20A/N: This story was written for the Feels for Fíli Campaign (feelsforfili) on tumblr. The prompt this week was a fic centered around a holiday. I chose Memorial Day after it was suggested to me by my lovely friend madammadhatter.
Adùruth-ghiluz is neo-Khuzdul for "Mourning-day." I figured that on a special occasion calling for special ceremony, things would be done in Khuzdul, and so there's a minimal amount of that here. You'll be able to figure it out. Thanks to marigoldfaucet for her neo-Khuzdul help!
Also, before you continue—this fic is heavily focused on losing a close family member, specifically a parent. Please be warned of that before you continue on.
One.
Fíli had gone through Adùruth-ghiluz before, but it had always been just another boring ceremony on another boring day on which he had to wear nice clothes and not get dirty. This year, however, was different. This year, they were not just honoring a bunch of names of people Fíli had never known nor cared about. This year, there was another dwarf to be honored among the dead, a dwarf that never should have died.
There was a ceremony every year at dusk at the tombs of those who had fallen in battle. The year before, Fíli had been bored, bouncing from one foot to the other, impatient to leave; when Kíli had started to cry because he was hungry and Dís left early to feed him, Fíli had been jealous. He had had to stay at the ceremony with his father, who had hushed him and made him stand still.
"Have some respect for the dead, Fíli," he had scolded.
Fíli was too young to listen.
Now Fíli was eight years old, and unlike the year before, there was a name Fíli recognized among the dead—Jóli, son of Víli, slain by orcs while clearing out a network of caves close to home. He was to be honored with the others at Adùruth-ghiluz; Thorin would light a candle for him and announce his name to the solemn crowd. Fíli did not fidget this year. He had no energy to. His mum was crying, and Kíli was asleep in her arms. Fíli was left standing beside his mother, tears rolling silently down his cheeks as he attempted to be strong. Da hadn't cried at Adùruth-ghiluz, not even when he had come forward to announce the name of his own father, Víli, slain at the Battle of Azanulbizar. But Fíli was not strong enough not to cry. He wasn't even strong enough to stand alone. All he wanted was something he couldn't get.
After the ceremony was over, Thorin made his way through the crowd to his sister and sister-sons and gently took Kíli from her arms. The sleeping babe did not stir as Thorin handed him off to Ari, Glóin's wife, and Thorin turned back to Dís and pulled her into a tight hug. For a long while, Dís sobbed into her brother's shoulder, blind and deaf to the rest of the world. Fíli felt completely and utterly forgotten. No one seemed to notice he was there at all.
Fíli wandered off on his own until he found his father's tomb; he knelt on the steps that led up to the stone door and pressed his hands and his temples against it.
"Da, please come back," he whispered. There was no reply.
"Da, please come back," he said a little louder, but still the stone door remained shut.
"Da, come back!" Fíli shrieked, pounding his little fists against the stone. "Come back, come back, come back!"
When the stone did not respond, Fíli curled into a ball and buried his face in his knees, sobbing so hard that his stomach hurt. Da wasn't coming back. Da couldn't come back. He stayed there for a long time and wept. But eventually, the sound of running footsteps caught his attention. He raised his head and saw Thorin running towards him.
"Fíli, there you are!" Thorin said, relief ringing in his voice. "You can't just run off like that, lad. You had your mother worried sick."
Fíli hiccupped and stared at his uncle morosely. He had nothing to say for himself.
"Come on," said Thorin, reaching out his hand. "Let's go back home, all right?"
"I-I d-don't wanna go h-home," Fíli said. "I w-wanna stay right h-here. I w-wanna stay with m-my Da."
Thorin stared at Fíli sadly and said nothing for a few moments. He licked his lips.
"All right, then," said Thorin, sitting down beside his little nephew. "We'll stay here for a while, all right?"
Fíli pressed his head against the cold stone and continued to cry. Thorin waited a long time in silence; finally, Fíli was too weary to cry anymore, and Thorin reached out and pulled him into his arms. Fíli wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck and pressed his nose into his shoulder, feeling heavy and sleepy. Thorin carried him all the way home.
Five.
It was Adùruth-ghiluz again. Fíli hated this day now. Every year on this day he was reminded all day long that his da was gone and he was never coming back. His mother did not smile, and neither did he. Not today.
Kíli, on the other hand, seemed to be attempting to make up for both of them.
