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.
Chapter 2: The road is now calling
Fourteen Days before Durin's Day
"And so it was that Durin's Folk took the name of 'Longbeard' as their own, a mix of all the different clans. They prospered, each addition adding his or her mastery to the well-being of the kingdom, for they knew what it was to be outcast. Durin wed the daughter of Blacklock, as she chose to stay, far from the scorn of a father with so many sons that he did not need a female child to take up the roles of politics and diplomacy. After all, what could a mere 'dam know of such things?"
Thorin smiled to himself in satisfaction as he heard the scandalized murmurs from some of the audience at such an idea. The western dwarrow, at least, knew better than to try restricting their dams from anything they wished to do, though the very survival of their race had dictated that most did not fight openly as soldiers anymore. Rohan and the elven kingdoms were the only others that Thorin knew of to practice such openness, mostly for defense, though Gondor was slowly changing. Arwen was not one to confine herself to any 'proper role' should she decide it restricted what she wished to do. Last Thorin had heard, this was coming as quite the shock to some of Aragorn's nobles.
He knew that the stories he told now were considerably romanticized, but so was much that was allowed to be heard by young ears. They would not understand that Durin had first turned away those who became the petty dwarves, unwilling to interfere with the rule of his brother. After all, they had been responsible for the death of Blacklock's wife, no matter that Durin suspected it had truly been a tragic accident, not a cold-blooded assassination, as dwarrow histories even now told.
Someday, he would have the time to write such things down, even if few would believe the truth. He snorted, drawing some puzzled looks from the children. Mahal knew, it was not that long ago that he was counted among that stubborn, ignorant number. Deliberately, he smiled down at the little flame-haired lass at his feet, ignoring the pointed ears and delicate features that once would have sent him into a rage. Not that he was so open with just any elf, especially the poncey lot in the Greenwood. No, he had simply learned to see a select few as individuals that he might actually get along with first, and elves second. It was a small change, really. Besides, who could resist the big green eyes and innocence of a child, no matter their race?
"What do you think, little Miss Ivorvir?"
The elfling, the first born in over three hundred years, grinned at the gruff king, not afraid of him in the least. To the daughter of Tauriel and Legolas, he was Uncle Torin, one in a list of monarchs her smile and bright laugh had charmed into becoming honorary kin, even when she mangled their names. Well, at least 'Torin' was better than 'Agragon'!
"Tell us about coming here!"
"Ahh… A worthy story for a very worthy audience. Very well, little one."
He did not, however, return his attention to the book in his lap. While very serviceable for most of the oldest stories, this was one tale where only the truth as he remembered it would do. Even as he spoke the first words, he could feel that part of himself that was 'Thorin' being set aside for Durin to speak of this, his earliest life.
"It was after the awakening of men and the return of Melkor, called Morgoth by the elves, that Durin faced the growing darkness in the north with dismay."
"NO!"
The roar erupted from the very back of the hall, where a short, stout figure pushed to the fore. It was Tirik, the King of the Stonefoots. Thorin stood, his voice deceptively soft as it was easily heard throughout the suddenly still hall.
"Is there a problem, Stonefoot?"
The other king flushed at the petty insult of being addressed by clan instead of by name, but he did not allow it to distract him as Thorin had hoped. Instead, he pushed the rest of the way through the crowd to stand just behind the seated children. His lip curled in disgust at the sturdy hobbit lad nearest him, one foot drawing back as if to kick the boy out of the way.
"If you value your life, do not complete that action, dwarf."
The warning came from an abnormally tall hobbit in the silver and black of Gondor, normally jovial face pinched in outrage. One hand rested upon the hilt of the blade at his hip, causing a stir among the watchers, though Thorin doubted it was the dwarf lord whose aid most would come to should steel be bared. Tirik growled low in his throat, but planted his foot back on the ground, addressing his fellow dwarrow monarch angrily.
"You would tolerate such a threat against the Head of one of the Seven, Longbeard?"
Thorin's lips thinned, eyes glittering an icy blue.
"To one who would harm a child, let alone that one? I will execute you myself should you so much as touch him, and none here would move to stop me." An angry murmur through the watchers confirmed the truth of that. By the absolutely dumbfounded look upon his face, Thorin was fairly certain the idiot did not know what he had just done. Finally, he took pity on the fool. "He is Frodo-lad, son of Lord Samwise the Brave, Hero to all free peoples of Middle Earth."
Tirik had the decency to blanch at that, stammering out a flustered apology. Too bad he did not stop with only one gaff.
"You would dare to share our most sacred histories with outsiders? And change them! Durin himself decreed-"
That was one step too far. It was the outrage of six lifetimes that drew the king up, his anger almost physically visible in a cloud about him.
"Do not speak to me of what I have decreed, arrogant kakhf."
The voice echoed, as if seven spoke as one, deep bass twining with lighter baritone to bounce off the stones and be heard throughout the great city. Several of the children cried out in alarm, curling into balls, and the little elf began to cry. Thorin blinked down at her, then his eyes softened and he bent, scooping her up before her mother could make her way to them.
"It is alright, little ones, the rude dwarf will leave."
Hearing the quiet reassurance, the other adults in the crowd wasted no time in parting for some of Thorin's guard, allowing them to pull the pale, sputtering Tirik from the hall. Returning his attention to Ivovir, he tickled her with his beard, making the tears give way to a giggle. Suddenly weary, the weight of too many years pressing down upon him, the king settled back, keeping the child on his lap.
