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: My computer blew its processor and motherboard today, so I am borrowing a few hours on a friend's. I apologize if I can't respond personally to every review this week, I'll try to go back and do so when my computer is fixed next Sunday.

Thank you all very much!

21. Chamber of Memories

Whether or not Thorin believed that the poisonous stone had been planted mattered little in the days after with the army once more moving at a rapid pace up the stairwell. Once the cavernous hall that took up much of the top floor of the city was deemed safe, all but a small contingent would use that as their main camp. That move would most likely occur tomorrow, though there was some concern about the army being cornered in such a large, open area. There were secret passages down, several of them, but they would have to be cleared, first by Kíli for stability and then by warriors.

Their enemy had been making a point of daily harassment now, most strike and run tactics, but wearying. The attacks had been mostly small skirmishes between patrols and goblins, nothing like the attack that had occurred almost two weeks ago, but none were willing to believe that the enemy was truly that weak. No, they were waiting for something. An opening, a mistake in Thorin's leadership, sabotage, the rituals for Balin, or just until they felt ready, no one knew, and it was beginning to grate upon Thorin's nerves. As if to remind him of what could come again, the newly formed scar tissue along his ribs began to itch, making the king squirm to relieve it as scratching through armor was awkward at best.

With the great stair secure from the gate level up, the army would begin to fan out, further exploring the levels they had not fully mapped, and venturing into the northern mines, where no maps at all had survived. The mithril forge, the public center of the city, the great weapons forges, the newer royal apartments, he would walk them all. What memories would be brought to light? Truths that had been obscured by time or simply forgotten? Was there yet mithril to mine out? Or would that spell renewed disaster for his kingdom as it had for his most recent predecessor? A shadow fell over him, breaking the king from his ruminations in time to gaze up at the tall man who bowed his head respectfully.

"We've secured the large hall where the Fellowship was chased, Lord Thorin. The Chamber of Records has a guard posted until your people can see to the remains within."

Balan folded his lanky form down next to their fire as he spoke, gratefully accepting the hot mug of apple cider Faramir passed him. Thorin gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement as his eyes tracked to those of his nephews, seated near Legolas and Frodo. He could see the expectation in Therin's eyes, knew that as his heir, the young prince should be given the responsibility of overseeing the detail, but it was Balin…

Hopefully, the boy would understand. This reminded Thorin that he was supposed to have talked to the lad several weeks ago. The trouble was that each time he had tried, the boy brushed him off and truthfully, Thorin had allowed it, being awkward at the best of times with such emotions. After all, Fíli and Kíli had learned to deal with such things as adults without Thorin holding their hands; it was about time Therin learned as well.

"Fíli, you and Dwalin are to oversee the preparations. Make sure we have reliable sentries posted; our language and rituals are not for outside ears. Only Prince Legolas and Lord Frodo will be allowed in once we begin."

That would definitely engender some anger among the more conservative Khazad, but Thorin viewed it as only proper. Bilbo had been a close friend to Balin for many years, corresponding with him even when they were half a world apart, and Frodo would represent his uncle with the dignity the occasion called for. As for Legolas, the declaration of him as a friend to the dwarrow meant that he was to be treated as one, which was why it was an honor so rarely bestowed upon an outsider, let alone an elf.

Technically, as one who possessed a king's stone, Faramir would be allowed to stay as well, but Thorin had sensed reluctance from the prince of men that had kept him from offering. Perhaps the man did not think it his place, as he had not known any of those involved, or perhaps he felt uneasy walking where his brother had once been, who knew?

"With respect, my lord, there are some amongst my people who have asked to be allowed to pay their own respects to Lord Balin. Some, including me, had the honor of meeting him, and others are bid to do so for their sovereigns. Would it be possible to do that before you seal the chamber?"

The king frowned at Balan's request, looking to his kin for their thoughts upon the matter, especially Dwalin. Balin had been his brother, after all. Bofur and Fíli nodded immediately, followed with a bit more hesitation by Kíli. Therin, true to his past behavior, crossed his arms with a thunderous scowl, looking offended that the ranger even had the temerity to ask. Finally, Dwalin gave a tiny nod, body relaxing ever so slightly from the alert posture he had maintained since sitting down.

