A/N : Hello dear ones!
I have decided to re-edit my story "The King of Carven Stone", in the form of a collection, where the parts can be read separately. There are a few (minor) modifications, but the original story still exists as a whole on A03 and Fanfiction, and will continue to be updated as I write on.
This is the prologue - Thorin's fall on Ravenhill, and the beginning of his life's tale.
Thank you again for your support - the next parts should be edited and released soon. Enjoy, and till soon, Meysun.


The King of Carven Stone : Part I

The Subtlest Alloy (Prologue)

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The light is white and dazzling, and the frozen water glitters, as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. The sun is fading ; the battlefield scattered with dark silhouettes, friends and foes alike.

My gaze falls upon the tall walls of Erebor, black and mighty against the dying light, and I try to breathe once more, because the pain and longing becomes unbearable. The sound escaping my lips is ragged and deep, it is barely audible and still, it cuts through my whole being as if I had screamed.

I look at this valley of war and battle, at all the blood that has been shed, and I can only try to breathe a little longer, because there are no more words, nor thoughts. There is only grief, and cold, and a searing pain in my chest that has nothing to do with the blood soaking my side, choking me slowly.

The rays of the sun grow darker and I know what is happening. I yearn for it. There is nothing left for me here, not anymore, not now I have lost them. But I cannot yield to this unbearable pain, not yet – I will endure, I will try to endure, for a while more...

Kings do not kneel, Thorin.

I have led my boys to death. My mind has crumbled, and my body is broken. I was unworthy of that crown – unworthy of their trust, of their love… I wish nothing more than oblivion – there can be no forgiveness, no honour, no welcome in the Halls of my fathers. No repair – but my life for the death of the Pale Orc, who took my remaining treasures from me.

May he rot. May the Crows feast on his body.

Kings do not kneel.

My boys. My boys. My treasures. I will endure, and stand, as long as my legs will carry me.

But I sink, eventually, and the fall is not slow, nor gracious, nor soundless. It is heavy, painful and loud, like a rock thrust from the Mountain itself. And so it should be, because we have always clung to rock and stone.

As I lay at last on icy ground, I feel the snow against my back and my hair. I am shivering now, without the strength to move; but I do not care. The blood is leaving my body with every heartbeat, clotting in my lungs, forcing me to cough, but even that need is receding as my gaze meets the sky.

It is golden now, more beautiful than the subtlest alloy, and I wonder that I could forget for so many years that we are but poor silversmiths, compared to the beauties of Nature. I used to know it as a boy. I used to stand upon the height of the Mountain with my hands full of precious stones, and I would always smile, because the infinite sky just above me could still display more shades, lights and mysteries than the gems I was holding...

It was long ago and still I remember. And as life is leaving my body, with every second that remains I can see once more every moment of my life, carved into my very Soul, spirit and memory.

I have been blessed and cursed my entire life, and I see now that it will be the blessing and the curse of my death to remember everything one last time.

The water is frozen under me. The waterfall is still. The sky is golden. And I remember.