This is the sequel to my story Home is Behind. If you have not read that story you should definitely do so before reading this to avoid confusion.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit or associated material.
Chapter 1: The Legend and the Truth
History became legend. Legend became myth.
–J. R. R. Tolkien
Their tomb lay in the heart of the mountain, and had become a sacred place for the people of Erebor. Dwarves, men, and even elves came from all across Middle Earth to view the magnificent sight and pay their respects. Warriors came to visit in hopes of receiving the same blessing that had surely graced the four figures for whom the tomb had been built. Mourners were plentiful, though few who had actually been there were still around.
The crypt was not a drab and somber place, but rather a place of beauty. The walls were decorated with stunning frescoes, painted in a multitude of colours and depicting a range of scenes from the adventure which had led to the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain. Gemstones and precious metals were inlaid in the walls too, and in the torchlight they glittered, illuminating the room in a surreal and whimsical fashion. The rich decorations lacked only the presence of gold; despite the dwarven love for that metal, it was prohibited from even entering the tomb.
In the centre of the room there were four ornately carved stone sarcophagi, and at the head of each stood an effigy of the coffin's owner. The statues of two young dwarven princes were on either end. They looked regal and courageous, but the artist had also captured an air of mischief in the stone, in the quirk of their lips and, somehow, the humour in their marble eyes. These statues stood watch over coffins which held the remains of their subjects, the twin princes lost in the great battle.
In between these coffins stood two more, yet these coffins remained open, proudly displaying their lack of contents, for their owners did not reside in their tomb. They had no need of coffins.
Their statues depicted a king and queen, joined at the hands. The king was clearly dwarven, and had been shown as both mighty and loving at the same time, a simple crown adorning his head. Depicted in stone was the large oaken branch which had covered his forearm as the eponymous shield, and the elven sword the king had favoured in his final battle. Here stood a replica of a legendary king, never to be forgotten by the mountain's residents, but never to once more grace the halls he had fought for.
The statue of the queen was a little more perplexing, for there had never been a human queen of Erebor. And yet there she stood, a silver loop around her head, dressed in regal clothing. As the clothing suggested, the sculptor clearly had never met the woman in real life, but her strength was obvious in the set of her shoulders and the muscles of her stone arms, and the twist of her mouth at once captured her humour and stubbornness. The few remaining dwarves who had known her had given the artist a very specific description.
As the years passed, fewer and fewer people believed that she had existed at all. She became legend, the Queen whose name had been forgotten just as her story had been twisted. Indeed, the legend of the quest for Erebor had been told and retold so many times that it was significantly different from the original tale. Only a small number of families, those of the original Company members, had any inkling of the true events surrounding the king and queen, and they kept it to themselves. What really happened was more fantastic than even the most inventive of retellings.
And yet, their legend was told for generations upon generations. In the dark times that came, their story inspired courage and a unity among the races which would be vital to the success of the Free Peoples. They became the foundation on which the glorious kingdom of Erebor was built once again.
Far, far away, in an entirely different universe, Thorin Oakenshield was plotting the best way to murder the infernal contraption which Gemma LaRoche called an "alarm clock."
He rolled out of the overly plush bed that he still wasn't quite used to, nearly sprawling on the hardwood floor and pulling the numerous blankets and quilts off the bed. Mumbling about devilry and overly-complicated technology, Thorin pressed random buttons until the shrill beeping ceased. Gemma was already up, and could be heard bustling about in the kitchen of her– no, their– little flat. It was her first day back to the office, just over two weeks after their arrival in this world.
Thorin pulled on one of the loose shirts she had bought for him, gingerly so as to avoid stretching his bandage-wrapped torso full of stitches, and some extremely comfortable trousers that Gemma called sweat pants, which he had become quite fond of. Barefoot, he padded out to the kitchen, a room painted in pale green with dark wooden cabinets and shiny steel appliances that were far too complicated for Thorin to even understand, let alone use. This was quite a shame, because Thorin was clearly the better cook among the two. Gemma could cook only three things with the confidence that she would not burn down the building: pasta, scrambled eggs, and soup. Thorin was inclined to believe that the last one didn't count, as in this world it came already prepared in a can, and all she really had to do was warm it up. Nevertheless, Gemma had immediately dubbed mastering the kitchen devices as a priority on Thorin's long list of things he needed to figure out, right up there with modern political systems, world events, socially acceptable language, and Gemma's favourite TV shows.
