Chapter Text
All I take with me.
The Battle of Five Armies ended with the death of Azog the Defiler, at the hands of none other than Thorin Oakenshield. Though the King Under the Mountain barely paid the event any mind, his whole focus being on reaching his fallen wife, who laid on a ground covered in snow and tiny flowers no one knew the name of, in between Ravenhill and the Lonely Mountain, a dark, orcish arrow piercing her chest…
A week later Gandalf finally manages to slip into the Guest Apartments, on the Eastern Side of the mountain. They're not the Royal Apartments, but they were among the easiest to clean; also, they have access to a terrace, which means wind and sun for their hobbit-queen. The moment Óin was able to promise Thorin that Bilba could be moved without her life being put in (more) danger, they got her there. Arrangements were made to ensure she’d never be alone, that someone would always be keeping her company, usually one of the Company, though Tilda, Bain and Sigrid volunteered to spend time with her as well.
Thorin hasn’t been neglecting his duties. He knows Bilba well enough to know she’d hate that. So he makes a point to attend to his duties as King, and at the same time spend time by her bedside. Fíli and Kíli have really helped on that front, stepping forth as Princes, as his heirs, taking on as many duties as they can to ensure their uncle has time to spend with his wife, to eat and rest as well.
The first couple of nights were the worst, not knowing if she’d live or not. Much as his nephews and the Company tried to reassure him that Bilba was strong, Thorin couldn’t help but be beyond terrified. He’d already lost so much… (his mother, grandmother, grandfather, father, his little-brother, friends, family, so many of his people, he couldn’t lose her too!). After the second night Óin seemed quite certain that she was making a recovery:
“She’s past the worst of it now.” The healer told the Company. “She’s no longer bleeding. The outer bleeding we controlled pretty quickly in fact; despite the seriousness of the injury, we got to her pretty fast, and we had the means to treat her. We also discovered that even with an arrow to the chest, she didn’t bleed as bad as it originally seemed. The blood-red flowers that were under her? They were already red, according to the elf-girl, Kíli's friend, they’re called Seregon, which means ‘blood of stone’, grimly appropriate, if you think about it.” Óin shakes his head. “It was the inside that worried us at first. But that’s been fixed by now too. Despite how bad her fall was, no bones were broken. It seems like the tip of one of her wings was slightly damaged, but it was minimal. Of course, I cannot know if the wing will heal or not, or how much that will truly affect her in the long run.” He shrugs, and truly, no one knows much about her wings; not even she. “I’ve checked her skull, no fractures there either. If the fall caused her any damage, it’s not visible. And… and that’s it.”
“Now what?” Kíli asked, tense.
“Now we wait.” Óin admitted. “At this point, that's all we can do.”
Almost a week later they’re still waiting. And Bilba remains unconscious.
Gandalf finds Thorin sitting by his wife’s bedside, in his hands a small golden harp as he plays for her softly. Óin believes that even unconscious as she is Bilba might be somewhat aware, it’s why everyone’s made a point of talking to her whenever they visit, telling her about their day, how everything’s going. Thorin sometimes feels like he can almost hear her reply. He knows it’s not real, that it’s just him, knowing his beloved as well as he does, and yet… there’s always that tiny bit of hope that it will be her…
“What are you doing here Tharkûn ?” Thorin asks gruffly as he stops playing abruptly.
“I… ah… well I’m visiting Bilba of course.” Gandalf hesitates just the tiniest bit.
“You were barred from this room, from the entirety of these apartments, truly,” Thorin states firmly. “I believe you were told this. And in case you weren't, I'm telling you now, you are not welcome here, or indeed anywhere near me or mine!”
“Thorin Oakenshield…” Gandalf begins, power and authority lacing his voice.
“No!” The dwarven king cuts him off, finally turning to look at the Grey Wizard. “However much you may wrap yourself in your power, you hold no authority here, Wizard!” his eyes narrow. “How… how do you do it?”
“How do I do what?” Gandalf cocks his head to a side, still thrown by Thorin’s words.
“Manipulate everyone.” Thorin clarifies. “Treat us all like we’re nothing more than pieces in a game of chess you’re playing.”
“I don’t…” Gandalf takes great offense to that.
“But you do!” Thorin cuts him off, again. “Did you or did you not tell me that you’d found us a burglar? A talented and experienced thief, master in the trade? And you never even bothered saying a word to her about it! Not until the day we were expected to arrive!”
“I did…” Gandalf yet again tries to explain, only to find himself interrupted once more.
“I was there Gandalf!” Thorin snarls. “I heard you. What’s more, I heard her. I heard her tell you no, time and again. And I heard how that meant nothing to you. You still arrived that evening, expecting to have us there. You were expecting us to arrive at a house we were never invited to, for a meal that wasn’t being arranged for us! Have you any idea how many rules that breaks? How many customs and traditions, guest-rules and host-protocols, and even just matters concerning politeness!” He makes a pause, making sure the wizard is really listening to him. “Have you any idea the kind of image we would all have had of each other? If things had happened as you intended with your blasted manipulations?! What would we dwarrow have thought of arriving at the home of a female thief, one who had supposedly invited us to a meal, yet had nothing prepared for us? One who was said to be a burglar, yet knew nothing about what it all meant. That was going to work for dwarrow having never even met one!”
