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: What's this? A fast update? That's what happens when the Artic Circle drops in for a week and you can't go outside without freezing your nose off! Thank you to everyone who has been following and favoriteing me, and to my reviewers, a special thank you! It's sometimes difficult to want to write unless you know people are reading. Scribe

11. Darkness Falls upon Durin's Halls

That night, Thorin tossed in his sleep, waking just enough to pull at the blanket and listen to the soft sounds of the current healer on duty, Senata, and Lis talking quietly where the dwarrowdams kept watch over the injured Kíli. Satisfied that all was well, the king attempted to settle back, but his dreams were not willing to give him the escape from his worries that he sought. Instead, the anxieties caught upon echoes of similar feelings from long ago, drawing the king into another age.

Second Age, 699

Blain, the dwarf who would become Durin II, swung down from his pony with a weary sigh, casting a glare up at the overcast sky that threatened to dump yet another cold spring rain on the travelers. To his left, the trees of Lindórinand were a dark smudge in the distance, while the mountains ahead loomed ever larger before them with every hoof beat. At least they had forded the Anduin before the spring run-off made it completely impassible without a boat!

"Shall we camp here, or do you feel able to push on to the city? 'Tis almost dark already."

The question was addressed to his wife, a lovely dwarrowdam with iron-grey hair, though she was barely past her fiftieth year. Frey was of the Stonefoots, an eastern clan known for their odd hair colors, including a black so dark that it was almost blue, stone grey, and a blonde that was almost white, mimicking the rock they were made from. Frey, who had never been all that comfortable riding, slid from her own pony with a heartfelt sigh, glancing up at the towering mountains before them.

"We are almost there, aye?"

Blain could not help smiling at that, knowing exactly what was running through her mind.

"Aye, and that means you can get off that beast all the sooner."

"Good!" The lady planted her hands on her hips. "Dwarrow feet were meant to be planted on stone; dense, immovable, solid rock, not dangling in the air atop an unruly creature!"

The glare she gifted her mount with was returned by a wet sneeze directly into her face, provoking an aggravated moan from the dwarrowdam.

"You see, my husband! It is not I alone who harbor such feelings!"

Blain laughed at that, planting a kiss on her nose as he helped her remount before swinging back aboard his own pony and kicking the shy beast into another ground-eating trot. He could not help it, he so loved her clipped eastern speech and occasional odd phrasing! Her people were historically more isolated, he had learned upon their visit to her home, traditionally speaking only Khuzdul until the age of forty or fifty when they would begin to learn Westron, Middle Earth's common language. That this was the exact opposite of their current practice in Khazad-dûm, where Khuzdul was jealously guarded for use in private or in rituals.

Of course, the kingdom under the Misty Mountains was also fast becoming a center of trade, with up to four or five different languages heard in the great market on any day, even elves being tolerated. The merchants and diplomats had both recently petitioned the king to bar the teaching of Khuzdul to any outsider, no matter how much a part of the city they became, without the express permission of the King's Council, preferring to have one language that others could not overhear and understand. Of course, the priests of Mahal had been quick to seize upon the excuse, suddenly citing previously obscure texts as saying that Mahal meant the language for dwarrow alone.

"Aye, and I know the Stonefoot opinion on ponies, too, so you needn't say it! One end drools and bites, the other stinks and kicks, and the middle is none too comfortable, either!"

Frey's answering laugh was a full-throated expression of joy that echoed back from the nearby rocky cliffs, not some nervous twitter or tiny squeak that was all the rage with the ladies of men and had recently jumped to dwarrow as well. As Blain's own mirth bubbled over, unable to be contained any longer in the presence of his lady's own, he could only wonder at the good fortune that made this dwarrowdam his wife. Who would have imagined that an arranged marriage, sought to mix blood ties with those of diplomacy, could turn out to be one of deep love?

