Disclaimer: I own nothing with under the trademark of Tolkien or Jackson, I just really love their work. Any OC within however is mine, no taking her away please.

The clock on the wall struck three long, low chimes, the echo resounding through the silent bed chamber. Beneath the carven mantel a fire crackled weakly, the cinders glowing pitifully as the flames slowly faded. What small glow it gave was just enough to illuminate the single wingback chair that stood upon a fur throw rug just before the fire grate. A solitary figure sat half slumped over, bare feet propped up on matching cushioned stool. The orange light was casting shadows over the the silver locket in his hand. It was worn and tarnished, the once bright filigree half torn off and twisted black. The chain had at one time been an intricate braid of bright mithril, now a knotted mass of tangled metal thread. On nights like this he found himself reaching for that sad memento, when the world was quiet with sleep and there was not a soul about to disturb his sad thoughts. But it was not often that he could force himself to throw the latch, open the locket and gaze upon the contents. Tonight somehow he did.

An old painted image smiled up at him, the edges still tipped in soot and a little tear at the bottom left corner. Eyes as black as onyx twinkled with the mischief of youth. Pink lips smiled knowingly. Tumbling curls of darkest mahogany fell in riotous waves unable to be tamed.

Thorin wanted to trace his finger tips along the line of her cheek, remember the feel of soft skin warm with life tremble under his touch. How many times had he dreamed of hearing her bell like laugh only to wake alone to silence? With a shuddering breath he reached out one shaking hand, hovering just barely above the faded blush of her face. But he did not dare risk marring the fragile paper upon which the portrait was painted, it was the only likeness he had left of her. An old ache pained his heart as it always did whenever the harshness of reality found him like this, weak with memory and unable to force it back. Sad blue eyes gazed down upon the picture, filling with tears but refusing to let them fall. It seemed that reclaiming their home only made the agony of her loss rise afresh.

His childhood companion.

His muse.

His beloved.

What should have brought him boundless joy in seeing Erebor returned to his people had brought with their happiness a wound torn open again for their King. During the first year of reconstruction the most important task beyond stabilizing the mountain from the damage done by the wretched worm had been to make as many of the old living quarters inhabitable again. It was during the clearing out of what were once the homes of the royal court that they found it. Balin had tried to keep him away but nothing short of knocking him out cold and trying him to the throne could have accomplished that. The rooms were dark, a thick layer of dust covered everything and the smell of mold filled the dank air. But the dry rotted curtains still held a hint of their once brilliant purple hue, the dressing table still stood, though one rickety leg threatened to collapse, still had all the bottles, combs and brushes neatly arranged upon it. In the corner of the sitting room a music stand bore its burden of brittle paper marked with the faded ink notes of a half completed song. On the wall hung a spiked mace, the handle of which bore the runes proclaiming the weapon as a family heirloom. Everything was exactly how he remembered it. But for the cobwebs and air of decay it was as though he had walked back in time, to a happier moment when his hard and the trials of a hard life had yet to set upon his shoulders..

"Whose room was this?" It was Kili asking, always inquisitive.

"Don't know, uncle won't let anyone in to clear it out." At least Fili knew better than to push him on the issue.

His nephews looked around but wisely did not touch anything. He did not believe himself able to control is temper is they did. However it did not take long for the duo to discover something to sate their curiosity, if only a little. It was the elder brother who found the writing desk, the lid still left open, ancient letters, quills and empty inkwells piled about. The young Dwarf's keen eyes narrowed upon the signature at the bottom of one such parchment, Thorin could not pull it away before Fili read the name out loud.

"Who was Laraga?"

No one had dared to say her name in his presence since before the birth of his eldest nephew, it had been all but forbidden. After his heir had been born no one uttered a word over her again, that chapter in his life had been closed.

"Someone I once knew, before."

"Was she a friend?"

