Born to Fire and War
Summary: (One-shot) The thing was, the thing that everyone seemed to forget, was that he wasn't just Balin son of Fundin son of Farin. He was also Balin Durinson, and he carried the blood of warrior kings. The world really should have remembered that.
Author's Notes: This story takes place in the A Shot in the Dark universe. This is the first of twelve one-shots that cover the lives of the Company after the Quest of Erebor is completed.
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.
Born to Fire and War
When he was a child, his grandfather used to sing to him a song of old.
In a deep tone that had never wavered, Farin had told him the story of their ancestor Durin, and realm he had built beneath the Misty Mountains. He sang of the gleaming pillars of polished marble, the glittering lamps of crystal, and the clever Doors of Durin that hid the city from view. He sang of the meaning behind the name, and how Durin had chosen it after looking upon a lake beneath the mountain Celebdil that reflected a crown of stars to him. He even sang of the grief that followed when they lost their glorious realm, and the hopes that one day Durin would come to lead them again to reclaim their lost Khazad-dûm.
"It was the first home we ever knew, Balin," his grandfather had explained after, his rough hands gentle on Balin's head. "It was the soul of our people. Losing her... Ahh, it was like losing your One. Livable, but pointless. Our people will never be truly complete until we regain Khazad-dûm."
Balin eventually forgets the sound of his grandfather's voice, but he never forgets his song.
Balin is not very surprised by Bilbo's news.
You died trying to reclaim Moria, his friend had written in his letter of confessions and regrets. The ink was smeared and there were black fingerprints at the corners of the parchment. When he traced the words that foretold his death, he could feel the lumps beneath it, and wondered what Bilbo must have used to write against.
You died trying to reclaim Moria.
"A foolish dream," scoffs Glóin when he had shows him his letter from their Hobbit. "You are much too old to go about reclaiming dead kingdoms. You will stay right here with us in Erebor where you and my fool of a brother can't get eaten or stabbed."
Balin simply smiles and slips his letter away.
Reclaim Moria...
Dwalin takes one long look at the letter, and then looks him dead in the eye. "No."
"This is not your choice to make," he reminds his little brother calmly.
"Oh like hell it's not," snarls Dwalin, glaring down at him. Though taller and broader in the shoulders than him, Balin is not at all intimidated. It was hard to be intimidated by someone whose nappies you once changed. "You're not going. Try it and I'll lock ya in a tower with Bilbo. You two can drink tea and bond over your bad life-making decisions."
"Those are some big words you're using," Balin comments, raising his brows as high as possible. "Did Ori teach them to you?"
Dwalin's scowl worsened until all Balin could see was their father staring back at him. "You're gonna die. Ya know that, Bilbo told ya as much, even described your fucking tomb in detail. And ya still wanna go?"
He shrugs, indifferent. "Everyone dies eventually, Dwalin. If not in Khazad-dûm, then in another mountain. There's no avoiding it."
Dwalin clenches his jaw until Balin can hear the bones creak. He scowls in disapproval, and reaches out to flick his baby brother in the forehead. "Stop that before you break another tooth," he orders sternly.
His brute of a sibling snarls but does as told. "I'm not letting ya do this. I'm not letting ya die for a fool's dream. Not again."
Balin doesn't need to ask for clarification. He knew of what his brother spoke of. Of another battle fought decades before in the vain hopes of reclaiming Khazad-dûm. A battle where they saw both kin and friend get cut down over and over again. A battle where they lost their mad king and golden prince. A battle they lost bitterly and tragically because their king had been too lost to see beyond his own greed and grief.
A battle where they nearly lost each other.
"Is it really a fool's dream to want to reclaim something of our heritage?" he asks quietly, recalling the red and orange dawn that had followed after the Battle of Azanulbizar. He remembered how the colors had painted Dwalin's brown skin into shades of crimson and gold. "To reclaim something of our past?"
"Why do you need to reclaim it so bad? Why can't Erebor be enough for ya?" his brother retorts, staring at him with their mother's eyes. For all he looks like their father, Dwalin really is their mother's son when it came down to it.
