Whims of Time and Fate by QuillAndInkWrites

Chapter 1

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“...And so Durin I carved from the stone all his children, and they were filled with life when his work was completed. Dis, the eldest, became the Longbeard queen after Durin I died, and then her son Dimir the king after her death. Duris was the first Longbeard zatakhuzdȗn and a great stonemason, known most for their beautiful statues of their siblings and father. Dari married Giyani, from the Orocarni Mountains, and lived there until their death as a renowned storyteller with her spouse and her two children. And Dulin, the youngest… Faris, can you tell me what Dulin is known for?”

Faris frowns at her teacher, then down at the notes she’s been taking since the class began, lines of neat Cirth that are the deep envy of half her classmates. “Dulin was known for… um…”

“Take your time, Furisul.”

“He was known for…”

For his deep love of his father and for his impatience, Mhete thinks without thinking, tapping the end of her charcoal stick against her white slate as she watches Faris fumble with the question two rows ahead. She raises her dark hand, the other still tapping away in a constant rhythm.

“Thenisul?”

“Dulin stayed at his father’s right hand until he grew tired of the monotony and left to make a name for himself apart from Durin the Deathless,” Mhete says, confident and matter-of-fact as she tends to be. “He died on the road before he could.”

Scholar Nerar frowns. “Thenisul,” she says, “where did you get this idea?”

“The library, Scholar,” Mhete says after a moment of pause. “You told us to read anything we wanted pertaining to Durin I.”

“Please give me the names of the librarian and the book they gave you when you finish for today, then. Dulin died at his father’s side.”

Mhete nods, pressing her lips together like a vice to prevent herself from saying something more, and settles back into her seat to listen. Scholar Nerar turns back to the board, beginning to explain the beginning of Queen Dis’ reign as the second leader of Durin’s Folk, and Mhete’s charcoal continues its even rhythm against her slate.

When Scholar Nerar finally, finally dismisses the classroom of growing Khazâd, Mhete nearly flings herself toward the door, keeping her head up as she inserts herself within the crowd of classmates funneling through the doorway and out into the bustling stone halls outside.

“Thenisul?”

Mhete’s dark eyes study the back of Girin’s bright, curly head as she moves with the others, passing through the doorway with a breath held captive in her lungs.

“Mhete!”

But Mhete is out the door and already walking at the fastest pace she can take without drawing much attention, her satchel tucked securely under one arm as she does everything but flee from her teacher. Scholar Nerar has another class immediately after hers, a welcome notion today, and Mhete can at least hope that by tomorrow the learned dwarrowdam will have forgotten to ask Mhete for the source of her faulty information.

There was no book, in truth, nor a librarian that led her to this knowledge. There was no place she found the knowledge, for she simply knew.

Mhete would rather not consider the ramifications of it too hard.

  

By some Mahal-sent miracle, Scholar Nerar doesn’t ask again the next day.

She does give Mhete a few searching looks during class, though, silent ones Mhete is unable to discern much of anything from, and Mhete’s tapping rhythm is faster today than it was the day before. Surely Scholar Nerar doesn’t care this much about a fabricated book in some unspecified library of the many throughout the great city. Does she?

Mhete refrains from raising her hand even once during class, an oddity for her, instead letting her classmates answer every question right or wrong and listening to it all with the quiet harmony of her tapping charcoal. She would point to her body’s changes for this, but Scholar Nerar never mentioned anything about strange gut feelings when she spoke of a young Khuzd’s slowly changing body, nor did her ‘amad or ‘adad, and she thought she was done with all of that as well. It can’t be that, but if it isn’t that then what is it?

Class ends quietly, with a smile from Scholar Nerar to her students and a kind, “Off with you now, there are more entertaining things to do with the rest of your day than sit here and study the Seven Fathers’ lineages.”

Mhete stands to pack her things with the rest of her classmates, her slate sliding into her satchel with ease and a perfect fit.

“Thenisul.”

Mhete’s deep brown hands still in the midst of picking up her stick of charcoal.

“Yes, Scholar Nerar?”

“Stay for a minute, please. I want to speak with you privately.”

Mhete nods her assent, a lump swelling deep in her throat, as her classmates file out of the octagonal stone room one by one and two by two. Faris glances back at her in the doorway, hesitating for a breath before leaving as well, and Mhete meets Scholar Nerar’s eyes with the most unbothered look she can muster.

Scholar Nerar leans back against the edge of the desk across the aisle from Mhete, her thick, graying beard shifting as she moves. “You left quickly yesterday. I wanted to assure you that I don’t think lowly of you for searching for knowledge, Thenisul. Nor do I think, in the event that there was no book, that you would lie without reason.”

Mhete can scarcely breathe, nor barely think of replying at all, within the long moments of silence that stretch out within the empty classroom.

Scholar Nerar’s eyes soften as it becomes clear that she doesn’t intend to respond even after a time of waiting, watching Mhete with a look of mixed confusion and sympathy. “You aren’t in trouble, nor will you be for telling me the truth. I only worry for you now; you look scared.”

“I thought I was correct,” Mhete says, her voice thick. “Forgive me, Scholar, I wanted to be correct.”

“I know, Mhete. You always do, and it would be folly of me to somehow lose my trust in your constant integrity over so little. Will you tell me where you learned this?”

There is, again, a long silence as Scholar Nerar waits with a kind patience Mhete has yet to learn.

“I didn’t,” Mhete whispers, finally, and part of a weight very suddenly drops from her shoulders. Though, judging by the sudden shift in her expression, it seems Scholar Nerar didn’t expect this answer. Neither did Mhete, for what it’s worth and for all that she tried to ignore the fact yesterday.

“You didn’t?”

Mhete shakes her head, her dark brows closing in on each other and her jaw clenching, and Scholar Nerar moves forward from her leaning position to gently take Mhete’s hands. Her charcoal stick has crumbled between them, black dust trailing down the front of her clean tunic and pants to scatter itself on the floor and her boots, and when Scholar Nerar gently opens her hands her own much lighter skin is immediately covered in the substance as well. 

Mhete really couldn’t care less about her tunic, pants, or boots when her eyes are beginning to well with confused tears. They will wash, and she has others if they do not. She only has one beloved scholar of histories.

