Chapter Text
The sky is on fire.
There is a crack in their wall, and the dwarf sits in his chair and watches the sun rise, his hands cupped around a chipped mug of tea.
Some dwarves, he told his little brother once, when said brother was young and scared of what that crack could let in; Some dwarves would pay good money to see the sun. And you get it for free, aren’t you a lucky dwarfling?
Red sky in the morning; watchman’s warning.
He has swept the porch already today, in the half-light that’s the fading of the street lamps. He likes to start his chores early; get some of them out of the way before he’s at work and then there’s less to do when he gets home.
(And, besides, there are less people around, before dawn.)
He has to move soon. He has to get ready for work, get his little brother up, and make sure he’s all sorted for his apprenticeship. He has to put supper on the fire so it’ll be cooked by the time he comes home, his hands calloused and dyed and raw. But for the minute, he can just stay, watching the red sky dissipate into dull grey clouds and the palest blue. The clouds are thick and heavy, and he’s pleased for the stone that surrounds him.
The men in Dale will have to walk through the rain later, hurrying along so it doesn’t splash into their boots and shivering when it drips down their neck. All he needs to do is make sure the crack in their wall is covered, and they will stay dry.
He drinks the dregs of his tea with a sigh that almost masks the sound of the front door creaking open. He tenses, his hand reaching out of its own accord to curl around the handle of their old iron poker.
“Bit early for you to be up, ain’t it?” A voice says, closing the door behind them. “And you should really get that door seen to. Shouldn’t creak like that. Hinges might be bad.”
The first dwarf draws in another breath that whistles through his teeth. “Nori.”
Nori grins, his hair as red as the morning sky, and just as dangerous to watchmen. “Mornin’, brother.”
---
Contrary to popular belief, Nori does care about people, and think about the trouble he might cause them.
Which is why he broke in the morning after he’d drank his body weight in ale, and not whilst he was still trying to sing his way through his repertoire of traditional dwarvish songs. No, something had prevented him from making those final steps, and so he’d made his way to a companion’s bed, being the noble and sacrificing middle brother that he is.
(Of course, being woken up with a hand on his cock isn’t something that tends to happen in his brothers’ house. Not that that’s got anything to do with anything.)
“…Eight months, Nori!” Dori is still talking at him, even as he digs out the coffee grounds from the very back of the cupboard. “Eight months, and not even a note – and I know you could have sent word with some of your disreputable –”
“Dori, Dori, Dori,” he straightens up from his inspection of one of the lower cabinets, where Dori keeps the perishables. “Brother, let’s not –”
He stops attempting to embrace his older brother when the poker resurfaces in a warning point. “Eight months. Not a word.”
“Grumpy old bugger,” Nori mutters, not loud enough for his brother to hear.
He takes a seat and pulls it closer to the fire, debating on poking his brother in the side, where he’s most ticklish. The poker, leaning innocuously against the wall, puts paid to that decision. He knows far too well how good Dori is at wielding it.
Instead, he turns his eye to his brother’s back, looking him up and down critically. “Is that a new tunic?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
Dori raises an eyebrow at him. “Have you seen how fast dwarflings grow?”
“I’m sure Ori would love to hear you calling him that,” he sinks down in his chair slightly. The tunic is fading from the dusky purple it once was, the elbows patched up with fabric almost the same colour, the embroidery worn and almost indistinguishable. Nori swallows, not anticipating the sudden rush of guilt that floods through his bones.
He slips the pouch of coins off one of his belt loops and hides it in the cast iron pot that Dori uses to hold potatoes in.
His older brother’s eyes flicker, but Dori says nothing.
“Cheers,” Nori accepts the mug of coffee he’s offered. “So… it’s been…”
“Trade fell through,” Dori pours himself another mug of tea, brushing his thumb absently over the chip in the rim. “Bad harvest; Dale didn’t have much wool to sell. Drink your coffee before it cools, Trouble.”
