TW: offscreen dubcon
Notes: This chapter was inspired by a specific prompt in the Hobbit Kink Meme that I'd read a long time ago, and the idea just never left me. Can't seem to post links here, but the link is on the AO3 version of this fic. Many thanks to the wonderful beta, and so sorry for the wait.
At first, Thorin thought he imagined it, but as time went on, his suspicions grew. He had noticed the whispers and the stares, the way people would sometimes linger at the forge and try to engage him in conversation. There had been previous propositions towards the younger of their kin, those who had yet to properly grow out their hair or beards, and these same glances were being thrown his way as they passed through village after village. Dis had taken to insisting he wear a hood to cover his head, though it was far too impractical to keep it up while he worked.
"Blast our blue eyes and this short hair," she muttered, as she arranged and dusted his clothes off in worry. She tugged the hood far down to hide his face, but Thorin pushed it back with a growl. "In and out of the foundry, do you hear? I care not for the way those men were looking at you."
The men Dis spoke of were a rather raucous group of youngsters, possibly older than Thorin comparatively; it was rather hard to judge with humans. They had passed by their settlement earlier on horses, noisy and pointing without regard for the black stares being thrown their way.
When Thorin had pointedly stood between them and the tents with Dwalin and a handful of others, axes and swords mounted on the ground, guarded but not threatening, they had quieted and openly stared. One of them had appeared confused, his gaze upon the messy clumps of wavy hair on Thorin's head, but realization seemed to dawn on him and he whispered to the others. The group then trotted back to the safety of their walls and left the camp alone.
Thorin didn't have the heart to tell Dis that a few of those men had been present when Thorin was concluding negotiations with the human lord. Perhaps guests or relatives. They had merely watched, however, and he saw no cause for worry.
"Dwalin will be with me. No one causes trouble around him."
"Aye." Dwalin fondly patted Grasper with a toothy grin.
They were approached not ten minutes later at the smithy. His hood lay with Dwalin's cloak on a far table, and he wore merely his shirtsleeves and sweat upon his brow. Three shadows towered over their alcove, but since the smithy was not their own, they let the proprietor talk shop while they prepped the forge.
"How's business, Cole? I see you've new rabble working your fires." The one who spoke was a fairly slender man of average height, all blond hair, pale skin, and amber eyes. Unremarkable colors around these parts, from what Thorin could observe. He had been the one leading the rowdy group earlier, when they were laughing and pointing at the Dwarven tents.
Their employer leaned an arm on the counter. "'Tis early yet, Master Flin. And aye," all four men turned to look at both him and Dwalin, "they assure me they're the best smiths their lot has to offer. We'll see, we'll see."
Thorin shared a glance with his friend before turning back to work. That was not entirely true, since their best smiths had proceeded with a portion of their assemblage to the next city just a few miles north, where pay was better and prices more competitive (the intent was two-fold, since they had also heard of a Dwarven community nearby, and sent two representatives along knowledgeable in potions and healing practices - the sickness continued to rage within their numbers, and they remained defenceless against it). Still, the forge master had seemed impressed with the handiwork they'd presented, despite his personal dissatisfaction. Gloin assured him that he was starting to show great promise in the craft, though he knew he was still a long way from producing the levels of artistry that seemed to be instinctual in his artisan superiors.
There were sounds of wood scraping against stone at the storefront - the men pulling up chairs and making themselves comfortable. "Think I saw that one in my cousin's house earlier."
Thorin felt the heat of several gazes at the back of his neck. He stifled the urge to glare over his shoulder. A pampered relative of the city's lord, then. An unwelcome memory of a child of seven pointing at him while tugging on his father's robes flashed through his mind. When did the air get so stifling?
"Pass me that, would you?"
Dwalin's loud voice grabbed and held his attention. He handed over the coal shovel, braced his back against the unwelcome attention, and busied himself with laying out the tools from their smithing belts.
The roar of the forge dimmed the conversation amongst the Men nearby, and once hammer met heated steel, it was easy enough to pretend that he and Dwalin were alone at the smithy. That didn't last very long, however. An hour into their task, and a long shadow fell upon his anvil, blocking his light and invading his space.
He calmly set aside his hammer and placed the heated blade on a nearby stone shelf, safe to air dry. Near him, Dwalin was still pounding away at his bell crown, though his hammering had slowed, and his eyes carefully watched the other people in the forge. "What can we do for you?" Thorin asked, turning to find only the blond man from earlier in front of him. A brief glance towards the entrance showed the other two men standing guard at the door.
