This story is about Thráin and also a fair amount of Thorin and company, Celeborn, Galadriel and Elrond and others of the Hobbit era. It starts just before the BOFA. The Thráin I like for appearance is the first one shown in the first Hobbit movie, where he has one eye and macabre scar. The story is not following any cannon; it doesn't follow any book or movie, but I will reference what I will, when I want and place it to my liking in the story or change, invent or do whatever I feel like. It's called literary license and most readers understand what I'm talking about, most readers.
These are all the Sindarin terms I plan on using. Please refer to here for a term as I won't put them at the end of a chapter.
nín - my
hervenn – husband
hervess – wife
bruin meldir – old friend
elleth – female elf
neth - young
peredhel – half elf
aiut naneth - ancient mother
iôn – son
daeriôns – grandsons
daeriell - granddaughter
melethril-nín – my lover
meleth-nín – my love
ellon – male elf
fëas – entwined souls
naneth – mother
hanna – to thank or thank you
daernaneth – grandmother
daeradar – grandfather
daerodhrons – grandparents
ellon – male elf
elleth – female elf
adar – father
naneth – mother
daeriôns-nín – my grandsons
iôns-nín – my sons
hanna-nín – my thanks
iell - daughter
pen neth – young one
mellon- nín – my friend
mae govannen - greeting
Thráin braced against the evil shock wave that slammed into him, forcing Gandalf to form a hedge of protection around both. Intending to rejoin the melee of advancing orcs and fight with his bare hands, he gave a last instruction to his lifelong friend. "Tell Thorin that I love him. Tell my son I love him."
Gandalf spared a second to looked at the approaching evil, both corporeal and spirit and held Thráin fast with his own powers, both physically with hands to his shoulders aided by the power of Narya, a blood red ruby skillfully cut and set in a sculpted band of gold.
"You can tell him yourself. Get out of here."
Thráin turned to run, but back into the storm of evil. Hands on his shoulders almost jerked him off his dirty, bare feet.
"Run other way, you fool," Gandalf thundered as he quickly threaded gnarled fingers into unkempt course grey hair, holding tight lest the dwarf try again to run towards certain death. His grip tightened until the rheumy blue eye shed its wild desire to fight and stared back into his. "Thráin, your son still needs you. I'll deal with Azog and Sauron. Go." He gave a push, "Go." His tone softened on the final word, as did his eyes as he beheld his friend, disorientation evident in his attempts to concentrate on the simple command. Behind them the screams of the Nazgûl closing on their location grew in volume, threatening permanent damage to sensitive ears and Thráin's soiled hands slapped over his ears in an effort to stem the high pitch shriek that pierced his brain with shards of pain. Gandalf gave a final gentle nudge that got the dwarf to take his first step towards freedom.
Confident Thráin was running away from Sauron, Gandalf issued his final command with a shout over the din. "Get to Lothlórien. Tell the Lady Galadriel where I am and Sauron is here. I sent Radagast, but he might not have made it if Sauron knew he was here also."
Bare feet flew down the twisted path leading away from fifty years of captivity, only looking back once when the darkness was lit by a blinding white sheet of light. He could no longer see the wizard, just decay of ancient stones and smell the filthy stench of orcs.
For the first time in decades Thráin ran precipitously, the steep earthen decline aiding his escape and he cared not that his bare feet dusted up a visible trail for orcs to follow. He was free, both in body and mind. Each step away from Dol Guldur drowned him in an avalanche of clarity and sweeping away his forced lunacy. The clarity brought with it a strong desire to see his children again as memories returned. Gripped tightly in his hands was the Elven sword, Glamdring. The leather belt and sheath almost tripped him several times though he stopped not, clutching the first weapon he held in longer than he could recall. Gandalf had quickly divested himself of the precious sword stating his staff was a more powerful weapon against the undead and Sauron, and Thráin would have need of protection. Gandalf's short instructions pierced his muddled mind and now away from his cell, the directive was clear, find the elven witch.
