Chapter Text
“Common tongue”
“Elvish”
"Black Speech”
~
The darkness had long since devoured all sense of time for Beorn.
He no longer knew whether it was day or night above the mountain, whether rain fell over the passes or snow had buried them. His beard was unkempt, his long hair knotted and foul with dirt and old blood, and his broad body was leaner than it had ever been in all his years.
He sat with his back against the wall of the cell, wrists stretched forward by iron chains, the metal cutting into skin that had long since scared around it. His neck was ringed too, the chain fixed high enough that he couldn’t lie flat unless the orcs chose to loosen it.
That, at least, was a new addition.
One they hadn’t come to loosen in days.
Though it was hard to tell so deep within the mountain.
Even harder now that he was all alone.
The last of his kin were gone.
His mother and father had died early in the attack, and he felt thankful for that.
It was a bitter, ugly sort of gratitude, the kind no son should ever have to feel, but he clung to it all the same. He had been eight and twenty when their village was raided, but his father hadn’t exactly been young. Shifting had become painful for him in his later years, until finally, he had stopped shifting altogether because of old pains.
Even so, his father had shifted one last time.
One last time to defend their home, all the while demanding Beorn not shift and fight, but help his clan escape instead.
He had died for it.
His mother had died not long after, an arrow in her side just as Beorn had helped her across the river, her hand slipping from his, her blood hot over his skin even as the water ran cold around their legs.
He had been captured in his grief, too shocked even to shift until it was too late.
But he didn’t break that day.
No.
It was every day after that had.
The orcs had put them to hard labour, all nine and forty of them, ten of whom had just been cubs, eleven of them skin-changers. Their people had never been many, their village a mix of shifters and men, but they had all been kin in some way.
The orcs had marched them in chains into the mountain like livestock and set them to carving out tunnels within the Misty Mountains for years.
Five years, if their words were to be believed.
Five years of raw hands and split nails and bleeding shoulders and backs.
He and the other shifters were strong at least, they could work for hours. But the humans…
They went first.
Sickness took some, falling stone took others. Exhaustion made one man stumble beneath a loaded cart, and the wheel crushed his ribs before Beorn could even reach him. One woman simply sat down one day in the tunnel, her pick loose in her hand, and wouldn’t rise again no matter how hard the orcs whipped her.
The orcs found their lack of will to live amusing.
They laughed and kicked the broken bodies over the ledges. Sometimes they didn’t even bother to drag them away at all, the stench growing too ripe for his sensitive nose.
He thought being a slave to the filthy beasts would be the hardest trial he had ever endured.
And it had been until the Azog entered the mountain.
Even now, even after all this time, the mere thought of that foul name made every muscle in his body lock and the bear beneath his skin want to claw its way out.
Azog had learned quickly that Beorn wouldn’t kneel because of a little pain.
But pain given to others did.
The first time he had shifted in the mines, enraged beyond reason when one of the cubs had stumbled beneath the weight of their cart and an orc raised a hooked blade to punish her, Beorn had torn through four of them before they even had a chance to tighten the chains. When they finally had him chained to the ground, they dragged that same cub forward and opened her from shoulder to hip while he was forced back into his man-shape, shaking and helpless as the small cub bled to death.
After that, every act of defiance had cost something.
The pale orc especially took cruel delight in his suffering and began killing or maiming his kin for the smallest of things.
Beorn hadn’t shifted fully since.
The rest of the cubs were killed quickly once Azog came, all within the first two years, but their screams.
Béma, their screams.
He could still hear them.
Even worse was that he could still hear the crunching of their bones, the smell of their cooked flesh. The way the orcs had grinned, mouths wet with grease and blood, as they pushed “meat” into their cells and mocked the starving with it.
He, unlike some, hadn’t given in to the hunger. He had sworn it then, with bile in his mouth… he would never eat meat again, even if he starved to death.
Better the empty ache of hunger than taking his kin into himself like the orcs wanted him to do.
Beorn didn’t blame the others for giving in to the clenching pains of hunger.
