Chapter Text
In the sun-drenched, yet cave-dwelling years they carved out a new existence within the Ered Luin, Kharis, the youngest of the Fundin line, blossomed into a woman of breathtaking grace and formidable strength. She was, without question, the beloved gem of Balin and Dwalin's eye. Her hair, the color of a raven's wing at midnight, was a testament to the intricate artistry of dwarven braiding. It was meticulously woven in complex patterns against the sides of her head, rising above her ever-alert ears, before elegantly merging into a single, thick warrior's plait that cascaded down her back, a dark river against her sturdy frame. This was no mere adornment; it was a practical style, designed to keep her hair from her eyes in battle, yet it radiated an undeniable regal air. Further defining her striking features were her sideburns, groomed with the same exacting precision as the most coveted gems. They were shaved and shaped into the familiar, precise geometrical lines that had adorned the warriors of their ancestral home in Erebor, a subtle, yet powerful, connection to a glorious past never forgotten.
Her beauty and lineage drew the eyes of many. Scores of eligible dwarrow, from wealthy merchants to skilled artisans, sought the honor of courting her. Yet, each was met with the unwavering, stone-faced rejection of her formidable older brothers, Dwalin and Balin. Dwalin, ever the protective sentinel, saw only softness and weakness in their overtures, while Balin, the wise and discerning, found their intentions lacking in true depth. Both were in fierce agreement: none were worthy of their radiant sister, for they knew the truth of Kharis’s heart – she only yearned for her One, the single soul destined for her by Mahal himself.
Amidst this constant stream of hopeful, and ultimately disappointed, suitors, Dwalin found a different outlet for his protective instincts. He dedicated himself to training Kharis, pouring every ounce of his extensive combat knowledge into her. From the heavy war hammer to the swift axe, the sturdy shield to the precise spear, she mastered every weapon available to them, her skill growing until she stood on par with her battle-hardened brother. Yet, it was with swords that she truly excelled. She moved with a fluid, deadly grace, dual-wielding blades as if they were extensions of her own will, a whirlwind of gleaming steel that few could match. Her strikes were swift, her parries precise, her footwork a dance between life and death.
Despite her unparalleled prowess in arms, Kharis possessed a gentle heart, a quick, insightful wit that could disarm a foe with words as easily as with steel, and a scholarly mind as sharp and inquisitive as Balin’s own. She could recite ancient histories, debate philosophical tenets, or solve complex engineering puzzles with the same ease she wielded her blades. She was a living paradox, a perfect fusion of Dwalin’s raw strength and Balin’s profound intellect, a true, multifaceted gem of the Fundin line.
It was during these years that Kharis witnessed her cousin, Princess Dis, fall irrevocably for Vili. He was a low-born stone mason, a humble man whose hands were accustomed to shaping rock, not ruling a kingdom. More importantly, he was Dis's One. Kharis watched as Dis, usually so proud and stoic, pleaded with her brothers, Thorin and Frerin, her voice laced with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, begging them to allow Vili to court her.
Thorin, ever the king-in-exile, listened intently, then conferred with Frerin. While the concept of a royal marrying a commoner was fraught with political peril, the sacred truth of finding one's One outweighed all other considerations for them. Seeing the undeniable bond, the deep, soulful connection that radiated between Dis and Vili, they agreed. However, the elders, a council of rigid traditionalists clinging to the remnants of Erebor’s old laws, threw an immediate, indignant fit. Voices rose in a cacophony of outrage, all but demanding that Dis be summarily removed from the line of succession for daring to marry below her station.
It was one of the few, chilling times Kharis had ever witnessed Thorin Oakenshield truly lose his legendary temper. His face, usually a mask of stoic resolve, contorted with a righteous fury. He thundered at the elders, his voice echoing through the stone halls, condemning their audacity for dismissing the sacred union of a Dwarf finding their One – a bond blessed by Mahal himself, something infinitely more precious than any claim to a throne. How dare they presume to know better than the Creator of all Dwarves? The sheer blasphemy of their words struck a chord of primal anger within him. The elders, cowed by the raw power of his wrath, quieted instantly. Following this incandescent display, Thorin, with the unwavering support of Frerin, issued a decree that would forever alter the social fabric of their people: the finding of a dwarf's One was to be considered more precious than anything, save for their own children, their "pebbles." Furthermore, all dwarrow, regardless of their station or birth, were equal in the eyes of Mahal and their king.
Dis, her heart soaring with relief, gazed at Vili with adoring eyes, while poor Vili himself was utterly overwhelmed by the pronouncement. The implications of becoming Prince Consort to Princess Dis, a role he never imagined, nor sought, crashed down upon him. He stood, shell-shocked. Laughing, Thorin and Frerin, sensing his distress, pulled him aside. They spoke to him not as future king and prince to a commoner, but as family. They calmly reassured him that until they reclaimed Erebor, titles would not truly change anything between them; he was family, and that was all that mattered.
