Disclaimer: All characters and the universe of Middle-Earth belongs to Tolkien. I claim nothing and intend no offense.

Author's note: This story is both book canon and movieverse friendly if you ignore any events in the last two movies that involve characters not found in the original book. This chapter contains a few dialogue lines from the BOFA movie, something that will not happen again in later chapters.

The Dragon's Curse

"We are losing the battle, Thorin."

Seated upon his carven throne deep within the heart of Erebor, the King under the Mountain made no movement to indicate that he had heard his nephew's words. They echoed back at him, eerie and golden in the silent halls. The lands underneath the storm-sky may bleed red from the screams of the fallen and the ringing clash of swords, but here under the mountain, sequestered behind thousands of tonnes of solid stone, no clamour of battle reached them. It was a silence that could almost be mistaken for peace, save for the invasion of his presence, which presented an unwelcome discord amongst the golden perfection of the king's rule.

The silence unnerved him. The cold vacantness in his king and uncle's eyes as he pored over some trinket in his hands frightened him. He would have liked nothing better than to flee the halls and pass the task onto some other unfortunate individual, so unsettling was the feeling of seeing one loved to become so alien. But even now in this grim situation there was a small part of his own mind that would bathe in complacency at the picture, composed of everything that he had dreamed of in his entire life: The vast golden halls with wealth beyond measure, with no need for want; Erebor was reclaimed, his homeland and inheritance was restored; the majestic figure of Thorin in his rightful throne, clad in kingly regalia of crown and shining mail, and the trinket in his hand, some well-cut teardrop ruby the size of a hen's egg that gleamed like fresh-spilt blood, was so enticingly shiny––

Blood. The blood of his kinsmen and allies that were being spilt outside the mountain on this day, in this instant. With a sickening jolt the imagery wrenched his mind back from the ever-awaiting traps of the gold-sickness, reminding him of his duty, his purpose for coming. He would have been horrified, or at least somewhat alarmed, at the close lapse, but now there was no time.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer and tried again, searching for words that would impart the severity of the situation enough to push Thorin into a reaction. "Dáin's forces are vastly outnumbered. Our people are dying."

Again there was no response.

"Will you not at least come out and see?" he asked despairingly, kneeling down and clutching at Thorin's hand.

One of his fingers brushed perilously close to the ruby that Thorin held, and now Thorin recoiled with a start, the strange flash in his eyes causing him to flinch back slightly. But there was recognition in his gaze as he turned them upon his nephew; that in itself was success enough to accelerate the beat of his heart, and so he did not let go, choosing instead to ignore the fact that the old familiarity and affection that he was used to seeing in his uncle was so coldly lacking.

"Fíli," the king acknowledged at last. The sparks of Fíli's hopes rose, only to be doused back down with a renewed bitterness by Thorin's next words. "There is naught out there to see," he said, his voice distanced by apathy. "The mountain is safe, our fortifications strong. No enemies shall reach us here."

There was a momentary lapse of stillness as Fíli gaped in disbelief. "But what of Dáin? He is being surrounded. They are dying, Thorin, slaughtered like sheep in their folds. We must open the gates––"

"Many die in war. Life is cheap. But a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost." Thorin's eyes – dragon's eyes – swept contently across the golden halls before turning down to smile at the blood-red ruby, lifting it slightly to catch the torchlight. It was the smile of a feral beast guarding its kill, the smile of a dragon admiring its hoard. "It is worth all the blood we can spend."

Treasure. Worth. Was this all that was left? Fíli tilted his head back, desperately searching his uncle's face for some hope of redemption, some shred of remaining clarity – for surely the effects of the dragon sickness cannot be irreversible – but there was nothing. For all the empty indifference to his kin's sacrifice in Thorin's voice and expression he may as well have been made of carven stone. In a last attempt to reach through the hardened façade and with a falling heart, he said softly, "We are the ones who asked them to come, uncle. Our kin dies now at our command, yet we would abandon them to do so alone. Does that mean nothing to you? No guilt of blood upon our hands? You did not used to be like this."

When Thorin did not answer, Fíli smiled sadly and turned his uncle's hand over, gently extracting the ruby from his grasp. He turned it to the light much like Thorin had done, except he held it suspended over Thorin's palm, so that the brightness pierced through the gem's transparent quality and cast a myriad of deep red shadows upon the king's hand. "Because there will be blood, uncle, such that can never be washed away. But perhaps this is what you see it as – gilded over by gold, by glory, by the righteousness of the crown upon your head. Thus you would justify your actions."

