none of you even bother to ask me what I might like or feel comfort in!

Well I’m so sorry that you all missed your home so terribly that that you can’t bother to show the least bit of respect to someone in the same boat as you! I can’t ever go home even if I wanted to and none of you have ever missed the chance to spit on my heritage or culture!

So if you don’t mind I have dessert inside and much like the last few years I fully expect to be eating all of it myself to gather strength for my trip to the Greater Greenwood. King Thranduil has issued me an official invitation and I will not do him the disservice of making him wait for my company, something nobody who isn’t paid to do so inside this mountain feels free to accept without a structured invitation!” Up you popped and promptly went inside your room. Slammed the door and huffed your way to your table to angrily eat your way through the cake until you decided to get packing to leave as soon as possible even if it meant using the river that sprouted from this mountain.

*.*.* Durins *.*.*

“We spit on her heritage and culture?!” Thorin just about growled, not out of anger at you but more for how they had slighted someone they had only meant to ever shield from harsher cultures to have been dumped upon. He drew in a breath then asked, “What did she mention about an invitation from Thranduil?”

Right away bylaws of the Wards of the King Under the Mountain were to be brought up to consult each for the majority of requirements and restrictions to see what wiggle room they could make to grant some more comfort where obviously some was lacking. Social constructs however would be hard to broach the topic of as you were still of ward age in their culture. Yet clearly the issue had to be seen to be made as flexible as possible since clearly for some time this pain had been stewing until it bubbled over today.

By the time they made it to your quarters however you would be gone.

#Thranduil x oc #therapist oc #fallen to middle earth #Deprssion #hidden pasts and skills #Dwarf culture #Durins #Erebor #Letters to Kings #healing power of lasagna #the hobbit #LOTR

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seeyouatthesecondmusic · 5 months

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OKAY SO. new dwarf culture headcanon- i was thinking of how the dwarves would actually honour mahal, right? like, if they would actually pray to him or something. and then i thought, they have this whole thing about crafting, right? so what if they, like, pray to mahal everytime they finish a (crafting) project or every time they achieve something in their respective craft? i was thinking along the lines of, 'praise be to Mahal for guiding me through my crafting. in speaking this vow, i thank Him for helping me to practise my craft and to succeed in it, and i dedicate my finished work to Him. praise be to Mahal.' or somehing like that, and in neo khuzdul, obviously!! i'm still working on this, but i really think something like this could be pretty cool!

#my post #dwarf culture #dwarrow culture #dwarf headcanon #mahal #aule

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ben-phantomhive-trash · 7 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf Characters: Gimli (Son of Glóin), Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil Additional Tags: Silmarils, Elf Lore, beren and luthien reference, Marriage Proposal, Marriage, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, Fantasy Racism (it gets better), Hurt/Comfort Summary:

Gimli asks for Legolas' hand in marriage and Thranduil laughs at him, tasking him with obtaining a Silmaril. Gimli delivers it.

#gigolas #legolas x gimli #legolas greenleaf #gimli son of gloin #thranduil #my fic #elf culture #dwarf culture #marriage #marriage proposal #fantasy racism #dwarf x elf #lord of the rings #lotr #silmaril

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ironfoot-mothafocka · 2 years

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Dwarrowtober: Ancient & Candle

“Would he have wanted all this?” King Fara tentatively asked his wife. “Not really,” she replied, “but what are we to do? It’s tradition.”

They stopped talking as one of the masked zalal passed them carrying a tray of incense to the room in which the king’s father-in-law had died. In the ancient funeral customs of the Eastern dwarves, the windows of the small house had been thrown open wide, and anything with a silver reflecting surface had been covered over with heavy cloth.

Everyone was here now, and the mass of people, some of whom spilled out onto the street, was overwhelming in the cramped space. There were four shamurmarâd, priests who would guard and watch over Idul’s body where it lay in bed, and who afterwards would bring the corpse to the Temple for washing and tending once the night was out. He, ‘Rera, and her brother Hafar were here of course, with their sons and grandchildren. So many people, and so much to do. So much ceremony, which they both knew Idul would have griped about. Fara inhaled deeply and took in a lungful of the burning minerals— fragrant ombre powders which the zalal had lit to burn in clouds of dense smoke. He quickly stifled a cough against his sleeve; it was a potent mixture, and he’d smelled it on only a couple of occasions before.

