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83. The Battle of Honor

"Well, that went…well."

Glorfindel, the last of them to enter the antechamber, grumbled the words as he shut the heavy wooden door behind him.

Ranárë raised an eyebrow. "Did you really expect it to go smoothly?"

Thorin ignored them, having been wrestled into the room by the six guardsmen—Kíli and Dwalin, as well as four others—some minutes before. He paced in one far corner, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, his breathing fast and shallow.

Rejna reached a hand toward him, though stopped just short of touching him and drew it back. "Amrâlumê?"

Her voice was soft, and within it was a tone of deep concern. Thorin turned slowly to look at her, did his best to soften his expression as he held her gaze. His eyes then flicked to her father, to whom he then said, "Now I will kill him."

"So hope we all, agnât'dashat," replied Ragin.

Thorin scowled. "Do you think I will not?"

"I think you should not underestimate Hagen," retorted the king. "Clearly he has grown fat in his dotage, and he has not put hand to hilt in decades, but as you know, he is cunning. Clever. He will fight dirty, use cheap tricks—the fool is without honor, remember?"

"Ironic, then, that he should challenge Thorin to a Battle of Honor when he is without a shred of it himself," observed Glorfindel.

"Oh, is that what he did?" asked Larkspur. "I've been wondering what the devil he said."

"It was an act of desperation," offered Ranárë. "Lord Hagen is arrogant enough to believe that he is not yet ruined in the eyes of the people who stood witness—he is certain that what little evidence you provided, even Her Highness' testimony, was not enough to turn them fully against him. But neither is he fool enough not to realize he may have lost some proverbial ground. In his mind, if he wins this fight and Prince Thorin is killed, it will prove he was in the right all along."

Thorin rattled off a string of the most colorful epithets he knew. "He will not win," said he as the door from the throne room was opened and Lord Tryg entered, parchment, quill, and inkpot in hand.

"Mahal amnâdu muhula," said the Valley lord. "Forgive the intrusion, but I am here to take your last will and testament, my prince, as tradition demands."

Rejna gasped and dropped into the nearest chair. "I have no need of a will, Lord Tryg. I'm not planning to die this day," Thorin told him as he moved to her side and held out a hand to her.

"I can see that you believe that, Your Highness. I want very much to believe it also," said Tryg. "However, it is tradition. And we'll not find out whether you are right until later this evening. By the same tradition which brings me before you, a Battle of Honor is engaged at dawn or dusk, whichever arrives first after the challenge is made and accepted."

Thorin snorted. "So he lives a few more hours. The coward must think himself blessed."

He released Rejna's hand and began to pace again, saying, "There is little you need write on that parchment, Lord Tryg, other than that I leave all my wealth and possessions to my wife and son."

"As you wish, Your Highness," Tryg replied. "I will need only a few moments to prepare the document, as there are enough witnesses here to sign. Do you wish me to inscribe your true identity, sir?"

It is time, my son.

Thorin stopped moving. He leaned forward, bracing himself against the wall with one hand as his eyes fell closed and he drew a deep breath. Yes, he thought, it is. Let Sauron come for me, if he has the stones.

Standing straight, he turned to face his family. "Yes," he replied to Tryg's question. "And when our names are given before the fight begins, I want it used then as well."

Dís stepped toward him. "Are you certain, nadad?"

Thorin nodded, then he cast his gaze to her sons. He walked across the room to stand before them and placed a hand on the shoulder of each.

"When we were reborn, I chose to hide because I wished to keep you both safe," he said. "I thought I was doing the right thing for all of us, but this burden has been a heavy one to bear. I tire of carrying it."

"Then let us be rid of it, Irak'adad," said Fíli resolutely.

"Aye," said Kíli, echoing his brother's tone. "Time to remind the world that the Sons of Durin do not flee from a fight."

-…-

The combatants were escorted to the designated combat area as the sun was dipping below the horizon. A large, open area between the central mountain and the small grove of trees where Thorin and Rejna's getaway cottage had been built was now sectioned off with rope, creating a square. At each corner was a brazier already aflame, and many a spectator carried torches and lanterns. Word had spread like wildfire within the first hour after Hagen's challenge at court, and it seemed to the royal party that nearly every man, woman, child, dwarf and dwarfling in the kingdom had turned up to bear witness.

Both combatants were bare to the waist. Many a remark was whispered back and forth about the difference in their physiques and the number of scars each one bore as they approached opposite sides of the square.

"Thorin," said Ragin, drawing his attention momentarily from the smirking visage of Hagen.

Thorin turned to his father-by-marriage to see that he held out the sword he had made for Rejna's bride price.

"I would have you use this," continued the elder dwarrow. "I know I asked you to make it for me, but in truth I knew I would never wield it. I think a part of me always knew that you would. With it you once defended your kinsman; now, defend your honor, your kingdom, your One."