The man was shameless in his open appraisal - his gaze swept across Thorin's face, his hair, his front. Thorin bore it with great discomfort. When the man dropped his gaze to the gloves he carried in his hands (thin, delicate things, the type people in these areas used for frippery with little practical use), he spoke with a tone that sounded almost formal. "Your men are sick."
Thorin reflexively cast his eyes about for the proprietor, but he was nowhere to be found. This man, this Flin, had probably arranged for him to leave. Carefully, he said, "You are mistaken, Sir. My men are fit and able for any task required of them."
"Not the ones occupying the southern tents."
The surety with which the man addressed him didn't appear to be a bluff. Although he spoke with no malicious inflections, Thorin couldn't help but feel that they were a hair's breadth away from being driven out of town. "Perhaps you might wish to tell us why you're here?" he asked. Dwalin had stopped any pretence of hammering and glared at the conversation. They were far enough that the two at the entrance still couldn't hear, though Thorin wondered if they knew anyway, being part of this one's good graces.
The man half-smiled and shifted on his feet. "My father, who rules the township north of here, trades in solvents, you see, specifically those that break and scatter deep mountain rock and leave behind crude ores." Thorin had seen such solutions before, when he was very little. His grandfather had requested their temporary use after witnessing their wonders in Dale, but had swiftly recanted after the first accident. There had been no stopping the corrosive liquid once it fell onto flesh and fabric, and though more careful measures could have ensured their continued use, Erebor had never been short of manpower, and he had seen little reason to risk lives for convenience.
Times gone past. It was difficult now to think of his grandfather and remember anything beyond the gold-maddened cast in his blue eyes.
"A rough trade," the man continued, "but it brings us westwards twice a month, and often has us in the company of Dwarven tradesmen from the Blue Mountains." He squarely met Thorin's guarded gaze. "I know a little of your ways. I've also learnt to spot Vein Rot when I see it."
Thorin's eyes narrowed. "'Vein Rot'...?"
"It is so very odd you've not heard of it," the man said, as if pondering. "Then again, I've only ever been in the company of Blue Mountain Dwarves, and you lot seem to be an entirely different sort."
The sentence was left hanging, leaving room for Thorin to elaborate on their origins if he wished. A long silence fell on the forge.
"Well," the man eventually said, with a light shrug. "'Vein Rot' is what your kin from the West calls it. I've been told it is an illness that only befalls your kind, and that there are only three known sources: one is the barrow-downs in the west. Second, the befouled ruins that litter the mountain passes in the east. The last, from the Orc-ridden depths of Moria." He smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you will tell me which one you have dallied in when our business is done."
"What is it you propose?" Thorin asked, and accompanied his next query with a light snort. "Do you mean to say you are in possession of a cure?"
"Yes," the man simply said, and Thorin's heart hammered in his chest. They had lost four the day prior, and three five days before that - the disease was slow and mostly taking the old, but, recently, an infant had been among the mourned.
Gloin had started carving their names on a thin metal sheet, whenever the lack of work allowed for it. The list was in danger of exceeding the two-feet long slab. Thorin's temper had flared when last he saw it, and he had almost thrown the accursed thing into a fire.
He narrowed his eyes. "You jest at our expense, Sir." Off to one side, he could see Dwalin with a firm grip on his forging hammer. He gave a minuscule shake of his head and a swift hand gesture out of the man's sight - do not interfere. Dwalin's frown deepened, but he gave an acknowledging nod. "Were I to believe you, I would tell you right now that we have no riches to trade."
The man didn't look surprised or disappointed. "I can see why you might think I'm trying to swindle you, but I am quite serious." From beneath his travelling cloak, he produced a small pouch. There was a faint clinking sound from within, like glass hitting glass. "Here is a sample, to prove my sincerity. It contains a dose good enough for one night - for one freshly touched by the sickness, it should be enough for a full recovery. However, for more advanced cases, it is only enough to buy a few days' time."
Thorin cursed the faint trembling in his hand when he reached for it and hoped the man didn't see. "The dosage?" he asked with affected calm, while he pulled on the pouch's drawstrings and poured three tiny glass containers filled with a red-amber liquid onto his palm.
