Prologue
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Long ago had the dwarves of Erebor prospered. Generations of miners, masons, blacksmiths and jewelers had long labored in those halls of stone, carving from the dark caverns of the earth a life for themselves and their children after them. Those centuries of peace seemed to pass slowly, quietly, without war or fear or famine. Their prosperity was rooted in foundations of hard work and unmatched skill, and their riches had become so vast that men far to the north began to hear of it. A city steadily amassed at the foot of the great peak, nestled deep into the folds of the shadowed valley below – the City of Dale, peopled with the descendants of Northmen.
Still, they toiled. Dug their hands into earth that was not their own. Lit great fires in alien hearths that never seemed warm. The blisters of hard work broke and bled and shiny new callus was born anew on their tired hands. But no amount of callus could heal those deep-rooted wounds of loss in their hearts - bereft of the only place in this world they called home.
Under Thorin son of Thrain, the dwarves of Erebor thrived in their borrowed halls. The years had softened the scars of their loss. Soon, thoughts of home came less painful and less often. The mines glowed with lanterns and the reflective veins of gold. Anvils sung beneath the weight of hammers and the forging of arms. A route of trade formed between elves and dwarves and men, and there was no want of food as long as there were jewels and swords for bartering. They built for themselves a life of comfort once more. There was much feasting and song and drink again after long hours of work in the mines and forges. In the aftermath of their greatest tragedy, they had found peace again.
It was not a rich comfort, made of opulence and silk and mountains of gold; common as it was, they found contentment in what they had salvaged from the ruins of their old life. Strength replaced sorrow, and before long, they did not think much of Erebor at all – for Ered Luin became their home, and Thorin Oakenshield the worthy King-in-Exile.
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There was only silence in the wake of victory.
Bodies lay in great numbers at their feet, bloodied and crushed beyond recognition, and the base of the mountain where the hills once sloped soft and green now ran scarlet with blood. Survivors wandered long over the battlegrounds, searching the pale faces of dead for the familiarity of kin. They had defeated the foul enemy of Moria, but it was a feat made hollow by terrible loss. So many dead, among them Thror, King Under the Mountain, and his son. Thorin stood towering over them, his hard face grim even in the forgiving gleam of sunlight. In his hand, a piece of splintered oak still drooped stiffly at his side. All of them, even Dain of the Iron Hills, knew that defeat would have been their's if not for the brave prince's rally.
Armor shone silver bright and shields loosened from arms as the few who remained searched the carnage. Some began to find brothers, loved ones, and friends who now lay pale and quiet in their shallow graves. Prayers to Aule for comfort and shelter for the dead began to fill the hollow wind. Dwalin happened upon the head of the late king by chance, discovering the remnants of his body nearby. His would be the only pyre to burn that night.
Even as dusk came and shadows began to gather beneath the eyes of the stars, the fells of Moria echoed with lamentation and mourning.
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His tent was the only place of refuge in the entire camp. It was his fortress, a tower of burlap and twine, and behind its walls he was safe from the battered and battle-weary outside. He could hear the wind moving through the grasses, water falling over rocks and carrying them away in the riverbed nearby – the din of calm and quiet that he had not heard since before the battle. As any dwarf, he much preferred the clamor of mallets shaping metal, of axes wheedling stone, as these were the sounds of sanctuary. Home was to the north of this land, black and desolate now that its people had gone.
He could almost hear Dis' scalding retort even now, as clear as if she were there at his side.
This is home now, a home you have made for us. Erebor is a fond memory and nothing more.
"My lord?" A small voice slipped through the thick panels of cloth. "Lord Dain requests an audience with you."
Standing from his cot, he straightened the coat of mithril gleaming silver-blue beneath his tunic. As dirty and battle-scuffed as he was, he would remain presentable in front of his men much as he always had. "Send him in."
