Chapter Thirty-Two: Dwalin

T.A. 2799 Azanulbizar

"What of my brother?" Thorin demands, his voice is flat and devoid of anything that Dwalin might call emotion.

Much like his cousin Dwalin is too exhausted from battle and his own grief to feel much of anything any longer. Nor can he afford to lose himself to his grief when his too-young-to-be-king cousin needs the support. There will be time to grieve later, away from prying eyes and in the safety of a place that will have to be called home.

Dwalin has lost his father, though he was never as close to Fundin as Balin his grief is still sharp, but at least his brother lives and is accounted for. Thror has fallen, Thrain has fled the battlefield and is likely either already dead or lost to madness. Nain is dead, Dain may not survive his injuries. So many other friends lie either dead or on the cusp of it. Now Dwalin has more ill news to deliver to his cousin and king.

"There is no sign," Dwalin sighs. "We have found no body, no weapon, no fallen armour that might belong to Frerin."

"No one has seen him?" Thorin asks again.

"No," Dwalin shifts. Thorin's world will become an even darker place than it already is if Frerin has fallen.

Thorin is changed since Smaug came and the fall of Erebor. He is plagued by dark moods and bitter thoughts. There are days when his bitterness overrides, completely, his love and reverence for his grandfather and replaces them with thoughts and words close to treasonous in nature. Times when he speaks of Thror's gold-sickness and descent into madness as though Thorin and Thorin alone should have prevented it. Such moods have become increasingly common in the recent months, moods that often only Dis with her bright youth and adoration of her older siblings seems able to bring Thorin out of. Dwalin fears that not even she will be able to bring Thorin from his grief should the so-called Sun Prince have fallen.

Thorin walks away, bellowing orders, and Dwalin thinks (as he has many times before) that the names their people have given the two princes become more apt with every passing month. Frerin is the Sun Prince. With his golden hair and bright smile, an eye for causing mischief that makes even Thror smile on a good day and an easy laugh that is infectious in its brilliance. They call Thorin the Night Prince and at times like this it is easy to see why. At times he shines as brightly as the full harvest moon (something none of them should be as familiar with as they now are) but can be as foreboding as a fire moon and as dangerous as those nights when the moon is hiding, and the cold of winter has taken hold. Thorin is as dark and forbidding as such a night now. No one would ever be foolish enough to address either of them by these monikers to their faces, but the use them readily enough in private.

That said, Dwalin is young enough to be proved wrong.

"Any sign?" He asks Balin when his brother approaches. He isn't holding onto much hope, but for Dis and Thorin's sakes he hopes that Frerin can be found.

"Not a one," Balin shakes his head. His face is drawn with his own exhausted grief but, like Dwalin, he has thrown himself into his duty to his king. "One fellow thought he saw Frerin vanish like smoke, but he's taken an axe to the skull and may not live until morning at any rate. Likely the axe blow has muddled his wits as well as his tongue."

"Aye," Dwalin agrees. He has taken his share of blows to the head in his time. "That would do it."

"Dis will need watching when we return," Balin says, then, "the news will be harder on her, I fear."

Dis had wanted to join them, determined that it was her right and her place. Durin's line, however, must endure and although Frerin is promised to the daughter of Fhrna in exchange for a safe home and troops it is the daughter of Thror's line upon whom the future of Durin's line must rest. Dwalin had feared she would need to be chained to her bed when Thorin had described her reaction to being left, but she had watched them with her head held high and her bearing coldly regal. This news will be difficult to accept.

"I will watch her," he promises.

T.A. 2941 Lake Town

Lake Town is an utter shit hole. It's the only way that Dwalin feels he can describe the place and even that feels generous. It's a town built of wood on a freezing lake at the foot of a dragon infested mountain. It shows. The people are thin and clad in rags, their eyes carry that same desperate cast that Dwalin became so familiar with in the eyes of every dwarf who fled Erebor. They have nothing, here, nothing to trade and no major passing trade routes to draw people in except the occasional caravan from the Iron Hills and what trade they have with Thranduil and the wood elves.

Goods are expensive, even basic food seems to cost more and they saw little sign of farms between the edges of Mirkwood and the shores of the lake. The hobbits say that there isn't enough life in the land to grow much, Dwalin doesn't know what to make of that but he can see evidence of it with his own eyes. If he had spent all of his life in the mountain of his birth, he might never have noticed this simple fact but with the years of travelling that he has done it has become something to watch out for. Rich farmland means work, smithing for Thorin and hard labour for him. Rich farmland means money and a full belly. Barren land such as they have just passed through means empty pockets and the heels of stale bread with mouldy cheese, if there is cheese to be had at all. Dwalin doubts many of the inhabitants here have even that much. His concern about their supplies is minimal. They have gold to purchase what they need and rather more of it than they would have had if they had been forced to leave their belongings in the Elf King's halls. A dwarf will always keep half of his gold in his travel pack and half of it hidden about his person. It is a lesson hard learnt but learn it they have and even the hobbits know it.

