Title: A Singular Purpose

Author: foreverdistracted / 4everdistracted

Fandom: The Hobbit

Summary: The battle at Khazad-dum robs the young dwarven prince of his family. The long road afterwards robs him of the rest.

Pairing: Dwalin/Thorin

Characters: Dwalin, Thorin, Dis, Gandalf, a few members of Thorin's Company

Notes: I wanted to post this as one cohesive fic, but time (and/or my lack of organizational skills) was against me. Still going to try to aim for a story arc, but this is probably going to come across as disjointed sometimes. Also, a mithril shirt and a song from Thorin for my sleep-deprived beta.


"There's no helping it." Thorin released a heavy sigh. "We lost too many warriors."

"Aye. The trek won't be short." Balin rotated the map his way and pointed at the eastern route. There was still a smidge of blood on his forefinger. "We can only spare a handful. Once our folk are settled in the Iron Hills, then our warriors can hasten westward again and meet with the main camp, perhaps by Tharbad or Sarn Ford."

Thorin gave an absent-minded nod. Their main assemblage had turned into a crawling, straggling mess since they picked themselves up after the battle in Azanulbizar. The healthiest would have to be the ones to venture east if the journey was to be swift.

"Dwalin." His dear brother-in-arms looked up at him from where he was perusing the map with a vicious frown. "You have been silent. You think it unwise?"

Dwalin shrugged. "Dain sent word too late." He glanced at Balin, as if assessing if his words would cause conflict. "And he offers too little. We take great risk by sending a fifth of our people back through dangerous roads with naught but a handful of men."

"We've cleared the way well enough," Balin countered. "It'll take the orcs weeks before they dare venture to the surface again. Beyond that..."

"Beyond that," Dwalin supplied helpfully, "there is Greenwood."

Thorin felt his skin prickle with irritation. He could feel the weight of Balin's gaze on him before the older dwarf spoke, "King Thranduil gave us his word -"

Thorin grit his teeth. "Thranduil's word means nothing."

Uncomfortable silence fell within the tent. The flickering of torches cast wild shadows on the map.

Thorin rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Balin," he said, his voice slightly muffled, "I can entrust this mission to no one else but you."

Thorin dropped his hand in time to see Balin's resolute nod. "How many warriors am I allowed?"

He took a mental tally of their remaining forces. "Sixteen." An unbidden memory came, too fresh and recent. Orcs streaming like water from sunless depths. He could still hear the drums. "It is all we can afford. Perhaps five bowmen. I'll leave that to your discretion. At least take with you Oin, Karvi, and Arvi. Dwalin -"

"I'm staying here."

"Dwalin stays with you."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, amused despite the gravity of the situation. The two brothers had almost tripped over their own words with how quickly they interrupted. He dipped his head, relenting. "Dwalin stays with me."

A niggling doubt blossomed as he spoke the words. He could have commanded otherwise, and the brothers would have followed without further protest. But try as he might, as invaluable a fighter as Dwalin was, he could not imagine making this journey without his silent presence nearby.

Thorin was all too aware of the wisdom he did not have. But their king was dead, his father missing, and even their elders looked to him now for strength and guidance. Just this once, he promised himself. Dwalin paused at the tent's entrance and glanced back, as if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, and gave him a wry smile.