Balin doesn't answer. Just shrugs, and gives his sibling a half-smile that earns him a grunt of disgust before Dwalin stomps off to pout to Bofur and Nori about his mean big brother. Balin watches him go with no regret. He has an answer for him, of course, and it is a good one too, but there is no point in telling Dwalin. His younger sibling would never understand it even if he lived to see a thousand years.
Because just like Dwalin is their mother's son, Balin is their father's in every way.
Thorin is not surprised by his letter.
"We must rebuild Erebor first," is all his cousin says after he reads Balin's letter. His face is pale and he is still recovering from the Battle of the Five Armies, but his eyes have finally lost the madness that had haunted them for the past few weeks. "I cannot help you without any power."
"I know that," he agrees easily, nodding his head and linking his fingers together in his lap. "It is a long term goal. One that I would not pursue until I was sure that you and the others were completely safe and secure here."
Thorin rolls his eyes. "You do remember who's older here, right?"
"All I remember is you losing your senses and throwing your One out of the mountain before an army of Orcs," he returns evenly, raising one brow at his king.
Thorin flinches like Balin has just punched him, and drops his eyes back to the letter in his lap. "I wasn't—No. I have done something horrible, I know that, and I will make it right. If—when we get Bilbo back, I will make it up to him. I will fix this."
Balin doesn't doubt it. For all his flaws, Thorin is an unnervingly persistent bastard. "I know you will," he reassures verbally, taking his letter back and folding it up neatly. "Get some rest now. The sooner you're healed, the sooner we can go after Bilbo."
Thorin grumbles but does as told. They don't speak of Moria again.
They find Bilbo, of course. He's half-dead and mad and missing a piece of his soul, but he's alive, and that counts. Balin has learned not to be picky with these sort of matters.
They all return to Erebor, and then somehow Bilbo and Thorin end up taking in a child of Men. He is a small thing with dark hair and pale skin, and features too sharp and awkward for his young face. But he holds his head high, and when Balin meets his gray eyes, he can see the makings of a king within the boy.
His name is Estel, and he is the Heir of Isildur.
Fíli and Kíli take to him instantly, and grant him the name Hôfukel in a gesture of acceptance. The rest of the Company come around too in their own time, but it takes a good while to get Estel to warm up to them. Balin doesn't mind though. He has nothing but time these days.
Rebuilding Erebor turns out to be... harder than Balin had expected.
The manual labor is difficult, of course, but everyone knew that before the reconstruction even started. And Balin knew that reestablishing trading routes would take time and effort, and trying to gather basic supplies is not unexpected either. The talks that follow, the treaties, the problems, the mechanics of rebuilding a nation from the ground up... All of it he had expected.
It is the memories that he had not anticipated.
Every inch of Erebor, every broken staircase and fallen pillar, tells a story. Balin cannot take a single step in the mountain without remembering something from his past. Sometimes the memories are simple, meaningless little snatches—buying a ring at a merchant stand, chasing his cousin through the streets—but others are... harder to face.
—trying to reach for his mother's hand as the staircase below her feet crumbles—
—holding his brother for the first time, and silently marveling over the wonder of it all—
—the feel of paper beneath his hand as his uncle teaches him to read—
—looking up at his grandfather's corpse for the last time before they entomb him with the rest of their family—
Every piece of Erebor is a part of him. Balin never realizes just how much until he is finally given back the missing pieces.
Thorin turns out to be a good ruler.
He's not perfect, of course, and Balin knows (thanks to Bilbo) that Dáin would have been a better ruler. But as brilliant as Dáin is—and he is, Mahâl knows he is, and Balin can't help but feel so proud of him for it—and as powerful as he would have made Erebor, he could never love it like Thorin does. Could never sacrifice everything for it as Thorin has, and never worked so hard to reclaim it. Maybe that doesn't matter for much in the long run, but Balin feels like it should count for something.
