20

THUNDER RUMBLES

His senses are filled with gold. He is surrounded by it, a glimmering ocean of coins and precious objects that stretches as far as his eyes can see, cool and smooth beneath his hands. The slide and clink of endless shifting is in his ears, while the metallic tang in the air teases his nose and tingles on his tongue. It is everywhere, and it is everything. It is his, and no one will prevent him from reclaiming it...

* X *

He woke with a start, barely realizing that a dark form loomed over his bed before he was reacting with battle-honed reflexes, one hand lunging for the attacker's throat as the other snatched at blankets to bind and blind.

"Bâha!"

Thorin froze, the Khuzdul word for 'friend' easing his sleep-hazed mind even before he registered the familiar voice. The first light of dawn filtering in through the curtains faintly illuminated the blunt features as Dwalin stepped back, hands held up to show that he was unarmed.

"You were snarling in your sleep, Thorin. I just came in to be sure all was well."

The king swung his legs out to sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing both hands over his face.

"A nightmare, old friend," he admitted quietly. "Or...something. I am not quite certain."

Keen dark eyes studied him with concern as a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Still have that pain in your head? Want me to fetch Óin?"

Thorin sighed and dropped his hands, focusing on the throbbing feeling inside his skull. It was not so sharp as it had been the night before, when it had felt as though some craftsman was boring a hole above his eye, and the faint ghost of a melody that had plagued him was silent. Finally, he shook his head. "It is there, but it is duller now, more distant. I will be fine." The warrior continued to glower at him and he smiled slightly. "If it gets worse again, I will ask Óin for something, cousin. Will that satisfy you?"

Dwalin snorted and gave a small nod before removing his hand and stepping back. "I suppose it will have to, won't it?" he asked rhetorically. "Mind you, I'll keep an eye on you all the same."

"Of course you will. I would expect nothing less."

The Dwarf lord slid out of the oversized bed and dressed quickly, glancing at his cousin as he stamped his boots into place.

"How is our burglar?"

"Still sleeping, last I saw. Óin said it was normal, he gave him some strong medicine for that cold of his, trying to clear it out before we leave for the Mountain."

"Everyone else is awake, then?"

"Aye. Dori and his brothers are finishing the last of the mending and altering the larger clothes to replace what canna be fixed. Balin is finalizing the supply list to send to the Master, and Bombur, Bofur, and Óin will take it over before midday. Glóin and I will going out to see what kind of weapons these Lakefolk have to offer."

Thorin nodded absently. "Take Fíli and Kíli with you," he commented. "Hopefully, you will need the help carrying back what we can use."

The bald warrior nodded. "Bifur will be going out with Trisk and the lass again, if you still want them watching the townsfolk."

"I do. I know you think it is just busywork, Dwalin, and in a way it is. It is kinder to give them something to do while preparations are made. But they brought back some interesting information last evening."

"That they did," he conceded. "Just...they'll need some time with the lads before we go, Thorin."

"I know."

He watched the warrior precede him out of the room, trying to focus his thoughts on preparations for the next several days. He was certain of the course he had chosen, especially in regard to the siblings from Emyn Uial. He would not risk the lass, and he would not leave her behind alone. He just wished there wasn't something teasing the edge of his mind about her relationship with his nephews. They were close, he could see that much, but Kíli called her 'sister,' rather than 'love,' so what was it that he was missing?

Could it be...Fíli?

The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning and he froze in the doorway, eyes unseeing as he considered it. He remembered the elder lad being frequently lost in thought, especially since the Carrock, the Song of the Mountain a deep rumble in his chest. It had reminded him of Dís in the days when she was realizing her interest in Torvi, but Kíli had mentioned a lass in Ered Luin, hadn't he?

But that was when they were helping her hide, he realized. Of course Kíli would offer an easily-accepted explanation for his brother's distraction. If the golden-haired prince was thinking of a lass from home, he might receive gentle teasing, but no real questions would be asked. With this new possibility resounding in his mind, the Dwarf lord sorted through his memories of the journey since the Carrock and was amazed by the many tiny gestures that he had glimpsed but not registered. He had not been looking for them, of course. He had no reason to do so, until now. It was Fíli. It had always been Fíli. The calm, responsible eldest, so much like his even-tempered father, who had in turn been the perfect foil to Dís's spitfire temper.