He dropped the ruby back into Thorin's hand with a sigh of frustration and stood to leave. "And so the curse of our line claims us all," he said bitterly as he turned away. "I would never have thought to witness the mistakes of our grandfathers reinstated upon you, uncle. But be that as it may, fate has decreed that our homeland be turned back into Moria, and another Azanulbizar now repeats outside our gates. I am only sorry that I should live to see this day."

Harsh as they were, there was little condemnation contained within Fíli's words, only the quiet bitterness of one who knew the inevitability of defeat. Yet they were enough to incite Thorin into a fury that even the earlier talk of blood and death could not achieve. In a mighty clang of sword against stone he was on his feet, whirling upon the younger dwarf and pulling him roughly around to face himself with undisguised anger. The ruby clattered forlornly to the floor, forgotten.

"How dare you speak to me of Azanulbizar!" he cried, features contorting with rage. For a brief moment Fíli knew fear, true fear, not that which a subject should feel before a displeased king, but the fear of a victim before an enraged tyrant, so similar was Thorin's expression to the day when he threatened to kill Bilbo for his treachery atop the battlements. "How dare you–– I am not my grandfather! You know nothing of my loss!"

"I know them well enough," he said, swiftly regaining composure, "For although I was not yet born at the time of Azanulbizar, I too have borne the heavy shadows of its consequences, just like the rest of our people. All my life I have witnessed your pain and grieved for it. You lost your father, grandfather, a brother, these are kin that I would never know. And there is not a single dwarf of Durin's Folk in Ered Luin who was spared a similar loss.

"Now our kinsmen of the Iron Hills stand upon the brink of a similar fate. They are loyal, Thorin. They came to our aid when called, and are willing to fight to the death for us now. Will you repay them for their devotion in kind, or will you do as Thrór did all those years ago and condemn our people to break themselves against a hopeless enemy? You have often told us that Thrór was a fair king once. But the last mistake he made eclipsed all his previous virtues, and now he is known far and wide as a mad king who valued riches above the lives of his subjects. Will you condemn yourself to that same end?"

To Fíli's surprise, Thorin – who had stood with narrowed eyes and an unreadable expression throughout the delivery of his little tirade – actually threw back his head and laughed. Fíli had to ignore the slight urge to shiver; there was no mirth in the sound, only pure, unadulterated madness.

"A most eloquent discourse," he chuckled, placing a hand on his nephew's shoulder and drawing him closer. In a conversational tone, he asked, "Who taught you to say such things?"

Confused, Fíli tried to step back, but the grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened like a vice. "No one, uncle. I merely speak of our concerns."

Thorin continued as if he had not heard him, his voice musing. "Was it Balin? Dwalin? The others have not the nerve to challenge me thus. And Óin and Glóin cares for little other than the contents of their own purse." Fíli had to stifle a scoff at that, it was ironic, coming from Thorin in his current state – but then Thorin's hand tightened to the point of pain. His king and uncle now fixed him with a gaze as sharp and cold as splinters of glacial ice, though beyond them burned the heat of madness. "Yes… Balin was always a little too close to the Halfling traitor. Only he would think of bringing up the old losses. It must be them, then. Tell me, do you come here on their behalf?"

"On their behalf, and on the behalf of everyone in the company," Fíli answered, with a sinking feeling about where this conversation is going but with no way to prevent it. "There is a battle outside, uncle, one that we are losing. If Azog and his spawn prevails then he will besiege the mountain and starve us to death. Yet you sit here and do nothing. I am your heir, is it not my duty to speak to you?"

Those last words – as he uttered them Fíli thought he saw a crack appear in the other dwarf's composure, and for a moment Fíli fancied that he almost glimpsed a brief hint of pain – though it was gone so quickly that he might well have imagined it. With a noise of contempt Thorin dug his fingers deep one last time and flung Fíli away from him, his voice saturated by vehement rage. "So they aspire to poison my own blood against me," he spat. "Traitors!"

"The only poison that exists is in your own mind!" Fíli shot back. Dimly he regretted all the harsh words he spoke on this day, for Thorin is his king and should not endure such disrespect from himself, and if their deaths were to take place sometime nearby then their parting memories should not be of such a dismal conversation. But it was too late for such thoughts now. It may even be too late for the warriors outside. He bowed his head, shoulders slumping in defeat. Thorin's decision was clear. He was not in his right mind and would likely never be. There was no further need for argument, no choice other than to comply, because he is and always will be their king. "By your will, we will forsake our people to the blades of orcs today. All the coins in the world will not be enough to buy back our honour from this shame."