He just couldn’t stomach the thought of it. Not when he could still hear the sobs of his dear friend Anuur as he stared at the burnt, devoured head of his cub. Not when he could still hear the wet piercing of flesh when he took the picked broken bones the orcs had thrown into their cell and drove them into his own throat.
If Beorn were a weaker man, if he hadn’t still held onto a small thread of hope that he could help what was left of his kin at the time, he would have followed without hesitation.
He counted himself lucky that he had no mate or cubs to speak of.
But even that had been a short relief.
One by one, he had been pitted against his own kin for the Defiler’s entertainment, with the promise that he could choose three to be freed if he won.
Even now, years later, the shame of believing that promise still festered in him like rot.
At first, he had thought the orc had chosen him because he was the largest and strongest of the skin-changers. Beorn had always been huge for his kind, broad, with hands that could split kindling like twigs and a bear-shape that made all kinds of creatures run in fear.
Later, he knew better.
Azog chose him because he was defiant.
And he wanted to break him.
Nine times Beorn had fought in the pits, starved and bloodied under the jeering laughter of the beasts.
And nine times his brothers and sisters had sacrificed themselves to his claws in the hope that the orc would hold true to his word.
It was hardly a choice that needed thinking about.
Of the nine and forty that had been enslaved from their village, only sixteen were left when the fighting pits began, and only three of those were cubs still.
They all knew that if there was a chance to save the cubs, then it was a worthy sacrifice.
That was what he and the others told themselves as their claws shredded through skin and bone.
The first had been old Marach, who had pressed his forehead to Beorn’s before the gates opened and whispered, “Don’t shame me by making it too fast.”
He should have known that the orc wouldn’t keep his word.
The three cubs that should have been set free from the mountain were instead “freed from the burden of life,” as the filthy orc had muttered in his black tongue.
Their heads had been placed on spikes and left to rot in front of their cell as the orcs feasted on their flesh.
There had been only four of them left after that.
He, Fengal, Háma and Dúnwen, though only he and Dúnwen were skin-changers.
If it hadn’t been for Dúnwen’s condition, he’s sure that they all would have followed in Anuur’s footsteps by now.
Beorn turned his head slowly in the darkness, staring at the place where she had curled against the wall only days ago, one hand always resting over her protruding stomach.
He had been sure she would give birth any week, and the thought of it had made him sick with dread.
If the babe came in the mines, then it would surely be taken and thrown into the food pit the moment it took its first cry.
But that babe had also been the only reason he was still here. It wasn’t the first time one of theirs had come with child in the last five years.
He thanked every Vala he could name that this one wasn’t the result of an orc’s seed.
He had never seen anything as grotesque and unnatural as a half-orc forcing its way through its mother’s womb not even halfway through its pregnancy. The mother had died shrieking, and the thing that came out of her had screeched like something dragged straight from Mordor.
He never wanted to witness such a perversion of nature again.
It made him all the more thankful that Dúnwen and her mate had coupled and conceived before any other blackened seed could take root.
They had been planning for the babe’s survival for months, feeding Dúnwen most of their portions, even though it left the rest of them weak. Digging and digging until finally they came across a possible escape, for something the size of a newborn at least, far too narrow for a fully sized man or woman.
It had been little more than dampness at first, a trickle flowing from the stone. But Beorn had followed it like a hound on a trail, using broken scraps of metal and his bare hands.
He followed the stream as far as he could, even managing to reach one of the cavern entrances to see where it fed gently down the mountain and into the forest below. He saw the sun for the first time in years that day. He had basked in it for only a moment, eyes closed, chest heaving, before the chains yanked hard around his wrists and dragged him back into the darkness.
They had prayed to the Valar each day that this cub would survive. That they would take pity and let the last of the skin-changers live away from the darkness that shackled them to this mountain.
Then…
Then he could die and reunite with his parents once more.
And just as he predicted, the labour started not even a few weeks later.
He dropped beside her, one large hand cradling the back of her head as her body spasmed with pain.
“Quiet,” he murmured. “Sister, you must stay quiet.”
She only bared her teeth with a growl as another contraction seized her, and he had to clamp his hand over her mouth. She bit into his palm until blood welled beneath her teeth, her screams muffled as the cub forced its way into the world.
