Author's Note: In denial of the ending Mr Tolkien provided us with in his book and in dreadful anticipation of Peter Jacksons deliverance of said ending I came up with this. It will have multiple chapters that loosely tie together and tell the continuous story of Thorin and Thranduil, beginning with the Battle of the Five Armies.
I make no promises whatsoever. Lmao I'm gonna pretend I don't have an exam next week lalala ...
I would like to dedicate this to the wonderful and talented XxIrisxX, to whom I promised a new Thorinduil fic very long months ago and I never delivered. Here it is, at last. I hope you like it.
-:-
It must have been a split-second decision to come to his rescue, Thorin concluded.
He had gotten separated from the main force of the dwarven army, facing down Azog and his foul white beast. His trusted oaken shield long lost, Orcrist taken by the elves, unaccustomed to fighting in full armour and tired already from fighting the goblin army, Thorin was just a small, helpless little bug in front of this ruthless adversary. One blow from the orc's mace had almost torn off Thorin's leg, the white warg had crushed his ribs earlier, and his left arm felt numb from all the blows he had to block with the shield strapped to it. Just when the warg prepared to jump and Thorin took a step back, ground his feet in the muddy ground and readied himself to absorb the blow that was about to follow, he heard a high, piercing battle cry coming from the right. A flash of grey and white, a howl, and suddenly there was a lot of red staining the warg's shabby fur.
Azog roared and dismounted from his screaming and convulsing – dying – beast, and stepped towards the grey bundle lying in the mud, mace raised high.
Thorin answered the white orc's cry with a shout and used his weight and low centre of gravity to barrel into the monster's legs, trying to topple him, but his charge was met with the twisted metal claw Azog now possessed in place of his left hand. The points screeched across Thorin's breastplate, leaving deep scratch marks in the metal.
"Azog!" came a challenging shout, and the painful pressure left Thorin's armour, allowing him to breathe again. The white orc stepped aside, snorting as if amused. Then Thorin saw Thranduil, rising from the mud. His long, silvery hair was tangled and encrusted with dirt and blood, but his crown still sat proudly on his furrowed brow. He lifted a dwarven shield and a spear the men of Laketown used.
Azog spat something in his filthy language and roared a bellowing laugh, but the Elvenking only re-adjusted his gloved grip on the spear.
"It's two against one, beast," the elf hissed in return and charged.
Thorin stretched his burning shield arm a few times to get his circulation flowing and spun the battle axe in his right, waiting for an opening, but Thranduil kept attacking the white orc in a flurry of movements, cutting and piercing the off-white skin. Azog only grinned, seemingly not minding the shallow wounds, until the Laketown spear drove deep into his calf. He grunted and shook his head, but apparently the spear was stuck, because Thranduil didn't retreat, until the orc's metal fist connected with his jaw, tearing skin and flesh.
Thranduil's mad laugh made the hair on Thorin's neck stand in terror.
Still, seeing a chance there, he jumped between the taller bodies, pushing with his shield and hacking inelegantly with his axe. He hit armour and bone, but muscle and sinews too. Azog roared and pushed them both off of him with a hard shove.
Thranduil recovered faster than Thorin and intercepted Azog's sprint towards them, but somehow he must have lost his shield, because he caught the orc's mace with his bare hands. Luckily elven blacksmithing wasn't completely useless, or Azog's repeated hits to the elf's shoulder, back and ribs with his free metal hand would have killed him already.
Thorin blocked one of these blows and pulled Azog's metal hand to the side, hooking it with his axe. This gave Thranduil time to recover, and when Thorin punched his heavy shield into the white orc's ribs, a thin white blade appeared seemingly out of nowhere and pierced Azog's neck.
"Die," Thranduil hissed and twisted the blade. Azog tried to roar, but only blood gushed from his mouth. His strength was not diminished somehow, when he tore his metal claw from Thorin's blockage. Thorin got shoved away and- …
He landed face first in the mud and twisted his body to get onto his feet again as quickly as possible, only to see Azog, blood-stained and mad with pain and fury, keeping Thranduil in a death grip around his throat while burying his metal claw in the elf's abdomen again and again and …
Seeing red Thorin gathered all his remaining strength, raised his axe and threw it, embedding it in the white orc's skull.
Panting and trembling, Thorin watched as the two bodies slumped into the dirt. White and silver and grey, stained with red and brown. There were spluttering, coughing noises from where Azog was drowning in his own blood, but only silence from the Elvenking. Thorin gripped a handful of silvery hair, his movements clumsy with exhaustion and the thickness of his gauntlets, and there was blood; warm, bright red blood, brighter than dwarven or human blood. Sweeter smelling too.
"Thranduil," he rasped and prepared to hoist a heavy weight, considering the elf's height and build, but the Elvenking's body was as light as a bundle of cloth and slipped between his fingers like finest silk. The elf let out a quiet, bubbling noise of protest when he landed on his back in the mud.
Thorin remembered a blue as vivid as the summertime sky, but now Thranduil's eyes seemed dulled, robbed of their colour in contrast to the too bright red staining his lips and jaw.
"You saved me," Thorin whispered softly and shuddered when those eyes closed.
-:-
So many were dead. The months leading up to Thorin's coronation were not spent celebrating, singing and feasting. They were spent mourning the slain, their fallen brothers and sisters-in-arms. And Thorin blamed himself, for so many, so, so many would not be buried and cold were it not for his blindness. His sickness. His weakness.
