Warnings: Contains angst, references to mental illness, death, violence.
"Dwalin..."
The named dwarf looked up from his work painstakingly cleaning one of his – already shining – axes. He did not need to ask Thorin what he wanted, needed – it was clear in the darkness of the Prince's eyes. "One moment."
Thorin gave one sharp nod, and stalked away, secure in the knowledge that Dwalin would follow in minutes. He always did. Had Thorin wanted Dwalin to complete some simple task, take on some chore or other, he would happily have barked out an order for him to follow at once. But for this, for this one thing, this kindness Dwalin did to him, through something more than duty, he would not push him. It would not be fair.
000
He had seen flame consume his home.
The nightmares still haunted him. The screams that echoed across the valley, those trapped by fire and stone – and he could not reach them. All he could do was flee, from the smoke, the flames that devoured, and those screams. But he could not escape them, not really. For weeks, an acrid smell lingered on those that survived merely singed. For months, darkness wrenched cries from more than just his own tent. The guilt... The guilt never drained away – he should have done more. It did not matter that he was just a child, just 24. He would be their leader. He should have done more.
He had seen his people divide and shatter.
His grandfather had not begrudged the vast majority of dwarves salvaged from the desolation their peace in the Iron Mountains. But his son and his eldest grandson fumed. It was a betrayal, to turn their allegiance to another King, even one so close in blood, to choose the way of easy comfort. Those that remained loyal were forced to battle and beg, just to survive, until they finally settled - in resignation that nowhere would feel like home. For all their suffering, Thorin loved them the more.
000
There was no need for Dwalin to speak when he found Thorin, knelt on damp turf, hands buried in his greying hair. He had seen him like this too many times, and he knew from hard-learned lessons what Thorin needed from him.
In silence, he knelt beside the older dwarf, his left thigh against Thorin's right, a hand on his knee. The warmth of contact grounded Thorin in reality. He could not lose himself in memory entirely if Dwalin stayed close.
Solid, dependable Dwalin. Tough and strong as iron and stone.
He would not let him fall.
000
He had seen his grandfather's mind crumble.
Madness was a terrible thing. All the more terrible for it to inflict a King. All the more terrible for it to inflict a father, a grandfather. The strains of decades, thrust from a life of abundance, to one of constant fear, constant desperation – there was only so much one body, one mind could stand. Thorin had watched a slow but steady disintegration, but he had not spoken once. The spontaneous violence, the fury when challenged, the memory loss, the periods of silence, the periods of rage, the obsession of reclaiming, retaking, restoring. Constant. But the people could not know. Thorin had clung to their pride in keeping that secret, avoiding the truth, that the pride of their line had been lost long before.
He had seen his father struck silent as stone.
His father's madness did not grow slowly from the seeds of despair, but hit fast; a flash and he was gone. He did not speak. He did not move. He sat in his chair, shoulders sagged, head hung, a frozen image of the darkness that had befallen them. Nár's description of Thrór's gruesome end – ripped, shredded, torn, hacked, branded – echoed both in Thorin's mind and in the whispers in the halls, and fury roiled in his gut. But so did anguish, fear that responsibility for his people would come before his time, that his father would never speak again. Seven days. Seven long days of begging his father to return. A week had never felt so long. When his father finally moved, finally spoke, there was a stony glimmer in his eyes, devoid of feeling. They did not soften again. His father died that day, though his feet and hands still moved.
000
When Thorin crumpled, Dwalin pulled him closer, securing him in strong arms. No words would help under the onslaught of Thorin's own thoughts, his own memories. Hurts on the inside, cut so deep, were agonisingly hard to shake. And those deep enough to scar would never leave. Not only would they never be forgotten, they would never be remembered without pain.
Every once in a while, all those hurts would become too much, and Thorin would buckle under them.
It hurt Dwalin to see his friend broken so, but he could only sit, and wait, and listen to Thorin attempt to stifle his occasional, choked sob.
He could hold him close, an anchor and a support. He would always do what he could for his King.
000
He had seen his brother slain.
Frerin hadn't been meant to be there, but he had begged and pleaded, and their father had ignored Thorin's petitions to have him remain. Another sword, another axe. That's all Frerin was to him. 48 years old, taken well before his time, for a war that achieved nothing but to temporarily sate Thráin's bloodlust. Such waste. At times, Thorin struggled to remember Frerin's face, and he struggled to forget the wreck that the monsters left behind. Body after body of dwarves he knew and loved, drank with, joked with – he'd thrown aside them all until he found the one he looked for, eyes so similar in shade and form to his own, staring out of a face destroyed by the scum that haunted the dark places. He'd held Frerin in his arms as he drew his last, wet breaths. His was just one voice that roared with grief absolute that blood-stained day.
He had seen his father's company return – but not his father.
How long does one wait? At what point does hope fail? Thorin was crowned when his father's subjects demanded it, a poor King of a lowly Kingdom, a King more lonely than the Mountain he dreamed of. But he hoped his father dead, whilst he hoped his father alive. He wanted him home, but the never-ending thoughts of how he might fare should he still breathe... they were not comforting. The hope never left him, but it fluctuated in intensity – slowly, slowly falling, over the decades, until a plateau of resignation that perhaps he would never know, and never want to. Gandalf changed that, and he'd had no choice.
000
Thorin raised eyes reddened with misery, and shadowed with memory.
"I'm sorry." The words were a half-pronounced whisper.
He always apologised.
He never had to.
Dwalin clapped at Thorin's shoulder, and rose with him. "I'll go back first. Give you a moment."
A nod was granted to him – but Thorin had no need to thank him either. Dwalin would serve his Thorin with unwavering loyalty, until the day either one of them died.
Thorin had seen enough death, enough blood, to know that day would not be slow in coming.