Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Seventeen

"Soooo," Kíli said, fidgeting.

His Maker sighed, his eyes turning upon the young Dwarrow. "Back again, my child?"

Kíli quaked a little under the weight of that unearthly gaze, and then he chewed upon his lip, drawing himself up. "Well. Yes?"

Mahal laughed softly. Kíli felt it as a quake under his ribcage. "To petition me again, no doubt."

"Well. A bit, yes," Kíli admitted, and sprawled himself by the base of the anvil. He touched it curiously, following the intricate carvings with his fingers. They made words that his mind could not comprehend and shied away from. He had the feeling that nobody, not Dwarf, Man, Elf or Hobbit, could read them. Their heads probably exploded if they did.

"How does your Uncle fare?"

Kíli looked up. "He's recovering," he said, and then he wrinkled his nose. "He got a bit... obsessive. He does that."

"Yes, I know." Mahal brought out something that glowed from his forge with his cupped hands, something that sparkled and shone. Kíli's eyes skittered away from it. It was a bit like looking at the sun – spots danced before his eyes. "I made him stubborn, after all."

"Seems that's a trait you're fond of," Kíli complained, and rubbed at his eyes. "Ow."

"It has served you all well," Mahal said. "Do not look at the light directly, Kíli. Your eyes are not made for it."

"Could have warned me earlier," Kíli grumbled, pressing his fingers against his eyelids.

"Thorin rests now, I trust."

"If you can call what he's doing resting," Kíli said, still prodding at his eyes. Little sparkles and starbursts exploded behind his closed eyes. Rather pretty, really. "He's back at his forge because grandfather will smack him silly if he goes back to the Chamber of Sansûkhul today. He's making a pot-bellied stove." He pulled a face. "It has flowers on the door."

Mahal laughed again, the muted thunder of it rolling through Kíli's chest.

"He's very upset, I think," Kíli continued, and he blinked his eyes open. They were watering a little, and they smarted and stung. "He's upset about Gimli and that Elf, and he's upset that Gimli saw him – though in Durin's name I can't think why – and he's upset about Bilbo again for some reason. He won't talk about it. Well, Thorin doesn't talk about much when he's upset. He just gets surly. Surlier."

"He begins to understand, my son," Mahal said, and the great hand lowered to touch Kíli's shoulder gently. Kíli trembled as the hand passed over his face, but his eyes stopped their stinging and watering immediately. "He begins to realize many things."

Kíli folded his arms. "Oh? You're as mysterious as Gandalf, you know that?"

Mahal smiled, and Kíli felt it as a blooming warmth upon his face. "I take that as a great compliment. Olórin is a wise counsellor."

"He's got another name?" Kíli said, frowning, before shaking it off. "All right, so what is it he begins to realize? And what's it got to do with his Gift, then?"

His great Maker reached for his hammer, denser and darker than the black of night. He took it up and hefted it in his hand. "He begins to understand that his guilt and self-punishment serve no-one. He begins to know in his heart that he was loved, and that in his life and death he accomplished much that was good. He begins to move on."

"Thorin – move on?" Kíli asked with skeptical disbelief. "Pfft. Right."

Mahal brought his hammer down with a crash like the collapse of a mighty glacier. "He does. Reluctantly and with no little pain, but he begins to change."