In the common room of the house, the lass was talking quietly with her brother and the princes, throwing her head back to laugh at one of Kíli's jokes. No longer the silent enigma behind the hood and scarf, she was free within these walls to be the spirited lass who had faced down Goblins in a fiery building. His gaze went to his heir, noting the love that shone in Fíli's eyes as he laughed with her. How had he missed it?

Thorin turned quickly, before the young Dwarves realized that he was watching them, and strode over to the table, where Balin had set aside a portion of breakfast for him. A tiny smile teased the king's lips as he sat next to his cousin, and Balin raised one bushy white eyebrow.

"You're in a pleasant mood, for one my brother roused from a snarling nightmare," he commented softly.

"Let us say that I have had a glimpse of the future, cousin," Thorin replied quietly, "and it is brighter than I had realized."

Balin nodded with a puzzled look on his face, but did not inquire further, simply returning to his own meal. Thorin took a few bites before resuming the conversation that had been interrupted by his headache the night before, concerning the supplies they would need for the last part of their journey. Finally able to concentrate, he did not notice when the dull throb at his temples began to grow once more, or when the faint strains of the eerie melody began to weave their magic.

* X *

The other groups had already left on their various errands before Trisk, Viska, and Bifur headed out to wander Laketown for the second day. They felt comfortable once more, with their gear clean and mended (or replaced by donated clothing that had been altered by Dori's talented needle), and Bifur hummed tunelessly to himself as his hand fidgeted restlessly with a carved wooden toy in his pocket. Viska was quiet, but seemed thoughtful rather than brooding, so Trisk simply nudged her shoulder affectionately and let her walk in silence. For his part, he exchanged friendly greetings with folk he had met the day before and sent reassuring smiles toward several shy children that watched the Dwarves curiously, but did not approach. Except for one.

"Mister Trisk! Mister Visk! Mister Bif!"

Trisk chuckled as he turned toward the voice, then laughed outright as he watched Sigrid roll her eyes and lunge after her little sister. Tilda, however, seemed to have anticipated her sister's reaction, and ducked nimbly out of the way so she could dart over to her new friends. All three Dwarves offered bows as the girls approached, and Sigrid dropped a slight curtsy that Tilda tried to emulate before launching into three questions at once.

"Are you exploring? D'you want me to show you the best places? Would you come to tea?"

"Til! What has Da told you?" Sigrid scolded gently, pulling the younger girl out of the middle of the walkway so they would not hinder those passing. Tilda sighed.

"Slow down. Breathe. One question at a time," she recited dutifully. She grinned at Bifur. "Da says I ask too many questions," she confided. The toymaker shook his head firmly and produced the small carved figure that he had been carrying, speaking quietly in Khuzdul as he glanced at Trisk.

"Bifur says there's no such thing as too many questions, for how else are you to learn?" the silversmith translated with a smile. "Though perhaps one at a time would make it easier for others to answer them for you."

Tilda giggled, her eye caught by the toy in Bifur's hands. "What is that?"

The wild-haired Dwarf smiled and reached out to take her hand gently, pressing the gift into it. "Zarsmuzmnat," he stated firmly. Then he pointed at the girl herself. "Zarsmuzmnatith," he added with a nod.

"A squirrel," Trisk supplied. "For a little squirrel. He says your curiosity and eagerness for answers reminds him of a squirrel."

Bifur nodded and tapped Tilda's shoulder. "Zarsmuzmnatith," he repeated.

"I think you have earned a nickname," Trisk told her with a smile. Eyes shining, Tilda glanced at her sister, her smile widening when Sigrid nodded.

"Thank you, Mister Bifur!" Handing the toy to her sister for a moment, Tilda threw herself at the fierce-looking Dwarf and hugged him tightly. Bifur returned it gently, mindful of her tiny frame, and smiled even more widely when she broke away and collected the toy from Sigrid so she could study every detail of the lifelike carving. The older girl watched her fondly, then nodded to Bifur, something shining in her eyes that belied her youth.

