Title: And Thus He Burned
Author: Forged Obsidian
Rating: T
Category: Tragedy
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, D ís, Frerín
Setting: The battle for Moria
Disclaimer: I'm obviously not Tolkien
Summary:Perhaps it was Frerin's body that was burning, but that doesn't mean Thorin wasn't dead as well.
Trigger Warning: Battle scenery, so expect grossness associated with that
And Thus He Burned
The sky was agonizingly alive, burning blue and wispy white. There were no storm clouds, no angry towers of black and gray to throw anger between themselves.
The scene below, however, was anything but peaceful and alive.
.
.
.
Thorin jerked the body of the orc away, yanking on an arm that threatened to come off. It didn't take much effort; one little tug and the body slid and sloshed off of the body of the dwarf that had killed it. The sudden release of tension had Thorin dashing backwards before he fell over, one elbow landing in a puddle of blood. Thorin stood back up, wincing as the torn area between his shoulders flamed and pulled at his unwanted movement.
The battlefield was a mess of flesh and blood, both red and black. The air stank of iron, and already vultures were circling in the calm sky. Dwarrow were scattered across the rocky plain, searching for wounded, friend and family alike. There was no silence, as Thorin had thought there would be. In fact, it seemed loud.
His every sense was hyperaware - every scrape across his hands and scuff of his boots sent lightning up his spine to drown in his ears and made his head buzz. Every inhale sent the odor of liquid metal across the roof of his mouth. The stern colors of dwarven iron and the black, shapeless mass of orc and goblin hide was stark, almost painful. Whenever he blinked, the image of his Grandfather flashed.
Azog.
Pulling aside another orc body, Thorin knelt next to a fallen dwarf warrior, placing scraped fingers under the helmet. Moments later, a faint pulse made itself known to the dwarven prince. Standing awkwardly, he raised his hand to his mouth and called for a healer. He stayed by the warriors side until one came, toting bandages.
" . . . the king?"
Thorin looked down at the warrior, blue eyes meeting pain-filled brown. Thorin shook his head. "Gone." He didn't trust himself to say more.
The dwarf nodded, eyes flickering. "Sorry, 'm Prince. Your father?"
Thorin didn't answer, instead moving to the side to make room for the healer. Not long after that he stiffly turned aside, moving deeper into the field of bodies and blood.
He had glimpsed his father, at the end of the battle. he was being dragged backwards by his personal guard, toward the healing tents. He had been calling for blood, to in turn avenge his King and parent. There had been a feverish glean to his eye, Thorin recalled. Given the weakness of his Grandfather's mind, it would be painfully unsurprising if his Father was lost to him.
Thorin walked onto a quiet part of the battlefield, where the fighting had first started. He had been separated from his younger brother here; he wanted to make sure the idiot didn't need carrying back.
.
.
.
Dís strapped a leg down, pulling the leather tight. The old healer next to her pushed her quickly aside, diving in with a bone saw. The wounded dwarf tried not to move, but the moment the saw started cutting into his leg he tried to arch off the cot. The dwarrow maid dashed around to his head, pushing down on his shoulders as others came in to grab arms. Before long it was over.
Dís stepped aside, looking relieved as the flow of injured slowed even as she watched. Sighing, she moved down the long tent, stepping outside for some air. Not that it was much better. It still smelled of blood, just not as thickly. Two dwarves stepped up to her, and she nearly cried when she recognized Dwalin and Balin.
"Hello, lassie," Balin said, stepping before his larger brother. Dís noted with worry that they were both hurt, a large cut across Dwalin's face dribbling blood. Balin just looked grimy, but she could tell he favored a leg. And they both looked so tired.
"I heard. About Fundin."
The two brothers exchanged a glance, before moving in unison to crush Dís in a hug. "And we about yer Grandfather," Dwalin whispered in her ear.
A hauntingly familiar scream pulled them apart. It took a moment to register.
" . . . Thorin," Dís whispered, one hand coming up clench over her heart.
.
.
.
He had caught the gleam of wispy bronze hair out of the corner of his eye. He found Frerin laid against the body of an orc, eyes closed and hand clenched around his mace. Blood was smeared across his chest, and pooled beneath his body. A strange buzzing began at the back of Thorin's head.
He walked as quickly as he could - running would only jarr his knee. He skidded as he slid next to his brother. Gently reaching over, Thorin felt for a pulse, and was relieved to find one. Shifting his brother into his arms - how many times had he held Frerin like this when they were younger? - he cradled his younger brother's head. Blood trickled from beneath Frerin's nose to crust in the beginnings of a beard.
"Hey, you fool."
Thorin was quiet. He knew how loud noises could startle the wounded, and Frerin's hearing had always been better than his. He gently shook his brother when he didn't get a response.
Frerin blearily opened his eyes, a deep brown, and shifted them until he found his brother's face. " . . . hey."