His royal lessons began almost immediately, guided by the patient and learned Balin, while he continued to court Dis openly, much to everyone's relief, especially Kharis's. Kharis watched, a flicker of admiration in her eyes, as Vili threw himself into every challenge, every lesson. His eyes blazed with a fierce determination not to fail his new family, to prove himself worthy not just to them, but to himself. His honor for his One was on the line, as was his own personal integrity. He learned the histories, the politics, the intricacies of dwarven craftsmanship and trade, the strategies of war, and the nuances of courtly etiquette, all with a single-minded focus.
When he finally succeeded, mastering the vast ocean of knowledge placed before him, the palpable relief that washed over him was profound. He had earned his place. A year-long courtship, marked by both public appearances and quiet, loving moments, culminated in a wedding for Dis and Vili that wasn't extravagant by royal standards, but was utterly perfect. Dis, ever practical and deeply rooted in family, hadn't wished for a grand spectacle attended by distant nobles; all she desired was to be surrounded by her beloved kin. The wedding day was everything Dis had ever hoped for. Her brothers, their closest cousins, and even the pleasant surprise of finding more distant cousins – the Ri brothers, Dori, Nori, and Ori, who lived solitary lives in the far mountains – were all present. It was Dori, the master weaver and crafter among them, who had meticulously spun and woven her wedding dress, a garment of simple elegance and profound personal meaning.
The years that followed were peaceful, of a sort. The population in the Ered Luin grew slowly, for while they had made it their temporary home, it was not their ancestral 'home stone,' not the true heart of their dwelling. Yet, they managed, carving out a stable existence. Kharis, ever disciplined, continued her rigorous weapon training every single day, often joined by Dis, who matched her stride for stride. Together, they became renowned warriors in their own right, their coordinated movements a blur of deadly grace. They were the formidable reflections of Thorin and Dwalin, only as darrowdams, their combined prowess making the dwarrows around them wary of ever giving offense to either princess or her closest companion.
Time flowed on, marked by the slow expansion of their community. Then, a new kind of anticipation filled the air as Dis grew heavy with her first child. Kharis, with an unspoken dedication, became Dis's constant shadow – her companion, her confidante, and her ever-vigilant bodyguard. She never left Dis's side from the moment the pregnancy was confirmed until the very hour of the birth. Dis, initially overwhelmed by such closeness, expressed a mild protest about the constant presence. But Kharis, ever direct, swiftly shot down her concerns. "If anyone," she declared, her voice low and steady, "manages to get through me, you can finish them off yourself and pick up the pieces. Besides," a small, knowing smirk touched her lips, "if I ever have pebbles, you can repay the favor." Dis quickly fell silent after that, a vicious, appreciative smile gracing her lips, acknowledging the fierce loyalty and the unspoken promise that bound them.
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The urgent, metallic clang of the runner's footfalls had barely faded before Kharis was in motion. Her iron-shorn boots, usually a steady rhythm, now pounded a frantic staccato against the ancient, unyielding stone floors of the Ered Luin's deep halls. The message, delivered with breathless urgency, had been simple yet profound: Dis's child was coming. A knot of dread, concern, and fierce protective love tightened in Kharis’s stomach as she navigated the familiar twists and turns, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, each echo a testament to her haste.
Finally, the well-worn path led her to the antechamber of the birthing suite. The air here was heavy, thick with unspoken anxiety and the faint, coppery tang of exertion that seeped even through the sturdy oak door. A small, huddle of figures formed a silent, tense vigil. Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Dis's brother, was a caged thunderstorm, his broad shoulders hunched, every muscle coiled tight as he paced a shallow, worn groove into the stone floor, his customary frown deepened into a mask of grim worry. Beside him, Frerin, usually the jovial one, stood like a startled deer, his own face etched with concern, an arm wrapped around Vili, the father-to-be. Vili, ordinarily boisterous and full of life, was a ghost of his usual self, his fair skin ashen, his body trembling, and his eyes wide as he flinched visibly at the raw, primal sounds that tore through the sturdy door, each cry from Dis a fresh stab of fear.
Further back, leaning against the cold stone wall with an air of stoic, gloomy vigil, were Kharis's own brothers, Balin and Dwalin. Their faces, usually open and expressive, were drawn tight with shared apprehension. Kharis caught the eye of all of them – a silent acknowledgement of the shared wait. It was Vili who broke away first, stumbling towards her, his frame shaking like a leaf, eyes, usually bright with mischief, now swimming with unshed tears. "Please," he choked out, his voice raw with fear, a pleading whisper barely audible above the muffled cries. "Please be in there for her?"
The raw plea was an arrow to Kharis’s heart, cutting through her own anxiety. She didn't hesitate. Shoulders squared, resolve hardening her features, she immediately marched towards the door. It swung inward with a soft, almost reverent creak, revealing the intimate, strained tableau within.
The air in the birthing chamber hung thick, a palpable blend of the sweet, cloying scent of birthwort and calming herbs, the sharp, coppery tang of sweat and exertion, and the raw, guttural cries of a woman in the throes of creation. Outside, the night darkness still clung stubbornly to the peaks of the Ered Luin, but inside, under the flickering lamplight, a different kind of night was nearing its arduous, agonizing end.
