SEDE VACANTE

There lies his crown in water deep

'Til Durin wakes again from sleep

The king woke quietly at the breaking of day. It seemed he had woken so many days before in this same pastoral quiet that time was slowly losing its meaning. He tried to remember the sound of metal, the clanging and clacking on stone, or the thick subterranean quiet deep in the mountain halls he had been born to. By now he had become used to the thrush-songs and the bubbling of the streams that passed through the little hills of this place, Hobbiton, as if it were primal to him.

By its very name it was not the home of a dwarf, and certainly not a king. For a spell though- until that very morning in fact- it was precisely that for Thorin Oakenshield, the most peculiar of any wayfaring stranger to have come to the Shire in some time.

The hobbit, by his gentle nature, was not an early riser. Sunup came and still he slept, in the bedroom next to Thorin's. Bilbo had long yielded him the best bedroom in Bag-End, as he had done however reluctantly at their first meeting, so long ago it seemed. The bed in Thorin's room was a quaint piece of furniture, with many quilts laid about it, all shades of carnelian, goldenrod and fern. It groaned beneath the dwarf's stocky frame. In the room there was a wash table and armoire, a writing desk with a fat-cushioned armchair, and a small round window that faced the sun and let in the morning light.

He could hear the fussy hobbit padding about in the kitchen, grumbling to himself about Sackville-Bagginses and chips in his glasses. Bilbo Baggins took his food, and the cozy décor of his home, quite seriously.

None in the Shire took him for anything more than an injured blacksmith from Ered Luin, who lodged with Mister Baggins out of queer preference perhaps. The hobbit had never married despite many offers, as one of the wealthiest citizens of Hobbiton. For this perhaps, none brought their opinions of his odd character to Mister Baggins directly.

Thorin Oakenshield had lived nameless among them. He was called the Blacksmith or The Dwarf alternately, or if one was so emboldened, the special guest at the Baggins hole, a peculiar souvenir from Bilbo's adventures, which he protected with curious aplomb. Of course, nobody had inquired directly of The Dwarf's origin to Bilbo, as he had come back from his adventure cagier than ever. Bilbo Baggins was still a respectable hobbit, if a slightly eccentric one, a funny Tookish thing they reckoned, and left it at that. None knew that Bag End housed this king in exile, scarred by worse things than goblins, wargs or trolls. Above that field full of dead, the Lonely Mountain lay stuffed to its hilts in gold with an empty throne. It would have been his throne, rightful, unquestioned. It would have been his, and when he passed, Fili's. But Fili was dead. The battle had claimed him, and Kili with him, the younger barely old enough to have fought at all- but he had, and bravely they said. And of Durin's sons then there were no more.

There was King Thorin, his life spared, but by threads. He could not bring himself to claim what was his, either the throne or the gold. Even if he had been in the correct mind to reason in the wake of that terrible battle, his decision would have been the same. Gandalf, anyhow, hadn't given him much of a choice.

The morning tea sent its sweet aroma to Thorin's room. He could remain no longer.

It was time to leave the Shire. The mountain was calling him home, surely as the sun rose at dawn and set at dusk.

Bilbo prepared preserves and fat loaves of bread for the morning meal. The leanness he'd attained on the journey had been short-lived, for the hobbit was now plump as ever, the buttons at his trousers in need of constant replacement. He pattered down the steps from the smial. The dwarf king considered his words but they caught in his throat, noting the hobbit's flattened affect. Bilbo Baggins's emotions ran from exasperated to moderately cheerful, never somber.

"I shall miss your company, burglar. I have had no truer friend in this corner of the world, nor any it seems."

"You were not meant to stay here forever."

Thorin sighed, taking in the fresh air of the Shire in morning. "The line of Durin has all but gone."

Bilbo's mouth was pulled down into a tight frown. The depths of Thorin's doubts had never been shared with any save him. He reached out quietly and touched the dwarf's shoulder, coming about to face him. "It is all but gone."

