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 4: Here at the Gates the King awaits

Twelve Days before Durin's Day

"Is that really how Khazad-dûm was chosen?"

Thorin smiled at his grand-nephew's gasping, breathless exclamation. Kílan and Fílan were attentive listeners, but as with all small children, had a tendency to blurt out their thoughts without censure.

"Indeed it is. And both of you bear the blood of Durin. My blood."

They were no longer in the healer's wing, instead seated in front of the fireplace in the royal family's quarters. Fíli and Kíli were stillat the healers', seeing to the other wounded, but had asked their uncle to take the boys away from the strained emotions of the place. Hence, Thorin found himself on child duty, distracting the older two children while Fíli put his young daughter to bed and the others saw to Vestri, who was still unconscious.

The lads were a healthy, sturdy fourteen, about the same as a child of men at the age of six or seven. Their growth would continue to slow over the next decade, with a few spurts, though both would be their adult heights by about twenty-five or thirty. It was then that they would begin their training intensely, and be counted as an adult in limited ways until they reached full adulthood and independence at age seventy.

It was a pattern of maturing that continued to cause consternation and uncertainty among most Men and even some elves, though the hobbits seemed to have little trouble with it. Thosefriendly beings simply shrugged and told any who asked that it was similar to a hobbit's tween years, just a bit longer.

Strawberry blond and brunette heads rested upon his shoulders, almost too big now for him to hold this way. He hugged them to him, reveling in their presence and recalling similar nights with the dwarflings' fathers long ago. He was tempted to tell them the truth of what Mahal said next, mostly because it would disconcert those very fathers when repeated in the worst possible company and at the most inappropriate time, but he refrained. Perhaps later, when the drama had settled down, and they knew Vestri would be well, he would take his delayed revenge upon his sister-sons, for what curse was more potent than that of a parent wishing similar child rearing experiences on their children as they had suffered?

*"Now..." Mahal fixed the eldest dwarf Father with a stern, yet amused, glare. "Let us speak of these oaths that have become popular among your people involving certain of my body parts..."*

"-cle? Uncle? May I ask you something?" The little blond tilted his head, trying to peer up into Thorin's face.

"What is it, Fílan?"

The boy hid his face in Thorin's shoulder, his apprehensive whisper barely distinguishable.

"Can you ask Mahal not to call Mama and the baby to him? I need her here. Please?"

At hearing his cousin's words, Fíli's son, Kílan, also burrowed into the rich fur of Thorin's robe, sniffling a bit. The king sighed, hugging both children to him once again. Over their heads, he met the eyes of Fíli, who had frozen in the doorway, a single tear trailing down his face at his little nephew's plea.

"No one can know the future, Fílan, nor what Mahal has planned for our lives. We will do all that we can to help your mother, but it may be that Mahal has more use for her with him and we will have to be strong and accept that."

Just as Durin himself had no idea of what lay ahead for himself and his brothers. Had he known, would he have quit? Thorin snorted to himself in disgust for the random inanity. Of course not! They were dwarrow, made of stone and meant to endure!

First Age, 211

"I, Durin, Lord of Khazad-dûm, welcome the sons of my six brothers to my kingdom! Enter!"

With a dramatic flourish of the king's hands, dwarrow pulled the cloth that had covered the openings high on the mountain's sides, bathing the room in light with their lord at the center. In front of him, the first representatives of the other six dwarrow kingdoms gazed around in awe, making Durin beam in pride at his people's accomplishments.

It had not even been two hundred years since he led them from Gundabad, from the place of his awakening, to start chipping away at the back of a rude rock cave. Less than a single dwarf's lifespan, and there was now a network of thirty rooms sheltering all from the winter weather, heated by the blaze of multiple forges working the iron pulled from two mines. Soon, there would be a true city within, one that any of his brothers would envy, yet it was not in Durin's make-up to dream so small. No, even the model in front of him, lit by the sun coming from above, was but a small portion of the kingdom he meant to build here, a city to hold not hundreds of dwarrow, but thousands! The greatest wealth of Middle Earth lay waiting to be discovered here, to forge the finest of weapons, the most beautiful of ornaments!

