When he first saw that flash of gold smeared with dirt and blood, Gloín was glad that Kíli's face was the first he saw. The youthful face, beard barely even peach fuzz along his jaw, was slack in a way that sleep never quite accomplished. Gloín didn't pause to look at the body hidden half underneath the younger of the Durin brothers. There was no helping the dead; they walked Aulë's Halls.
Behind Kíli and the golden hair that Gloín's eyes skittered away from, lay a wounded Thorin, the muscles of the unconscious and bloody form still tense with pain. Other surviving members of the company started swarming the scene and Gloín felt something ease in his chest as his brother stumbled into view and began to tend Thorin as best he could while others called for tents and healers.
Similar cries echoed from elsewhere on the blood-drenched plain, elves and men alike trying to salvage what vestiges of life still remained in the shadow of the loneliest of mountains. Gloín let his gaze sweep the field, leaving the others to tend the king. Carefully ignoring and avoiding the gazes of his companions, all the sorrow and pity and confusion and accusation he didn't have the strength left to face.
At some point in his haze, he recalled pulling a make-shift tent up in an area that had been cleaned of dead and injured alike. It was only as Oín called for him, requesting another set of hands to move their king that he turned and realised his comrades had been busier than he'd known.
Empty blue eyes in a bruised and battered face, framed by torn and tarnished gold. Gloín's hands slid down to gently manoeuvre the king into their hastily-made shelter. It would shame him later, but in that moment he wished Thorin dead.
It was a narrow thing, fingers catching around an outstretched wrist, cutting off the snap of a breaking branch and the terrified cry. Blue eyes hazed with a trembling fear and no small amount of relief stared up at him as if he was Aulë himself, descended from his great halls.
A breathless, frozen moment followed, then another hand was clasping Fíli (Kíli hurrying to the aide of his brother) and pulling the youngster up and away from the crushing jaws snapping and snarling and begging for bones to crush, hot blood to run over them. For the first time in his life, Gloín felt hatred for the king he had sworn to see once more enthroned in Erebor's halls. He ushered the brothers further up the tree and into the next as roots snapped. Whether they were alive at the end of this night or not, a piece of boyhood would have died here tonight, a little more joy and innocence lost to the world.
It was hero worship, Gloín knew, the first few nights after being deposited atop the Carrock and the several beyond that spent lavishing in Beorn's hospitality. Fíli making sure that Gloín had a larger helping from Bombur's pot, a sleeping spot closer to the fire, Beorn's honey pot passing through his hands twice as often as anyone else's.
It was a sweet thing, reminding him of Gimli in early years, long before he had left to join Thorin on this mad venture. His son crawling into his lap each night before bed, begging for stories of Smaug and the former glory of Erebor, of Thorin and Moria. Gimli had been more than irate at being left behind, especially with Kíli and Fíli numbering in the company. But unlike Thorin, Gloín could not let his boy, barely grown, lose what little time he had left to wallow in youthful innocence and dreams.
In all those days eating and drinking in Beorn's good will, if Gloín thought of the locket tucked safely under his shirt next to his heart, it was to think upon the portrait of his son, not that of the dwarrowdam whose portrait sat opposite.
It was then, Gloín admitted to himself months later, that his problems had taken root.
The funerals were long in coming, though Gloín knew this was due to the sheer number of dead and the lingering convalescence of the king before Thorin finally succumbed to his wounds. In the long days waiting for the king to die (though others may have described it as praying for the king to live), Gloín had often paused by the two cloth bundles set aside where they would not be mistakenly mixed in with the rest of the bodies dragged from the field and burned in mass pyres nor pecked and picked by the carrion birds that had descended mere hours after the last harsh cries had died away into the awful silence.
He never ventured close, never pulled the cloth back enough to know which blanket hid which brother, never even paused for more than a handful of seconds, as if he had done nothing more than briefly forgotten which task he had been about.
The others had finally stopped watching him, or if they did he no longer noticed it. He had sent word by raven to the Blue Mountains that Erebor had been reclaimed and Daín was to be King Under the Mountain. His wife and son would arrive in a few months' time, enough for Daín's folk to have settled the dead and turned to restoring the halls of the mountain to their former glory.