Minty the Second of Her Name stomped about impatiently at the tether. "Now before that wretched pony tears up my fence, get on your way." Thorin purposely ignored the crystalline tears in Bilbo's eyes. In the heavy-heartedness of both their faces they acknowledged a possible and quite wrenching truth- that they would never meet again.

"I ride to Bree. There, Mahal willing, I shall find them. If it is rumor, then I carry on East on my own."

A messenger had arrived in the Shire not a week before, bearing news of a dwarf-company lodging near Bree, who spoke of a dead king risen from the grave. It had alarmed some enough so that the news carried about Hobbiton briskly. Messengers often came through the Shire bearing reports from the outside world, where hobbits were not always inclined to participate in most happenings about Middle Earth directly. Now, hobbits had no kings but dead kings returning to life one supposed could turn into a matter of great concern.

Thorin could only surmise being been spotted by a keen eye, perhaps a caravan of dwarves from Ered Luin passing thru the Shire, as they were many in coming these days, headed eastward toward the Lonely Mountain. Or a Raven, sharp eyed, ever-watchful creatures. A carrier of portents, some prophecy, as they were inclined to do. Thorin Oakenshield took it as a sign that the reign of the beast was at an end, and it was not Smaug he thought of in that matter.

The messenger himself was a dwarf, a merchant traveler whose hand-carved pipes were currently delighting the Hobbit population. And he had been to The East; the dwarf said that a gray wizard had seen a lost king home, Thrain son of Thror, and they buried him in the Lonely Mountain beside his grandsons.

The circle came' round again thusly. For it had been Thorin once, wandering aimlessly in the rocky plains in all directions from Bree, in search of another king he had thought risen from a proverbial grave. His own father, that very king at long last lain in peace.

Now it was his turn.

"Farewell Bilbo Baggins. Merry we shall meet again," Thorin looked down toward Bilbo and nodded, graciously. "Should you endeavor another adventure to the East, an esteemed guest you will be in my halls."

"Nonsense!" Bilbo puffed. "I've had quite enough of adventures!" The hobbit followed Thorin to the end of his garden-path as the king rode away.

Just as quickly as Thorin Oakenshield faded from sight he retreated back indoors, so the passing Proudfoots could not see his tears.

Thorin traveled alone on the road for some time. Men and hobbits passed him, paying him little heed. It was not uncommon to see dwarves in these times, and even a lone dwarf attracted little attention. Dwarves were moving in jarring numbers, their long exile at last come to an end. Out of their mountain halls and onto the plains and jagged valleys of Eriador they went, their world, for the first time in many years, filled with fresh hope.

The world seemed still and unchanged. It looked very much the same the last time he'd seen it, these relatively quiet Western parts being unchanged in general, even over many years. He was halfway across the Brandywine Bridge when he saw Dwalin and Balin halt on the other end.

As they did, Thorin came down from Minty the Second's mount and pushed back the hood of his traveling cloak.

"Thorin…"

Balin came across the bridge tenuously, Dwalin a few steps behind and even more hesitant. Balin approached first and raised his hands to Thorin's shoulders; he was so tall for a dwarf it was unmistakable.

"Thorin…" Lightly, Balin's eyes were misted. "My eyes deceive me." He moved his heavy grip to Thorin's forearm and found him still solid, as if he had not expected to. And the old dwarf began to weep. Thorin grasped him and touched his forehead to Balin's. "I'm sorry." When he turned to Dwalin, Dwalin had already bowed low on one knee to him. "You bow so low to me when you have no reason to." Thorin placed a hand upon his shoulder, for the burly dwarf looked close to tears (and what a sight that was!). "My old friend. Forgive me," half-gasped Thorin, before Dwalin's massive arms were flung around him. "Nadad."

Dwalin's breath went in and out in hot plumes against him. He was crushed against the dwarf's leather-clad chest. Dwalin held him back suddenly, checking him up and down steadily with heavy eyes that would not, even for him, allow a tear to pass, in spite of the watersheds Thorin saw forming just under their crests. Dwalin was still Dwalin.

