Author's Note:Many thanks to the readers who are already following this story. That's a great vote of confidence. Just so you know, these first few chapters will be short and come quickly, but soon it will be more like a weekly update with meatier stuff. Obvious disclaimers apply: this world is not of my own invention. Reviews are most welcome and I thank you for your time and thoughts.

Echoes

Thorin felt in the pit of his stomach a familiar yearning. He took a step toward the great natural throne growing out of the cavern wall. But the mountain's heart, Halmulev, took her feet and he paused. She waited until he looked at her before she spoke.

"This throne belongs to the King Under the Mountain. It is sacred to me. I'm sorry Thorin; you must not touch it, sullied as you are."

Thorin frowned and mentally checked himself over. He was sure he'd never been cleaner in his life. "How sullied?" he asked darkly.

"Dragon sickness." He heard her choke on the words. "You still reek of it."

And he remembers. His mind's eye grips him and forces him to relive that last battle inside the mountain. A battle he had dreaded, a battle his family was doomed to lose, against the gold lust. He saw again his companions gathered around him, and only now noticed their faces falling as he spoke of defending the mountain. He saw now his outright betrayal of Bilbo Baggins. He saw the underhanded, slimy way he had treated the elves, and even the men who had slain his enemy. If in his last moments those mistakes had pained him, they now riddled him, stabbed at him, writhed inside him and burned his heart.

He stepped back. Halmulev reached out for him, but he turned away and dismounted the dais. "Thorin, wait," she told him. He did not listen. He saw a passage to his right and started toward it. "No, Thorin," he heard behind him, "Not that way." He heard her start to follow and picked up the pace.

Ahead, he could hear something. Voices. He slowed, did not want to meet anyone, but heard again his pursuer and marched on. The voices were male; he was encouraged. They were shouting; encouraged again. And then he heard his name. He stopped just before entering another cavern and pushed himself up against the rock wall to listen for another moment before plunging in. He peered carefully into the cavern, hoping for someone he recognized, and saw no one. The cavern, at least from his vantage point, was empty. He heard his name again, this time from behind as his follower bore down on him. Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the cavern, into full view, and into the shouting voices.

Instantly it became a cacophony. The shouts roared around the barren cavern, bouncing back and forth on every wall. He looked up, but could see nothing, not even the stone ceiling. The cavern followed the mountain up, and up, and if there was a roof, it was far beyond his sight. There were so many voices it took him a good long second to understand anything, but slowly the voices he recognized made themselves prominent. He heard his own company of dwarves yelling instructions and warnings. He heard the voice of the Elf King ordering his troops. He heard Dain with his thunderous battle cry. And with these familiar voices he began to piece together the other sounds, the screeches of metal on metal, the howling and snarling, the crunch of broken shields and bones.

He jumped at the hand on his shoulder and glanced back to see Halmulev. She spoke into his ear to be heard above the noise. "In this room we hear the echoes of Middle Earth. The happenings of the Lonely Mountain fall down to us."

"This is the battle," he said. "This my last battle!" Suddenly he heard himself among the echoes. He heard himself shout courage to his friends. He heard the singing of Orcrist through the air. He heard himself choke, splutter and fall. He heard a wretched laughter and two screams flinging themselves from the voices of Fili and Kili.

"My nephews," he said aloud at the sound. He had not seen them rush to his side. He remembered seeing them after the battle, lying on cots to either side of him, pale and unmoving. Many had assured him they would recover, but now, hearing the wounds inflicted, he was no longer sure. He whispered each of their names and his mouth turned to ash.

Halmulev touched his shoulder again and took his hand. He looked at her and wanted to protest, but the grief in her eyes silenced him. She led him out of the vaulted room and down smaller corridors, finally arriving at a natural basin. She motioned for him to wash and suddenly, he did feel grimy. He bent over and splashed his face. Meanwhile, she leaned on the basin and explained, "The echoes take a long time to reach us. More than a season has passed on Middle Earth since that day. I was not expecting you. I was surprised when the mountain began to pull you under."

"No. All that happened just a few days ago at most."

She sighed. "It's a long journey down through the mountain. Your perception of time here will be different. We don't have the markers or the names for its passing that they do in Middle Earth. Suns, moons, seasons, days, nights, months. It took me a long time to learn all the words. Here time passes largely unnoticed. Some things happen quickly, some take longer, but the mountain does not much concern itself with the when of it." Thorin frowned and she saw him trying to wrap his mind around the concept. It would take him a while. "When I felt the mountain start to pull you in, I went to the echoes and tried to listen for your death, to understand better why it came so quickly. I had only just heard you crush poor Bilbo when your footsteps interrupted and I had to go meet you."

"Well you'll hear it soon enough," he informed her. "I died of those very wounds the next day, or maybe the day after that; I do not recall. I thought I was going to the Halls of my fathers."

"I am sorry you are here."

"Did you not bring me here?"

She shook her head. "No. I am the heart of the Lonely Mountain, not the mountain itself. One does not always heed one's heart."

There followed a moment of silence. "My nephews, my heirs. They were cut down." He shook the water from his hands. "I have to know they lived." He started back toward the echoes, following dwarvish instincts backward along their route until he found the vaulted room. He went to the center and paused to listen hard in the chaos for the familiar voices. When he found them, he sat down to listen. Halmulev arrived, coming slowly, and sat down beside him.

Thorin stared at his hands, and the drops of water running down his forearm to wet his rolled sleeve. "How am I here?" He asked, almost to himself. Then he turned to face his host. "I left my body in Middle Earth, did I not?"

"You did," she agreed.

"Then what is this body?" he asked. "Shouldn't I be a soul? Free to wander or rest? Why have I died and been denied death?"

"I am not of Middle Earth," Halmulev reminded him, "But from those of your world I have known here, it seems to me it's like the tooth of a mortal infant. That tooth serves a temporary purpose, but only until it falls in exchange for the more permanent version." Thorin thought of his reflection in the dark water. He was himself. He appeared as he had in life, but renewed. Younger, perhaps, or simply reinvigorated. He looked more like he had in the days he sat at his grandfather's side.

"Is this the dwelling of my kin? Those that have died?"

"What?" Halmulev frowned. She thought she had explained this, maybe not.

"Is my grandfather here? My father? You said the mountain brings down those who have been Kings Under the Mountain."

"Those who have claimed to be," she reminded him, "and no. They are not. Thror did not prove himself a worthy king and has moved on to Halls of the Dwarves. I never knew Thrain. He was never a self-proclaimed king in this mountain. All your predecessors have left the mountain."

Thorin's hopes fell and he looked away. "Then we are alone."

"No." The chill in her voice brought his eyes back to her. Tensing visibly, eyes just slightly wider, she gave herself away. "No. We are not alone."