“Did you think of the story yourself, then?” Scholar Nerar asks, her voice kind but confused as Mhete fights to keep the tears welling in her eyes from falling down her face.

“It isn’t a story,” Mhete says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “It… it is the truth, Scholar. You have to believe me, I— I would never lie to you, you know I would not, and there was no book or carving that told me what truly took place; I just knew.”

Scholar Nerar is silent.

The moments pass just as slowly as before, agonizing and painful. Mhete begins to lose her battle against the hot tears  rising in her eyes, and she cannot look Scholar Nerar in her eyes.

The first tear trailing down her cheek seems to snap Scholar Nerar out of her stupor.

“You just knew,” she echoes, her tone not one of disbelief but of dawning understanding. “You knew something that happened an Age ago, something no Khuzd alive today could have seen, something which history itself seems to have recorded incorrectly.”

“And I don’t know how,” Mhete says, nodding her head like the little spring-loaded toys one of the Broadbeam merchants in the market closest to her home always sells. “I only know what I saw and what I felt. It felt so real, Scholar, learning of his death. But how could I have seen such a thing?”

“Perhaps I should skip ahead in what I have been teaching you,” Scholar Nerar murmurs, and lets go of Mhete’s charcoal-covered hands to walk over to her wooden desk with a single-minded focus, wiping her own, similarly black-dusted hands on her skirt as she goes. “Mhete, have your ‘amad or ‘adad told you of Durin II?”

“Durin I’s reincarnation?” Mhete asks, to be certain she understands correctly. “Only in passing, as a story of Khazâd-dum. Every pebble hears his name.”

“Did you know his name was also Glain?”

Mhete blinks. “What?”

“Durin II was not the name he was given at his birth,” Scholar Nerar says, pulling a short stack of leather-bound books out from one of her desk drawers to set on the desktop and beginning to rifle through the first one as Mhete wanders closer. “He was first Glain son of Frain and Golris, Frain being his parent from the line of Durin — though Frain himself never sat upon the throne.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Scholar Nerar looks up, her fingers stilling on the page as she looks deep into Mhete’s dark eyes.

“Because even he himself did not know he was Durin II until he was already walking and talking,” she says very gently and slowly, “and because we do not know when or how the next Durin will return to Middle Earth.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“I will not say anything with surety,” Scholar Nerar says, “only you can do that. But I will give you this book” — here she comes back around her desk to hand Mhete a book bound in leather the color of Durin’s blue — “and let you learn and decide for yourself. Perhaps you are a seer like those who derive fortunes from runes and bones. Perhaps you are not. Only you can say who you are, understand?”

Mhete nods slowly and hurries to swipe the charcoal coating her hands onto the lower part of her tunic, Scholar Nerar waiting patiently for her hands to be moderately clean again. Mhete takes the book as carefully as she can, the remaining dust on her hands unavoidable until she can find a rag and some water — some soap, too, preferably. It isn’t heavy, but all the same it feels weighty in a way Mhete isn’t sure she can fully quantify in this moment.

“Keep this,” Scholar Nerar says, and a soft smile curls across her lips. “I won’t ask for it to be returned to me, but you may if you wish. Read it or set it aside and forget about it’s very existence, I care not. I only care that you follow your heart; that you do what feels right to you. Can you do that?”

“I can try, Scholar,” Mhete murmurs.

“Good. Then you may go.”

Mhete bows her head in honor to the esteemed scholar as she backs away a few steps, carefully slides the book into her satchel, then turns and leaves the room. Her heart feels strange, unmoored and drifting in a sea of confusion. She understood well enough what Scholar Nerar was saying to her, and understood at least part of what they left unspoken as well. It is simply strange to her, and almost unfathomable when she tries to comprehend the deeper parts. Mhete will try, though. She has always sought to learn about the unknown.

The book in her satchel still feels as though it burns a hole through the leather as she walks home.

  

“Mhete?”

With a slow blink of weighted lids and lashes, Mhete squints at the Cirth in front of her, the shapes blurry past tired, dry eyes. “Adda?” she says, rubbing her eyes with her fists for a long moment to clear them.

“It is past midnight,” Mhorbok murmurs, entering her room from the doorway to sit next to her on the bed. “You have classes tomorrow, and ‘Amad wants you to come to the courts with her in the afternoon as well. Are you alright?”

The silence stretches for far too long, Mhete staring down at the book she’s halfway through as the runes refuse to become clear to her again, and soon enough her ‘adad’s arms curl around her with the gentle pressure she has adored since she was just a pebble.

“What occupies your mind so thoroughly, kurkarukê?”

“Memories that aren’t my own,” Mhete finally whispers, and she feels her ‘adad’s arms still unnaturally. “Yet memories that feel like home to my heart.”

Mhorbok is silent for a long stretch of time, long enough that Mhete begins to shift nervously, almost pulling away.

“Do you remember ‘Amad and I first trying to tell you how pebbles are made?” Mhorbok finally says, his arms returning to motion so he can hold his child close in his arms.

Frowning, Mhete sifts through her memories — hers, not the faint impressions and sensations and brief, unclear, flickering tableaus that feel like hers-but-not and make her head spin if she focuses on them for too long. “I think so,” she says. She does remember sitting with ‘Amad and ‘Adad in their bed, younger, with hairs on her chin so short that they could barely curl twice. They had asked her a question and she had said, without a single moment of hesitation… “ ‘Pebbles come from shaped stone.’ ”

“That confused us both,” Mhorbok chuckles, leaning his head against hers until the edges of his fluffy beard tickle her forehead and make her nose wrinkle. “I thought to myself, ‘why would a little pebble think first of the stories of Durin I? Surely Mhete has yet to learn of him in her classes.’ “

“Beyond what you and Amma told me, I am only learning more of him now,” Mhete says, nodding along as she feels her dark eyes grow wet with tears for a second time today. “Adda… did you know?”

“I did not know anything,” Mhorbok says, his hand rising to card gently through Mhete’s long braids, “and still I do not. Only you can know anything about yourself with complete surety. What do you think, Mhete?”

“I don’t know what I think. I know many things that might fit together, looking at them now, but the whole picture… it terrifies me, Adda.”

