Chapter One
Third Age 2770 Erebor
Hidden in the pines that littered the path from the mountain kingdom of the dwarves to the city of men that was nestled in its massive shadow, Amarien pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. With great care and determination she waited for a particular dwarf to pass her by before she stepped out to follow his decent from the mountain and into the streets of Dale. There was something of Thrain the Old in him, a quiet strength and depth of knowledge that belied his age. He was but twenty-four winters, his beard nothing but dark stubble on his chin, and already possessed the qualities of a good ruler. Amarien was on a mission today to determine if he had the same superstitions as his kin of late. She could not blame them for their mistrust of her, especially now as the only time they took any notice of her was when dire events happened. How she missed speaking with them as she did in the days of old, being part of their council and helping them to prosper. Now she was but an ill omen, blamed when things went awry. Still she loved all of the dwarves and missed the days when she was counted among the family of Durin's line.
Amarien slowed her steps with caution as her query paused in his powerful stride. Already his developed warrior senses were triggered and he surveyed the crowd milling about. She frowned when his eyes passed over her and with a flick determined her to be a non-threat. For several years now she hid from them, not wishing to cause upset, but a small spark of hope kindled in her heart. His disregard for her presence made her think that he may not believe in the myths. Perhaps that fearful and often times angry glean that appeared in the eyes of those before him would not appear in his sapphire gaze.
The pause in his step did not last long. When she continued to follow he was already much further ahead of her. His midnight hair a sharp contrast to all the bright colors surrounding him. She picked up the pace to catch up with him, her steps becoming loud to her ears as they impacted with the cobbled stone streets. Rounding a corner leading into the market square of Dale, she stumbled to a sudden stop. There stood Thrain, son of Thror, and her query's father. Thrain was not as oblivious to her presence as his son, Thorin, had been. His stormy eyes looked around his son, through the crowded stone streets surrounded by their stone buildings with colorful banners, and found hers in the midst of the people of Dale. There was no mistaking that look, mostly hatred and a healthy dose of fear lurking in the cloudy depths; a gaze that brought forth the now familiar heartache in her chest. She missed her beloved dwarves so.
Amarien looked away and made for the nearest alley as quickly as she could. He would not follow her, as following her, they thought, was looking for trouble. She paused beneath the back door of one of the many toymakers shops, waiting for her heartache to lessen. When it did not she knew something was wrong beyond her relationship with Durin's folk. Not only had she failed to reveal herself to Thorin, the dread churning in her stomach of late only increased. Fear gripped her. With a quick prayer to her maker she sprinted for the mountain, hoping there was yet time to prove the myth wrong and still whatever doom awaited those of the Lonely Mountain.
For his part, Thorin frowned when seeing the look that crossed his father's face. He followed his father's gaze through the busy streets and only caught the glimpse of a silvery cloak as the bearer rounded a corner into the alley. Looking back to his father he frowned with a questioning glance.
"It is nothing," Thrain said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "let us be done with this trading so we may return home. Dale is not appealing this day."
Thorin followed his father quietly as it would not do to argue with him when he was in such a sudden, but sour mood. Thorin and his father always thought of Dale as appealing. The city thrived in its place beside his people in the mountain. People came from distant lands to see the wares in its market. The toymakers alone were legendary. Add to that the tutelage of the dwarves that the cities craftsman often sought in their pursuits, and the market square became something quite wondrous. Some of the most beautiful things in Middle Earth could be found there. The stone city, bleached by the sun, made the colorful kites, flowers, fabrics, and jewels all that more brilliant. It made Thorin even more curious as to why his father was angry and ready to leave.
The people of Dale were familiar with Durin's folk and the presence of his father. It was no surprise that they were also familiar with Thrain's moods. The sudden widened pathway through the square that led to the Lord of Dale's residence only confirmed that.
It was not long after their arrival in the study of Girion, the Lord of Dale, that he too was able to judge Thrain's mood, though he did not shrink away. Time had withered and grayed the Lord of Dale but he was still an impressive human. Thorin often wondered how formidable the man might have been in the prime of his life.
