Archive of Our Own ^beta

High in Khagal'abba, a young dwarf with obsidian-black hair steps out of a stone-carved home and into a bustling street teeming with his kin. The air hums with the clatter of tools, the scent of spiced meat, and the murmur of a dozen conversations. Stalls line the cobbled road, each one manned by dwarrow proudly immersed in their crafts.

Though outsiders often assume dwarven skill ends with pickaxe and forge, smithing, masonry, and mining, they miss the full tapestry of dwarven life. Yes, metal sings beneath hammer blows and stone bends to dwarven will, but here, craft takes many forms.

The young dwarf’s eyes dart from stall to stall. An elderly scribe, beard braided with silver thread, recites ancient legends to wide-eyed pebbles perched on barrels and crates, his voice rising like a bard’s, his gestures grand and theatrical. Nearby, a stout tailor pins the hem of a fine woolen cloak on a mannequin shaped like a stout dwarrow lass, the cloth dyed deep emerald and embroidered with silver runes. A cook waves a wooden spoon, hollering cheerfully to anyone passing near: “Fresh honey muffins! Warm and fluffy, straight from the hearth!”

A jeweler adjusts a magnifying lens as he carves tiny runes into a sapphire pendant; next to him, a potter spins a wheel, coaxing delicate curves from thick clay with calloused hands. Pebbles dash between stalls, laughing as they chase a mechanical toy bird that flaps and chirps.

The young dwarf takes it all in, a smile tugging at his lips. He walks with a spring in his step, the warmth of home alive in every hammer strike, every laugh, every scent of baking bread. This is more than a marketplace, it is the heartbeat of his people.

This young dwarf is Óin, dashat of Gróin, of the House of Durin. Though still in his youth, he bears a name heavy with legacy. Royal blood flows through his veins, traced back to Durin the Deathless himself. But alas, that title is almost empty in meaning.

Óin is but four years old, a toddler by dwarven reckoning, when the world he never truly knows burns. The great dragon Smaug descends upon Azsâlul'abad like a living nightmare, wreathed in flame and hunger. His wings blot out the sun; his roar splits the mountain skies. Azsâlul'abad, the shining jewel of dwarven pride, is swallowed in fire and fury.

He does not remember the attack, but the stories are etched into him like runes on stone, carved deep by the voices of his elders. He hears of the inferno that consumed halls of gold and laughter alike. He hears of kin crushed beneath stone and flame, of noble warriors turned to ash mid-charge. The air choked with smoke. The screams that echoed through the mountain like funeral dirges. Of the Men of Dale, once proud allies, torn asunder in their streets, their homes flattened beneath Smaug’s wrath.

Worse still are the silences in those tales, the bitter moments when help never came. The Elves of Mirkwood, close in distance yet cold in heart, watched from afar and did nothing. Óin learns of the desperate, ragged exodus over Malasul'abbad, where winter claimed those whom the dragon spared. Kin left buried in snow, the wind howling like mourning wives.

When they finally reach Khagal'abba, they are ghosts of a once-great people. Their kinsfolk accept them with hesitation, startled by their numbers, unprepared for the weight of so much loss. Óin is spared the memories, but not the aftermath. He sees it in his adad’s eyes, once bright with pride, now shadowed with longing. He hears it in the sighs of the elders as they speak of Azsâlul'abad, not as a place, but as a dream long since shattered.

And yet... in the quiet corners of Óin’s heart, hope smolders.

He walks the streets of this new home, hears the hammers ring, and sees the crafts of his people thriving even in exile. He listens to the tales of Azsâlul'abad not just with sorrow, but with wonder. A longing grows, not just to remember what was lost, but to reclaim it. To one day see the mountain not as ruin, but as it was: golden, proud, alive.

Perhaps, one day, the House of Durin shall rise again. And Óin, dashat of Gróin, shall see the halls of his forefathers blaze with light once more, not with dragonfire, but with dwarven glory.

For now, though, Óin is excited. He has spent weeks pestering his adad, Gróin, asking, begging, to spend a day with his amad and watch her work. Unlike his nadad 'ukham Glóin, who delights in numbers and trade, Óin finds no joy in sums or ledgers. He’s good at it, more than good, in fact, but being skilled in something does not mean it stirs the soul.

Gróin knows this well. Once a Master of Coin in the golden days of Azsâlul'abad, he takes pride in the sharpness of his mind, in the art of trade and the weight of gold. He dreams of passing that knowledge to his dashshat, of seeing them thrive where he once stood tall. And for a time, he tries. He teaches Óin the ways of commerce, and Óin listens, learns, calculates, but his eyes wander, his heart clearly elsewhere.

Glóin, by contrast, soaks it all in with delight, already asking questions beyond his years. And Gróin sees the spark in him, the same fire he once had.

But when he looks at Óin, he sees something different. Not disappointment, though that shadow lingers at first, but something quieter. A quiet resistance. A yearning for a different path.

And that path leads to his amad.

She is a healer, calm, steady, revered among their people not for wealth, but for wisdom and care. Gróin used to scoff at the herbs and poultices, the soft-spoken advice and the long hours spent mending others. But now, as he watches his dashat’s eyes light up at the thought of it, he begins to understand.

So today, Gróin sighs, not with frustration, but with a quiet sort of surrender, and nods. “Go, then,” he says, voice gruff but not unkind. “Go to your amad.”

Óin beams, his joy unmistakable. Gróin watches him run off, a slight ache in his chest, but also a small, growing peace.

Maybe his dashat won’t follow in his footsteps. Maybe he was never meant to.

But perhaps… just perhaps… Óin will forge a path of his own, one that heals instead of counts, that gives rather than gathers. And Gróin, at last, is ready to let him take that first step.

Haban, amad of Óin, looks up from her table just as her dashat enters the healing hall. A warm smile spreads across her face when she sees him, his eyes bright with excitement, his uneven beard still patchy in places, a sure sign of youth. He scratches at it absently, irritation etched across his expression.

“Your adad finally allowed you to come and train under me, huh?” she asks, hands still busy sorting through dried herbs.

“Yes!” Óin replies eagerly, striding over to her with a bounce in his step. “Numbers are fine and all, but I can’t exactly throw a ledger at someone on the battlefield.”

Haban raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Then why not ask your adad to let you train as a warrior instead?”

“Because I already am!” Óin says with a huff, folding his arms proudly.

And it’s true. Among the dwarrow, every pebble, noble or common, male or female, is taught to fight. It is tradition, necessity, and pride. Their training halls are open to all, teaching combat freely from youth. While some choose the warrior’s path as a lifelong craft and seek mastery, many, like Óin, become skilled enough to hold their own, then choose a different path to specialize in.

Óin knows how to fight. But healing, that’s what pulls at his heart now.

Haban chuckles. “Yes, I’ve seen how you handle that staff. You’re swift, precise. I was impressed.” Óin grins wide at the praise, his chest puffing up slightly. Then her tone softens. “But you must know, dashat, being a healer brings its own kind of battles. It’s a craft filled with pain, regrets, perhaps even more than a warrior faces on the field.”

Óin’s smile falters, but he nods. He remembers the nights when Haban returns home with sorrow etched into every line of her face. He remembers the silence, the heaviness. The times when she lights a candle and says a quiet word for someone she couldn't save. The haunted stories she doesn’t tell, but he knows them anyway.

But still, he stands firm.

“I can handle it, amad,” he says quietly, but with conviction.

Haban studies him for a moment, then nods. “Very well. Then you’ll start by watching.”

She turns and moves toward a dwarf sitting on a stone cot, his arm gashed open and bleeding sluggishly. Óin follows close behind, heart thudding with nervous excitement.

“First, we clean the wound,” Haban explains, pouring boiling water into a bowl. “We dwarrow are gifted with thick skin and a high tolerance for heat and cold. Cleaning with boiling water is painful, but bearable. It kills infection swiftly.”

She soaks a cloth, steam rising as she presses it against the wound. The dwarf grunts but doesn't flinch.

Óin watches, eyes wide.

“But this method won’t work for everyone,” Haban continues, casting a glance back at him. “Other races, Men, Elves, they cannot endure it. Their skin burns. Their pain threshold is lower.”

Óin frowns. “Why would I need to know how to heal other races? It’s not like I’ll be seeing Elves on my table. Mahal forbid.”

Haban chuckles. “You wish to be a healer, Óin. You do not choose your patients. When war comes, and it always does, you may find yourself tending to wounded allies, or even enemies. Pain doesn’t care for bloodlines. Neither should you.”

Óin chews his lip, mulling it over. He doesn’t like the idea of treating Elves, but he doesn’t argue.

Haban moves efficiently now, preparing a dark liquid in a small wooden cup. She hands it to the injured dwarf, who drinks deeply and, moments later, begins to drift into sleep.

“That’s poppy milk,” she explains. “A powerful painkiller. For non-dwarrow, it’s often better to start with that before cleaning the wound. Their bodies need more time.”

She reaches into a cauldron of boiling water, retrieving a long needle with practiced ease. The metal gleams, sterile and ready. With a calm focus, she threads it through the dwarf’s skin, sewing the wound closed with clean, careful stitches.

Óin watches, fascinated. Every motion is deliberate, efficient. There is no trembling in her hands, no hesitation in her eyes. Only steady resolve.

“There,” she murmurs, tying the last stitch. “Now, your turn will come. But only once I know you’re ready.”

Óin doesn’t speak. He only nods, a slow, respectful dip of his head, eyes burning not with fear, but with determination.

For an entire month, Óin shadows his amad, quietly following her from dawn till dusk through the stone-hewn halls of the healing wing. He watches as she tends to feverish dwarrow, sets broken bones, drains infections, and treats burns from forge mishaps. He listens closely as she explains each ailment, every herb, poultice, and technique, often pausing mid-procedure to test his memory with sharp, unexpected questions.

“This powder?” she asks, holding up a small pouch.

“Crushed copperleaf. Good for drawing out rot from wounds,” Óin answers, without missing a beat.

She nods, pleased, and continues her work.

When time allows, Haban introduces him to the other healers, stoic dwarrow with scarred hands and calm voices. Some raise eyebrows at the sight of a dwarfling apprentice.

“Isn’t he too young?” one asks, eyeing Óin’s barely-grown beard and wide eyes.

“He is,” Haban replies, smiling fondly. “But he’s eager, and we need the help.”

And they do. Here in Khagal'abba, the dwarrow are still recovering from the wounds left by Smaug’s ruin of Azsâlul'abad. Though the fires are long gone, the scars remain. Their numbers are stretched thin, their wealth diminished, and their pride, though unbroken, carries the weight of exile. The kin of Khagal'abba have welcomed them, but space, supplies, and strength are always being tested.

Everyone works. Everyone helps rebuild. And with work comes injury, every day, someone arrives with a sprain, a break, a burn. So every hand in the healing wing, even a young one, is a blessing.

Still, Haban remains cautious.

“I’m not letting him do anything intensive yet,” she insists more than once, though Óin always pouts at her words.

He isn’t a pebble anymore! He’s no child to be coddled! He can name every major nerve and bone in the dwarven body! Ask his adad, he’ll vouch for him!

“I can handle it, amad!” he protests one afternoon, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “I haven’t done anything but watch all month! I could at least clean wounds!”

Haban gives him a long, steady look. “Now, dashat. It’s not about what you think you can handle. It’s about what the patient can afford. Unskilled hands do more harm than good.”

The fire in Óin’s chest dims. He knows she’s right. He doesn’t want to hurt someone, not out of pride. He looks down, his voice quieter now. “I’m sorry. I just… I want to help.”

Haban’s sternness softens. She knows her dashat’s heart is sincere. And she’s seen his sharp mind, how quickly he grasps what others take years to learn. But she also knows the toll, the infections that sneak past even careful hands, the nights when loss steals your sleep, the weight of guilt a healer can carry for life.

Still, she can’t shelter him forever.

She sighs. “Very well. We had a dwarfling brought in yesterday. Minor injuries, nothing life-threatening. You may clean his wounds under my supervision.”

Óin lights up like a lantern. “Yes! Thank you, amad!” He gathers what he needs, boiled water, clean cloths, crushed herbs, antiseptic salve, and rushes off, eager and proud. Haban quickly trails behind him, just in case.

He enters a small side chamber, and pauses.

There, seated on a stone bench with a bandaged leg propped on a stool, is a dwarfling about his age. The boy has a wild mop of coal-black hair, a grin too wide for someone injured, and an easy laugh that fills the room.

“You must be my healer!” the boy beams. “Don’t worry, I’m tough!”

Óin smiles awkwardly, then glances at the injury.

The dwarfling, Bifur, according to the chart, has a swollen ankle, visibly puffed and discolored. The skin around it is darkening from deep bruising, fading from angry red to mottled purples and sickly greens. There's an unnatural bulge to the outer side, a sure sign of a bad sprain or even a partial dislocation. Scrapes pepper his knee and thigh, with one long, shallow gash across the outer thigh, already clotted but in need of cleaning.

Haban enters just behind and reads from the stone tablet. “During a routine dig, Bifur here, heard a rumble, not a full cave-in, just a loose shelf giving way. He tried to leap back, but his foot slipped on gravel. Twisted his ankle, landed hard. Might’ve clipped the thigh on a rock as he went down.”

“It’s true!” Bifur chirps, laughing. “My fault entirely! Got too excited. Was showing off a little, maybe.”