By the time the ceremony for the last sons of Durin came to pass, Gloín was certain he would pass the occasion with naught more than a twinge of sorrow for what could have been. But as the tombs were sealed a warm hand came to rest upon his shoulder. Bofur's eyes were calm and understanding, something deeper than sadness and pain swimming just beneath the surface and Gloín felt a hand close about his chest and squeeze, tighter and tighter until he was forced to his knees, the pain pushing out his eyes and burning down his face. Air buzzed in his ears, blood pounding and a long howl echoing around him.
He did not see the dwarves nearest push away in shock, didn't notice as the hall emptied and bewildered or pitying looks were tossed his way. When quiet and the dim light of torches at night came into his awareness he was slumped on the cold floor of Erebor's mausoleum, Bofur watching him tiredly, but with his ever-ready smile from a spot leaned up against Kíli's tomb.
"What is your wife like?" Fíli asked their last night under Beorn's roof as they sipped easily at mugs of mead in front of a low-burning fire. The others sat in various spots around the hall, some chattering easily in groups, others content to enjoy one last night of quiet and peace with full bellies.
Gloín watched Fíli as the lad stared into the fire, embers reflecting in his blue eyes like facets on sapphires and the dim glow turning his hair to the red and gold rays of a sunset. The boy belonged in a treasury, nested in gold and jewels, precious and safe. Gloín was not so distracted that he didn't see the tension in the shoulders of an otherwise lax body, nor the uneasy twitch of a hand clenching the mug a little harder than necessary.
"If ever a diamond were to be given life, warmth and a beating heart, it would be her," Gloín said, words he had said a thousand times but had never felt like a repetition or a routine until now. "She and Gimli, there's naught more on this earth I could want for. Should Mahal claim me on this quest, I would have nary a regret in life."
A lie, even as it left his lips and he looked away from the hunch of Fíli's shoulders and the tightening muscles of the boy's jaw.
"Thank you," Fíli murmured and rose from his seat, moving swiftly from the room to seek his bedroll. His eyes trailed after the golden wave of Fíli's hair and wondered if this was gold lust. As he twisted back to his contemplation of the dying fire, his eyes caught on dark ones across the room, accusation and anger boiling with all the fire and conviction of youth in their depths. Gloín looked away, not turning when others started to wander off to sleep.
Oín was the only one to ask if he was well, jokingly asking if he was going to sit by that fire until he grew roots. Gloín had laughed, the sound ringing hollow in his chest and had said he would be along, just needed a few more moments to be aware of these homely comforts.
For all that it was a dungeon and he was caged by elves, cold and damp, it was better than the dark and paranoid nights spent hungry and fireless out in the Mirkwood. Better by far than being eaten by spiders. It was the nightmares that truly took their toll, far more than any sort of punishment the elves may eventually rain down.
In the few moments he managed to find rest, his mind tormented him. Gimli being chased by orcs, his wife alone in grief with neither husband nor son. These disturbed his sleep but never broke it. The ones that woke him in a cold sweat, hands scrambling for weapons, were of gold and blood. Fíli falling from the tree, Gloín missing his wrist and wargs descending to tear the fragile flesh and bones. Fíli pale and sickly in a spider`s web, the beast slowly sucking him dry. Fíli walking away from him in Beorn's hall and burning accusation watching him from all sides. Fíli shivering in some dank cell, starved and broken at the hands of elves as they rid themselves of the last heirs of Durin.
The cramped barrels with their damp straw sticking everywhere and the smell of food stuffs as they roiled nauseously down the river was a relief in a way, because he couldn't sleep and therefore couldn't dream.
They sat closer to the fire than was probably strictly necessary on their first night in Laketown, but the river had left a chill in many of their bones, particularly the older members of the company. Gloín approached the group with two steaming bowls of stew, one of which he placed in front of the golden-haired prince. If the silence and the looks that followed this were awkward, Gloín paid them no mind.
"I told them to hold the apples," he declared loudly and the group relaxed into loud laughter and joking taunts. Fíli laughed with the rest, his smile and voice jubilant and good-natured. But jewel-bright eyes rested on Gloín, confused and hurt and hopeful. His guts clenched in a wonderful, disastrous way, fire burning in his veins.