He scuffs his shoes along the stone floor and then buries them under the worn patchwork rug, blowing on his coffee and watching the ripples and waves crash against the ceramic sides. His mug has no chips in it, despite the fact he can distinctly remember being the one to cause the chip in Dori’s.
“I was East, before I came here,” he says, when the silence is roaring too loud in his ears. He can hear the people outside of their small house starting to move around. “I picked up some of that tea you like. It’s in my pack.” His brother looks down at his drink, but Nori thinks he can see his lips curve in a grin. “They think the Durins are cursed, y’know.”
Dori’s eyes shoot up again, silver-grey orbs focusing suddenly on Nori’s face. “I’ve heard people say that, aye,” he nods. “Can’t see it myself. They can’t control the weather.”
“Thorin Oakenarse probably thinks he can,” Nori snorts.
His brother is definitely hiding a smile, even as he chastises him with shhing noises. “I’m glad you’re not here full time,” he jokes – at least, Nori thinks it’s a joke? Dori’s not great at them, but he’s normally muttering under his breath about how Nori should stay home more, so that would be a turn up for the books if it was the opposite all of a sudden, “You’d be arrested for treason before you’d been here a week!” He shakes his head and rises to his feet. “I have to prepare for work – wake your brother for me?”
“I’m –”
Dori raises a finger and just looks at him.
Nori puts down his half-drunk coffee and goes to wake Ori.
The Eastern Elves take wildcats as pets, which fascinated Nori when he was first there. Some of them were working animals that caught rats or even hunted, but most were content to laze around the Elves’ huts, sit by the fire and eat any food that was left out. Nori thinks he’d like to be a cat.
He thinks of this now when he looks at his little brother, curled up into a ball with the blankets thrown haphazardly over his scrawny body. All he can see is a tuft of ginger-brown hair poking out the top. It’s the only part of Ori actually on his pillow, bizarrely. To add to the feline picture the younger dwarf is painting, he’s snoring gently; it sounds like a cat purring.
“Wakey wakey, Inkyfingers!” he chirrups, flinging himself onto his sleeping brother. “The sun’s up and Dori’s grumblin’!”
“Dori’s always grumbling,” Ori mutters, curling further in on himself. “G’way No – Nori!” He sits bolt upright – Nori rolls towards the foot of the bed in surprise – and runs a hand through his hair. “When did you get here?”
“Dawn,” he reaches across to hug him. “Good to see you, brother-mine.”
“Morning,” is yawned into his shoulder in response. Ori’s still clingy like a much younger dwarfling, but Nori doesn’t see anything wrong with that. Better a squishy face pressed into his neck than an older brother wielding an iron poker.
“Ori!” Speak of the devil. Said oldest brother raps briskly on the doorframe. “Come on, you’ll be late. Wake up!”
“’M ‘wake.”
“Yes,” Dori frowns. Nori holds up his free hand in a universal it’s not my fault! gesture. “I can see that. Now come on, up and washed, otherwise you’ll miss breakfast.”
He manages to disentangle himself from the octopus masquerading as his younger brother without too much trouble, and pads back to the kitchen to drink his lukewarm coffee and watch his siblings get ready for their respectable jobs.
“Are you joining us for dinner?” Dori asks, twisting his beard into its casing. In the background, the front door swings itself shut as Ori hurries out of it, scarf ends trailing behind him and a piece of toast shoved into his mouth.
“Probably,” Nori shrugs. He nudges the small bag of coins that’ve emigrated from the iron pot to the dining table in a hint. “You cooking?”
Dori points to the fire, where a larger pot is present amongst the embers. “Stay out of trouble,” he orders, grabbing his coat and heading out the door.
“Stay out of trouble,” Nori mimics (but only when the door has swung shut again), and he downs the rest of his coffee, before heading to the room he sometimes shares with Ori and the little wooden box under his bed.