“Then wait to look at the big picture.” A kiss is pressed to the top of Mhete’s head, and she wraps her arms tight around her ‘adad to chase his paternal comfort. “Take your time. Look at the smaller things for now, and only widen your scope when you feel ready. Does that feel less daunting, do you think?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Sleep will help too, I think. Will you be prepared to visit the courts with ‘Amad tomorrow, or should I instead tell her you’re going to stay home?”

“I will go,” Mhete decides, carefully closing the leather-bound book she had been poring over so intensely for what, it seems, had been hours. “I want to see Ugmil’amad and Ugmil’adad.”

“Then you had best wear another tunic,” Mhorbok says, looking at the one Mhete wears now with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile as she extricates herself from his arms to begin readying herself for sleep. “This one is stained with charcoal.”

Oops.

---

Chapter End Notes

Neo-Khuzdul Translations
-ul — A suffix that means ‘child of ___’
Zatakhuzdȗn — The Khuzd term for nonbinary Dwarrow, lit. ‘one who embodies both’. Many thanks to determamfidd on AO3 for coining the term years ago, it's incredibly useful.
Khazâd — Dwarves
Kurkarukê — 'My tiny raven', a term of endearment
Irak’adad — Uncle
Ugmil’adad — Grandmother
Ugmil’adad — Grandfather

Chapter 2

Content warnings for chapter 2: After the first line break, in the italicized section, there is a brief fight in which one character is non-fatally stabbed. Directly afterwards, there is a public execution by beheading — the death itself is off-screen, but only barely, and the intent is clear. There is no violence outside of the italicized section.

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Days pass. Mhete continues to be the model student she has been since she was small, though she is much quieter lately than she has ever been — if Scholar Nerar or any of her classmates notice, nothing is said of it to her. During the day, she attends classes, spends time with her family in court, in spars, and at home, and goes about life just as she did before. In the evenings, however, after dinner, she buries herself in books like never before.

Durin I was given the ability to create life from stone, a power which passed itself down through the generations as the Khazâd spread and multiplied. The knowledge was eventually lost long after his death, then regained for a time once Durin II — Glain, as Scholar Nerar had said to her — came to sit upon the throne of Khazâd-dum hundreds of years later. Such a power would be a boon in any time of war, famine, or great disease, for Mhete is an only child and such a thing is so common amongst her people that one Khuzd having more than two or three children is something of a novelty. Mhete cannot help but think of this long after she leaves the page discussing it.

Likewise, there are stories of Durin II’s ascension to the throne that capture Mhete’s attention until she is left dry-eyed and exhausted. He seemed to know who he truly was before his fifteenth birthday, a detail Mhete finds pulling at her heart with a strange and unfamiliar feeling tug. How strange, she thinks, to know yourself so early on in the course of your life. To grow up with the knowledge that you are the reincarnation of the Forefather of Durin’s Folk.

Thinking those words feels somehow untruthful, so she tries her best not to think them again.

Many of the passages within the books she scours carry that same strange and unfamiliar feeling, bringing with them an odd, endless pull as if trying to tug her heart right out of her chest and onto the page. With each pull her surety grows and grows, despite the roiling pit of fear in her stomach at the thought of something like this turning her entire life over on its head that grows at exactly the same speed.

Besides, she thinks to herself, reading about Durin II’s ‘amad and fighting against the unfathomably strange urge to think of her as her own ‘amad when she already has one. How could I ever possibly know for sure?

The answer comes exactly seven days after Mhete spoke to Scholar Nerar.

The thick tome Scholar Nerar gifted her focuses primarily on Durin II, specifically his life as the reincarnation of the first — one of six reincarnations, if the legends are true — though due to the nature of his life there are of course constant mentions of Durin I throughout. Halfway through its pages, the book — titled Of Durin II, Reincarnation, and the Second Age — finally discusses how the discovery of Durin II was possible.

“Durin II said his ‘amad was the one, and so I found her and sought to ask for the truth there. ‘Kheled-zâram,’ was her answer, and one I was deeply ashamed to have not already considered in my own musings. ‘As a pebble I took him to see his forefather’s stars within the depths, a mark of his history, and when he looked within suddenly seven bright stars shone upon his brow as I watched, clearer than even the bright sun high above us. I could not see myself within the lake’s reflection, only my son. It was then that I knew.’ “

Mhete tears her gaze away from the book only after rereading the passage a total of four times. It settles further into her chest with every pass, a rightness to it that she doubts she could ever hope to explain or put to words, and the image of Kheled-zâram within her mind’s eye is clearer than it ever should be. She has never gazed upon it herself and yet still she sees it and its surroundings, clear as the lake’s surface itself, as if she was there only yesterday.

She has much to think of now, of stars and reflections and the lake nestled between Bundushathûr and Zirakzigil to the east. Her mind whirls, a staggering amount of new information to sort through and make some sort of sense of, and Mhete quickly shuts the book before she can overwhelm herself with even more new and strange information.

When Mhete finally sleeps she dreams of an endless, starry sea.

  

While by all accounts the logical progression of events would be to visit Kheled-zâram the next day or the day after to find the answer to her many queries once and for all, Mhete does nothing out of the ordinary, save a continuation of her normal daily habits from before she began to study the history of Durin I and II in the evenings. She continues on as if nothing has changed, continues to learn history from Scholar Nerar, the wielding of an ax from her irak’adad, the finer details of court life from watching her ugmil’adad rule. She learns a new way to style her thick, curly hair from her ‘adad, slowly following his instructions step by step until her first try is done — crooked and not nearly as neat as she knows she can make it with practice, but done.

The memories try to continue each day, a slow, blocked stream that she knows in the back of her mind must be building to something as she ignores the near-constant ebb and flow within her chest. She shies away from each emotion that feels only partially like her own, keeps listening to Scholar Nerar’s history lessons as she remembers the heat of a desert she has never set foot in and the feel of stone at the edges of a mountain pass she cannot even begin to guess the name of. The feeling within her chest slowly grows, day by day, and yet still she turns away from it — hoping, determined and futile, that it will simply fade away if she refuses to give it a name.

It does not fade away.

Instead, Mhete is striking down toward her irak’adad’s armor with a fierce cry and a blunted ax when a sudden, crystal-clear memory rocks her so hard that she falls to her knees in the middle of the dirt-packed sparring circle, her weapon tumbling out of limp hands with a dull thud before she follows it to the floor and all is dark.

