CHAPTER 1

Thorin

The Vagrant Prince, the villagers had taken to calling him. The vile title crept through the thick air when his back was turned, when his head was bowed. It was a slick and oily moniker which he despised all the more for its truthfulness.

Thorin II, son of King Thráin II and the grandson of the fallen King Thrór, drew his hammer back and brought it down with required force upon the beginnings of a wrought iron horseshoe. He worked at it studiously, though the task was quite simple. Four shoes for the daughter of the Mayor of Alürhim—Or more likely, her freshly cut gelding.

He cast his eyes down deliberately, as a few gawkers had turned into a crowd, and soon the street before the smithy had filled with onlookers. Two weeks had passed before the rumors had spread, and Thorin realized with an empty triumph that it had certainly taken the people of Alürhim the longest to discover his identity.

He was well prepared for what would come next, the merchant who owned the smith would receive complaints about the stir his new blacksmith was causing, and he would be asked to leave. If the proprietor was determined to keep him, there would always be a few villagers who sought to force him out. It upset the everyday comfort of a place whenever he was found out. When there was no cause for the termination of his employment, he was told that in order to keep the peace, he best be on his way.

When the near silent breaths of good-natured curiosity and shuffles of anticipation grew to whispers of concern and stumbling forward to capture a glimpse of the dwarf prince, Thorin calmly rested his metalwork upon the anvil. He looked up sternly at the apprentice he had been instructing only moments before, and then he heard it.

"The Vagrant Prince."

"Was it you?" He asked the boy quietly.

The boy shot him a frightful glance, and backed away.

Thorin advanced on him and growled low at the apprentice, "Know well that you have robbed food from the bellies of dwarven children and clothing from the mothers who bore them. I would not wish such malice upon my bitterest enemy."

A moment later he had thrown off his leather apron, and marched toward the crowd. He cast a reproachful eye across the gathering of villagers as they parted. The prince would slave to earn a better life for his people, but he refused to beg in order to remain where he was unwanted.

"He's an odd, ugly creature," he heard a young child mutter.

"Shh!" The mother had scolded him. "He is a dwarf prince, show respect."

Thorin felt due relief at these words, until a man beside her spoke boisterously, "Prince of what?" There was an equal smattering of laughter and censure at the question.

He schooled his anger as thoughts of Erebor flooded his mind. His home under the mountain. Visions of its golden splendor flashed before his eyes, and a deep ache echoed through his heart. This in turn brought remembrances of the life that had once reverberated within Erebor's countless caverns. Now the great mountain kingdom was barren, infected by death and fire and greed.

When he was clear of the crowd, Thorin stared back at the smithy's and beheld the apprentice who had exposed him. The boy's eyes were red and his chin quivered pathetically. Thorin raised his head high, and with a disdainful scoff turned his back to Alürhim. Where the prince was concerned, the village had been razed from the map of Middle-earth the moment his pony's hooves galloped across its outermost cornfield.


It was already dark when Thorin returned to the settlements in Dunland, which had been established for nearly three years. If ever small huts could be afforded and built, they were reserved for the children and new mothers among the Erebor refuges. Crude tents and straw-stuffed bed rolls were most common amongst the people. Though the dwarves were master builders, it was all but impossible to acquire the proper materials and tools.

The Prince of Durin's Folk occupied a tent that was larger than many of the structures nearby. His father had insisted that it should befit his station. Thorin believed there was a single station for all who resided in the settlements, and it was an abominably low position indeed.

Their people were little more than paupers and Thráin II was preparing to reclaim Moria from the Orcs. The prince could not deny that he thirsted for vengeance after the murder and defilement of his grandfather, Thrór. However, there could not have been a more inopportune time to raise the flag of war. There could be no army without the help of the dwarves from the Iron Hills, and he knew well they would never consent to the massacre that awaited them in Moria. Thorin shook these thoughts from his head.