An ill-timed step sent him sprawling on his face, hands still gripping the sword. Without pause, he rolled off the trail and snaked his way under dead, brittle branches, whose exfoliating bark had long since dried and fallen in to decomposition under his belly. His raging breathing was the only sound; he no longer heard crashing and thundering or screams of orcs plunging off crumbling walls to their deaths. The short engagement was over. He wondered if Gandalf would soon appear and they could escape together. No, he couldn't wait this close to Sauron and must keep moving as Gandalf's meaning became clear. The wizard wouldn't be joining him. "I won't let you down, Gandalf," he barley audibled into the ground. He listened, hearing honed for the most minute sound and years alone perfecting infinitesimal sounds that not only provided an occasional rodent for protein, but to play passive when the fell guards appeared. Neither orc nor animal moved near him and he struggled back onto the trail, standing still long enough to wrap the belt around his too thin waist twice. The long sword bumped the ground until his hand on the elaborate handle tilted the sharp tip behind him. Now his movements were cautious and he frequently looked over his shoulder.
The trail leveled out and dark, diseased trees with sick leaves greeted him as without pausing, he scuttled into the southern part of Mirkwood forest. The well-marked trail split into smaller game trails and without the guidance of the now setting sun, he paused. Walking around a massive oak with a twelve foot diameter bole, he nodded once and delved deeper into the murky wood.
A slap in the face from a sapling sporting withered leaves stalled his flight three hours into the forest. Too dark to clearly traverse the elk trail, he looked for a safe place. A sixth sense told him orcs didn't give up easily and were pursuing. He was certain his disappearance from the broken down dungeon would be noticed by the one armed orc who fed him by tossing stale, weevil ridden bread through the bars. A waterskin was also tossed without care and he learned to catch it. The old leather would split if allowed to splatter against stone and he was given one ration a day. Twice a day he was escorted to the latrine area, a courtyard where putrid brackish colored water gushed from a hole in the wall and over centuries cut a ditch in the dirt where he could relieve himself. He always tried to get close to the hole for water not soiled with feces after relieving himself and carried a threadbare rag for personal cleaning if lucky enough to be allowed an extra minute to clean his crusted bottom. Rain dripping into his cell was always welcome and he would strip and use his tattered rag and try to bathe and wash his hair. Now hidden for safety several yards off the game trail, he curled into a small ball at the base of a massive tree, whose bole and sprawling roots provided sanctuary on three sides. He scooped the nearest fallen leaves over his tired body and slept for the first time in years with the pleasant smell of forest in his nostrils.
Hours later his one eye opened to survey the forest floor as his stomach tightened with sharp pangs of hunger. Shaking leaves off his sleeping tunic, the only garment he could find to wear at Dol Guldur after his own clothes disintegrated, he got his bearings and ignored his hunger. The pangs brought back memories of fleeing Erebor with no food and he reminisced as his feet now made little impressions on fallen leaves. Dwarves could go several days without nourishment, but he would need to find water and soon. He fled down the game track for two more days, no sunlight to cast shadows, but for a dwarf, more than enough light to watch where he placed toughened bare feet to avoid a gash. Nary had a leaf moved, neither birds nor sign of game and he figured he was almost halfway across from where Dol Guldur nestled in the middle of the southern forest to the western edge of the trees. When the orcs carried him east, he counted the days it took them from Azanulbizar; ten days on the move before he was thrust at the feet of the scariest creature in middle earth, the necromancer. Long Dol Guldur was thought to be abandoned and he was amazed at numbers of foul orcs and wargs who hid behind an opaque veil.