Between the pains, when they uncovered her mouth to let her gasp, she pleaded with him. Her voice was ragged, sweat soaking her hair to her brow.
“Please, Beorn,” she whispered once, clutching at him. “You have to escape. Please, you—you have to, my cub has to live.”
“Dúnwen, there is no escape for us—”
“Promise me,” she begged.
“I’ll try,” Beorn said, though his words felt hollow.
Then pain took her again.
Until finally, the babe slipped free, and Beorn was quick to place his large hand over the tiny mouth that began wailing.
The sound was so small beneath his palm.
So alive.
“Háma,” Beorn whispered. “Quickly, cut the cord.”
Háma fumbled with the sharpened shard of metal they had hidden, hands shaking badly.
Beorn looked over to show Dúnwen her newborn, but her cries had gone silent, her eyes wide and unseeing.
His sister in all but blood was gone, and now he held her cub’s life in his hands.
He forced himself to turn away from her already cooling body and ordered Fengal to bring the cloth and cradle they had hidden.
The cradle was hardly worthy of the name.
A hollowed length of wood, uneven and crude, carved from a log he had managed to sneak into their cell. He had shaped it in the dark, smoothing what he could, hollowing the centre, testing it again and again in whatever buckets of water they had to be sure it would float.
He swaddled the babe quickly in the least filthy cloth they possessed and Háma placed his hand gently over the newborn boy’s mouth to muffle his whimpers, whispering apologies all the while.
“It’s a boy,” Háma breathed.
Beorn’s chest tightened as he stared at the squirming bundle.
They had all discussed names, of course.
For a girl, Dúnwen had wanted to name her after her mother.
For a boy, though…
He quickly took the shard of metal and bent over the little wooden float, hands shaking as he quickly carved the letters as cleanly as he could into the wood.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Háma whispered. “What if he drowns?”
Beorn frowned at him and moved to take away some of the rocks that hid the hole they had managed to carve out just above the mountain stream behind their cell.
“We can only pray that the Valar will take pity on him and allow him to live,” he growled solemnly.
Fengal’s sobs grew then, and he whispered. “Better to drown than be cooked alive and eaten.”
All of them winced at the memories his words brought forth.
The babe no longer whimpered, and for one terrible moment Beorn worried that he had already perished.
But when he looked down, the babe was squinting up at him with a tiny frown before cooing softly.
Beorn couldn’t help but smile, tears threatening to fall as he lifted the babe within his large hands.
The child was so impossibly small. Smaller than Beorn remembered cubs being, though perhaps all things looked small against his large hands.
He let one of his fingers stroke down the soft cheek, smiling sadly as the cub wraped his tiny fingers around it. They didn’t even fit fully around the digit, but they held tight all the same.
Beorn, who had done so many horrible acts since being enslaved, felt something inside him go painfully tender at that tiny grip.
Placing a kiss on the cub’s head and pressing their brows together, he gently scented him for the first and most likely last time, breathing in deeply to remember the cub’s scent.
“May you live a long life, little cub,” he murmured. “May Béma bless you in your hunt for life and take you away from the darkness that swallows this land.”
The babe started wailing then, and Beorn quickly placed him into the cradle before dropping him gently through the hole and into the stream, praying that the water would carry him away from the mountain safely.
He laid awake the whole night listening, trying his best not to look at the cooling corpse in the corner, before finally succumbing to exhaustion.
He woke the next day to find that Háma and Fengal had taken their own lives during the night, and he had been left all alone.
He stared at them for a long time.
He wanted to join them so badly.
Béma knew he would have.
But Dúnwen’s plea echoed in his ears.
He had promised that he would try.
And so he did.
He lived and slaved and waited for the day that he could escape. Even as more and more slaves entered the mountain, he waited for his window of opportunity and dreamt every night of reuniting with the cub he had sent away.
Unknown to him, as the babe floated downstream, his wails echoing through the caverns and making both orc and goblin heads swivel to try and follow the cries, the cradle finally floated from the mountain and into the light.