Besides, for all of Thorin's faults, he has others to fall back on. Bilbo, of course, is always at his side; soothing Thorin's temper, smacking sense into him when he's being stubborn, and all together balancing his cousin out. Fíli—who excels at politics—easily handles the diplomatic matters that Thorin doesn't have time for, and Kíli—who can read people better than anyone—handles public affairs. Dís, of course, is there in the background; playing her part as the Black Widow of Erebor, the one who watches over the kingdom undetected. Dwalin is always loyally at Thorin's side as his Captain of the Guard, and the rest of the Company also offer their counsel when needed, always there to help their king when he calls. Thorin has so many people around him to catch him when he falls, so many who care and support him that Balin—for the first time in decades—feels like he can finally relax. Because Thorin—his king and kin and cousin and friend—is finally safe.
Thorin is a good ruler alone, yes. But with the help of others? He becomes an indestructible force.
Balin doesn't think of Khazad-dûm again until Estel reaches maturity.
"Khazad-dûm must be reclaimed to use in the upcoming war," the young prince—smooth faced and very young but still so determined to conquer his destiny—tells him a week before Estel is to leave to join the rangers. "Do you still plan to attempt to retake it?"
He leans back into his chair and regards the youth before him carefully. "I had planned to, yes, but not just yet. Not until Erebor is stable enough to leave alone."
Estel scowls, and Balin bites back a smile because it is the exact type of scowl Thorin would wear. Out of all of them, Estel admires Thorin the most for everything he did to regain Erebor from Smaug. Balin knows that the young Man is hoping to be just as strong, just as capable a king as his Dwarrow foster father. Balin is quite certain that Estel will be even better.
"You cannot delay it for long," the prince replies, straightening his still growing shoulders. The boy just doesn't seem to stop growing. "We must take back Khazad-dûm before the Enemy can claim Durin's Bane."
Balin cannot help but flinch at the name. "And you know this for sure?"
"Yes," Estel replies without pause, his gray eyes hard as iron. "The Enemy knows where it is for sure now, and will use it to keep the... Ring-bearer from his task. We must destroy it before this can happen."
He nods slowly in acceptance even as his mind races. "Yes, we must stop that before it can happen. I will... discus it with Thorin and the others. For now do not concern yourself with it. Focus on the rangers and getting stronger. Leave Khazad-dûm and Durin's Bane to me."
Estel makes a face that tells him exactly what he thinks of that idea, but does not try to fight him. After the prince leaves, Balin lights up a smoke, makes himself comfortable, and begins to plan.
Before Erebor had fallen, before he became just another wandering Dwarrow, Balin was the eldest son of the War General of Erebor—Fundin son of Farin.
In his prime, Fundin had been the best warrior in all of Erebor and Dale. Even Mirkwood had, grudgingly, admitted his prowess at war was something to be admired. He was a master swordsman and his battle tactics and strategies was what had gotten them into Azanulbizar to begin with. Even Dáin—the most brilliant Dwarrow that Balin ever knew—would have had a tough time matching Fundin in battle.
Dwalin had, obviously, inherited some of these war skills, and showed it in combat. He was a good fighter, a solid leader when in charge of small units, and a great teacher. But it was obvious to anyone who knew Fundin that Dwalin would never be as brilliant as his father. But Balin?
Well, he had been a bit luckier in that regard.
Thorin is the first person he shares his plans with.
Balin needs Thorin's permission to leave, after all, and even more he needs Thorin's aid. His cousin takes Balin's notebook and calmly read through the scribbles and stained pages. When he finishes, he sets the book down, and looks at Balin with blue eyes as smooth as an untouched lake.
"You will take Orcrist with you," orders his king, nodding to the sword that sits upon a mantle in Thorin's personal office. It has not seen much use since Erebor was reclaimed and Bilbo saved.
"I take it I have your blessings then?" Bali replies, ignoring the generous and odd offer.
"Obviously. Why do you think I offered you my sword?" retorts Thorin, giving him a familiar scowl. "You'll need a unique weapon to take down Durin's Bane. Orcrist—as much as I loath to admit it—is the best we have in that regard."
"Don't let Gimli hear you say that. He'll be offended," he advises as an unstoppable grin stretches across his face. "But thank you, Thorin. You do not know what this means to me. To be able to attempt such an expedition... I never thought I would live to see the day."