In desperation, he scratched under dead leaves and ate a few worms, swallowing whole and not dwelling on anything except his screaming hunger pangs. On the third day a seeping, dank shallow puddle provided much needed water. Dropping to his knees, and with a backward swipe of the backs of his hands, he scraped the layer of scum off the surface and cupped eagerly with dirty palms, keeping his eyes on his surroundings as he drank his fill. He was sure his stench alerted anything he might hunt as nothing living crossed his path or flew above. Looking carefully around, he stripped and sat in the tiny puddle, only a few inches deep. Never had anything felt so wonderful and he laughed at a fleeting memory of his childhood and mother dragging him to the bathing caverns with threats of no supper if he didn't get that layer of dirt off. He pulled the tunic into the water and used it to wipe himself down. Lastly, he got on his knees and dunked his head in the deepest part, breath held for as long as possible and scrubbed his greasy mass. With a nervous quirk, left over from captivity, he wrapped the tunic around his waist, carrying the sword, and with renewed determination left his wonderful puddle.
The first living creature he saw was a brown rabbit nibbling unconcernedly on the bark of a shrub. Thráin silently unsheathed Glamdring, hefted it for balance and with a lifetime of practice, neatly pierced the tiny head. Balancing the long blade between his feet, he used both hands to slice the coney along the blade to part skin and bones, devouring his first real meal in days rapidly. Leaving half the rabbit in its skin, his shrunken stomach had its fill and he spent long enough in one place. He wiped the blade off with brown leaves and belted Glamdring back on. Tucking the fur and leftover meat in the band, with much needed energy he continued on with a faster loping gait.
Hours later he stopped for another bite of meat when hair stood up on his neck. The presence of orcs always created that reaction, even when his feeder would arrive at the bars of his cell. He just knew evil was near having spent decades honing the skill to detect orcs by smell and how the insects and critters changed when they appeared. Even the air seemed to object. Without making a sound, he slipped off the trace and waited.
The wait was short and an orc with one eye and missing nose passed within feet and he didn't dare exhale, but knew orcs superior sense of smell would soon track the meat. With regret, he silently pulled the remains and let if fall onto his foot and roll to the ground, and he started backing away. Each step in reverse was wrought with danger of discovery; one noise, the switch of direction from the almost non-existent air movement and he would be forced to fight and most likely die, alone, and his bones never found. A call in orcish alerted him that someone smelled blood and a small group of four orcs found the rabbit and in a fight for a bite, didn't look in his direction. He turned and ran into the thickest part of the underbrush, knowing his shorter stature gave him the advantage. An hour of hard running and he was still not captured so slowed his pace, fear triggering uncontrollable trembling in his hands at the close call.
Without warning, he broke from the dying forest into a meadow. Yellow grass was knee high and its cycle of life complete. Flowers, dried and dead from frost permeated the meadow, pods open with seeds already scattered for a new generation to grow with the warming of spring. As he sped across the lea, the air lightened in texture and sun warmed his face. The air filled with the cacophony of song birds and migrating water fowl honking high above was a welcome sign of life after Mirkwood.
"You're still alive, Thráin, and come too far ta die now at the hands of filthy vermin," was his mantra as a low hill in the distance grew with each step, and scares trees spotted the fairly steep incline.
He didn't look back until he was safely ensconced within welcoming arms in the form of supple branches that bent when he brushed them aside. They quickly sheltered him from view as the leaves stayed green all year long this far south and lower levels, although nights were chilly. The world felt different here, Thráin thought as he labored up a steep incline, grabbing branches to keep his bare feet from slipping on the grass. Near the top, he looked back to the doom of Mirkwood and saw his pursuers, getting his first good look at them.
"I can take them," he fingered the hilt of the massive sword and for the first time really looked at the weapon fit for a wizard. "Impressive," he lifted the weapon over his head and made a few swipes at an unlucky shrub, rendering it to a stub with four swipes. "No, very impressive. I need ta get me one of these or keep this one." As soon as he spoke, shame washed over him at the thought. He wouldn't be breathing the sweet air of freedom if it weren't for Gandalf. He would honor Gandalf's request and find Lothlórien and hopefully convince the March Wardens not to kill him. Another thought came to him as he looked around for the best place for an ambush. He encountered no wood elves, most unusual in the Woodland Realm.