By the grace of the Valar, the currents carried the floating cradle with an unnatural gentleness.
The small stream joined a river, and the babe floated for a whole day, his wails of hunger dwindling as his throat became hoarse and he grew weak.
Calen, or Harry as he had once been known as, had been enjoying the cool waters after a long day of travelling.
His dark hair, longer now than it had been in the life he had left behind, clung damply to his neck and chest. His skin was flawless from all the scars of his past, slightly tanned and glowing, and his eyes were brighter than ever. He seemed ageless, enough that many among Elves and Men had mistaken him for one of the Firstborn over the years, only to be corrected when they saw his rounded ears.
He had come to the river to bathe and had been standing in the shallows when he felt something bump against his calf.
At first, he thought it was a fallen log tangled with leaves.
His eyes widened as he moved aside the leaves that had gathered over the top and saw the newborn babe nestled weakly inside.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, breathless and soft.
For a moment, he could only stare in shock. Then he realised something was wrong and he moved quickly, lifting the tiny boy from the wooden float with slightly trembling hands.
He was far too cold.
Calen’s heart lurched when he saw the blue tint to his lips, already feeling how close he was to the Halls of his adoptive father. Without hesitation, he placed his hand on the tiny chest and let his magic flow.
“Come on now, little one,” he whispered.
He had spent enough time with Estë to know something of the ways of healing, and combined with his close relationship with Mandos’ domain, he was confident he could bring the babe back before he drifted too close to the Doors.
Magic moved from his palm and curled through the baby’s body fixing what was wrong, shimmering gently as life wove back into the boy.
Then, with a sputtering cough, the babe let out a piercing wail.
“Shh, there we go, little one,” he whispered, gathering the child against his chest as he stepped from the river. “You’re alright now. You’re alright.”
The babe wailed even louder, furious and weak but alive.
Calen stripped away the tattered, damp fabric wrapped around him and tucked him inside his own cloak, folding the warm material around the tiny body with careful hands. His magic continued to move beneath the baby’s skin, playful now, brushing against something within the child that was not quite human, but all too familiar and it made him smile.
“Such a strong little boy,” he murmured softly. “But what else should I expect from one of Oromë’s favoured? Maybe it was he who brought you to me in time.”
The child made a hoarse, miserable sound.
“I know,” Calen soothed. “I know, darling. It has been a terrible day for you, hasn’t it?”
Keeping the baby tucked close in one arm, he knelt at the bank and lifted the floating cradle from where it had lodged itself among the reeds.
Wiping away some of the mud that clung to it, he saw fresh markings and uttered the syllables slowly.
“A-M-D-Í-R,” he muttered gently under his breath.
He glanced down at the child.
“Amdír. Is that your name, little one?”
The baby only cooed gently, basking in the warmth of Calen’s magic as it continued to dance playfully against his inner bear.
Calen placed the cradle down on the grass and held the baby in both hands, lifting him carefully so he could look at him properly.
The child’s face was wrinkled and red from crying, his dark little brows drawn together, and his lips turned down into a pout so solemn that Calen’s lips twitched. His fists waved weakly before one caught the loose long strands of his hair and he held on tight.
Calen felt something in his heart warm.
He hadn’t held a baby since long before he arrived in the Halls of Mandos over two centuries ago, and he felt a fierce sort of protectiveness well inside him. He had always wanted to have children of his own, and feeling the divine energy lingering over the cradle, clearly Oromë had guided this little shifter his way.
He may not have had a life-mate like most of the Valar, much like Ulmo and Nienna, he just hadn’t found any that made his soul sing.
But he could still have a son to call his own without one, couldn’t he?
He’s sure he could find a way to share his life span with his new son. He wouldn’t take Amdír’s choice of mortality away of course, but maybe he would accept a blood adoption once he was older? Maybe even travel to Valinor with him once he tired of his time on Arda.
Decision made, he hugged the tiny shifter closer and swayed gently.
His green eyes crinkled slightly in happiness as he smiled, and he placed a gentle kiss on the babe’s forehead.
“Fear not, Amdír,” he whispered. “You will be so loved…”