Her hands are pale white with ginger hair across the the backs of each finger, paler than even her ‘amad’s, and there are heavy calluses against the palms and the finger pads. They flex against intricately carved stone, a familiar seat atop a few shallow steps overlooking a long hall. She looks to the three Stiffbeard Khazâd in front of her, each standing straight and proud as they address her. How she knows their clan she cannot say, though she thinks she can pick out the matching patterns embroidered into their clothes a moment later.

“Your Majesty,” continues the eldest, the only one without a coal-dark mane — their white beard is braided and tucked into their belt, rich red and gold fabric shifting around them as they gesticulate. “We ask only for a boon for our own kingdom, a way with which to strengthen our ties with the chieftans of Harad.”

“And as I said before, what of your own coffers?” she says, and like her hands her voice is familiar and unfamiliar and not her own. She gives a significant look to the many gem-topped rings on the white-haired Khuzd’s fingers. “Have they run dry, for you to ask this of me?”

“Surely, as a friend to our queen, you—”

“Enough.”

The white-haired Khuzd closes his mouth with a snap and is silent.

Mhete stands straight and strong, her hands lax at her sides, and surveys the Khazâd before her with a clever gaze. Their clothes are clearly rich, made of expensive fabrics and dyes, and their jewelry is bright and shining gold with precious gems inlaid. They seek not prosperity and peace, as they say, but only wealth for wealth’s sake. There is no other explanation.

“You will have no coin of Khazâd-dum’s,” she says in the voice not her own, firm and unyielding, her final ruling to them, and the memory flits away like a startled bird from its perch.

In its place appears a room glittering brightly with gold and gems, treasures of many kinds, sizes, and shapes. There are walkways through the treasure room, simple stone to tread upon so as to not disturb the riches in every direction, and the room is quiet and still as her own baited breath. A flash of red fabric behind a tall pile catches Mhete’s attention and she surges forward, hands outstretched at the ready.

The white-haired Khuzd falls to the hard floor beneath her weight, an ugly snarl on their lips and a bejeweled dagger clutched in one hand—

The shapes and colors around her blur as the two of them roll across the stone—

Mhete wrests the dagger from their grip with a strength she knows she has yet to gain—

A second dagger is unsheathed from somewhere within their voluminous robes—

Mhete cries out as her side erupts in liquid fire beyond any pain she has felt before—

The scene changes a second time, heavier than before, and Mhete stands on a raised stone platform before a throng of silent, watching Khazâd, her battleax held in strong hands; they are pale and foreign still. Her side aches, bandages wrapped around her middle beneath her clothing, and her face is grim. She will do what she must, though it pains her to bear such a heavy burden. The warnings and laws of Khazâd-dum are clear, and she would not be worthy of the throne she sits upon if she could not mete out the punishments she herself ruled.

To her left on the platform the white-haired Khuzd kneels, bound and shackled and clothed in white, their gaze downturned.

Mhete raises her ax above her head, sending a final prayer to Mahal as she has done many times over within the last hour, and—

Her eyes fly open, a deep breath sucked sharply into her lungs. The room is unclear as she fights to calm her breathing and the rush of adrenaline through her veins, and it takes many moments and a calming voice above her before she can at last return to the here and now; she feels as though she is drifting through a sea of past and present, unmoored, but she can at least see the present clearly now. She lies flat on her back, something cushioning her head so she does not lay entirely on the packed dirt and sawdust of the sparring circle, and above her she can at last make out the shapes of her irak’adad’s face and his neat beard.

“Mhete,” he says, his dark brows furrowed together and his clear blue eyes clouded with worry. A hand strokes her cheek slowly, gently, and Mhete slowly realizes that her head is pillowed by his strong thighs. “You fell in the middle of our spar and would not wake, do you remember?”

Mhete does, but it feels far away for a long moment of time, as if the memory of another life — and then, so slowly Mhete can feel every miniscule shift, it returns to familiarity.

Mhete does, when she searches for it, but it feels faraway, as if the memory of a life not her own — and then, with a subtle shift that feels as if the entirety of Arda turns exactly five degrees to the left, it feels distinct and familiar again.

“I remember,” Mhete says, her throat dry and her chest tight with the vestiges of adrenaline, and she can honestly say that it is the truth. “I’m sorry I worried you, Irak’adad.”

“I’m only glad you’re alright,” Thalvir says, continuing to stroke her cheek above her growing beard; the motion soothes her, it always has, and she knows this is why he does it now. “You fainted, or so it seemed. Did you feel ill?”

“I felt fine,” Mhete admits, tilting her head to the side to chase his comforting hand. “Normal. I was prepared to beat you.”

“Not so fast, not for another span of years yet,” Thalvir says, her words pulling a laugh from his throat, before a moment passes and he frowns down at her once more. “What do you think happened, then? Should I fetch a healer?”

Mhete closes her eyes for a moment, swallowing past the heavy lump in her throat. She knows what she needs, though she has been doing a mighty fine job of ignoring it up until now — or perhaps not so fine, if she considers it for much longer than a fleeting moment, considering what just happened to her. Never before has she fainted like that, lost to memories that felt too familiar and well-trodden to be anything but. She knows, deep in her heart, that to continue to avoid these memories and feelings of familiarity will only bring fear, pain, and confusion to her until the day she stops.

Perhaps following the thread will, but for herself — for the memories within her and the tugging waves trying to guide her heart in a direction she does not know — she has to try.

“I should see a healer first, but then...” Mhete steels herself with a breath. “Then I need to do what I should have already done.”

  

It takes little time at all for Mhete and Thalvir find their way to a healer, the kind dwarrowdam sitting Mhete down to assess her for any injuries — concussion or otherwise — from her fall; her irak’adad may have caught her as quickly as he could, avoiding a hit to the head, but her knees are still visibly bruised even under her dark skin. With a salve applied to her knees to reduce discomfort and swelling, and a small jar of the same pressed into Mhete’s hands to take with her, Mhete and Thalvir leave to return to her home.

“Thalvir,” Mhorbok says in surprise when he looks up from the rocking chair to find both child and brother-in-law coming through the door. “I thought you had her for another half hour at least.”

“I did,” Thalvir says, squeezing Mhete’s hand as she gazes at the floor, busy watching a slow, constant stream of deeply distracting images appear over her physical sight. “Mhete fainted, or something like it, during one of our spars.”

