Thorin looked like a king. Not that he had to look in any way special to be Dwalin's king, but today he really looked like a king for all to see. It wasn't so much what he wore — there were no ornaments in his hair or on his clothes to denote his rank, nothing but two slightly tarnished hair clasps, and his armour was simple and utilitarian, nothing compared to the splendour of his youth — it was how he carried himself. He looked like a king. Dwalin would tell anyone who'd listen that Thorin was a handsome Dwarf, but that wasn't the core of the matter either. Thorin always looked like a true son of Durin, tall and raven-haired, with finely chiselled features and a solid body hewn straight from the bedrock of Erebor. But today Thorin looked happy. He looked like he was content and that truly did not happen often. There was even a small smile upon his lips. That smile and the ease with which he carried on a conversation with Balin, that was what made him look particularly kingly today. He was riding from a field of victory, and even more importantly, it had been a victory achieved without spilling a single drop of blood.

Now Dwalin was no expert in matters of trade and diplomacy, but even he knew that Thorin had every reason to be happy. One of the tribes of Men in the Blue Mountains had granted them the right to mine for iron ore in their lands around the town of Dingwall, strengthening already existing bonds of friendship and cementing them with anticipated commercial benefit for all. The Longbeards were always able to find markets for their wares, but to find plentiful supplies of raw materials that were easy enough to mine and of sufficient quality, that had been an issue for as long as they had been in the Ered Luin. It had also been the reason they left Dunland, or one of the reasons at any rate. This new treaty with the owners of some very promising seams of iron ore would secure the prosperity of Thorin's Halls for decades to come. From a military standpoint — and to be fair that was mostly Dwalin's standpoint and the reason he had travelled with Thorin on this occasion — an alliance with the nearby Men would contribute to their safety. There were rogue Men in the foothills, ruffians that had repeatedly attacked groups of traders and were thus endangering both lives and trade. Dwalin had been kept busy over the past few years, accompanying merchants as a guard for their wares. Since the small-scale farming they undertook never yielded enough to feed all the hungry mouths of Thorin's Halls, safe trade meant survival for their growing town.

So Thorin was happy and that made Dwalin happy. He was at the rear of their small group. It was a pleasant ride. They had left the newly harvested fields and the meadows full of sheep and cattle behind and were now following a wide forest track. The sun was out and the trees were glimmering in various shades of copper and gold. Thorin lead the way. Well, considering his astonishingly bad sense of direction above ground, Balin at his side was the one leading the way, but that was one of the secrets Dwalin would gladly keep for his king. Four elders had made the way across from Thorin's Halls to represent them in the negotiations. A small group of miners had also accompanied them, but they had remained in Dingwall to commence work immediately. Only one young journeyman had been sent back with them to acquire more tools and skilled labour. He was a nice enough fellow and did not require much input from Dwalin to carry on a conversation.

"You're not much like your brother, you know," the lad observed.

Dwalin made a non-committal noise.

"Just like me and my brother, really, we aren't much alike either."

Dwalin doubted that the sons of Fundin had much in common with this miner's family, but he kept his peace and the Dwarf at his side started to tell him all about his brother.

"I'm the older, you see, though you'd probably never guess it since I'm not so much into that entire old and responsible thing, not quite like your brother, you see, never really have been one to be so strict about them rules, but I've got a good few years on him, on my brother that is, not on yours, obviously, not quite there yet, although I swear worrying about my brother is going to turn my beard grey before my time!"

Dwalin chuckled. Nowadays Balin blamed mainly Fíli and Kíli for the white hairs that were starting to streak his beard. Dwalin and Thorin had been accused of making it turn grey when he was still very young.

"He's a good lad, really is, a fine young Dwarf if ever there was one. Doing his apprenticeship now, you see, and his master is right proud of him, I tell you. Never seen a talent quite like him, she says. And I'd be surprised if she had considering that he's pretty much been practicing since he was born! He's apprenticed to the cook in the miners' canteen, you see, and he's always had a way with food. He's making friends there, I tell you! Wouldn't surprise me if one of them old geezers proposed to him after tasting one of his apple cobblers one day. Oh now that's a fine taste! When you can get it, of course. It's good to have Bombur — that's my brother, you see, Bofur and Bombur, that's us, the sons of Baldur — it's good to have him in the kitchens. We don't go hungry nowadays. Baldur, our old man, he went to the stone right early and our Ma, she had a hard time of it with the two of us, little rascals that we were. And a growing lad like Bombur, he always needs his food, you see, so it's good that he's got it now."