He lashed his pony's reigns to the hitching post beside his tent, and removed his saddle. A strong commotion was erupting from within his tent; Thorin sighed as he tossed the entrance open. Balin was inside with a young dwarf, who was bleeding from the nose. The young dwarf was laid out in one of the two roughly made beds that overtook most of the space in Thorin's dwelling. The beds functioned as an overflow from the inadequate infirmary just across the road.

The boy's eyes lit up and he attempted to bow, though Balin's hands were inspecting his nose. He let out a terrible whimper, and was still.

"What's happened to this one?" Thorin asked Balin as he unloaded his pack from his shoulder.

Balin sighed. "He went looking for work in Alürhim, and a few human lads beat him rather cruelly—Galri, I shall have to set it," Balin told the youth in a very serious manner.

"That town has been nothing but trouble for our people. I would not step foot on its soil again if it were to spare my life. An apprentice at the blacksmith spread my origins around town, he caused another scene. It must have been after Galri was attacked. They most likely assumed I would demand satisfaction for his beating." Thorin placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Had I known, I certainly would have."

In the moment that Thorin had distracted the boy, Balin shifted his broken nose into place. Galri cried out and blood sprayed from his nose and across the bed.

"That horrid place should be burnt to the ground," Galri seethed, and fell back against the bed.

A new pain gripped his jaw, and he opened his eyes to see his prince scowling at him. "We have witnessed enough fire and destruction in our time, and we should pray it never finds another host! Those men are fools, but I do not wish them dead for it!"

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I am upset and in pain," Galri pleaded.

"There is nothing to forgive, I understand your reasons for speaking thusly. They have often been my own." Thorin removed his bed roll and blanket from his pack and laid them out to the right of the unoccupied bed. He lowered himself down, removed his tunic and took cover beneath his blanket.

A dwarf and his pregnant wife burst through the tent flaps. She was keening furiously and her husband was in a panic.

"The midwife's hut is full up, I beg that you allow one of her daughters to deliver my child here!" The dwarf implored Balin as he wrung his beard in his hands. His wife stumbled to support herself against the empty bed.

Balin shot Thorin a questioning glance when he stood up from his bed roll.

The father-to-be bowed his head. "Your Highness."

"You have my blessing," Thorin declared and shook the dwarf's hand. He then pulled at a knot in the ceiling. A canvas wall unfurled and created a divide between the childbirth and Thorin's place of rest. He heard the midwife's daughter enter, and then Balin ushering Galri from the tent.

As he rested, the sounds of an infant dwarf entering the world roared through his ears. Another dwarven mouth that he could not provide for. The wails of this baby would transform into the weeping of a child, and eventually the empty sorrow of an adult. Thorin longed to rest well into the following day, but when he heard the soft hiccuping of the infant as it finally quieted, he realized what he must do.


Before the sun rose the next morning, Thorin stood over a basin of water with his beard in his hand. He peered down and stroked it several times. The length of a beard translated into a great sense of pride for the dwarven people. The particularly fine beard that Thorin had grown over time was often attributed to being a descendant of Durin. In his fist, he held his last vestiges of royal pride. With a flick of his dagger, most of his beard came away in his hand.

A rattling breath escaped him as he stared at his reflection on the surface of the water, and only then did he fully comprehend what he had done. It was a lesson in overcoming his pride, he had removed a vain emblem that represented a his former lifetime as a prince. "Prince of what?" He asked himself. Thorin tidied what was left of his beard with a pair of shears, and prepared himself for the day ahead.

He took his pony south along the main road. He passed Alürhim, and the borders of Dunland altogether. He rode without a destination, until fields became sparse, and he continued on until they began once more. A marker on the road caught his attention and he brought his pony to a halt.

"Carradale," he read aloud. The town was settled to the right of the road, and he could see it was rather large. Several buildings were made of stone and a few were more than one story tall. He dismounted his pony, and ventured into the town.