Mhorbok is out of his chair and across the room in an instant, his book forgotten on the arm of his chair as he kneels to look up at his child’s face and gently take it in both hands. “Mhete,” he says softly. “Are you alright?”

Mhete’s eyes begin to well with tears. She shakes her head in silence, blinking away the image of a kind Firebeard dwarrowdam to curl close to her ‘adad, and her tears begin to fall as he bundles her close like she’s still a pebble.

“It’s alright,” Mhorbok murmurs, gently rocking from side to side, and carefully guides Mhete to sit in his lap right there in the entryway — she really does feel like a pebble again, but she has not the heart nor the desire to complain against such gentle, comforting treatment. “Shhh, Mhete, you’re going to be alright.”

He repeats similar assurances at intervals through the minutes it takes for Mhete’s tears to slowly taper off, holding her close as Thalvir silently strokes her braided hair. Eventually, Mhete finds she has no new tears left to trail down her face, and she sniffles wetly against the cloth of Mhorbok’s shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around his middle as though he might disappear at any moment.

“I was Durin,” Mhete whispers into her ‘adad’s shirt, and listens to his steady heartbeat and her irak’adad’s confused inhale for just a moment before continuing. “I saw myself doing all of these things but I was also him.”

Mhorbok seems to take this in stride as much as is possible for something like this — or at least it seems that way to Mhete, who can’t see his face nor whatever expression might be on it, only hear his voice and heartbeat and feel his strong arms around her. 

“What did you see?”

“I saw myself as king,” Mhete says, just as quiet as she was a moment before. “I sat upon the throne Ugmil’adad sits on now, with pale, freckled skin and fiery hair, and before me were three wealthy Khazâd.”

She continues to tell her ‘adad and irak’adad of her vision, slow and hesitant at first but slowly gaining confidence in her memories as she speaks. At last she tells them of her place on the platform, an ax she knows like the back of her hands but had never seen before held in both, and the fate of the treacherous Khuzd.

“Oh, kurkarukê,” Mhorbok says, and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her irak’adad is silent.

“I can no longer pretend and tell myself that the memories of other lives don’t come to me easier than copper in a gold mine,” Mhete says, and her voice is raw but there runs a vein of steel through it that she knows Adda and Irak’adad will recognize as such. “I cannot, even though I wish desperately that I could.”

“What do you need, then?” Mhorbok asks, so similar to the words of her irak’adad on the floor of the sparring circle that Mhete almost laughs.

“I need to see Kheled-zâram."

---

Chapter End Notes

Neo-Khuzdul Translations
Irak’adad — Uncle
Khuzd — Dwarf
Ugmil’adad — Grandfather
Kurkarukê — My tiny raven

For the purposes of this world, please consider fifteen for a Dwarf to be equivalent to about four years old for a Man (the ones on Earth, not Numenoreans or the like).

Chapter 3

Read Chapter 3

The great city of Khazâd-dum stretches for miles deep within the heart of the Misty Mountains, beneath Barazinbar, Bundushathûr, and Zirakzigil. The noble quarters are near the middle, as are the courts, the treasuries, the nurseries; all that the Khazâd value deeply is protected within the heart of their Western-most kingdom, and Mhete’s family is, of course, included in this. Her ‘amad and irak’adad are second and third in line for the throne after her grandparents, after all, and she is the fourth — her ‘adad cannot rule due to his marriage with her ‘amad and his high status in the Blacklock court, for fear of less-than-noble reasons for marriage if such a ploy for power was allowed by the law.

The middle of the kingdom sits remarkably far from any of the stone-cut entrances to the sun-touched world, and Mhete curses this a multitude of times while she packs for the journey. She knows she must do this sooner rather than later, that much is made clear not only by her constant stream of waking visions and memories but by how often Kheled-zâram itself features in them; still, she can’t say she looks forward to taking such a long journey there and back again.

Such are necessary sacrifices, she supposes, and stuffs a tightly rolled dress into her pack.

The journey itself is one of laughing and talking, at least, her ‘amad, ‘adad, and irak’adad all accompanying her — her irak’adad said he would see this through for his own peace of mind if she would let him, and she readily welcomed another familiar face on the journey. The halls they pass through are awesome, the stairs up two levels equally so even if they are at least thrice as tiring and leave her calves burning by the end, and there is time enough in the day to arrive at their sleeping quarters by nightfall while still taking the time to stop and appreciate many things, including a passing Stiffbeard sculptur’s skill with stone.

Mhete buys a small carved statue of Durin the Deathless from her with polite words of thanks, and she swears that his sapphire eyes twinkle from within his well-carved and motionless face. She hides him away in her pack before he can start speaking to her and continues on.

The lodgings they arrive at that evening are comfortable and friendly, the Longbeard zatakhuzdȗn at the door welcoming them in with only the lowest level of blustering awe one could reasonably expect when faced with the second, third, and fourth Khazâd in line for the Longbeard throne all coming through one’s door to sleep there for a few nights. They had sent prior warning, of course, and two Khazâd travel with them for protection against any ill will on the road, but the kingdom-city is far too large and populous for every Khuzd there to have seen a member of the royal line with their own eyes.

Their beds are just as comfortable as the air of the inn itself, padding and pillows made of feathers and clean linen, and Mhete falls into her own almost as soon as she steps foot in the room, exhausted from a day of travel. Mhete is glad for the comfort that almost makes the unfamiliar lodgings familiar in their own small way, but just like the night before she cannot fall into slumber, try though she might — and does, for multiple aching, restless hours. The forceful vision in the sparring circle was the drop that broke the dam, it seems, and now the floodgates have fallen and Mhete feels as if all she can do is come up for air at every chance.

Who knew that learning so much in such a painfully short span of time could leave her knowing so little?

The visions give her a small reprieve only in that they refrain from bringing her to her knees again. They are incredibly distracting nonetheless, leaving Mhete to trail off in the middle of a sentence a handful of times during the journey as her ‘amad or ‘adad or irak’adad watch her in clear concern, but she is still aware of what surrounds her as they appear. The double layer, one physical and one within her mind’s eye and yet each as real as the other, is one of the strangest and most discencerting things Mhete has ever experienced.