Dwalin nodded his head solemnly. They had all known hunger, the ones from the Ered Luin as much as the ones from Erebor. Thanks to Thorin's tireless work that was now changing. Bofur seemed to follow his line of thought.

"It's all been much better since Thorin's Halls is all up and running," he said. "Don't you take me for one of them complainers. Thorin and your brother, they've done right by us. Always plenty of work nowadays and we don't shy away from that now, we sure don't. I went down the mines soon as they would take me, nothing but a scrap of a dwarfling I was back then, but showed my worth and all and was apprenticed soon as I had the right age, and look at me now, a journeyman in my own right and all!"

Dwalin gave him a smile. He himself had never been apprenticed, had never had the chance to learn a trade. Not like that. What he knew, he had learned by doing, by sheer survival. He was glad for this young Dwarf, the opportunities he had had and the enthusiasm with which he talked about his craft.

"So, what do you think of the Dingwall mine?" Dwalin asked.

Bofur beamed up at him from his little round pony. "Oh a right marvel that is! Much better than what we've got in Thorin's Halls, by the looks of it. No offence meant, mate, but we don't exactly have the best resources in the Ered Luin."

Dwalin chuckled at that. Oh he knew... they had all known that they were not settling in the best part of that mountain range. But when Thorin had lead the Longbeards here, there had been grumbling aplenty already. The local Men had been worried by the sudden influx of Dwarves, rather war-like and well-organised Dwarves at that. Their original plan of rebuilding the ruins of ancient Belegost had soon been abandoned in favour of a modest town and mining operation close to the existing Dwarven settlements. They were warriors down to the last Dwarf, but they had no interest in spurring further enmity and bloodshed. They had all seen enough of that.

"The bell pits the Men have there, as primitive as they are, they show you the quality of the ore, right enough. Fine, fine vein of iron they've got there, or we've got there, I should say, seeing as that's why we're here. The ironmaster has started the first drift already, following that vein, and we'll sink the first shaft once I'm back there with the others," Bofur said. He continued to throw about mining terms for a while, as Dwalin sat back in his saddle, stuffed his pipe and enjoyed the sunshine of the fine autumn day.

At some point, his young companion realised that he was no longer listening.

"I must be boring you," he said. "You are no miner, are you? What's your trade, mate?"

"I dabble at the forge," Dwalin said. "Though I'm no artist, not like Thorin," he qualified.

"Ah, I forget! Of course you are a smith, a son of Durin like you. You just seem so normal, if you forgive me saying, it's easy to forget that you are royalty, Mister Dwalin."

Dwalin laughed aloud at that. "You're alright, laddie. I'm hardly more royal than you are. If you're looking for the proper son of Durin, he's riding up front."

"Aye, Thorin's a right Durin, he is. Like some legendary king of old. The ironmaster was saying them poor Men didn't stand a chance against him and Balin in the negotiations, and I believe it! And he must be a right gem in the forge as well, I've seen some of the weapons he makes and my, he's an artist alright!"

"You should see him at the anvil."

"Oh I have! My cousin works close to the forges, you see and sometimes when I'm working the night shift I'll come and visit him during the day and I always look out for Thorin in the forges. True master of his craft he is!"

Dwalin nodded his assent. "Pray this deal works out and you might see him with some better material than iron soon. A sight to behold!"

He fondly remembered the rare occasion when they had had access to silver or even gold and Thorin had been able to show his considerable skill in some more delicate work. Maybe once the Ered Luin truly prospered, such opportunities would arise again.

"How come I never see you in the forges?" Bofur asked.