"Very well."

*****888*****

When the appointed hour came the next day, there was an almost reverential awe to the hush that fell over the assembled dwarrow as they stepped into the ruins of the Chamber of Mazarbul, an honor guard of dwarrow from all seven kingdoms, men, elves, and one hobbit leading the way. As Thorin and his three nephews approached with Dwalin, the guard parted to take positions as a living wall, blocking sight of all but the tomb that their living corridor led to. The marble was cracked, with part of the lid displaced, much like the tombs of he, Fíli, and Kíli, under the mountain far to the north. Unfortunately, this one would not be unoccupied.

At the knowledge that he would have no choice but to see the desecrated remains of his old friend and advisor, Thorin stopped, unable to force his feet to take another step. He had known that Balin was dead since just after awakening in this time, but to be here, to see his corpse... It brought a reality to the words that soured his stomach and made him wish for the privacy to cry out his grief as he had at the sight of his grandfather's severed head and Frèrin's mangled, unrecognizable remains.

A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and he glanced to the side to see Dwalin, friend, shield brother, silent guardian, with all the torment of Thorin's soul in his eyes. If anyone could understand the emotions threatening to bury the king under their heavy load right now, it was this warrior, who had been at his side for so many dark days. Smaug. Azanulbizar. The trek through the wilderness. The Quest. The fall to the gold sickness...

The warrior's dark gaze met his own, a gentle squeeze to his shoulder urging the king on, telling him he could do this with Dwalin at his side. Together, they crossed the final steps and stood silent, sharing memories of the one who had been older brother and occasional parent to them both without words having to be spoken. The warrior grasped the broken bottom to the stone lid, muscles bulging as he lifted the heavy and awkward item back into place with a grunt, covering the skeletal feet and rotting robes.

Next to him, Thorin tossed aside the remains of an orc, then paused, eyes locked on the remains of the young dwarf who had seemed a mouse but turned into a fierce fighter on the quest back to Erebor, at a loss. He did not wish to leave Ori here, exposed, but he had been so focused upon Balin that he had neglected to bring proper cloths to cover the body.

"Here, Lord Durin."

The quiet address made the king twist around to find Legolas, every inch the ancient elven prince today, with several folded lengths of cloth in hand. As the tall archer began to unfold his burden, Kíli, Frodo and Nast moved to take the other corners, the red and black silk billowing out with a snap to display the arms of Khazad-dûm as it settled over Ori.

"How..."

Thorin was barely able to get the words out as his own kin stepped close, tears running freely down Kíli's cheeks as the skeleton was hidden.

"Arwen."

At the utterance of her name, there was a ripple of gasps from men and elves alike, for they all honored the Lady Evenstar, now Queen of Gondor.

"She and Lord Aragorn wished to send something to show Gondor's respects, as well as honor the alliances of old. Our lady-queen embroidered it herself."

Thorin gave the man who had spoken, Faramir, a solemn nod before turning to Nast. As the closest kin to Ori present, by pledge if not by blood, it was up to him to respond.

"I thank you for the honor you do my uncle. My father will no doubt express his own gratitude when he arrives to take Ori home."

Thorin closed his eyes, head bowing for a moment in sorrow, for that was not a journey Nori should have made alone. Dori had slipped into death in his sleep last winter, as dignified in this, his last act, as he had been in everything else in life. The old dwarf had lived past anyone's expectations, fussily aiding his princes by overseeing protocol and the preparations for the royal weddings before quietly fading back into the background and overseeing the training of Nori's younger son, Ori II, as a protocol master in addition to his work as archivist. None could dispute Dori's mastery of such things, no matter how irritated some of the stuffier nobles became when their seats were moved with the new rule.

A movement sending a soft breeze against his face alerted the king to someone standing before him. Opening his eyes, he found Legolas there once again, head bowed as he offered a second, visibly older, bundle of silken cloth to the king. As Thorin reached up to accept it, rough hands caught on the fine weave, almost dropping it as his senses informed him that the barely visible darker stain was long dried blood. Dark blue eyes sought out the elven prince's lighter ones in search of an explanation.

"It was sent by the Lord Celeborn, the battle banner of Durin IV. He said that you would know why it was returned now, as another new age is yet in its infancy."