His hands shook more than they ought to while he ate, but a few loud remarks about being cold for the rest of his life were enough to keep the laughter flowing and the conversation easy. He left for bed early that night, exclaiming as he left that Smaug himself could be in the bed and he would still be glad of it.
This close to the mountain the joke fell flat and the group chuckled nervously, conversation turning strained. Gloín paid it no mind as he left for the rooms they had been let.
It was midnight when his door creaked open and a shadowed form tiptoed its way across the floor, carefully avoiding the bed that Oín occupied and clambering up under his warm covers. His companion's breath came in shaky puffs against his shoulder, moist and warm in bursts followed by a chill that had no place beneath his blankets.
In a last moment of indecision and guilt, Gloín lay unmoving and staring at the ceiling, thinking of his wife safely back in the Blue Mountains. Her beauty seemed to dim in his memory as moon and starlight from the room's window caught and danced in golden locks, the strands shifting restlessly with the owner. A shy kiss was pressed to the bare skin of his upper arm, muscles twitching and flexing under the firm heat of lips. A hand smoothed daringly over his hip, just above the waistband of his undergarments, warm sword-callused fingers slipping beneath the light hem of his under-tunic.
Gloín rolled in a sudden movement, gripping and tugging the more slender body beneath his own, smothering a stilted gasp with his lips. Fíli tasted like the stew he had brought the lad earlier and the scent of apples and straw and cold water still clung stubbornly to his skin. The boy shook under him, hands flailing for a moment, unsure of what to do before both slipped firmly up under his shirt and tugged the light tunic up.
Gloín broke away long enough to allow the garment to be discarded, taking the time now to tug his pants down and pull Fíli from his own underclothes. Then he dove back down, hands tangling in golden strands and body settling heavily, loud groans easing from their throats. Gloín had never before been quite so thankful for his brother's hard hearing.
It was rough and dry with only saliva to ease the way but Fíli pushed back determinedly, fighting against the tears pricking his eyes as first one finger and then two were thrust up into him. As far as couplings went, Gloín had to admit that it was rough and uncomfortable, too tight with too much friction because they were too hurried to take their time and hadn't any sort of oil on hand. But for all that it was extraordinary; Fíli squirming up against Gloín's hands as the older dwarf held him down and tried his best to find a pace and angle that wouldn't make the bed jump and squeak, mouths nipping and sucking at each other as they tried and failed to smother the groans and grunts that left their lips.
There would be telling bruises on Fíli's hips come morning, but nothing that would show once clothing was back in place. Gloín pushed up into tight heat, a coil pulling taut in his belly. A moan, long and high-pitched and broken fell from Fíli's mouth as Gloín's thrust pushed the hard heat trapped between their bodies up to catch on his belly. Wet heat pooled and the body beneath him shook and clenched and sobbed. It was more than enough.
Gloín wasn't sure when Fíli left the bed, having lain awake long enough to card and coil his fingers in the only gold he coveted, whispering lowly in the lad's ear as the blond dwarf shook and panted and they came down from their highs. He woke alone in his bed, though, Oín stomping noisily around the room as he got ready for the day. Only the slight mess still smeared along his stomach and the lower portions of his beard, along with the fact that he was still naked leant credence that the night was not just a fever dream.
Gloín stood watching Fíli's tomb the night before his wife and son were to be arriving at Erebor. Already the corners of the mausoleum were home to dust, the lost sons of Durin forgotten for the time as people rushed to turn the mountain back into a kingdom. New arrivals were a daily thing now, quarters cleared and cleaned in order to house each new family that wandered in.
The mountain halls were bright and noisy and alive once more. A stark contrast to the death that had won it. Gloín laid a hand on the cool stone lid that hid a decaying corpse and rotting golden hair. He would not visit this room again. Not for many long years.
The next day he hugged his son and kissed his wife and carefully avoided her eyes. And if he wished for blonde hair strewn across his pillows that night instead of glossy and dark, or yearned for hard and eager limbs rather than soft and yielding as he pressed her into the bed and welcomed her home then no one but he would be the wiser. Just him and dust and death.
This story is basically what results when I have major writer's block. And then go to a party of Tolkienites. But in the end it was mostly the pairings jar...which is totally a thing now. I'm sorry this isn't an update to Ninth Sanctum, that will have to wait until July when I'm back from Europe.