Yes, indeed, he had only just begun!

Still grinning broadly enough to make the muscles in his face actually ache, he turned then to his taller guest, sunlight highlighting the elf's dark hair with glints of purplish-blue, the same color as the armor he wore.

"Well?" Eöl, who, Durin had noted, made a habit of tweaking others to provoke them, simply smirked, making the dwarrow king roll his eyes, smile dimming just a bit. "Are you going to answer me, or stand there being as infuriating as those pain in the neck cousins of yours settling in the forests beyond?"

If the tall Teleri elf wished to play games, well, never let it be said that Durin backed down from any competition! Besides, it was just plain entertaining to rile the glower solitary elf who had wandered Middle Earth early on, making his living by his smithing. And such work it was, too! The king could not help admiring the armor that the other wore, a black metal that the dwarf actually did not recognize, though it was clearly very flexible. Eöl bristled in mock-outrage, as the king knew he would. There was no love lost between the Nandor or Dana elves and the Teleri, though neither were all that forthcoming as to why.

"No kin of mine! Just for that, I might not share the secret of the armor I wear with you after all!"

"Hmm..." Durin forced himself to remain still, not showing any hint of the curiosity that was all but eating him alive even as he absently noted the true malice in his friend's voice at the mention of the other elves. But it was not his place to interfere in such things. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this, then."

Opening his fist, the king displayed the small medallion he had just retrieved from his pocket, white metal gleaming with its own inner light. Mithril, they had named it, a pure silver like unto no other metal in all of Middle Earth. Durin chuckled as the elf's eyes widened fractionally before he caught himself and gave the dwarf a rueful grin.

"Well, now that we've thoroughly provoked one another, shall we join the others? Your vassals seem disinclined to wait upon their king's pleasure."

Durin merely grunted, waving the elf through the smaller secondary guard room, with its huge metal doors, and into the grand reception room beyond, where tables groaning under their loads of food were rapidly filling with dwarrow. The king waved several dwarrow who had finally noted the presence of their monarch back to their meal before turning to the elf.

"Never stand between dwarrow and the first mug of ale and leg of meat; no respect, the lot of them."

As his guest found a seat and both assauged their hunger, Durin considered the elf, not liking what he saw. Eöl had only visited a handful of times over the last hundred years, though that was due at least in part to the battles waging in the west. Melkor, the renegade Valar, had been contained for the moment, unable to locate the hidden stronghold of the elves at Gondolin, but that gave the dwarrow king no ease. Something was coming, something big...

"What did our dear Fingolfin want with you at Gondolin?"

Eöl interrupted his thoughts, sarcasm heavy in his naming of the High King of the Noldor. Durin grunted, rolling his eyes.

"Firebeard and Broadbeam have been aiding him with a few building projects, and he wanted another opinion of their work. As if they would do less than their finest, even if he is an elf. The watchtower will not soon fall, even to Melkor's beasts. Not unless he can create something that flies and can melt two foot thick granite, anyway."

"Be wary of that one, my friend. He and his kin are treacherous at the best of times."

Negligently waving a roasted turkey leg at the elf, Durin grinned nastily.

"And here, I thought all the Noldor were supposed to be wise and noble to a fault. You break my illusions, Eöl!"

The smile he received in answer was strained, the elf merely picking at his own meal. The dwarf barely heard the whispered response, as if it were not meant for his ears at all.

"Hardly... How I wish that were true."

******888*****

Later, Durin reflected that it was just as well he saw his friend but twice more after that day, for the elf had grown dark and bitter as the years passed. His forge work had long aided his kin against the scourge of the orcs, goblins, and other dark creatures, but had he ever been given the accolades he deserved for such? No! The Nandor were as stingy with their praise as their gold, even to one supposedly their own. When, in the year 400, word reached the dwarrow of Khazad-dûm that Eöl had been executed for the accidental slaying of his own wife, Durin wept, but he was not surprised. It was simply the first of the incidents that would strain the relations between elf and dwarf to the breaking point, held fast only by their mutual enemy, Melkor.