The king stepped closer, and his voice when next he spoke was but a whisper. "I know it is already your intention, my son, but you absolutely must kill him. If you lose, Hagen will not hesitate to come for us."

Thorin took the sword he had forged in one hand and placed the other on Ragin's shoulder as he dipped his head to touch his brow to the king's. "I will not fail you, Agnat'adad."

They remained in that pose for a heartbeat before Ragin stepped back and gave a curt nod. Rejna took his place as he moved off toward the ornate chair, situated on a hastily constructed platform, from which he would preside over the match. Thorin's One threw her arms around him and held him in a vise-like grip.

"I'm so frightened for you, amrâlumê," she said. "I know I should not be, for you are the mightiest warrior I have ever known."

"I also have far greater rewards to live for than Hagen does," Thorin replied, then held her away from him and captured her gaze with his. "Do not be frightened, my love. I will not let that coward defeat me."

Lord Tryg stepped up on his left. "It is time, Your Highness."

Thorin nodded and, after giving his wife a kiss, he touched his hand to her belly before he turned and walked away with the Valley lord. His kin each put a hand to his shoulder as he passed them before he stopped by the side of the king and ducked under the rope.

Ragin stood and the crowd fell silent, expectant. "Citizens of the Kingdom of Dwarrowvale," he cried out loudly. "We gather this evening to bear witness to a Battle of Honor between Hagen, son of Halfor, Lord of Eastfell, and Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince of Dwarrowvale."

The crowd immediately began to murmur; more than one voice reached Thorin's ears saying, "I thought his father's name was Targo?"

"As was done in ancient times, these dwarrow will fight until one of them is dead," the king continued. "Let the battle begin."

"Son of Thráin?" said Hagen with a sneer. "Already you sully what little honor you bring to this challenge by having His Majesty lie for you. Son of Thráin?" He snorted, disgust evident in the sound. "First you claim to be kin to a king, and now you claim to be the son of a dead one."

Hagen began to pace along his side of the square; he held his sword pointed toward Thorin as he cried out, "This wretched excuse for a dwarf defiles the very air he breathes with lies! He has poisoned the mind of our king, our princess—he has besmirched the honor of a lord of this kingdom!"

"Are you going to fight me, or do you mean to talk me to death?" Thorin challenged.

The snide remark did as intended; Hagen bellowed a cry and charged toward him, his own sword over his head. He brought it down with a growl but Thorin blocked the swing, deflecting it with the mithril blade and then throwing a punch to Hagen's jaw in blunt reply. Hagen stumbled, then spun and swung his sword around in an arc that had Thorin sidestepping quickly in order to evade it. And there it was: the initial moves opponents offer each other at such times, giving each other their measure… or at least, what each wanted the other to believe was their measure.

Hagen crowed loudly when he was the first to draw blood; his third swing forced Thorin to throw his head backward, but the tip of the older dwarf's blade caught his lip. Salty, copper liquid spilled down his chin and into his mouth, though instead of wiping it away he licked the superficial wound—this fight is far from over, fool—and then spat it at his opponent. Hagen laughed as he easily dodged the blood.

Rage-fueled parries, thrusts, punches and kicks were thrown in rapid, merciless succession, as the two combatants went at each other in a tight circle; strikes and counter-strikes, the clang of metal on metal mixed with snarls and grunts all but drowned out the noise of the onlookers… though Thorin could hardly be remiss to Dwalin's bellowing baritone when he grazed Hagen's shoulder. Hagen laughed again when his sword sliced across Thorin's chest, though his mirth was abruptly cut short when a well-placed roundhouse kick to the face sent him flying through the air. The Eastfell lord went down hard, and his sword went skittering across the square.

Thorin pointed the mithril sword toward him as Hagen had done earlier. "This dwarf," he bellowed loudly, "would have you think me a liar! On my honor as a Son of Durin, every word I have spoken since setting foot in these lands has been true, save one."

"Ha!" said Hagen as he pushed to his knees, desperate for any grasp of advantage. "I told you he lies!"

"I told one lie, Hagen—and only one," Thorin retorted. "I said my father's name was Targo. It was not."

"Why did you lie to us?" cried a voice from the crowd.

He risked a glance toward his family. Rejna stood beside her father, her hand around his in a white-knuckled grip; Fíli and Kíli stood next to her, with Dís, Dwalin, and Balin on his left. Thorin then looked in the direction the question had come from as he raised his open hand in the direction of his nephews.

"For the sake of my kin, I spoke a falsehood," he said. "I lied because I thought it would keep them safe. But I was wrong to do so, I see that now. Not because that worthless piece of dwarrow flesh—" He pointed his sword again at Hagen. "—has called me out for it, but because I have been made to see that no matter where you hide—whether in the shadows or in plain sight—you can be found."

"Enough!" bellowed Hagen, clearly not knowing where this was going and not liking it at all… and then suddenly there were dirt and rocks hitting Thorin in the face.