"A vial mixed with broth or soup, every three hours," the man amiably replied. "If the sick Dwarf already has bleeding beneath the skin, however, it is one and a half vials every four, to be taken right after eating."
The vials were carefully placed back into the pouch. "And should this work, how are we to know you have enough to actually be of aid to us?"
"I can take you to where I keep the stock. Simply say the word. It was meant for trade with your Western brothers, to keep their supply fresh. But as they have no pressing need of it..."
"What of payment?"
For the first time during their conversation, the man hesitated. It did little to assuage Thorin's suspicions. "I shall be blunt: I have no need for wealth," the man began, "not that your lot seem to have much of it. I cannot return to my father empty-handed, so I'll take some of the steel tools your men trade for down in the market. What I truly require is simple, pleasurable, and...best discussed behind closed doors."
Thorin wished he could claim surprise. As it was, Dwalin was the one sputtering with indignation - despite his standing orders to remain quiet. "I think ye'd better leave," Dwalin finally managed to say, though he barely got the words out - his teeth seemed nearly glued shut, considering how tightly he was gritting them.
"Dwalin."
His firm, warning tone was met with an incredulous stare. "You can't be th-"
"Dwalin." You overstep, Thorin swiftly gestured, irate. It had Dwalin clamping his mouth shut and quietly fuming.
They stared at each other for a tense moment. Dwalin inclined his head a bit, acquiescing, and took a step back. His left hand moved, however - Words after this.
Thorin huffed and turned back to the man, who was quietly watching them both with some measure of amusement. "Do you often conduct your business this way?" Thorin asked. "It is a wonder your trade remains afloat."
"Why not? It is what I desire." He laughed, loudly and unburdened. "But...no, this is not something I practise freely. I have had little desire to - and certainly, not from one of your kind."
The "until now" hovered unspoken in the air. The man lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. "And luckily - or perhaps unluckily, as it were, depending on how you see things - were it not for that same desire, this offer would not even exist."
Thorin clutched the pouch in his hand, anchored by the way the vials pressed against his palms. "We will test this tonight," he said. "Where will I find you on the morrow?"
"At my cousin's hall. Give word to the guard at the eastern entrance." The long, decorative gloves were tugged back on. A pair that would burn quickly in a fire, Thorin thought. All you would need is embers. "We can arrange something discreet."
At the entrance, the man paused, with a hand laid against the arm of one of the two larger people standing on guard. "Let me be clear, however - you arrive willingly, or not at all."
The angry crackling of the furnace was the only sound interrupting the heavy quiet after the man's parting. As admirable as Dwalin's display of discipline was, Thorin wryly thought, it came rather late. "Speak, if you must," he said, as he withdrew the blade from the shelf and thrust it back into the fire.
"You look like you're considering his offer." Dwalin's voice was sharp. Restrained, but barely. "His insane offer. If Balin were here, he'd -"
"I rather think Balin would agree with me."
Dwalin snorted. "I know my own brother, and he would not see you debase yourself. Not even for this."
"'This'?" He raised his eyebrows and waved his hammer in the vague direction of the city's gates. "You mean the over a hundred ill Dwarves under my care and protection outside of the city walls, dropping like mayflies every day?"
Dwalin's expression grew darker. It usually brought Thorin's own defensive stubbornness to the forefront, but he refrained for now. It felt a little too comforting that his friend was giving voice to his own misgivings, and made him feel a little less alone. "I don't see why we cannot just empty his stores, and to the darkness with what he wants!" Dwalin struck his hammer down once upon the crown's surface - an angry gesture, and one that hopefully did not just cost him a whole day's worth of work. Thorin met his flushed face and blazing eyes with a resolute stare. "This once, Thorin. You needn't shame yourself further for anyone's sake."
"Is there shame in a private, consenting trade?" Thorin mused aloud. He removed the blade from the fire and continued, before Dwalin could even consider answering (which he sometimes did despite the rhetorical nature of his questions, Mahal bless him), "There are wasteland and marshes awaiting our journey west. The next village is several weeks' travel - perhaps a month, since we cannot afford to move any faster than we do now. His cousin rules this place, and his father rules the settlement north." Hammer met heated steel once again, spaced blows meant to thin the blade from the centre outwards. "What would you propose? That we make enemies of both and leave without provisions for a gruelling journey?"
"I propose," Dwalin replied, and oh, Thorin could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves even with the distance between them, "that you stop pretending that this is little more than a simple barter. Not with me."
