For Kaja, Filigranka, and everyone who's disappointed with the third Hobbit film.
All That Is Gold
He sits on the throne of his forefathers, the stone both strange and eerily familiar under his hands. Over his head there is an empty space gaping like a dark tunnel, pulling him in – the space where the Arkenstone had been set, once. Now hollow, like the vast halls of Erebor.
He hears his name, echoed in those long dead voices, chanting quietly in his mind, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, a constant reminder that all his efforts were in vain, that he might have reclaimed the treasure hoard and the mountain but not the kingdom, for it had perished in dragonfire, and not his home, for that he had left behind in Ered Luin. All in vain, the voices sing in a chorus, all in vain, there is nothing but empty stone halls and gold, but is gold not what you wanted, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir of Durin, heir of Erebor, heir of the Throne Under the Mountain, heir of the empty halls and ashes and ghosts of the past.
They find the armours and the weapons, and the harps of old, wrought in gold and silver, and the halls echo with music once again, with songs of victory and triumph. His nephews are with him, and so are his friends, and an invisible hand clutches at his throat and chest at seeing life returned to Erebor. But then he looks further, beyond the circle of firelight and reflections of crystal lamps, at the far ends of the halls, at the tunnels shrouded with darkness, and pain pierces his heart like a sword at seeing all the lives that are not there.
They find precious stones and gems, unimaginable riches, and gold in piles and rivers. Gold in mountains and lakes, a landscape of gold. In a polished surface of an old shield he can see the gleam in his eyes, like the glint of this very metal he treasures so much.
Dimly, he remembers another kind of gold, softer, warmer, the memory so very distant he can barely recall it, because he had been yearning for this gold so very long and finally it is his, spread like a carpet beneath his feet. But the cups and rings are cold in his hands, and the crown is like a circlet of ice on his head, and he can feel the coals of his heart burn lower and then freeze over, but he pays no heed, distracted by thousand of sparks the fire ignites on every surface, on every coin, and he forgets that other kind of gold has a name that he could not recall and that it troubled him.
There is no sunlight in Erebor, but it seems to him that the gold shines just as brightly. But it is just a reflection, not a light. Just as their voices are but a pale reflection of the countless lives he remembers. But when at night all but him are at the gate and he walks among his treasures again, he stumbles upon a harp, simple and wooden, and his fingers stumble on the harpstrings, the notes quiver in the air and then comes the rain. The only clouds in Erebor are those upon his forehead and those darkening his eyes, but unlike the fake sun reflected in gold, the rain is real.