“Ah, but she had met dwarves!” Gandalf pipes in.
“She had,” Thorin agrees. “But you did not know that, did you? Because according to Bilba herself, the last time you were in the Shire she was but a child!” He shakes his head. “Tell me Gandalf, what if she’d had a family? What if she had children? Would you have still forced her out her door after us?”
“Listen here Thorin Oakenshield, I did not force…”
“Did you not? You arranged things so she’d have to receive us, whether she wanted to or not. So we’d arrive, without even knowing just how unaware she was about matters. And just listening to you ignore any and all of her objections that morning I have no doubt you would have continued to ignore them in the evening, until she did exactly as you wanted her to!”
Gandalf just… deflates. There’s no better word for it. He seems to almost fold in on himself even as he takes a seat on a nearby stool, leaning almost heavily on his staff.
“You needed her on this quest.” The wizard says eventually, voice quiet and so, so tired.
“I know.” Thorin’s agreement surprises Gandalf, yet it doesn’t end there. “But tell me Gandalf. What would you have done, had she come on this mad quest due to your manipulations, only to die? If things had gone the way you intended, we wouldn’t have trusted her, not at all, not with how bad things would have started off. And that lack of trust, on a quest such as this? Even before we found ourselves fighting two armies; it could have proven deadly. Chances are, in such circumstances, she would have died before the end. What would you have done then?”
“Are you trying to blame me for…” He waves at Bilba’s still form on the bed.
“Not at all.” Thorin shakes his head evenly. “This is not your fault. This is… we made choices. Both she and I. And she’s not dead. She’s alive, she’s recovering and she will wake up. However long it might take. But the fact remains, the path we’re on, the path we’ve all walked, is not the one you intended for us.” And this is not just about Rivendell, not by far. “If we’d done things your way, and Bilba had still ended on this bed, or worse, in a grave, that’d be on you Gandalf.”
“I… I never…” Gandalf doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.
“Bilba says that your problem is that you see the big picture only.” Thorin comments, once again turning his attention from the wizard and to his sleeping hobbit-wife. “You are so focused on big things that you continuously miss the small ones. Like now, you knew that Erebor needed to be reclaimed, and sought to make it happen. You brought me the map, and the key, and led us to Bilba’s door. Never did you stop to consider the risks this undertaking might mean for each of us. If I’d died, and worse even, if my sister-sons had died with me, who would have been left to rule over Erebor? Over my people? Dáin? He barely wants to rule the Iron Hills! And Dís! What would have become of my sister, had her whole family been lost to death, leaving her alone? And what of Glóin’s wife and children, or Bombur’s, had anything happened to them? And Bilba… you clearly have no idea the kind of mess an unplanned departure on her part would have caused. Not just for her, but for all who depended on her!”
Gandalf purses his lips, clearly not having any idea how to reply to that. Thorin is right, is the thing. His gift of Sight, rare as it is, can be very strong. When it does happen, he knows that things need to be done, knows how terrible things will be if they don’t get done and sometimes… sometimes his zeal might get the better of him. He thinks about what Thorin has said, what if things had gone according to his plan? If things had gone as he planned, with Bilba Baggins being surprised by the arrival of the dwarves, opening her door to them, and eventually agreeing to join them? How much harder would things have been with such a start of things for them? And with her not having been ready for a trip at all… He’s seen the condition of the mountain, he’s heard about all the supplies the Company brought with them, the carts, and the plants Bilba managed to plant north of the road to Ravenhill (though when she managed this, in between confronting Smaug, preparing the mountain for guests, and the Battle the wizard honestly has no idea!). He cannot begin to imagine how much worse things might be without such preparations. But the thing that hits him hardest is: if things had gone as he expected, and the little hobbit had died… what then? Never before has Gandalf felt cause to doubt himself so much, so badly; he finds he doesn’t like it. No, he doesn’t like it at all.
xXx
In the morning, as has become his custom, Thorin breaks his fast by his wife’s bedside, talking to her about his plans for the day before fixing his braids, making sure his wedding-bead has pride of place; and that there won’t be any more idiots like that one noble from the Iron Hills who, not two days after the battle, dare suggest that Thorin think about marrying a ‘proper dam’, once he’s ‘fully free’… the idiot was lucky his Company reacted and had him out the room before Thorin could react, he’d have taken his beard, and perhaps even his life, for the insult! To think that Thorin could ever bind his life, give his braid to anyone other than his One!
There’s a reason why, despite how much of a mess he’s made of things, he’d never think to get in the way of Fíli courting his One. And Kíli… the longer he can go pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on between him and that elf of his the better. Not because he thinks it’s wrong or… whatever remaining anger he might hold for Thranduil, he holds nothing but the utmost respect for Lady Tauriel, and even to a certain degree for Prince Legolas. It’s just… he’s aware how hard things will be for Kíli, even more so than for Fíli, when he announces the she-elf as his One and starts officially courting her. It might have been one thing for one of the Line of Dúrin to take an outsider for a wife; he was a king in exile at the time (and even then, not everyone agreed), but now it’ll be all three of them. Not a one of those in line for the throne will be marrying dams. It’s likely the reactions will be even more pronounced than when he first announced his intent to marry Bilba. He doesn’t think that’ll deter his nephews any, but he does remind himself to warn them, and the girls. They need to be ready for any possible repercussions. Having reclaimed Erebor will give them a lot of leeway, and he’ll ensure it becomes known the part each of the ladies played in things as well. But even that might not be enough, dwarrow are famous for their stubbornness for a reason!