The sentence sounded choked in his throat, flavoured with the bitter taste of failure. Fíli turned and walked away, his footsteps hurried, eager to escape to somewhere, anywhere, even though he knew there was no mortal refuge that could harbour the atrocity of the wrong that they were about to commit.

Thorin did not stop him this time.

But as he approached the end of the columns, Fíli stopped and turned around. His uncle's figure had already faded with the stretch of distance, lonely and indifferent amid the solemn stone pillars. He stood a mere couple hundred yards away, yet Fíli had the strangest feeling that all the many leagues from Erebor to Ered Luin would not be enough to cross the space that spanned between them.

"There was fire in your eyes once, uncle," he said softly, voice echoing across the golden chamber, grieved but without censure. "A flame that burned brightly for all to follow. Now there is only blindness."

Thorin stared after his nephew as he disappeared past the arched entrance of the great hall, feeling the familiar tides of consuming fury rise and ebb in his chest, twisting like the throes of a serpent. Instinctively he started to follow, but held himself back as soon as he became aware of the act. No doubt Fíli would go back to the front chambers and bring the company news of his failed petition, which would then be met with varied reactions of muttered disappointment (Balin and Glóin, probably) and cries of outright anger (his youngest nephew, for certain). The afterwards they would go sit in their clustered little groups and whisper their anger at their king's blindness, whispers that when left to fester for long enough would eventually give birth to sentiments of unrest, presumed injustice, and in its final stage, treachery.

Yes, he had seen it all before. Had seen it, felt it, suffered it in the aftermath of that disastrous battle over a hundred and forty years ago, when the barely-hushed resentments of the seven clans turned upon his father and grandfather for blame over their innumerable dead. Madness, they had said, when they thought that he was not listening. Or perhaps they did not care who heard. A mad decision made by a mad king, a king blinded by greed and pride who drove his people into the jaws of death under the promise of a false future. A madness that was doomed to repeat, over and over, until it claimed every last one of the line of Durin––

'And so the curse of our line claims us all,' whispered Fíli's well-timed voice in his mind. 'Another Azanulbizar now repeats outside our gates…'

"No," Thorin spoke aloud. He shook his head, clearing it of doubt. The serpent reared. It was not true. Erebor was not Moria, the plains at its feet not Azanulbizar, and Thorin was not his grandfather, because Erebor was reclaimed whereas Moria had been lost to them from the beginning. Death itself will not be sufficient to rob him of his homeland for a second time. He would risk its loss at no cost, not even for the lives of his kin in the Iron Hills, because the roots of their betrayal stretched back to exactly that same point. Could they not see? Dáin had been the first to forsake his father in their utmost time of need, by the great gates of Khazad-dûm on that fateful day; he had failed his loyalty and defied Thráin's command to enter the mountain, and of his example the other houses had followed. It was the perfect end, for the forsaker to become the forsaken; if fate has decreed that the cycle of events must come full circle, then at least it should do so with justice.

The serpent around his heart gave a little twist of glee at the thought. It opened its mouth to bare needle-sharp fangs, even as the organ it entrapped recoiled in horror and disgust. Madness, his heart warned, beating furiously to escape. Thorin tore his thoughts away before the venomous thing could clamp down, turning instead to his nephew once more.

But of course, Fíli knew none of this. He was too young, and while the events at Moria was not a forbidden subject amongst his people, few willingly spoke of it, especially in his own household, where the grief of loss ran so deeply that he once wondered if his sister had given explicit commands against its discussion. So Fíli could not have known the specifics of the events that unfolded on that day, or those that occurred on the eve of its commencement, which might well make his words pertaining them the result of mere coincidence or a lucky score from wild accusations made by a presumptuous youngster. It could be explained away easily enough to be innocent…

Could it really? The serpent hissed mockingly, binding its coils ever tighter. Such well-chosen words, as befitting an heir's duty…

'I am your heir, is it not my duty to speak to you?' Fíli's voice came readily on cue, though it sounded strangely muffled, as if by distance, despite having been spoken only moments before in these very halls.

"No," Thorin whispered again, knowing what was about to come.

But the tides of memory were merciless, and the same lines from a different time now replayed in his mind, unwelcomed, unbidden, yet unstoppable, summoning echoes from a past too sorrowing to recall yet unclouded by the passage of years.

'You are his heir, is it not your duty to speak to him?'