He topped the hill and in the far distance caught a glimpse of the mighty Anduin with a bucolic setting of gentle gradients rising and falling, riven with leas, trees and shrubs between them. After one fleeting indulgent gaze at the beauty, he gripped the hilt of the sword and pulled it from the sheath. Thermals flapped the hem of his nightshirt and he watched the orcs stop and lift their noses to the air. He saw his advantage; they knew he was close, but couldn't pinpoint his location. They didn't send warriors after him and he wondered why. These were domestic orcs, not bred to fight. They held pitted black bladed basic scimitar's of low quality. Thráin knew his superior weapon could easily smash their blades. As a unit, they easily loped across the meadow his shorter legs strived to navigate.
For the first time since leaving Dol Guldur, Thráin pulled himself up into a tree to disperse his scent. He was not surprised that they chose the same location to climb the hill as he chose the clearest route. His bare feet felt the rough bark of the wide limb he was crouching upon, weapon ready. Two of the vile creatures sped under the tree and stirred the air causing the two trailing to stop and sniff. One raised his head and locked eyes with Thráin. A grunt was its only warning and Thráin pulled the tip of his blade out of the thick skull and dropped to the ground. He swung the moment his blade cleared the lowest limb and saw with glee two severed legs. The stunned orc dropped off his feet, legs severed mid-thigh and imbedded bones into the dirt, eyes now the level of Thráin's and their gazes locked. One more swing and the head joined its feet.
Thráin jumped back as a clumsy swing hit the branch over his head. He ran around the trunk and impaled the third orc waiting his turn, noticing how smoothly elvish blades sliced through bone and flesh. His last target grinned, displaying twisted, rotting teeth. Both stepped away from the tree and fallen bodies. With a curse, the orc swung a mighty blow looking to cleave this troublesome dwarf in half. Thráin met with his own strike and crowed in pleasure as the scimitar shattered, leaving an astonished orc looking at the wooden handle. He turned back to Thráin in time to see the glowing blue blade take its final path through his neck.
Thráin sank to the ground, Glamdring lowered in reverence. "Thank you, my friend," he spoke softly and truly felt free for the first time in decades.
He searched the bodies, looking for food and smaller weapons. In a pouch, he found flint and hard tack. He slipped Glamdring under the leather strap and like a hot knife through a tub of butter, it was loose and a tug had it freed from the last orc he killed. With much distaste, he removed the unbloodied cape off the first dead orc. The stench would have made him lose his food, had any been in his stomach. The fetid stench of orc sweat would remain in his mouth and nostrils long after he discarded this filthy rag, he was certain. He looked at the moldy footwear and opted to stay unshod. He poured all the water into one waterskin, a much needed item for the next leg of his journey. One final search added a small knife, most likely stolen from mankind. He left the carcasses for the carrion eaters and ran west.
Once again he looked towards the Anduin and knew distances in this open area were deceiving and he was still several days from the river. He shivered from the damp chill when the sun disappeared in a blaze of orange to the west and with a full moon he kept moving, stopping for sleep many miles closer to his goal. Three days of hard traveling consisting of a loping gait designed to not wear him out, he reached the mighty river Anduin. Alongside the river ran a road that his people and merchants from the south traversed. He had traveled it many times in his almost three hundred years and knew Caras Galadon lay directly to the west as the Anduin flowed westerly to meet the Kibil-nâla before continuing southward.
Thráin followed the road southwest watching the entire time the east side of the Misty Mountains and where his world ended at Azanulbizar. Although the valley was shrouded in miles and mist, he knew exactly where to look and wondered which kin and friend was lost on that final battle. Azog used to gloat how he severed his father's head and threw it at the feet of Thorin, a memory he would carry to his grave. Now he had another difficulty, where and how to ford the river.