Thorin mulled on that for a moment, let it stew and roil in his gut, where it refused to settle. "It is not as if you are letting me forget."
"We can wait for the group we sent north to come back. We can go back to camp," Dwalin insisted, with that mulish set in his jaw that Thorin had grown to recognise over the years. "We can consult with the others, find another way -"
His temper rose, the hammer in his hand aborting its downward slam to swing threateningly at the other Dwarf. "You will most certainly not tell anyone else!"
Thorin expected a matching temper, a flushed face, and an equally incensed voice to spar words with. As children, they had rarely disagreed, but when they had, their arguments had been explosive. But Dwalin's stoic gaze was clear and focused, and underneath it, he felt like he was being peeled open. "Think that's the 'shame' you were wondering 'bout earlier."
The words stung. Thorin snarled to mask his hurt. "Stop trying my patience." The hammer was slowly lowered. "You know why this must stay between us. Your brother may have shielded you from it, but your father kept my grandfather's secrets," he gentled his voice, and forcibly released the anger from the set of his shoulders, "and now, you will keep mine."
"I have always kept yours," was Dwalin's simple reply.
The silence between them stretched. Under that devoted, sympathetic stare, Thorin was the first to look away.
"We have over a hundred diseased, over thirty in death's grasp." Thorin sighed and hefted the pouch in his hand. "One remedy."
"Not even that," Gloin said beside him as he perused a list in his hand, "if we're to use it on someone who's long into the fevers, as you said. That would bring your choices down to twenty-seven."
A list of twenty-seven names was handed to him. The words swam and melded together in front of Thorin's tired eyes. He was inclined to look amongst the names of the young, separated off to the right, but... "Dwalin, what say you?"
Dwalin shifted on his feet. His grasp on Keeper's handle tightened a bit. "I think we need warriors."
"Warriors...?" Gloin asked, with a questioning look. At Thorin's confirming nod, he took the list again and began making marks beside the names. "You've three names left. Of them all, Filgar, son of Balgar is by far the worst off. He is three days past the longest amount of days anyone's survived the illness."
"Filgar." Anyone who had clung to life that long would surely be strong on the battlefield, perhaps. In the grander scheme of things, he supposed, it was as good a pick as any.
The grander scheme of things. He looked over the other names of those well past the advanced stages of the illness and found them too many to remember. Names he knew, names he didn't recognise. People he'd cut off his left arm for weighed against people he knew nothing about, and both equally important.
He wasn't sure what Gloin saw on his face, but he was soon fixed with a pitying look and a consoling pat on the arm. "Choice is simpler, at least. Good luck to you both."
Filgar lived up to his stubborn reputation by trying to refuse the treatment.
He looked every bit as sick as Gloin explained him to be - eyes sunken, complexion deathly-pale, suffering tremors throughout his body that he was incapable of controlling. His scarred skin was mottled in stark patches of blues and greens, a sure sign of bleeding beneath the skin, left to fester and spread. Thorin had never seen it that badly before, even among those who had passed on. His sister Ril explained that the illness had dimmed his sight, but that they need not speak louder for his hearing was fine.
"Begging your pardon, Pr - Thorin," the old warrior said, through stale breath and slightly chattering teeth, "but if you're about to make me drink what I think that is, maybe little Delya from two tents down can get it instead of me." He had been about to say more, but his speech was interrupted by a series of coughs, which brought forth spittle mixed with blood. It took a minute for him to be able to speak again. "If it's all the same to you, of course."
"It's not," Thorin replied, a little terse. "We need warriors, Filgar. If not you, then someone else who can bear arms."
"Reckon you can just pretend I'd spit out the medicine if you made me take it and give it to her instead." He wheezed out a laugh, the sound wet and uncomfortable to hear. "I promised her mother, 'fore she died last week. Won't feel right, being better while she's sick. I'd not forgive myself if she got worse."
"I'm afraid I'm not asking you, Filgar." Thorin gestured for the prepared bowl. The appetizing scent was drowned out by the stifling odour of sickness filling the tent. "We're not even sure if this will work, so there's that. I'd rather not test it on a child."
"Suppose that makes sense." He grunted and sighed as hands set to work raising his upper body with a couple of extra pillows. "I'm at your service, as always, Thorin. Do with me what you will."