Few people were on the street, and he was thankful for it. Those who were passing took little notice of him. One woman stared until he glanced her way, and then she continued about her business. He spied an inn that was situated in the center of town, and was hopeful the keeper would know of labor that might be required—no matter the race of the man who performed the work.

He hitched his pony to a post, and lifted his chin as he made to enter the building. Apprehension seized him before he pushed the door open. No one shall want a smug worker, dwarf or human, he thought to himself. After a moment of calm, he looked to the ground, and entered the inn.

Smoke filled his senses the moment the door had closed. An open doorway to his right led to a tavern, and to the left there were stairs. The keeper's counter was abandoned; Thorin could see a rack of keys and a few notices nailed into the wood.

"Sir, if ya lookin' fer a room, you'll 'ave to come in'ta the lodge o'er 'ere!" A gruff-voiced woman called out to him.

He slowly crossed into the "lodge," as she had referred to it. The woman was installed behind a counter that stretched the length of the room, and behind her there were libations from floor to ceiling. She was tall, buxom, and quite overweight. Gray hairs entwined with the few brown locks that remained on her head. Two men sat at the long bar, and four others were scattered throughout the room at wooden tables.

"Bless it!" She proclaimed at the sight of him. "A dwarf in our lodge, Mr. Whemp," the woman went on, calling out to a man sifting through parchment at one of the tables.

Mr. Whemp looked up at Thorin, raised his eyebrows, and went back to examining his papers. "Hmph, I suppose," was all the response Mrs. Whemp received from him.

"What brings ya 'ere, mister dwarf? Yer a long way from Dunland, do ya know that?" Mrs. Whemp inquired. She filled a flagon full of ale and placed it before a man at the bar.

"My thanks, Kath." The man turned to Thorin and waited for him to respond.

"Did ya 'ear me, dwarf!" Kath Whemp screeched at him. Thorin could only guess that what had once been a lilting voice had eventually deteriorated into the banshee holler he heard now.

"... Please, ma'am," he began respectfully. "I do come from the dwarven settlements in Dunland. I seek labor in Carradale. Perhaps you or your husband may know of such work?" Thorin kept his head slightly bowed, and watched Mrs. Whemp carefully.

Her tongue loudly clicked against the roof of her mouth. "Ya came all the way to Carradale fer labor?"

"I did, so that others might find work closer to... to home," he managed to explain. Once the words were spoken, he realized they were also true.

"The fields are full, if I correctly recall," Mr. Whemp offered, without turning from his occupation.

"Since Midra turned sixteen, we've 'ad no need for 'elp at the inn." Mrs. Whemp shrugged her shoulders at him. "I wish there was more we could do," she told him sincerely.

Thorin hung his head low, but recovered quickly. "You have my gratitude, either way. Many would not have allowed me to cross their threshold." He made his way to the exit.

A man near the doorway cleared his throat and held up a hand toward Thorin.

"You wouldn't happen to have any craft with blacksmithing, would you?" The man casually wondered.

"It is my speciality, sir. Black, white and silversmithing. Do you know of a position in town?" In spite of himself, Thorin hoped there was something.

The man took in a puff from the pipe he was holding. "I operate a smithy on the outskirts of town. My last blacksmith was overtaken by thieves on the road. He'll never hold a hammer again after what they did to him. I hear tell that dwarves are master smiths," the man paused as if he expected a reply.

"Meaning no disrespect—Dwarves are far and away the most efficient and skilled of all smiths," Thorin assured him.

The man's large brown eyes surveyed the dwarf before him from head to toe, and he nodded before he got to his feet. Thorin had to stare upward, for the man stood at least two heads above him.

"I am Idren Elarith, a merchant by trade. I reside in Carradale, and wear many hats here. And you are?" Idren motioned to him with his pipe.

"My name is Dathir," Thorin lied. "I am a member of the Durin's Folk who have settled in Dunland." It was reasonable for Thorin to assume that no one in Carradale would recognize his face.