The flap of the tent opened and Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, came sauntering in. He was a proud figure of nobility, fair of hair and stout of form like his father before him. In the usual fashion, his long beard had been woven into patterns of intricate plaits held together with golden clasps. His battle armor was cumbersome, and it weighed upon an already heavy gait, but nonetheless he bore himself with the strength of a seasoned warrior. He gave a low, sweeping bow to Thorin no sooner had the flap closed behind him.
"Thorin, son of Thrain." The ghost of a smile hid in the corner of Dain's bearded lips. "King Under the Mountain."
"I am no King yet," Thorin replied. "Not while my father still lives."
"Alive? Dead? What do we know of his fate?" Dain held out his helmet for his attendant to take, shaking his head gravely as he spoke. "We've searched the lower hills, the river banks, the flatlands to the east. Even the flats of Rhovanion have been scoured Scouts have been sent further out, lest by chance he survived the Wilderlands, but we all fear the worst of it."
Thorin evaded Dain's piercing gaze, arms crossed and shoulders bent. He had seen his father, driven mad at the sight of his own father's death by the enemy's hand. In that moment, he had been afraid, torn between honor and the urge to run for the hills – and only the hope of vengeance had staid him.
"Thorin," said Dain. "Now that you are set to inherit - perhaps, you should consider... "
"I have already given answer to your offer…" Thorin interrupted gruffly. "I will not be swayed."
Dain spread his hands in conciliation. "I do not seek to sway you, my friend," he said. "Only to renew an offer which I still stand to honor. I only wish to help you, cousin."
"I do not need your help," Thorin replied. "Nor your pity."
"Your pride blinds you to reason. Will you not at least consider my advice? A cruel road lies before you, I can assure you at least of that. There are duties that you must fulfill and sacrifices you must make for the good of your people. Your grandfather is dead. Your father - we know nothing of his fate." For a long, cruel moment, Dain was silent, as if shaping his thoughts into some semblance of sense. "These are uncertain times, and one must be careful...the line of Durin is fading out of existence. Take care, young prince, that you do not let it disappear altogether."
Thorin reflected on this, and found there was a grain of truth to Dain's wisdom. Pride was always a matter of utmost importance to him – especially when it came to his duties as prince of the realm. Appearance and bearing, since the end of his life as a wandering blacksmith, had been the extent of his obligations to the throne. His people had rebuilt themselves. Outside of training and smithing and deliberating the council of older, wiser men, he had thought little of the responsibilities he would inherit as new King Under the Mountain. But now, he wished he had dwelt a little longer on them.
His father had never mentioned to him the possibility of matrimony. Perhaps, if he had known what was to transpire this day, Thrain would have discussed in detail why his son would have to choose a wife. It was much too late. Any decision, no matter how ill-advised or hesitant, would have to be of his own making.
Thorin gazed emptily at the maps spread out before him on his cot. "Why..." He spoke haltingly. "What will you gain if I marry one of your clan?"
"A powerful ally."
"We are already allies," said Thorin crossly.
"But are we?" said Dain. "Tell me, when do you remember the dwarves of the Iron Hills coming to your aid? Can you think of one battle in your lifetime? One cry for help that did not fall on deaf ears?"
"I can recall this time now."
"A mere coincidence that our fealty lies in preserving the halls of Khazad-dum."
When Thorin does not answer, the Lord of the Iron gives a winning smile. "Come now, cousin, it is not so terrible as it may seem. Think of your people, and the security they will have in knowing they have strong, capable allies. Think of them, of their safety, and you will see it my way in time..."
An arranged marriage – there was nothing in the world more terrifying. He would rather face battle after battle, defeat after defeat, and bear the shame of surrendering to the worst of his enemies than to be eternally bound to a woman he had never even set eyes on. A shudder coursed beneath his skin at the thought, turning the blood in his veins to ice. Once he accepted Dain's offer, there was no hope of retracting it. His word, once spoken, would be final and binding.
At last, after several long moments of hushed reflection, Thorin uncrossed his arms and turned. "If it must be done for my people…" He said, offering his hand. "Then I have no choice but to acquiesce."
They shook thrice - the deal was struck.
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