Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
Author's Note: I'm not a fan of these, but I have to thank my loyal reviewers, especially Lady Dunla and Kaia! You two always make my day! (And Kaia, don't worry the reunion is coming!). There are no slash pairings in this story, simply a deep family bond.
Friends Old and New
When the knock came on the door, Thorin was seated in the large chair before the fire, lamenting his lack of pipe and pipe weed. After both brothers had fallen into an emotionally exhausted slumber, he had found clothing for himself, ignoring the whispered objection of Wyvern when the healer apprentice appeared with their dinners. Dwarves recovered quickly, especially stubborn ones, an advantage these men did not take note of in their well-meant restrictions. Thorin knew of old his own limits and would not pass them.
He ate hungrily, though he did not attempt to wake Fili and Kili, a decision the young man agreed with after checking upon the two. Wyvern assured him that the food would be available fresh from the kitchens when the brothers were ready for it; they had only to knock upon the wall to bring him or his twin from the next room, or Donel, should they not wake until after moonrise, when the older healer took over for the night. The dwarves were now well enough that the healers could allow them privacy while yet being readily available, a courtesy Thorin was grateful for.
The solitude was welcome that night as he settled before the fire, thoughts turning to how he would handle the soon to arrive delegation from Erebor, attempting to map out the repercussions of his sudden resurrection with what little he knew of current dwarf politics. Ideally, he needed more up to date information than that provided by Gimli, who, like Gloin, did not care to follow the intricacies unless it affected his investments. Several hours passed unnoticed before the knock interrupted him at last.
Awkwardly, he made his way to the door upon a leg grown stiff from sudden exercise then sitting, opening it to find the young man with brown hair who'd been seated next to Aragorn when he woke. The man gave a brief bow, seemingly not at all surprised to find the dwarf king had disobeyed his healer's instructions.
"Lord Thorin. We have not had an opportunity to be properly introduced. I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor."
Also the Prince of Ithilien, Thorin recalled Gandalf telling him, yet he'd not introduced himself with the highest of his titles as most nobility of men or elves would have. There was humility in this one that was a match to Aragorn's own; perhaps he would serve well in the role the King of Gondor wished him to assume after all. Like his own closest friend, Dwalin, this one also had the grace of a warrior and the solid strength of one who has seen battle, unruffled by whatever circumstances should bring. Thorin inclined his head in respectful greeting, stepping back to invite the man in.
"I would prefer to be addressed informally as simply Thorin, my lord prince. My people do not stand upon formality among friends. Please, come in, though we will need to keep our voices low, my sister-sons are both asleep."
A smile lightened the man's features at Thorin's remarks, genuine and open.
"Just Faramir, please. When addressed as prince, I still look over my shoulder for my uncle, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. I fear I may be some time in adapting to the lofty title my lord Aragorn saw fit to drop upon my shoulders unlooked for."
They settled themselves in the chairs by the fire, Thorin having stopped briefly by his bed to retrieve several items wrapped in brown leather.
"My lord King mentioned that you wished to speak with me regarding a trip to the markets tomorrow, and has asked that I accompany you."
"Yes, Aragorn thought that you would know where I might find interested parties to purchase these, and then where I might purchase items required by myself or my nephews."
Thorin leaned forward, handing the man one of Fili's small throwing axes kept on the outside of his boot and three knives, one from each of the brothers and one of his own. Faramir had not flinched at his casual use of the King's personal name, another point in the prince's favor. The man examined all four weapons closely, paying particular attention to one of the knives and the tiny ax, handling them all expertly while checking balance, grip, and edge.
"I've not had the opportunity to handle dwarven made weaponry before, though I've heard of their legendary quality. I fear the only dwarf merchant to frequent our city since before I was born sells only toys, though of very clever design and the finest quality also. He is an expert at sharpening blades, however."
Thorin smiled slightly, having the very information that he was looking for offered up. There were but two types of dwarves who would regularly visit a city of man alone so far from any of the clan strongholds- an exile with no allegiance to clan or lord, or one deliberately sent to gather information while appearing the innocent. With feigned casualness, the dwarf tested his luck.
"Oh? When was this toy-maker last here?"
Faramir glanced up from his close inspection of the ax, brow furrowed in thought.
"I believe he is here now. The last report of the market master stated that he had been trapped by the siege of the city, and then stayed to recoup his losses from when the markets were not open during the war. The report did not give his name, however."
Good enough, he would see where the matter stood in the morning.