"Kíli, sit still," Fíli said through clenched teeth as his little brother bounced up and down on the bed. He held Kíli's royal blue tunic in his hands. Their mother had tasked Fíli with getting Kíli ready for the ceremony, but all Kíli wanted to do was play. All Kíli ever wanted to do was play.
"Catch me!" Kíli shrieked, diving off the bed. Fíli only just managed to open his arms in time and catch him.
"Blimey, Kíli, don't do that!" Fíli said, dropping his little brother onto the floor. Kíli stumbled, but stayed on his feet. He looked up at Fíli with wide eyes.
"But we always do that," he said.
"Well, not today!" Fíli snapped. "Put your shirt on. We have to go soon."
"Why do I have to wear this?" Kíli complained as Fíli yanked the shirt over his head. "Where are we going?"
"It's Adùruth-ghiluz, Kíli," Fíli said. "We have to go to the candle ceremony at the tombs and honor those who have fallen in battle. We did this last year, too. And the year before that. We do it every year."
"Why do I have to go?" said Kíli.
"Because everyone has to go."
"Can't we just go play instead?"
"For Mahal's sake, Kíli, can't you have some respect for the dead?" Fíli snapped. "Your Da is one of them! You should show some respect!"
"But I don't even remember Da," Kíli shot back.
This was too much for Fíli. "Well, I do!" he shouted, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. "And he's gone and I'll never see him again and… and… you should be ashamed, being so disrespectful! He died fighting to keep us safe!"
"So?" Kíli said. "Why do I have to wear this to remember that? Why do I have to wait through a boring old ceremony?"
"Get out of my face!" Fíli shrieked, shoving Kíli hard. Kíli stumbled and fell on his bottom, and Fíli glared at him, breathing hard. Within seconds, Kíli's brown eyes filled with tears, and he pulled himself to his feet and ran out of the room, already sobbing for their mother.
Fíli stood rigid, trembling. His face felt hot and his vision was starting to blur; the lump that had been sitting in his throat since the night before was so big now that it hurt. He lowered himself to the floor and curled up against the foot of the bed, and as soon as his back hit the footboard, the tears began to fall. He could hear the heavy footsteps of his uncle approaching.
"Fíli?" Thorin called from the hall. Fíli ignored him, sobbing into his folded arms. The footsteps came closer, and then Fíli could feel his uncle's presence to his right. He cringed, waiting for the inevitable reprimand for how he had treated his brother.
"Fíli, are you all right?" said Thorin softly.
Surprised, Fíli lifted his head and looked up at Thorin. He took in a shuddering breath.
"No," he said tearfully. "I hate Adùruth-ghiluz. I hate this day. I always hate it."
"It's an important day to remember those we have lost," Thorin said.
"I d-don't need today to remember Da," Fíli sobbed. "I remember h-him every day. I m-miss him every day."
"I know, lad," said Thorin. "We all do. Come here."
Thorin started to pull Fíli into a hug, but Fíli shrieked and pushed against his hold, and Thorin let go and looked at his nephew in shock.
"Fíli, I was only going to hug you," he said.
"I want a hug from Da," Fíli cried.
Thorin opened his mouth, but then he closed it without saying anything. Fíli buried his face in his arms and continued to cry, paying no attention to his uncle. Eventually, he heard Thorin rise, and then the sound of his footsteps faded out into the hall.
Fíli was alone, but it wasn't what he wanted.
Eight.
Fíli was fifteen years old now, and for the first time, he had been given a duty at Adùruth-ghiluz. He was supposed to light the candle for his father and announce his name as one who had fallen. Before, Thorin had done it, but he and Dís had decided together that it was time for him to fulfill his duty as firstborn. He was old enough now.
Fíli had known that it was customary for the firstborn to honor his father at Adùruth-ghiluz before the assembly, but it had never really crossed his mind that one day he would have to do it. It was not until Thorin had told him that it was his duty now that he realized how much he did not want to do it. He couldn't do it.
To Fíli, honoring his da at Adùruth-ghiluz was admitting that he was never coming back.
Of course, Fíli knew that his da wasn't coming back. He had known that from the day they had told him. But to say it in front of the entire assembly was something else altogether. He wasn't afraid of crying in front of everyone—well, he was, but that was beside the point. He just didn't want that finality, that one final stone in place that said his da was gone forever. Something inside him—some part of him that was still a seven-year-old dwarfling—said that if he held the grief in his heart, if he kept it out of sight, then life would not take hold of it and make it real. One day, Da would come bursting back into his life and they would pick up right where they had left off. All he had to do was keep quiet and keep the Adùruth-ghiluz candle unlit.
