2. 01 - The King of Carven Stone
Human age equivalent - infant
'Tis said when Mahal created his children, he created them with great things in mind; great strength, great prowess, great stubbornness, and great love for the earth surrounding them. He yearned for children of his own to share and teach his love of metal-crafting, his love of the heat of the smithy.
And unbeknownst to him, his wife, Yavannah, kissed each and every one of them upon their birth as they drew their first breath, and whispered in their ears things the Dwarves remembered well into their long years, but spoke not of to any breathing thing. 'Twas a secret between each one and the wife of the Maker. She treasured them, much as her husband did, because she saw her husband in each and every one.
Especially his stubbornness.
For the Dwarves had long memories and, despite their pugnaciousness, clung to the secrets and endearments sighed into them when they first took breath.
In particular was what was whispered to one babe as she slipped from her mother's body.
You will love him, when no one else loves him or when he thinks no one else loves him and is alone. He will be a fine Dwarf-Prince, but you must keep him from succumbing to that which plagues his line and remind him what is truly important.
Their mothers knew from the moment both were laid in Thorin's cradle together to nap, while they talked of things, mothering things, birth stories - for surely no female had a worse time birthing a babe than the woman who gave birth - that they were destined to be together.
Both woke at the same time; Megin aware she was in a strange place and Thorin aware his cradle was being invaded by someone else.
Someone with hair like spun gold and eyes of the blue sapphires that adorned his grandfather's crown. Even at this young age, Thorin, the heir's heir to the throne of Erebor, knew his importance.
However there was something about the way she - yes, she - smelled. She smelled of flowers and freshness, not of soiled things and puke, which he often smelled of himself.
But she was in his cradle, his castle, his domain in this dark, underground place. He knitted his brow in ire.
Megin's bottom lip trembled, frightened of this strange place, not seeing her mother nearby, and this other... babe staring at her with his dark hair and grey eyes. Staring at her as if she were an intruder. It was unnerving and her eyes welled up.
Thorin saw what was happening and suddenly the memory of that which was spoken softly to him at his birth...
...cherish her...for she is your comfort...
...came whispering back into him.
He did the only thing that he knew gave him reassurance when his mother's breast was not nearby. He pulled his fist from his lips and clumsily put his thumb in this girl-baby's mouth.
Megin's eyes grew wide at the intrusion of a strange digit that was not hers. She started to spit it out, because it didn't taste like hers, but realized it was put there for good reason. She found a strange comfort in it, the heart behind it and rather than cry, began instead to suck.
For a time, it was peaceful in that hand carved cradle that had been used for many years to rock many of the line of Durin. However, as she went to sleep, Thorin wished to sleep as well (for all mothers know that in order to grow, a child must sleep) however his thumb was in her mouth. He tried to remove it, unsuccessfully and as he himself grew cranky and restless, Megin returned the favor.
She stuck her thumb in his mouth.
And that is how their mothers found them, after exchanging tea and cake. Their babes in a solitary cradle, cuddled together with their thumbs in the other's mouth.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.