Thorin isn’t really surprised when he returns to the apartments in the evening and finds none other than Gandalf at Bilba’s bedside. He is somewhat surprised to see he’s the only one; he’d have expected there to be at least one member of the Company, if not one of his nephews, who have made a point to visit almost as often as he. Then again, they just had the first Open Court and both Fíli and Kíli did their best to assist. While their numbers are still fairly limited (really, aside from the Company there’s just the dwarrow from the Iron Hills and the people of Lake Town) somehow they still seem to have a fair number of grievances… mostly it is that the Iron Hills dwarrow do not seem to agree with there being outsiders inside the mountain. Thorin would have dismissed them all straight out, but Fíli decided on a rather poignant show of power and how it is shifting when he took charge and made sure that not only the dwarrow were heard, their opinions respected, but the humans as well. Bard, the widow Agnes and Captain Braga serving as leaders.
Thorin doesn’t even comment on the wizard’s presence in the room this time. Just goes to sit on one of the chairs, the one closest to a table, where he sets the paperwork he’s brought with him. He has an office, with a proper desk, where he could be doing it, but he prefers being in the room with Bilba. Even if she remains unconscious, even if she might not even know that he’s there at all, he just… feels better knowing he’s there. Just in case.
Most of the paperwork are lists, of the contents of the treasury, what they know to be heirlooms of specific clans, what’s been found with the seal of Dale, of Greenwood, and even other far more distant realms, some that don’t even exist anymore at all. It’d seem that Smaug had already had a hoard, long before arriving to Erebor, and at some point in the years since first attacking the mountain he retrieved it. The first three are easy enough to deal with. Rooms have been assigned to put together all that can be proven beyond shadow of doubt belongs to Dale and to Mirkwood. Heirlooms belonging to their allies can be set aside to be dealt with at a later date, coin might as well have been given in trade, negotiations or as tithe, so there’s no need to worry about those. Regarding the treasures of older realms… that’s where things get tricky, he’ll probably be consulting with the others on what to do about it.
“Never expected you to be so willing and so quick to give your treasure away, King Under the Mountain…” The Wizard murmurs quietly.
There’s something in Tharkûn’s voice, for a moment the dwarf wonders if he’s imagining the exhaustion he can hear there; though that thought’s pushed aside when he processes what’s just been said exactly:
“The treasure isn’t mine, but my people’s, and even then, not all of it.” Thorin murmurs as he adds his signature to the necessary papers. “It’s clear the worm had another hoard and brought it to Erebor. Now it’s up to us to see justice made… where we can at least. I will not have us profit from the losses of others if I can help it.”
Thorin keeps going through the paperwork for several minutes longer, until the silence calls his attention and he turns towards Gandalf, who’s staring at him.
“What?” He asks, tone perhaps sharper than entirely necessary.
“It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose.” The wizard explains. “I misjudged Bilba Baggins so terribly, why not you as well, King Under the Mountain?”
Thorin takes a few moments to parse what that might mean. Then connects it with Tharkûn’s first comment, and it dawns on him:
“You expected me to go gold-mad.” He breathes out, a hint of the horror he’s feeling deep inside threading into his voice. “You expected me to become as mad as my grandfather, if not worse. And still you sent me to reclaim Erebor?!”
“It needed to happen.” Gandalf insists. “Erebor needed to stand as Guardian of the North…”
“And what kind of Guardian would it be with a gold-mad King?” Thorin demands. “A King who cares more about the contents of its treasury than the people? A King who would turn his back on its allies? Who would choose war over peace?!”
“I had hope.” Is all Gandalf says.
“Clearly the wrong kind of hope, if you expected me to fall to the gold-madness in the first place.” Thorin scoffs.
“Clearly.” The wizard agrees. “Yet I still wonder…”
“Wonder?” Thorin’s eyes narrow.
“How.” Gandalf admits. “How did you not fall? Was it the years in exile? The fact that you never touched a Ring of Power? Was it…?” Gandalf stops, freezes, then rushes to his feet, getting right into Thorin’s personal space. “What is that?”
The dwarrow king is completely thrown by the wizard’s attitude. He’s making even less sense than usual! And then the way he gets so close… at least Tharkûn seems to retain enough sense not to touch Thorin’s hair, much less his braids. Just pointing a finger, and Thorin instantly knows exactly which one it is is he’s fixated on:
“My marriage braid?” He asks, wondering what has the wizard so agitated.
“Is the bead made of wood?” Gandalf questions.
“Yes, of course.” Because really, isn’t it obvious? “Why would it not be? My One is a hobbit after all. She designed and crafted the bead herself, as expected.”
“Do you know what wood it is made of?” The wizard presses.
“Ah…” It takes Thorin a moment to remember. “Weirwood, I believe she called it.”
