All That Is Gold

by Bazylia de Grean

All in vain, the voices sing in a chorus, all in vain, there is nothing but empty stone halls and gold, but is gold not what you wanted, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir of Durin, heir of Erebor, heir of the Throne Under the Mountain, heir of the empty halls and ashes and ghosts of the past.

2. Chapter 2

For Kaja.

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. . .

For a moment, he is certain that the hobbit is a real burglar, a real thief, than the hobbit has taken the Arkenstone. But then Bilbo looks at him, perplexed, and opens his palm. Thorin stares at the acorn in disbelief, his rage washing over him like a wave, leaving him baffled, even amused by his own suspicions.

Baffled. Amused. Shaken. He looks at the acorn – the smallest thing, so insignificant among all the treasures of Erebor – the most important thing – and he remembers.

The smell of damp earth, right after the rain. The taste of water from a mountain stream, clearer than any crystals, more potent and heady than any wine. The winds in his hair and in his lungs. Sunlight, warm on his face – the sun, his thoughts cry in triumph and relief, that other kind of gold is called the sun. The simple life in Ered Luin – the difficult life in Ered Luin – the life in Ered Luin, while Erebor is nothing but a tomb full of memories.

Thorin turns and walks away, but for one day, for one moment, he remembers. He looks at his treasures: gold and silver and mithril, crystal and gems: sapphires, emeralds, diamonds. So precious. So worthless. He remembers. The gold of sunsets and sunrises, the silver of dawn, the mithril of moon and stars on a clear winter night. The sky reflected in the mountain meres, light blue sky at noon and dark blue sky at dusk, deeper than any shade of sapphires. Grass, soft under his fingers, greener than any emeralds. Sparkling streams, brighter than any diamonds. He remembers, everything, he remembers that more difficult and yet simpler life. So worthless. So priceless.