Nine Days Before Durin's Day

Thorin paused in his recitation, smiling tenderly at the small body breathing softly in his lap before meeting the eyes of his audience. Kíli was stretched out upon the far edge of the bed, his shoulder serving as a pillow for his wife's head as she blinked tiredly, barely more awake then the dwarfling he held. Fíli and his wife were seated nearby, picking away at finger foods as they enjoyed this rare quiet evening together.

Everyone had been overjoyed when Vestri actually woke earlier in the day, though all knew the pregnant 'dam was not out of danger by any means. Fora dwarf to be unconscious for almost three entire days... The healers were cautiously optimistic, allowing the family some privacy so long as Vestri was kept quiet and calm. At least Kili's grim, pale face had taken on greater animation, the spark reviving in his eyes as he pressed a kiss to his wife's sweaty hair.

"I think that's enough for tonight,love. You need rest."

"And you don't?" Vestri shot back, leveling a glare at her husband, who swayed a bit as his body became used to standing once more. "Fíli, take him and if he won't sleep on his own, knock him over the head with the mug the sleep draught came in, would you?"

The older prince laughed softly as he straightened, a sleeping dwarfling in his good arm. Kílan barely stirred at his changed position, having fallen asleep well before even little Kala, whom Thorin still had. Austri handed an equally sound asleep Fílan to Thorin, unwilling to trust her pledge brother's steadiness. If the younger prince of Erebor had managed more than three hours' rest in the last three days, all of them would have been surprised.

"I will, and gladly, Vestri." Fíli affirmed with a wicked chuckle. "Austri will stay with you tonight."

"I can stay!"

Kíli abruptly objected, red rimmed eyes widening as his mind finally tracked the discussion. There was sweat on his forehead and a sluggishness to his movements that concerned the king and Thorin knew he had slept only a handful of hours since the accident, all bad signs. Since their return, Kili's health had never been as robust as prior to the quest. He could not afford more sleepless nights when the hand on his cane already shook as he struggled to stay standing.

"No!"

Several voices merged in denial, though the dwarf prince had ears for only one. Vestri gently squeezed the hand she still held, physically able to do little else. Even her voice was growing weaker as exhaustion set in.

"Please, love. I will worry about you otherwise. Rest tonight. I will be here in the morning, eager to hear more of Thorin's history."

Thorin held back his snort of amusement at the ease with which the redhead manipulated his sister-son. The girl was decidedly Glóin's daughter, but with all of her 'dam's legendary wiles. Not even sorrowful brown eyes would earn a reprieve, though Kíli tried it faithfully anyway. Finally, the king stepped in, shoving the brunette's shoulder with an elbow as Fili used his splinted arm to steer his brother forcefully to the door.

"Let her sleep, Kíli. That is an order."

First Age, 502

Durin the Deathless stared at the Firebeard in astonishment at the sheer audacity the other showed, coming here with such a request. Though he did not have much use for the elves, who seemed to believe themselves superior to all others who walked Middle Earth, he also had no cause to actively hate them. Well, except those who had a hand in the death of his friend, Eöl, though that one should have known better than to try locking up his wife and son that way. Maeglin, the son of Eöl, however, had forever earned the anger of the dwarrow, and Durin had sworn never to step foot in Gondolin again while he lived.

Though the Noldor were not directly related to the problem at hand, for once, as Thingol was of the Sindarin lords. A snooty bunch, to be sure, but they had maintained friendship with the dwarrow of the west, even as the trouble in Gondolin led to the breaking of ties elsewhere. Though friendship was perhaps not the ideal word to describe their relationship. Greed would encapsulate it better, Durin mused, glowering at the messenger, who happened to be his brother Firebeard's youngest son.

"You would have me lead my people against those who have only avenged the wrong wrought upon them by your kinsmen? You dare much."

