Archive of Our Own

She is the tiniest creature, all blue eyes and curls, and almost too fragile for Dwalin’s comfort. He’s used to dwarflings, right enough, tough little wretches sturdy enough to survive a drop or two. This baby hobbit - Primula - is something else altogether, something delicate and fine.

But she comes to him, bolder than all the rest of her family, and lifts her arms, and he cannot deny her. He is charmed.

“Gamut sanu yenet, muhudith,” he whispers, so the others cannot hear. He doesn’t tell her what it means, and she doesn’t ask, just tugs his beard and makes her way onto his shoulders, as her stunned relatives look on.

She seems to reckon him her property from that point forward, not entirely incorrectly. He supposes that after so many years in the company of Durin’s line, he’s simply become accustomed to the whims of the imperious. “Mr. Dwalin, carry me!” isn’t so different from, “Dwalin, we’re taking back my mountain,” after all.

The rest of the company is similarly enraptured by the young hobbits. There is no limit, it seems, to what two dwarven princes will do for a cheer or a jam-smeared smile. But Primula, clearly the best of the lot, cannot be tempted by a pretty face, be it prince, elf, or elven-prince. She shadows Dwalin, sitting near him at the table and pulling at his sleeves for his attention. He likes that about her, she is discerning.

“Mr. Dwalin,” she looks up at him one night at dinner, all seriousness. “I want you to love me best.”

The other dwarves smile indulgently, but Bilbo is appalled at her bad manners. “Primula Brandybuck!” he says, rising half out of his seat. “What a wicked thing to say! You may leave the table.”

She glares, but pushes back her chair and stands. She makes it two steps, then runs back to Dwalin, leaning over and cupping his ear. “I don’t care if it is wicked,” she whispers, quickly, hurrying to finish before Bilbo can reach her. “It’s the truth.” Before she can say more, Bilbo grabs her, lifting her gently and settling her against his hip. He walks her towards her room, and she stares at Dwalin over his shoulder. He doesn’t know what she sees in his expression, but it must satisfy her, because she grins so brightly at him and he cannot help but smile back.

She’s direct, he likes that about her, too.

~*~

She clings to him when they leave for home, little arms reaching most of the way around his neck, and buries her face in his shoulder. She grumbles, but does not weep. “Mr. Dwalin,” she complains, “you ought to come back with us. What if there are bandits on the road?”

He’s had the same thought, so he answers her seriously. “The king is sending his best soldiers as your escort. They’ll make short work of any bandits.”

She sniffs. “No, Mr. Dwalin, that cannot be true, because you are not going.”

He smiles, bouncing her once, then again. “That’s so, muhudith, but I must stay and guard the king.”

There is a pause, and he can sense her searching for some new argument. “You could come another time,” she suggests after a moment. “You could come for my birthday. There will be a party, and I’ll make a present for you.”

“I cannot,” he says firmly, never one to offer false hope or promise. “Though I would like to.”

“Are you sure?” she wheedles. “There will be several kinds of cake.” He looks at her sternly, and she deflates. “Well,” she sighs, “I shall make you a present anyway.”

She does. It is a neatly hemmed handkerchief, with a small ‘D’ embroidered in green on one corner. He is sure he has never owned anything quite like it in his long life.

~*~

All the young hobbits write to Bilbo, and most of them send the occasional letter to one or another of the dwarves, but Primula writes regularly, and only to Dwalin. Her writing is large and childish, but he never has trouble making out her words, and through them he becomes familiar with her relatives and homeland. He reckons he could find his way through the corridors of Brandy Hall in the dark, sight unseen.

He always writes back, long letters that ignore none of her questions and acknowledge each of her little thoughts and troubles. She complains bitterly about her brothers, who are older than her and love to play tricks. Straightforward creature that she is, she lacks the talent for underhanded plotting, so he advises her to kick them where it hurts. The results please her, and when she visits again in a year or so, they greet each other like old friends.

She grows, and so do her letters. Her script does not improve much, but her tone is cheerful and she begins asking him more about himself. He tells her about growing up in Erebor, about his friend Thorin and his brother, Balin. He wracks his brain, thinking back scores of years for happy memories that will amuse her, and more come to him than he would have guessed. He does not mention dragons, or orcs, or war, and she never presses. She invites him to visit, but he always declines.

~*~

She writes that she will be married in the spring, and that he is, of course, invited. He would like to go, and considers it briefly, but the trip is long, and the king has many enemies.

It takes longer to decide what to send. He has no idea what a young lady might want or need, or a hobbit either, for that matter. Bilbo, he knows, sends presents of fine cloth, ribbons and lace, and other such items available out of Dale. He pictures himself picking out ribbons, and, frustrated, puts the question out of his mind. It nags him, though, and finally he shrugs aside practicality and considers what he would give his own daughter on such a day.