He had grown up knowing that the nephew of a king, no matter how far down the line of succession, had value, especially for Durin's Folk, the most prosperous of all dwarrow, and that it would almost certainly mean he would not be free to choose his own mate. Resigned to the sacrifice, he had thrown himself into his craft, gaining master status before his eightieth year, hoping to use it as an escape from what would be a loveless alliance with a much younger dwarrowdam. Instead, he had not only found his match in love, but also in craft. Her etchings added beauty and style to otherwise functional weapons in a way that made even the master smiths of the elves take notice. Now, at ninety-nine, the only thing lacking was a child, but there would be plenty of time for that!

An hour later, as the gloom of twilight settled around them, heralding the swiftly approaching night, they paused, and Blain's stomach knotted in a way it should not for one upon the threshold of home. Below them, the dale that usually rang with hammer and chisel working on the monument to Durin I, and the shouts of dwarrow, men, or elves lining up pack ponies and wagons sat oddly silent. A light rain pattering on the stone was the only sound, even the mountain lichen that should be a riot of color in the spring a dark, burned black smear upon the rocks.

He had known something had to be badly amiss, of course, or his uncle never would have ordered him home before the three month long visit to his wife's kin was complete, but what could be so drastic that it would require his presence instead of that of his three cousins, the king's own sons and heirs? The order had borne the seal of his uncle, which meant the king himself had not unexpectedly passed, so why else-

A jolt between his shoulder blades knocked the air from his lungs as he was pushed hard into the pommel of the saddle, the arrow, oddly shortened, making a metallic clank as it bounced to the rock of the roadway. Even as the dwarf struggled to turn, and regain his breath, more arrows whistled through the air, deflected by the hasty raising of shields by the two guards who rode at their sides. A moment later, though, one of those dwarrow went down, limp body sprawling to the earth with an arrow protruding from his eye.

With a roar of outrage for this attack upon the very doorstep of his home, Blain kicked his feet loose of the saddle and leapt to the ground, planting himself as he swung the great war ax off his back. A goblin, face and body twisted by disease, shrieked as his weapon bit deeply, black blood flowing from a mortal wound. Nearby, another of the creatures was wrestling with an odd weapon that looked as if someone had taken a child's toy bow and mounted it crosswise on wood. With another guttural bellow, the dwarf ensured that the thing could not be used again, even if its bearer had lived beyond the next moment.

The smith smiled grimly as he caught a flash of silvery-white out of the corner of his eye, Frey undoubtedly making short work of her own attackers. The mithril blade she bore would easily slice through the few bits of shoddy armor that their foes wore! Two more goblins crowded in, probably hoping to force him into leaving himself open to one while defending against the other, but dwarrow, unlike these dark creatures, were not so easily taken down.

A swift elbow knocked one aside while the blade of his ax separated the other from its head, but before he could return to his first opponent, the goblin sprouted a sword blade through his chest. Frey's smile as she kicked free the body was feral, daring him to object to her unsolicited aid. He contented himself with rolling his eyes in annoyance as he tossed a small dagger from his belt at the foe attempting to take his wife from behind, not interested in earning another landing on his backside during their next sparring session by saying more. He had not known how truly he wrought when he decided upon the mithril weapon as a pledging gift!

"Blain! Behind!"

The quick shout had him spinning before she completed his name, though he almost missed when the goblin was shorter than he expected. As it was, sparks flew as his ax was stopped short by the rough blade of the twisted little creature, then the shoddy iron forging gave way, spraying both combatants with shards of metal as Blain ended its life. Silence; only the harsh breathing of the three surviving dwarrow gave life to the dale. The cuts on his face and hands from the fragments of his foe's former weapon were beginning to sting and burn, blood and water running into his right eye momentarily blinding him.

Where were the guards of Khazad-dûm? Even if they had not been able to see the fight through the rain, they surely should have heard it!

"Blain? You are well?"

"Just a few cuts, Frey. We need to move. Now."