Óin kneels beside the ankle, gently probing with his fingers. He recalls Haban’s teachings, check for breaks, for heat, for dislocation. He speaks as he works, mostly to himself, partly to reassure Bifur.

“Bone’s not broken, good. Swollen, but joint seems stable… You’ll be limping for a while, though. This’ll hurt.”

“Go for it!” Bifur grins. “Pain means it’s healing, right?”

Óin glances back at Haban, who nods in silent approval.

He begins by unwrapping the makeshift bandage. He soaks a clean cloth in boiling water, wrings it out, and presses it to the skin. Bifur flinches but doesn’t cry out. The dirt and dried blood come away slowly. Then Óin uses a salve made from mountain mint, copperleaf, and powdered stonebark to reduce inflammation and cleanse the cuts.

He dabs carefully, just as he’s seen Haban do, whispering to himself the steps as he goes, cleanse, salve, bind, elevate. Then he wraps the ankle with a fresh linen strip, tight but not too tight, making sure there’s room for the swelling.

“There,” he says at last, a little breathless. “That should keep until you’re properly examined again tomorrow.”

“You’re really good,” Bifur says cheerfully. “You sure you’re not a master already?”

Óin flushes with pride but says nothing.

Behind him, Haban watches her dashat with quiet wonder, seeing not just a child trying to prove himself, but a healer in the making.

“I’m not,” Óin says with a polite smile, trying to ignore the heat crawling up his neck. “I’m just an apprentice.”

“Really? Mahal help me, then I really wonder how your hands will feel when you become a master,” Bifur replies smoothly, his voice a touch lower, a teasing grin spreading across his lips.

Óin nearly chokes on his own saliva.

The way Bifur winks leaves no room for misinterpretation. That was deliberate. Very deliberate.

“I–I’m hoping you don’t get injured too often now,” Óin stammers, struggling to keep his voice steady and professional. “It’s… it’s not good for your health.”

“Oh, but I’m certain Mahal blessed me with that shelf of rocks,” Bifur says, wiggling his eyebrows, “just so I could be graced by your smile. Bless Mahal for that.”

Óin’s face turns such a vivid shade of red that it nearly rivals the glow of forge embers. He tries to recover, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

“I—I am far too young to be courted, Bifur! And you are too, to do any courting! Cease this at once!”

Bifur just leans back slightly on his elbows, utterly unbothered, smile still lazy and wicked. “That’s never stopped us dwarflings from experimenting , has it?”

The way he says the word, experimenting , sends a jolt through Óin’s chest that feels both thrilling and alarming.

“E-Experiment?! I—I will do no such thi—”

Before he can finish, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Oh my sweet pebble,” Haban says from the doorway, eyes twinkling with mirth, “relax. Your adad experimented plenty before meeting me.”

“ Amad! ” Óin exclaims, voice cracking in pure, horrified disbelief.

He turns to her, scandalized, face burning as if he just fell into a vat of hot coals. But she only giggles, entirely unbothered, hands calmly clasped before her apron as if she hasn’t just shattered his dignity.

Óin shoots a panicked glance back at Bifur, who now looks delighted . Not smug, not cruel, just genuinely entertained and, worse, enchanted .

Óin’s mind races. He’s been trained by his adad to recognize false charm, to watch for twitching fingers, overconfident postures, wandering eyes. Too many have tried to court him not out of affection, but for ambition. He’s nobility, even if exiled. Reclaiming Azsâlul'abad might be a distant dream, but for many, he still represents an easy way to riches.

So he does what his adad taught him.

He looks Bifur directly in the eyes.

And what he sees halts his thoughts like a hammer on stone.

There’s no calculation in Bifur’s gaze. Just light. Earnest, bronzite-colored eyes that glow like polished amber in the candlelight, open, joyful, and warm. Bifur isn’t playing a long game. He’s not flattering a prince. He doesn’t know who Óin is.

To him… he’s just a healer.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Bifur murmurs, voice softer now, as if he senses something shift. “They remind me of cognac diamonds, warm, deep, wise.”

Then, almost reverently, “What’s the name of such a handsome healer?”

Óin forgets how to breathe.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then opens it a second time, as if the words must be coaxed out of hiding.

“I—I’m Óin…” he finally manages, voice shaky. His gaze flickers, trying to read Bifur’s face. Maybe now he’ll realize who he’s speaking to?

But Bifur just nods, pleased, no sign of recognition.

“Named after Durin I’s heir,” he says, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I can see why. You’ve got a regal air about you, strong jaw, sharp eyes. The kind of face stories are written about.”

Óin might as well melt into the floor.

He tries to speak, fails again, then just turns to hide his face under the pretense of checking his supplies.

Behind him, Haban observes the entire exchange with an amused, knowing smile. She doesn’t mind that a commoner is flirting with her dashat. In fact, she finds it charming.

She only hopes her yasthûn will be as open-minded.

And so, days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. Óin grows steadily in his craft, his hands once tentative now sure, his knowledge sharpened like a well-forged blade. He learns how to read a fever before it rises, how to stitch skin without leaving a scar, and how to soothe even the most stubborn dwarrow with a steady voice and steadier hand. Under Haban’s guidance, he becomes a healer worth respect, young, but skilled.

And through it all, Bifur keeps showing up.

Injured or not, he visits almost every day, sometimes with a genuine scrape, other times with nothing more than an exaggerated cough and a grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. He flirts shamelessly, loudly, boldly, and always with that same warmth that made Óin’s heart flutter the very first time. Óin, for his part, does his best to shoo him off, to act annoyed, to insist he’s busy, but he never truly means it.

Because the truth is, he loves it. The teasing. The attention. The fact that someone looks at him not as a noble or a healer, but just... Óin . And Óin feels giddy, despite himself, every time.

Well, except that one time.

Fed up with Bifur's relentless teasing during a particularly hectic day, Óin finally snapped and chased him out of the infirmary. He thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The very next day, Bifur limped in, bleeding from a shallow head wound and proudly proclaiming he’d "accidentally walked into a pickaxe."

Óin was not impressed.

But Haban had only laughed, shaking her head. “Your adad did the same thing, Óin. Numerous times. Always some silly injury, always just an excuse to see me.” She leaned in and added with a smirk, “Best you let the lad keep flirting, unless you want him coming back in pieces. Never underestimate the stubbornness of our kind, dashat.”

And Óin… doesn’t want to admit it, but he really does like Bifur.

He’s a jolly dwarf, always with a story, always with a smile. There’s a liveliness to him that feels infectious, grounding. He jokes like the world is meant to laugh, and he loves like it’s something simple and natural. When he lies, it’s only ever to hide a surprise, usually some carved trinket or food he snuck in, and he gets so nervous about it that it becomes endearing.

He speaks Westron fluently, and begins teaching Óin, explaining that his family trades often with Men and Hobbits near the mountains. Óin listens carefully, secretly enjoying the way Bifur leans close to correct his pronunciation.

But beneath all the smiles and stolen glances lies a quiet, unspoken fear.

Gróin.

Óin’s adad.

Óin hasn’t told him about Bifur. He doesn’t dare . They’re both still considered too young to officially court, but that wouldn’t stop his adad from interfering. Haban has given her quiet approval, Óin sees it in the way she smiles when Bifur visits, the way she looks the other way when Óin’s cheeks turn red.

But Gróin?

Gróin is a different matter.

Bifur, as proud as he is of his family, has never pretended to be someone he’s not. They are miners, honest, hardworking, and humble. A respected craft, yes, but not one that holds weight in the politics of dwarven society. They’re not prominent. They’re not noble.

Bifur is just… Bifur. Cheerful, clever, kind. And common .

Óin, on the other hand, is nobility, even in exile. Even in Khagal’abba, so far from the glory of Azsâlul'abad, his name still means something. Enough that suitors with ambition wear false smiles. Enough that his adad watches his future with sharp eyes and sharper expectations.

And so, for the first time in his life, Óin hates that he’s a noble.

He wishes he could just be a dwarf . Not a lordling. Not a political tool. Just a healer in training, laughing with a boy who makes his heart race.

Bifur gives him that.

He takes him to places Óin’s never dared go, simple markets filled with noisy tradesdwarrow, corners of the forge district where songs are bawdy and off-key but sung with such joy. He teaches Óin how to play simple games with dice and stones, sings him folk songs not found in courtly gatherings, and tells stories laced with terrible puns that make Óin groan through his laughter.

It’s a different world. A brighter one. One where Óin forgets who he is supposed to be, and remembers who he wants to be.

And yet...

There’s always a voice in the back of his mind. A voice that whispers: This can’t last. That once Bifur finds out who he really is, he’ll change. He’ll bow. He’ll distance himself. Or worse, he’ll cling to him because of who he is.

And if Gróin finds out?

Óin can already picture the fallout. Guards. Boundaries. Duty. Isolation. All things he knows his adad is capable of enforcing if he believes it necessary. For Óin’s “future.” For the “good of the line.”

That’s why he’s grateful beyond words for Haban’s silence. His amad says nothing of the way her dashat lingers a little too long near the door when Bifur leaves, or the way he lights up at the sound of his voice. She says nothing, and in her quiet, Óin finds hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, his fears are wrong. That not every secret has to end in heartbreak. That perhaps, Mahal willing, Bifur will keep coming back, laughing and grinning and speaking in that smooth, teasing voice that makes Óin’s chest ache in the best way.

And maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright.

Even if he is a little pessimistic.

Like his third iraknadad Thorin.

And then, one day, everything turns for the worse.

It begins as a blessed day, rare and precious. No injured dwarrow, no coughing miners, no groans of the sick echoing through the stone halls. Just peace. A healer’s dream.

Óin, still just an apprentice, spends the morning sorting supplies and checking inventories beside his amad, Haban, and a few senior healers. His hands are ink-stained, his focus buried in parchment and stock counts, while the world outside still feels normal. Calm. Safe.

“Bandages are well-stocked,” Haban mutters, scanning a list. “But it seems we’re running low on herbs.”

Óin sighs as he marks it down with a charcoal stick. “We wouldn’t run out so quickly if we could grow them ourselves.”

He knows full well why they don’t. dwarrow can grow things, but that doesn’t mean they should. The culture frowns on it, and the old sayings carry weight: ‘The farmer's greatest skill is in waiting, for the earth does the work while he watches.’ Patience without labor. Waiting instead of crafting. It goes against every instinct in their bones.

“I know, dashat,” Haban says gently. “But you also know how traditional our kin are.”

She casts a quick glance around the room, confirming they’re alone, and then lowers her voice. “Now. When are you going to tell your adad about Bifur?”

Óin’s face flushes a deep crimson, nearly dropping his charcoal. “Amad! You know I can’t. He’ll—he’ll make me stop seeing him. And I don’t want that.”

Haban chuckles, a warm sound that cuts the still air. “Oh, my sweet pebble. Your adad isn’t heartless. He might growl and grumble, but he’ll be proud you followed your heart, so long as you're honest with him.”

Óin wants to believe her. He really does.

But before he can reply, the peace shatters.

A scream rips through the corridors, high-pitched, terrified, real. It sends a chill down his spine, and he drops the parchment as he and Haban run outside.

What they see stills the blood in their veins.

A crowd is already forming. In its center stands Nár, the loyal companion of King Thrór. His clothes are tattered, his body smeared with dried blood and filth. He stumbles, swaying, his face pale as stone and eyes wide with something more than exhaustion, madness .

In his arms, cradled like a sacred relic, is a rotting head.

Thrór’s head.

The old king’s crown is gone. His face is mutilated. His beard and hair shorn bare. And carved crudely into the skin, in jagged Cirth, is a name that chills the marrow: Azog .

“They’ve taken Khazad-dûm!” Nár screams, the words torn from his throat. “The orcs, they’ve taken Khazad-dûm! ”

Tears stream down his face as he clutches the decapitated head tighter, as if holding it close might bring the king back. He shakes with grief, his entire body shuddering like a child lost in a nightmare. And no one moves to stop him.

Óin stares, breath caught in his throat. He has seen blood. He has seen injuries. But this is desecration. A message. A warning. A desecrated king, carved like a trophy, offered as a twisted gift.

And then he sees Prince Thráin.

No, King Thráin now.

He stands at the front of the crowd, shoulders hunched and face ashen. His eyes, once sharp with command, are hollow. Lifeless. He looks more corpse than king.

“We shall give all we can to give my adad a proper burial,” Thráin says, voice raw. He steps forward and places a shaking hand on Nár’s shoulder. Slowly, Nár lets go, whimpering as the new king takes his adad’s head from his arms.

The crowd parts in silence, following Thráin as he carries the remains of Thrór to the sacred tombs.

Óin is frozen, legs like lead. The sheer weight of grief in the air presses on his chest like stone. This is the first time he sees what despair truly looks like, not in stories or legends, but real , carved into the faces of dwarrow he once thought unshakable.

A hand grabs him, rough, urgent.

“Iraknadad! Snap out of it!”

Frerin’s voice is sharp. Óin blinks and turns, seeing his iraknadad’s face filled with urgency and pain.

“Come on. Let’s give sigin’adad the burial he deserves.”

“R-Right. I’m coming,” Óin stammers. His feet move on instinct, following Frerin, but his mind is a storm.

Then he sees him.

Bifur.

Standing apart from the crowd, just at the edge of the corridor, face stricken with shock. His dark eyes are wide. His mouth is slightly open. And on his face, confusion. Recognition.