This morning, Gemma was preparing the extremely "complicated" dish of cereal. She stood at the island counter with her back to him, eyes focus on the news broadcast on the television and pouring far too much milk into her bowl. Television: another thing that completely baffled him. Gemma insisted that all that really mattered was that he begin watching Orphan Black as soon as absolutely possible. He'd just nodded his head as if he knew what she was talking about, an action which had become common over the course of the last week.
"Your bowl is going to overflow," Thorin told her by way of greeting, trying to mask the smirk in his voice.
Gemma's shoulders tensed in surprise at his voice, but then she looked down at her milky breakfast, swore under her breath, and jerked the milk jug away. She been a bit more jumpy and prone to daydreaming since they'd arrived here, and Thorin was a bit worried that the aftereffects of the battle and all that she'd gone through were taking more of a toll than she let on, or that perhaps the debilitating anxiety disorders resulting from her previous horrors had begun to catch up to her once more. Also, he was fairly certain, despite her protests, that she was still a bit uncomfortable with someone else living in her home.
But when Gemma looked over her shoulder at him, her bright smile seemed genuine, and elicited one of his own. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, making Gemma blush in a way he'd never thought possible. He still marvelled at the fact that he could evoke this type of response from her, almost as much as he marvelled at the fact he was alive, in her world, living in her home and sleeping in her bed. It all seemed impossible, when only two weeks ago he had been stabbed through the stomach and lay bleeding out at the top of Ravenhill.
"You look lovely," Thorin told her, refocusing on the woman in front of him. Gemma was clad in flattering strait legged black dress pants, with a matching black blazer over an emerald shirt. Her hair was slicked up in a no-nonsense bun and her makeup was minimal but made her look a bit stern. Black kitten heels covered her feet to complete the professional ensemble, and an ID badge and empty gun holster already sat on her hips. She did look lovely, of course she did, but Thorin couldn't help but compare her to the woman he had journeyed with. She'd worn stretchy trousers and a rumpled windbreaker, had thick chestnut hair with a mind of its own, and had been a vision of strength and defiance and unruly sex appeal. He held the same woman in his arms now, and as much as he loved her, a tiny part of him feared that he had no idea who she really was in this world.
They ate their cereal, accompanied with a brilliant drink called orange juice, together on the couch while watching the news. This, too, was surreal to Thorin; how quickly knowledge could be transmitted here. One could learn about a tragedy taking place half a world away only hours after it occurred. This world was so much more connected, so much closer. But more than that, the news here made Thorin sad. Every morning since he'd come back to Gemma's apartment, they had watched the morning news while eating breakfast, and every morning the television showed him new horrors from this world: a boy murdered on the other side of the same city they were in, thousands of people fleeing their war torn homelands far away, an elderly woman losing all her money to something called investment scam. There were so many more ways for things to go wrong in this world, so many complexities and worries that had never been a part of his life before. Everyone here knew it too; the news tried to end their segments with something happy, images of babies or puppies and whatnot, but it was so obviously forced, so clearly and unapologetically designed to distract from whatever awful things had been on before. Thorin shook his head, trying to dispel his depressing thoughts. This was his world too now, and there was no use dwelling on the negatives. Besides, things weren't always bad here.
Thorin, still recovering from his grave injury and utterly untrained in social customs, had spent a great majority of his time locked in the apartment, educating himself on this place. Gemma had been running around frantically ever since they'd come here, desperately trying to form believable stories and get everything in order once more. After all, she was supposed to be dead, and he never existed in this world, two facts that created major complications. She hadn't been completely on her own, thank Mahal she'd had help, but it was still difficult for her to constantly be by his side answering his every question. So, at Thorin's insistence, Gemma had piled the kitchen table with great big books about, well, everything: ancient and modern history tomes, guides to understanding politics, math and sciences textbooks, sociological reports, novels, and pop culture magazines. Thorin delved in with a strange eagerness, despite knowing that bringing himself up to speed would be a long and impossible task. Gemma had also shown him how to tune the TV in order to get to the... channel, that was the word, which showed endless documentaries about everything from historic events to famous film stars to strange animals. Despite understanding only about half of what was being said in these books and programs, Thorin set about his task with uncharacteristic patience and completely-characteristic stubbornness. It gave him something to do, a way to feel useful. More importantly, it was a way to distract himself from all that had happened recently, not only his arrival here but all the terror that had come before it in his home world.