Ten minutes later, his hair braided in a complicated series of plaits that even Dori would be proud of, he leaves the house, whistling to himself as he does so. Outside it may be threatening to rain, but the mountain is delightfully cool, and it’s a relief for once to have light that doesn’t make him acutely aware of his eyeballs.
It’s nice to be back in Erebor.
(It’s not home; Nori doesn’t have a home. Well, no, that’s not correct. He’s met elves and men that fall a little bit in love with everyone they meet, and that’s the closest thing he can think to liken it to in his head. Anywhere he eats, or sleeps, or feels comfortable – that becomes his home for the foreseeable future. It’s not as if anyone has asked. It just feels a bit… wrong, every time Ori asks him why he’s not “home” for very long, or Dori asks when he’s “home” next.)
He shakes his head out of these dour thoughts – the beads at the end of his braids thwack into his cheekbones – and walks faster to the market.
He picks up an apple along the way, chewing it loudly as he strides through the market place.
There are a lot more beggars than Nori remembers, small children in rags making a lunge for the shiny buckles in his shoes. The dwarf in front of him kicks out at one of them, and they started crying in that helpless way children do when no one is listening.
He doesn’t remember crying like that, and it’s not the reason he picks out this dwarf as his mark.
Nori stays a good few steps behind, whistling one of the songs he was singing last night in-between bites of his apple.
“Mister Fulnir,” the blacksmith’s voice takes on a whine as the mark passes. “Mister Fulnir, I was wondering… the small matter of your bill…”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” the mark – Fulnir – says coldly. “I don’t feel your workmanship warranted your price, and until you offer a fairer price, you’ll go without any gold.” He tugs his cloak out of the blacksmith’s hands and carries on. Nori follows, an eyebrow raised.
He throws his apple core into an alleyway that they pass. They’re heading towards the richer area of the city. So Fulnir’s an arse, not a gambler. Or maybe both.
Whatever. Nori’s sure, either way, that he has money. For the moment, anyway.
Not after Nori’s done with him.
And then a noble steps in front of his vision, and all thoughts of taking Fulnir’s money flit out of Nori’s head like sparks from a mattock hitting rock.
That man has mithril in his hair.
Even in the Iron Hills, Nori hasn’t come across many higher nobles. Not ones that don’t move with a guard bigger than Dori’s house, anyway. So of course Nori changes tack and follows him. His hair is worth more than Dori’s annual wage!
Mithril-Man only has one guard, as well; a tough brawny dwarf, tall and mohawked. Easy enough to get around.
Oh sweet bountiful Mahal, Dori and Ori will eat well tonight.
He makes a flying leap for one of the city walls, landing on it without a sound. It’ll be easier to track them if they aren’t turning their backs every five minutes; the guard may be big, but he doesn’t seem stupid. Or not entirely, anyway.
The Guard is half a step behind Mithril-Man, watching his back. So he’ll have to be quick. A boot to the head, a tug on Mithril-Man’s beads… Nori can be past Dale by nightfall, and he can sell the beads and take the gold home and Dori can finally get himself a new tunic and Nori can stop the horrible guilty feeling that sneaks up every time he compares his clothes to his older brother’s.
They turn the corner, and Nori lunges.
His boot connects with the Guard, who lets out a strangled grunt and staggers back a few paces at the surprise weight of Nori’s foot. He reaches out a hand to tangle in Mithril-Man’s braids and pull them sharply, but Mithril-Man’s not as dumb as he looks.
“Gerroff!” Nori growls, kicking at the vicelike hand that fastens around his ankle. It squeezes the tendons and bones as though it’ll break them. Nori’s only known one dwarf that can do that, and Dori finds it pretty distasteful.
He doubles up on himself – thank Mahal for strong stomach muscles – and sinks his teeth into Mithril-Man’s hand until the noble shouts in pain and drops him. On his head.
Nori’s still blinking in pain and trying to get the world to stop spinning when a heavy boot lands in his stomach to pin him down, and two large hands fasten around his wrists to tie them together.
Dori is going to kill me.