He knows.

The truth is written plain on Bifur’s face now. The pieces have clicked into place. The familiarity with Prince Frerin. The quiet way healers and guards speak to him. His place beside the royal family now in times of mourning.

Bifur knows.

And Óin’s heart sinks.

This day is a nightmare, bloody, broken, and loud, and somehow, it still manages to get worse. He had wanted to tell Bifur one day. Quietly. Gently. When he could explain it on his own terms. When it wouldn’t feel like a betrayal.

But now Bifur looks at him like he’s a stranger. Not angry. Not hateful. Just… lost.

Bifur’s eyes meet his, and Óin can see the question burning behind them:

Who are you really?

Óin looks away.

He doesn’t have the strength to answer.

Not today.

Not like this.

For seven days and seven nights, the new King Thráin does not eat. He does not sleep. He simply sits , motionless, upon his throne of stone.

His silence spreads like rot.

Many try to coax him to speak, his warriors, his advisors, his friends, his family. Óin himself joins them, approaching his second iraknadad with hope and desperation. But Thráin does not answer. He does not blink. He stares forward with eyes that see nothing.

Óin has never witnessed despair like this. Not until now. And to his growing horror, his amad, Haban, shows no surprise.

She only sighs, weary as a mountain worn by time, and says, “The wounds of the mind, dashat… they are the hardest to heal. And they always leave a scar.”

Óin sees that truth unfold every day of those seven days. He watches the new king wither beneath his crown, his back hunched, his cheeks sunken, his hands trembling like an old dwarf twice his age. The throne does not lift Thráin. It crushes him.

And then there is Thorin.

Unlike Óin, Thorin carries the weight of dragonfire, of seared memories and the charred bones of his amad and his adad’s consort. He stands beside the silent king, trying to shoulder a legacy drowned in ash and grief.

“I don’t know what else I can do,” Thorin says at last, breaking the silence. His voice cracks. “I can’t reach him. If amad were still here, perhaps she could have coaxed him out of this… but now...”

Óin wants to offer comfort. But what can he say? He knows nothing of the healing of the mind. He is still young. Still learning. Still fumbling. If he cannot ease Thorin’s pain, how can he ever reach the heart of a shattered king?

And if Thráin is inconsolable, then Nár is something worse.

What remains of Nár is a shell. The old dwarf trembles constantly, muttering to himself, staring into nothing. The healers do what they can, but there is only so much balm for a soul broken by cruelty.

And the tales he tells…

Stories bleed from his lips in fragments. Of torture. Of chains. Of dark corridors and the glint of Morgul blades. Of orcs. Of wraiths . Of Azog, the pale orc, grinning as he carved his name into King Thrór’s flesh. Not fast. Not quick. But slowly.

Cruelly. 

Inch by inch.

And then, decapitation.

Some dismiss it. Say that grief twists the mind. That Nár’s words are just madness. But those who have seen orc cruelty firsthand, those hardened dwarrow who fought in the old wars, they know the truth behind such pain. And they do not doubt him.

They only pray. For Nár. For Thráin. For the storm that must come.

And then it does come.

On the dawn of the eighth day, Thráin finally moves.

He rises from the throne with a roar that shakes the walls of the keep. A sound torn from a soul broken open. His voice echoes like thunder through the stone halls:

“This cannot be borne!”

He calls for war.

For vengeance.

For retribution in kind: a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, a head for a head .

And the dwarrow answer.

Their wrath is great, their fury long buried. The call is answered by all Houses. Smiths lay down hammers to take up axes. Old warriors sharpen rusted blades. Drums beat deep in the mountains once more.

And for three long years, they prepare.

Even the young are not spared.

Óin, still not of age, is pulled into the ranks alongside his nadad 'ukham, Glóin. They are trained like warriors grown, shouted at, pushed, bruised, broken, reshaped. Glóin, ever stubborn, bites down his pain and never complains. Óin follows suit, even when his limbs feel like molten lead and his lungs burn like forge-fires.

But there is no choice.

And it is not just soldier’s training he must endure.

His healer’s training continues, but no longer with the gentle guidance of Haban. Now it is harsh, rushed, cruel in pace and tone. He learns to stitch wounds by torchlight, to set bones on screaming bodies, to mix salves between shifts of weapon drills. The sacred art of healing is reduced to utility. A necessity for war.

And in all this—

Bifur is gone.

Not dead. Not disappeared. But gone from Óin’s life all the same.

They no longer cross paths. No more stolen glances, no whispered jokes, no healing-room flirtations. If Bifur looks at him at all, Óin doesn’t see it, because his eyes are always half-closed in exhaustion, or blurred with sweat.

Three years pass, and the silence from Bifur cuts deeper than any sparring blade. Óin tells himself it’s better this way. That maybe Bifur’s forgotten him. That maybe it never mattered to him in the first place.

But he still dreams of him.

In the few short hours of sleep he’s allowed, Óin sometimes dreams of laughter in the tunnels, of shared songs and playful smirks. Of the way Bifur used to pretend to limp just to get patched up by Óin’s hands. Of calloused fingers brushing his. Of the way Bifur looked at him like he was just another dwarf, not a noble. Not a healer. Just Óin.

And when he wakes, soaked in sweat and aching from the day before, there is nothing but stone, blood, and silence.

His body is breaking.

His spirit is fraying.

And the war hasn’t even begun yet.

And when the war finally begins, Óin understands true horror.

He finally grasps what his amad, Haban, meant when she said the wounds of the mind are the deepest, that they scar, that they change a dwarrow. Her words ring in his head every time he blinks. Every time he breathes.

The battlefield is a nightmare without end.

He hears the shrieking cries of orcs and dwarrow alike, howling in rage, agony, or the throes of death. He feels the sickening resistance of flesh as his blade sinks into another living being. He feels the cold bite of steel carving into him .

And then there’s the confusion, so many voices, too many, too loud. He cannot always tell friend from foe in the chaos. Screams blur together. Orders vanish in the noise. Sometimes he swings without thinking, unsure if it will be the last thing he ever does.

As a healer, he serves mostly in the backlines, but that does not spare him. When they overrun a camp or are ambushed in the night, Óin fights. Less often than his nadad 'ukham Glóin, but enough to carry the weight of it. And he sees how it eats at Glóin too.

Glóin, once so cheerful and warm, grows quiet. Withdrawn. His laughter becomes a memory. His eyes, when not dulled with exhaustion, are haunted.

When Óin isn’t wielding a weapon, he is wielding a needle, a knife, herbs and poultices. He tries to save lives. He has seen blood before, has stitched open wounds before. But he has never seen this , never seen what violence does to a soul.

He sees men who cannot stop screaming.

He sees what happens when they run out of poppy milk, when they have to cut off limbs with no anaesthetic, only a rag to bite. He watches as bodies jerk and seize from the pain, as bones are shattered and realigned. He hears the wet crunch of bone saws.

He watches the light fade from eyes that once gleamed with fire.

Sometimes, there’s nothing left to do but hold their hand as they go.

Some nights, Glóin wakes screaming, soaked in cold sweat. Óin bolts upright, dragging him close, holding him through the tremors.

“It’s alright, nadad. I’m here. I’m here. We’ll be fine,” Óin whispers, again and again, even though he isn’t sure he believes it himself. The words are thin. Hollow. He says them until his voice breaks and his tears fall, soaking Glóin’s shoulder.

They are too young for this.

Their adad, Gróin, and amad, Haban, would once have been there to soothe their fears. But even they are being hollowed out by the war. As adults and masters of their crafts, they are needed more than ever.

Gróin, once master of coin, now lends his sharp mind to war councils, turning numbers into strategies, rationing supplies, finding logic in the madness.

Haban, once so warm and strong, now walks like a ghost. She works endlessly, healing soldiers, giving comfort where she can, always carrying that smell of blood and herbs. Sometimes Óin glimpses her in passing. Their eyes meet, but there’s no time to speak.

The war has stolen their family, even while they live.

So the naddad lean on each other instead, doing their best to avoid burdening their lashshar, already overwhelmed and breaking.

But it’s not just them. Their iraknaddad suffer, too.

Thorin and Frerin carry the lives of their kin on their backs. They lead soldiers to battle, and Óin sees it tearing them apart. If he struggles with the loss of his patients, what must it be like for Thorin and Frerin to watch entire units fall? To order their deaths?

Frerin still tries to smile, to joke. But the light in his eyes is dimmer. The weight drags at his shoulders.

Thorin says little. His gaze is always far away, always calculating. Cold, but not unfeeling. Just wounded beyond what words can hold.

Balin and Dwalin do all they can to support them. Balin, calm and steady, stands at Thorin’s side as advisor, though Óin sees the lines deepen in his face with every lost dwarf. Dwalin, their guard, trains harder than anyone, his fury boiling just beneath his skin.

Even Dís, Thorin and Frerin’s nan’ith, takes up the healing arts. She wants to help, even if she cannot lead like her naddad. She can fight, but they will not let her command in battle. Still, she insists on doing something . She assists in the tents, her hands trembling as she stitches wounds and steadies limbs. Too young, yet too brave to look away.

The House of Durin is fracturing under the pressure. Pride holds it upright, but only just.

They fight not only for vengeance, not only for the brutal murder of their king, their beloved sigin’adad, but for something deeper, older: the desecration of Khazad-dûm.

The orcs have taken it. Their sacred home. Their soul.

It is more than war. It is an outrage. An insult carved into their bones.

So they fight. No matter how young. No matter how scared.

And in fighting, they are scarred. Maimed. Changed.

Some never return.

And through it all, Óin keeps thinking of the dwarf he once loved.

Bifur.

Does he still live? Has he fallen to the orcs’ blades? Or does he fight somewhere in another legion, just as worn and hollow?

Óin doesn’t know.

But he misses him.

He misses the warmth of Bifur’s voice. The spark in his eye. The teasing smirk he wore when he was pretending to need Óin’s care. He misses feeling like someone saw him , not a healer, not a royal iraknadad, just Óin .

He promises himself that if he ever sees Bifur again, he won’t let silence stand between them.

He won’t hesitate.

He will speak. Even if it’s just to say:

“I still love you.”

Even if they are standing on a field of corpses.

Even if it’s already too late.

Six years of war. Six years of blood, of steel, of screams. And Óin is thankful to Mahal, to anything that might listen, that after today, it will finally be over.

Today, they reclaim Khazad-dûm.

After hunting down every orc-hold they could find, from the frozen peaks of Mount Gundabad in the north to the marshes of the Gladden in the south, there is only one fight left. One final blow. One final chance to make all this death mean something.

But the last battle is the worst.

The worst Óin has ever seen.

It begins on a dark, wind-bitten winter day. No sun shines through the thick, churning clouds above Dimrill Dale. The sky itself seems to mourn. The dwarrow march through the vale, snow crunching beneath thousands of boots, until they reach the East-Gate of Khazad-dûm.

There, they raise a great roar, an echoing cry of rage, of hope, of vengeance.

But it is answered by a darker sound.

Above them, along the western slopes, a tide of orcs gathers like a black wave. Thousands. More than they have ever faced. More still pour from the yawning gate, screeching and snarling. The dwarrow are outnumbered, and worse, they are on the low ground.

Óin stands among the backline as he watches Thráin raise his sword high, voice cracking with fury as he bellows the charge.

And then chaos consumes them.

From the rear, Óin watches the neat lines of the dwarrow shatter like glass. The orcs surge downhill like floodwater. Steel crashes against steel. Screams pierce the air. Blood sprays.

It takes only moments for the front ranks to be swallowed.

Óin barely has time to react before an orc barrels toward him, snarling. He swings his staff in desperation, cracking the creature’s skull with a sickening crunch. Blood spatters his face. He turns just in time to duck beneath a swinging axe, only to see the attacker fall as a dwarf drives a sword into its belly.

That same dwarf doesn’t even get the chance to pull his blade free before another orc beheads him.

Óin stumbles back, eyes wide, stomach lurching. His hands are slick with sweat and blood. He can’t breathe.

“Glóin! Glóin!” he screams. “Naddith, where are you!?”

Panic chokes him. His adad, Gróin, and amad, Haban, are fierce, he knows they can hold their own. But Glóin is his nadad 'ukham. His nadad 'ukhamul. His naddith .

And a nadad 'ugmalul must protect his naddith.

He pushes forward, swinging, ducking, dodging, stumbling through mud and blood. Dwarrow and orcs blur past him. He hears snarls, the wet thud of blades sinking into bodies, the thunder of war cries and death screams. He hears his name screamed, then lost in the din.

He glimpses Frerin and Fundin leading a charge near Mirrormere, rallying a defense against the orcs pouring from the trees. He wishes them luck. He can’t help them. He has to find Glóin.

Then he sees him, surrounded.

Glóin faces two orcs trying to flank him. His battleaxe arcs wide, sweeping with reckless fury. He yells with all the fire of their bloodline: “Come at me, you pieces of shit! I am Glóin, dashat of Gróin! The blood of Durin runs through my veins! I will have your heads!”

But rage isn’t enough.

One orc ducks under a swing and lunges, lifting a heavy, jagged club. Óin sees it coming down toward his nadad’s head.

He runs.

With a desperate cry, he dives in and sweeps his staff low. The orc’s feet go out from under it, and it crashes into the mud. Glóin doesn’t miss his chance. He roars and slams his axe down, cracking the skull with bone-splitting force.