Dis, her usually vibrant features contorted in pain, her hair—usually meticulously braided—damp and plastered to her brow, writhed on the birthing bed. Oin, his brow furrowed with intense concentration, stood vigilant at the foot of the bed, his seasoned hands prepared, his gaze unwavering, a seasoned warrior in this different kind of battle.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Kharis slipped in, the door closing softly behind her, sealing them in this sacred, agonizing space. She walked directly to Dis’s side, her eyes meeting the pained, desperate ones of her friend. Reaching down, Kharis gripped Dis’s hand tightly, bracing herself.
Dis gasped, a fresh, powerful wave of agony washing over her, her nails digging into Kharis’s palm, a vice-like grip that threatened to crush bone. Kharis barely registered the sharp sting; her focus was entirely on the woman before her. Then, as the contraction receded slightly, Dis’s eyes cleared, a flicker of something akin to peace, or perhaps just profound relief, washing over her face. She managed a weak, exhausted smile. “Ris… Thank you.”
Kharis returned the smile, a soft, reassuring curve of her lips. “Yes, I am here. No need to thank me.” Her voice was a low, steady murmur, a much-needed anchor in the storm of Dis’s pain, a quiet promise of unwavering support.
Hours crawled by, each minute a stretched eternity. Kharis winced inwardly, her own knuckles turning white, every time Dis’s grip tightened to the point of crushing. Her hand throbbed with a dull, bone-deep ache that refused to dissipate, the pain a shared agony, a silent testament to the unyielding bond between them. Pulling away was unthinkable. Her focus was entirely on Dis, offering a steady, unyielding presence, a silent promise of support until the very end.
Then, just as the first slivers of early morning light dared to peek over the jagged horizon, painting the distant sky in hues of soft rose and bruised violet, a final, primal roar tore from Dis’s throat. A different sound followed, a tiny, indignant squeak, wet and glistening, a fragile declaration of new life.
Oin, moving with practiced efficiency and tender care, quickly cleaned off the new life. He worked swiftly, his hands deft and sure, before carefully bringing the bundled infant back to Dis’s waiting arms. “You have a son, Dis…”
Dis, her face streaked with tears and sweat, smiled tiredly, radiantly, a fierce, primal joy shining through her exhaustion. Her hand, finally released from its crushing grip on Kharis, trembled as she reached out. She pulled the tiny bundle to her, cradling him gently against her chest, her eyes alight with a fierce, possessive love. “My son…”
Kharis let out a deep, shuddering breath, a profound relief washing over her. Flexing her now tingling hand, she massaged it gently with her other, encouraging the blood to rush back to her numb fingers. She smiled, then glanced back towards the door where the muffled sounds of anxious whispers, frustrated sighs, and relentless pacing indicated the presence of the others. “Better show ‘em, or they’ll break the door down.”
Dis groaned slightly, a sound more of utter exhaustion than true complaint. Wearily, she waved Kharis back over. “Here. I need to clean up, and Oin needs to clean up the bedding.”
Kharis stepped forward, a curious awe already building within her. She carefully took the baby, holding him gently, supporting his impossibly tiny head with reverence. He was so impossibly small in her arms, yet so perfectly formed. She ran a single finger down his downy cheek, marveling at the miniature dwarfling. His rosebud mouth parted slightly, and his eyes, though still unfocused, were a deep, dark sapphire, like the heart of a mountain lake. “I have him. Did you have a name chosen?”
Dis, propped up slightly, a shy, tired smile gracing her lips, met Kharis’s gaze. “Fíli. Son of Víli.”
Kharis grinned at her, then walked to the door, the precious bundle held carefully in her arms. As she opened the doors, the anxious murmuring abruptly ceased. Vili, pale and trembling, staggered on his feet, on the verge of collapse, held upright by a watchful Frerin and a grim Thorin. When she stepped through the doors, Kharis offered Vili a gentle, reassuring smile. “Meet your son. Fíli, son of Víli.” Vili almost dropped to the floor, a choked sob escaping him, as he stared at the tiny bundle in her arms, his knees threatening to buckle. Thorin and Frerin quickly caught him, guiding him to a nearby chair, Kharis following them. When they got him settled, she held out the bundle of blankets to him, and he took Fíli in trembling hands, his voice a whisper of pure wonder, “My son…”
Kharis smiled gently as she watched the profound, life-altering bonding between father and son. Then she looked at Thorin and Frerin. “Dis is fine, just cleaning up. Though I think she almost shattered my hand.” She lifted her hand to reveal a very red palm, crisscrossed with white marks where Dis’s grip had been tightest.
Frerin let out a surprised, barking laugh as he looked at Kharis’s hand. Thorin gave a small, rare, soft smile, his eyes still captivated by his new nephew, before glancing at Frerin. “Frerin, you’re not the only one to have the lucky hair in the family anymore.” Golden hair, a rare and cherished blessing among their folk, was always a cause for celebration.