"I will check with Fili and Kili, then, for I'm certain some of their blades could use tending, and would undoubtedly prefer one of our people do so. Orcs have very thick skulls."
That sally provoked a laugh from the man, "Aye, I fear I lost a number of my own weapons to that while fighting them at Osgiliath, and those were not as finally crafted as these."
Faramir held up Thorin's knife, flipping it casually. Thorin lifted a brow, silently asking the man's valuation.
"Almost any of our weapons merchants will pay top price for these, probably about thirty gold. The throwing ax will bring more, due to its unique nature, at least to us. Of course, they will then sell them easily at forty or even higher. The one who made these was very skilled."
The dwarf smiled slightly, deciding to give the man the answer he'd been fishing for.
"The throwing ax and one of the knives are Fili's work. The smallest was made by a friend, Gimli's cousin, Dwalin, and the one you are currently holding is my own work."
A paltry example, as well, though Thorin did not tell the man that. He was skilled enough at the forge, but did not have the true mastery some of their race displayed, forging weapons that were fought over by kings. The prices quoted were far higher than what would be expected in the Blue Mountains or the markets of old at Dale, and well worth the price of hauling even the larger weapons here. Some of Durin's Folk would surely be interested in such a venture now that the roads might be travelled in relative safety once more, an idea Thorin quietly filed away for later. Now, though, there was a familiar gleam in the eye of the Prince of Ithilien.
"I would give you thirty gold for the knife myself, and forty for the throwing ax, if you are willing."
At that price, he may not even need to sell the others, dependent upon the prices of what he sought in the morning.
"That would certainly be acceptable. Fili and Kili can both show you some techniques for throwing the ax; it is a bit different than how you would handle a knife, though I would advise making sure you have an appropriate target sent. I doubt the Citadel staff would thank you for being required to patch the wall."
Those two would have no qualms about creating their own target out of anything within eye sight that was for sure. Dis had frequently scolded them for such antics in the home, but the lesson never appeared to stick as well as the blades did in furniture. The prince laughed, standing to take his leave.
"I will keep that in mind, and will see you on the morrow at one hour past breakfast."
True to his word, the prince appeared promptly the next morning, gold in hand as well as the names of several merchants recommended by some of his Ithilien Rangers. The gleam in his eye as he took possession of the two small weapons was definitely not feigned, bringing a slight smile even to the brooding Kili. He had also brought with him a walking stick cut to Thorin's size, a gift the dwarf accepted grudgingly as the only concession he planned to make to his injury and fever –born weakness. With several daggers in need of service and a list of items that the brothers desired, Thorin set off for his first true look at a capital of man.
It was, as he'd noted when carried through it that first night, well built, and he could now see the design was heavily influenced by defense. Each ring of the city was walled, with stout gates set far from each other, and well guarded, ensuring no enemy afoot would easily breach them. The day was overcast, cooler than he'd expected given how far south they were, and somewhat windy, making Thorin glad of the hooded cloak he wore, and reminded him to seek similar items for Fili and Kili. Next to him, Faramir glanced up at the gray sky in exasperation, absently rubbing a shoulder in the act of one pained by an old injury. He noted the dwarf king's scrutiny and sighed.
"A Southern arrow caught me during the defense of Osgiliath, the head imbedding in the bone of the joint. It is well healed, but I was warned that it may prove troublesome with the changing of the weather. This spring and summer have been so mild I've not had to deal with it much. It seems hard to believe that tomorrow is Midsummer's Eve. There is a great celebration being planned throughout the city for Midyear's Day itself, though the King will tell no one why."
Faramir's eyes glinted, telling Thorin that he, at least, had some suspicion as to what his king was about. Then the man smiled, face losing many of the cares that made him appear older then he was, one hand clapping the dwarf lightly on the shoulder.
"Come, I will favor my shoulder, you may limp, and we will see if two wounded warriors may win a better price from the tight-fisted merchants of Gondor."
"If they are anything like those of the Blue Mountains, it will not be that easy," Thorin rejoined, noting with relief that the tall young man was purposely monitoring his pace so as not to push the dwarf. "I understand that the position you hold is much like that of Chief Advisor in Erebor, the one person that the king may always rely upon for honest council."
If the man was made uncomfortable by the topic, he did not show it.
"That is my understanding of the new duties, as well as acting as ruler when the king is away from the city, as the stewards have always done. It was not a position I had ever expected to fill."
"Nor is your new king quite what your realm was expecting. He will need your support if Gondor is to prosper."
Now Faramir stopped in the street, withdrawing to a slightly out of the way corner near some rubble, eyes narrowed.