But the second orc is already on him.

Glóin tugs at his axe, it’s stuck. The orc lifts its crude blade.

Óin strikes again. His staff smashes into the orc’s jaw, snapping it sideways. The creature stumbles. And Glóin rips his axe free, roaring as he buries it deep in the orc’s face.

For a moment, everything is still.

Breathless. Blood-soaked.

“You’ve gotta stop swinging so wide, naddith!” Óin yells, panting. “Dwalin already told you, it leaves you open! ”

“I’m trying my best!” Glóin snaps back, eyes wild, chest heaving.

And then the moment is gone, swallowed by war again.

They fight side by side, naddad in blood, surrounded by death. Every heartbeat is another strike. Every breath is another dodge. The ground beneath their boots is slick with mud and gore. Óin can’t count how many times he almost dies, how many times Glóin saves him, or he saves Glóin.

They are just teenagers by dwarven years, barely more than children.

And yet here they are, killing orcs, watching kin die screaming, trying to hold each other together as the world burns around them.

They aren’t warriors.

They are survivors.

They aren’t legends.

They are terrified boys, doing everything they can not to die.

And Óin wonders, with each swing of his staff, with each fresh corpse that falls at his feet, if there will be anything of them left when this is over.

If the end of the war means peace.

Or just silence.

Time passes, Óin doesn’t know how much. Minutes? Hours? He can't tell. The battlefield is a blur of blood, steel, and screaming. He doesn’t even know if it’s still day. The sky above is black, not just with storm clouds, but with smoke, choking, acrid smoke from burning siege gear and orc torches.

It becomes clear to him, they’re going to die.

He sees it in Glóin’s face. The boy’s shoulders sag, his chest heaves with each breath, and his swings grow sluggish. His armor is dented, slick with blood that may or may not be his own. They’re tired. Too tired. And they’re slowing down.

Óin can barely breathe, every breath a wheeze as he grips his blood-slicked staff. His arms burn with every strike, every parry. His hands are numb, trembling. His vision blurs. The ground beneath his boots is slippery with gore, the air so thick with blood and sweat that every inhale feels like drowning.

And still the orcs keep coming.

“I don’t think I can hold on any longer, nadad,” Glóin pants, nearly falling over as he swings his axe weakly.

“Just a bit more, naddith! Just a little bit more!” Óin screams back, teeth gritted, driving his staff down onto an orc’s skull.

But his swing lacks force. The blow stuns but does not kill.

The orc recovers faster than Óin expects. With a snarl, it brings its axe up and slams the flat of it against Óin’s head.

The world explodes into light, pain, and then silence.

Óin is flung backward, hitting the ground hard. His ears ring, no, not even ringing. Nothing. He opens his mouth to scream but hears nothing. Not even his own voice. The world is quiet.

Too quiet.

He looks up through the haze of pain. The orc staggers toward him, eyes burning with murder. Glóin is dragging himself up, yelling something, face twisted in terror, but Óin hears nothing. Just the shape of his lips.

Then Glóin is kicked aside like a sack of grain.

Óin’s vision spins. The orc lifts its axe above him. He stares up at the dark sky, at the dull gleam of the blade, and prays, not for himself, but for Glóin. For Mahal to protect his naddith. For his death not to break him.

Then a blur slams into the orc.

At first Óin thinks it's Glóin, risen again. But no, the movement is different, wild, feral.

It’s Bifur.

Bifur roars soundlessly, Óin can't hear it, but he feels it. Every swing of Bifur’s halberd is driven by sheer rage, forcing the orc back. Bifur is bleeding, limping, but in his fury he moves like a flame. Each strike rattles the orc’s arms. He has reach. Speed. Hate.

But he’s tired. So tired.

His swings leave him open. His recovery is slow.

Óin sees it before it happens, the opening.

The orc swings its axe and sinks it deep into Bifur’s forehead.

Óin’s world shatters.

He tries to scream, but the sound doesn’t come. Just air and anguish.

Bifur stands still.

Convulses.

And then, impossibly, moves.

With a last, inhuman roar, Bifur lifts his halberd and cleaves the orc in two from collar to hip. The beast falls apart with a wet sound.

And then Bifur collapses.

Óin crawls to him, blind with grief, hands shaking as he presses them against the wound. The embedded axe is still there, trembling in Bifur’s skull.

“ Please, no! No! Bifur! Don’t leave me! ” he cries, though he can’t hear the sound of his own voice. He can’t hear anything. Everything is silent. A silence that feels wrong.

He has heard the stories, tales of dwarrow going berserk in battle, rising in impossible rages, their blood turning to fire. Fighting with mortal wounds. Bifur must have done that. It’s the only way he could have stayed standing.

But now the rage is gone. And the wound remains.

He’s going to die.

Óin knows this. Knows it as a healer. The wound is catastrophic, no dwarf has ever survived something like this. And yet he refuses to let go.

He tears open his satchel, fumbling for what little supplies he has left. A tourniquet? No use. Stitching? Absurd. Poultices, compresses, it’s all pointless. But he tries everything.

He presses cloth against the wound, binds Bifur’s head in layers of wrappings, tries to slow the bleeding even as blood pours out of Bifur’s nose and ears. He checks his pulse. It’s weak. Irregular.

“ You’re not dying, ” he mutters, over and over, even though he can’t hear himself. “ You’re not dying, Bifur. I love you. You can’t leave me, not now. Please—please— ”

Glóin appears beside him, saying something, gesturing wildly. Óin doesn’t understand. Can’t hear.

When Glóin grabs his shoulder to pull him away, Óin snarls and shoves him hard.

“ No! ” he shouts, “ This is Bifur! I can’t leave him! He’ll live! He has to live! ”

He doesn’t care that they’re surrounded. That orcs still prowl the field. That it’s suicidal to stop now. None of it matters. He can’t leave Bifur. He won’t.

He works faster, blood staining his fingers, tears streaking his soot-covered face. Glóin is pulling at him again, trying to drag him back. Óin shakes him off, whispering frantically to Bifur, words of comfort, of love, of begging.

“ You’ll live. You’re strong. You have to be. You saved me. You saved Glóin. Please don’t go. ”

And then, finally, trumpets.

He sees it from the corner of his eye. Dwarrow. Reinforcements pouring in. Iron armor glinting through the smoke.

The Iron Hills have come.

At their head rides Lord Náin, and beside him, his young dashat, Dáin, barely older than Óin. They crash into the orcs like a hammer, driving them back with sheer fury.

But Óin barely registers the turn of battle.

All he sees is Bifur, unconscious, barely breathing, his forehead split by an embedded axe.

And all he feels is silence.

Óin remembers nothing of the journey away from the battlefield. Not the long march. Not the dead. Not the makeshift stretchers or the blood-soaked wagons. His mind is too scarred, locked behind a wall of shock. The burial rites, the mourning songs, the fires, if they happened at all, are lost to him.

It’s only when they find fragile refuge in the foothills of the Labmâ'abbad, troubling the Rohirrim in the process, that the horror begins to register. The silence lifts, but not fully. He doesn’t feel safe, only weight. A cold, suffocating weight on his chest.

They killed ten thousand orcs.

And in return, lost dwarrow beyond the count of grief.

Among the dead is Lord Náin, the warrior-lord of the Iron Hills, struck down by Azog himself. Prince Frerin falls during the initial charge near the Mirrormere, his body surrounded by the shredded remnants of his shieldwall. Lord Fundin dies trying to hold the southern flank, his last stand remembered only in fragments. And Thráin, he vanishes. His body is never recovered.

Grief shatters every survivor. Dáin is barely past his youth when he watches his adad fall, and then is burdened with a crown and the weight of a broken people. Thorin, not much older, becomes king with his adad and his naddith both gone, his face now hard, colder than stone. Balin and Dwalin walk like ghosts, their eyes sunken, their voices low. The fire that once burned so brightly in the iraknaddad is dimmed.

The battle breaks them all.

And Óin is no different.

At first, he thinks Bifur will die. He is told this, over and over. The healers urge him to let go. They say it’s mercy. That no dwarf could live with an axe buried in his skull.

Óin ignores them.

He tries, at first, to remove the orc’s blade from Bifur’s head. But the moment he touches it, he knows, it will bleed him out instantly. Or worse, infection will finish what the axe started. So he does the only thing he can: leave it in.

He binds it, anchors it. Crafts supports to keep Bifur’s head immobile. Applies poultices day and night to fight infection. He bleeds the wound when needed. He prays, even when the silence in his ears feels like Mahal’s judgment.

The worst moments come when Bifur seizes. His body writhes violently, muscles clenching, his face twisted in agony. Óin can’t hear the cries, but he sees them, feels them in the way Bifur's hand crushes his wrist. Every time, Óin forces poppy milk down his throat, whispering, begging, stay with me.

Óin doesn’t remember collapsing himself from exhaustion. Doesn’t remember Haban, his amad, arriving at the camp. She later tells him she finds Glóin, his naddith, trying to keep him from freezing to death. Haban says he was in shock. Terrified. Tired. Raving that Mahal had punished him, for letting his One die.

He doesn’t remember that either.

But he believes her.

For a while, he hears nothing. No footfalls, no voices, not even the birds that flock in the trees. It’s as though the world forgets to speak to him.

Eventually, sound returns, but not completely. His hearing is broken. Damaged. Incomplete.

In the noisy refugee camp, every environment overwhelms him. Conversations blur into a haze of movement. He catches only fragments, random syllables and half-formed thoughts. The frustration eats at him. He becomes short, sarcastic, bitter. He tries every home remedy he knows: sage, rosemary, garlic oil. Nothing works. He even prays, again and again. Mahal remains silent.

He starts to believe the silence is Mahal’s answer.

The only blessing, if it can be called that, is that the mutterings of other healers telling him to let Bifur go are easily ignored. But not entirely. He catches pieces. Sees the pity in their eyes. The resignation.

He won’t listen.

Bifur is his One.

And that is enough.

Eventually, his family sits him down. Glóin. Haban. Gróin. They speak to him, not with their mouths, but with their hands. Iglishmêk, the dwarrow sign language, a subtle and ancient form used to communicate in secret around outsiders.

At first, it infuriates him. He thinks they pity him, treat him as broken. As lesser.

But they are only doing what they can. Because they love him.

He learns. Slowly. He begins to understand again. To communicate. The world becomes less alien.

Still, some days he feels broken. He struggles with the idea of being less than he once was. Less than what a dwarf should be.

But none of it stops him from staying at Bifur’s side. Day and night. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.

And then, Bifur stirs.

His fingers twitch. His eyelids flutter. And then they open.

Óin’s heart nearly bursts.

But when Bifur tries to speak… no sound comes.

His mouth forms words, but his voice is gone. Not just silent, stolen. Óin sees it in his eyes: the confusion, the panic.

But he’s awake.

And for the first time since the battle, Óin feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

He still cannot hear the world properly. Bifur cannot speak. Their bodies are scarred, their lives forever changed.

But they are alive.

And for now, that is enough.

Óin knows his hearing isn’t what it once was, half-gone, dulled by the blast of war and the days that followed, but his voice still carries strong.

“ Amad! ” he bellows. “ Bifur is awake! ”

His shout startles the camp, but he doesn’t care. The tent flap opens in seconds as Haban, his amad, rushes in.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, breathless.

Óin turns to her, tears already glistening in his eyes, but Bifur begins to make sounds, muffled, broken, guttural. Óin can’t make out the exact noise, only that Bifur is trying desperately to say something. His face twists in frustration. His hands reach to his mouth, then to his throat. He opens and closes his jaw. He touches his tongue, sighing in relief when he feels it still there. But his expression changes the moment his fingers brush his forehead.

Cold steel.

The embedded orc axe.

Bifur freezes, eyes wide. Then panic sets in.

He grabs at the haft of the axe, trying to tear it free, but Haban and Óin spring forward in unison.

“No, no, no! No! ” Óin cries, grabbing his wrists. “ Bifur, stop! You’ll bleed to death if you pull it out!”

Bifur shouts, a hoarse, guttural scream of fear and confusion.

“Sadly, yes,” Haban says softly, her voice steady but pained. “You have to keep that axe in… It's the only reason you're still alive.”

Bifur slumps back onto the cot, his hands trembling. He makes more unintelligible sounds, chest heaving. Óin kneels at his side, leaning close enough to see every twitch of Bifur’s lips, every flicker of emotion in his eyes. Even with his hearing damaged, he can feel the pain in Bifur’s voice.

“You’re going to be alright,” Óin says gently. “We’re safe. You’re safe. We will be fine.”

Bifur looks at him then, really looks, and reaches up to wipe a tear from Óin’s cheek.

Óin blinks. He hadn’t even noticed he was crying. Relief, raw and overwhelming, crashes down on him.

“I… I thought you were gone,” Óin chokes out. “They told me to give up. Said you wouldn’t make it. That keeping you alive was a fool’s hope.”

His voice breaks. He grips Bifur’s hand tightly, like it might vanish if he lets go.

“I thought I’d lost you for good…”

Haban, watching silently from the side, steps back. She gives them one last glance, tender, knowing, before slipping out of the tent and drawing the flap shut behind her.

Óin takes a breath. A long, shuddering breath.