He sketches a few designs, but his skills at the forge lean towards the sturdy and sharp. To him, such things have their own kind of beauty, but Primula is bright and delicate and they would not suit her. He asks his brother for help; Balin has a light touch with the finer metals, and some skill with gems. Dwalin is wealthy, possessing both a share of dragon treasure and the habit of living lean, and he spares no expense on the materials. He could afford an artisan to craft it, but he knows that Balin will acquit himself admirably, and he would rather his gift was made by loving hands.

He is pleased with the result, and sends it off with a brief note: If he proves unworthy of you, I will have his head on a pike.

He knows she will not use it. Bilbo has always avoided such ostentatious dwarvish extravagances, as he calls them, and Dwalin understands that customs differ in the Shire, that hobbits adorn themselves with flowers and embroidery, not metal and jewels. But Primula is clever, and she will know what the gift signifies. Since she was a child, she has seen the heart of things.

Some months later, at the start of summer, he finds himself summoned to the royal chambers, face-to-face with a weary-looking Bilbo.

“Dwalin,” he sighs, “did you send Primula a wedding gift?”

“Aye,” Dwalin crosses his arms, all nonchalance, and leans against the doorframe.

Bilbo eyes him, lips pressed thin. “An exceedingly extravagant wedding gift?”

He shrugs, expression carefully neutral.

After a long pause, Bilbo sighs. “All right,” he murmurs, running a hand through his mussed curls, “all right, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But read this, if you will.” He hands Dwalin a letter, slightly crumpled and travel-stained, addressed in Lobelia’s spiky script.

Dear Mr. Bilbo, it reads, after a lengthy introduction Dwalin skims over.

Dear Mr. Bilbo, no doubt you've heard that yesterday, Primula Brandybuck and Drogo Baggins wed at Brandy Hall. It was a fine party, with seven courses served and dancing afterwards! Descriptions of the food and dances go on for many lines, and Dwalin skips ahead. Prim is the talk of the Shire this morning, as she wore to her wedding a great silver crown-

Dwalin frowns. It had been platinum. He would never send her something that would tarnish.

...a great silver crown with green and purple gemstones, like a wreath of flowers! Quite an air it gave her, too, the wicked creature. Everyone asked her about it, and she would only smile and say it had been a wedding present! Folks knew it must have come from your mountain, Mr. Bilbo, and at least a half-dozen maids have gone cross-eyed from jealousy.

When pressed, Drogo would only shrug and say it suited her, which caused further shrieks of envy. It nearly came to a riot, but they served the cake, and most found that a sufficient distraction.

It goes on, talking about the food again, and ending with well-wishes for Bilbo and the dwarves. He lowers the page.

“A crown, Dwalin, really?” Bilbo sighs.

He smirks. “More a coronet. Not my fault they don’t know the difference.” He can picture Primula, standing tall among the other hobbits, holding herself like a queen, as she always does. Of course she wore it, he thinks, of course she did. He would like to have seen it.

Bilbo smiles slightly, like he’s imagining it too, and takes the letter back. “She’ll be insufferable now, I hope you know. I shudder to think of it. This will go down in Shire legend.”

Dwalin tries to school his expression, but finds he cannot, quite. “Good.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo coughs, ruffling through some other papers on his desk. “This came for you,” he says, handing Dwalin another letter. “I can guess who it’s from.”

Dwalin pockets it, taking his leave politely and heading home at a sedate pace. Balin is going over documents by the fireside, and Dwalin greets him warmly and leaves him to it. He will share his news later.

He goes to his room and sits carefully on a corner of his tightly-made bed. He breaks the seal on the letter, grinning at the loops and swirls of her handwriting, so different from the precise dwarven runes he grew up with, and so beloved.

Dear Mr. Dwalin,

I have wed! My husband is lovely, all that a hobbit should be, and I ask that you leave his head attached for the time being. We shall stay on at Brandy Hall, as is my preference. I would miss my mother and sisters too much if we left, and my brothers too, perhaps. Anything is possible.

I thank you for the gift. It is beautiful, and far too generous, as you always are. I treasure it, so I hope you will not think me ungrateful when I tell you that I would trade it in a moment to have you here. Such things cannot be, I know, but that never seems to stop me wishing.

Asphodel suggested that I lend it to her for her wedding in midsummer, that it might become a Brandybuck tradition, but I set her straight! Such cheek! No one shall have it from me but my own daughter, and it shall become an heirloom of my line. I take it out daily to admire it, and miss you terribly.

The letter continues, long and newsy, as is her way. He reads on, grinning widely and at one point laughing loud enough that he hears Balin grumbling over it in the next room.

That night, in those last moments before sleep comes, if mind betrays him, and his chest aches with missing her, it isn’t anyone’s business but his own.

~*~

As the years pass, the letters come slightly less often, but with no less love. She starts a family, and Dwalin has trouble reconciling the Primula he remembers to one she must be becoming. In his mind, she remains an impish child, a barely noticeable weight on his shoulders. He cannot picture her as one of the stern Shire matrons who have visited Erebor, with their long skirts and tamed curls.