Thorin watched until the bowl was nearly empty, and measured out a vial and a half in a small glass. He was about to approach closer to apply the dose, when Filgar began firmly shaking his head. "I'd not have you come closer than you ought to. My sister can do that for you, if you leave it on the table."
Ril fetched the glass. Before the medicine could touch Filgar's lips, Thorin said, "I swear on my forefathers, if you spit that out, I will knee you where you least want it."
Filgar laughed. Which had Thorin feeling a little guilty, since it brought on another severe coughing fit that lasted for a few minutes.
Progress was monitored throughout the night, though Thorin wasn't allowed to stay in the vicinity of the southern tents. When he nodded off for the third time, Dwalin shook his shoulder and sent him off to sleep in his own bed.
Morning came with both good and ill news - Filgar's breathing had improved, and he was well enough to walk around a bit, though his fever hadn't broken and his eyesight remained poor. Word of this followed on the heels of three more deaths during the night.
The names stared accusingly up at Thorin from the scrap of paper he'd been handed. To Gloin, he said, "Do not inform Filgar."
"But -"
"It might affect his recovery." He folded the paper again and handed it back to Gloin.
"Aye," Gloin said, while taking the proffered list. "As you wish."
It was a little past noon when he managed to fulfill the work order laid out for them at the forge. After a quick bath and a change of clothes, he found Dwalin waiting for him a street before the crossroads leading to the main hall.
"No," he said, with a deep frown and a shove at Dwalin's shoulder as he passed by.
"'M not here to quarrel with you," Dwalin said, falling into step beside him. "Either you agree to having a guard near enough to be of aid when you need it, or this doesn't happen."
A slight flush of embarrassment coloured Thorin's face. "I could order you to haul your arse back to camp."
"You could." He hefted Grasper in his right hand and anchored it against his shoulder, as if for emphasis. "I'll just say yes and come back to stand guard, though."
Thorin shook his head and released a loud sigh. He was a little relieved, truth be told, though he didn't want to encourage Dwalin in this sudden onset of mulish disobedience.
"At least you're not wearing your finest leathers," Dwalin muttered.
"Piss off."
They were both halted at the eastern entrance. Only Thorin was allowed farther in.
"Thorin," Dwalin hurriedly said, before Thorin could move farther than an arm's length away from him, "this changes nothing."
A puzzled frown marred Thorin's features. Dwalin drew a deep breath and came closer, so that his voice kept between them. Quietly, he said, "This doesn't make me think any less of you."
Laughter threatened to bubble up from somewhere deep within him. Thorin stifled it, but only just. He allowed a self-deprecating half-smile to curve his lips. "You lie so well, my friend."
Despite the advanced warning Thorin gave the others, the arrival of a handful of humans, arms loaded with barrels and crates, was met with collective silence and suspicious glares. Thorin expected little else. He had their remaining healers take instruction from them and show them to the southern tents.
"There are humans walking amongst our sick," Dis said, as she ran up to him in a flurry of cloth and leather. His sister, looking quite beautiful in her blue travelling clothes, had just emerged from one of the tents housing their ill and was looking rather befuddled.
Thorin barked an order to a nearby Dwarf to relieve the fifth human of his burdens. "Ril said you'd found a cure. Is this what she meant?" Dis continued, while laying a hand on his arm to gather his attention. "Thorin, why are they helping us?"
Thorin placed his own hand atop his sister's and smiled. "The lord's cousin was impressed with our hard work and craftsmanship," he smoothly said. The lie felt heavy in his gut. "He holds Dwarves in good regard, apparently. He approached me with knowledge of what ails us and wished to help."
He nearly startled when Dwalin's voice piped up from behind him. "Aye, he's a weird one. Travels and trades with our kin from Ered Luin."
"I see," Dis said, looking from one to the other. After a moment, she said, "You must tell me all about it tonight. You're not allowed to keep something that important from me."
"Of course."
"We must offer to feed them, at least." She looked about at the chaotic bustling surrounding them. "Where's Dori?"
Only when Dis was out of hearing range did Thorin allow himself to relax. Dwalin was a quiet, solid presence beside him. Together, they watched as crates and barrels exchanged hands, and groups of protective Dwarves suspiciously tailed every human who was allowed into a designated tent.
Later that night, Thorin would have the most restful sleep he'd ever had in the past few months. But for now, he tried not to think of blond hair, human hands, heat, and litanies of praise whispered with practised ease into his inexperienced ear.