“Bifur… I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve told you the truth. About who I am. That I’m of noble blood. That I’m not just a healer’s apprentice, I'm part of a line that traces back to the mountain kings. I hid it because I was afraid. Afraid you’d treat me differently. Or worse, see me as some path to wealth and power. I thought... maybe you’d no longer see me as Óin.”

He swallows. His voice shakes now.

“And when you didn’t come looking for me after that day, I thought I was right. I thought I didn’t matter to you.”

Bifur’s eyes are glassy, his expression unreadable. Then he looks around the tent, searching. He finds charcoal and a scrap of parchment, and begins to write with shaking fingers.

He turns the paper to Óin.

“Óin, it’s true I felt betrayed. It hurt that you didn’t tell me. But I never wanted to walk away. I wanted to talk. I wanted to hear your reasons. But then the war came. We were pulled apart. Training, orders, duty… And maybe, I was a coward too. Maybe I let myself believe you were using me. Just a game. A fling. Something easy to leave behind.”

Óin’s breath catches. He shakes his head violently.

“I would never! ” he says, louder than he means to. “I couldn’t, I can’t live in a world where you’re not in it. You think I could ever treat you like that? I—”

He can’t finish. He just crumples forward, burying his face against Bifur’s chest, arms wrapping around him. He clings to him, tears flowing freely.

“Please,” he sobs. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

Bifur is silent for a moment, then lifts one hand. His fingers move carefully, tracing shapes against Óin’s back. Runes.

Cirth.

Óin blinks through tears, trying to read them by feel.

Never again.

Óin tightens his grip, trembling from head to toe. Despite the axe, despite the broken voice, despite his faulty ears, despite the pain, they’re here.

Together.

And for now, that’s all that matters.

Of course, being together again doesn’t mean life magically becomes better. The war may be over, but its ghosts linger in every breath, every shadow, every heartbeat even after years has passed. The scars it leaves are not just on flesh, but in the soul, and they are slow to heal, if they ever do.

Around the camp, it’s not uncommon to see a dwarf pause mid-task, staring into the distance with empty eyes. Screams in the middle of the night are no longer startling, they're expected. And to Óin’s growing horror, he's become disturbingly proficient at mending shallow wrist wounds.

He’s thankful beyond measure that his naddith, Glóin, isn’t one to harm himself. And he prays daily to Mahal that none of his immediate kin were taken by the war. His amad, Haban, still teaches him the healing craft. Gróin still guides Glóin in smithing. Compared to many, Óin knows, he got off lightly.

Not like his irakshakkat.

Balin and Dwalin, since losing their adad, have transformed into shadows of their former selves. They work with brutal focus, never stopping long enough to grieve. As nobles, they feel the weight of expectation more than anyone. The common dwarrow look to them for strength, and they respond by refusing to appear vulnerable, refusing to mourn.

It’s worse for Thorin and Dís. As royalty, they carry not just sorrow, but legacy. They sleep little, if at all. Thorin, as King, works relentlessly, drafting plans, giving orders, reviewing troop losses as if reading ledgers could bring back the dead. Dís follows her nadad 'ugmal, taking on every burden Thorin can’t shoulder alone. Between them and Balin, they hold up what remains of their people, but Óin can see it: they are killing themselves slowly, sacrificing their lives piece by piece for the good of all.

He tries to think of ways to make them stop. To rest. To breathe. He knows the dwarrow love the Durin line not because of blood, but because of how genuinely they serve their people. Unlike the kings of Men, Thorin and his kin do not rule, they bear their people’s pain.

Óin screams when it begins again.

The ringing.

The first time it happened, he thought it might be his hearing returning. But it wasn’t. It was tinnitus, a shrill, ghostly wail inside his skull, like metal grinding against bone. He has no control over when it comes. Sometimes it’s faint, other times it's deafening, an invisible hammer pounding into his head. No salve, no poultice, no charm silences it. It drowns out thought. Makes him feel defective .

“Óin, are you alright?” comes a voice, accompanied by hands signing the words.

Glóin stands at the tent’s entrance, his expression edged with concern.

“Ringing,” Óin replies curtly, both aloud and with a matching sign. His glare could crack stone, but Glóin knows it's not meant for him.

Glóin nods. “Amad is looking for you,” he says and signs. “Your boyfriend’s having a fit.”

Óin exhales sharply. Bifur, though finally awake, still suffers. He experiences what Haban believes are post-traumatic seizures, possibly due to the trauma from the embedded orc axe. Sometimes they’re preceded by what Bifur describes in writing as visions : vivid flashes, strange dreams, things he can’t control. Some resemble memories; others are full hallucinations. During seizures, his limbs jerk violently, and he sometimes makes guttural, panicked sounds. Once, he even lashed out, but not out of violence, just disoriented fear.

Thankfully, every dwarf is trained in combat and self-defense. No one has been seriously hurt, but it’s still dangerous, for him and those near him.

Still, something about Glóin’s tone is off. Óin frowns. Haban is a master healer. She can handle seizures. If Glóin was around, he could help restrain Bifur safely. Yet he sent for Óin?

There’s more to this.

“Glóin,” Óin says, eyes narrowing. “Naddith. What’s going on?”

Glóin looks away, too quickly.

“Nothing. Aren’t you worried about Bifur?” he says, signing again, but avoiding eye contact.

“Naddith,” Óin repeats, firmer now. His gaze sharpens. Glóin shifts, his hands fidgeting, the silence between them stretching.

“Bifur and amad are waiting…” Glóin finally replies, voice quiet. He doesn’t meet Óin’s eyes.

Óin sighs, tension knotting in his chest as he gets up and follows his naddith. He knows his nadad well. If Glóin’s hiding something, it’s probably not awful... Hopefully .

But in this place, with these wounds, even hope feels fragile .

Glóin leads Óin swiftly toward the healing tent, where Bifur lies waiting. In the early months, Bifur remains there under close watch, Óin and his amad, Haban, ensuring his condition remains stable. And stable he is, to an extent. But like so many dwarrow who survive the war, stability comes at a price. Physical wounds heal, but the deeper injuries, the ones left in the mind and spirit, demand constant care.

Bifur has more to contend with than most: robbed of his voice, tormented by visions, and beset by seizures that strike without warning. He must return often for check-ups and healing sessions. Óin remembers the early days clearly, Bifur’s frustration burning like a forge. Once a flirtatious and bold soul, Bifur reels from the blow to his confidence. But Glóin, ever practical, suggests a workaround.

Óin still flushes at the memory of Bifur’s first “compensating” gesture—bold and entirely unexpected. He had yelped like a startled goat when Bifur suddenly fondled his backside. A truly memorable moment.

Years have passed since then. They’ve learned to communicate through Iglishmêk, Dwarvish sign, and written word. Their relationship is steady, no longer just surviving, but living . And yet, Óin still harbors guilt. He should have done more. He should have found a way to remove the orcish axe embedded in Bifur’s skull, the grotesque scar of a war they never asked for.

He shakes his head. These thoughts lead nowhere, down the same tunnel his irakshakkat, the royal iraknaddad, lose themselves in. He really ought to follow Glóin’s example and embrace a little optimism.

As he clears his mind, Óin and Glóin arrive at the tent. Haban greets them with a beaming smile. Bifur lies comfortably on the bed, looking well.

“Amad, what is going on?” Óin asks, eyeing the calm scene. “Glóin said Bifur was having a fit .”

“He was,” Haban replies cheerfully. “Threw one because he wanted to see you .”

Óin narrows his eyes. “Seriously? Amad, I could’ve been busy! I mean, I love you, Bifur, truly, but this could’ve waited. You could have just... visited.”

“My apologies, my dear paramour,” Bifur says , not signs, his voice low, scratchy, and formal like the echo of an old ballad. “But I wished only to offer thee glad tidings on the day of thy coming of age. ‘Tis a moment of great import, and I would not have thee waste it upon toil.”

Óin freezes. “Wait—did you… Bifur, did you just speak ?”

“I did, paramour,” Bifur replies, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Thy amad hath taught me the old art once more, patiently, gently, for many long seasons. And lo, just in time, though the Westron tongue still eludes me. Now may I give voice to my heart... and read thee this poem, rather than pass it in silence.”

Óin’s jaw drops.

“Forget my coming-of-age ceremony! You spoke ! Mahal’s hammer—Bifur, this is—this is amazing ! We should celebrate, tell everyone—this is—this is—” He stops himself, catching Bifur’s gaze.

Bifur’s eyes are hopeful, almost shy.

Óin softens, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... Bifur, this means the world.”

“I wished to do this, Óin. Let me.”

Óin nods, his smile bashful but warm. Bifur sits up straighter, holding a small paper in trembling fingers. He breathes deep and begins to speak, his voice slow, uneven, but powerful in its sincerity.

“In shadowed halls where silence grew,
Where war left scars both old and new,
I wandered deep in broken stone,
And feared my soul would die alone.

My voice was lost, my mind askew,
The world a haze of flame and dew.
Yet through that dark, thou stayed thy path,
A healer’s hand, a steady wrath.

Thy tears became my morning light,
Thy rage, a shield through endless night.
Though I could not speak, thou didst hear—
Through trembling signs and written fear.

Now speech returns, though slow and raw,
A gift hard-won, with deepest awe.
And so, on this thy dawning day,
I vow to never walk away.

My axe still binds, my soul still aches,
But love, like stone, no tremor breaks.”

As the final word leaves Bifur’s lips, his breath shakes. Óin stands silent, eyes wide with emotion, then he rushes forward, embracing him tightly.

“You idiot,” Óin mutters, voice cracking. “You romantic, wonderful idiot. Mahal bless me, I love you so much it hurts.”

Bifur smiles into his shoulder. He cannot speak further just now, the effort has taken much, but he doesn't need to. The poem says it all.

And this time, when Óin cries, it is not from sorrow, but gratitude.

“Oh, Bifur… you soothe my soul in ways no bandage ever could,” Óin says, pulling his lover into a tight embrace. As they hold each other, a sudden idea lights up in Óin’s eyes.

“That’s it! That’s how I can help my irakshakkat! I need to find them some lovers!” he exclaims.

Haban grimaces. While she agrees that a supportive partner can ease burdens, she also knows that starting a relationship when someone can barely take care of themselves often leads to disaster. Still, as she thinks about it more, she sees some merit in the idea. The royal family, unfortunately, doesn't attract suitors easily—partly due to their unapproachable titles, partly due to their deeply carved grief. But if searching for love means they spend time together, supporting one another, and taking a break from their endless duties… it might not be entirely foolish.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well… I met Bifur by chance, so I’m not exactly sure,” Óin admits, frowning in thought. “Maybe…”

“How about the bar?” Glóin suggests with a grin.

“Oh! Right! I’m of age now—I can go there!” Óin beams, then falters, glancing at Bifur. “But um… that means I can’t bring you with me…”

Bifur smiles gently and reaches for Óin’s hand.

“Fret not, mine own heart. Go thee hence and seek mirth—I shall be of age anon, and follow thee into revelry ere long.”

Óin flushes red, biting his lip to stop from grinning too wide. “Alright. I’ll go and ask them to join me! It’ll be fun! I’ll get them talking to others—maybe even dancing!”

He’s already daydreaming strategies to nudge Thorin into flirting and Dwalin into holding someone’s hand when Glóin pipes up.

“Amad, can I—”

“No. You’re not of age yet,” Haban cuts him off without even looking at him.

Glóin immediately pouts.

Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, and Óin sit in a quiet corner of the bar, drinking in silence. Glóin had suggested Dís join them too, but she isn’t of age yet. Around them, the other dwarrow keep a respectful, if tense, distance. The presence of royalty and high nobles has that effect.

“Óin, iraknadad,” Thorin says, his tone sharp, eyes narrowed. “Why are we here when we could be working?”

His glare could freeze lava, but Óin is family, and so he simply gives him a flat look.

“You need a break. All of you do,” Óin replies calmly.

Thorin scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“I still have paperwork to finish,” Balin mutters, standing to leave, but Óin grabs his wrist and yanks him back down.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Óin growls.

“I’ve got to train,” Dwalin says, rising from his seat. But he, too, is pulled back, surprisingly easily. Óin may not look it, but he’s wrestled through enough patients resisting bedrest to handle even someone like Dwalin.

“No,” Óin says firmly. “We’re going to eat, and we’re going to drink.”

The three stare daggers at him, but after a long moment, they reluctantly begin to pick at their food and sip from their mugs. The atmosphere is stiff, heavy, and awkward.

To break the silence, Óin begins recounting stories from his everyday life, tales of unruly patients, the persistent frustration of the ringing in his ears, and, with no small amount of pride, how Bifur has recently begun speaking again.

“You’re still dating that commoner?” Thorin asks, his voice quiet but pointed.

Óin’s expression hardens at the word. “Yes. And he makes me happy.”

“How can you be happy,” Thorin mutters darkly, “when others are still suffering?”

Óin exhales slowly, pain flickering across his face. “Thorin… the dwarrow we lost in the war… They fought and died for us. For us to live, not just survive. Not to grind ourselves into stone, or drown in grief. I hope you remember that.”

“You didn’t lose anyone,” Thorin snaps suddenly, jaw tight.

“Your adad, amad, and nadad are still breathing,” Dwalin adds, his tone bitter.

Balin says nothing, but the cold weight of his glare speaks volumes.

Óin swallows and straightens. “I lost my irakshakkat. Don’t forget that. They were my family too.”