Lying still in the dark of her room, alternating between staring at the ceiling and closing her eyes in hopes that she can trick herself into slumber, does little to stopper up the flow of such memories. They are memories, of this Mhete is now absolutely certain, and they come so constantly that Mhete cannot even tell them each to another Khuzd as a way to process them as they come — another would end and begin before she could finish speaking of the first, and she would be left with her mind swirling in worse confusion than it already had been throughout the day.

Sleep refrains from drawing any closer as she watches herself carve a living, breathing Khuzd from stone — she knows she is seeing a memory of Durin I, as while Durin II knew the art as well his hair was not coal-black in a way similar to her own — and eventually she decides that enough futile tossing and turning is enough and leaves the warm, comfortable bed to tug on socks and a robe and quietly wander out of her room.

The hall outside is mostly dark, no natural light finding its way into the city even this close to the Eastern gates, but clever angles and oil lamps give the hall a faint glow from the stairs. Her vision is somewhat undeterred by the dark regardless, and Mhete presses a hand to her mouth to silence an unexpected giggle when she spares a brief moment to wonder how blind a Man would be walking down this same hall with her. Blinder than a bat, she guesses, and without even the echolocation of one to help.

Continuing down the hall, Mhete watches herself — Durin I but herself all the same, and she is too tired and frazzled to think about this more now but she will soon — tap layers of stone away, piece by piece, as the shape in her — his? — deep wishes reveal themself within the hard canvas. Her feet follow the stone floor even as she watches her waking memory, and they guide her to the inn’s second story balcony almost without hesitation.

Her ‘amad is already there, leaning against the stone railing with her back to the door and the lights of the perpetually lamplit city surrounding her in a warm glow.

“Amma?”

Thenis’ copper head turns to look behind her at the sound of her child’s voice, and when she sees Mhete she smiles softly, reaching a welcoming arm out towards her and tilting her head to wordlessly beckon her closer. Mhete approaches with a smile of her own, ignoring the arm she — Durin I, as she has to continuously remind herself — is chiseling to perfection in her mind’s eye to instead look upon her ‘amad’s warm face and take in the small wrinkles between her thick, elegant brows.

“Are you upset?” Mhete asks.

Thenis’ arm curls gently around her shoulders. “Not upset,” she soothes, “only worried for you. You carry such a heavy burden, kurkarukê. No ‘amad wishes to see their child this way. Do you see a vision now?”

“I think I’m carving— Durin I is carving one of his children,” Mhete says, pursing her lips at her stumble. “This is all so overwhelming, Amma.”

“I so wish I could help you,” Thenis murmurs, smoothing her hand up and down Mhete’s shoulder in a slow, soothing manner. The divot between her brows has deepened, and Mhete wishes it would disappear entirely but knows there is little she can do to further that wish tonight. “Did you come find me for a reason?”

“I didn’t come find you,” Mhete says, leaning her head on her ‘amad’s shoulder.  “I didn’t know you were awake or on the balcony at all, only that I couldn’t sleep.”

“A lucky chance, then.” Thenis rests her head atop Mhete’s, the two of them gazing out across the ever-bustling city together for long minutes. The soft noises of Khazâd going about their business is far more soothing to them than silence has ever been, carrying with it a familiar life and presence that is seldom absent from Khazâd-dum on any level either of them frequents.

“I want to guess who Durin I is carving,” Mhete murmurs into the gentle un-silence. “Would it be more truthful to say who I’m carving instead?”

“I think your ‘adad has done a good job of telling you this himself lately,” Thenis says wisely, and Mhete can hear the amused smile in her voice, “but only you can decide that. Does it feel right, calling Durin I or Durin II yourself?”

“I think so,” Mhete says after a moment of deliberation. “Only… I don’t want to confuse you.”

“Then we can find a compromise,” Thenis suggests. “A small one. You speak of your memories or visions however you wish to speak of them, call them whatever feels right, and if I find myself confused I will simply ask you for clarification so I may better understand my child’s experience. Does that seem fitting?”

“Yes,” Mhete says. A small smile curls across her mouth, quiet and sleepy, and she watches herself step back from the half-carved figure to assess its overall shape.

Thenis kisses her forehead. “Then I will listen to your words and ask for more if I find myself needing to ask.”

“I think I will tell you if I can decipher who I might be carving,” Mhete says. Her voice has slowly begun to trail off, and it becomes quieter still with each breath. Standing on the balcony with her ‘amad is exactly what she needed, it seems, a way to convince her brain that not all is unfamiliar and unmoored as it may seem. Her family is still with her, and they will keep her safe in all the ways they can.

“I’m tired,” Mhete says, once another small number of moments has passed.

“Let me take you back to your bed, then,” Thenis says, and the arm around Mhete’s shoulders begins to gently guide her away from the railing. “It’s late, and you have never seen Kheled-zâram before. It’s a sight to behold and a sight I think a good night’s sleep will only heighten.”

“I have seen Kheled-zâram,” Mhete says as the two of them trail back through the hall to Mhete’s room. She is half asleep already, and she blinks hard to keep herself on her feet as Amma steers her into her room. “In another life, and a life after that. I can see it when I close my eyes and think of Durin’s crown, but it isn’t always clear. The memory looks almost like the surface of a rippling bowl of water.”

“You will see it in this life, then.” The correction is made with such ease that Mhete could weep, and Thenis sits on the edge of her bed as Mhete toes her socks off and puts her robe away to slip back under her covers. “You can find new angles and new memories, ones with this family and in this life.”

Mhete smiles at her ‘amad, her head resting on her pillow now with her hair wrapped in silk to protect it through the night, and Thenis squeezes her hand between both of her own when Mhete reaches out for her.

“Sleep,” Thenis says, squeezing once more and leaning forward to kiss Mhete’s forehead. “Tomorrow will come when it chooses, and I will stay with you if my presence helps you think past the flood of memories.”

“You will? You haven’t in so long, Amma.”

“Not for a few years, if my memory doesn’t fail me,” Thenis chuckles, gesturing for Mhete to scoot over to make room for her on the wide bed, and when she does Thenis slips under the covers to curl her arms around her child as she had on the balcony. “ ‘Adad will understand, even if he may be cross that we didn’t make room for him as well.”

“He won’t be cross for long, and only playfully,” Mhete says, and her eyes drift slowly shut. “He never is.”