"Now, where was I?"
First Age, 4
Grunting, Durin leaned over the map spread out on the stone table, one blunt finger tracing the line of the mountains that split Middle Earth in two. The elves called them the Misty Mountains, though the dwarrow had another name for them- the Place of Awakening. Straightening back up, the king met the eyes of the dwarrow gathered there.
"We cannot stay here."
The grim pronouncement was met mostly by nods, though a few looked ambivalent, including his son.
"We do not have to move, Father. We could close the gates, isolate ourselves. Melkor's goblins cannot force our defenses."
Nurin was a good lad, sturdy and an excellent warrior at just under one hundred years old, but there was much he had yet to learn. The Northlands had been growing darker every year as the corrupted Valar, Melkor, twisted more creatures to his own design, setting them upon any who resisted him. Goblins, orcs, foul trolls, giant intelligent wolves and great worms that could tunnel through even granite had been seen all too close to the dwarrow stronghold at Gundabad. With no other settlements of free peoples near to them, the Longbeards were too tempting of a target for Melkor to test his foul creations on. Every year, holding a secure route to the south became harder, requiring more warriors.
"And what then, lad? Our people cannot grow and prosper without the exchange of goods. No, far better for us to leave this place. It grows too small to hold our people, anyway, and Mahal whispers to me that there are secrets yet to be discovered in the earth if I but search for them."
"The east is too harsh a land, with scarce resources. We cannot go that way."
Unsurprisingly, it was his wife who gave that opinion. The Blacklock dam had grown in boldness and surety as she found her husband open to her opinions, even when he did not agree with them. Now, though, none would doubt one who had seen firsthand the hard life of the east.
"Well, we canna go west, either." Iari, a Firebeard transplant, sounded disgusted. "That's the center of the fighting. Not to mention those cursed elves."
Durin instantly leveled a quelling glare at him, unwilling to reopen that particular mess at the moment. Around them, the earth shook, making even the sturdy, short dwarrow grasp at tables and chairs to keep their balance. Distantly through the rock walls, they heard the deep sound of a horn blown in alarm. Durin swore softly, jerking a head at one of the guards to go find out the situation before returning to their discussion. One blunt finger stabbed onto the map decisively, though he could not say why he was so certain.
"'Tis the spine of Middle Earth that will have a new home for us. Here, somewhere within the Misty Mountains."
Torin, the first dwarf to join him, nodded, one hand sweeping back black hair now liberally streaked with silver, started to say something, then amended it at the look upon his monarch's face.
"Very well. I will let the guards know to prepare an expedition."
"I will go with you, Father."
"NO!" Durin had not meant for the word to explode so harshly from his mouth, wincing as his eldest son recoiled from him, but he had been unable to surpress the instant sense of 'wrong' that accompanied the offer. "Sorry, lad, but I must go alone. It is the will of Mahal. And I need you here, along with your mother, to lead and protect our people."
****88888****
His people watched, silent, as he left the next day with only a small pack upon his back and a great war ax on his shoulder. The preceding hours had been filled with shouting, threats, and even tears, but the dwarrow Father would not be swayed from his path. He knew it was the will of Mahal, and should he try taking another with him, it would serve only to sacrifice their life.
Such travel, however, was not lightly undertaken, especially alone, so he vowed to avoid what fights he could. Days turned to weeks, and still, Durin wandered, unsure of where his path would lead. It was not long after that before Durin encountered servants of Morgoth. True to his principles, he did not attack them, though the creatures were loathsome, twisted and diseased, with dark skin and a crooked, jerky gait. They, however, were not so polite, hooting and hollering as they swarmed him. The fighting lasted for several minutes, with Durin almost overwhelmed by his foes' sheer numbers several times, but the mighty smith began to prevail at last.
It was then, however, that fate took a hand in Durin's tale; the dwarf took a single step backward onto ground that crumbled at his weight, sending him rolling down the hillside. Loose rock began to slide with him, and soon he was surrounded by boulders rolling and jumping, threatening to smash the smith. The pack was torn from his back, the ax almost opening new wounds, then his head hit something harder than it, and he knew no more.
*Durin gasped in surprise as he found himself standing upon stars and air instead of solid ground, the light glowing a flickering red on his right. Clang! The sound of a mighty hammer echoed all around, a sound so pure and strong that he could almost see it, causing the stars to shimmer and wink.
"You stand in my forge, my son. I have brought you here to give guidance. Seek a place where the waters are clean and pure, but black, and my stars reflect in them even by day. There you will find a place to bring your people, protected and rich in all you need."*
Twelve Days before Durin's Day
"Khazad-dûm! Mahal tells him how to come here!"
The breathless exclamation from a dwarfling with a bristling red beard brought a gleam of approval to Thorin's blue eyes, but before he could continue, another voice rang through the room.
"Lord Durin!"
Thorin broke off his narrative, head jerking around to locate the source of the call. It was one of the younger sentries, face flushed from running in full armor. The king's heart leapt into his throat. Watchers had been set to all the walls, as the caravan arriving from Erebor had been two days overdue with no word as to why.
"What is it?"
He did not bother keeping his voice down, knowing the information would be spreading through the city soon enough, anyway. Dwarrow were almost as fond of gossip as hobbits.
"A pony in the princes' pack train from Erebor spooked. There are injured!"
The king never noticed the heavy tome hitting the floor as he ran from the hall.