Those rebuilding the city of Dale had set up a monument to represent the fallen of men, dwarves and elves alike. It consisted of a large boulder, into whose surface a shield was carved representing the dwarves, a spear for the men of Laketown, and three chiselled arrowheads that stood for the elves. In dwarvish runes, mannish letters and elven Tengwar they wrote: In remembrance of those that stood in bravery and honour against the Evil of Middle-Eart.
Thorin often found himself in front of this mural, which he had inlaid with veins of mithril by the best smiths they had at hand. Though once when he took his time to pay homage to the fallen before he had to meet Bard of Dale, he saw an unlikely figure kneeling in front of the memorial, clad in brilliant white.
"Thranduil," he said and stepped closer, staring at the small pots strewn around the hunched shape. The Elvenking himself did not seem to have heard him, though Thorin could see his guard nervously fingering his arrows. He held up his hands in a show of good intentions and took another step, deliberately treading on a pebble. Thranduil's head then shot up and he met Thorin's gaze with a startled expression, a paintbrush held out as if it was a dagger.
"Ah, King under the Mountain," the Elvenking said and tilted his head in greeting. "Forgive me, I was enraptured in my work."
"Indeed, what is it you are doing?" Thorin asked curiously and eyed the monument.
"The men carved it. You adorned it with mithril. I am simply adding my part," Thranduil said, wiping his hands on a clean towel. There had been no speck of colour on his fingers though as far as Thorin could see.
Thorin hummed and stood beside him, squinting. Either the Elvenking had only just begun painting, or it wasn't that impressive. Actually, he couldn't see anything at all. Thranduil chuckled softly when he saw his expression.
"It is only visible at night. We call it aglarnen. It captures light when there is any and gives it off in darkness."
"And what are you painting? Pretty flowers and leaves?" Thorin mocked, crossing his hands behind his back and peering down on Thranduil. Oh, how satisfying this position was, for once him being the taller one. The Elvenking did not seem to mind though, since he did not take offense and chuckled again.
"Something along those lines. Perhaps you might find it in yourself to return some night once I'm finished and see it for yourself."
Thorin grunted doubtfully, but the interest had already been kindled. He would come back anyway, so why not see what the elf had doodled?
"I would not have taken you for a painter, Thranduil."
The Elvenking, still sitting on the hard stone floor, fiddled with the pot in front of him, placing a lid on it. A smile played around his lips, though the line of his brow spoke another tale.
"My wife used to paint murals, not unlike this. She taught me some of her craft."
Thorin frowned. He could not recall ever hearing about an Elvenqueen, though there had to be one out of the simple reason that there was a prince.
"She died," Thranduil whispered, as if he had read his mind.
"In this battle?" Thorin choked out, feeling as if he were suddenly drowning in blood. So many. So many were dead. It was his fault, he had been too weak, tainted with sickness, consumed by greed and hatred …
"No, no. Long ago."
He took a strained breath and grounded himself in Thranduil's precise movements as he cleaned his brush.
"My condolences."
"Thank you."
It sounded hollow, even to his ears. But it was better than nothing. Better than hatred.
"I should be continuing my work."
"Oh." Thorin cleared his throat. "Of course."
Thranduil peered up at him from behind a loose strand of silvery hair, and when he said nothing in return, Thorin awkwardly took his leave and made his way to the townhouse, which was actually rather an orphanage. But he didn't hear the racket of excited children and didn't mind being bumped into on almost every step of his way. His mind was still pouring over his surprisingly civilised and calm conversation with Thranduil, and the mural which he – if he was honest with himself – could not wait to see in its fully glory.
-:-
A week later he received a small note that somehow simply appeared on his desk, written in a curling, sprawling hand. The heavy parchment smelled distinctly of resin, and faintly of honey. There was no seal or signature, it simply said: You can see it now.
Thorin could contain his curiosity for exactly one night and one day, before he took a pony and paid Dale a visit. He made his usual rounds, going to the orphanage to play with the human children, visiting the latest building site to talk to the supervisors, and lastly the newly minted market place, where he chatted with the first stall owners. Thus he spent his time and waited for the sun to set. Only then did he steer his steps towards the upper part of Dale, where the bell tower used to be, and where the monument now stood. The sky was still a dark, bruised purple, only a handful of the brightest stars were visible, so he wasn't sure whether the mural would be able to unfold its full effect. But then he went around the last corner, and he thought a piece of the sky must have fallen, for the monument glistened and glowed like a starry night-time sky in its full glory.
As he went closer he felt dizzy, feeling as if he were to fall up into this spread of stars. They weren't just bright glowing dots on a rock, but Thorin actually recognised some of the constellations. There was Mahal's anvil, stretched across the carved dwarven shield. Here was the Fisherman, whose fishing rod aligned with the Laketown spears. And there was the morning star, called Eärendil by the elves and believed to be a Silmaril, sitting on the tip of an engraved arrowhead.
Thorin remembered something he overheard Tauriel tell Kíli, namely that the starlight was most precious to the wood elves in particular. And while Thorin preferred more palpable things, he accepted this mural as a thing worthy of remembrance, as this was the purpose of the memorial.
What do you think? I would love to hear from you guys, reviews are the fuel of my depraved soul.
Btw. aglarnen is totally made up. I derived it from aglar (shining white) and -nen (water).