The table falls into silence. No one meets his eyes now.

After that first night, they part ways, and Óin sighs, thinking it’s a failure, that they’ll never come to the bar with him again. But to his surprise, they agree to return, on one condition: only once a week, not every night.

Óin grins and agrees without hesitation.

And so a new tradition begins. The irakshakkat meet every week at the local bar. They drink, talk, and make merry. For a time, no one mentions the war. No stories of the horrors they endured. No shadows hanging over their shoulders.

At least, not until a few months pass, and Dwalin breaks down.

It starts with silence. Then a sudden slam of his mug on the table, and tears in his eyes as he chokes out, “I should’ve saved him. I should’ve saved Adad…”

The table goes still. He trembles as he continues, voice cracking, “He told Balin to run. To take me and leave him to fight alone. He did. He listened. And we left him.”

Balin swallows hard, eyes glassy, nodding slowly. “He made us run. I never stopped hearing his voice. Every time I close my eyes…”

Thorin is quiet for a long moment before his own guilt spills forward like a landslide. “I couldn’t protect them. Any of them. My dashat, my soldiers, my friends. I didn’t even think of Frerin until it was too late. Azog… Azog should’ve died by my hand.”

Óin, fists clenched around his mug, stares at the table. “I thought Glóin would die. I thought I’d lose my naddith. And I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready.”

That night becomes something raw, something none of them expects. Cathartic, yes. But also terrifying. They are nobles. Royal. The so-called pillars of Khazad society. And yet here they are, in a public bar, weeping like lost children.

But what surprises them most is what happens afterward.

No mocking glances. No whispers of shame. Instead, their fellow dwarrow, those same ones who had kept a wary distance, start offering quiet help. A hand here, a kind word there. Support, genuine and simple, floods in.

Someone starts bringing them food during long work shifts. Others ask how they’re doing, offer to shoulder a bit of the load.

It’s… nice.

After that night, the bar visits change. The irakshakkat are no longer a solemn cluster in the corner. They’re pulled into the life of the place, jokes, stories, songs. Commoner dwarrow no longer see them as unapproachable. They see them as kin.

So much so that Óin forgets his original goal: to find someone for them to love.

That is, until one particular night.

“Did you just try stealing from me, squirt?” Dwalin growls, slamming a dwarf’s wrist to the table.

The dwarf in question has a head of wild hair, shaped like a starburst. He grins shamelessly. “Nope. Just feeling you up.”

He winks.

Dwalin goes crimson.

“Nori! No! Oh by Mahal!” another dwarf rushes over, his hair sculpted into elegant waves that seem immune to gravity. “I am so sorry for my nadad 'ukham!”

He grabs Nori by the collar and starts scolding him under his breath.

Óin raises an eyebrow at the scene, then notices Balin staring, wide-eyed, like he’s witnessing the first light of dawn.

It’s not the star-haired thief he’s watching.

It’s the other one. The one with the refined voice and sculpted hair.

Óin smirks, remembering exactly what he’d meant to do in the first place.

He wants to be the one to get them together, so he plans everything. From learning the names of the dwarrow who catch his irakshakkat’s interests, to nudging his irakshakkat into making the first moves. He maps out the week with precision, thinking through every step.

Only for the week to end and for him to walk into the bar to find Thorin sulking alone. Balin and Dwalin are no longer at their usual spot. Instead, they sit across the room with the two dwarrow they met last time, flirting and giggling like fools.

“Those two’ve been clocking out of work early every day to meet them!” Thorin growls.

Óin, while disappointed that he didn’t get to play matchmaker, still can’t help but feel proud. They're taking breaks. They’re laughing. They're finally living.

“Well, good for them, finding their Ones, right?” Óin says with a grin.

Thorin rolls his eyes. “They’re commoners. And one of them’s a thief. I highly doubt they’re their Ones.”

Óin’s grin fades, and he glares. “Hey, I don’t like that sentiment. My One’s a commoner, and he makes me very happy.”

“You’ll find someone better,” Thorin replies, voice dripping with dismissive arrogance.

Óin snarls, “I swear to Mahal, if you end up with a commoner, I will never let you live it down.”

“As if that’ll ever happen,” Thorin smirks.

Óin glares harder but can’t bring himself to be truly angry. Thorin is joking, rare for him, and something he only ever does around Frerin. Seeing him like this, even for a moment, without Frerin at his side... it’s a relief.

Time passes.

With the support of their fellow dwarrow, they begin to move on from the war. The nightmares still come. The memories still ache. But they are living now, not just surviving.

When Dís and Glóin come of age and find their Ones, it’s a joyous time. Thorin grumbles about Víli’s commoner status, but the dwarf is kind and honorable, so he can’t complain, at least, not too loudly. And then Bifur comes of age as well, and the bar practically glows with life. Laughter, flirtation, love, it’s all around.

Óin finds it a little awkward watching Glóin flirt so openly with a dwarrowdam named Mizim, but she’s sweet and clever, so he approves. Thorin, on the other hand, seems less amused at being the only single one left in their group.

And then, after years of living in the Labmâ'abbad, the time comes. They finally return to Khagal'abba, to home. To rebuild. To begin living again, not from the ruins, but from fresh soil.

Óin looks forward to it.

Perhaps this time, there will be no war hanging over their heads. Perhaps the orcs are truly gone. Perhaps they can go back to the days when he was young and happy.

Perhaps he can ask for Bifur’s hand in marriage.

To finally call him yasthûn .

He hopes.

He hopes they can all be happy.

And maybe, one day, he’ll find a way to take that orcish axe out of Bifur’s head.

A few years pass, and the day finally arrives: Bifur comes of age. Though he and Óin are close in age, the small gap between them has always stood as a barrier, one Óin respectfully honors, much to Bifur’s chagrin. Bifur sends him letter after letter during those years, which Óin always answers, often blushing at the words.

But now, at last, that gap is gone.

The morning sun has barely crested the mountains when Óin hears the door burst open and Bifur’s voice echo through his home.

“Beloved! I am come of age, and I lay claim to thine attention and thy affections!”

Óin yawns as he steps out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Bifur? The sun's barely risen… I already promised to celebrate with you after work…”

He stops mid-step, frozen, as he sees what Bifur holds.

Bifur stands there proudly, holding a finely crafted ear trumpet. The device gleams with polished brass, its long, slender stem flaring out into a wide bell. Its smooth surface catches the light, adorned with subtle Cirth inscriptions for protection and strength.

Bifur takes a steadying breath and holds it out with both hands.

“Óin, son of Gróin… I, Bifur, dashat of Kifur, being now of age, do seek courtship with thee. I offer my first gift, this ear trumpet, wrought by mine own hands. For I know thy hardship as thou knowest mine, and I shall ne’er see it as flaw nor failing. I love thee, whole and wholly. Dost thou accept?”

Óin blinks, heart tight. For a moment, there's a flicker of anger, this gift is a reminder of his hearing loss. But it's also something else: a labor of love. Brass is not Bifur’s Craft, and Óin sees the effort, the intention, the care in every curve and etching. The anger vanishes like mist in the morning sun.

He steps forward and gently takes the ear trumpet from Bifur’s hands.

“I do. Of course I do,” Óin breathes. “Truth be told, I thought I’d be the one to give you a courting gift first… But you beat me to it.”

He laughs, and Bifur, overcome with joy, lifts him off the ground in a spinning embrace before pressing their foreheads together, then tilting slightly until their lips meet at last.

After the long embrace, Bifur pulls out a small iron bead engraved with his initials, not glamorous, but meaningful. It marks Óin as his. Óin returns the gesture with a silver bead etched with his own runes. Together, they braid the beads into their hair before their left ears, the traditional sign of dwarrow courtship.

“You look most handsome, amralime,” Bifur murmurs, pressing another kiss to Óin’s lips.

“That’s because I now wear your bead,” Óin smiles against his mouth, barely suppressing a laugh. “Shall we go show it off?”

“Aye, let us,” Bifur grins, then pauses. “Though… I reckon thou hast not yet broken fast?”

Óin chuckles. “I haven’t. Have you?”

“Nay, not yet.”

“Want to join me?”

“I would like that,” Bifur answers, voice warm with affection.

Óin smiles and pulls him gently by the hand into the home they’ve already begun to build, together.

Years pass, and many things change. Dís and Glóin marry their Ones, Víli and Mizim, and joy only grows within the halls. Bifur’s side of the family also shares in this happiness: his irak’adad Bomfur and his yasthûna Genna welcome two dashshat into the world in just a few short years. Their kin celebrate the births with fervor, for dwarrow believe each child is shaped by Mahal himself, a sacred collaboration between divine and mortal Craft. And for Genna to bear two sons in quick succession is seen as a rare and powerful blessing upon the family.

Óin still remembers being there for both births, Bofur and Bombur. Despite being a seasoned healer by then, trained and experienced in all manner of wounds, Óin has never delivered a child. He’s read the lore, of course, but no book truly prepares one for the sight of life entering the world.

He’s seen entrails spill from a warrior’s belly, sewn torn flesh with practiced hands, even re-aligned shattered bones. But none of that prepares him for the raw, primal miracle of birth. He feels faint as he watches Bofur’s head emerge from between Genna’s legs, slick with fluid, his cries loud enough to wake the mountain.

Thankfully, during Bofur’s birth, Óin only observes. But when Bombur’s time comes, he assists. Bombur is a large baby, so large that Genna must be cut open to bring him into the world. From that moment on, Óin’s respect for dwarrowdams deepens into something reverent. The strength required for birth humbles him in a way no battlefield ever has.

He also remembers Bifur’s tears that day when Bomfur asks him to babysit his iraknaddad.

“But irak’adad... Art thou not afeared I might… bring harm unto them?” Bifur bites his cheeks nervously, aware that while his episodes have grown fewer, they still exist.

Bomfur chuckles. “Bifur, I knew you when you were but a pebble in your amad’s arms. You were a kind and jolly lad, and you remain so, even with that axe in your head. True, you act a bit strange now and then, but the healers say you are of sound heart. And Óin will be there too, won’t you?”

Óin, who stands beside them, nearly chokes up. He rarely interacts with Bifur’s family due to their status difference, and they’ve always seemed wary of him. This sudden gesture of welcome… it overwhelms him. He never forgets the look on Bifur’s face that day as he played with his iraknaddad, tears of joy in his eyes.

And still more joy comes.

Fíli is born to Dís and Víli, the golden prince of Erebor, welcomed with great celebration. Óin worries at first, Fíli is a quiet baby, rarely crying. That changes with the arrival of his naddith. Kíli, unlike his brother, inherits Víli’s dark hair, and perhaps his lungs, for he screams louder than any child Óin has ever delivered. And from that moment on, Fíli never strays far from his younger brother’s side, his own voice growing louder in turn.

Then comes Gimli, Óin’s very own irakdashat. By now, Óin is well-practiced and helps deliver the child with skilled hands. But Gimli is small. So small, in fact, that Glóin and Mizim grow deeply worried. Óin is worried too, but he promises them he will do all he can for wee Gimli.

Now? Gimli grows into a sturdy, stubborn dwarf, with an unexpected love for poetry. Óin wonders where it comes from, since neither Glóin nor Mizim care much for verse. The answer comes when he finds Gimli reading one of Bifur’s old letters.

That’s when he realizes: Gimli’s love for poetry was born from the love letters Bifur once wrote to him.

Naturally, Óin bans him from reading more, there are things in those letters a child should not be reading.

Of course, not everything goes well.

Khagal'abba is a mountain rich in resources, with enough space for all to live comfortably. However, after the war, it lacks the security needed to keep the mountain safe from banditry. Though the orcs have been driven off, groups of Men believe the weakened forces of Khagal'abba make easy prey. They are wrong. The dwarrow fight fiercely, especially when it is to protect their home. Those who hail from Azsâlul'abad fight even harder, for they know too well what it means to lose one’s home, and they refuse to let their kin, who welcomed them when they were lost, become homeless as they once were.

They could, perhaps, have asked for aid from the neighboring kingdoms of Men. After all, not all Men are alike, and many would likely be glad to help deal with bandits that harass their caravans as well. But dwarrow are a secretive and suspicious people. And since all the bandits have been Men, Dís’ suggestion to seek outside help is met with a sad shake of Thorin’s head.

Instead, they call on their fellow dwarrow. The other clans agree to help, but the distance is great, and support is minimal.

Óin can see Thorin regrets this decision, for it is during one such bandit attack that Víli loses his legs. Óin is not the healer who saves Víli’s life, but he can tell, from Víli’s condition, that they did everything they could. Thorin blames himself for what happened, but Dís never does. She knows that if Thorin had taken her advice, the outcry from their people might have caused a schism, one that would leave them even more vulnerable.

Víli, surprisingly, handles the loss of his legs with grace.

“It’s sure as shit I can’t walk anymore,” he says with a grin, “but hey, I still have my arms! I can still do my Craft! And I get to stay at home with my adorable dashshat!”

But Óin sees the way Dís quietly looks away. He knows Víli is staying strong for their children.

“If you ever need help,” Óin says softly, “you know where to find me.” He understands what it is to lose a part of oneself. It may not be as drastic as a limb, but the loss of his hearing has given him insight. He hopes it will help him support Víli.

They need weapons. They need armor. They need coin. All things they left behind in Azsâlul'abad. And the attacks grow more frequent.