Even reaching across the span of a century and again half that length, Frerin's voice still rang out with the clarity of life. The serpent cringed back, dismayed by what it had unleashed. It was like drawing a knife across the scar of a long-closed wound, bringing forth the blood of fresh doubts and old hurts in one swift stroke; the terrible notes of despair and accusation behind the words still had the ability to cut as deeply and painfully as they did on that last night before his death.

'The orcs are too many. They are ready for us. We march to our fate tomorrow like hapless sheep before the slaughter field. Make him see past his madness, before it is too late!'

Madness. Sheep before the slaughter field. The duty of an unfortunate heir to deter the follies made by a mad king, perpetually doomed to failure. The serpent writhing in his chest, who in its fading throes still struggled to implant poisonous ideas of treachery and manipulation. Thorin almost laughed aloud. As if such shadows over the mind could be lifted by words of reason! Frerin did not know of the extent of Thorin's efforts to dissuade their grandfather from leading his people on a march to their deaths. Or, more likely, he did know, and still deemed Thorin's actions to be inadequate. But none of that mattered. What had mattered then was that Frerin spoke the truth; they had met their fate that day, with so many of their kin surviving Smaug's fire only to burn on pyres outside Moria's gates. And what mattered now was the realization that the past and present had come parallel with each other in a horrific twist of fate, joined by counterparts of madness and blood and death, to coincide together upon one single point in the line of Durin where history now repeated itself.

'I would never have thought to witness the mistakes of our grandfathers reinstated upon you, uncle.'

Thorin threw the crown off his head with a clang. It rolled across the golden floor for a short distance before coming to a rest near the dropped ruby, lying in a crimson pool of its own reflected blood.

Never had the price of clarity been so high.

Back in the halls behind the barricaded gates, the company, fully armed in preparation for battle, waited restlessly for an uncertain end. Here the noise of fighting and the occasional crash of thunder could be heard quite clearly from the open ramparts above, from which wafted the rusty stench of blood as well as the din of swords. Bestial roars and human screams rent the air alike; the company was left to wonder which ones belonged to their dwarrow kin and of the conclusion of their own fate in the event of the battle's inevitable loss.

Fíli's return from his audience with the king brought back no resolution save for the delivery of a short – both in sentence and in temper – "No he would not open the gates." He refused to answer when pressed for elaboration, choosing instead to lean against a pillar and stare at the rubble on the ground. After a few moments of dissatisfied grumbling, most of the dwarves had followed suit, albeit with a fidgety air, taking up similar occupations either standing or drafting stools out of the broken stones.

Fíli could tell what the majority of them were doing if he cared enough to look. Dwalin went alone up the walls to keep track of the battle, a necessary but disheartening duty that not even his brother seemed to want to share. Of the others, Dori, Nori, and Bofur huddled together, talking in hushed tones. Glóin sat by a whetstone, meticulously sharpening his array of axes. Ori was inspecting the sword in his hands with the intensity of someone who expects to find a message hidden on the steel. Bombur and Bifur both sat around the old fire pit, though Bifur merely appeared glum whereas Bombur looked absolutely miserable. Balin stood up front, in the clear space closest to the gate, openly keeping watch over the group and discreetly placing himself at the best vantage point for spotting any movement within the king's gallery. Óin was out of his line of sight. And Kíli…

Fíli sighed. In the stretched-out short span of time since everyone retreated to their individual broodings, Kíli, ever the epitome of impatience, had elected for a continuous pacing across the hall. Between the clink of his footsteps and the hiss of Glóin's whetstone Fíli could not decide which sound grated him the most. Now Kíli's incessant tread took him closer and closer to Fíli's pillar at each pass, at the opposite side of where he was leaning, and Fíli could see his intentions so clearly that it was almost too easy for him to step around and intercept his brother just as Kíli reached for the rope that was knotted to the stone.

Drawn through a series of hoops and connected to a pulley which in turn was connected to a bronze figurehead secured high up a ledge, the rope, when severed, would release all eight hundred and fifty stone of solid bronze to swing like a pendulum through the makeshift rubble gates. It was as efficient a way to end their miseries as any.

Disregarding Kíli's cry of protest, Fíli seized him around the offending wrist and twisted it hard, effectively loosening his fingers and retrieving the revealed knife while simultaneously bending back to avoid his brother's blow of retaliation. In a single fluid movement it was over; Fíli stepped back, the confiscated knife secure in his hand. Kíli glared at him in frustration.