Thorin could not answer him. A tightness had overcome his voice and he could not speak. Instead he left them all behind, rushing from that room full of painful memories rotting in the dust. He knew that Balin would tell them the story, a shortened, censored version of that long ago time. There was no one who alive who could claim possession of the finer details, those he kept close and would never share them. That little corner of his heart had ages past been locked away, behind a wall of stone it seemed. Instead his old friend would tell of a lady of noble heritage, hailing from a distant kingdom betrothed to Crown Prince of Erebor. He would say how those of the court had called her the Nightingale, for the sweetness of her singing voice. Fili and Kili would listen with rapt attention as they always did while the tale was woven of two children who took to one another like drops of water. They would laugh at the antics the Dwarflings had gotten into, how the King Under the Mountain would laugh until his sides were sore every time they were drug in before him by their ears by fuming nursemaids. Then they would listen and reel in shock at how swiftly childhood friendship blossomed into more intimate feelings as they grew into adolescence. Thorin had been a young Prince then, full of hope and naivete that the world was a kind, just place. And Laraga...how she shone like the rarest of jewels. Others whispered how she was no great beauty, how it was such a shame that so pretty a voice belonged to so plain a girl. Their words had fallen on deaf ears, for to Thorin no lady of the Dwarves, Elves or Men could compare to his Princess. For her he had composed countless songs, his rooms had once been littered with the rejected scores he found lacking to be dedicated in her name. No other save perhaps his own mother had known him as well as Laraga. She had reached a part of him that no one else ever could. They had known each other's greatest dreams and darkest fears. Long nights passed in the library of the royal family with naught but a single lamp for illumination as they talked of everything and nothing. Plans for their wedding had only just begun when his world had burned down around him...such happy dreams laid to ashes...

All gone now...long gone...

Later he ordered her rooms to be cleaned, old tapestries restitched, grime scrubbed away. But after the marble gleamed once more and the sweet smell of her favorite lavender incense again filled the air, he had the doors bared shut. Perhaps the guards on hall patrol took notice, but they never said a word when every so often he made the slow trek from his chambers to her door. The heavy iron key clicked in the lock and he twisted it shut again behind him. Tonight as he sat in the plush chair before the dying fire was one such night.

It was painful, to be surrounded by her possessions, all newly cleaned and shining as if they were new. The four poster bed carved from the very stone of the mountain was dressed in furs and silks, the plum colored draperies tied back as if waiting for its occupant to pull them closed for a long rest. Everywhere he looked he found himself expecting to see her come strolling in. Why had he done this? Was her ruined portrait not punishment enough to look upon when his will was too weak to resist? But he knew the answer to his own question, such a glutton for pain he seemed to be.

Ordering her chambers to be made anew had been the closest he had ever come to erecting a proper grave for her.

Along with so many others who perished that dark day there never was any body to be found.

Not even among the mummified few they had discovered hidden within the mountain had proven to be her.

Dragonfire burned terribly hot and those caught directly in its scorching path were naught but dust when the beast finally passed.

Laraga. His jeweled nightingale was nothing but ashes scattered to the winds.

The tears burned hot and scalded as they ran down his cheeks. How often he found himself breaking down these days like this. All around him Erebor thrived, climbing out of the ruins towards its former glory. His sister-sons were well and happy, the younger married and the elder planning his own nuptials for the autumn. Thorin found he could not even manage pretending to be cross over their unusual choice of brides. Looking past the old hatred had not been easy for him, especially in regard to the Elf. And the daughter of Bard was more of a surprise than anything else. How blind he had been, risking the lives of those he looked upon as his own sons, to nearly deprive them of the happiness which had been once been his and so cruelly stolen from him. How could he have even considered not giving his blessing? Jaded and hard he had grown in the years since last he walked these halls, had baked in the warmth of love.

"What would you think of me now, Mizimelûh?" His voice was thick with half held back sobs that he was too stubborn to let escape his lips. "Would you even be able to look at me without disgust in your eyes?" In his hand the portrait simply looked back with the same coy expression, seeming to mock him with memories of brighter times. Answers he would never have, a smile that would grace only him only in his dreams and a pain that would not end until he was reunited with his One in the Halls of Mahal. "Wait for me, nightingale and may you one day forgive me."