Dwalin hears about her son before any of the others, even Bilbo, and he takes a sly pleasure in knowing that even after all these years, she still has her favorite. Ori, who is prone to such small kindnesses, brings him her letter during his shift at the gates. His rank among the guards allows him to avoid such duties, but he likes the fresh air, and even the view, and it fills the time. He faces westward as he reads:

...I’m afraid I lost the coin toss, and Drogo has called him Frodo. I have claimed the right to name the next one, so you may yet have a namesake, Mr. Dwalin. Give me time. I think it will start quite a fashion for dwarven names in the Shire. Can you picture a dozen little Thorins and Noris running through the Great Smials? I know that you would love them all, but I hope you will love mine best. If that is wicked of me, so be it, it is the truth.

When he finishes reading, he folds the letter carefully, and stares at the horizon until dusk comes.

~*~

It is Thorin who gives him the news, with one hand on his shoulder and his voice as gentle as he can make it. At first, Dwalin does not understand. The words don’t make sense. When he hears how it happened, it only muddles him further. “A boat?” he asks dumbly, his voice thick and his tongue slow. “Hobbits do not care for water.”

There is no answer, really, but he supposes he does not need one. Primula was the bravest of her fellows, always running towards things others edged away from. He can see her on the river, laughing, as her agitated family yells warnings from the shore. He pictures her in her crown of flowers. There will be no daughters now, no legacy.

The thought of her floating, hair spread out around her, undoes him. He comes back to himself later, with no memory of returning to his rooms.

~*~

Her son arrives. He must resemble his father, with the sharp features that he shares with Bilbo and his Took cousins. Primula had a good, sturdy face, almost dwarvish, nothing like this boy. But his eyes are wide, and the blue of clear skies, and Dwalin finds her there. That’s where she’s hidden. The dull pain that has taken up residence in his chest turns sharp, biting. The face of this child - her child - is just how Dwalin feels in his deepest heart. Bereft.

Frodo lifts his arms, and Dwalin sees another face, another pair of blue eyes. He picks him up gently, so gently, and allows himself one moment to pretend that she is there, that she is smiling at her son and the friend she would have named him for, and that at any moment she will speak.

Instead, there is silence.

Eventually Bilbo, ready to start fussing and chattering over his young relative, takes Frodo, and Dwalin follows them as far as their chambers, his footsteps heavy in the empty halls. The familiar passages seem longer than he remembers, yet he arrives before he is ready. He dithers for a moment, then steps back from the closed door. Bilbo will be showing Frodo his new home, his room and his new family, and Dwalin cannot watch it. He cannot.

He considers riding out a ways, to the place outside the mountain where she marched into his world on tiny feet and reached out her hands. He might see her there, from the corner of his eye. It is not so far. It would not take long.

Time passes as he deliberates, and suddenly the door opens. “He’s asking for you,” says Kíli, gesturing into the room behind him.

“Thorin?” Dwalin asks, snapped out of his thoughts too quickly.

Kíli shakes his head. “Frodo.”

“Frodo?” Dwalin looks over Kíli’s head, into the room. “Are you certain?”

“Unless you know another Mr. Dwalin,” Kíli says with a ghost of a smile.

Dwalin hesitates. He does not want to see that room, the place where Frodo’s life will start afresh, without his mother or even the ghost of her presence. He cannot bear the child’s searching look, and he cannot give him what he’s seeking. No good can come of his going in there, only pain.

He tries to back away, to turn around, but his legs betray him. This is one thing he can do for Primula, one final thing. He will not shirk it. So he reaches deep inside himself for that place of stone and iron, the strong heart of every dwarf that allows them to hold steady and endure, and he squares his shoulders and forces himself to take one step forward, and then another.

Frodo runs to him as soon as he sees Dwalin in the doorway. Almost on instinct, Dwalin bends down to lift the little hobbit before he crashes into his legs. The boy leans in, and Dwalin presses a hand against his back. “What’s all this, then?” he grumbles, his gaze locked on the floor. “Settling in?”

“You’re Mr. Dwalin?” Frodo asks, snuffling into his shoulder. He is not crying, but it seems to be a near thing.

“Aye,” he nods, still mystified.

“Mama told me I would meet you one day, when we came to visit the Mountain. She said you were her dearest friend and you would be my friend, too. But now I am at the Mountain and Mama is not here.” The child starts shaking in his arms, and Dwalin’s words desert him. There is no comfort to give here, no answer. Nothing at all.

Frodo leans back, eyes wide and so blue, her blue. “Mama says I mustn’t cry, because I ought to be brave like you, Mr. Dwalin. She says you never cry. Is that true?”

He is at a loss. He longs for Primula then, for the way she always said exactly what she thought, and how he loved her for it. He leans in, whispering to Frodo, because they are not alone and these words are for him, and only him. He says the one thing he can think of, the words that have echoed in his heart since her light went out. “It’s all right to cry, muhudith, if it’s for the one you love best.”