Frerin's jaw dropped in surprise, then he leaned closer to the baby, careful not to startle him, after Vili had instinctively moved the blankets from Fíli’s head to reveal a shock of bright, golden hair. Frerin let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy, startling Fíli a little, who let out a tiny startled gasp before quickly quieting down. Oin, his face still weary but with a twinkle in his eye, stuck his head out of the birthing rooms. “Dis is ready for her son. And I’m sure the baby is hungry.”
Vili, still trembling, staggered to his feet, but this time with a new, almost weightless resolve. He stumbled into the rooms, holding his son carefully, as the door closed behind him. Kharis let out a long, heartfelt sigh of relief. With a wry grin, she flexed her still-aching hand. “If this happens again, I’m letting her hold the other hand. Balance it out, you know.” The comical exaggeration was deliberate.
Thorin raised an eyebrow at her words, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but she merely shrugged her shoulders. “Oh come on. I had to say it.” Frerin, still beaming, was startled into a renewed peal of laughter, which made the rest of the room, including Balin and Dwalin, start chuckling as well. Kharis watched, a warmth spreading through her, as Thorin’s broad shoulders dropped, and the heavy mantle of responsibility seemed to lift from him, if only for a moment. He tilted his head back, a genuine, booming laugh tearing from his throat, a sound rarely heard in these trying times, as the years seemed to melt from his face, joining in the shared, joyous mirth.
Five years flew by and Kharis watched as her middle brother Dwalin chased after the red-headed thief, Nori, that he would rant about for weeks, making Balin and her make secret bets about them late at night after some especially long rants that mixed with alcohol, leaving Dwalin snoring at their dinner table, still grumbling Nori's name even while sleeping. Kharis sighed in exasperation till she noticed her older brother Balin making doe eyes at the silver-haired eldest Ri brother, Dori, the same one who made Dis's wedding dress. Kharis laughed at their predicaments, making bets with Dis after Kharis informed her about the state of her brothers.
Dis smirked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wooden post of the small bed where Fili slept. "So, Dwalin's still hopelessly tangled in that fiery-haired troublemaker, huh? And Balin’s smitten with Dori? I never thought I'd see the day."
Kharis nodded, warmth spreading through her chest at the sight of her chaotic family. "It's been quite the spectacle. I swear, sometimes I wonder if our family dinners are more about betting on who falls for who next than the actual food."
Dis laughed, the sound light and easy, reminiscent of the days before the wedding frenzy had begun. "Well, then let's raise the stakes. Who do you think will actually settle down first? Will Dwalin let Nori steal his heart, or Balin with Dori?"
Kharis considered, her eyes drifting to the edge of the bustling market square where the silhouettes of her brothers mingled with townsfolk. "I'm putting my coin on Balin. His eyes betray him every time Dori is near, and Dori seems just as captivated."
Dis nodded thoughtfully. "Fine. I'll take that bet. But you better not lose your coin when Nori finally wins Dwalin's heart."
The two sisters in arms clinked their arms together, sealing the silent wager. Meanwhile, across the square, the sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the faces tangled in the dance of youth and longing, setting the stage for the next chapter in their intertwined fates.
Five years, a fleeting whisper in the long memory of the dwarven folk, had nonetheless managed to reshape the lives and hearts within the Ered Luin. Kharis, ever the observant eye in her boisterous family, had watched that span of time unfold with a mixture of exasperation, profound affection, and not a little amusement. Just this evening, as the last embers of the day faded from the sky and the flickering lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across their comfortable, albeit often chaotic, home, her middle brother Dwalin was once again in full, glorious pursuit. His powerful frame, usually a picture of stoic might, was currently contorted in a comical chase after the diminutive, fiery-haired thief, Nori, whose nimble form darted between market stalls with the grace of a mountain goat and the cunning of a fox.
Dwalin’s rants, verbose and vivid, about Nori’s audacity, his infuriating charm, his talent for slipping through any grasp – physical or emotional – had become a well-worn staple of family dinners. He would bellow, gesticulate wildly, his face often a delightful shade of crimson, while Balin, ever the picture of quiet dignity, and Kharis exchanged knowing glances. These rants, especially those fuelled by a few too many mugs of strong dwarven ale, inevitably led to Dwalin snoring loudly at their dinner table, slumped against the scarred wood, still grumbling Nori’s name, a soft, possessive murmur even in his deepest sleep. It was after these particularly long, alcohol-laced tirades that Kharis and Balin, huddled by the dying hearth, would make secret bets, their hushed whispers mingling with the crackle of the fire, on the inevitable coupling they both saw brewing between Dwalin and his self-proclaimed nemesis.
Kharis let out a long, theatrical sigh of exasperation – a sound that was more habit than genuine annoyance now – as Dwalin’s frustrated roar echoed faintly from the bustling market square. Her gaze, however, then softened, a small smile playing on her lips, as she noticed her older brother Balin. He was standing near the hearth, ostensibly polishing a ceremonial axe, but his eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were soft, almost vulnerable, fixed with unmistakable "doe eyes" on the silver-haired eldest Ri brother, Dori. It was the same Dori, Kharis recalled with a giggle, who was renowned for his intricate lacework and elegant designs, the very one who had painstakingly crafted Dis’s exquisite wedding dress.