That was why he ran away.
It was raining that day, the eighth Adùruth-ghiluz since Jóli had died. Since Jóli had been killed. Fíli thought it was fitting. If he could feel no cheer, why should the sky have any cheer, either? Walking through the wet and the wind was miserable, but no more miserable than he already felt inside. He trudged aimlessly through mud and water. At least he had had the sense to dress warm—it was cold for a spring day, even in the Blue Mountains. All he had to do was stay out of sight until the ceremony was over. Then he could go home and face the consequences.
The only problem was that Fíli had no idea how much time had passed. He found a small cave, barely big enough to shelter him from the rain, and sat inside, watching the sky grow darker. Uneasiness began to gnaw at his insides as night descended. How long had it been? Maybe he should just wait for a bit longer…
The rain ceased with the coming of night, and a cold wind took its place, chilling Fíli to the bone. He shivered, wishing he had supplies to build a fire, but he did not—he was doomed to be cold or simply go home. For a while longer he braved the wind, but eventually, he could not take it anymore, and he pulled himself up, trembling, and headed for home.
The mountain passageways were chilly, just like they always were, and Fíli wrapped his cloak tighter around himself as he made his way through the corridors to his home. Finally he reached the front door, and as quietly as he could, he opened it; warmth rushed out at him from inside, and he closed his eyes and sighed in relief. It felt so good after so long outside.
"Where have you been?"
Fíli's eyes widened and snapped up to the chair by the fireplace, where Thorin sat, holding a pipe in his hand. He rose and started towards his nephew; Fíli had half a mind to run back out the door, but the warmth had gotten to him now, and he couldn't make himself do it. He shut the door behind himself and cowered against it, feeling a horrible sinking feeling in his gut.
"What were you thinking?" Thorin shouted. "Skipping out on the ceremony—you had a duty to perform, Fíli! The first duty you have ever been afforded, and you shirk it as if it were nothing more than a daily chore! How disrespectful—how dishonorable—"
"I'm sorry, Uncle, I'm sorry," Fíli said, feeling a sharp stab of guilt at his uncle's words. He hated how his voice already wavered and tears filled his eyes. "I just—I couldn't—"
"You couldn't?" Thorin said incredulously. "All you had to do was light a candle and say your father's name!"
"I can't," Fíli said brokenly. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. "I can't, I can't say his name in front of everyone, not today…"
"You are heir to the throne of Erebor, Fíli!" Thorin continued. "What kind of impression does it give to those out there when you abandon the tasks you have been assigned? When you refuse to honor your father before those who will one day be your subjects?"
"I just can't do it, all right?" Fíli shouted shrilly. "I wish I could, but I cannot! He's gone, Uncle, and I'll never see him again, and I—and I—I can't say that in front of everyone! I want…" He trailed off and sank to the floor, burying his face in his cloak. I want him to come back. He sobbed loudly into his hands, and though he felt ashamed, he did nothing to stop it. He was cold and tired and overcome with grief, and he could not bring himself to care anymore. Let his uncle shout at him. Let him go on about honor. Nothing could bring back his da.
"Fíli," said Thorin, his voice gentler than before.
"Leave me alone," Fíli said miserably.
"Fíli, look at me."
"No."
"Fíli." Thorin grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his face slowly. Fíli sniffed and looked up into his uncle's deep blue eyes; to his surprise, they were no longer full of anger, but shining with sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Uncle," Fíli said. "I just… I just couldn't do it."
"Never mind that, lad," said Thorin. "Off to bed with you, now. We can talk about things later."
With another sniff, Fíli rose to his feet, and Thorin peeled off his cloak and hung it by the fire. He stumbled to his bedroom and changed slowly, fighting to keep quiet, though he was not yet capable of stopping his tears. Kíli shifted in the bed, and Fíli froze.
"No, I don't want one," Kíli mumbled sleepily.
Fíli smiled tremblingly through his tears and finished changing. Then he climbed into bed, pushing his little brother's sprawled limbs out of his space; Kíli curled onto his side and touched his forehead to Fíli's shoulder. Fíli pressed his face into his pillow and sighed.