“Indeed he isn’t. Now sleep, kurkarukê.”

Mhete sleeps, deep and full, and she dreams of the slow, rhythmic chipping of stone under her own unfamiliar chisel.

 

The next day dawns, and Mhete and the other Khazâd on the journey with her stay at the inn only long enough to break their fast before heading out into the city to gather ingredients for lunch beyond the East-gate of Khazâd-dum. They may have two royal guards with them, with armor hidden beneath their clothing and watchful eyes Mhete has grown up with since she was a pebble and even before then, but there has been peace since the vanquishment of Sauron and Morgoth centuries ago. There will be no danger in the vale of Azanulbizar.

Once food is found and bought and tipped, despite the wide-eyed protests of the Khazâd selling their wares within the markets, the group continues on to the East-gate. The West-gate is a small thing, despite friendship and trade between Khazâd-dum and the Elven city of Ost-in-Edhil in that direction, but the East-gate is another story entirely.

The East-gate is magnificent.

Mhete has never crossed through the East-gate herself — though she sees a memory of it centuries ago overlaid across her waking sight — and she cannot help but stare up in awe, marveling at the beautiful, sturdy stonework that is synonymous with talented Khuzd craftsmanship. The gate is rectangular with an arched top, wide enough for five or more Khazâd to walk abreast, and great stone doors are held open during the day with heavy ropes and a smart pulley system that makes Mhete’s heart swell with unsurprising pride for her people. She remembers when they were planned and built, when the pulley system was installed with care and shouting commands, she remembers watching the first time the doors were opened and—

Mhete blinks back to herself and glances around, grounding herself in the present. She finds Amma waiting patiently with her, Mhete’s hand held safely in hers.

“Did you see something?” Thenis asks, gently guiding Mhete forward to continue on at a slow pace.

“I saw the carving of the East-gate,” Mhete says, staring up at it again with new eyes as the gateway itself nears, many Khazâd heading to and fro and passing under the arch as if they see it every day. They may very well, for all Mhete knows; her experiences at the heart of the city are not the same as the many lives and experiences here. “The addition of the great pulley system for the doors, too. I knew the Khazâd that led both.”

“That must have been a sight to behold.” They are so close to passing beneath it that Mhete almost feels as though she should hold her breath, but she doesn’t slow or stop as the two of them catch up to the rest of the group — she has to guess that Brisum is in the crowd somewhere nearby, sharp eyes watching their every move while trying to enjoy the trip for herself as well, but she can’t quite see her ‘adad, irak’adad, or their other guard yet.

Ah. There, standing out of the way just past the mouth of the gate.

“It was,” Mhete says as she remembers what her ‘amad was just saying to her, giving Thenis a smile and feeling it widen on her dark face when Thenis smiles back, warm and cheery in a way that wrinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her cheeks bunch up. “I was there for the first use of the pulley system once it had been sufficiently tested, as well. I was king then.”

“Did the surrounding area look very different to how it does now?”

Mhete takes a moment to answer, the current image of the same space in her mind’s eye thankfully so much less distracting than many other recent visions of hers have been.

“Not very,” Mhete says. “It does look different, but not so much that it would be unrecognizable without the East-gate front and center, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Thenis says, and squeezes her hand as they near the waiting Khazâd. “Thank you for telling me of it.”

“I didn’t tell you much, Amma.”

“But you told me some, kurkarukê, and answered my question to the extent you could, and if you want to tell me more on our walk then you are more than welcome to do so.”

Mhete smiles as the two of them reunite with Mhorbok and Thalvir, both guards nearby and watching them closely as they travel. “I think I will.”

“Good,” Thenis says, and she smiles in return. “I look forward to hearing it.”

 

Once they leave the East-gate behind — which Mhete spent five minutes staring at from the outside in awe and nostalgia before she was truly ready to move on — the journey is short and simple. Mhete and her parents live closer to the West-gate than the East-gate, if only barely, but the West-gate is a small and simple thing, used almost entirely by Elven visitors coming from Ost-in-Edhil or by Numenorean visitors coming along that same road. The East-gate is the one used by Khazâd most, closer to the distant Orocarni Mountains and the clans and kingdoms there.

It is also, as Mhete has been unable to prevent herself from focusing on for the short duration of the walk outside to come upon their destination, the gate that opens to Kheled-zâram and the valley of Azanulbizar.

But she cannot find it in herself to worry and fret any longer when she catches her first glimpse of the lake past the crest of a small hill, a sensation of deep déjà vu flooding through her veins. She breaks off from her small party and runs ahead in the clear sunlight, shining through large, fluffy clouds to lay in a gentle haze upon the valley. When she reaches the crest she stops very suddenly, her heavy boots planting themselves in the waving grass as she stares.

Before her, the lake shines in the mid-morning sun, glinting and gleaming across the surface of the still water. The breeze picks up and sends ripples dancing across it, breaking the sunlight in a pattern that she feels she could glean and understand if she just looked for a short while longer. The mountains bracketing the vale are just as towering as they are from the small West-gate, but the snow-capped peaks are blinding in the sunlight and the effect of all this combined with the faint breeze and the waving grasses make Mhete wonder if she has somehow stepped into a fairytale, one her Amma or Adda told her when she was just a pebble.

It is all so beautiful.

Mhete finds herself continuing on without fully realizing her intentions, the lake calling to her heart and to her mind in a silent, whispering voice. There is no voice and yet she can almost hear words, and she suddenly wonders if the rock shaped similarly to a raven still stands where it once did along the northern bank.

She has never before stepped foot here, and yet coming here feels so much like returning home that Mhete wonders if it might bring her to her knees like her vision from before.

She stops a ways away from the edge of the lake, standing instead where the grass shifts into pebbles of all shapes and sizes, and stares nervously at the gently rippling surface until Mhorbok’s strong hand rests itself on her shoulder, comforting and paternal in a way Mhete has always treasured.

“Are you ready?”

“I couldn’t say,” Mhete says honestly, glancing at her ‘adad for a brief moment before returning her gaze to the lake that is said to offer no reflections save those of Durin’s Crown and of Durin himself. Themself, if all of her suspicions and outright surety are confirmed here, for while she may be zatakhuzdȗn she does not call herself ‘he’ like Durin I and Durin II, nor ‘they’ like many Khazâd she knows in this life. “But I am not sure I will ever be ready, and I cannot wait to be something that may never occur.”