So Thorin sets out to find a way to reclaim Azsâlul'abad. He wishes to repay what they have taken from their Khagal'abba kin, prosperity, and security. Once more, he asks for help from the dwarrow. But this time, no one answers.

After all, who would be mad enough to fight a dragon?

Apparently, one wizard. And, perhaps, a hobbit too.

None want to go, and rightly so. It is a mad, desperate plan. But Óin, like a few others, is willing.

He goes with Glóin, Balin, and Dwalin, for family, for love, and for honor.

Dori, Nori, and Bifur join as well, for they cannot bear to watch their Ones walk into danger alone.

Bofur and Bombur also volunteer, for they will not let their iraknadad go without them.

And to everyone’s surprise, Fíli, Kíli, and Ori insist on going too.

Fíli and Kíli declare that as princes, they have a right to fight for their homeland.

Ori says simply, “I must go where my naddad go.”

Óin remembers the lad, once Balin’s apprentice. Though Dori and Nori are his iraknaddad, they have raised and loved him as a naddith.

Gimli begs to go too, but Glóin firmly makes him stay. He must remain to help his irak’amad Dís govern their people.

And so their journey begins.

Óin watches in confusion as Bilbo returns with a bundle of herbs, some Óin recognizes, a few berries, and a whole lot that look like simple weeds to him.

“Laddie? What do you have there?” he asks.

“Oh! I didn’t know what to do around camp, and I thought if I tried to help, I might just get in the way. So I figured, why not pick some herbs and berries I saw earlier? I thought we could supplement our food with these, and I know some of these plants have medicinal properties.”

Óin, like the rest of the dwarrow in the Company, quickly realizes Bilbo is the sort of person who never strays far from home, safe, cozy, and quite content to live and die without ever seeing what lies beyond his doorstep. It's a life of comfort. A life none of them, not even Óin, a noble dwarf, has ever known.

So he’s taken aback that Bilbo has been foraging at all.

“These… these are not weeds?”

“Well, technically they are,” Bilbo replies, “but even weeds have their uses, if you know how.” He picks one out of the bunch. “This here is stinging nettle. The young leaves can be brewed into a tea that helps with joint pain. I took it because I noticed Thorin moving a bit stiffly in the mornings. I thought it might help him.”

Óin is surprised Bilbo even noticed. Their hobbit is far more observant than he gives him credit for.

“Yes,” Óin nods, impressed. “That would be useful for Thorin. Thank you, lad.”

“Oh! And this is for Bifur too!” Bilbo holds up another plant, one Óin knows well. “It’s wood betony. Also good for tea. Helps with headaches and migraines. I saw Bifur rubbing his head now and then, so I thought it might ease the pain.”

“Oh, laddie! Thank you! Yes, I know this one.” Óin gladly accepts it, smiling, until he notices Bilbo fidgeting awkwardly, shifting his feet.

“What’s wrong, lad?”

“Oh, um… this one is skullcap.” Bilbo gently holds up another herb. “It helps with ear ringing caused by stress and anxiety. Bofur mentioned you sometimes get it, and I thought… well, you might want it.”

Óin recognizes the plant immediately. “Thank you, Bilbo. But why are you so nervous handing it to me?”

“I… I didn’t want to be presumptuous…” Bilbo admits, nervously twitching his ear.

“Laddie, you did this out of good intentions. That’s not presumptuous, it’s thoughtful. This will help me greatly. Thank you.” Óin smiles. “Now, how did you learn about these herbs?”

Bilbo brightens, launching into a rambling explanation. He tells Óin about the books he’s read, the little adventures he had as a fauntling with his parents, wandering the nearby forests, learning from them as they pointed out useful plants. As he speaks, Óin notices the subtle sadness in Bilbo’s eyes when he mentions his parents, and remembers that there was no one else living in Bag End when they first visited.

Perhaps, Óin thinks, he can afford to be a bit kinder to the hobbit.

When they arrive in Rivendell, much to the chagrin of their esteemed leader, Thorin, and who can blame him? It’s elves. Óin isn’t old enough to remember what happened, but he knows the stories: how the elves of Greenwood turned their backs on the dwarrow during their time of need.

While everyone in the Company shares that old animosity, the hobbit and the wizard do not. Tharkûn disappears to who knows where, and Bilbo, who seems to enjoy the presence of the tree-shaggers immensely, flits about, chatting with every elf he can find. This irks Thorin to a degree that seems... unnatural.

Óin still remembers one particular night, when Óin swore that if Thorin ever ended up with a commoner, he would never live it down. And now, it seems he may wind up in an even greater scandal.

Still, Óin has a plan while they’re in Rivendell. He pulls his nadad aside and whispers, “Glóin, I’m going to the library to look for a book that might help me get rid of the axe in Bifur’s head. Can you cover for me?”

Despite the dwarrow’s disdain for elves, they all know their healing magic far surpasses that of dwarves. If Óin can find a book here, something Elvish, something ancient, maybe he can finally remove the axe safely, without risk.

Glóin nods quickly. “Of course, nadad! Go and find that book!”

Óin nods back and walks off, doing his best not to let any tree-shagger spot him. It takes a while, but he eventually finds the library, lined wall to wall with books.

“It’s gonna take me ages to find it...” he mutters under his breath.

Then he feels a tap on his shoulder. He spins around and instinctively jabs upward, aiming for a face-level strike, or at least the throat of the poor tree shagger that dared sneaking up on him, but his fist hits nothing but air. The one who tapped him is far too short for that to work.

“Eeek! Óin! It’s me! It’s me!” Bilbo cries out, ducking in fear.

“Laddie? What are you doing here?” Óin asks, reaching down to help him up.

“Oh, well, I asked one of the elves if they had a library, and they pointed me here. I wanted to do some reading, and then I noticed you. I called out, but you didn’t answer, so I thought a light tap would be okay. Sorry I startled you. But really, responding to a tap with a punch? That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“My apologies, Bilbo. But seriously, don’t sneak up on dwarrow,” Óin warns.

Every dwarf is trained in combat. It’s ingrained in them to react swiftly to surprises, it could always be an ambush. And from what he’s heard, Bilbo is a quiet, sneaky little thing. Sneaky enough to sneak up on Nori, their actual thief, and even Dwalin, the most perceptive of them all, thanks to his time as a guard, much to the couple’s chagrin. If Bilbo is to be believed, he’s done it without any effort, he’s just naturally quiet. No wonder Tharkûn told them to take him on as their burglar. And no wonder Óin, with his impaired hearing, never notices him coming.

“Like I said, I did call out to you,” Bilbo frowns, but lets it go. “So, what are you looking for? I came to check out the maps, personally.”

Óin wonders if he can trust Bilbo. While it’s true the hobbit has proven himself kind and polite, he isn’t a fellow dwarf. Still, Óin recalls how Bilbo keeps trying to communicate with Bifur, despite the axe lodged in his head and the fact that he can no longer speak a lick of Westron.

No matter how hard Bifur tries, and he has tried, he never fully recovers the language. It isn’t usually a problem, since he mostly speaks with fellow dwarrow who understand Khuzdul or can sign in Iglishmêk. But Bifur has admitted, with a bitter laugh, that it leaves a foul taste in his mouth being the only one who can’t talk to their hobbit.

So Bilbo’s efforts to bridge that gap, despite his initial fear of the axe, mean a great deal to Bifur. That small kindness does not go unnoticed by Óin.

“Alright. You know Bifur is my...” Óin pauses, searching for the right word. Ones is sacred to dwarrow, sharing that with an outsider would be near-blasphemy. So he settles for something simpler, even if it doesn’t measure up. “...boyfriend, and—”

“Boyfriend? You and Bifur?” Bilbo blurts, wide-eyed.

Óin feels his temper spike. “Why is that so surprising? You think Bifur’s not good enough for me, too?”

He doesn’t shout, but it’s close. Bilbo quickly shakes his head.

“O-oh, no, no! It’s just... being with another male is just... not done,” Bilbo trails off, clearly realizing the weight of his words.

But it’s enough. Óin has heard that among some of the other races, love between those of the same gender is frowned upon. To the dwarrow, that’s just odd, especially given how few women they have. He’s also heard of some cultures among Men where it’s perfectly normal. Elves? Who cares what elves think.

Still, thinking back to how Thorin kept glowering at every elf who so much as looked at Bilbo, Óin feels compelled to ask, just to be sure where the hobbit stands.

“And if it was done... would you?”

“Would I what?” Bilbo asks, confused.

“If a fellow man showed you affection, would you be willing?” Óin clarifies.

“Oh, um...” Bilbo shifts awkwardly. “I don’t think anyone ever would. I’ve been a bachelor all my life. Never fancied anyone. Never been fancied, either,” he adds, a bit sadly.

“And what if he was tall, raven-haired, and blue-eyed?” Óin asks, deadpan.

Bilbo turns bright red and sputters. “W-what are you implying!?”

That answers that important question.

“Anyway,” Óin continues, moving on like nothing happened, “I need to find a book to help me deal with the axe in my boyfriend’s head. Surely the elves would know how.”

“I can help. I know how elves organize their books, it’ll be easier for me to find it,” Bilbo offers.

Óin raises an eyebrow. “How do you know how elves sort their books?”

“Oh, my mother used to visit this place from time to time. She told me stories about it. And my father used the Elvish sorting method for our books at home, so I’m familiar,” Bilbo replies as he begins walking through the library, quietly mouthing something to himself.

At that moment, Óin realizes something. Bilbo rarely talks about himself. He talks about the Shire, about his many relatives, and the books he’s read, but not his own life. Bilbo is more closed off than he appears. And then Óin catches something else: the past tense when he mentions his parents.

“...I’m sorry,” Óin says softly.

“Don’t be… They both lived good and fulfilling lives,” Bilbo replies, his voice wavering just slightly before he turns back to searching.

Óin follows him, keeping an eye out for any tree shaggers who might notice them, before remembering that Bilbo did ask for directions. They already know they're here.

“Ah! I found it!” Bilbo exclaims with a smile, pulling a book from the shelf. Then he speaks in a strange language.

“What was that?” Óin asks, blinking.

“ Understanding Head Injuries: Causes, Symptoms, and Treatment ,” Bilbo says. “That’s the title. Written by Lord Elrond himself. Óin, do you not know Sindarin? I assumed you did, since you were looking for an Elven book,” he adds, a bit concerned.

Óin frowns, realization crashing down on him like a boulder. Of course. The language barrier. “Damn it! I can’t!”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Bilbo says quickly, smiling nervously. “They have books in Westron too! And if we don’t find the same edition, I’m sure I can translate it for you!”

Óin pauses, something clicking. “You can speak Sindarin?”

“And a little Quenya, though only in writing. My pronunciation’s probably abysmal, but I can understand it!” Bilbo replies proudly.

“And you’d translate this for me?” Óin asks, still a bit stunned.

Bilbo nods without hesitation. “Of course! We just need to ask Lord Elrond for permission to borro—”

“No! We don’t!” Óin cuts in. “Do you really think he’d let us borrow a book, knowing there’s a good chance we won’t even make it back alive?”

Bilbo winces. “Oh... I suppose not.”

He falls quiet, the weight of the mission settling back in. Óin wants the book to help Bifur. The axe in his head. Bilbo groans, rubbing his temple. “Oooh… We haven’t even gotten to the dragon yet, and you’re already asking me to steal...”

“Please, Bilbo,” Óin says, his voice earnest.

Bilbo sighs, then nods. “Very well. I won’t say anything about us having this book... But I will look for a Westron version, so we can skip the translating part.”

He huffs and resumes browsing, but finds none. Later, when Bilbo asks a passing elf (to Óin’s obvious dismay), they explain that the only Westron copy was given to a human child named Estel.

So they have no choice, they’ll have to make do with the Sindarin text.

Óin sighs as he fails once again to reshape his ear trumpet. It’s a miracle he even found it at all, but after the goblins stomped on it, the thing is now dented and misshapen. A shame, deep and bitter. This was Bifur’s first courting gift to him, and now it lies in ruin. Much like how he feels inside. He even lost the damned elvish book!

“ Amralime, once Azsâlul'abad be reclaimed, I shall make thee a fairer one from its sacred forges,” Bifur says, placing a gentle hand over Óin’s.

“I know you would, ghivashel . But… this was your first courting gift to me. And I… I just hate seeing it like this…” Óin sighs.

Bifur pulls him close, a comforting presence. Before either can speak again, the door creaks open. They both turn to see Bilbo peeking in. The moment he sees them so close, the hobbit flushes red and averts his gaze.

“P-Pardon me! I-I just—Bombur asked me to tell you both that dinner’s ready. Am I… interrupting something?” Bilbo stammers.

“No, lad, thou dost not,” Bifur replies with a sigh, remembering Bilbo cannot understand him.

“It’s alright, Bilbo,” Óin adds, holding up the ear trumpet. “We were just talking about what to do with this.”

“Oh? Are you planning to replace it?” Bilbo asks, his tone casual, too casual.

The words hit both dwarrow like a slap. But Óin quickly reminds himself: Bilbo isn’t a dwarf. He doesn’t understand what that question implies.

“Bilbo, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. You’re not dwarrow, so you wouldn’t know. But this” , he lifts the battered trumpet, “was Bifur’s first courting gift to me. To suggest I replace it… is like asking me to replace Bifur.”