"If I could forbid you from doing this, then I would have done so," his cousins admits, his scowl softening a bit at the edges, "but that would make me a hypocrite. No one believed I could retake Erebor and yet you still supported me. Returning the favor is only right."
Balin chuckled, and ran his fingers down the length of his white beard. "Glad you remembered it. I was afraid I was going to have to pull the guilt card on you if you refused."
"Tricky bastard," Thorin accuses, but with affection that is undeniable.
Balin doesn't even bother to pretend otherwise.
He goes to Dáin next with the news for two reasons: the first because Balin knows he needs Dáin's aid in this venture if he is to succeed. The second is because he's a coward who is terrified of telling his little brother that he's marching off for what looks like a guaranteed death. So instead of facing down that landslide waiting to happen, he writes a letter to Dáin, and then patiently waits for his reply from the Iron Hills.
What he gets is not quite the reply he was expecting.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dáin demands as he comes stomping into Balin's office without permission.
Balin looks up, blinks a few times, and then returns his attention to the trade agreement he was going over for Fíli. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, Dáin, I'm afraid that there are a lot of things wrong with me."
"Oh, forgive me, I meant this personal failing," snarled his cousin, slamming down Balin's letter on his table, and nearly knocking down his mountain of paperwork. "What is this nonsense, Balin?"
Balin sighs, and resigns himself to not getting any paperwork done within the next hour. "You know what it is, cousin, you obviously read the letter," he replies, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his sore eyes.
"Yes, and now I want an explanation. Why are you attempting to retake Khazad-dûm? Did you learn nothing from Azanulbizar?" Dáin practically hisses, blue eyes roaring with fire. It surprises Balin, for a moment, because Dáin was usually very composed. Then he recalls what they are arguing about, and realizes it is not very surprising. Dáin had been at Azanulbizar too, after all.
"Durin's Bane must be stopped before the Enemy can unleash it upon us," he explains calmly, crossing his hands together on his table as he tries to stare down his elder cousin, "and it must happen before the Ring-bearer comes of age. This is the best way to do it."
Dáin scoffs, and tosses his thick red braids over his shoulder. "Oh bullshit! Don't act like you're doing this for some noble reason, Balin. You would have gone after Khazad-dûm even if there wasn't a nearly immortal monster sleeping in the mountain."
Balin can't help but scowl at that. He had always thought that Dáin, out of all people, who had turned his kingdom into one of the dominant powers before he even reached a hundred, who was the biggest overachiever in their family, would have understood Balin's wish the best. "You got what you wanted," he accuses quietly, "Thorin got what he wanted. Why can't you let me get what I want?"
Dáin just looks at him as if Balin had just announced that Mahâl was really a troll.
"What makes you think that I ever got what I really wanted, Balin?" he asks, his voice oddly raspy and his blue eyes blank. "What makes you think that a kingdom or a title is what I really wanted out of life?"
Balin flinches, and looks away because he knows the answer to that. Dáin has carved out a legend for himself with what he has been given, has created a kingdom to be respected and adored by all, and was probably going to go down in history as one of the most virtuous Dwarrows to ever live. But for all his success—for all his fame and glory and power and respect—Dáin lost what he really wanted out of life a long time ago on a battle field painted in red and orange.
There is silence between them for a long time before Dáin finally breaks it. "I'll help you get Khazad-dûm back," he says, clenching his fists until they become a bloodless white. "Not because I agree with you, but because I don't want to lose you. Not to a fucking memento of the glory days of our ancestors."
"It is more than a memento, Dáin," he argues back, remembering his grandfather's song. "It is a part of our people. It is where we started from, where we all link back to. We need to get that back."
Dáin just snorts; looking unconvinced by Balin's argument, and more convinced that his cousin was a bleeding fool. "No, Balin, it is just a empty city housing a bunch of lost souls," he retorts with a lifetime of bitterness behind his voice, "and I hope that yours won't end up counted among them."