"Thank you, Mister Bifur. The toy is lovely. You captured Tilda's spirit perfectly after knowing her only a few moments!"

Bifur nodded to her, then reached out to pat her arm. "Amdith," he murmured softly, offering a smile. Her brow wrinkled and she glanced at Trisk for help.

"It means 'little mother,'" Viska spoke up gruffly. "He is impressed by the way you care for your sister. You lost your mother?"

Sigrid nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Ma died shortly after Til's birth," she replied softly. "I have looked after her and Bain since then. So yes, I guess 'little mother' describes me as well as 'little squirrel' describes her." Turning back to Bifur, she offered a slightly unsteady curtsy. "Thank you again, Mister Bifur. It was nice to see you again, Mister Trisk, Mister Visk," she added. "But we need to be heading home. I have laundry to finish, then it'll be time to start dinner. Perhaps we will see you again before you leave for the mountain?"

"Perhaps," Trisk replied. "Be well, Miss Sigrid, Miss Tilda."

Without the distracting company of the two girls, the rest of the afternoon passed slowly as the three Dwarves wandered the walkways of Laketown. Rather than staying in the market, they broadened their area a bit, visiting some of the permanent shops and simply watching the people as they interacted with one another and with the representatives of the Master, whether guard or the weasel-like Alfrid, who they had managed to dodge twice. They gathered some information for Thorin, but none of what they saw altered Trisk's opinion of the previous day. The peace in Laketown was a thin veneer, the calm before a storm. The people were reaching the end of their tolerance of the Master, and the silversmith could only wonder how unaware the selfish Man really was.

* X *

Something was different...wrong. Viska could tell as soon as they entered the house that evening that something had happened to alter the mood of the Company, and not for the better. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and she noticed Dori and Glóin giving her dark looks like they had just after the escape from Mirkwood. Neither Dwarf had spoken to her since, but they had been involved enough in the planning and preparations for the journey not to trouble with her, until now. Exchanging concerned looks with her brother, she quickly collected a plate of food from the common table and took a seat away from the others where she could eat and watch quietly. Trisk joined her immediately, and it was only a few moments before Fíli and Kíli excused themselves from the larger group and came over. The older prince had lines of strain around his eyes, and his brother seemed troubled.

"What's happened?" she asked as Fíli sat next to her, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. He groaned.

"We went to see what kind of weapons the Men could give us," Kíli answered quietly. "The options were...less than ideal."

"They were pathetic," Fíli corrected. "We didn't expect Dwarven craftsmanship, nor Dwarven size, which was going to make it awkward enough. But whoever the Master's smith is, he should never have made it past Journeyman, even among Men."

"Good thing you aren't planning to have to use them, then," Trisk offered with half a smile. "Is that why everyone is so tense?"

"Partly," Kíli replied, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the Company. "Bilbo is starting to get over his illness, so he should be back in shape by Durin's Day. The main thing, though, is..." he trailed off, looking unsure how to continue.

"It's Thorin," Fíli finished, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. "His mood has...darkened since this morning."

"Is the pain in his head back?" Viska asked, a jolt of concern going through her. The king had begun complaining of the headache during the previous evening's meal, snapping impatiently at all and sundry before Óin had sent him off with a dose of medicine and orders to rest. Fíli nodded, the same worry in his blue eyes.

"Worse than last night, he says, and now he's hearing music."

"Music?"

"A faint melody, just on the edge of hearing, is how he describes it," Kíli told them. "Óin gave him something for the headache, and Thorin said he didn't hear the music any more, but I don't know if that's the truth or what he wants us to believe."

"His temper is deteriorating, as well," Fíli put in grimly. "Dori and Glóin blame you two, for some reason, even though it was clear this morning that Thorin had lost most of his anger toward you."

"We've been gone most of the day," Trisk pointed out. "What could we have done to anger him when we were out at his request?"

"Exactly," Kíli replied with a small laugh.

Viska sighed quietly, setting down her empty plate and leaning slightly into Fíli's shoulder. "Perhaps he is just tired," she offered with a small shrug. "And anxious. Durin's Day is so close, and he has worked toward this goal for so long. The hopes of all of the Exiles are at stake, the future of our people. That is a heavy burden, even for a king."