“Hmmm…” Gandalf finally steps back, a considering expression on his face. “I suppose that could do it.” He turns back to Thorin. “What do you know of weirwood, Thorin Oakenshield?”
“Nothing at all.” The dwarf shrugs. “I’m a dwarf, not a hobbit.” He shakes his head, then revises. “It is special, I know that much, magical in some way. But I know not the particulars. Tree-lore has never been a topic I’ve needed to know of.”
“No, I suppose not.” Gandalf agrees, considering. “Weirwood is indeed magical. So much that even after being cut and shaped there remains a certain… life to it, I suppose you could call it. It is said that objects made of weirwood will never break and will never rot. Hobbits believe that it was their Green Lady, Yavanna, who planted the weirwoods in their Shire. Truth is… truth is it wasn’t her, not really, but it was one of her Maia: Inwin.”
“Inwin?” Thorin does his best to pronounce the name, though it sounds odd in his mouth.
“Inwin.” Gandalf corrects his pronunciation. “It’s hard to pronounce, not in any language that has been spoken this side of the sea since the end of the First Age. Only those at Valinor speak it anymore. If I were to give her a name in Westron… I suppose I’d call her Fairy…”
“Fairy?” Thorin does a double-take.
For a moment Gandalf seems to be unable to understand Thorin’s reaction, but then his eyes follow the dwarf’s line of sight: Bilba’s wings are still out, spread under her (Thorin took great care to ensure the bed she would sleep on would be the softest, fluffiest they could possibly make with the materials they had access to, to ensure his beloved wouldn’t be hurting her wings, or herself in any way).
“Oh, I see…” Gandalf murmurs quietly.
Thorin wonders if he does. He knows that the wizard was surprised when first seeing Bilba’s wings, as much as anyone else. Wonders if that means the wizard has never come across the hobbit-fairies. Wonders how much he thinks he knows of hobbits (of any race) and how much he truly does… But that matter aside, if he understands correctly, Tharkûn seems to be implying that it might be his wedding bead that protects Thorin from the gold-sickness. Much as the dwarrow king would like to believe that it’s all him. That he’s strong. That he’s not his grandfather and never would have been… Thorin knows better than to let pride be his undoing. If it truly is the wooden bead keeping him safe… then he’ll ensure that every member of Durin’s Line has one, from this moment to the end of time. Never again will they allow the gold to take their minds! Never again will mere treasure be valued above the things that truly matter: their homes, their family, their Ones!
xXx
“I’m sorry.”
Sigrid freezes mid-step. She’s in the middle of a servants’ hallway that connects the guest apartments where the humans have been staying, to a sub-level where they can get access to one of the underground streams for washing clothes (there’s another, one heated by the forges, that works as public baths), in her arms a basket full of the clothes she’s just washed, and which she’ll be hanging to dry on a balcony near the guest quarters.
“I would ask for your forgiveness, but I know not how.” Fíli continues, for it is him that is speaking, keeping a respectful distance from her. “Nor do I believe I deserve it. I have wronged you, my lady, more than I have ever wronged another.”
“No, you…” Sigrid spins around to face him, biting her tongue briefly. “You saved me, my lord. Me and my entire family, all of my people. All who live now, it is thanks to you, and Their Majesties. To your mercy and compassion…”
“We did but what ought to be done.” Fíli shakes his head. “And doing right by your people, even by your family, changes not that I did wrong by you.”
Sigrid opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again when realizing she doesn’t actually know what to say. How to reply to Fíli’s words. She’s not even fully sure what it is he’s talking about, exactly…
“I claimed you.” Fíli finally says plainly. “Even knowing as I did that you wished not to marry. The circumstances in which you and your family were forced to leave the Lake-Town. I still did and said what I did and said. And while my intentions might have been pure, no more than to protect you, your name, your honor. That changes not that the way I went about it was wrong. I made choices that affected us both, without even asking!”
Ah… Sigrid thinks she understands. “You did.” She agrees, taking a deep breath.
“I release you.” Fíli blurts out. “I will tell my uncle that I was wrong, that our betrothal won’t work. I’ll talk to your father, and offer appropriate reparations. Ensure your name and your honor remain intact, that your virtue shall not be questioned. That no one ever again will think to take your choice from you…”
Like he did, goes unsaid. And Sigrid knows this is the moment. A choice needs to be made, and this time, she’s the one that must make it…
“I wished not to marry Jan, Guardsman of Lake-Town.” Sigrid chooses her words very carefully. “I would never have chosen to marry him. Fíli, son of Dís, Prince of Durin’s Line? I might not know him as well as I wish I did, but what I’ve seen thus far tells me he’s good, loyal, just, brave, honorable… He’s the kind of man I’d marry, were it my choice to make.”
“It is.” Fíli blurts out, then clarifies. “Your choice.”
“Then say you will give me your name, and I shall promise to give it to a son.” Sigrid prompts, in the tradition of her people.
“I shall offer you my name, in the traditions of your people.” Fíli agrees. “And my braid, in the tradition of mine.” For a moment he says nothing else and then, deciding to be bold, he steps forth, raising a hand towards Sigrid and asks: “May I?”