The sheer, delightful predictability of her brothers’ romantic predicaments brought a genuine, bubbling laugh from Kharis. The sound was rich and warm, drawing the attention of Dis, who had just stepped out of Fili’s small, cozy bedchamber. Dis smirked, her strong features softened by the lamplight, and crossed her arms, leaning casually against the sturdy wooden post of the bed, where the gentle rise and fall of Fili’s sleeping form was just visible beneath a thick fur blanket.
“So,” Dis began, a knowing glint in her eyes, "Dwalin’s still hopelessly tangled in that fiery-haired troublemaker, huh? And Balin’s smitten with Dori? I never thought I’d see the day.” There was a lighthearted challenge in her tone, a shared amusement between sisters.
Kharis nodded, a wave of warmth spreading through her chest at the sight of her chaotic, loving family. “It’s been quite the spectacle,” she admitted, her voice soft with affection. “I swear, sometimes I wonder if our family dinners are more about betting on who falls for who next than the actual food.”
Dis laughed, the sound light and easy, a joyful echo of the days before the wedding frenzy had begun, before the cares of impending motherhood had settled. “Well, then let’s raise the stakes,” she declared, her eyes sparkling. “Who do you think will actually settle down first? Will Dwalin let Nori finally steal his heart, or Balin with Dori?”
Kharis considered the question, her eyes drifting towards the bustling market square at the edge of town, where the silhouettes of her brothers, one fuming, one contemplative, mingled with the throng of townsfolk preparing for the night. “I’m putting my coin on Balin,” she announced with conviction. “His eyes betray him every time Dori is near, and Dori seems just as captivated. There’s a quiet intensity there, a mutual respect that feels… more solid.”
Dis nodded thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips as she considered Kharis’s reasoning. “Fine. I’ll take that bet,” she said, her voice laced with good-natured challenge. “But you better not lose your coin when Nori finally wins Dwalin’s heart. That lad has a way of getting exactly what he wants, eventually.”
The two sisters, united in their playful wager, clinked their forearms together, a silent, time-honored gesture that sealed the pact. Meanwhile, across the square, the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, casting a warm, ephemeral glow over the faces tangled in the intricate dance of youth, longing, and the subtle currents of affection, setting the stage for the next chapters in their intertwined fates.
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The air in the Ered Luin mines was always cool and damp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of ancient stone dust, mineral deposits, and the distant tang of fresh-hewn iron. It clung to the skin, a constant reminder of the mountain's embrace. Kharis walked beside Vili, Dis’s husband, their voices echoing softly, with a distinct, almost metallic resonance, off the rough-hewn walls of the main shaft as they discussed the day’s ore yields – the quality of the granite, the veins of nascent silver, the challenges of deeper excavations. Kharis, ever mindful of her surroundings, her senses finely honed, had learned from Dwalin to read the subtle, silent language of the mountain. It was a skill drilled into her through countless hours of rigorous, often unforgiving training: to stay calm, to observe the most minute shifts, to trust her instincts even when logic screamed otherwise. Dwalin’s lessons were brutal but effective; he'd taught her to feel the weight of the stone overhead, to interpret the whisper of shifting air, to discern the difference between a natural creak and a warning groan.
It was this ingrained habit, this heightened sensitivity, that saved them.
She felt it before she heard it – a soft, almost imperceptible groan, a deep, pervasive hum against the soles of her heavy boots that resonated up through the very bones of the mountain. It wasn't the usual, familiar creak of settling rock, a sound as common as breathing in the mines, but something deeper, more ominous, emanating from the stones directly above where they stood. A cold dread, sharp and sudden, seeped into her veins, tightening her muscles.
There was no time for conscious thought, no time even for a spoken warning. Dwalin’s voice, sharp and urgent, echoed in her mind, clear as a bell, a timeless mantra from their training days: “Hesitation is death, lass. Move!”
Without a second’s hesitation, a surge of pure, instinctual force coursing through her, electrifying every nerve, Kharis launched herself forward, tackling Vili with all her considerable might. He gasped, a guttural grunt escaping him as they tumbled, a flailing heap of limbs. The very instant they cleared their original spot, a malevolent rumble began to grow, escalating into a terrifying roar that swallowed all other sounds. The cave-in had begun.
Stones the size of boulders, dislodged from their ancient beds, rained down from the ceiling, plummeting with sickening speed, followed by an avalanche of smaller rocks, gravel, and a choking cloud of dust. The air filled with the deafening cacophony of shattering stone, the grinding of rock against rock, and the terrifying shriek of metal supports twisting and snapping. Sharp, jagged debris flew, biting at her exposed skin, stinging like a thousand tiny needles. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest as she scrambled, dragging Vili, half-stunned, to his feet, pulling him desperately away from the immediate fallout zone.