Money, however, is Gloin's concern. Dwalin is more concerned with the security of their group. Apparently, that has also become Nori's worry. The thief has already thwarted two attempts to pick pockets that Dwalin has seen, so he's probably handled more besides. The old warrior frequently finds his gaze lingering on the thief, entranced by long, delicate, fingers and sharp, moss green eyes. It's inconvenient and unwanted so he does his best to ignore it and turns his attention to the rest of the group.

The hobbits are in poor shape, barely recovered from the sickness that infects Mirkwood and now upon the deep water of the lake. Hobbits, he has learnt, don't swim, they sink. Had they been given a choice Dwalin doubts they would be here. They would have waited on the other side of the bridge with Fili and Frerin, and likely Bofur and Bifur as well, for the rest to return. Thorin wouldn't hear of it, firstly because they have no way of knowing if they are still being pursued (and that they have seen no sign of it is highly suspicious to Dwalin's eyes) and secondly because whatever he fought about with Frerin the night before has left Thorin watching his younger brother with dark suspicion. Frerin isn't talking to him at all.

The hobbits aren't the only ones struggling with being on the lake. Fili is as well. The golden-haired prince is the most powerfully stone-born dwarf Dwalin has ever encountered. He would never have left the mountain had Erebor endured and in that, at least, its fall has been to Fili's benefit. Now, however, Dwalin can see why those so closely linked to the stone rarely leave their mountains and never look upon the sky. It would appear that prolonged periods over water leave as powerful a dwarf as Fili as off kilter as a dazed child. Dwalin had almost expected this problem of the hobbits, they had struggled riding after all, but he should also have thought it of Fili. It took the prince longer to master riding than it had others of his peers (which had been their first clue that his Stone Sense, when it developed, would be strong).

Dwalin catches Thorin's eye to find him looking at his eldest sister-son with concern. They need to get off this floating heap of kindling and back on dryland. Thorin obviously agrees and is no doubt internally chastising himself for not having considered this possibility. This town isn't safe, not just because of the pick-pockets or the desperate gazes of the locals. The Company is drawing attention, as such a group made up of fourteen dwarves, two hobbits and a Mahal-cursed elf must surely do. They might have managed to pass as a group of travellers fallen on hard times if the elf wasn't with them. Dwalin had wanted to leave him tied to a tree on the edge of the forest but the pointy-eared bugger doesn't seem to sleep, or if he does Dwalin couldn't catch him at it. Thranduil's own son walks with them and the longer he stays the less Dwalin likes it. No one likes it, not even the hobbits and Frerin who had all seemed so cozy with the elves in Rivendell.

"I cannot go back," the elf had said on the edge of Mirkwood. "By now my father will know that I was the one who freed you. Not even the fact that I am his son will spare me his wrath. I doubt he would go so far as to earn himself the name Kinslayer, at the very least I will be cast out or locked within the same cells I released you from. At this point all I can do is continue forward with you."

Thorin dislikes elves, probably more than any other dwarf, but even he had done little more than grunt and allow the elf to stay. His king had spouted some nonsense about owing the elf a debt for releasing them, grudging and aware that they don't have the time to spare to argue, but Dwalin is firmly of the opinion that they wouldn't have needed releasing if they hadn't been locked up by the same bastard in the first place. Ori seems to have the job of keeping watch over the elf well in hand, and he can admit that Fili's choice of the scribe had baffled him until he saw the youngest Ri brother prattling away with Legolas. The elf probably doesn't even realise that Ori is trying to work out what motivated him to help in the first place.

"And just where do you lot think you're off to?" A voice demands as several guards step in front of them to halt their progress.

"The market," Balin replies blandly. They would prefer to keep Thorin's identity a secret rather than alert these Men to their destination. These are a desperate people with nowhere to go. They will not look kindly upon anyone who might disturb the dragon. "We're on our way to the Iron Hills and need to get supplies."

"I see," the owner of the voice is an oily man, skinny with bad skin and yellow teeth, careless of his appearance in a way that no dwarf would ever be unless given no other choice.

"If you'll just allow us to continue," Balin says, thumbs in his belt and face mild and open. His brother has always been capable of dissembling with as much ease as he uses a sword. Unfortunately, Dwalin doesn't think the Man believes him.

"We weren't expecting any caravans," the Man says. "Perhaps you should come and explain it all to the Master."

"We aren't traders," Kili cuts in with a bright smile. "We're just on our way to visit our kin so that my brother can get married."

Which is almost plausible. Dwarves guard their ways and their customs jealously. There is no way for the Men to know that they don't actually need their family with them or to give permission for a marriage to happen.

"You can explain it to the Master," the Man says, and several extra guards appear.

They could fight their way out, Dwalin knows, but it won't do them any good. They're too far into town and, as hard as Fili is trying to get his focus back Dwalin knows that he, and the hobbits, are too dazed for it. Dwalin has never realised just how much influence the stone must have on one like Fili. Fortunately, the likelihood of them ever having to fight on the water was always slim. Unfortunately, the few possibilities seem to have manifested themselves when Fili hasn't had the chance to adapt (and Dwalin knows that eventually he would).

He glances over at Thorin, just from the corner of his eyes, and sees Thorin shake his head and make a couple of sharp gestures. Not yet, wait. So, they follow quietly, the elf included, and Dwalin wonders if they are ever going to make it to the damned mountain.