Though she’s not entirely certain what it is he’s asking, she nods nonetheless. Fíli steps closer still, pulling a comb out of somewhere in his clothes and with quick, fluid motions takes a thick lock of hair from behind her right ear and starts braiding. It’s a simple braid, nothing like the more elaborate plaits dwarrow may choose to adorn themselves with, or that she’ll be entitled to, after they’ve been married. But this isn’t about that.
“We have no tradition for betrothals, besides a gift being crafted by the one proposing the union, to their One.” Fíli explains quietly as he works on the braid. “I’ve yet to carve enough free time to be able to get to a forge and craft something truly worthy of you, but I shall do that. However, in the meantime, I wish to make it clear to all in this mountain, both your people and mine, that my intentions are honest and won’t be dismissed as fancy, or anything like that. So I shall give you a braid, and seal it with one of my own clasps.” He does exactly that. “To show my intent, and that you’re under my protection. For now and for always.
He really will need to find some time to get working on a betrothal gift. He wonders what will be more appropriate, blades? Or perhaps something more feminine? His One seems to take as much pride in showing her femininity, as well as still carrying the blade he gave her back in Lake-Town openly on her waist. Perhaps he could craft some hairpins that would double as secret weapons? Something pretty and elegant, yet dangerous at the same time? Just like her…
xXx
Tauriel finds Kíli sitting on the battlements, staring at the world outside the mountain. Most of it is the Desolation, bare earth and rock covered with snow; except for a spot, in the halfway point between the mountain gate and Ravenhill, there the prevalent color is red, from the Seregon blossoms; a shade such that it looks disturbingly like spilled blood. In his hands is a blade, a knife, which he seems to be sharpening half-absently. Though judging by the looks of things, it doesn’t really need it; Tauriel supposes it might be just for something to do, keeping his hands busy. The she-elf says nothing, just dropping onto a spot beside Kíli and contemplating the world, same as he. She pulls the quiver off her back, placing it on the ground beside her and pulls out the first arrow, checking it over. They’re salvaged arrows, and she needs to see how many are still serviceable, and how many are useless.
For a while none of them say a thing, each of them focused on their own tasks. It’s Tauriel who eventually breaks the silence, as she throws away the fifth arrow in a row, grabbing the next, yet instead of checking it over she just holds it tight.
“I know not why I’m doing this at all.” She admits out-loud, more to herself than to Kíli. “I don’t even have a bow anymore.”
Kíli says nothing to that. Though the she-elf cannot help but notice that he’s looking at the arrow in her hands. She realizes then that it’s one of his. It’s probably even one of the arrows that saved her life. Which reminds her…
“I’ve been meaning to thank you.” She says, twisting the arrow a bit between her fingers. “You saved my life.”
Kíli thinks about dismissing the whole thing; saying he was just doing his duty, that they were allies during the battle, something like that. But while that wouldn’t really be a lie, neither would it be the whole truth.
“It was my pleasure.” He decides on saying eventually.
Yet again silence settles over them. But it’s not an oppressive silence, rather a comfortable one, as dwarf and elf work side by side. They don’t break it again until Tauriel finishes working on the arrows (a handful or so were in good enough condition still, about half of them she could fix enough to be usable even if not perfect; from the rest she managed to save a few arrowtips, but that’s about it). Once again, she’s the one to speak:
“You’re my Maranwë…” She admits, so very, very quietly. “My Destiny. I don’t… I don’t know if you might know what that means. If dwarrow even know…”
“Not a Destiny,” Kíli breathes out. “We dwarrow call them Ones. Not every dwarf has a One, and even those that do, they don’t always realize it right away. But when a dwarf has found their One… if they cannot have them, they’ll have no one at all.” He takes a deep breath. “A dwarf shows his intent to court with a gift, something made with our own hands, for our One, to show our Craft, and how much we might know of them…”
Tauriel’s still contemplating that when she notices Kíli holding something out to her. A long, thin package, covered in cloth. The shape is… she cannot help but guess at what might be inside, and the guess alone is almost enough to make her hands shake. She places the package on her lap, unwinding the cloth and revealing, as she suspected, a bow. Made of wood, yew if her eyes do not fail her, the string seems to be made of silk thread. It’s… it’s a beautiful bow, Tauriel would almost dare say it’s more beautiful than her old one. She runs a finger down the bow, in complete awe of it. While she’s been an archer for most of her life, the bows she’s used (from her very first training bow, to the one gifted to her by her best friend, Legolas, upon her appointment as Captain of the Greenwood’s Guard) were always made by other people, expert craftsmen. If she understands correctly, this bow was made by Kíli… the thought of using a bow her own match has crafted for her…
For perhaps the first time since it happened, Kíli feels a tiny bit of gratitude for his broken ankle. It’s because of it that he hasn’t been as involved with the work everyone else is doing, getting the needed areas cleared, cleaned, treating with the people of Lake-Town, or with the dragon. On the last that mostly means butchering the carcass, preserving what can be useful (scales, teeth and such) and getting the rest into pieces small enough to be maneuverable, the plan being to take them out, to the same spot where they burned the corpses of the orcs, goblins and trolls, and burn it (no one really being too willing to risk finding out if it can be eaten). In any case, because of his injury, his mobility is limited enough that he’s had more free time on his hands than expected. He already had the yew wood, found a couple of pieces during their trip, at the foot of the Grey Mountains. He intended to turn at least one of them into a longbow (at least long for a dwarf), something with more power than his current one. The other piece… it was too big for him, yet he felt called to it and so took it as well. And now he knows why, it was always meant to be used for a gift for his One… He’s also planning on doing some arrowtips out of dragon-scales, has already requested them. But that’ll be later, when he can actually get access to a forge.