The messenger, who had not even the simple courtesy to give his name though he was known to many here, straightened in outrage, exactly as the king wished. If the young dwarf would not obey simple politeness, he would not be treated with any, especially as he had the gall to bring armed guards into Durin's presence with him, as if the dwarf Father might prove a threat. Besides, Durin's own spies had already reported to him the truth of the matter, but he wished to see how the messenger had been told to present the tale. Lying to the King of Khazad-dûm and eldest of Mahal's children would be a great offense, and enough to justify his refusal.

"We ask that you aid us in avenging our people! We built Thingol's city, taught his inept smiths, supplied him with weapons with which to save his people from the twisted creatures of the North, and he repaid the Khazad by refusing a simple price, the least of things beside all we had given, and then sought to slay those who had come in peace to his own halls!"

Durin didn't bother to rein in his temper, shooting to his feet with a roar that shook the very lanterns hanging in his great hall, the tainted truth being uttered by those he had called kin twisting his stomach with disgust.

"You asked what you knew would never be granted, and then used that refusal as justification to kill a king! Blatantly, in his own Hall! Your king was warned not to covet what he could not have. The Silmarils bring naught but grief to any who dare to do so!"

The messenger and his two escorts took several steps backward in fright, and the king resettled himself in the basalt throne, regarding them as one would children whose actions had vastly disappointed a long suffering parent. Defiantly, the lad had the audacity to snarl out a rebuttal.

"Your brothers' people need your aid, Durin King. Broadbeam calls the families to war. Would you dare to refuse your suffering kin?"

Durin had to fight himself to keep from snapping the insolent pup's head off for that one. But anger quickly gave way to other, deeper, emotions. By citing only Broadbeam's name, the messenger had subtly reminded Durin of the death of the lad's father, Firebeard, thirty years prior. A death that Durin might have prevented had he joined the hosts against Morgoth, as his western brothers urged, but none of them had expected the fearsome winged beasts called dragons. It was a guilt he would carry unabated to the end of days, but the intended manipulation served only to flare his anger anew. This time, he would not allow himself to indulge in it. His next words were spoken with all the sorrow of what he knew was to come, though it hurt him more than they would ever know.

"You suffer and die because of your own greed. I will not answer the call of my brothers' children for such a war, but offer my halls as sanctuary after you have mined the out the foul seam you follow, should any survive. You have doomed yourselves. Go."

As the other dwarrow scurried from the hall, his wife of many years placed a hand upon his arm. Durin closed his eyes, slumping as he leaned into the reassuring touch, the weight of in-numerous lives upon his shoulders. How many dwarrow had he just doomed to death? Had there been any other choice?

"You were overly harsh with him."

Durin snorted, placing his own callused hand over hers, some of the suppressed anger re-sparking.

"Not as rough as I would have liked to have been, Thís. Broadbeam knows better, but his grief for Firebeard has made him reckless. You notice he did not deign to come himself, sending a child instead. He knew what I would be forced to say. The last thing we need as a race is to be drawn into the petty squabbles of the Eldar. Backbiting, kin slaying, lying, good for nothing-"

"Durin!"

"Well, they are!"

He retorted, sounding more like his youngest grandchild then the mature dwarrow he was. Somehow, he had an uneasy feeling that they had not heard the last of this mess, even though those who actually killed the elven king were in turn destroyed by an alliance of elves and Ents. Walking, talking trees. Whoever heard of such a thing or thought it a good idea to have their firewood talk back?

Alright, maybe he did have cause to hate the elves.

Eight Days before Durin's Day

Feast of the Nobles

Laughter rippled through the hall at Durin's last thought, even among the elves. Tales of Durin the Deathless and his other incarnations would traditionally be told each night until the holiday itself. Thorin sat back, wishing he could have spent another evening with his family, but the celebrations had begun, unable to be delayed any longer. Many of his guests had begun grumbling at the initial delays caused by the accident and the tardiness of some of the invited; if he had not ordered the feasts to begin, he might have faced an uprising!

