Special thanks to DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed for beta-reading this fanfic :)
Peace
Everyone else from the company seemed to have found some measure of peace there: the hobbit, having taken to elvish poetry and songs and tales; the wizard, evidently acquainted with the lord of the realm; his companions, who enjoyed the wine and a moment of peace and the mountain air. But for him, there was no peace there.
Thorin felt restless, as restless and he had not felt since leaving Ered Luin, since the beginning of this journey. So when his friends made merry and took their rest, he wandered across the valley aimlessly, neither looking at the passing elves nor speaking to them, and they in turn left him alone. There were many silver streams in the vale, not unlike those in the Blue Mountains, but their music did not bring him peace. And there were raging waterfalls, majestic and ominous, but seeing the boundless energy of the water did not soothe his troubled mind. It was as if something was waiting for him in that valley, only he did not know what it was and where to look for it.
And one afternoon, green and golden as the summer was at its height, he walked into the lower levels of Rivendell, where it was cool and shadowed, and the occasional beams of light shining through the trees made him think of pillars of fire. And though he was not especially sensitive to such things, even he felt the change of mood in this place. It was not sorrow, not precisely, but it evoked thoughtfulness all the same, and Thorin wondered what mysteries lay hidden there in the elven realm that were able to touch the heart of a dwarf.
Down, in the deepest corner of the vale, there was a simple stone laid on the ground, but there were no runes on it, and no signs at all, no ridiculous elvish scribbling, no letters of men. There was just fresh green moss creeping across the stone, and flowers and herbs growing around it, and he recognized camomile and balm, lavender and mint, and kingsfoil, and the curious mixture of the smells seemed painfully familiar.
There was someone coming, and Thorin tensed, not certain whether to leave or to stay; but the steps themselves were inaudible, and he heard only a soft rustle of material across the grass, and the quiet sound came to a halt beside him. When he turned, he saw an elven maid, dark-haired and fair of face, and when she nodded to him in greeting, he saw eyes of light grey like the most exquisite opals. Something about the woman reminded him of Elrond, and Thorin guessed she was the elven lord's kin.
"Mae govannen," she said gently. "Welcome."
He found enough courtesy to bow a little. "And welcome to you, lady." He did not harbour especially warm feelings towards the elves, but lord Elrond was kind to him and his friends, and, truth to be told, he did not hold any grudge against the elves either. In some aspects, Elrond reminded him of the lord of Grey Havens, Círdan the Shipwright, whom Thorin had come to respect.
"I see you are wary," the elven maid remarked. "But there were times when our people did work together, and there is proof of it still to be found across the realms, like at the door to Khazad-Dûm," she said, speaking his own reluctant thoughts. "You are not with your companions, Thorin Oakenshield," she spoke, pensive. "I thought my father's home brought peace to all that rest here."
So she was Elrond's daughter, Thorin thought, glad he had not offended her. "You know my name, lady, but I do not know yours," he said, not wishing to answer her unspoken question. No, there was no peace for him here, but it was not her concern.
"Forgive me." She smiled, and the smile broke through his reserve a little. "I am Arwen."
"At your service," he said and bowed, somewhat stiffly.
"At yours and your family's," she replied, with a slight curtsy and a friendly, slightly playful smile.
"What is this stone?" he asked, and right that moment it dawned on him it looked like a grave, and he regretted his question, though the realisation baffled him even more, for he knew that of all folk elves were the only ones that did not die.
"A grave," explained lady Arwen, and her smile turned sad.
"But your folk do not know death, lady, do they?"
"Ah, we can die, of wounds or sorrow," she answered, and for a moment the smile was gone from her face, and he guessed she must have lost someone; and he recalled he had not seen lord Elrond's wife anywhere, and wondered whether the grave was hers. "But one way or another, we go West," Elrond's daughter continued. "No, 'tis not the grave of an elf. My friend, a daughter of the race of men, is buried here." And with those words she stepped forward and knelt beside the grave, and brushed her fingers across the herbs and flowers. And then she leaned over and gently pulled the moss away from the stone, revealing a single mark, and Thorin held his breath for the sudden piercing pain in his chest.
"This mark..." he began, and let out the breath he was holding, and took another, and it could not go unnoticed, but for the moment he paid no heed. "What is this?"
"Yavanna's flower. Cast in iron by Aulë," the elven maid said softly, then turned towards him as she heard his shaky intake of breath, and looked at him thoughtfully, and slowly understanding filled her eyes, but Thorin turned away least he saw compassion in them.
"She passed in peace," the lady Arwen spoke gently. "And her last thoughts were of him that had cast the flower she wore in her hair in iron."
Thorin remained quiet. Surprisingly, there was no despair, no sorrow; there was nothing, and he felt hollow like an empty mine. What was the point of dwelling on wasted years and the past that could not be undone? He had his quest, there was a homeland to reclaim, and that was enough. It had to be. The memory of stone is long, but no matter how deeply something is carved into it, it can be erased. Something wet fell onto his lips, and he found it strange, for there was no rain, and found it even stranger that the little drops should taste of salt.
"She was at peace," the lady Arwen said. "And she wished peace on him, too, whoever he was," she added, pretending not to notice his reaction, and when Thorin glanced at her he saw she was still kneeling at the grave, not looking at him, as if she did not want to pry.
"Maybe there will be some other peace for him," he said eventually, when he knew his voice would not fail him and would not falter.
"He was of Durin's folk, wasn't he?" she asked gently.
"Aye, he was," Thorin replied quietly, his voice hoarse. "But whatever peace there will be for them, they will never share it."
"I wouldn't know about that," lady Arwen said softly. "But I know a tale of old, of an elven maid called Lúthien and a man named Beren, and I know that when he departed from this world, he waited for her."
There was a sudden bout of quiet, slightly feeble laughter, and Thorin was stunned to recognise it was his own. "She would have laughed so much at the comparison," he said, and though his mind felt numb, his voice recalled some of the fondness it used to hold when speaking of her.
The lady Arwen got up and turned to him, and smiled at him comfortingly, and briefly laid her hand on his shoulder. "She will wait, if the Valar allow it," she said, soothing.
But that was altogether too much, and Thorin stepped back, and let the laughter die on his lips, and let the fondness fade from his voice. And he filled the hollow cave that was his heart with the image of the lost home he was to reclaim, and rekindled the fire in his soul with the memory of the flames burning in the Arkenstone.
"I have a lost home waiting for me," he said, his face like stone, and his voice too was cold like stone.
But Elrond's daughter gave him a long look, her opal-grey eyes many years older than her face. "Yes, you have," she said quietly. "But is it really where you're looking for it, I wonder." And with that she turned and walked away, the skirts of her gown rustling against the grass.
And Thorin stood at the grave, but did not kneel by it, nor did he touch the mark etched into the stone. But long after the lady Arwen had left, he reached into an inner pocket of his robe, and took out a long-unused mithril bead, and plaited a strand of his hair, and clasped the bead onto it.