By morning duty called, issues of state that were seemingly endless needed attending. Stiffly he made his way to the privy council chamber where his ministers and chief advisors awaited him.

"What is on the agenda for today?" he looked to Balin.

"The rebuilding of Esgaroth goes well but the surrounding fishing villages have suffered without the direct line of trade with it. Those who did not want to leave the lake in favor of Dale have offered to help reestablish the town by relocating there." Shuffled papers were quickly scanned, reshuffled and separated until the older Dwarf found what he was looking for. "They also have requested assistance in forming a city watch of some sort, can't say I blame them. I suggested Dwalin take half responsibility for it along with the representative King Bard will be sending, it would be a show of good faith."

"Not tae mention it'll assure a tight defense to the south. What with the stories comin' up from there about roaming Orcs and the like we cannae be too careful," Dwalin added.

"Have arrangements already been made for my inevitable agreement?"

"He'll be ready to leave as soon as this meeting is completed," Balin smiled cheekily.

"Take the help when we give it, you've been runnin' yourself raged," Dwalin grumbled.

"Well as that matter seems to have been decided for me, shall we continue?"

And so the days went on as they always did. Economic struggles were argued, maps consulted over collapsed tunnels, damage by the dragon that was yet to be fully repaired and so on. Summer was a busy season, markets were bursting with goods both foreign and domestic, herds of livestock were weaning their young, fair weather permitted merchants and diplomats to travel from afar to the mountain. Long daylight were hours filled with private or public audiences, long nights kept Thorin from sleep within his study with a never ending and over flowing supply of paperwork. For two weeks he had not the time to visit the chambers of his lost love and it pained him to realize he could not tell if this was a blessing or a curse. The day Dwalin was due to return from his initial meeting with the new inhabitants of Esgaroth dawned with rolling clouds, no sun shone in the pale grey sky and the birds around the mountain hunkered down in their nests. A loud and anxious banging at the door of his study drew the King from the latest report on the refurbished diamond mines and into the present. Irritated, he wondered why the guard hadn't announced this visitor first.

"Enter," he called as he sat down the cumbersome report.

Dwalin burst in, the guard on the other side was near cowering as the larger Dwarf shoved past. Clearly his old friend was in a hurry to see him, he had not even removed his traveling cloak or taken a moment to drop his axes off at home. He had a mad look about him, clothing askew, eyes wide, breathing so heavily that it would have been easy to believe he had run all the way back from the lake.

"Dwalin what in Durin's name is going on?"

"Ya have tae come to Lake Town, now!" He burst out, slamming his hands down on the oak desk with a sharp clang from the iron knuckles he still wore.

"What?" Thorin almost reeled back as Dwalin leaned forward, fast as a snake.

"If we don't leave now there's no way we'll make it in time! Get your coat and come on!" With harried movements the Dwarf whom he never thought could bluster and fumble like this damn near tore apart his office in search for said coat.

"What will we be too late for?" Jumping to his feet Thorin beat Dwalin to the armoire, shutting the door with a snap. "Tell me what's in Lake Town that is so important that I should just up and leave my kingdom in the middle of day unannounced?" But all Dwalin gave in answer was to rip the door open again, pull a fur lined coat from it's depths and shove it into his hands.

"Put it on, walk with me and I'll explain on the way," he growled. For a moment he stared at his friend, attempting to read the stormy look on his face but found nothing to give him a hint as to what could possibly have him acting so strangely. Sighing he looked back to the desk piled high with petitions, proposals and various mind numbing things. They needed his attention as well, he was King after all, but never had he seen his oldest friend act so rashly before either.

"This had better be good," he muttered. Together they rushed out, startling the guard with the King barking out an order to have all issues of the day be given over to Balin until he returned. "So, are you going to tell me what happened on the lake that has you up in arms like this?"