Idren shook his head. "A horrible tragedy, that drake. And to think, those good-for-nothing elves stood by as dwarf and human alike were slaughtered." An intense expression of hatred overcame Idren's face as he spoke of the elves.

This was a sentiment that Thorin had shared as he watched Thranduil turn away from the horror while the survivors looked on. It was difficult not to take a liking to a human who admired dwarven smithing and despised the elven race. The left corner of Thorin's lips lifted in a small grin.

"I'll try you out, Dathir. If you can prove yourself useful within a week, I shall take you on. If not, you'll have your wages and be on your way," Idren offered. He affected an enterprising stare, and awaited Thorin's acceptance.

"You have yourself a blacksmith, Master Elarith," Thorin announced, and extended his hand.

Idren shook it readily. "Would it be at all possible that you might begin today? At the very least you could tour the shop, and acquaint yourself. Several orders are well past due, and I'm beginning to hear from clients. If you would rather return tomorrow, I understand."

"If there is work to be done, I shall begin today." Thorin lamented that he would have to return to Dunland in darkness each night, and ride early to reach Carradale in the morning. His distress ebbed when he considered his fortune at having found a new position so quickly.

"Come, Dathir, we'll away to the smithy, and along the walk, I shall recount the orders to you. There are specifications for each in the shop, however, it will do no harm to prepare you for what lies ahead." Idren turned hastily on his heel, and strode to the door. Thorin followed closely behind.

They were nearly trampled as a young woman came bounding down the stairs to the left of the entrance. She was a plump girl, whose brown hair flew forward over her shoulders when she braced herself on the bottom of the railing. Her eyes grew large when they fell upon Thorin. She looked nervous and snapped her eyes toward Idren.

"Where are you off to at such speed, Miss Midra?" Idren asked the girl, who had begun to pant.

"I've promised Sigrid I would come to visit her today. I have offered to help her with chores, so that we might go to the pond while it is still light. If that is agreeable, sir?" Midra submissively bowed her head.

Idren glanced at Thorin and back to Midra. "I don't see why not. Go on, I am sure that Sigrid is marvelously bored in the cotton field."

"Thank you, sir!" Midra called as she sprinted out the door.

Idren and Thorin stepped out after her, and watched Midra skip off into the distance.

"Miss Whemp is a dear girl. I pray that her influence will bring about more deference in my Sigrid." Idren started west at a brisk pace. Thorin unhitched his pony and hurried after. Idren spoke in detail about the overdue orders, and posed a few short questions to Thorin.

When they arrived at the smithy, Thorin was pleased to see that it was both large and well outfitted. When the tour was concluded Idren left Thorin to begin his work. Many of the tasks were rather straightforward and he decided to spend the remainder of the day completing all of the simplest metalwork.

Hours had passed without his notice and suddenly the clanking of the hammer was overtaken by the groaning hunger in his stomach. He gathered his pack and removed a few strips of dried rabbit meat and a fourth of a cram biscuit. During his meal, which he took upon a small table and stool near a window on the other side of the shop, he imagined the fine food that elves and the people Dale had once traded to them. Now he was fortunate to have any meat, no matter that it was scrap from a rabbit he had caught himself weeks ago.

Night had fallen upon Carradale, and it had grown very quiet and still when he quit his work. The shop was far away from town, and he did not fear bothering the residents. Though he noticed that if he exited the smithy, he could walk a few paces and stand at Idren Elarith's front door. He had asked Idren if he would mind him working well into the night. Idren had appeared quite pleased, and assured him that he was welcome to remain in the shop overnight.

As he tore a hunk of rabbit away with his teeth, he heard a distant voice cry, "Oh, look!"

His head snapped toward the sound and he saw two silhouetted figures in the second story window of Idren's home. The figure to the right had its hand outstretched, pointing directly at him. When it saw him look, it ducked down in fright. The second figure did not move for a some time, and when it did, it was to wave slowly down at Thorin.

In response he scoffed and returned to his meal. A moment later he glanced back up and the figure had gone.