The queen took his hand gently and led him back into the kitchen. Their youngest grandchildren were busy being amused by their grand-uncle Hafar, who balanced Akil and Sandar’s one year old on his lap. He looked up at them as they entered, his eyes ringed with dark circles. “It’s so strange, being in the house without him,” he said forlornly as Fara took a seat next to him. “Where’s ‘amad?” asked ‘Rera, sitting on his other side. “In the garden, picking some herbs. She has a headache. All the smells, and all the stress…” Hafar replied with a long exhale.

The last week had been difficult for all of them, but especially Fara’s mother-in-law, Iknar. At first, the illness that had killed her husband had started as a slight fever and aching muscles, and though Idul hadn’t been sick a day in his life, he was confined to bed. A bed which he would never leave.

Fara knew how much Idul had hated that. The elderly dwarf had been a dockworker for two hundred years, managing the loading and unloading of cargo from the hundreds of ships that entered Port Nazbukhrin each day. A staunch union leader, he’d mistrusted Fara as soon as ‘Rera had told him who she was secretly courting, but Fara didn’t blame him for it. When Fara had become king, working regulations were non-existent and the economy was in free-fall. Wages hit rock-bottom and hunger and restlessness grew, and the dwarven kingdom was on the brink of societal upheaval. “I won’t stand for you,” Idul had told Fara point-blank. “Not when you enter a room. You’re a king, aye, but don’t expect any special treatment from me. You are my son-in-law, first and foremost.” Fara wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’d often joked with his Council that he would rather walk naked into a rock-worm den than ask ‘Rera’s parents to rise on ceremony.

Even when Fara had told them they could have the best living quarters in the palace, they chose to remain in their portside apartment, where they had lived all of their lives and raised their children. The old paint on the walls was peeling off in patches, exposing white stone beneath, and the shutters on the windows were bent and dusty. Dog-eared books were stacked on high shelves, for Idul, even when their family was poor, was a militant advocate of education. Assorted pots and pans hung from iron racks amid dried meats; the washing-up in the small basin hadn’t been done for several days. A grandchild’s painting was lovingly posted on the front of the larder door, but it was now covered with a fine layer of dust — it had been almost twenty years since it was made by small hands. And in the corner, perhaps visited once or twice a year to light ceremonial candles, was a small altar. It was now awash with glimmering lights, incense smouldering softly and crumbling into ashes on the floor.

Like Idul, Fara’s attitude to religion was ‘aware it’s important to keep up appearances’. He was content to go through the motions: turning up for the relevant Temple ceremonies, holding festival meals in the palace (more of an excuse to gather together the disparate members of their extended family), half-heartedly keeping the major days of fasting. But in a private conversation, when Idul was keenly mindful of his impending death, he’d told Fara that he’d be just as happy to be interred without any ceremony. “Let people drink and eat — not be dour about the whole thing. And I don’t want any of those finicky priests taking up too much of your time. Just put me in the grave and get on with life,” he had groused. He had been acutely uncomfortable in those last hours, but he had never lost his dry humour. “And,” he had added with a disgruntled glance towards his royal son-in-law, “if you make it a state funeral, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

There was something youthfully rebellious about rejecting the old customs and disparaging the ancient ways which Idul had held onto into his three-hundredth year. Fara knew, though, that even many younger dwarves would balk at such irreverence, but the older Fara got himself, the more he sympathised. Dwarven ritual with deep roots helped the process of grief and elevated joyous occasions, but little about the rites had ever fully clicked with him. Sitting in shared contemplation with his family as they kept close to one another in their eight days of mourning, recalling a favourite saying as he lit his own candle and sparked a stick of incense, and reminiscing about the many insults he had been lambasted with throughout the years: those were the ways that Fara would remember his stubborn, infuriating, wonderful father-in-law.

There was a different kind of ancientness in the quietness of grief, and how the emptiness and loss gnawed at the insides of Fara’s stomach. The king found himself standing in the corner, watching as slowly, one by one, the candles that cluttered the altar slowly winked themselves out. He knew they would be replenished by visitors and by the family — mirroring the never-ending flow of life. Birth and death. You’re thinking too much, Fara. Fara smiled. “You’re right, Idul,” he muttered to himself, as he rubbed a circle in a small ash pile, “as always, you’re right.”

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