“Move! Get out!” she screamed, her voice raw and hoarse, barely audible above the terrifying din.
She lunged, shoving him with immense, adrenaline-fueled force through the narrow doorway of a side tunnel, just as the main shaft behind them collapsed with the finality of a death knell. He stumbled, sprawling onto the ground outside the immediate danger. Kharis, her own lungs burning, clawing for air thick with dust and fear, didn’t hesitate for a moment. She dove away from the newly sealed entrance, rolling clear just as the last of the falling debris sealed the passage with a deafening, earth-shaking thud that vibrated through the very bedrock.
Together they lay there, chests heaving, lungs burning for air that suddenly tasted metallic and thick with the pulverised dust of the mountain. Their eyes, wide and disbelieving, were fixed on the now completely sealed mineshaft, a raw, broken scar in the living rock. The sudden, profound quiet that followed was deafening, broken only by their ragged breathing and choked by the billowing dust still settling around them, catching the faint light from the remaining tunnel.
Vili was the first to break the silence, a low, shaky gasp escaping him. He looked at Kharis, then at the caved-in mine shaft, then back at her, his face a mask of shock, disbelief warring with a dawning horror. The dwarrow around them, who had been frozen for only a second, staring at the sudden, catastrophic collapse, rushed forward now, a flurry of shouts and concern, their bewildered faces illuminated by their lamps. Calls for the Royal family, for the healers, for Dwalin and Balin, her brothers, echoed with frantic urgency through the hall, bouncing off the damp stone.
Kharis felt a knot twist cold and tight in her stomach, a creeping dread seeping into her bones. The persistent rumors about the unstable tunnels, whispers dismissed for months by most as mere grumbling from disgruntled miners, were undeniable proof now, etched in the raw, broken face of the mountain. Her heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs, as she saw her brothers emerge from the rapidly swelling, chaotic crowd, their faces a mix of profound relief at seeing her alive and ill-disguised panic for the larger situation. Thorin was the first to reach them, his sturdy frame crouching beside Vili, his strong hands already helping him to his feet, assessing the damage.
“We need to clear the debris,” Thorin barked, his voice sharp with command, his gaze sweeping over the collapsed tunnel before settling on a pale, dust-streaked Kharis. “But it won’t be easy. The collapse has sealed off a large portion of the tunnels. There could be others trapped.” His words hung heavy in the air, a grim pronouncement.
Kharis nodded, swallowing her fear, the last vestiges of adrenaline still thrumming through her veins, leaving her feeling hollowed out. Vili, still shaking but miraculously uninjured save for a few scrapes and a bruise already forming on his temple, rubbed his head, a weak, almost hysterical laugh bubbling up from his chest. “You… you saved my life,” he admitted quietly, his voice raspy with shock and gratitude. “I owe you, Kharis. More than I can say.”
She managed a small, weary smile despite the chaos still swirling around them, the shouts and urgent movements of the approaching rescue teams. “We need to get help to those trapped inside,” she said, her voice thin but firm, already moving beyond her own immediate terror to the plight of others.
The healers came then, a flurry of brisk, practiced efficiency. Oin, his long, white beard bristling with urgency, swept Vili away before Kharis even fully processed it, guiding him towards the infirmary. Then, she felt herself lifted from the ground, not gently, but with a fierce, possessive care that spoke volumes. She turned her head, looking up into Dwalin’s pale, grim face as he rushed her through the echoing halls, towards the healer wards. His jaw was set, a rigid line of suppressed emotion, but his eyes, usually so fierce and unyielding, held a depth of silent relief and raw protectiveness that almost undid her.
Oin and his medical assistants met them at the doors of the healer’s ward. Vili was already being carefully carried in, laid onto a bed, and Dwalin gently, yet with a lingering reluctance, put Kharis down onto the nearest cot. Just as he reluctantly released her, the doors burst open again, and Thorin, Frerin, and Dis ran in, their faces etched with fear, with Balin right behind them, his face a mask of concern. Dis, her usually strong features contorted in terror, ran straight to Vili’s side, tears streaming down her face as she frantically looked him over, her hands fluttering over his dust-covered form. Oin, ever practical, gave Vili a thorough, professional check-over, mumbling, “A few cuts and scrapes. Some bruises here and there from being shoved out of the mine. Nothing serious, woman, calm yourself.”
Oin moved aside just as Dis, her pregnant belly a prominent curve beneath her tunic, stepped closer, pressing her forehead against Vili’s. Both were trembling, clinging to each other. Oin then turned to Kharis, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Now for you, lass. Let’s see what scrapes you’ve collected.”
Kharis allowed him to check her over, her movements slow and heavy. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, and her entire body, from her shoulders to her knees, felt bruised and battered as the last of the adrenaline began to drain away, leaving her utterly depleted. One of the female healers, seeing her exhaustion and the slight tremor in her hands, drew a thick, embroidered curtain around her bed, offering a measure of privacy and quiet from the controlled chaos elsewhere in the ward. “May I help remove your clothes, lass? They’re quite damaged, and you’re covered in dust.”