With Dáin in the city and ranting up a storm about the stupidity of kin, it doesn't take long for the others to hear of Balin's plans. Soon enough he finds himself being mobbed by Óin, Glóin, Dori, Bifur, and Ori.
"What the hell are you thinking?!" demands Glóin as he slams the doors open dramatically. He stomps into the room with the rest following after him in a more civilized manner.
"Glóin, lower your tone," Dori chides, closing the doors behind them. "We don't want to disturb the neighbors."
Ori snorts. "What neighbors? The nearest person to him is Dwalin, and he's being restrained by Bofur and Nori at the moment."
"Are they really? That's nice of them. I'll have to reward them for it later," Balin comments, smoothing down his beard.
Glóin looms over him, and bares his teeth in a snarl that makes him look like some sort of mad fox. At his side, Óin rolls his eyes, and gives him a helpless shrug. Balin just nods back in sympathy. He also has a little brother with a temper after all.
"You're not doing this," snarls Glóin, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I won't allow it. I won't!"
"I don't think it's your decision," points out Ori, hoisting himself up onto Balin's desk and picking up one of his forms to skim over. Long gone is the timid but fierce lad that had joined the Company over a decade ago. Now there is only a wolf; sleek and beautiful and able to rip your throat out if enraged. Balin can't help but tear up every time he sees Ori verbally rip apart some patronizing noble.
"It's not. Thorin has already granted me permission and promise of aid," Balin reveals before Glóin can erupt, "and so has Dáin. You really can't stop me, Glóin."
Glóin clenches his jaw and his fists, and Balin quickly leans back incase his volatile cousin decides to take a swing at him. It wouldn't be the first time. "You're going to die," Glóin growls through his clenched teeth. "You're going to die if you go to Khazad-dûm, Balin. You're going to die. Why doesn't that bother you?!"
"Because it would be for a good cause," answers Óin, crossing his arms over his chest and giving his brother an unimpressed look. "That's why he's going to make the attempt, and that's why I'm going to join him."
Balin raises his eyebrow at the unexpected news, and Glóin spins around to gape at his sibling in disbelief. "But... But you can't, you'll die and—," he gasps, reaching out to grasp Óin's collar. "I don't want you to die! Óin, you can't do this, you can't leave me here like—"
"I'm not leaving you alone, Glóin," Óin interrupts, his voice softening slightly as he stares down his little brother. "Not like the last time. You have a family now, and that means you won't be alone even if I'm not here."
Glóin just keeps staring at Óin with blue eyes blown wide open. Balin looks away, feeling like an intruder on such a vulnerable moment. He meets Ori's green eyes instead, and raises a questioning eyebrow at his old student.
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Ori replies to the unspoken question, giving him an apologetic smile. "I have other plans at the moment, and it would be a bit like tempting fate, you know? The three of us going there together... I think it's already bad enough with just you two."
"Make that three," interjects Bifur, speaking up for the first time. He meets Balin's surprised eyes, and gives him a small nod of assurance. "I want to come along to help."
Balin frowns, and shares a concerned look with Dori. "But your family—"
"Will be fine," Bifur interrupts without care. "Bofur and Bombur are not alone. They have the rest of our kin here, and they have built themselves a good home near the palace. Bombur has even found himself a new wife, and Bofur has his tavern and Nori to keep him busy. They will be fine without me."
"You could die," reminds Ori, tilting his head back so he can see the other Dwarrow. His loose hair—a foot longer than it was a decade before—falls off the table with a jingle of beads and bells, and almost skims the ground. Even though he has seen Ori nearly every day since Erebor was reclaimed, Balin still can't help but be amazed at the sheer length and thickness of it all.
"Lad, I was supposed to die a long time ago," replies Bifur, rolling his eyes. "Every day since I got this injury have been a gift. I'm not going to fight it when it's my time to go."
"Well if you're going than I suppose I'm coming along too," declares Dori
Ori's jaw drops along with everyone else in the room. "What?! You can't go! You're a Guild Leader, they need you still!" the youngest Dwarrow proclaims, pushing himself off the table and to his feet.
Dori scoffs, and crosses his thick arms across his equally thick chest. "Nonsense. The Guild has plenty of members to choose a leader from. They'll be fine without me."
