Title: Malansul Khuththuza (That Which is Loved, Endures)
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Length: 1100
Content notes: N/A
Author notes: Thanks go to Zana, Morgynleri & Icka for encouragement & sanity-checking. This is part of my Iron and Light series. Backstory is found in Zana's Lay of Dwalin the Dwarf.
Summary: Bombur searches for words, and connection.

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https://brenthallard.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/cv07.jpg

Bombur was never one for words. They came slowly to him, chancy and slippery and all too often not quite meaning what one wanted them to mean, especially in Westron. (Khuzdul was more sure and stable, but that didn't make it all that much easier to say -- write, sometimes, and definitely easier to read, but not put breath too.) Bofur was the one for words.

But Bofur was on the way to Ered Luin (a worry in itself, though Bombur trusted Dwalin and Bofur's own luck, which was not inconsiderable, to keep him out of too much trouble), not in Erebor, much less down here in the Deeps of the Mountain. No running commentary, or facile quips to express or contrast with his own thoughts, letting him see their shape. Then again, Bofur never did come down here, not after the first spasm of grief had passed. Likely there wouldn't have been any running commentary anyway. (Bofur had never allowed himself to acknowledge in [waking light] the things he most desired, the longings of his heart even less than the wants of his body -- those could be turned to jokes after all. Bombur had known there was more to Bofur's steadfast commitment to the Quest than he had said, and Bombur knew his brother well enough to guess that Bofur had not himself known what Thorin had come to mean to him by the end of the journey.)

Bombur wasn't sure why he was down here at all, standing in the quiet, dim corridor that held the tombs of the honored dead. But one of them wasn't a tomb, was it? Certainly Balin didn't think so, though he'd never be pinned down to a definite statement, nor Ori either. And Bifur's faith was as sure and fixed as the mountain roots. What difference did it make to him, if Thorin were asleep un-waking or dead? He had dead enough, did he not? Merced, the Princes, their parents, laid in stone, to arise again only at the Breaking of the World.

But he was here, standing in the mingled light of glowstone and Arkenstone that spilled through the open doorway, the comfortable weight of the Mountain over his head, and the stone-still, not-dead figure of his leader? Friend? Road-companion? King? Truly, what was Thorin Oakenshield to him?

Important. Companion. Family. And yes, King, no matter that Broadbeam did not look to Longbeard for rulers, even as small a remnant of a clan as they now were. It wasn't that Thorin was a Longbeard, it was that he was Thorin.

Bombur took a deep breath and stepped from the dim quiet of the corridor into the brighter but somehow even more profoundly silent place that was not a tomb. The only sound was Bombur's own breath, the faint rustle of wool and leather as he moved, the low squeak of wood on stone from his boots. He settled on the broad, cushioned bench, looking everywhere but the central bier at first. Balin had been there recently (Bombur wasn't certain where Balin was -- most likely with Dain -- but definitely not going to be down here this evening), as book and ink-pot and quill showed, and the little wooden figures that stood arrayed on the rune-carved ledge were unmistakably Bifur's work, the whole Company represented, each one clearly who they were supposed to be. Fili in beech, Kili in walnut, Bilbo and Gandalf and Thorin himself all there.

But he wasn't here to look at Bifur's carvings, however speaking or familiar or comfortable. No, he was here, on this day, this obscure anniversary, for quite a different reason. A purpose, even, if he could manage to find the words.

The entire Company had cheated death on the road, during the battle, so many times. Some of them had done so long before: when Smaug came to Erebor, at Azanulbizar, in mines and boats and on treacherous roads, fraught encounters with belligerent drunks, bandits and Men. Some since, in the repair and reclamation of the Mountain. Mahal had made his people strong to endure, but not everything could be endured. Sometimes strong one way was brittle another. Skill played a part, and luck, and sheer bloody-minded will.

Sometimes no skill, or will or wish or entreaty to Mahal himself availed. The adjacent space to this one was as silent, held two at least as beloved, if not more, but the princes did not sleep, would not wake to this world. Merced and the babe, set in shallower stone than this would not wake.

Yet Thorin would. As Bombur had. (Though, really there was nothing else alike about what had stricken Bombur in Mirkwood, falling into that black water. If nothing else, Bombur hoped that if Thorin dreamed, they were pleasant dreams.) Cheating death on a whole different order. Magic and wizardry and intervention of who knew what.

Bombur looked up from the shimmer of light on the rim of Balin's ink-pot, and set his gaze on Thorin's sharp profile. It wasn't beauty that drew the eye or struck the heart. Too thin, too shorn. Too still (and he had been quiet and reserved awake, another difference from the attractively boisterous usual run of Dwarf.) Thorin would cheat death in extraordinary, extravagant fashion, when he woke again. Bombur was glad of that, truly, truly glad. But that positive conviction was no armor against the pain and anger and grief at the loss of those who had not been given that whatever it was that made it sleep, not death. That made a future possible.

Merced should have had a future. Fili and Kili. But should wasn't would. And, as long as they were remembered, they were not entirely gone, were they? Thorin needed no telling of his sister-sons, the boys he had helped raise and train, had loved from the moment they drew breath. But what would Thorin know of Merced, who he likely never laid eyes on, or heard tell? Bombur would never forget her. It was important, necessary, that Thorin know, be told. So it fell to Bombur to do that telling, if only he could find the words.

Bombur took a deep breath, and let it out, a sigh like the beginning of a song. There was space in the silence for thought, for sound, for words to be heard. Speak, it seemed to say, the stones will hear, and the sleeper.

He took another breath, and this time, there were words, "She would laugh, my Merced. Laugh at anything that delighted her. And she found a lot delightful." Once started, he did not stop, telling of love long into the depths of night, speaking to not inattentive stone and sense.