"Aye," The guard, an older dwarf who normally oversaw the weapons training of the youngest children, sounded grim, eyes meeting that of his charges with a deep unease. "I've never heard of goblins this close to the gates of the city before. Something is badly wrong here."

"I know."

Blain's whisper held all of his own dark fears and nightmares as he grabbed the reins of his pony and pulled his wife up before him, glad at least two of the beasts had not bolted, though their baggage was long gone. With the click of hooves on stone the only sound, the three dwarrow rode hard for the dark, empty hole that was the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm.

The next morning, Thorin found himself standing in one of the halls leading off the stairs on the third level of Khazad-dûm, waiting as scouts forged ahead, mind still mulling over the dark memories that had haunted his dreams the night before. Dwarrow history held few legends and even fewer facts about the kings between Durin I and Durin II. What had happened that placed a nephew on the throne? Was it a warning that Thorin risked the lives of his own by continuing? Or something else?

With Kíli unable to aid them, he had decided that the safest course was to explore and secure the first three upper levels of the city, then to venture up as Kíli was able. The stairs, with their stone rent in large gashes and long fall below, were not a risk it would be worth taking. A clatter in the hall made the king glance up, pleased to see the familiar figures of Dwalin and Bofur leading the way back to their waiting lord.

"Well?"

He blurted out, impatient with the delay caused by their insistence on him waiting until they were certain no enemies lurked nearby, and the sheer tension of recent events. The duo approaching him would shrug off his temper, having had too much exposure to it over the years. Dwalin shook his head, muscular tattooed forearms leaning comfortably on the head of his great war hammer, the metal bright and clean.

"There's sign of recent occupation, but none of the filth stayed to greet us. It'll take years to get rid of the stench."

"Did ya really expect them to, with the legendary Dwalin leadin' the way? Probably had them shakin' in their boots and callin' for their mamas!"

Bofur's grin was wide, as if daring Thorin to rebuke him for the flippancy, but the king stayed silent as the large warrior next to the former toymaker snorted, answering in a dry tone.

"Orcs don't wear boots, nor do they have mothers."

"If orcs and the filth they leave behind are the worst we must deal with, Dwalin, I would count us blessed by Mahal indeed."

"Aye." His old friend acknowledged the truth of his king's words with a sigh. "They're hiding here somewhere, and I dislike letting them make the first move. 'Tis likely to be ugly."

"There is no other choice with the Western gate still barred. Nor would I split my forces more than I already have."

"Granted the beastie in the water won't be goin' anywhere, but we'll have to deal with it eventually."

Bofur waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the damaged portal as they began to walk down the hall, dwarrow warriors pausing in their task of sifting through debris to acknowledge their monarch. These, Thorin knew, had been the main administration and training rooms for the military of the kingdom, and beyond them would be the council rooms and the original royal apartments, the king's goal for the day.

"Aragorn and I are planning to send a team of rangers and dwarrow to drain the lake when we are closer to that end of the kingdom. They will then deal with the beast, but we must insure that it cannot make its way into Khazad-dûm through the lowest deeps first."

"I would be on that team," Dwalin's deep rumble made Thorin nod in acknowledgement. The warrior may not have always gotten along with his healer cousin, but he would not allow the death to go unavenged, especially as he was denied the chance to do so for Balin. "I owe that creature a taste of iron for spilling the blood of Durin's line."

"Very well."

Truthfully, Thorin was not at all surprised by the request; had planned on it, in fact. Right now, though, he had other things in mind.

"The council rooms may provoke some strong memories."

The warrior just grunted, while the councilor nodded, suddenly thoughtful.

"What I don't understand is what you hope to find, Thorin. Anything of value would have been looted long ago."

"Not necessarily. There are hidden caches that can only be opened by those of Durin's blood, and one only by Durin himself. It is these that I seek."

He did not try explaining his other motivation; that since the dream-memories of the night before, he had been driven by an urge to retrace the steps of young Blain, who would become Durin II.

"My lords!"