Ori continues to gape, and gestures between himself and the door across the room. "But what about me-me and—Nori! Who's going to bail him out of jail? Or help me braid my hair? Or, or—"
"Ori," Dori interrupts gently, his face softening in the way it only ever does for his brothers, "calm down. You will both be fine. You are not children anymore. You don't need me around to hold your hands. You can survive without me."
"Yes, but I don't think he wants to," Bifur points out quietly, and privately Balin agrees.
Ori just continues to stare at his eldest brother—and parent, really, because it was Dori who had raised him up—with his lips pressed into a thin, straight line. Dori just stares back at him, and Balin recognizes the silent war going on between them. He looks away to Óin and Glóin, and finds Glóin wrapped around his elder brother in a fierce hug. Óin endures it; patting his younger brother on the back like they are children again, and Glóin has gotten scolded by their father.
Balin finally looks away from them all; unable to stand meeting any of their eyes now. He can't decide if that is a bad sign or not.
Since he knows he owes it to him, Balin pays Bilbo a visit himself to break the news. He finds the Consort Under the Mountain in his personal chambers; curled up next to his huge fireplace with a large book in his lap. He looks up at Balin's entrance, and flashes him a gentle smile that won the heart of the King Under the Mountain all those years ago.
"I was wondering when you would show up," the Hobbit comments, closing his book and setting it down on the table next to him. He waits patiently as Balin makes himself comfortable in a chair opposite of him before he finally speaks again.
"So you've decided to reclaim Moria," Bilbo states simply, watching him with brown eyes turned gold by the nearby fire. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes," he replies honestly. "This is what I want to do."
Bilbo nods slowly as his golden eyes continue to weigh Balin on a scale that he could never understand. Bilbo is, quite possibly, one of the most difficult and yet simplest beings that Balin has ever met. The Hobbit thinks and feels in ways that are so foreign to a Dwarrow that it is nearly impossible to understand him. Yet, at the same time, Bilbo is never one to desire much, is content with just a good meal and a good book, and will share this openly without any hidden motive. He is so easy to please and yet so hard to comprehend that Balin doesn't know how Thorin puts up with him.
(Then again, Balin also doesn't know how Bilbo puts up with Thorin, so obviously it was the perfect match.)
"I thought you might choose this path," his friend admits, twisting one of the few rings he wears around his finger. Bilbo is not one for jewelry no matter how much Thorin lavishes on him, and only wears the bare minimum at best. "I could see it in your eyes that day we spoke of it all those years ago. I just didn't think it would be so soon."
"We must move before the Enemy gets there," Balin points out, watching Bilbo wince slightly at the mention of Sauron. "And with Erebor finally stable, we can finally act."
"You're not going to survive this," Bilbo states with a quiet certainty to his voice.
Balin simply nods. "I know."
"And you're at peace with it?"
"I am. If I wasn't, then I never would have volunteered," he says, and watches the way Bilbo's gold eyes grow lighter in color as he tilts his head to the side.
"I am going to miss you, Balin," his friend admits softly as the lines around his mouth grow sterner. "I think even more than the last time because this time I know what you're marching off to face."
Balin feels the shard in his heart dig in deeper until he can barely breathe. It is a familiar pain that only comes out when he faces Bilbo's untouchable grief. He wants to help his friend, he truly does, but he knows he can't because Bilbo's anguish is not something that anyone can share. It is a sadness made up of two lives that are really just one, and a sort of tragedy that Balin—for all his losses—could never understand.
Instead, all he can say is, "I'm going to miss you too, Bilbo," and hopes that it will be enough for his friend in the days—and years—to come.
The rest eventually confront him on their own. Nori—worried but not surprised—promises to send the best of his agents with Balin. Bombur and Bofur—angry and hurt with both Balin and Bifur—take turns in yelling at him, and building up the guilt in him with sob stories about Bifur. Fíli and Kíli ambush him in the halls, and proceed to prove to him why they are such a deadly force together. At the end of it, Balin is torn between a peculiar sort of pride at their strength, and a sense of horror for the future to come.