“Thank you…” Tauriel whispers, breathless.
It’s such an inappropriate thing to say, nowhere near enough to express everything she’s feeling, yet she cannot think of anything better to say either. Any way to express not just how much she loves the bow, how grateful she is for the gift, but also how honored…
“We elves have no such traditions, I’m afraid.” She admits quietly. “We express our intent in words. And so I tell you now, with Elbereth’s own stars as my witnesses, that you’re mine Destiny, as much as I’m your One. And the day will come when I will claim you, and you will claim me; and we will walk to our shared Fate side by side and hand in hand.”
“I like the sound of that.” Kíli agrees quietly.
They say nothing else, instead turning their eyes once more to the outside world. Though they do move closer, slowly but surely, their sides eventually close enough they can feel each other’s warmth, and in the middle their hands stray until their fingers become entwined. And like that they stay for a moment, or for hours, it’s hard to tell. They just sit there, in comfortable silence, watching the snow fall.
xXx
Thorin leaves the paperwork he’s been working on and begins making his way to the gates as soon as he hears there’s a caravan coming. Part of it is curiosity regarding who’d be traveling with Winter practically upon them already; and the other part is merely a desire to leave the paperwork for at least some time (he knew there would be more such work running Erebor than there was back in Ered Luin, especially with the need to inventory everything in the treasury and make sure that what treasures could be found there that did not belong to his people, were appropriately allocated; still nothing could have prepared him for just how much more).
Modifications were made to the temporary gate as soon as the battle ended and enough stone-masons were healed and ready to work. Most of it was still sealed for protection, both from the weather and any possible enemies, but space was made and a temporary door affixed to allow people, animals and even carts and a wagon as big as Bilba’s own to pass if necessary. That turns out to be a good thing, as the visitors arrive in three such wagons, each of them filled to the brim. It’s Thorin who recognizes the couple controlling the lead wagon, even as they catch sight of him, standing at the gates:
“Greetings Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!” The man states solemnly and loud enough to be heard by all dwarrow and humans standing in the background, curiously watching the proceedings.
“And greetings and best wishes be sent to your wife as well, Bilba Adamantine Baggins, of the Shire, Queen Under the Mountain.” The woman adds for good measure.
“Greetings Dírhael and Ivorwen of the Dúnedain, be welcome, you and your people, to Erebor!” Thorin says grandly in reply.
He waits until all three wagons are inside the mountain, the temporary gate has been once again closed and all the Dúnedain have climbed off their wagons to ask the all-too-important question.
“What brings you here?” He knows he sounds gruff, but is also certain they won’t take offense to his tone, they know him, after all.
“We go where we’re needed.” It’s neither Dírhael nor Ivorwen who speaks up then, but Lôrloth, having climbed down from the back of the second cart. “Even when those who have need of us might not yet know it is us they need.”
It’s a bit complicated, as far as speeches go, but Thorin believes he understands what she’s saying. They need the Dúnedain, even if they might not know it just yet.
“We stopped in the Shire, and in your Blue Mountains, as well as Rivendell and several other places on the way.” Damrod announces with all the eagerness of youth. “We also hunted some wild cattle east of the River Running. We’ve all sorts of things here for you.”
“Bilba shall be extremely disappointed that it is now that she’s absent that you decide to join the business.” Thorin states in his most deadpan tone.
Damrod laughs, long and loud, and he’s not the only one.
While Thorin wouldn’t say they are hurting for resources, thanks to all the early preparations, still the King Under the Mountain has no doubt they will all be grateful for whatever the Dúnedain have brought in their carts, especially the fresh food and clothes. Arrangements are soon made to conduct business officially. A favor the Rangers might be doing them, but Dwarrow won’t take charity, especially not now that they can do business once again; also, it’s clear that at least a couple of the rangers are interested in trading for goods, chances are they will leave with their wagons as heavy as they were upon arrival, if with different contents.
Thorin watches conversations start between those involved. He can recognize everyone, thanks to the times he accompanied Bilba to the Dúnedain settlement. There are Dírhael and Ivorwen, leading the group; Damrod, who was driving the second cart, along with Lôrloth. In the last cart is Hallas, along with one of his brothers: Elphir. Though it is the third person that comes from the last wagon that truly shocks him.
“Dís!” He exclaims, beyond shocked.
If Thorin were to be honest he’d admit he wasn’t expecting his sister any time soon, not before the following summer at the earliest.
“Greetings Dís, daughter of Thráin, Princess of the Line of Dúrin.” He greets her formally, then, more quietly he adds: “Welcome, sister mine, to Erebor!”
It’s until after the official greetings have been handled, while the rangers start talking business with several other dwarrow and men, that Thorin gets a chance to talk to Dís. It’s not exactly a private conversation, but with everyone busy with other things, it’s enough.