Around the great room, the light of hundreds of candles in the huge crystal chandeliers lit up the colorful garb of ladies and lords. As the chatter started, Thorin could hear at least three different languages and many more regional dialects, the various accents tangling with one another. Nobles representing every kingdom, fiefdom, and minor city-state in both the west and east were gathered here, save one.

Thranduil, who would not have found the story's end amusing at all, had he graced them, the undeserving, with his noble and perfect presence. The mere thought of the snooty forest king had Thorin's teeth grinding in anger. Most likely, Thranduil would arrive just before Durin's Day itself, a petty excuse on his lips to give the intended insult a gilded frame. He would get away with it, too, knowing the dwarrow could not justify a war against the Greenwood for such trivialities, as insulting as they were. Especially as few elves remaining in Middle Earth were his elder, and only one could be counted his superior.

Círdan, the Shipwright, whom all deferred to, no matter their race, for the simple reality that he did not take sides lightly. Thranduil had undoubtedly dismissed him as a consideration, knowing the older elf never left the Grey Havens. Thorin had never met the worthy elf, though the first Durin had, once, as had the fourth, so it was with considerable surprise that he heard a vaguely recollected voice call out to him.

"Lord Durin! I am pleased to greet you once more and ask forgiveness for my tardiness. It has been long since I traveled this land. I had forgotten how immense it is." The bearded elf bowed his head respectfully before penetrating grey eyes pierced through all the protective layers the king shrouded his mind in. "You have overcome that which consumed many who would have counted themselves stronger then you, walking through the tempering fire and washed clean by the ancient waters. I am pleased that Celebrimbor's opinion has proven true, though it took overly long, even for one of the lesser races."

All Thorin could do was stare at this most unusual and ancient being for a minute before huffing irritably. Beards did not belong on elves, period! He looked like a spear converted into a mop. Badly. His answer came not from Thorin Oakenshield, but one long since gone back to the stone.

"Círdan. You've been staring at the sea too long if that's the best you can do. You sound like a drunk priest."

Several nearby elves gasped, scandalized, but Círdan allowed a rare slow smile to crack his solemn face before leveling a glare at the chortling twin sons of Elrond.

"As neither Galadriel nor Elrond are here any longer, it has fallen to me to uphold your expectations of elves that is all."

"You're badly out of practice." Thorin judged bluntly, handing the tall being a glass of wine. "Leave the mysterious insults and outrageous behavior to Thranduil, he's much better at it."

It felt decidedly odd, to banter with an elf he had only just met in such a manner, but something deep within felt a tie to this odd being. Thorin sighed, not bothering to fight the feelings he knew came from one of the other Durins. Time had taught him the futility of resisting the parts of himself that were still in many ways mysterious and foreign. Instead, he tried to think of them as friends that he knew well enough to know what they would say in a given situation, as he did Balin. How many times had he sworn over the last twenty one years that he heard his old friend muttering in his ear, chastising or encouraging, as needed? So, this elf was a friend, as much as the idea would have once repulsed the king.

"What is truly your problem?"

The elf shrugged, downing the wine in a single gulp and depositing the glass on the empty tray of a passing servant.

"I do not care to be underground and so far from the ocean, that is all. Nor was I pleased to hear just now that Thranduil's absence had delayed the timing of the traditional ceremonies. Now I must stay within the mountain rather than having the leisure to travel from Lorien for each." Círdan's lips thinned in annoyance, beard bristling as if it were a separate living thing. "Rest assured that I will be having strident words with our noble King of the Greenwood when he deigns to deliver unto us his august presence."

Thorin grinned in anticipatory satisfaction, deciding there might be some advantage to being friends with certain elves after all.

"Excellent. May I await an invitation to be included in that audience?"

The Shipwright quirked an eyebrow up, amused at the malicious glee displayed by the long-suffering king.

"It would be my pleasure, Lord Durin."

Thorin rubbed his hands together, making those nearest him laugh, before turning away. At least one elf would receive the comeuppance they so richly deserved in the days ahead!