"Perhaps."

The four young Dwarrow sat in heavy silence for a long moment, each lost in his or her own thoughts of the past and future. Viska's were a whirling maelstrom of conflicting emotions. She dreaded the Company's departure in two days' time, but she was also eager for their return from the Lonely Mountain, a summons safely sent to Dáin so that he could begin the mustering of the Dwarven armies. So much still to do, and yet it all felt so close. And it would truly begin with Durin's Day, now only a few days away.

* X *

In the depths of the night, his mind clouded by the medicine that Óin had given him for his cold, Bilbo Baggins revisited a memory, a conversation overheard on the far side of the Misty Mountains.

It is nearly midnight, almost Midsummer Morn, and the gardens of Rivendell are filled with quiet song as Bilbo wanders in silent contemplation. The Dwarves are exchanging loud tales and raucous jokes around a bright fire pit, having prepared for an early morning departure, but the Hobbit simply wants to spend these last hours storing memories of the enchanted valley. He is paying little attention to the path he follows, and is surprised when he hears Lord Elrond's voice, followed quickly by Gandalf's. A glance shows that the Wizard and the venerable Elf lord are not actually close by – they merely follow a nearby path that leads to an isolated open building encircled by a flowing stream. They are far enough away not to notice him, but some trick of the valley carries their words to his ears with crystal clarity.

"Do you truly think this wise? That dragon has slept for sixty years – would it not be better to let him lie?"

Lord Elrond's voice is smooth and calm, but the words are enough to send a chill down Bilbo's spine. If the Lord of Rivendell doubts the wisdom of their venture, the Hobbit will be the first to cast his vote for canceling the entire expedition. Then Gandalf speaks, and the Wizard sounds very different from the affable, slightly eccentric persona that he has worn thus far. Instead, there is solemnity, and wisdom, and deep concern in his voice as he counters the opinion of one of the most powerful Elves in Middle Earth.

"What makes you think that he will continue to sleep?" he asks quietly. "No matter what we do, or don't do, Smaug will eventually wake. Would it not be better for it to happen at a time of our choosing? When we have the united armies of the Dwarves, and the Wood Elves, if I can manage it, ready to face him? Allies in Erebor would strengthen the defenses of the East, and the Dwarves deserve the chance to reclaim their homeland. That throne is Thorin's birthright."

Elrond does not speak for a long moment, but even at a distance, the Hobbit can tell that the warning has struck a chord. Finally, the Elf meets the Wizard's gaze.

"And the Arkenstone?"

Gandalf shakes his head. "The Arkenstone should hold no power over Thorin," he replies confidently. "When Thrór's sanity began to crumble, I warned Thráin never to let his kin lay hands on the Stone. Thorin was little more than a child when Erebor fell – he would not have touched it. Any lure that it might have should be easily countered by the Mountain." The Wizard's head lowers, his chin sinking into his chest as he stands for several long minutes in contemplation and memory before meeting Elrond's steady gaze once more. "Thrór's grief made him vulnerable, but his son was more wary, and I will make sure that his grandson is warier still. Bilbo will bring out the Stone, and I will have warned Thorin long before then to let the Hobbit bear it until the armies stand ready. Then, once Smaug is dead, we will return it to its deep tomb. Unlike Durin's Bane, it cannot climb out again on its own."

Elrond nods, his face filled with compassion. "You would see Thráin's son free of the burdens of the past."

Gandalf sighs. "I would see the entirety of the Line of Durin so unburdened, untainted by that cursed jewel, free to lead the Seven Families as a united front. They are good folk."

The Elf lord smiles and turns to continue along the stone bridge. "Ever the Dwarves stood against our ancient Enemy. I hold no anger for Durin's folk, Mithrandir, you know this. But it is not up to us to redraw the map of Middle Earth. We are not its only guardians."

The Wizard turns a shrewd gaze on him. "Who has come to you, mellon-nin?"

"Curunír has called a meeting of the White Council, my old friend."

Gray eyebrows climb toward the brim of the tall gray hat. "Saruman is here? And the Lady?"
"We go to join them now."

