The Undead of Erebor.
Hi all! This is chapter one of the Undead of Erebor and it was an idea that wouldn't leave me after clapping eyes on the Arkenstone for the first time and knowing that the Necromancer was added to the film to shake things up a bit. I shouldn't be starting ANOTHER story, seeing as I have about eight others ongoing on here as it is, but the need to see this on here overcame me like the golden sickness overcame the line of Durin. This is my first venture into the Hobbit section!
Disclaimer: I own nothing – that's all Peter Jackson and J.R.R. Tolkien.
Here but Never Back Again
The doors were still hot to the touch after the fire that had raged through the halls once more moments earlier. The dragon that used to roam here, slithering through the wombs of a hall that wasn't his like a parasite, was gone. He was dead – a certainty that they'd witnessed from afar with their own eyes. Laketown should never have kindled in the first place, and all the dwarrows could do at this point was hope that the residents were still alive. Thankfully, Mahal had seen to bless them with the gifts of the returned Fili and Kili, which left Thorin Oakenshield quivering with suppressed relief as he had gripped them tightly and pressed his forehead to theirs for the longest moment.
(Fire, fire burned your skin, run RUN NOW!)
A hand trembled and laid itself flat on the door, partly to support its owner, partly to hide said tremble. He couldn't do this – he couldn't bear to see what was left. But he was the King; he couldn't afford weakness, not now.
(The gold was going to bury him it was going to drown him until it melted in fire and poured into his lungs - !)
Thorin Oakenshield pushed open the door, feeling eyes boring into his skull.
It was dark. Mahal, it was dark.
Thorin stopped dead as the others moved past him eagerly, itching to explore. Only two remained behind.
"Thorin?"
Bilbo's hesitant voice echoed and he swore he could hear his own breathing. Had it always been that loud? Had he really just opened up access to the mountain that had once been his home?
"Thorin, move."
Balin's firm hand at his back guided him to a pile of metal (probably glittering gold when seen in torch fire) and made him sit.
"It's alright, Bilbo. We've been through a lot to get this far and this place brings back a lot of memories. He's probably in shock!"
The weak attempt at humour slipped over Thorin's dark head like dirty water. But Balin was right, in a way.
He was here.
Thorin Oakenshield was here. Back in the Lonely Mountain and remembering when it hadn't been lonely…when it hadn't been this oppressive. The whole journey here seemed to have worn him to the point where he WAS shocked that they'd actually made it.
It took a few minutes for him to recover, removing his hand from his mouth that had kept lava from spilling out. Had he been breathing?
"We should light up the place."
His deep voice was a whisper and Bilbo and Balin practically fell over themselves to do his bidding.
His behaviour was infectious, no doubt.
An emptiness that settled in his stomach the day when they had left the mountain reared up like a blanket, but with none of the comfort. Why did he still feel this emptiness? Maybe starting to look around the place would help Thorin stop this childish foreboding. After all, what did he have left to fear now? Standing on faint legs, the King under the Mountain headed towards the source of light that was created by the rest of the Company.
"Ey, look who it is!" Bofur cheered, the flaps of his furry hat bouncing slightly as he stooped and picked up a thick stick, lighting it from the small fire in the centre.
"There you go!"
Thorin nodded his thanks.
"We'll split up and see what we can find initially. Then we'll meet up back here, understand?" he called sternly, letting his inner power bleed into his words to focus their attention and a cry of confirmation rose up from the little group.
A swell of pride tugged at him as he watched them all pick their routes, Fili and Kili going together as usual.
Then the raven-haired dwarf turned and stalked out of the room silently, choosing a path that led upwards. He blinked a haze out of his eyes as he slipped in and out of the shadows, upset to find that he wasn't sure where he was going. Thorin knew Erebor like he knew himself once. Now he wasn't certain of either. Much had changed on this quest.
More than once, Thorin felt something watching him, teasing him with dragon eyes and he quickened his pace despite the knowledge that the great wyrm was dead. Terror of an oncoming madness forced him to stop at a random door, yearning for something, ANYTHING, to occupy his restless mind. Cautiously pushing the stone door open, he started when he felt something small and furry scramble over his foot.
Just a rat, stupid dwarf, he berated himself.
Holding his flaming stick higher (he hated holding it but he had no choice), Thorin stepped further in. The he realised where he was, fingers supported by smooth white marble.
The library; a place where he had tucked himself away as a boy, delighted by tales of far-off places.
Moving through slowly, Thorin reverently touched leather embossed spines, carefully excited to find most of his favourites intact. The floor crumbled under his feet in some places without kind dwarf hands to take care of it and the wooden shelves, grand oak lined with gold, were rotting from the inside out. Absorbed as he was, Thorin almost hit the ceiling when the engraved door slammed shut behind him. He whipped his head round to look for a moment before shaking his body out. This nervous energy he was gripped by was ridiculous.