"Ah well," Dwalin answered, unwilling to admit that he had no trade as such, that he had spent his formative years fighting, battling hunger and cold, Men and Orcs, madness and despair. A Dwarf was meant to have a trade. "These past few years..." Decades was more like it. "Thorin... thought that I could... serve him better elsewhere." To be fair, Thorin had had little say in this.

"Oh," Bofur said, another broad grin spreading across his features. "That's why you are away so much. You are a traveling blacksmith! That must be so exciting, all the lands you get to see and the people you see, and I bet there's scores of different forges and tools and techniques and all!"

Dwalin shrugged. It was not like he saw many forges from the inside, once or twice maybe when a pony needed a new shoe on the road, but there was no need to share that.

"Thorin must really trust you," Bofur continued. "I bet it's because you are cousin. And he's really close to Balin, so that must surely help when the king is friends with your brother."

Or maybe Thorin trusted him because Dwalin was his best friend. But the young miner would not know that. They had been the closest of friends, they had clung together after the events of the war beneath the Misty Mountains and the trauma of the battle of Azanulbizar, and as far as Dwalin was concerned they remained best friends to this day. But Thorin had had to become the leader of their people as his father's health deteriorated and Dwalin was little use at politics. The loss of Thráin had cast a dark shadow upon them both, and soon after Dwalin had started to travel as a guard for longer and longer periods, nominally to gather intelligence for Thorin. It must be more than three decades of traveling now, as Fíli was about to turn twenty-one the following spring and he had been born some eighteen years after his grandfather's disappearance. At any rate, Bofur would have barely started his apprenticeship at that time; too young to remember the great friendship Dwalin had shared with the one he so respectfully called king.

"Aye, he has always been my king and my brother," Dwalin said.

"See, I'm the same with my cousin, he's more like a brother to me, though he's no king, of course, but he's a right good bloke and..."

Dwalin never learned what else Bofur's cousin was, for in that very moment Thorin's mare reared up onto her hind legs.

"Whoa, easy girl," Thorin shouted as he fought to stay in the saddle. A long arrow with black fletching whistled through the air and went straight through Thorin's arm as the spooked pony continued to buck. Dwalin surveyed the scene, his right hand tightening around the reins of his mount while his left darted out to capture those of Bofur's pony. His Ruby was reliable and placid, used to all sorts of upset on the road, but the young miner wasn't altogether comfortable in the saddle.

"You alright, lad?" he asked, not sparing Bofur a glance as he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead where Thorin had lost the fight against gravity, as his injured arm lost its grip on the reins. "Stay behind me."

The last words came out as an order. Men were bursting from the trees to the right of the track. Five, ten, fifteen, possibly more, but by then they were milling all around the Dwarves and Dwalin lost count. Not nearly enough to trouble eight Dwarves, but enough to keep him from reaching Thorin without endangering Bofur. With one fluid motion he grasped his twin axes.

"Stay on your pony," he told Bofur. Thorin was on his feet; with Balin defending him while Thorin snapped the arrow in half and drew it from the wound. A through shot was always the easiest to deal with, usually healing within the week. The four elders were hacking and slashing at the ruffians with a vigour that belied their advanced years. Like sturdy boots, Dwarves grew tougher with age.

Dwalin bared his teeth and snarled at the attackers. Damned fools for thinking such a small band could harm them. Twice-damned fools for thinking they could hurt Thorin on his watch. With his right-hand axe he neatly split the skull of a grey-haired swordsman, but the target on his left turned at the last moment and Dwalin's forceful blow only cut his shoulder. He growled in annoyance and aimed a second hit at the Man's back, but watched him crumble to the ground a heartbeat later without his interference.

He nodded his thanks at Bofur. The miner obviously knew how to wield the pickaxe in his hand, though he was wide-eyed and seemed somewhat surprised at his own success. His first kill? Possibly. He was old for it, but then again he plied his trade far from the bloodshed of the battlefield and his generation had been lucky to find themselves without a war to fight.