"He has my support and he knows it."
Yes, there was anger to the tone now, as well as suspicion. Faramir was making no attempt to mask it from the dwarf, either. Thorin simply watched silently until the young man began to fidget, the same stare that had long been used upon errant dwarflings and obnoxious courtiers with similar effect. It took several minutes longer than he had thought, but the man broke.
"Has he said something that would make you think otherwise?"
Now the doubt was there, just as Gandalf had warned. Thorin's gaze hardened. The street of the city was perhaps not the best position for this discussion, but it was better than the crowded swirl of the market place. He partially sat upon the large piece of stone nearby, taking note of the wall above where it must have struck after being heaved by a great catapult. Dwarf siege weapons would have easily lofted it to twice that height.
"No, but you do him a great disservice by keeping the space between you. Tell me, did you contribute to the tales being told yesterday? It was a very informal setting, all speaking as equals."
The man sat next to him, expression wary, mind attempting to ferret out the point Thorin was striving for. His answer was hesitant, but honest.
"No. It was not my place. Boromir travelled with that company, not I. Truthfully, I am not certain why I have been included in such gatherings except that they seek to honor my brother."
No, this one would not see it, would he? Thorin chose his next words with care, falling back upon the bluntness characteristic of his race.
"To be a king is to be alone, Faramir, even with family near you, for they will often be blinded by loyalty. Aragorn must have someone who will pull him aside and tell him he is being the fool or stepping over the line, and that person must be a trusted friend. For me, it was two distant kinsmen, Balin and his brother Dwalin, who I grew up with. Dwalin was unfailingly loyal, always stood by me even when wrong, but his brother was older, and recognized when the occasion called for him to shout in my face, never hesitating even when he knew it would earn the sharp edge of my temper." Thorin grimaced ruefully, "That was too often."
Faramir's sharp inhale of breath was the first indication that he'd finally understood his new king's actions.
"Aragorn is looking to me to fulfill that role for him. I had not thought-"
"No, you had not. The companions he has now will not stay by his side, they all have lives elsewhere to return to, even Gandalf. You, however, will not leave, and I would imagine he feels closer to you for having been a comrade in arms of your brother. Do not let this present distance between you stand, or you will fail in your first duty to your king."
With a gesture, Thorin invited the man to continue walking, but did not speak again, allowing the prince his thoughts. He had told Aragorn and Gandalf he would try, and he had; they would have to see what came of it.
The markets were vast, throngs of men and women moving from shop to shop, fingering wares, haggling, or hurrying around those casually looking. This was the domain of all who sold wares within the city, some claiming permanent spots here while many travelled the lands. Most of the temporary structures were small, but serviceable, with three wooden sides and a roof to protect the wares from the weather, while the permanent shops set behind them were made of stone, cooler in the summer weather, but darker. Thorin soon had a headache as a result of moving in and out of the dark interiors, thankful it was not a sunny day, which would be even worse.
It did not take long to find a booth featuring cloaks of a quality suitable for his sister-sons, nor was the pricing as bad as Thorin had feared. Only ten gold was asked for two hooded cloaks lined with white rabbit fur, a rich gold for Fili and a royal blue for Kili, a reasonable purchase. Other needed items, such as a new flint and steel or fletching supplies, were even cheaper, probably excess brought to outfit the soldiers of Gondor now unneeded. Food was a bit higher, but Thorin had no problem locating a few favorites to tempt Kili's fever plagued appetite, knowing Fili would eagerly accept what his brother did not eat. Finally, Faramir indicated one of the stone buildings toward the far edge of the market, an area he had mentioned was set aside for merchants whose services might prove a fire hazard in the temporary stalls. The grinding stone required to re-sharpen steel blades would certainly do so, though he could also smell the tell-tale stink of a forge nearby. Thorin hesitated, then turned to his companion.
"I would ask that you take the knives, ask for them to be sharpened and do not mention my name."
The man paused, a bit taken aback by the odd request, but then silently accepted the offered items, moving to step into the shadowed interior. Thorin followed close behind, hood pulled up to shadow his face, thankful that the day meant such attire would not rouse suspicion. Once inside, he deliberately turned to a display of toys that placed him at an angle to the front counter, able to observe half turned or quickly show only his cloaked back to the merchant. It was a young dwarf, perhaps in his forties, who sat behind the counter, eyes wide upon noting the identity of his tall customer. Good, let that one be focused upon Faramir, as he'd intended.
"I would like to have these sharpened, young master. How much would such a service cost?"