“I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon.” He admits to his sister.
“Two of your ranger friends, they came to the Blue Mountains, looking specifically for me.” Dís explains. “They said that the ‘Sons of Dís’ have found their Ones, and that due to the nature of their unions it might not be the best idea for their marriages to wait as long as it’d take me to get to the mountain. They offered me a place in their caravan, Ursa, Solveig and even Master Frár,” the eldest Ereborean dwarf living in Ered Luin and their quartermaster. “insisted I take it. So here I am brother. Now tell me, is it true? Have Fíli and Kíli found their Ones.”
“They have.” Thorin nods, exhaling.
“They’re not dams, are they?” Dís knows her sons, and her brother, well enough to guess.
“No, they’re not.” Thorin admits with a shrug. “Fíli’s is Sigrid, daughter of Bard, who shall be King of Dale once the realm of Men is rebuilt. Kíli’s is Lady Tauriel, former Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood.”
A Daughter of Man and a She-Elf… Dís cannot say it’s what she’d have chosen for them; but who is she to gainsay Mahal’s own choice for her sons? She’s not predisposed against either race, and her hesitance comes solely because she knows it won’t be easy for her sons, not all dwarrow will accept them, and their wives. She’s seen it with her brother. Even as a King in exile, not all have been supportive of his choice of One; and she has no doubt that now that he’s to be King of Erebor there will be those who will seek to make him forsake Bilba. Not that Thorin would ever do that. So, she knows it won’t be easy, yet she’ll always support her sons, always.
“ Amad !” And talking about sons…
Thorin smiles, mostly to himself, as he watches his sister-sons practically rushing to their mother. Kíli comes close to falling, ungainly as he is with his crutches, yet Tauriel keeps up with him, making sure to grab him whenever he falters, keeping him from hitting the ground (which would be no good for his still healing ankle). Sigrid is following at a more sedate pace.
Leaving his family to their reunion, Thorin turns his attention once again to the other newcomers. Arrangements are being made to stable the horses and get the wagons to the markets (that is, if they haven’t made deals for all their contents before they make it that far!). The King Under the Mountain contemplates the ones handling the wagons: six dúnedain, including two that are among the leaders of their people. The dwarf king has no doubt that it’s his wife more than him that has motivated their presence in his mountain and he cannot help but be grateful for it. He’s truly ever so grateful for all the things having Bilba in his life has brought him: her love being the greatest of all the gifts he’s ever known…
“Good it is to see that you can value the blessings that have been granted to you.”
While Thorin cannot say he heard Lôrloth approach, neither is he surprised when he finds her suddenly standing beside him.
“I’m always appreciative of the great gifts the Valar have given me.” Thorin states solemnly. “Now what brings you to me, my lady?”
Thorin is no fool, and he can still remember the blind lady, and more importantly, her prophecy made song, that day in the Dúnedain encampment…
“Know you do, that some poisons may taste sweet; that some weapons may be beautiful.” Lôrloth doesn’t sing this time, yet her voice still carries a certain cadence, making it obvious that her words have power. “Likewise, some curses may at times shine with the same apparent light that a blessing does.” It’s eerie, the way her sightless eyes fix straight on Thorin, yet still he doesn’t back down, doesn’t even blink. “Beware King, that when a Heart is taken from a body, both may start to rot from the inside out, and spread that rot to all around.”
Thorin inhales sharply. He suspects he knows exactly what it is she’s talking about.
“Would returning the Heart to the Body solve the problem, or is it too late for that?” He asks.
“Never too late it is, to do that which is right.” Lôrloth replies.
That makes up Thorin’s mind, the Arkenstone is going back to the depths of the mountain. Today, tonight if he can arrange it!
xXx
“You cannot do that!”
“It’s the King’s Jewel!”
“… the most valuable treasure in this mountain!”
“… the symbol of your right to rule!”
“… It’s Thror’s Crown Jewel!”
“… Mahal’s Gift to us!”
“It must be protected!”
“IT’S THE ARKENSTONE!!!”
Thorin’s not exactly surprised. While he’d have liked to have the support of what dwarrow lords and nobles chose to accompany Dáin to Erebor, he cannot say he was really counting on it… or waiting for it. He’s still disappointed though, especially when seeing Dáin himself is one of the most vocal in the insistence that the jewel must be preserved. That it’s their greatest treasure… That Thorin needs it to be king… He’s yet again reminded of his wife’s speech regarding how ridiculous it was to believe his kingship ought to depend on a stone. He agrees. And even if he hadn’t, after what Lôrloth’s implied and outright said regarding the stone… He’d give away all of his own treasure (only his own, nothing that might condemn his people) just for a chance to have his beloved hobbit open her eyes again…
Dáin is the first to notice that Thorin’s oddly quiet and calm for someone who has a good few dwarrow screaming practically in his face, not just rejecting Thorin’s idea but doing everything short of insulting the King for even suggesting they get rid of the Arkenstone… or as Thorin very eloquently put it: giving the mountain back her heart… Dáin’s not stupid, he knows there can only be one reason for it.
“Where are your sister-sons?” He asks Thorin directly. “And the Lady Dís for that matter?”