Kharis gave a weary nod, too tired to argue, as the healer gently helped her remove her shredded tunic and breeches, her miner’s boots, now scuffed and torn. The healer hummed softly, her practiced hands moving over Kharis’s skin, checking for deeper injuries. “A few superficial scrapes, mostly on your arms and legs. Some more significant bruises, here on your shoulder, and your hip from the impact. Nothing serious, thankfully. Mostly just impact and friction.”
Kharis nodded, a wide, unstoppable yawn escaping her, her jaw aching with the effort. The excitement, the sheer terror, and the demanding physical exertion of outrunning the cave-in had left her hollowed out, utterly drained, as if every drop of energy had been siphoned from her. The healer helped her into a simple, clean tunic and soft, unworn pants, the smooth, unworn fabric a stark, comforting contrast to the rough, stiff miner’s clothes she’d been wearing moments before. Once she was dressed, the healer carefully pulled back the curtain, revealing that both families were still there, waiting. A curtain was now drawn around Vili’s bed as well, but she expected that, given Dis’s shaky, muffled voice coming from behind it, punctuated by Vili’s subdued, comforting replies.
Kharis lay back against the pillows, staring up at the rough-hewn stone ceiling, trying to process the day. The true weight of what had happened, the scale of the disaster, began to settle. Vili was safe, miraculously, but the mines… the true work, she knew with a sinking heart, the heavy, dangerous, and potentially devastating work of rescue and recovery, was only just beginning.
The faint scent of healing herbs and old linen hung in the air as Kharis, her limbs still aching and a dull throbbing behind her eyes, slowly pushed herself up from the soft bed in the healer halls. Grogginess still clung to her like a damp cloak, but a low rumble of hushed voices near the door pulled her from its depths. She staggered, feeling a slight imbalance, before her eyes focused on the small cluster of dwarves.
There stood Dwalin and Balin, their usually boisterous presences muted, speaking in low tones with Frerin and Thorin. Thorin, ever the one to wear his burdens openly, had a deep frown etched across his face, a familiar mask of profound thought and worry that sometimes bordered on grim contemplation. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. Frerin, whose golden hair usually shone with youthful exuberance, looked unusually serious, running a hand through his locks, a gesture of either frustration or deep contemplation.
Kharis watched, a sense of unease stirring within her. The discussion seemed intense, their gazes fixed on some point in the distance, oblivious to her presence. But as Frerin raked a hand through his hair for the third time, his eyes, still clouded with discussion, flickered, catching sight of her. A flash of profound relief, almost disbelief, crossed his features. He nudged Dwalin sharply with an elbow, then Balin, subtly pointing in Kharis's direction.
Dwalin, a blur of fur and leather, immediately launched himself towards her. His powerful strides covered the distance in a heartbeat, his face a potent mix of fear, anger, and overwhelming relief. Balin, a step slower but no less focused, gave Thorin’s shoulder a gentle but firm pat, a silent command for patience, before following, his own relief shining in his normally calm eyes.
Before Kharis could even fully find her footing, Dwalin had reached her, crushing her in a bone-jarring embrace. She let out a small gasp of surprise, the air momentarily leaving her lungs as her face was buried in the rough wool and leather of his tunic, the familiar scent of steel, a faint hint of stale ale, and pure dwarf musk filling her senses. His voice, a low growl muffled against her hair, was laced with a raw mix of relief and barely suppressed terror. “No more mines for you. Please, Adad would have had my beard.” The words, dripping with genuine fear for her safety, were a stark reminder of the close call she’d just endured. Adad would have had my beard, he’d said – a dwarven oath signifying the gravest personal shame, the deepest parental despair. It struck Kharis just how truly worried he had been.
Kharis, a shaky, weak laugh bubbling up from her chest, clung to him tightly. “Figures the one day I sign up to go help in the mines with Vili that happens.” The irony wasn't lost on her, and the light gallows humor was a way to ground herself.
Dwalin merely grunted, a rumble of continued disapproval, but he loosened his hold enough for Balin to gently take her from him. Balin’s embrace was less about raw force and more about tender reassurance, his arms wrapping around her as if to confirm she was truly solid, truly there. He was paler than usual, his eyes still wide with lingering fear. “Now now, namadith,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, using the affectionate dwarven term for beloved, suggesting a familial bond stronger than blood.
Kharis hugged him tightly back, feeling the subtle tremor in his hands, a stark reminder of how close the danger had been. “No worries,” she whispered, relaxing into his hold, the last of the tension leeching from her body as the warmth of his presence enveloped her.
Dwalin, still grumbling under his breath, abruptly pulled from his emotional moment. His sharp eyes caught sight of a guard standing awkwardly at the front of the healer halls, wringing his hands, looking profoundly sheepish. “Captain…” the guard began, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dwalin’s shoulders slumped, a groan escaping him. He knew exactly why the guard was there. Kharis had heard him cursing often lately, a particular red-haired thief, Nori, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for trouble. “Tavern. Attic,” Dwalin barked, his voice curt and exasperated, already anticipating another Nori-related escapade.