Thorin grinned. "Come now, we need to find a healer. Can you walk?"
Frerin stared at his brother for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but the blood made it out of his throat before the words did. Red splurted out of his mouth, sprinkling Thorin's armor and dribbling down the side of Frerin's mouth.
"Don't think . . . I'm g-a going anywhere . . . brother . . . "
Thorin, horror squirming in his mind, just looked at his brother, wounded. He took a closer look.
A gash had been torn from Frerin's right shoulder to his left hip. Thorin simply hadn't noticed, caught up in the joy of finding his brother alive. His heart clenched in his chest.
"No, you idiot. You're going to be alright," Thorin said enthusiastically. Hopefully.
He repeated it endlessly in his head.
Frerin's eyes drifted to a point past Thorin's head, and stayed focused there. "Sorry, brother. Can't s-ng."
Thorin's face fell, heavy brows meeting in the middle of his forehead as he tried to hold back tears.
No. No. Nonononono.
How?
Why?
In the end it didn't matter. Thorin watched as his brother's eye lids drifted, going ever downward. Then, the blood slowed. Stopped.
Gone.
Thorin held for as long as he could. He cradled Frerin for what seemed too short a time. Then, he felt something inside himself give, he threw his head back and screamed.
.
.
.
The funeral pyres sent billows of grey smoke into the night sky. There was a meteor shower, this night, but the clogging stench of smoke and burning hair kept the attention of the dwarrow on their burning soldiers. A single pyre was placed away from the others. It was on this that the King and Prince were laid.
Still arrayed in scarred battle armor, the body of the King was on top. His severed head was placed into a position that resembeled sleep. Frerin was one level below his grandfather, a ceremonial blanket covering the worst of the wound. Hardly a funeral befitting royalty. Under normal circumstances, they would have been laid to rest in tombs of stone at the roots of their Mountain. There, the echos of time couldn't be heard as the dwarves returned to the earth.
But here they had no mountain.
Dwalin and Balin stood next to their now-King, Dwalin resting one large hand on Thorin's shoulder. Dís stood alone, next to the pyre, clutching a flaming torch. Balin leaned toward Thorin, and whispered something in his ear. A broken look came over the older dwarf's face, and he turned to the pyre. Dwalin gripped Thorin's shoulder, and gave a small shake. The King shook his head, then looked at Dís. She was glad that she couldn't see his face in detail. Thorin gave her a nod, then fixed his gaze on the pyre.
With a trembeling hand, Dís touched the fire to her family.
.
.
.
Thorin watched as the fire consumed those he loved.
Always it was fire.
The wind picked up, dragging the smoke away. It tried to grab a few embers, which simply rolled along the ground before stopping. Red crawled along the outside of the collapsed pyre, pulsing like the breathing of some strange beast. A dragon, perhaps.
Thorin tried to hate the fire, but he simply didn't have the energy. He was too tired. The pit in his heart and belly sucked everything away. He wondered, for a moment, if he was even here. Was he real? Or was he a ghost, an idea, something without life?
Was this death?
.
.
.
Dís couldn't really remember what happened. Not vividly, at least. The image of the crumpled pyre did not become a tattoo on the inside of her eyes, haunting her whenever she blinked. It was just black. It only made her feel lonely.
Dwalin led his brother away, both their faces carefully neutral. Dís looked sluggishly over at her brother.
Thorin roused himself, then turned from the pyre, walking shakily toward the encampment. He sat down heavily on a spur of rock, slumping forward onto his knees. He didn't feel the protest in his shoulders, or the screaming in his knee. He didn't feel much of anything. His head slumped, and he stared at the ground.
It took Dís a moment to realize that she should go to her brother. In a way, he was more alone than she was. The mantle of king had fallen too soon on still young shoulders. It took a while for her feet to move; the numbness in her head had spread to her feet. It felt as though she were floating, or walking on unsteady water.
She slid onto the rock next to her brother, sighing as she did. Hesitantly, Dís placed one hand on his shoulder, giving it a small shake. The motion seemed to wake Thorin from wherever he had been, his blue, confused, eyes meeting her own.
"Brother?"
Thorin just looked up at Dís, dull eyes looking hopelessly at her worried face.
"I've felt death, Sister," Thorin said, his voice grating over vocal cords singed by smoke. Blood crusted his brow, clinging to his hair. His hands and forearms were covered in blood. Frerin's blood. He hadn't managed to wash it off.
"It tastes of ash."
Author's Note
Hello all!
I finally graduated high school, so whippiee! That means more time for writing. I really need to remember to save things. I had to rewrite a portion of this. It was quite frustrating.
This is far from my favorite piece, but I do like how it turned out. I didn't even know that Thorin had a brother - or a sister for that matter - until the first Hobbit movie came out. So, Frerin and Dís have a special place in my headcannons.
Reviews are appreciated! Thanks!
Originally Published: 7/3/2014
Edited: 8/21/2016