"Ha- Half a gold for each, my lord. Please wait, my father stepped out back to smoke, he will be able to sharpen blades of this quality."
The young one practically bolted to the back and out a door partially hidden by shelves. Faramir cocked an eyebrow at his companion, hand hovering over the four knives as if to scoop them from the counter and depart, but Thorin shook his head. The blades were identical, forged by Thorin and given to his sister-sons just days before embarking on the quest for the Lonely Mountain. The four daggers were some of his finest work, inset with the royal insignia of the House of Durin and a rune indicating the first letter of the owner's name on the pommel. Thorin turned fully back to the shelf as the boy and his father re-entered, repositioning to glance at them while blocked from their sight by the sturdy frame of the man.
"Good morning, my son tells me you've dwarven blades that need sharpening. I can certainly do so, though I'd not expected to find such weapons in the-"
The prattle cut off abruptly, the dwarf no doubt receiving his first good look at the items. Unfortunately, Faramir had shifted on his feet, blocking the merchant from Thorin's sight.
"Where did you get these? And do not think to lie, for I recognize them!"
The question was blurted angrily, just short of an accusation, Faramir rocking back at the unexpected heat.
"I…uh-"
Thorin interrupted, voice low, back once again turned, speaking in Khuzdul, concealing his surprise. There were not many who would know the blades as belonging to Fili and Kili, only that they were the weapons of one of Durin's direct bloodline.
"You know to whom they belong?"
"Aye, I do," The other dwarf answered fiercely in Westron, obviously wanting to ensure Faramir understood, "You've made a deadly mistake setting foot in my shop after disturbing the halls of the dead, no better than a bloody Ironfist!"
Had it been under any other circumstances, such an insult, especially spoken openly in front of one not of their people, would have resulted in bared steel. As it was, Thorin whirled, face still in shadows, hand upon his own dagger, when he stopped, startled by the identity of the merchant into blurting the first thing that crossed his mind.
"Hasn't someone burned that damned hat yet?"
The merchant jerked back, eyes flaring in redoubled outrage.
"I think I've had about enough of you, stranger. Leave my shop or I'll repaint the floors with your blood! And I'll be keeping these!"
The toy-maker's hand covered the daggers on the counter only to gasp as another suddenly joined them, blade almost touching his hand, point buried in the wood as the hilt quivered from the force of the throw. The rune of 'T' gleamed in the lantern light, inset in gold with the Durin Crest, identical to the daggers of the brothers. Thorin stayed back in the shadows, hood pulled up, switching back to Westron in his fury.
"Had such words been spoken to me by any save one of the Company, blood would be spilled this day!"
The other dwarf's face turned white, gaze darting between the dagger and the stranger in the shadows as one shaky hand reached out to trace the golden rune, eyes filled with hastily swiped tears that washed away Thorin's anger the moment he saw them. The dwarf king cursed his lack of control on his temper; silently acknowledging the outrage this one had the right to feel when presented with the weapons of dead comrades, presumably from their desecrated tomb. Thorin stepped forward then, one hand covering Bofur's on the dagger hilt in mute apology as he swept his midnight blue hood back with the other. The toy-maker's hand jerked at the contact, body dropping onto a stool his son had thankfully pushed in place just in time, then smiled ruefully, eyes locked on the counter.
"Ya never did care for my hat," A deep breath and he at last lifted his gaze to meet Thorin's, face showing a few more wrinkles, hair streaked with gray, but very much still the dwarf who'd once answered his exiled ruler's call. "Kindly don't be scarin' an old dwarf like that again, Thorin. I'm not as young as I used to be, though you apparently are."
The former member of the Company stiffened, eyes darting to the daggers upon the counter in sudden hope.
"The lads…?"
Thorin allowed a genuine smile to lighten his countenance at the barely whispered query. The irrepressibly cheerful ex-miner had quickly bonded with his sister-sons upon the quest, always ready to tease mercilessly or lend an understanding ear when being surrounded almost completely by those at least fifty years their elders grew wearisome.
"They are up at the Citadel and would doubtless welcome a visit from an old friend. You are welcome to walk back up with me later if you can close your shop. I would warn you, however- Kili is still restricted to his bed and his temper greatly suffers for it."
The last was spoken in fond exasperation, for Kili had been particularly difficult this morning when his continued exercises to aid his leg muscles to work once again proved fruitless. Bofur chuckled, recalling other instances of the youngest prince's temper.
"I've no doubt, always movin', that one. Takin' most of his frustration out on his brother, too, most likely."