Girion had many dealing with the dwarves in his near seventy years, so it was no surprise to Thorin when his temper flared as well. "My people will not face the winter short of food because you wish more than originally agreed up!" Girion voice grew louder within the chamber they negotiated in. He stood parchments in hand, to finish yelling. "All because of your foul mood Thrain son of Thror!" With that, Thorin watched his father glower at the man before turning on his booted heal and storming out the door. Thorin rose to follow, "Let this be a lesson to you young prince," Girion said throwing parchments to his desk in frustration, "do not enter negotiations in such a mood as wars have been started over less." With a sigh the man seemed to run out of steam and plopped back into his chair looking weary, stopping Thorin as he reached for the door, "Tell you father I will give him half more of the crops agreed upon so that all of us will make it through the winter in relative comfort, but I will need additional swords and armor in return."
Nodding his head, Thorin left the Lord of Dale to his thoughts, thankful that the relationship between them was not too tarnished. Thorin sighed. They needed each other. Crops were not grown within the mountain and Dale had those. Just as metal was not found in the valleys, the dwarves supplied those. On his trek back to the mountain his mind again turned to the silvery cloak he had seen. Surely whoever wore that cloak was the cause of all of this discord in his father. That was the only explanation. The why of it would likely not be answered any time soon though, knowing his father, he would have to search for the answers on his own. It was this thought the led him through the now darkened if quiet alleys of Dale in hopes of getting but a glimpse of the culprit. However he returned to the halls of the Lonely Mountain without any success.
Thorin acknowledged the guards as he passed through the massive stone gates of the mountain. They were ever watchful of his home, Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. The great dwarven city contained within that single solitary peak. Countless dwarves had dug deep into the mountain in search of the precious metals and stones it held. They left behind massive columns, glorious mansions, and grand halls that Thorin now walked through to the throne room that displayed the work of their most excellent craftsman.
It did not take long to determine who was within the chamber, when he heard the echo of his father's voice at the tail end of a statement. "… Ill Omen I say!"
"It is a myth, nothing more," the familiar baritone of his grandfather, Thror's voice, though calm, carried through the chamber just as well.
"How can you say that? After Mother!" Thrain dared to yell back at his own father, being the only one ever to do so to the King under the Mountain. Sorrow had replaced the ire in his father's voice, "or my wife!"
Thorin dared to look into the chamber at the mention of his mother. She had passed beyond this life but ten years before, not long after the birth of his sister. The memory of her was still fresh in his mind. In the chamber he saw his father, defeat in his shoulders as he looked away. No one had noticed Thorin's presence, not even his grandfather. As always Thror was sitting upon his throne, his most precious things; the ancient ring handed down through the generations of rulers on his hand glinting in the light. The ring was second only to the Arkenstone; the precious jewel that rested in its setting within the throne. The many facets of the great gem made it sparkle in different whites depending upon the light.
Thror fidgeted with the ring on his aged hand with increasing frequency and looked to his son and mumbled, "Coincidence, nothing more." With that statement, Thorin watched the strength return to his father as he took long strides to leave the chamber. Only then did Thorin enter and let his presence be known and bowed his head in respect to his grandfather. "Ah, Thorin. My grandson. Let us hope you take after your mother!" Thror said cheerfully. "Come, what news from Dale. All is well I hope?" Thror asked, looking back down to the ring on his finger.
Thorin followed the movement for a moment before answering, "Girion is a bit ruffled but escaped without injury though his age is catching up with him," Thorin paused and frowned as his grandfathers distraction became yet more apparent. "He offered half more in addition to the already agreed upon for the winter," he finished, watching his grandfather closely, as he had grown increasingly odd of late.
"Good, good." Thror said, glancing back at Thorin. "Make sure and tell your father, though I would wait a day or two."
Thorin bowed his head in respect again saying, "Wise words, of course." He left the throne room then seeking out his own chambers. Though he paused to glance back at his grandfather only to see, as expected, he had left as well. Shaking his head, Thorin was certain his grandfather left the throne room to gaze upon the treasures amassed deep within the mountain. It was the only other place he would go anymore.