"Stop being so frightened!" he hissed at himself, teeth clenched.
Something ivory and dusty caught his blue eyes and he went over, his heart twisting when he realised it was a skeleton of one of his kin. Their bodies were scattered all over this mountain, despite some parts being relatively untouched by the dragon's wrath. He slipped for a second on something slimy and found himself nearly meeting the ground head on before he managed to catch himself.
"Clumsy oaf…" he muttered.
Almost absently in the dank silence, Thorin brushed dust and webs off the body.
The head turned, sockets gazing eerily into his own eyes and Thorin reached instinctively for his sword, only to curse when he remembered leaving it back in the main halls. The undead being rose from the carved stone chair and Thorin backed off sharply, his hand finding a knife hidden in his pocket instead. The temperature seemed to have dropped and he shivered. He'd never seen anything like this. This wasn't natural, no; they should be staying dead and oh by the Gods - !
"Stay back!" he commanded roughly, burying his shock under fighter's instinct and blood pumping adrenaline.
Of course, it didn't listen because he, King under the Mountain, told it to.
It should though, he thought indignantly as he slashed at it, causing it to stumble back, its loose jaw clacking grotesquely. It was a strange thought to have for such a situation.
How was this happening?
Suddenly, he tripped, too busy fighting it off to see where he was going, and the torch flew from his left hand, bouncing away. The shadows wavered and distorted, throwing the heartless ribs of the once dead dwarf in harsh relief. Landing on his behind, Thorin pushed himself up, dodging a swipe of the clawed hands and coming at it again, giving it a good kick for measure along with the strike as it finally disintegrated, rattling breathing fading away.
For a long moment, Thorin stared with wild orbs at where his attacker had just been, now little more than ashes on the floor. Why? Why had his kin done that? Was Mahal taunting the line of Durin even now? How?
Acrid smoke stung at his nostrils and a sudden roar caused Thorin to swivel quickly and freeze at the wall of red and orange that licked at old parchment hungrily. Mouth dry, Thorin saw his people screaming as they shrivelled and were consumed, fire reflected in terrified crystal eyes.
Erebor was on fire again.
Forcing his limbs to work, Thorin struggled through the fog of fear (fire no no it was too close no more fire!) to the door; he had to find water to put it out, there was no dragon this time, he had CONTROL - !
The door wouldn't open.
Panic descended as he pulled frantically, ramming his shoulder over and over into the unyielding grey until something crunched and he couldn't move it anymore.
"Open, open!" he seethed (it was coming creeping he was going to die screaming like his people his mother).
The popping came closer and his phobia finally broke him, making him hammer on the door whilst screeching and pleading for help until he ended up choking on the smoke and the pain of his ruined shoulder on the floor (how the line of Durin had fallen again he needed to get out Kings shouldn't act like this LET HIM OUT!).
"Oh Mahal, oh hell!" he sobbed, pressing his bearded face against his arm to try and breathe, his body flattened as much as possible into the door to prolong his final moments of life and the flames raced closer with no mercy and he couldn't stop his fist pounding in blind desperation, curling inwards.
A voice was answering his wails.
"Thorin!"
His vision was swallowed by orange - .
"THORIN!"
Someone pulled him upright and his eyes snapped open, a warm wetness trickling down his face. Beads of sweat were formed on his forehead as he blinked the horror away and saw Dwalin's white face staring back.
"By Thror's beard, Thorin, you terrified me there!"
Thorin's head lolled. He didn't remember Dwalin coming with him.
"What…?"
"We were exploring the library and you tripped and conked yer head!"
Thorin couldn't think of any of that and he blinked slowly again.
"Dwalin?"
"Oh, for the – you've probably gone and given yerself concussion, haven't yer?" The thick-muscled dwarf crossed his arms in aggravation.
Apart from the double-vision, Thorin felt relatively fine and the dwarven king stood shakily, his head feeling like it had been split open by an axe.
Poor Bifur.
"My head's hard." He slurred, looking for his dropped torch.
"Of course it is, yer a dwarf!" Dwalin ground out. "But yer still bleedin'."
Thorin wasn't listening. His insides roiled at the sight of a pile of black ash sitting innocently on the floor.
"That wasn't there before." He murmured and swayed.
"Oh no, you're goin' to Oin." The taller male growled as Thorin started towards it and grabbed an arm.
The chiselled king sagged against his old friend in hurt bewilderment and the two dwarves left the room, the skeleton ash all but forgotten for the moment.
After all, Thorin's muddled mind reasoned, it was only a dream, right?
Phew, a nice long chapter to get us started! I feel that Thorin would have been a little overwhelmed to be back in Erebor. Plus, after the trauma he's been through, I also have a little head canon that he's developed a nasty phobia of fire. But eh, we'll see. Hope you all like it!
Love Lily. X