He hunts down Súna and Gimli himself, and apologizes for dragging Óin into his plans. Súna is understanding but Gimli—fierce and bright like a roaring fire—yells at him for making his father upset, and then makes him swear to protect his uncle. Balin promises without regret, and then seeks out his final cousin. Dís—because she is Dís—simply orders him to come back alive, and even Balin is too petrified—and too smart—to argue with his cousin. So instead he gives a vague sort of reply, and then runs before she can drag out some sort of blood oath from him.
After all, there is a reason why no one crosses the Black Widow.
As expected, Dwalin is the last person he ends up confronting.
Balin ends up having to search for his baby brother himself, which is not as hard as one would expect. One word to Nori and he is kindly pointed to Bilbo's personal gardens. The gardens—a gift from Thorin that was half an apology for throwing Bilbo out when he was mad, and half a proper attempt at a wedding gift—was built into the mountain near the top back section. It faces out against the east and, despite the climate, was flourishing with plant life. Balin could not begin to imagine how Bilbo was able to keep anything alive on the top of a mountain, but he was marking it up to being a Hobbit.
Sitting in that impressive garden was, of course, Dwalin. With a small sigh, Balin joins his silent brother on one of the stone benches. Dwalin, in turn, continues to stare straight ahead at a blooming tree with violet flowers.
"How much longer are you planning to avoid me?" he asks the younger Dwarrow, casting his eyes up to admire some of the hanging plants above them.
Dwalin still remains stubbornly silent, but Balin knows he will break soon. The younger Dwarrow is anything but patient.
"Keeping it in won't fix things," he points out. "Let it out, Dwalin. Just say what you must to me."
Dwalin finally stirs, and pulls his lips back into a rather terrifying snarl. "What is there to say? You're leavin' to die for a kingdom none of us has never seen. That makes it plenty clear where the rest of us rank on your list of priorities."
Balin frowns, and turns to face his growling sibling face on. "I'm not leaving you because I value you less than my dream, brother—"
"Than what would you call it?" Dwalin snaps back, also turning to face him. "Because that's what I see! I see you choosin' some fucking legend over your family!"
"It's not a legend, it's a piece of our history," he returns sharply, feeling offended and a bit hurt by the other Dwarrow's words, "and I'm hardly going just for the city. It is also to stop Durin's Bane—"
"Oh fuck off, don't try and justify it with that," interrupts Dwalin, his snarl growing deeper and fiercer. "You're going 'cuz ya want to go. It's what you want, it's always been what ya wanted—"
"And what's wrong with that?" Balin snaps back, finally losing his temper. He gets to his feet and towers over his younger brother with his own ugly scowl. "Why is it so horrible for me to have a dream? Why is it so horrible for me to want this?!"
Dwalin gets to his feet and pushes him back a step. He doesn't use his full strength though so Balin only ends up taking a single step back. Still, it is enough to make Balin's blood burn. "Because it's going to get ya killed! That's why it's horrible! That's why I don't approve!"
"Every venture has a risk, Dwalin, there's no avoiding that," he reminds the other, shoving the taller Dwarrow's shoulder but failing to move him at all. It makes him even angrier. "Erebor was a risk but you still took it too—"
"That was different!" roars Dwalin, cutting him off yet again. "Erebor is ours so we had to risk it all! It's our home, damnit, it was only right to get it back! But Khazad-dûm? That's a fucking corpse that died before either of us were born!"
"It's where we started, fool, it's where we all started from!" Balin roars back, fighting down the urge to just punch his stupid and stubborn sibling in his big mouth. "It is the beginning and it will be our end if we don't get it back!"
Dwalin opens his mouth to retort but nothing comes out. After a moment he closes it, rubs his face, and begins to shake his head. "Why?" he rasps, his deep voice shaky with so much emotion that Balin can't help but flinch. "Why? Why can't this be enough for ya? Why do ya gotta reach for something so far away?"