Faramir cleared his throat, bringing the attention of all three dwarves to the man still in their midst.
"There are some errands I must take care of while in this section of the city, if you would care to spend time with your old comrade. I can return in an hour, if that would prove acceptable?"
Thorin inclined his head, thankful for the man's tact as he left. He and Bofur could have easily kept their words private from Gondor's Steward by using Khuzdul, but such an act could've been taken as extremely offensive. Better by far that they have privacy. A shaft of pain radiating out from the burn on his leg also reminded him that he had pushed his body far enough for now.
"Is there a place we may sit? I fear that not all my wounds were fully healed by my abrupt…"
"Resurrection? Jumpin' out of the Halls of our Fathers?"
The light mockery in Bofur's voice was strained, but there, and he waved the king back to a small table littered with tools and toy parts.
"How did you get here, if you don't mind my asking? Far way from Erebor."
Thorin snorted. There was little the toymaker wouldn't dare ask, and he would certainly know if Thorin minded.
"Not even Gandalf has an answer for that one, but as no one can explain how we are alive in the first place, it has not engendered much concern. Fili is of the opinion that there is some connection between Bilbo and us as we almost flattened his nephew falling out of thin air up on the mountain."
"Hmm… That Ring of Bilbo's, more like. Frodo had a hard shaft to sink with that one, carrying the cursed thing to Mordor. I was glad when I heard Gimli was able to help him part of the way."
"Father?" The young dwarf hovered at his sire's elbow, two large tankards to hand, "I thought you might want these."
"Right considerate you are, too, lad, going to get them for us. Sit. This is Thorin Oakenshield himself. Thorin, my eldest, Kifir. His younger brother is at Erebor with his mother."
Bofur grinned, the proud parent, as he took a healthy swig of the ale the dwarfling had brought, winking merrily at Thorin when the boy gaped as if he'd been introduced to Durin himself.
"Kifir?"
Thorin lightly questioned the nontraditional name, though he already had a suspicion as to its origin.
"Aye. His mother and I chose to honor the lads. Kifir even carries one of their throwing knives, found in the eye of an orc after the tombs had been sealed, though I couldn't tell him which of the two carried it."
"You do them great honor," Thorin noted, touched by the gesture, then turned to the young dwarf, "May I see it?"
If the boy fumbled a bit unsheathing it, cursing his clumsiness in Khuzdul under his breath, his elders kindly pretended not to notice. Thorin did not even need to find the small maker's mark at the base of the blade to know its history. He took a swallow of his own ale, flipping the knife with a flick of his wrist to extend the hilt back to its current owner.
"It was Kili's, though forged by Fili. You've taken good care of it. Keep it, young Kifir, and use it well."
"Thank you, sir. Are you going to return to Erebor now? They would have to give the throne to you, wouldn't they?"
Out of the mouths of the young. Bofur winced, but did not reprimand his son for the breathless question, probably wanting to hear the answer for himself.
"That is not yet decided, Kifir. There are a great many things to be considered, not the least of which is what is best for our people and if they would even wish my return."
That silenced all within the small shop for a long moment, then the toy-maker quickly clapped his son on the back, pressing several coins into his palm.
"You run along and stay out of trouble for an hour, then meet us back here. We'll go up to the Citadel."
The dwarfling brightened at the bribery, snatched the coins and raced out the door before his parent could change his mind. Bofur, meanwhile, was contemplating his king with a narrowed gaze. Thorin merely raised an eyebrow, inviting the other to voice his thoughts.
"Those from the Blue Mountains would back you. None were all that pleased with the bunch from the Iron Hills sweeping in and claiming our home. Dain was not the most diplomatic about installin' his own in key positions that many felt should have rightfully belonged to those in the Company. It almost came to blows then, had not Balin and Lady Dis worked out some agreement with his majesty. Now, though, the rumbles have been growing louder. Stronghelm has not married, and some accuse him of jeopardizing the prophecy of Durin's return given at Dain's coronation, noting that all Durin's Folk are technically kin to Dain, if distantly. You would certainly be within your rights to demand that he give over in your favor. Aye, even if it came to steel!"
This was the very news that Thorin had feared the most.
"So, you would have me lead us against our own?" Thorin stared hard at the other, who refused to back down, eyes glistening in anger. Finally, he shook his head at the toy-maker, greatly saddened at the mere thought of such an action. "No, Durin's Folk will not bare steel to drink the blood of kin, even if I must accept permanent exile myself. You have simply confirmed that I dare not announce my presence beyond a trusted few. Tell me of what you know of the other clans…"