Before Thorin was even half finished his breakfast, Gemma was springing up from the couch with an empty bowl, bustling around the kitchen to collect her bag and lunch. She stopped by the door, checking her reflection in the mirror in a way that Thorin would have called self-conscious if it had been anyone other than Gemma he was referring to. Gemma, as far as he knew, didn't get nervous. Not unless there was a genuine reason to; for example, a fire breathing dragon or talking about one's feelings. Thorin was fairly sure that Gemma would classify both equally terrifying; after all, it had taken them ages just to admit that they didn't actually hate each other, let alone that they loved one another. Perhaps, he amended, that was why she was nervous now. She had mandatory therapy to attend later in the day. Thorin didn't fully understand what that was, but it sounded like it involved a lot of talking about feelings. Thorin knew that was more likely to incur annoyance than nerves. He'd been listening to her complain about it for the past week.
"You're going to be okay here on your own today?" Gemma asked without turning away from the mirror. She was putting her earrings in now, biting her lip in concentration. "There's food for lunch in the fridge, and I've written my phone number down in case you forgot." she continued before he could reply. "Do you remember how to use the phone?" Thorin had to smile at her mothering. It was one of the things he'd least expected about her (not that anything about Gemma LaRoche had been expected), and perhaps one of his favourite things.
"I do," he replied gruffly, before letting a smirk slip into his voice. "I'm not entirely useless, you know." Even if he'd felt like it ever since arriving in this world.
"Oh, I know," Gemma replied saucily, sidling back over to the couch. She pecked him on the cheek, but Thorin turned his head and captured her lips with his, drawing her into a passionate kiss. When they parted, Gemma was a bit short on breath, and Thorin's ego swelled knowing that he was the cause. But all she said was, "Well, now you're wearing more lipstick than I am." She winked and headed for the door, grabbing her keys from the cranberry glass bowl on the armoire.
Gemma paused at the door one more time. Worrying her lip again, she asked "You're sure you'll be okay?"
Thorin didn't like being apart from her. Perhaps that was leftover fear from that time in Lake-town when he'd thought she'd left him and returned to her world, or perhaps, just maybe, he was still a little afraid here. But Thorin just twisted his mouth in a closed-lip smile and replied, "I'll be fine."
He listened to Gemma lock the door, and then watched from the window as, eight floors below, Gemma hopped into a big black car that was waiting for her at the curb. It was probably Parker, her boss and the only other person that knew the real story of her disappearance. When the car drove out of sight, Thorin turned back to the apartment. The silent, incredibly empty apartment. A twisting feeling returned to his gut, but Thorin forced it down. He settled back on the couch and pulled out the book he was currently skimming: The World Political Almanac, From 1945 to the Present. It was dry reading, but informative, and contained a great big timeline chapter which detailed all the recent significant events in a history he had no part in.
But the silence, and that twisting feeling, were overpowering. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he broke the silence by repeating his words to her. This time, they sounded more like a mantra.
"I'll be fine."
Yay, I'm back! I know, I know, it's been a while. I even promised some of you that I would have something up last week. I apologize for the wait. Thank you for all your kind messages in the interim. My first semester was crazy, plus applying to uni and work and all this stuff has just overwhelmed me the past few months. To be honest, I was in a bit of a funk for a while, but I'm feeling better now and, with a nice little break after exams, have gotten back into the swing of this fic. Plus, I'm taking a creative writing course this semester, so hopefully that will help with this story.
We're going to be doing some jumping around in time these next few chapters, so that the next one is actually about the moment that Gemma and Thorin first arrive back in her world, while this one was a few weeks later. Plus, the last chapter of Home is Behind will factor in, so you might want to reread that just in case you forgot. Think of this chapter as a prologue. I just didn't want to mess up the chapter numbers.
Drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm also looking for some prompts for later chapters. Is there anything you really want to see Thorin do or react to?