Third Age, 1

"Lord Durin! I believe that this is yours."

One hand reached out to gently run his fingers over the fabric, halting at the edge of the blood that still stained the deep red banner of Khazad-dûm. His other arm, encased in a sling and bandages, twitched, fingers that were no longer there feeling as if they wanted to move, though he knew that to be impossible. With a scowl, the dwarf lord jerked his hand away, glaring up at the tall, white-haired elf who had hailed him. Celeborn was still wearing that odd, flexible armor so popular among the elves, though to Durin IV's eyes, it looked too fragile to protect much. It also made the elf look a bit like an overgrown decoration.

The king could not help the flash of resentment toward the other. Even these few minutes of speech was yet more time away from his people, away from the rebuilding of his kingdom in this new, hard-won peace. The darkness had been at last vanquished from Mordor, the need for war done. He wanted to be surrounded by the hot, glowing metal of the forge, to swallow a tankard of malt beer, the foam sticking to his beard, to rip meat from the bone and laugh at the antics of his little grandson... To forget, for at least a moment, the carnage of the battle plain and the sheer terror of seeing that black armored foe, towering over all who attempted to oppose him. The king could not blame those who had broken and run in the face of such a thing, for no being of Yavanna, Illuvatar, or Mahal was made to face such evil.

Reluctantly, the king stopped, turning to face the other as a sore hand accepted the soft cloth, cuts adding a few more smears of blood to the already marked banner. Battle over, the wounded had not cared if their temporary bandage had been the banner of the dwarf king, only that it held their insides in place until they could be brought to a healer. That the sufferer had been the elven prince, now king, Amroth, Durin had not even noted until the other was being lifted onto a stretcher.

Amroth had taken the wound preventing a killing blow to Durin's back, not a typical behavior of an elf who was not of Gil-Galad's people, to save a dwarf. Though Durin had returned the favor several times, defending the downed elven lord until he had lost his own hand just before help reached them. One of the dwarf's fingers folded over to run gently along the edge of the largest stain before he shoved it back at the other, voice straining to croak out a reply.

"Bid your king to keep it, remind him that dwarrow are not all the same." He cocked his head up at the taller being, then added, "Return it to the last Durin King, when the time comes to honor one who is worthy."

Celeborn did not seem at all phased by such an odd direction, a fact Durin was grateful for as he had no idea why he had even given it, just that it was correct. Instead, the elf neatly bundled the cloth, but did not turn away immediately, as he had done every other time he had been forced to interact with the dwarrow king.

"Are you wounded further, or is your gravelly voice due to the strain of battle?"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed, but there was none of the haughty disregard he was used to from this elf. Curious now, he chose to give an answer.

"Battle."

Celeborn nodded, as if he had already known as much, and pressed a small bag into the king's hand.

"Add this to your tea, thrice daily until your voice is normal for two days running."

"Thank you."

Durin surprised even himself with the amount of true sincerity in that answer, for the two had never enjoyed the easy relations that he had with Elrond, or even Galadriel. With a bow that sent his aching muscles to throbbing once more, the king took his leave. Just far enough away for propriety awaited Sköd, head and one leg wrapped in rough bandages, but otherwise whole. They had won at last, now came the task of rebuilding within this new age, opened in blood, but promising peace.

Thorin opened his eyes, smiling faintly as he unfolded it to the audible gasps of several of those assembled. Dwalin took one corner, while the others were picked up by Fíli, Kíli, and Bofur, the four moving past the king to place it over the broken tomb. The silk billowed in the sunlight coming in from far above, casting a red tint to the stone as it settled in perfect position.

It was time.

At a nod, the non-Khazad took this moment to step forward, offering soft words of praise and honor for the dwarrow of the colony and their leader before quietly filing from the room. Soon, only Legolas and Frodo were left, standing respectfully to the side, and the chanting began. Deep voice rising in the ancient rites of his people, Thorin allowed himself to be carried by the song, a silent good-bye to his old friend as memories played out in his mind, the sharp pounding of hammer on anvil beating out a counter measure to every word. Grief finally given leave to surface, tears dripped down his face unheeded as he mourned the one who most deserved to live to see this realm renewed.