Bilbo pales. “O-Oh! I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—I’m so sorry! Truly! Please forgive me—I meant no offense—I would never —”

Bifur suddenly laughs, deep and warm. “Peace, sweet hobbit. No wound dost thou deal this day.”

Bilbo doesn’t understand the words, but the warmth in Bifur’s eyes and the joy in his voice calm him all the same.

“Right, um… I’ll go ask Beorn if he has tools to help fix it,” Bilbo offers.

The two dwarrow exchange skeptical looks. Beorn has little love for dwarrow-kind, and the idea of him owning any forge, let alone letting them borrow one, is laughable.

“I thank you, laddie, for the offer. But I doubt he’d let us use them,” Óin replies gently.

“Nonsense! Beorn’s a good fellow. I’m sure he’ll understand, especially if he knows it’s a token of love,” Bilbo insists, already hurrying off.

Óin and Bifur watch him go and smile.

“He is a good lad. He shall make a fine match for Thorin,” Bifur says with a grin.

“Aye. If only they’d get their heads out of their arses,” Óin mutters, shaking his head.

After Bilbo saved Thorin’s life, not a single member of the Company is blind to how the two have been circling each other. And to think he thought his love life was complicated.

Dwarrow have never been comfortable in forests, but this one pushes their discomfort to the extreme. It is dark, damp, and choking with rot. Every step they take releases a squelch of decay beneath their boots. The shadows here move too easily. Every breath feels watched. And most disturbing of all is the silence, not peaceful, but oppressive. Smothering. Wrong.

Even their hobbit, who’s known to love all things green and growing, whispers that the forest feels sick . And that word lingers like a curse among the Company.

Bifur is the first to falter. The hallucinations, once rare in the last few years, now come constantly, violently, like during the early days of his recovery. His eyes shift around with a haunted edge, unfocused, muttering in Khuzdul to people who aren’t there. Worse are the seizures. They return with a vengeance, leaving Bofur and Bombur near frantic. The two younger iraknaddad try to stay strong, try to keep smiles and cracked jokes, but their eyes betray them, wet, tired, and red from trying not to cry in front of the others. Bifur has always been their rock. Seeing him like this unravels the fragile thread holding their courage together.

Óin fares no better. The ringing in his ear, which sometimes quiets during calm moments, is now relentless. A shrill, invisible parasite boring into his skull, feeding his every headache and thought. He clenches his jaw until his teeth ache. The pain makes him short-tempered. He snaps at anyone who isn't Bifur or Glóin. He hates himself for it, but the forest doesn't care.

Every dwarf in the Company feels it: the weight of something unseen pressing in from the trees. The sense that they are not merely lost in the woods, but unwelcome . Surrounded. Cursed.

Only the presence of family and their Ones keeps the Company from breaking. Fíli cradles Ori each night, murmuring soft reassurances neither of them quite believes. Thorin, who normally maintains distance even from kin, holds both Kíli and Bilbo close in sleep, clutching them like lifelines, as if their warmth alone can keep the forest’s madness at bay. Dwalin has a hand always on Nori’s shoulder. Balin allows Dori to cry softly within his arms. Glóin rests with Óin’s head against his chest to ease the ringing. Bifur pats Bofur and Bifur’s head gently while maintaining eye contact with Óin. It becomes a silent ritual: each dwarf finds the one who grounds them. No one mocks it. No one dares.

But the forest has its own horrors yet to unleash.

The spiders arrive without warning, crawling out of the shadows like nightmares come to life. Their venom isn’t just meant to paralyze the body. It breaks the mind. When the poison sinks into their veins, each dwarf falls into a vision crafted from terror.

Óin sees Glóin’s broken body on a battlefield, blood pooling under him, his face turned toward Óin in agony. Then Bifur’s corpse stares back at him, eyes dull, the axe missing from his skull. The wound gapes open like a mouth, and it screams .

Bifur sees a splattered body on a stone floor. He knows it’s Bofur only because of the ridiculous hat lying near the crushed head. Then he hears Bombur’s scream, his youngest iraknadad, crying for help as a warg sinks its teeth into his stomach, tearing him apart before he can even reach him.

Others see their own torments, but none speak of them when they awaken.

The Company stirs in chaos, disoriented, sickened, but filled with raw fury. They are ready to tear through the spiders that dared poison them, but before they can strike, salvation comes from the last place they expect: the very elves who abandoned them so long ago.

Their so-called rescue ends in chains and cold stone walls.

Within their prison, none have the energy to protest anymore. The grief is too fresh. Bilbo Baggins, their tiniest companion, their heart, was not with them when the elves dragged them in. And no one has seen him since.

They assume the worst.

No one blames Thorin for wailing in despair when the truth sinks in. His One, his beloved, devoured by the spiders. His cries echo through the elven dungeons, a sound no dwarf ever expects to hear from a king. And still, none mock him. They feel it too. A hole where Bilbo should be.

Time stretches. Days? Weeks? They stop counting.

Then, impossibly, Bilbo returns.

He appears like a dream, or perhaps a ghost, standing boldly before their cell, whispering of plans and promises and escape. He has survived the spiders, survived the forest, and somehow carried hope with him through it all.

No one questions the absurdity of barrels. No one complains of bruises or splinters. They are free. Free and with Bilbo again.

And yet, not all wounds heal so fast.

Óin notices Kíli lingering at the edge of the group as they drift away from the forest, his eyes fixed on the trees, on the vanishing spires of the elven realm. There’s a quiet longing there. A pain he tries to hide, but it seeps through. And Óin, for all his bitterness toward elves, understands too well what it is to hold onto something you fear you've already lost.

Bifur roars, the sound raw and thunderous, as he cleaves through another orc with the sweeping arc of his halberd. The battlefield is chaotic, clashing metal, screaming men, elves, dwarrow and orcs, arrows streaking through the sky like angry stars. After the arrival of the Elven and Men armies, and after Bilbo’s banishment, Bifur has never known a rage like this.

He is furious. Furious at the world, at fate, at himself.

Furious that he couldn’t stop his king, Thorin, from raising his sword against his own One . Furious that he can’t blame Thorin, not truly, for the king was sick in the mind, twisted by gold and grief. And Bifur knows better than most what it means to have a broken mind. He bears that weight every day.

So when Thorin charges from the gates, his sickness seemingly purged, his honor reclaimed, Bifur follows without hesitation. He pours every ounce of fury, every ache, every scream he has ever swallowed into each swing of his weapon.

Now he fights like the warrior he has become. No longer the young pebble shadowing older warriors, no longer the broken dwarrow hiding behind gestures and stares.

Now, he is a raging storm.

His halberd sings through the air. One orc goes down, throat impaled. Another charges from behind, club raised. Bifur spins, slamming the butt of his weapon through the orc’s eye socket with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays his face, but he doesn’t blink.

“COME AT ME, YOU FILTH!” he bellows, eyes wild. “I, BIFUR, DASHAT OF KIFUR, WILL GLADLY TAKE YOUR LIVES!”

He loses himself in the blood-haze. Just like that battle long ago. Back when the axe first lodged itself in his skull. All he sees now is red.

Then, through the roar of war and the pounding of blood in his ears, he hears a voice.

“HELP!”

It’s Bofur.

He whirls, snapping the shaft of his halberd as he tears it from another orc's chest. Across the battlefield, Bofur stumbles back from a hulking brute of an orc, his weapon knocked from his hands, helpless.

“YOU WILL NOT LAY A HAND UPON HIM!” Bifur screams.

He charges.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t plan.

He throws himself headfirst at the orc, literally . His skull crashes into the orc’s face with a sound like a cracking tree trunk. The axe embedded in Bifur’s skull for decades slams into the orc’s own head.

Pain explodes behind Bifur’s eyes. Not the usual dull pressure he’s grown used to, but sharp, blinding agony. The world blurs. He staggers. He collapses. Somewhere far away, he hears his cousins calling his name. Their voices are shaking.

Then, silence.

He comes to moments later, breath shallow, the copper taste of blood in his mouth. His vision swims, but something… feels wrong .

His head. It feels light .

Empty.

Bifur reaches up, and freezes.

There is no metal. No familiar chill of steel lodged in his skull.

Just… skin. Flesh. And a hole .

“By Durin…” Bofur gasps, pale as stone. “You’ve lost your axe!”

Bifur blinks at him in shock, then tentatively touches the wound again. It’s true. The weight that has defined his life for decades is simply… gone.

“Not lost ,” Bombur pants as he jogs up, breathless and holding something bulky in his arms. “Found it!”

He holds out the axe head, twisted, bloodied, and glinting with fresh gore.

Bifur stares at it for a long, heavy moment.

This thing. This cursed shard of steel that stole his voice, shattered his mind, and shadowed his love for years. This thing that robbed him of wholeness.

"You know where you can stick that," he growls, and throws it across the battlefield.

It lands with a dull clunk in the mud, useless.

He tries to stand, but then his body lurches, limbs seizing up. He convulses violently, collapsing back to the ground.

“ Bifur! ” Bofur and Bombur scream, both rushing to his side in panic.

His arms twitch uncontrollably, his breath comes in gasps, eyes rolling back. They try to hold him still, but they don’t know how. There’s too much blood. Too much fear.

Then a golden haired elf rushes to them.

Óin remembers collapsing in the middle of dressing someone’s wound. He doesn’t even know who it was, a dwarf, an elf, a Man? It’s all a blur. All he remembers now is waking to the sound of Glóin screaming at him, his younger brother’s face red with fury and worry.

“ Remember what amad said! You can’t help others if you are falling apart!”

“ Nadad, shut up…” Óin mutters hoarsely, his voice cracking. “Is… everyone alright?”

The memory comes crashing in, Thorin barely hanging on, Fíli and Kíli pale and blood-soaked, their pulses weak under his fingertips. He had done what he could before the elven healers arrived, but it wasn’t enough. He remembers watching Nori and Bofur drag Bilbo away from the healer’s tent, the hobbit’s voice breaking as he cried out Thorin’s name.

“Yes. They’re all alive,” Glóin replies, gentler now. “And Bifur’s been found. Him and his iraknaddad. He… he doesn’t have the axe anymore.”

Óin’s blood runs cold.

No axe?

That’s impossible. No one survives having it removed. Not after all these years. It should have killed him. Óin feels his throat tighten as he realizes what that likely means. The air catches in his lungs, and a sob rises before he can stop it. His One, his Bifur, is…

“He’s alive!” Glóin blurts out, panic flashing across his face. “Prince Legolas helped them! He’s alive, I swear!”

“W-what?” Óin croaks, blinking fast, turning to look at his brother with wide eyes.

“Bifur’s alive and the axe is gone!” Glóin says more clearly now, his tone desperate to reassure, while he signs in Iglishmêk rapidly to make sure Óin understands. “He's… he’s alright.”

Óin exhales shakily, overwhelmed by relief, only to immediately lurch forward and twist Glóin’s ear hard.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU LEAD WITH THAT!?” he roars, and Glóin lets out a high-pitched yelp, trying to pull away.

“I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D START CRYING! LET GO OF MY EAR!”

Before Óin can scold him further, the tent flap opens, and Bifur steps in.

He’s smiling. A real, full, unshadowed smile.

Óin freezes. His mouth falls open as his gaze locks on the clean, rounded hole where the axe once sat. No metal. No rust. Just the mark it left behind.

Glóin uses the moment to make his escape, but Óin barely notices.

“Bifur…” Óin breathes, eyes wide. “ Amralime. Where were you?!”

He tries to stand, but his legs betray him, wobbling like jelly, and he falls back against the bedroll. Bifur chuckles and crosses the space quickly, taking Óin’s hand in both of his, squeezing gently.

“Working yourself to death again, darling?” he says with that teasing lilt he used to have in their youth, before the axe, before the silence.

Óin stares up at him, overwhelmed. His fingers brush Bifur’s cheek just to be sure he’s real.

“ Ghivashel… how?” he whispers. He wants to be the one who freed him, to have been there when it happened. But all that matters now is that Bifur is here. Alive. Whole.

“I’ll tell you the whole tale,” Bifur says with a grin, settling beside him. “You’ll love it. There was screaming. Orcs. And of course, the headbutt.”

As Bifur recounts his story, voice animated, hands gesturing like the old days, Óin listens, heart swelling, expression somewhere between awe and exasperation. But by the end, he’s tugging hard on Bifur’s ear.

“YOU HEADBUTTED AN ORC?!” Óin barks, scandalized. “IF WE EVER GET MARRIED, YOU ARE FORBIDDEN TO JOIN ANY BATTLES!”

Bifur throws back his head and laughs, bright and unburdened.

From the doorway, Glóin peeks back inside and sighs, rolling his eyes with fond resignation before ducking out again. He walks through the healing camp slowly, watching the world shift back into something brighter.

The ruins of Azsâlul'abad will rise again.

The Durins are recovering, thanks to the elves, surprisingly, and Thorin, their king, still lives. The shadow is lifting.

Glóin chuckles to himself. There will be so many weddings.

Balin and Dori, finally. Dwalin and Nori, even if he still can’t quite picture that . Thorin and Bilbo, of course. Maybe even Fíli and Ori… and Kíli and Tauriel, though that last one gives him some pause. Elves. Really?

Still, the war is over. The future feels wide open again.

And most importantly, Glóin knows he can finally return to Azsâlul'abad and raise his little Gimli in peace, without fear or darkness. He smiles softly to himself.

The darkest days are behind them now.