Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Eleven

"Is this what you meant? The secrets long hidden?"

The voice of Thorin's Maker was heavy and soft, less of an oppressive weight than before. "Aye, my child. They come to light now."

Thorin touched the side of the giant anvil, at least twice his height. Once, Durin had awoken on that anvil, new-made and wide-eyed, his soul fresh and unused. Perhaps Durin had stood here where Thorin now stood, at the foot of their Maker, also asking why is this so?

"One who was close to you," Thorin remembered the words from long ago. "One who betrayed you utterly."

"My student," said Mahal, sorrow hanging in the air like smoke. "He had another name, once."

"Sauron," Thorin said. "Sauron was your student."

"Yes."

"Did you know that my Bilbo had his Ring?" Thorin's hand tightened on the strange wood of the anvil's foot. "Did you?"

Mahal paused, and then he said, "Yes."

Thorin's heart sputtered in its rhythm and his hands ached for his sword. Then his eyes slid shut and he bowed his head. What could be done? What could his Maker do? The Valar had left Middle-Earth lest they destroy it utterly. By his own vow Mahal was bound.

"You learn patience, my son," Mahal said softly.

"I have had eighty years to learn it," said Thorin, bitterness welling upon his tongue. "I wait and wait to make my amends. I wait and wait for my Hobbit. I wait. Patience has been a lesson taught to me by ungentle hands."

"Your Hobbit," Mahal repeated, and sighed.

Thorin looked up. As always, the face of the great figure was indescribably beautiful, indescribably ancient, and somehow indistinct. He could never remember the exact details of it afterwards. "Did you think I would not find out?" he said in a low, tight voice. "I may not be given to self-reflection, but I was bound to know my heart eventually."

"So, you have realized it at last," said Mahal, his hand lowering to lift Thorin's chin and turn it this way and that. The touch was fond, fatherly and a little critical; a craftsman observing a fine piece of workmanship. Thorin steeled himself against his usual shudders. The touch of his Maker was full of such power and love... it was difficult to bear. "I am sorry you could not know it in life, my son."

Thorin stared, and his pulse jumped in his throat. "You knew."

"I made your heart, Thorin." Mahal's hand, huge and hard from work, smoothed over the fall of Thorin's hair. "Though you buried it in obsessions and vengeance and guilt and gold, I know when it beats with love."

Suddenly Thorin needed to lean heavily against his hand upon the great anvil. "You knew."

Mahal smiled, and Thorin could feel it as a blossoming warmth in his belly and chest. "He chose to follow you - to save you - he who has never followed another. Perhaps you should consider that."

Thorin could not help but let out a small gasp at that, his throat tightening like a noose around it and making it sound choked and strangled. "He chose me. Me. He could have chosen another; he could have been loved and happy his whole life! Instead, he remains faithful to a ghost who cursed him and threw all his loyalty away!"

"Shh," Mahal's voice cut straight through Thorin, and he shuddered. The hand against his head braced him, holding him up. "Shhh, child. You know better than to do this. Shh."

Thorin took a deep breath, and then another. Finally, he was able to speak again. "Why?" he asked hoarsely, and perhaps Durin had felt like weeping as well.