Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Twelve

The hammer hit the glowing copper with an almighty clang! Thorin wiped off his forehead, and glared at the heavy pot, before hefting the hammer once more. The beaten copper was not bonding smoothly to the bottom surface. When used over a fire, it would not heat uniformly. The food would be unevenly cooked. No Hobbit would accept this.

A Hobbit chose you.

Clang! The hammer came down again, and Thorin shook the hair and sweat from his eyes. Better. The pot would be an attractive thing when finished – warm copper and cool steel, the trailing forms of ivy around the handles. A trifle too heavy for a Hobbit to lift alone. A Dwarf would need to help. Thorin would certainly be strong enough.

They make their way to Moria.

Clang! Perhaps the pot could be used for the spiced stews and soups popular all over the Shire. Perhaps it would hold a boiled ham or a silverside cooked with cloves and peppercorns, or maybe that thick sweet porridge that Hobbits liked to drown in cream and honey. Perhaps it could hold, one day, a Dwarvish bread soup, or the traditional Broadbeam dumpling stew his grandmother had always made. Bilbo would be interested in Dwarven cooking.

The Ring is calling Boromir. It whispers in his ear.

Clang! The hair would not stay out of his eyes, and his sweat was making them sore and stinging. He set the pot at the edge of his forge-fire before tugging off his shirt and wiping his face with it roughly. Then he tied his hair back haphazardly and picked up his hammer once more. The copper would bond, or it would break.

The Fellowship will bond, or it will break.

Clang! He had given his word to his mother that he would try not to dwell in his guilt. But the habits of eighty years were proving hard to break. He had denied his place as a leader of his people and denied his share of any of the good that had come from his quest, but here he was leading once more. Clang! He would stay true this time. Clang! He would not fail his fierce inùdoy Gimli, or the noble desperate Boromir, or the brave young Frodo. Clang! He would not fail Bilbo. Not this time. Clang! He would do his part for Middle-Earth. Clang! Clang! His Maker had known. Clang! The Ring. The damned, damned Ring. Clang!

"Thorin!"

Frerin skidded into the forge, his eyes wide. "It's Erebor, you have to come!"

Thorin laid his hammer down. "What has happened?" he said. His voice felt raw and parched from the heat of the fire, and his jaw ached where he had been clenching it.

"The messenger," Frerin said. No trace of his normal impish humor could be seen on his face. "He's back."

Taking up his shirt, Thorin left the pot where it was. The fires would burn low, and the pot could be reheated. The copper would bond to the steel later. "Who watches with you?" he asked curtly, following his brother through the hallways.

"Fundin, grandfather, and Balin." Frerin had been biting his lip again, and the lower one stood out red and swollen, in sharp contrast to his thin, bloodless upper lip. He looked his age. Sometimes Thorin forgot just how young his brother truly was. Life in the Halls was not true life. No matter how much time passed, Frerin would be forty-eight forever. "Who's on watch over the Fellowship?"

"Nori, Bifur and Kíli," Thorin said as they entered the Chamber. The shadowy figures of Dwarves sitting very still around the starlight-filled pool gave the glorious Chamber of Sansûkhul an eerie, haunted feeling. The cool light flickered over their frozen faces, and their eyes were fixed and glossy as they stared into the water, breathing very slowly.