Work Text:
Ered Mithrin's capital city
TA 2542
It can be said, dwarves are fond of a good prophecy. Even with their medical and scientific advances they were quite the auspicipus lot. They read prophecies in the vast array of stars, in the lacing formation of rocks, and the kaledioscope of dreams. There were times that were more potent for prophecy than others. Festivals, marriages, adoptions, deaths, and births. A birth unfolding at the same time as a celestial event? And those born during these events were quite simply shit out of luck. Thrór took his first breath the moment the sun vanished from the sky. Light snuffed from the stained glass windows, replaced only with his frail cries.
To Prince Dáin it is merely an astrological event. But to others it is quite the portent. It foretold quite hefty tolls upon the populace to have a prince born at the same time light vanishes. But Prince Dáin could deal with rumors and vicious whispers. What grated his nerves was the priests.
They were reveling in the wake of it, and it was quite apparent by their demeanor, filing in to welcome Thrór. The infant’s naming ceremony wasnt complete until he was witnessed by the priest class. The priests were not serene as they usually were. Instead they were lingering between despair and madness. They shelter in coves away from the prince, murmuring amongst themselves. Finally after a minor tift, one comes forward but the normal motion only breeds discomfort in Prince Dáin’s heart. Prince Dáin, for once, hesitated before their authority. Prince Borin places a steadying hand upon his brother’s shoulder. An anchor cast into his older brother’s turbulent mind. Resigned, he hands over Thrór his pride and greatest joy.
Each motion comes with a hesitancy. The priest’s body stiff and measured.
Each mundane step welcoming his son to the halls of the dwarves twists and distorts into a macabre procession. “I do not understand and I am beginning to sour.” He mumbles to Borin, though his eyes never leave Thrór’s tiny form.
“They say the eclipse is a bad omen.” Borin replies just as dryly, but theres an undercurrent of tension. Licking his lips nervously he ducks further into his brother’s shadow, “many were calling for him to be cast out.”
Ah…
Dáin’s nostrils flare. His jaw clenches. His son? Cast out? Never. “I will not hear of it.”Everyone has an opinion. Some people, Dáin thinks, should keep their opinions to themselves.
“At ease brother, the King has spoken. He is safe.”
“Not until he is in my arms.” Dáin spoke truely, until his son was returned he remains on his guard. Thrór sleeps through the entire ordeal. Finally back in the arms of his father, safe and sound, he remains in slumber, even ignoring a scroll placed upon his little body. A scroll Borin snatches immediately before his brother can retrieve it.
“Prince Borin, will you read the portents for us?” The priest inquires with a sweeping hand towards the small gathering. All at a distance. Watching with unblinking eyes gleaming from the darkness.
“Ah, a lovely offer.” Prince Borin intones, charm oozing from every princely pore. “However, we must difer for a time.” He turns the table with a placating and gentle smile, “we shall release it with the babes announcement as prince." In case something changed- like a new worse thing or - who the head priest was.
Judging by Prince Borin’s smile as the group made a polite exit, the latter was far more likely to happen than Prince Dáin would have liked.
They walk in silence for some time before Prince Borin kills that-practicing for the priest perhaps? His sigh as pointed as his favorite dagger,“shall we see the nonsense?” Glancing to one of their personal guards, he adds “we can all have a good rueful chuckle. Much needed I think."
Prince Dáin’s nose twists, “while I must know, I wish I did not.” But with a rip of the wax seal and a huff the decision was made for him. Princs Dáin sighs, shifting Thrór in his arms. “It is foolish to think ones worth can be determined before they can even walk.” Thrór was a healthy vibrant baby. How anyone could think anything of him other than that was preposterous.
“How horrible can it be?" Borin hums, handing the wax to the nearest guard. "Cannot be worse than yours.” He chivalrously adds with a wink and a nudge. Unrolling it fully, Borin’s expression dances between amused and bewildered. “By the stars, I think we found one worse than yours, brother.”
That news haults Prince Dáin in his tracks. The rest of the entourage pausing around him. “Not what i want to hear, Borin.” Prince Dáin grinds out, watching his brother with caution measured out over decades of political experiences.
“Then you shall despise this-
‘You shall not succeed. Though your endeavors are mighty and your intentions pure you shall find yourself upon failures doorstep. Time and time again you shall fail. Your family will turn on you. Your friends forget you. Your people regret you. Despite all of this you will continue to endure, for it is not in your nature to surrender. Just as lightning strikes summer wheat rendering it ablaze your hardwork will fall barren in the fields.’ "
Yet even upon hearing these words, King Dáin cradles his son closely. Small. Fragile. At the mercy of the world. Now such an abysmal prophecy lay in his arms over his son's heart. His large hand soothes the infant's mop of blonde hair,and a smile parts his lips. For Dáin had learned much of fire in all its capacities. Even after the most sinister of wild fires comes growth.
And through fire? Comes Thrór.
But beyond the gates of Ered Mithrin's capital, there is a rumbling of thunder.