Gandalf nods and strides forward with renewed determination. "Very well. Perhaps it is for the best. I have further news for them, and you – news that may put Thorin Oakenshield's quest into perspective."

The dream faded away with the ending of the memory and the Hobbit turned in his sleep, settling in once more as he found a more comfortable position. The dream and memory would fade in the morning light, leaving only the faintest wisp of knowledge in the deepest part of his subconscious mind.

* X *

Across the hall, Thorin tossed and turned in his own dream-memory, though his was much older, of a time more than a century gone.

The prince knows that he is playing with fire, but he is young and proud, and it is too late to back down now. His brother is pale with terror, Frerin's light blue eyes wide beneath the neat copper braids. The other lads are caught between fear and awe. They never expected the Prince Under the Mountain to take the dare, and young Dwalin looks like he is beginning to regret ever opening his mouth. But the challenge has been issued and accepted, and Thorin will not be dissuaded. Steeling himself, he ignores the nervous churning in his gut and the warning screaming in his head. It is such a small thing, just a quick dash into the Throne Room to touch that shimmering gem that sparks above the throne. His grandfather will be livid if he is caught, but more than that, his father will be disappointed. To Thrór, the Arkenstone is precious beyond imagination and he guards it jealously. Thráin, however, views it with concern and suspicion and has forbidden his children to touch it. That is what drags at the heir's heart and slows his steps – his father's troubled eyes, not his grandfather's expression of greedy rapture.

"Thor, you don't have to," Frerin murmurs, keeping his voice low and glancing sideways at their cousins and companions. Thorin smiles, finding amusement in the fact that it is his mischievous younger brother advising caution for once.

"It'll be fine, Frer," he responds, his eyes flickering around the empty throne room. "Just keep an eye out, nadadith." The younger lad sighs and shakes his head.

"I don't want to be heir, Thorin," he warns finally. "If you get caught, and Thrór kills you, I will come drag you out of the Halls of Waiting before I'll take that throne."

The elder chuckles. "I would expect nothing less, brother."

He steps forward, just short of the side door that leads into the echoing cavern that serves as the Throne Room. The throne itself stands at the intersection of the three marble walkways, an imposing seat carved from the marble of the Lonely Mountain itself. Taking a deep breath, the prince shoots one last look at the great doors, closed and unmoving, and then he is dashing forward. His boots make far too much noise on the stone floor as he jogs forward, and he winces but does not slow. Finally, one foot is on the step at the base of the throne, his left hand on the arm as he jumps up. Then the other foot is on the seat, and the reaching fingers of his right hand brush the glowing surface of the Arkenstone oh-so-briefly. He can hear the collective gasp and he smiles, but he does not stop moving. A moment later, he is back on the floor, racing for the safety of side chamber. Then he is through the door, gasping for breath as his heart rate slows, a disbelieving grin on his face that is returned by his friends.

He has done it. He has crept into the Throne Room of Erebor and touched the Arkenstone, the King's Jewel. His hand tingles still and he laughs breathlessly, amazed at his own daring. Then the others are crowding around him, laughing in awe, and they hurry down through the halls toward the training arena. Thorin leads the way, unaware that he has sown the seed of future sorrow. The alluring call of the Stone is not audible to the underage prince, so he will not yet be plagued by the headaches and phantom music that disturb his father. But he has touched the Stone, and it has touched him, as well. He has given it access to the deepest recesses of his mind, where now a kernel of its power takes root.

* X *

The next morning, Thorin was choking down willow bark tea in his study and talking quietly with Balin when a tentative knock on the open door alerted him to the presence of his nephews. Grimacing, he set the tea aside and waved the lads in, raising an eyebrow when Kíli closed the door quietly behind them.

"How is your head?" Fíli asked quietly, concern shining in those kind eyes that were so like Frerin's.

"It has been better," the king answered shortly, regretting it when the lad winced at the implied rebuke. He sighed. "It makes me short-tempered, as you can tell, so take my gruffness as a symptom rather than a reaction to you. Did you want to talk to me about something?"

The fair-haired prince glanced at his brother and Thorin watched in puzzlement as the archer shrugged and nodded before Fíli turned to face him once more.

"It's about tomorrow."