"Nothing unusual happened until late this mornin'," he finally replied as they made their way down the the long empty hall that lead to the royal wing. "Everything was going according tae plan, all the volunteers showed up for enlistment and the training was set to start today. The last of the villagers from the surrounding area were being brought in by Bard's men. A crier was out on a balcony telling them what was expected of them, where tae meet according tae skill and the like."

"Hardly seems out of the ordinary."

"Ya gonna let me finish?"

"Please, go on."

"Put a crown on yer head and every word that comes out of your mouth is sarcasm, reminds me of a certain sister-son. Don't think Kili inherited that trait from his Amad." Thorin glared back and a little smirk threatened to break Dwalin's serious expression. "Anyway, all is going well until the crier ends his little speech with that flourish they do, in the name of whoever is commanding and all their titles. He gets tae you and out of the corner of my eye I see someone fall in the crowd. I go over, seeing if there's a fight tae break up or something like that and two women are helping someone to their feet. First I think it's a Dwarrow then I see the skirts from under the cloak."

"A Dwarrowdam? In the company of Men?"

"Aye. So I was thinkin' something wasn't right, 'Damns just don't leave their homes to live with Longshank fishermen. The women were asking her if she was ill, fussing like they do and when she answered...I thought...I couldn't think and I just walked right up tae her." Dwalin slowed his near run down to a brisk walk and ran a hand down his face. Taking a deep yet shaking breath he opened his mouth a few times before he found his words again. "I'd know that voice anywhere, that's what I said tae her. Made her turn around, shocked her somethin' fierce and she said my name. Don't think she meant tae, ran off right after. Thorin...How can I..."

"What are you getting at? Who was she?"

"Laraga, it was her. Her face was...still I knew it was her, could never forget the sound of her voice. And she knew me, was frightened tae see me and near fainted when she heard you were King! Then she ran off, I tried tae follow but she knew her way around better and I lost track. That's why we have tae hurry, else she'll leave I know it!"

Throin froze. The world faded away yet the stone halls seemed to close in around him. Every sound in the city exploded in his ears but all became silent at the same time. Blood turned to ice in his veins but his body felt as hot as the forge. Nothing made sense as the events Dwalin described imprinted themselves in his mind's eye. How could it? Over a century had passed since last she walked these halls...this earth. There was no conceivable way that she might have survived the dragon. And even if she had, by some miracle, escaped the mountain...she would have sought him out...wouldn't she?

"It cannot be true..." Words failed him and he looked into the sad eyes of his oldest companion, there were no lies in his gaze, Dwalin had never been false in his entire life.

"I thought that too. My eyes are gettin' old but they ain't they still know a stranger's face from a friend's."

"Take me there."

It could all be a dream, he would awaken the next morning to a cold bed just he had every day for over a hundred years. Or he might well be loosing his mind, though this felt nothing like those dark hours he spent ruminating on madness inducing gold. Nothing made sense, the kingdom fell to the way side as they all but ran to the stables, a haze of green marble and half hearted greetings. Ponies were too slow, good for long journeys yet lacking in the speed they required. Ignoring the startled reactions of the stable boys they saddled two of the swiftest rams, both were pedigree steeds belonging to the royal family and normally meant for battle or formal parades. As the winds made a tangle of his hair, the grey sky threatened a mighty storm with thunder already roaring in the distance, for this Thorin cared naught. Nothing mattered.

Nothing except that tiny spark of hope blossoming in his chest, fragile and weak. Let the wrath of nature pour down upon him, he would face far worse opponents if victory returned to him the missing piece of his heart.

Author's Note: Didn't think I was going to play around in Middle Earth again, but it seems to have it's claws deep in me. So yeah, Thorin's turn, that sassy bastard refused to leave me alone after giving his nephews their happily ever afters. But as seems to be my fate lately, this ran over where I prefer a one-shot to end. Give me some time to refine the second half, though as the semester is going strong I'm not sure when I'll be back, wish me luck in the meantime! Happy Reading!

Mizimelûh – (the) jewel of (all) jewels