At least one of them could sleep well tonight.
Eighteen.
For ten years, Fíli had been able to successfully avoid Adùruth-ghiluz. For ten years, he had stolen away early before anyone could miss him, avoiding not just the ceremony at dusk, but all the Adùruth-ghiluz rituals. He never revealed where he was going, and much to his relief, Thorin had given up asking. He did not know who said his father's name at the candlelit ceremony. He had never asked. They didn't talk about it.
Not until this year, that is.
Fíli had perfected the art of escaping before anyone could catch him. Each year, he left a little earlier, sneaking out before Thorin could catch him leaving. Last year, he had left the morning before and camped out for two nights under the stars. His mother had given up trying to get him to come. Every time he felt overwhelming guilt about his behavior, but the idea of lighting a candle in his father's name haunted him more than any guilt could. His family's honor and his own reputation would take precedence any other day of the year, but on Adùruth-ghiluz, Fíli let fear take over.
It was early in the morning the day before Adùruth-ghiluz, and Fíli was wide awake. He had already packed his things for camping, and he slid out of bed, taking care not to make any noise that would wake his brother. Kíli remained peacefully asleep as he slipped out of the room, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He tiptoed out into the kitchen and slipped on his boots; then he snuck out the front door. He closed it quietly and then closed his eyes. One more year that he was free from this wretched holiday.
"Stop."
Fíli froze, a jolt of panic shooting through his body. Thorin emerged from around the corner, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Not this year, Fíli," Thorin said.
Torrents of terror coursed through Fíli's body. How could he escape? There had to be some escape. He looked around helplessly, but he knew there was nowhere to go but towards Thorin or down a long, straight corridor.
"Please, Uncle," Fíli said, his voice coming out in a squeak. "Please don't—"
"Enough," Thorin interrupted. He took a step forward. "You have been shirking your duties for ten years now, and it is time to put an end to this foolishness. You are twenty-five years old. I have given you plenty of time to get used to the idea—far more time than I should have, in fact. You cannot continue to behave in such a disrespectful manner. Not when you are heir to the throne. Your absence has been noted by many."
"I mean no disrespect, I just—"
"Quiet," Thorin growled. "Whether you mean it or not, you are bringing dishonor not only upon yourself, but your family—and most importantly, your father."
Fíli blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing again. He pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor.
"Your father lit a candle for his father every Adùruth-ghiluz, and I light a candle for my father, as well," Thorin continued. "What makes you think that you should be able to get away with not doing the same for Jóli? He deserves more from you than that. He deserves your respect, even in death—and you have not treated him thus. You have been a dishonor to his name."
Fíli could feel a large lump in his throat, and there was no use in stopping the tears that already fell from his eyes. The weight of shame now sitting upon his shoulders was unbearable. His uncle was right—he had dishonored his father in his desperation to hold on to him.
"I'm sorry, Uncle," he whispered.
"Good," said Thorin gruffly. "Now, go back inside. You are not to leave this house until tomorrow evening. Are we clear?"
"Aye, sir," Fíli said, keeping his eyes trained upon the ground. He turned back to the door and went back inside; Thorin followed straight behind, and Fíli cringed, feeling like a small child. He went back to his room, dropped his pack by the door, and crawled back into bed. Kíli shifted and opened his eyes.
"Thought you were leaving," Kíli mumbled.
Fíli felt another surge of guilt. Of course Kíli knew what he had been doing—and he had said nothing. He had made his brother complicit in his dishonorable actions without even asking his consent.
"No," Fíli said quietly. "Not this year."
"Does this mean I don't have to light the candle anymore?"
Fíli closed his eyes tightly. He felt like he couldn't even breathe. "Yeah, that's… that's my job."
"Sounds good," said Kíli sleepily. He closed his eyes and was soon back asleep, but Fíli lay awake, his heart pounding and his mind racing. He would have to light the candle. He would have to announce his father's name among the dead.
The seven-year-old still inside him said You'll have to say goodbye.
—
Fíli stood next to his mother and his brother rigidly. He felt as if there were cords wrapped around his insides, pulling and squeezing and cutting off his breath, constricting his head and making him dizzy. All he could think, over and over, was I don't want to do this, I don't want to do this, I can't do this. But he did not have a choice. He was trapped now.