The elder Dwarf sighed, closing his eyes as he massaged the bridge of his nose to ease the sudden surge of pain in his head.

"If you are here to change my mind about leaving Triskel and Viska, save your breath," he warned quietly. "They will await the Company's return with the Arkenstone."

Fíli nodded shortly. "Kíli and I would like to stay, as well."

Thorin froze, his hand dropping from his face as he stared at his heir. Something dark began churning in his gut, some deep rage that he did not recognize, and when he spoke, his voice was a growl.

"You would throw aside this quest, the chance to free your homeland, for a lass?"

Fíli actually flinched and Kíli stepped to his brother's side, supportive as always.

"It's not like you need us," the raven-haired prince argued. "Bilbo is the only really important one. He'll be going in to fetch the Arkenstone. Gandalf said we shouldn't even go in, since Smaug would recognize the smell of Dwarf!"

"Do not use Gandalf's words as an excuse for your desertion," the king snarled, anger bubbling through him. "I have raised you on tales of the Mountain, you both begged to be allowed to accompany me on this quest, and now you would turn aside, cast it all away, for a-"

"Thorin!" Balin, silent until now, stared at him in shock.

"Do not finish that sentence, Thorin," Fíli rumbled, his eyes darkening with storm clouds. "If you are angry with me, take it out on me. Do not cast aspersions on Viska. She has nothing to do with this."

"Except being the reason you would turn your back on your people!" Thorin spat. "There will be no discussion. You are Rayyud Durinul. You will enter Erebor at my side, or not at all."

There was silence for a long moment, then the brothers glanced at one another and drew themselves up stiffly.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Fíli murmured, offering a deep bow. Kíli matched it, his dark eyes smoldering with anger and his jaw clenched. They turned for the door in unison, their posture screaming outrage and fury.

* X *

Balin watched Fíli and Kíli strode from the room, backs straight and heads high, the younger prince casting one last bewildered and angry look back at their uncle before closing the door rather harder than was strictly necessary. Heaving a sigh, the old warrior shook his head and raised one bushy white eyebrow at his cousin.

"There was no need to snap at the lads like that, Thorin," he commented mildly, a sense of unease stirring in him as he noted the distant look in the king's eyes. The dark glower was becoming almost permanent, smiles nearly nonexistent. While the mood of the rest of the Company seemed to lighten as they gathered supplies for the last leg of the journey, their leader's darkened until he was short and ill-tempered with even his young heirs. Balin was troubled – the kind of concern that he would have shared with Gandalf if the wizard had been with them. But he was gone, on an urgent errand that he had not shared, and they could only hope that he would rejoin them before they entered Erebor. "You have been distracted and preoccupied since we arrived in Laketown," he added after a long moment, watching Thorin's reaction carefully, "and it grows worse by the day. What is wrong?"

Thorin's head swung toward him, eyes blazing, and he seemed about to give a harsh reply, but then a wave of frustration and regret swept across his face and he sighed, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand. "I do not know," he admitted finally. "There is...something...I do not..." He seemed to search for a way to put it into words before shaking his head dismissively. And just like that, an expressionless mask slid into place. "It is nothing. I am simply focused on our goal."

"The Mountain," Balin agreed.

"The Arkenstone," Thorin corrected.

The adviser's eyes widened and the churning in his gut intensified.

"Aye," he agreed cautiously, "but the Stone is only the means to the end, cousin, and the end is to reclaim the Mountain for our people, is it not?"

Again, that dark look, as though he had angered Thorin, before it melted away. This time, however, the expression that took its place was cool and calculating, and all the more terrifying.

"Of course," the king confirmed smoothly, rising from his chair and never meeting Balin's eyes. "But first, we must have the Stone."

He turned and strode from the room, leaving the old councilor staring after him in concern and shock.

"As you say."

Translations and Notes:

bâha – friend (Khuzdul)

zarsmuzmnat – squirrel (Khuzdul)

zarsmuzmnatith – little/young squirrel (Khuzdul)

amdith – little/young mother (Khuzdul)

mellon-nin – my friend (Sindarin)

Curunír – The Elves' name for Saruman

nadadith – little/younger brother

Rayyud Durinul – Heirs of Durin (Khuzdul)