Why so Lonely the Mountain?
The rocks shuddered. And then came the groaning from deep underneath, the pulling sensation as everything constricted. Even the water grew louder. Everything stirred. "No! Already? So quickly? Curse every bloody goblin that ever drew weapon against that dwarf."
Thorin felt himself sinking down into his deathbed. He released control over his lungs…and continued to sink. He sank down into the blood-soaked ground, past the blood and the roots and into the richer, darker earth, and through the bedrock into the mountain's stony depths.
At some point in the dark journey, he must have fallen asleep. When he woke, he was walking slowly down a large stone passageway and entering a great stone cavern. Trickles of water ran down the walls. The first thing of which he became aware was the warmth of the chamber when it should have been cold—all stone and water. His feet carried him forward as he noticed other things. He wore a plain white tunic and brown trousers and thick boots. He had no weapon. It was as if his sleepy head could only take in a very little at a time. But eventually he blinked and his vision became clearer.
There were steps at the far end, up to a raised dais. The stairs spanned the length of the room and off to one side was seated a person on the bottom step. When he noticed her, she stood up. What else was there to walk towards? He approached warily and stopped a few paces back. He blinked again and stared hard so that her face would come into focus. Her expression spoke one uncomplicated emotion: sadness.
She opened her arms and stepped forward faster than his foggy feet could step back. Her arms closed around his ribs and she hugged him tightly. She lifted her chin to rest it on his shoulder. He did not return her affection, but she whispered, "I am sorry for your losses," and backed away and he suddenly wished he had.
The woman removed herself two paces from him and allowed him to recover the breath caught in his chest. Her condolences stirred memories of his life, and death, and many, many losses.
"Please tell me your name and, briefly, your life," she said sadly.
He opened his mouth first, testing to see if it would work, and had to swallow before he trusted his voice. Still, it sounded a little groggy. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. My home was attacked by Smaug the Calamity and we were forced from the Lonely Mountain into homelessness. I worked and sought refuge for my kin, fought to reclaim Moria, saw my grandfather killed, lost my father, and journeyed back to the Lonely Mountain as its king." Her eyebrows lowered a bit at the end of his tale.
"Have you any sons?" she asked.
"No."
"No heir?" For the first time another tone challenged the sadness. Relief, perhaps?
"I have nephews. Fili and Kili." The relief fled. When she did not speak further, he ventured. "I am dead."
"Yes."
"After I died, I fell."
"Yes."
"Am I in Hell?"
"No. At least, I don't think so."
"Are you here to exact payment for my sins?"
"The sins of your past are no concern of mine."
"Are you the gatekeeper to heaven?"
"I am not."
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
"I am Thorin Oakenshield," he repeated. "King Under the Mountain." Silence, and the lowering eyebrows once more. The acceleration of the interview was starting to pump some adrenaline into the dwarf. He prepared to demand an answer, "And as King Under the Mountain, I will-"
"THERE IS NO KING!" the woman shouted, and then hissed, "Under this mountain." And in the same hiss she added, "Otherwise it would not be so lonely."
Thorin was not yet master of his wits and could not hide his shock at the outburst. The near scream of anguish set his teeth on edge. After that, the rest of the information trickled down into his understanding. "Where are we?" He asked, rather than risk a guess.
The woman carefully regained her composure. It looked as though this conversation were wearing her thin. "This is Lower Earth."
"And we are below the Lonely Mountain? That of Middle Earth?"
"Mountains and oceans are the only features of the higher worlds deep enough to reach Lower Earth."
Thorin's mouth learned how to smile, "I'm still here…under my mountain."
He saw her pain grow sharp again at this and the hissing came back, "I doubt for very long Dwarf."
"Why?"
Silence.
"Why am I here at all?"
She relaxed, softening into sadness once more. "Come up here," she invited him gloomily. He mounted the steps behind her. When he reached the platform his vision seemed to clear again. Set into the wall was a magnificent throne he was sure he'd not seen before. It was not hewn at all, but seemed to have grown naturally in the stone. He remembered his grandfather's throne with, regrettably, a little less awe now. The woman laid a hand on the armrest. "You are here, because the throne is empty, and the mountain will not rest until a king is found. You claimed to be that king in life, and now we shall see if a king you are."
After a long moment, Thorin spoke the one question that simply would not let him consider anything else. "Who are you?"
The woman sighed and smiled a sad smile. She seated herself on the armrest and folded her hands in her lap. "I will tell you a riddle. The best way to begin is with your grandfather. Of all the dwarf kings, he came closest to understanding how he could really become King Under the Mountain. He began to search for me, secretly. He did not know what I was, but he kept a watchful eye on the discoveries of his miners. Finally he thought he'd found me, and prized the object above all else, making of it a great and everlasting symbol. And for that thing he thought I was he nearly gave his life. It was that same thing that thwarted your attempt to cheat men and elves."
"The Arkenstone." He lowered his eyes as the word crossed his lips. And what was the Arkenstone? He raised his eyes back to hers. "What is your name?"
"I am Halmulev."
The name was of no language Thorin had ever heard, but the meaning seeped up from the stone floor through his boots and into his blood, whispering all through his veins, chasing away the last of the unnatural drowsiness. His eyes grew wide in the attempt to comprehend.
"The Heart of the Mountain," he murmured in disbelief.
She raised her head a little at the sound of it. "Yes, Thorin. The Arkenstone could never have been the heart of this mountain. Only Dwarves have hearts of stone."
