The Ballad of Durin's Sons
Summary: (One-shot) Dáin refuses the throne of Erebor. Balin faces the uncomfortable reality of becoming ruler of a broken kingdom that was never meant to be his.
Author's Notes: The song featured is called Song of Durin's Awakening by J.R.R. Tolkien.
Disclaimer: I do not own any familiar characters/settings/plot featured in this story. They all belong to (most likely rolling in his grave) J.R.R. Tolkien.
The Ballad of Durin's Sons
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
He was never meant to be king. It was never his dream, never his ambition to rule Erebor. How could it be when Thorin was Crown Prince? And if not Thorin then Frerin would have ruled, and if not him then Fíli or Kíli or Dáin. Though a son of Durin, Balin was never meant to wear that crown. Never wanted it, never hungered for it because he knew his lot in life was to serve it instead. And he had been fine with that. Happy even with his place in the grand scheme of things.
But that was not how things worked out. Because all the ones who were supposed be king were dead and the only one left didn't want it. Balin was all that was left. The spare lord that failed to protect his liege was now the one who had to rebuild a kingdom of bones and ashes. The very idea of it all made him want to laugh and cry.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. How could they win the battle but still lose?
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shown forever far and bright.
Balin didn't want to be king and he certainly didn't believe he looked the part. Even dressed in the finest armor and crowned in gold, he looked nothing like a king. Not like Thorin who had been every inch a ruler even in rags. If anything, he thought he looked like an old Dwarrow. One long past his prime who was too scarred and worn down by the world to be the strong ruler needed to rebuild Erebor.
But who else was left to take the throne? Dwalin was too much a solider to lead. Óin was too much a wanderer to stay. And Glóin loved his family too much to give himself completely to the kingdom. Out of all of Durin's sons, the only one he could consider was Gimli, but even he was still too young to rule. All that Balin could do was make him his heir and hold the throne until Gimli came of age. But even that didn't feel fair because he knew he was stealing the freedom of choice from his young cousin.
But what else was he to do? A son of Durin did not have the luxury of freedom.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
As much as he loathed his new position in life though, Balin could not bring himself to blame Dáin for refusing the throne. Erebor haunted them both but it was different for Balin. For all the pain it held, Erebor remained his birthplace and the home of his ancestors and grave of his family. It was as much a part of him as Dwalin was. But Dáin? Dáin did not have that luxury. He was born of a different mountain, a different stone from them. Though he had been connected to Erebor through blood, it had been Frerin who cemented that link. Without the golden prince in it, Erebor meant nothing to him. It was simply another reminder of the prince he failed to protect.
Balin couldn't blame Dáin for refusing and leaving. Not when he too had failed to protect his own prince—Thorin—in the end.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
Everyone he met kept congratulating him and bowing to him as if he was already crowned. It made Balin want to punch them. Could they not see that he did not want their well-wishes or false praises? Could they not see the grief he carried with every step? The guilt and anger? It was as if the world had already forgotten who the true king of Erebor was supposed to be. Forgotten Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. Forgotten that it had been Thorin who had lead the expedition to reclaim a kingdom thought long lost. That it had been Fíli who had stayed up well into the night reading up on history and customs and languages in order to be the ruler Erebor would need. That it had been Kíli who had trained until his hands bled in order to protect his uncle and brother. Balin had done nothing to become their liege and lord.
The only ones who understood his feelings were the Company and Princess Dís. But then, they had lost just as much as Balin. Even more in the princess's case. Hers was a grief that none could rival. He could not even find it in himself to be hurt by her cold stares and empty words. Not when he was wearing the crown that should have been on her brother or son's head.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
Balin didn't want to be king but that didn't matter. There was no one left to rule and they had come too far to simply abandon Erebor. There had to be something more, something that was worth all that was lost. Thorin had dreamt of rebuilding a kingdom that could be a new home for his people. He had died for that dream, had unintentionally paid the price of it with the blood of his sister's sons. Balin could not forget that, could not ignore it. He may have failed to protect his king and princes but he would not fail in keeping their dream alive. He would not.
Balin did not want to be king but he would do it. He was a son of Durin, after all. And Durin's sons always did their duty.
The End