"I will explain everything, in time," Thorin assured.

"We buried you in the mountain. I saw you to your tomb," faltered Dwalin.

"The sarcophagus was empty, Dwalin. Gandalf-"

"The wizard knew this?! By my beard, I'll pull out his!"

"All things are done as they must be," interjected Balin.

Balin looked into the king's eyes, cast sideways over the flowing water as they were, and saw emptiness. It was a familiar emptiness, a weary gaze that his king had worn often enough before. But not death. There was still a glimmer of life in those eyes. It lifted something fearful out of Balin, for that time at least.

"For the grief I have caused, I have no words," Thorin lamented quietly. The three dwarves stood in silence for a long moment that felt eternal in its weight. Balin broke it, gently.

"We all had a debt. You, my king, have paid yours. Now let us go home."

The king summoned Minty from her station at the end of the bridge. Dwalin rode close beside him as they returned to the road. "If it meant risking death to travel overland again, I had to see with my own eyes," Dwalin said, heavily.

"How?"

"A raven came to us," answered Balin. "A clever creature send to the West beside you, tasked by the wizard to bring you home when it was time."

"The raven came to me, on a day when we had cleared debris from the royal chambers, and I sat in your old nursery, weeping, thinking of you as a babe in the cradle. It flapped and flapped its wings as birds will do when they become trapped beneath the mountain. And it relayed the message thusly when I tried to free it. We started West within days."

"I would call you a fool, but I am glad for your company now." He smiled the forced smile that both Dwalin and Balin knew too well, however sparingly they had seen it.

"We have all come to see you home. They shan't be far," Balin smiled, reassuringly.

They followed the Old Forest Road, until they came to a large, rambling caravan of dwarves halted and cooling their heels along the shoulders of the road. The company, Thorin had assumed, had meant their compatriots from the conquest of Erebor. All had volunteered for this new unexpected journey, save for Bombur, recovering from battle-wounds that rendered him useless over long distances. Gloin too remained at the Lonely Mountain, fearing raids and the plundering hands of men and elves, though the treasure had long been fairly divided among them. Gloin knew the value of their holdings well enough to know that fair counted for little in a king-less kingdom.

Indeed it was the old brotherhood in this train, and they were lodged among a company who were decidedly not brothers.

"You may be glad to know we will have traveling company. The dwarves of Erebor and others are coming east out of Ered Luin, more each day. We have discussed the matter and found it prudent to join our companies in this journey."

Thorin studied the caravan. Balin went on. "They are dwarrowdams mostly. The men have gone ahead of them in search of work and lodging. Why, it would seem there is a dwarrowdam now for every two dwarves in Ered Luin. Imagine!"

"Indeed," Thorin mused quietly. "Most peculiar."

Balin mustered a smile. "The kin of Bombur and Gloin move with them, among others. We will not be in the company of strangers."

The caravan took no note of his arrival, engaged as its members seemed in this brief respite, kvetching, watering their pack animals. Wagons were loaded heavily but some traveled only with ponies or ibexes and rams to bear their belongings. There was a llama which he recognized as belonging to Bombur's daughters. Had it been so many years? They seemed only small girls when he left Ered Luin with their father to reclaim Erebor. His head swam a bit, trying to make sense of the time and space that had seemed infinite and slow-moving for so many months now. Like a pony lurching into a gallop, it started up again.

Psychically, he was compressing it down to nothing. It had seemed only yesterday that…

Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Balin, Dwalin-

"Dwarrowdams are a risk," Dwalin grumbled under his breath.

"There is strength in numbers regardless," Balin retorted. "And they are a disciplined bunch, early to rise and steady to move. Every one of these women can wield a weapon if needed. They are led by that woman there."

Thorin squinted at the squall of dwarf women. "Which one?"

"The one without a beard."