Mhorbok is silent and does not speak again. Instead, he turns to the side to press his forehead against Mhete’s. There is a smile on his face, gentle and kind, and his forehead is warm against hers as she presses in return.

“Go,” Mhorbok says, quiet and close, and his hands squeeze her shoulders to give her strength and bravery beyond even what she already possesses as his forehead leaves hers. “We are with you.”

Mhete nods. She turns back to the lake and feels it beckoning her again with a gentle voice even she cannot fully hear, but for a moment she does not answer. An image rises to the forefront of her mind, unbidden as far as she knows: her hands are pale again, with dark hair on the spaces between knuckles, and the chisel in one is the same as what she saw the night before. The chisel did keep her from sleep for a time, and she can admit to finding some annoyance towards it, but a second thought and she realizes that a chisel is a poor focus of annoyance. Rather, the visions kept her up. But she fought the visions until she no longer could, and so the blame is on her in the end for stifling what she did not want to see.

I see now, Mhete thinks, and she feels more than hears a warm chuckle through her head as her pale hands from another life tap away at the stone. 

She is carving her beloved son, filled later with impatience that even she could not have foreseen, and the memory fills her with bittersweet longing so strong Mhete almost takes a step forward simply to steady herself. Why she longs if both Durin I and his son are dead, she cannot say, but some quiet surety tells her that she will realize — or remember, perhaps — in time. For now, the recent teachings of Scholar Nerar may yet bring other memories to the surface.

Finally, she steps forward onto the pebble beach. It crunches beneath her boots, more uneven by far than the gradually sloping, grassy hills of Azanulbizar, but despite this her footing is sure. She knows this beach.

As Mhete nears the lake itself she realizes, with a jolt as it suddenly, finally seems real despite how she knew this much in theory since she was very small, that the surface reflects not the sun but the stars, perfectly invisible in daylight. The clouds are the same, as are the mountains reflected above, yet the coloration of light and the heavens themselves are undeniably changed from what she can see when she looks up.

Strange does not begin to describe this.

Mhete stops at the edge of the lake. The water is still, save for faint ripples when the wind picks up for a moment. She looks down and sees herself staring back: her smooth, dark skin, her ‘adad’s nose and her ‘amad’s eyes, the braid clasps that denote her a young zakatkhuzdȗn of the line of Durin. Her beard is still growing day by day, soft ringlets like her ‘adad’s, but it is full enough to not be a point of shame or mockery from her agemates.

Then she remembers that you are not supposed to see your reflection here. A shock travels through her, and she takes a half-step back before exhaling and pushing herself to move forward until the toes of her boots kiss the water’s edge. She looks at herself and her reflection stares back, following her movements to a tee as all reflections do.

But there is more.

A glance at the rest of Kheled-zâram’s surface, and Mhete’s eyes catch on a series of stars, shining so brightly that they stand apart from the other stars until they almost seem to be something else entirely. They sit in an even, curved line, and Mhete does not have to count them to know the number deep within her soul. Seven for the Dwarf-lords, for the Forefathers of the Khazâd, of which Durin I was the greatest. The Forgemaster Mahal’s favored son, if what the stories say holds any truth.

A second source of light begins to appear, and when Mhete follows the light her gaze returns to herself. There is a star, it seems, shining before the reflection of Mhete’s forehead. But that cannot be right, for the stars are behind her and above her. This is different, then.

The source of light glows brighter for a moment, then splits into three. They are centered on Mhete’s forehead, so clear she almost wonders if they are affixed to her above the surface as well. The three glow brighter like before, and slowly three becomes five, all equally bright, set in a line with a gentle curve.

Mhete looks away from her reflection to find the constellation of Durin’s Crown where she had spotted it before.

Only two remain.

Her heart catches in her throat, disbelief warring with the knowledge that she has known the truth since almost the beginning — well, perhaps she did not know, but she felt an affinity she could not explain and when she sought an explanation out further the explanation did not quite manage to surprise her as it did her her ‘amad, her ‘adad, her irak’adad. Scholar Nerar’s hunch was right, even when Mhete tried for brief segments of time to pretend that it was not.

Will this change everything?

No, she thinks, and while the thought is not her own it is hers and echoes within her head all the same. Some things, yes. But a strong heart means everything when something like this is concerned, and there is a strong heart here that will be the guide through this all.

And suddenly, gently, Mhete is not afraid.

The sixth and seventh stars appear on her brow, glowing with bright, otherworldly light. She can see and feel them pulse once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Then they are still.

They are warm and light, and when she reaches up she can feel them across her brow. They are not only in the reflection after all.

Mhete laughs, short and light. I stole Durin’s Crown from Kheled-zâram, she thinks, a little nonsensical in the face of everything, the humor of the situation aiding in her processing the rest of it. It is true, at least: Durin’s Crown no longer shines in the middle of the lake, but instead on her brow both within Kheled-zâram’s reflection and without.

There is only one truth she can take from this, and as she gazes down at her clear reflection that truth settles in her heart, heavy with promise and with the changes that it will bring. Her life will never be as it was before Scholar Nerar spoke of Durin I, but all the same, would she have wanted it to stay that way?

She does not know.

What she does know is much simpler, and is a promise of its own.

“My name is Mhete,” she says quietly, and watches her lips move on the surface of Kheled-zâram as the stars shine ever bright and ever clear. “My name is Mhete, child of Thenis and Mhorbok, Khuzd of the line of Durin and of the line to the Longbeard throne, and I am Durin III.”

And so she is.

---

Chapter End Notes

Neo-Khuzdul Translations
Zatakhuzdȗn — The Khuzd concept of nonbinary dwarrow, lit. ‘one who embodies both’. As in Chapter 2, thanks to determamfidd for coining it.
Khazâd — Dwarves
'Amad — Mother
'Adad — Father
Kurkarukê — My tiny raven
Khuzd — Dwarf
Irak’adad — Uncle

Thank you, the reader, for reading this fanfic of mine <3 it means a lot to me! if you enjoyed, I would really appreciate and adore a comment saying as much. Did you have a favorite part or character? What do you think about my interpretation of the first three Durins?

I hope to see you again in the next installment!