The three dwarrow were brought to a halt by the call, a flustered young dwarf gasping a bit as he struggled to gulp air after his sprint down the corridor. Thorin paled, fear settling in his belly.

"What is it? Kíli?"

His nephew had not been the most communicative since the incident on the stairs and the injury that followed, speaking sparingly and then only to insist that he be allowed to attend the rituals for the three who had died. Fíli had been growing more agitated daily, certain that a blow-up was coming with his brother, but despairing of just what was behind it. The messenger shook his head.

"No, the prince is still resting. There has been an incident with a patrol!"

"Well, speak up, lad! What do you mean by 'incident'?"

Bofur prodded as Dwalin swung his axes loose, glancing around as if he expected enemies to appear around them at any moment.

"Attacked?"

The large dwarf demanded, scowling.

The runner shook his head again.

"No one can find them! There is no sign of attack or anything, they just didn't return!"

Dwalin instantly relaxed, scoffing.

"Idiots probably got lost! For this you bother the king? He has-"

"Dwalin." The name was not loud, but it stopped the warrior cold. The king's mind raced even as he turned to the young messenger. "You were correct to bring this to me. As there is no sign of battle, we will give them time, but keep Prince Fíli apprised of what occurs, he is in camp, and send another patrol to trace their path."

"At once, my lord."

The messenger turned, preparing to bolt once more, but Bofur grabbed him by the arm, chuckling.

"And lad, you don't need to run everywhere. Ya do no one any good if you're so out of breath they can't understand your message!"

The lad flushed, but bobbed his head before taking off at a slightly more sedate pace. Thorin just shook his head at the energy of the young, waving his companions back toward his goal as he absently ran a hand down one wall.

It was odd, the feelings provoked by being here were growing day by day. In his mind, he could see the beautifully woven tapestries that once covered these walls, telling the history of the dwarrow as one paced the corridor. Rich reds, blues, even purples and golds, had gleamed in the lantern light as a grandfather knelt to tell his grandson one of the many stories depicted, the dwarfling's eyes gleaming in wonder. With a shock, Thorin finally associated the emotions coursing through him as the same as when he had first stepped foot through the hidden door back into Erebor all those years ago. It was home!

This was where he was born to be, the place in which memories from the other Durins were fast becoming more real to him than his own childhood within Erebor. In some ways, that realization terrified him as he once again faced an assault upon the core of 'Thorin', feelings and frustrations that were not his own bending and even breaking his old thought patterns. When had he begun to regard some of the elves, especially the twin sons of Elrond, as allies or even... friends? It was difficult to sustain the hatred when an adult elf offering him a bowl of stew morphed into a child with a gap-toothed grin pushing slightly squashed dandelions into his hand, eyes full of hero-worship, a parent smiling indulgently behind. He paused to run his fingers over the soft weave of a tapestry showing elves and dwarrow working together in the smithies of the city only to gasp when he found nothing but hard stone.

"Thorin?"

Bofur's hesitant inquiry made the king smile slightly, banishing the bright colors and warm images of yesteryear back where they belonged.

"I am fine. It seems that the longer I am here, the stronger the memories grow. This corridor led to the royal apartments used by both Durin I and II."

"And this room?"

Dwalin asked, shouldering open the door with a grimace for the disgusting remnants of animal bones littering the table and words written in the Black Speech upon the walls. To Thorin, however, there were the banners of the kings of the Free Peoples lining the walls, or was it the insignia of the Seven Dwarrow Families?

"Durin!"

Thorin started, stiffening as he began to discretely take note of those with him, attempting to discern if the call had been an actual one, or another memory. Movement from the corner of his eye whipped his head around, hand swiftly drawing Orcrist in one smooth motion as he turned to face the man across the stone table. He was tall, possibly taller even then Aragorn, with yellow-white hair falling about his shoulders and blue eyes as bright as sapphires.

"Who are you, and by what right do you bear arms against the King of Khazad-dûm?"