He could feel the eyes of the other dwarves upon him, and suddenly he realized that Thorin was right—his absence had been noted by many. He felt ashamed, and those cords pulled tighter on him. He could barely breathe now. He forced himself to continue looking forward, staring hard at Thorin up in the front, keeping his eyes from searching for ways to escape.
The ceremony began, and Fíli fought to focus, but he could not; all he could feel was that tight, agonizing feeling, and the rest of the world seemed to be somewhere far away. He could hear the Khuzdul words, but he could not process them. He watched Thorin give a long, solemn speech; at least at this part, he wouldn't be the only dwarf not paying attention. Thorin could go on for ages.
Suddenly, there was an elbow in his ribs, and he jumped and turned his head to glare at the culprit. Kíli raised his eyebrows and nodded up at the stage.
"You're supposed to go up now," he whispered.
Blood rushed through Fíli's ears and his face grew warm. It was time. He had avoided this for ten years, but no longer. His mother squeezed his hand, and then he stepped forward. He could feel his hands shaking. I don't want to do this. Tears were building in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to expel them, but they only increased, blurring his vision. He stood beside Thorin and was handed a lit candle that he was to use for his task.
The first names spoken were the names of the kings lost since Erebor.
"Thrór Dáinul," Thorin said, lighting a candle in his grandfather's name. "Thráin Thrórul. Frerin Thráinul." He lit two more candles and then nodded to Fíli.
Fíli looked out at the crowd before him, his heart pounding. He wanted to escape. There was no escape. I don't want to do this. He stepped forward to the unlit candle beside Frerin's.
"Víli first," Thorin whispered.
"Víli Khimliul," Fíli said, lighting a candle for his grandfather. His eyes moved to the next candle—his father's candle. Finality crashed down upon him like a heavy wave. He could not breathe.
His first attempt to speak was fruitless. Though he moved his lips, nothing came out of his mouth. He coughed and swallowed and tried again.
"J-Jóli… Víliul," he said, his voice cracking. He touched the burning candle down to the cold wick, and within moments, the flame spread. Fíli watched it burn, mesmerized; Thorin grabbed his hand, and he jumped, lifting the candle in his hand away from his father's. His uncle took the candle from his hand and nodded towards the crowd, and Fíli scampered off the stage, chagrined.
He found his place back with his family quickly and stood with stooped shoulders, feeling as if a great weight lay across them. Dís took his hand, and Kíli laid a hand on his shoulder, but their touch brought him no comfort. He thought back to when he had been twelve years old, when he had fought his way out of Thorin's embrace. I want a hug from Da. He didn't want comfort from his family. He just wanted his Da back.
The ceremony was still on—dozens of dwarves came forward to honor their kin, and Fíli knew it was disrespectful to leave, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was going to break down any second now, and he didn't want everyone else to see it. He couldn't take it anymore. Tears were already rolling down his face. He had to leave.
With a quick, twisting move, Fíli pulled himself away from his mother and his brother and ran.
"Fíli!" came the sharp whisper of his mother, but he paid her no mind. He was running, running, and unless someone decided to tackle him to the ground, he was not going to stop. He ran and ran until he was back in the mountain halls, back in his own house, back in his bedroom, and there he finally stopped and threw himself upon his bed.
Heavy sobs came from deep in Fíli's chest and welled to the surface, and he did not attempt to stop them. His cries echoed through the stone chambers and came back sounding high and empty. At least there was no one to hear him—everyone was down at the ceremony. Everyone except him.
He felt like the little seven-year-old dwarfling once again, crying into his pillow after Thorin had come home covered in blood with the worst news in the world. All he had wanted then—all he wanted now—was for his da to walk into the room, alive and whole, and smile at him with that bright grin that lit up the world around him. He had fought for so long to keep that childish hope alive, though he knew it was foolish, and now, it felt as if he had closed a cold stone door against that hope forever. In his mind, he knew how ridiculous his thinking was, but somewhere deep down inside, that seven-year-old had never grown up. He had clung to a childish dream, and now he had been forced to cast it aside and accept reality, painful as it was, and carry on.
He didn't want to carry on. He wanted to go back. He wanted to be a child again, to see his father's golden braids and deep brown eyes and infectious smile one more time. But he couldn't. He could only lie in his bed and cry, a dishonor to his family name and a dishonor to his da, incapable of even speaking his name.
Fíli hated Adùruth-ghiluz.
He always would.