Kharis looked at Balin, a genuine bark of laughter escaping her lips. She stole a glance at Thorin, who, with a sly, subtle movement, was secretly taking a coin from Frerin. Frerin, catching the playful theft, responded with a low, rumbling growl, eyeing his brother with a theatrical glare that promised future retribution. Dwalin, either too preoccupied with the impending Nori situation or knowing his kin well enough to trust that Thorin would face a righteous thrashing in the training rooms later, ignored the silent exchange. He stomped out of the halls, a litany of muttered curses following him: “Stupid red-haired thief… always causing trouble…”
Not long after, with a clean bill of health – albeit warnings to take it easy – Kharis and Vili were released from the healer halls. They were making their way back to their quarters, both feeling the lingering exhaustion of their ordeal, when suddenly Dis let out a sharp cry. Her water had broken. All thoughts of rest vanished in a scramble of urgency. Vili’s face, already pale, went ashen with alarm, and he instinctively scooped Dis up, rushing back the way they came. They burst back into the healer halls, a frantic dash that alerted Oin immediately. The gruff but efficient healer rushed towards them, his eyes narrowed with professional focus, guiding Vili to carefully place Dis onto a birthing bed. Then, much to Vili’s dismay, Oin promptly kicked him out of the room, declaring he’d only be in the way.
Kharis, however, was told to stay. She offered her other hand to Dis, who, amidst a particularly bad contraction, rolled her eyes but gratefully clutched it. Frerin, ever the swift and dependable brother, had already rushed away to retrieve Fili from the nanny, meeting them back at the birthing rooms just as the commotion began.
Hours passed in a blur of hushed anticipation, pain, and the unwavering support Kharis offered Dis. Finally, in the late night hours, a new, stronger cry echoed through the birthing room. Dis's second baby was born. Oin, his gruff demeanor softened by the miracle of new life, quickly cleaned off the tiny, squalling bundle, a second son. He carefully passed him to Dis, who, her brow slick with sweat but her face radiant with a triumphant, utterly weary smile, murmured exhaustedly, “Kili, son of Vili…” Then, with a gentle hand, she passed Kili off to Kharis. Kharis watched as Oin began cleaning Dis up, the scene a blur of professional efficiency and profound intimacy.
Carrying the precious, warm bundle carefully, Kharis walked out of the birthing room. Most of the family, thoroughly exhausted by the long wait, were dozing in various states of repose in the outer hall. Vili, true to form, had crashed onto a chair, Fili asleep in his arms, his own sleep the deep, profound sleep of an anxious father. Kharis, with a gentle but firm nudge of her boot, hissed his name, “Vili!”
Vili startled awake, a blur of confusion, which in turn woke Fili. Small, sleepy eyes blinked open, then widened as they both looked up at Kharis, then down at the tiny baby in her arms. A collective gasp, then Fili’s small finger shot out, pointing at the bundle with pure, unadulterated joy. “Baby!” he exclaimed.
Vili let out a soft, choked sound, a mixture of awe and overwhelming love, as everyone else stirred awake, drawn by Fili's shout. Kharis carefully handed over Kili to Vili. “Kili, son of Vili,” she announced, her voice tinged with quiet pride.
Fili beamed at his little brother, extending a finger towards Kili with all the seriousness of a young prince bestowing a great honor. Kili, as if recognizing his brother’s touch, uncurled his tiny fingers to cling to Fili’s, a perfect, minuscule grip. Fili stayed perfectly still, his small face alight with pure adoration, leaning against Vili's shoulder, utterly captivated by his little brother. It was a promise of lifelong protection, sealed in a simple touch.
Kharis looked at the beautiful, burgeoning little family in front of her, feeling a bittersweet ache, a flicker of wistful longing deep within her own heart. A pang of wanting, for a family of her own, for the simple joy of having her own “pebbles” – dwarven children. She chased the feeling away with a familiar, practiced deflection, almost resigning herself to never finding her One, never having that deep, grounding connection. What she didn't know was that Balin, with his sharp, perceptive eyes, caught the fleeting expression on her face. His own face fell for a moment, a flicker of profound sadness and understanding in his gaze. They also missed Frerin, who, more subtly, had been paying attention to Kharis’s face. His hand unconsciously went to his own chest, a silent gesture of empathy, catching Thorin’s eye across the room. Thorin, with a rare, gentle gesture, patted his brother’s shoulder in silent consolation.
Oin appeared in the doorway, his voice gruff but softened. “Vili? Dis is ready for Kili.”
With utmost care and a little frown of concentration, Fili helped Kili let go of his finger. As Vili stood, Fili gripped the bottom of his father’s tunic, walking alongside him, his eyes still fixed on his baby brother. Together, the three of them—father, mother, and two small sons—moved into the birthing room, the door closing softly behind them, a symbol of their new beginning as a complete family. Kharis shifted slightly on her feet, the quiet click of the closing door echoing in the silent hall, as she felt the solid, reassuring weight of Dwalin standing steadfastly beside her.