Balin is about to answer until he realizes he doesn't have one. There is no good answer for his ambition to forge his own legend. No real reason he can give him to explain why Balin is like their father, and longs to keep pursuing something beyond his power. All Balin has is his want and dreams and a song that continues to follow him to sleep every night, and even he can see that's not enough of a reason.
"I don't know," he confesses, and it tastes sour to admit his flaw. "I don't know why I can't let it go. I don't know why I can't be at peace with what I have. Maybe I'm broken inside, or I'm missing some important piece. Maybe I'll never be satisfied even if I do reclaim Moria and become her king and ruler—I don't know! I just know that this is my dream. This, more than anything, is what I want to pursue in life."
Dwalin's shoulders drop with Balin's words; like the weight of them was just too much for him to hold up. Balin memorizes the slant of each angle, and wonders if the guilt in his heart is lighter or heavier than those words. Because he does wish it could be enough, that Dwalin—his only brother, his left hand, the one who knew him best and least at the same time—could change his heart. But he's not enough, and Balin knows that Dwalin recognizes it too.
"You're chasin' after a dream, Balin," Dwalin finally whispers, his dark eyes old and sad beneath his heavy brows. "Some fairy tale dream that's just gonna get ya killed."
"I know," he admits softly.
"I'm not gonna give ya my blessin' for this," his brother vows, shaking his head. "I'm not gonna forgive ya even if ya don't die."
"I know."
Dwalin watches him silently for another moment before finally reaching out to grasp Balin's shoulder. He pulls him closer and Balin follows easily; his hand automatically sliding up to grasp the back of Dwalin's head as their foreheads press together. This is their personal greeting, their version of a hug and a clap on the back. It is their way of reassuring one another that the other is alive, that their flesh is firm and their breath real. But for the first time, it doesn't feel like a greeting to Balin. It feels more like a farewell.
"Please... Just come back," Dwalin whispers, digging his fingers into Balin's hair and shaking him slightly. "Please."
Balin wants to promise him that he will, but since he knows that would be a lie, he just stays silent. He thinks that silence might just be the best answer anyway.
It takes two years of preparation before Balin believes they are finally ready to take on Khazad-dûm. They are a long two years to bear because Balin wants to simply leave now, but knows that he cannot. His mission requires careful strategy, lots of supplies, and a good deal of soldiers. Going in blind on a whim would only end the way Bilbo had written. So he curbs his impatience and focuses on being as overly prepared as possible.
When the day comes when they are to finally leave, the whole kingdom comes out to bid them farewell. It is a joyful occasion with cheering and waving and crying. Balin chalks it up to Kíli's efforts and the fact that most of the kingdom have no idea what really awaits them in Moria. Still, he appreciates the effort, and does his best to put on a happy face.
He goes to each family member and every member of the Company to personally bid farewell. Most of them have made peace with his decision, but some of them still refuse to budge. Unsurprisingly, Dwalin is one of them. Surprisingly, Fíli is too.
"Make sure to keep Óin away from that lake," his brother advises when it is his turn to say goodbye. Dwalin stares straight ahead and refuses to meet Balin's eyes. "Don't rush in like a barefaced lad at his first scrimmage. Take it slow."
"I will," he promises, reaching out to grasp his little brother's shoulder. He gives it a hard squeeze and, when Dwalin's eyes finally flicker down to meet his own, adds, "Take care of yourself, Dwalin."
"Don't ya mean take care of Thorin?" mutters Dwalin, rolling his eyes.
Balin shakes his head. "No. Take care of yourself."
Dwalin blinks once, twice, and then pulls him close to knock their foreheads together. It is a gentle tug, like when they were children and Balin had to watch his strength because Dwalin was so much smaller and delicate. It makes his heart ache in a pleasant way, like when he thinks of their parents and grandparents. He thinks that this is a feeling he will become familiar with in the coming days.
When the farewells are done, Balin hoists himself up into his saddle. At his side is Óin, and on the other sits Dori, and behind him is Bifur. They all look to him and, for the first time in his life, Balin feels like he has found where he belongs.
"Ready to go?" questions Óin, watching him with his During Blue eyes.
Balin smiles his simple smile, and turns his eyes forward to the future. "Yes, I am."
End