After the first onslaught, Dwalin aimed to maim rather than kill. A lame shoulder was effective in stopping an attack for now and they would be safely behind the walls of Thorin's Halls by the time these lowlifes would manage gather reinforcements. It became a dance. Dwalin dealt blows with the blunt side of his axes in perfectly synchronised movements, directing his trusted steed with his legs. He smiled. If there had been a guild of warriors, Dwalin would have been a grandmaster. He caught Thorin's eye and gave him a little salute with his axe. Thorin smiled and repeated the gesture with his sword, displaying a bloody rag tied around his forearm. The injury did not seem to hinder his movement, fast and fluid as ever. Thorin stood steady with Balin at his back. Dwalin remained on his pony, shielding young Bofur behind himself. He did not often fight on horseback, usually relying on the sturdiness of his own stance, but the added height was an advantage against taller opposition. Too bad Thorin had dropped from his mare like a lump of lead. Growing fat and sluggish in his old age. Dwalin would not let him hear the end of it any time soon.

They were like hammer and anvil, shaping their enemies between them at will. There were currents of Men being driven away by Thorin's sword only to find themselves faced with Dwalin's axes, in turn withdrawing and being pushed back. It would have been an enjoyable fight just between the two of them. Dwalin saw fond memories of such skirmishes in Thorin's smile as they made eye contact again. With another six Dwarves in their company, this encounter became naught but a game. It was good practice for all of them. Even young Bofur had made his first kill, something they would be sure to celebrate around the fire tonight. Dwalin watched his brother, moving very little, but with great efficiency as he too dispensed of foes without killing them. Balin still had it. The others were making more of a fuss, but at least they had been startled out of their comfortable lives for once and were showing that they had not yet lost the strength and stamina that had seen them through exile and warfare.

At least half a dozen of the Men lay dead when their leader finally seemed to realise that they were nothing but a mouse providing entertainment for a cat that was mightier than they had reckoned. The folly of tall folk to always underestimate those shorter than themselves. If nothing else, these dupes had learned that Dwarves were no children.

"Retreat!" their leader shouted, a sinewy fellow with a rusty broadsword in his hand and a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders.

"Ayfulizd serêj[1]," Thorin ordered and the Dwarves immediately lowered their weapons. Dwalin exchanged a glance with him and they both nodded. That had gone well.

Dwalin spurred Ruby on to hasten the Men's departure as they scrambled up the steep bank and scurried into the underbrush, scattering dry leaves everywhere. He was not one to seek revenge for minor slights, but he still did not take kindly to seeing his king injured, no matter how insignificant the wound might be. He turned Ruby around after a few dozen paces when he was sure that none of the Men would return. Sad, deluded lowlifes. Far from derailing the trade agreement, their poorly-planned attack had served no purpose whatsoever, other than ensuring Dwalin might find work as a guard a bit closer to home for a while. If they renewed their efforts, guarding the traders on their way to and from Dingwall would provide a welcome practice for him. Life targets were always the best for honing your fighting skills.

The others were examining the fallen Men. Dwalin dismounted in front of Thorin and clasped his shoulder.

"Young Emerald isn't quite up to scratch yet, is she?" he teased. "Or maybe I should question the ability of the rider, not the horse!"

Thorin did not respond to the banter, but gritted his teeth. Maybe the arrow wound pained him more than he had let on. Dwalin would insist on examining it and binding it properly before they moved on.

"They beat a hasty retreat," he reported. "They turned eastward into the valley of..." He broke off. "Thorin? Thorin!"

Thorin fell like a landslide. In the blink of an eye he was spread out onto the ground, unconscious. Dwalin sank to his knees beside him, grasping his shoulders and shaking him.

"Thorin, Mahal's beard, Thorin, wake up!"

No movement. He slapped Thorin's face. As much as he hated to hurt his friend, this sudden loss of consciousness unnerved him. Thorin lay unmoving among the fallen leaves whose copper shade matched the blood staining the cloth around his forearm. His eyes were wide-open, staring up at Dwalin accusingly, asking for help, for an explanation.

Dwalin leaned down, shouted straight at his face, but there was no response, not a single twitch of a muscle. Nothing. Dwalin held his cheek just above Thorin's mouth and waited. His own heart thrummed frantically.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Nothing.

Thorin was not breathing.

[1] "Let them go", literally "Allow them to set forth." Khuzdul as ever thanks to the amazing Marigoldfaucet.