"Thorin means for the mountain's fortifications to remain intact," Fíli began, but one look at Kíli's face killed any further desire to attempt civilized admonishment. He let out a sigh, feeling already-tense nerves fraying deeper and no less frustrated than his brother. "You know that you can't do this."

"What we cannot do, Thorin has already done!" Kíli retorted. He had always been outspoken in his anger, regardless of whom or what it was directed at. The king was clearly no exception. "He would have us hide in this hole like cowering mice until all our kin lies in corpses! Are we simply to sit, and listen," he made a furious gesture at the direction of the battlements, "while we wait for that to happen?"

Fíli could not blame his brother for his sentiments, for he shared most of them himself. But he did not share Kíli's ability to bring himself to go against Thorin in such perilous circumstances, nor his liberal manner in giving such open voice to criticism against their king. Especially now with everyone in the company staring at them. Even Glóin's whetstone had fallen silent. He was about to speak, a restraining hand about Kíli's arm, when Balin's voice started from behind his pipe.

"Knocking down those gates won't help them now, laddie," Balin said, calm and pragmatic as ever despite the severity of their situation. "The sides are too closely engaged for that. It'll be impossible for Dáin's folks to retreat inside without bringing with them a fair number of orcs and their foul beasts, and that's not considering if we could even reclose the opening in time to stop them from completely overrunning the mountain."

"Then we march out and join our swords to theirs like we should have done from the beginning!"

"That would be a very fine idea," Bofur remarked, "if you had an army at your back instead of twelve. Much more efficient."

"And that'll be the end of us," muttered a disgruntled Bombur from his seat.

Kíli whirled on them angrily, all clinking mail and flashing eyes, reminding Fíli every bit of Thorin when he turned upon him in condemnation in the king's gallery. "At least it shall be an end with honour, which is more than what we'll have if we continue this meaninglessness!"

There followed a brief silence in which everyone was too tense to speak. Then Balin's gaze rose to sweep past them, straightening slowly and lowering his pipe. "Honour indeed," he murmured quietly, and the expression on his face was of one who dared hope.

Fíli turned to follow his line of sight. The breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was looking at the entrance to the king's gallery, its rightful owner and sole occupant an imposing silhouette against the illuminated aura of torch-lit gold.

Thorin had come forth from the depths of the mountain.

Heads turned and the seated rose to their feet in reaction to Thorin's presence. "Kíli," Fíli hissed in warning, but his brother was already freeing his arm from Fíli's constraint and stepping forward before the older dwarf could stop him.

"What has the line of Durin come to, if we are to sit behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us?" he cried, restless challenge evident in every word and every defiant flash of his eyes. "I cannot command your actions, Thorin, but I can still command my own. By your leave or not, I will go out and fight!"

Thorin stopped a few feet in front of his youngest nephew, appraising him with a calm regard. Kíli met his gaze boldly with no sign of fear. Fíli's eyes flitted from the naked sword in Thorin's hand to Kíli's defiant stance to Thorin's expression to the other members of the company then back again, mind straining under a tumult of worry. At that moment, he cursed both Thorin's affliction and his brother's willfulness, while at the same time wondering if Thorin would actually go so far as to cause his nephew physical harm and if Kíli's blatant challenge to Thorin's authority would affect the dynamic of the company. By Mahal, there was still a battle going on outside––

However, Fíli's fears proved to be groundless. Thorin's stern countenance softened into a warm smile, and he placed a gentle hand on Kíli's shoulder, drawing him closer with all the evidence of their old fondness. "And my leave you shall have, though you do not ask for it." His hand moved from Kíli's shoulder to the back of his head, resting it on the dark locks in a gesture of affection. "Durin's folk does not flee from a fight. But our numbers are small, and so we must make our strike swiftly and precisely. Success or failure, our stand must be made worthwhile."

A round of pleased exclamations broke out amongst the assembled company at their king's obvious change of heart. Kíli's expression had transformed from its original mask of angry defiance to one of tentative hope, now it settled at last into a smile of pure undiluted joy, wholly assured by Thorin's words.

"Uncle, you're back," he exclaimed wonderingly, throwing himself at Thorin in heartfelt embrace, who adjusted the grip of his sword and returned it with the same good-natured tolerance he usually reserved for his youngest nephew. But for a brief moment he glanced over Kíli's shoulder, and Fíli finally allowed himself to release a breath that made his legs feel weak with relief.

"You're back," he whispered as he met Thorin's eyes, and the fierce spark in their depths was all the assurance of the future that he needed.

This whole thing is unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any grammar errors/typos/character getting ooc etc., I'm sure there's a lot of them I missed XD