“Fíli has taken his mother to dine with his betrothed’s family, presenting a united front before the Men of Lake-Town.” Thorin states calmly. “Kíli asked permission to bring Lady Tauriel to see my wife, see if elven healing might help her recover faster.”
That’s yet something else that Dáin’s still trying to wrap his head around, and he knows that most of the Lords refuse to even acknowledge: the fact that all three royals have claimed Ones that are not dwarrowdams. It was one thing when Thorin was a King in Exile, marrying a member of another race seemed odd, but it didn’t really affect any of them. Thorin’s heirs had already been chosen, both of them proper dwarrow of the Line of Dúrin… And now those two ‘proper dwarrow’ have claimed their own Ones: a daughter of men, and a she-elf! What was that to mean for the future of Durin’s Line?!
In any case, that’s the two sister-sons; Balin, Dwalin and the young scribe are already in the room (Dáin’s not blind to the fact that Balin’s barely able to keep Dwalin from attacking the lords for the blatant disrespect for their King); he saw two other members of Thorin’s Company standing guard outside the meeting room, and knows that another has been put in charge of the kitchens. That means… Dáin has no idea what any of it means.
Sad as he is to see the posture his cousin has chosen to take, Thorin’s not really surprised. He even understands, to a point. Just like him, Dáin was forced into a position of power, of leading his people, at a very young age. Where Thorin was forced to take that position and do the best he could, for good or for ill, with the support of his friends, and half remembered lessons (from his and Balin’s youth mostly), Dáin still had some of his father’s counselors to help. No doubt it would have seemed like a blessing. To be able to depend on those who knew better than him, to have someone who could help bear the burden. But it was like Lady Lôrloth said, curses and blessings may shine with the same light. It was never good when Lords got too comfortable with having as much (or more) power than those supposed to be their rulers…
It was no surprise that Dáin would ask after Fíli and Kíli and Dís, and after that turn his eyes to those who’ve been closest to Thorin for the longest time: like Dwalin and Balin; for surely if Thorin were planning something as insane as ‘getting rid’ of the Arkenstone, one of them would be involved with it. What Dáin seems to be unable to understand is that some bonds can be stronger than blood, and even time. The Company… they were those dwarrow who believed in him, who were willing to follow him into a dragon’s lair, to face said dragon in battle, despite knowing how many dwarrow had died at its claws, fangs and firebreath already. So many of the members of the Company that the nobles would never see as worthy: like the Ri brothers, themselves members of the Line of Durin, descendants of a dam who was a King’s One yet never got the chance to wed him (and the nobles refused to recognize her claim and that of her child); or the Urs, common dwarrow, who weren’t even Longbeards! Each and every one of them had all that really mattered in Thorin’s mind (Loyalty, Honor, and a Willing Heart… for really, who could ask for more than that?). In any case, it was precisely because of that, that no one would ever suspect Bofur of carrying this very special task for him. So now all Thorin has to do is wait, wait for the deed to be done; he has no doubt there will be some kind of signs when it happens.
The dwarrow from the Iron Hills are still arguing. Or really, just repeating the same arguments time and again, as if hoping that mere repetition will make them right, or that he’ll just give up if they insist enough times (clearly they know nothing of him!).
The ‘sign’ ends up being a great shudder. To dwarrow it feels for a moment like the mountain might be about to shake apart. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, yet it leaves enough of an impression. He doubts the men and elf felt much of anything. The dwarrow though do feel it. Silence falls just as suddenly as if Mahal’s own hammer had just rang (in fact, there are some who might even compare the feeling they all got the moment the Arkenstone returned to the depths with that very thing).
“What have you done…?” It’s the eldest of the Dwarrow Lords that asks the question.
“What needed to be done.” Thorin states, unapologetic.
“You cannot…” Another begins.
“I will remind you, all of you, that I, Thorin, son Thráin, son of Thrór, am King Under the Mountain.” Thorin states, steel and power in his tone. “It was not a stone, however pretty, that granted me my throne. I have it by right of Line and Blood, for I am a direct descendant of Dúrin the Deathless himself! The Arkenstone was a beautiful jewel, no doubt about that. But it did not give us a crown, or a throne, and it certainly did not give us this mountain! And if any of you, honorable dwarrow, believe that not having the Arkenstone somehow makes me less worthy of being your King, then I will accept your choice and wish you all the best as you leave my mountain and seek home and living elsewhere.”
No one dares breathe a word after that. It’s like Thorin expected, as horrified and livid as some of them might be, none of them will want to lose their position, their riches, their power. Most of them will probably go back to the Iron Hills with Dáin, wanting to believe that as long as they don’t live in the same mountains, the ‘insanity’ of Thorin Oakenshield will not affect them. He wonders if they’ll hold onto that belief when they meet his Queen, or how about the to-be Crown Princess of Erebor? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Choices have been made, and he won’t back down, ever.
Some of the lords are looking around surreptitiously, clearly looking for some excuse to leave before something else happens, though without backing down. The opportunity presents itself in a most unexpected manner, as the doors are opened abruptly, with enough force to make them slam against the walls. All eyes turn to the newcomer, though none dare say a word of chastisement the moment they realize it’s one of the Company:
“She’s awake!” Nori exclaims loudly. “Bilba’s awake!”