He staggered, blinking eyes that now stung, unable to see clearly anything around him. Thorin sensed Hagen scrambling for his sword and turned in the direction of the sound; only Rejna's scream of warning saved him from losing an arm when the vile scum's blade sliced through the air next to him, but he felt the cut of the air, and tasted the sweat that flecked from his opponent.

"Tell them the truth!" Hagen screamed as he kicked Thorin's sword from his hand and, instead of taking advantage with his own weapon, began to pummel him with his fist, offering a relentless hammering. "I want the truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!" Thorin shouted back as he stumbled with the force of the blows.

He realized suddenly that his vision was finally clearing. When Hagen landed another punch to the right side of his face, he allowed the blow to throw him off his feet; Thorin rolled as though hurt and weakened… in the direction of his weapon. A feint can be just as crucial to victory as a killing blow, he had learned long ago.

"Some prince you are," spat Hagen as Thorin pushed up on one knee. "You cannot even defeat one fat old dwarf in single combat! You are a pathetic, delusional liar, Thorin. Even that whiny, weakling princess deserves better than you."

Off to his left, Thorin felt the grip of his sword, and he slowly, subtly pulled it toward him, keeping his eyes locked onto his adversary's. "I am not pathetic, Hagen. Nor am I delusional. I am Thorin… son of Thráin, son of Thrór—"

The ivory grip of the sword now firmly in hand, Thorin spun on the ball of his foot, bringing the blade around and thrusting the tip upwards and into Hagen's chest as he added, "Ra mulah maikhrim Uzbadu Khazâd-dubanu."

Hagen's eyes widened in surprise as he looked down at the blade piercing his sternum. Blood began to spurt from his mouth and his own sword clattered to the ground for a second time. As Thorin got his other foot beneath him and stood, he pushed the mithril blade further into Hagen's chest, and he leaned close to say, "You just got your arse kicked by Durin's Heir. Tell Mahal I said 'Hello' before he passes judgment upon you."

A startled, almost confused-sounding gurgle was all Hagen was able to respond with, as if he still hadn't grasped that he was already dead, and by the last hands he could have imagined. Bubbles formed in the blood around his mouth and the light of life quickly fled from his eyes. Thorin yanked the sword from the slit it had created and stepped back as the empty shell of a once noble dwarrow fell to the grass and stared lifelessly up at the stars.

The ensuing silence lasted only a heartbeat. Then suddenly his family cheered, much of the crowd surrounding him cheered. But again, one voice managed to reach him over the din, asking the question that was surely on the mind of every person who didn't already know the truth:

"How can you be him?" said the speaker. "How can you be the son of Thráin—even in our exile we've heard of Thorin Oakenshield, and he's been dead five years."

Thorin held his hand up. The cheers fell quiet.

"Let me ask you, friend," said he, "do you have children?"

A figure pushed through to the front of the people gathered on his left. Thorin turned as a middle-aged dwarf with a dozen gold and silver beads in his beard stepped up to the rope and crossed his arms, his expression one of challenge.

"Aye," the dwarrow replied. "I've three bairns."

"If you were told that you and your children were being hunted, what would you do—how far would you be willing to go—to keep them safe? Would you forsake the home of your birth, give up the wealth you had earned through hardship and battle; would you pretend to be someone you are not, if you believed your actions would keep those three children from harm?"

The other man held his gaze for a long, tense moment, before he replied, "I would do whatever it takes."

"As would I—as did I," countered Thorin. "They were not of my flesh but they are of my blood. I helped their mother raise them from dwarflings after the death of their father, and I believed they were the only family I had left. So I did what I thought I had to do to keep the greatest of enemies from finding out we had been reborn. We fell in the Battle of Five Armies, my sister-sons and me, but Mahal plead with Sulladad to return us to life that we might thwart the fell plans of the Deceiver."

"But why you? Why them?" pressed the dwarf. "Why not Tors? Why not Durin the Deathless himself?"

Thorin shrugged. "We have been returned nearly a year and a half, and I still haven't the faintest idea. Only the All-Father knows, and he reveals his designs to no one. If Mahal knows, he's not telling either—and believe me, friend, if I've asked him once, I've asked him a thousand times."

"Why tell the truth now?" asked a female voice; Thorin recognized it as belonging to Lady Greti. "Why did you choose to reveal yourself when you could have kept up the charade?"

"For two simple reasons, my lady," Thorin rejoined. "First, if on the off chance I was to lose this challenge, I wanted to meet Mahal again with a clear conscience, for I have long been weary of pretending to be someone I'm not. And second, I'm tired of hiding—I will not have history record me as a coward. If Sauron the Deceiver wants to come for me again, he is welcome to try."

Khuzdul:

Ra mulah maikhrim Uzbadu Khazâd-dubanu. - And I will be King of the Valley of Dwarves.