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.

3. Chapter 3

For Hildy.

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. . .

Fíli cries out. Kíli falls to his knees. Thorin freezes. Staggers. Chokes on a breath, because the scene is painfully familiar.

It is winter in Ered Luin, and his nephews are learning how to skate, enthusiastic about all the snow and ice and even the cold. Thorin watches, close enough to help, if need be, far enough to let the boys feel confident that they can do it on their own. Shouts, the swishing of blades, the sky vast and wide and open over their heads.

Fíli cries out. Kíli falls to his knees. Thorin freezes. Staggers. Gets to his nephews, sees Kíli's scraped hands. Thinks of what Dís will say, is afraid of what Dís will say.

"Don't worry, uncle." Kíli smiles at him briefly, lightly. "I won't tell Mum."

Shouts, the swishing of blades, the sky vast and wide and open over their heads. Thorin gets to his nephews, sees Kíli's scraped hands, the blood on his face, the deep wound in his side, a splash of red on his stomach, his breath, bubbling up in red on his lips. Thinks of what Dís will say, is afraid of what Dís will say, is frightened of what Dís will say.

"Don't worry, uncle." Kíli smiles at him briefly, lightly. "I won't tell Mum." He sighs, softly, as is falling into sleep, and closes his eyes. Stills. Still like a stone. He has always slept like stone. He will not tell his mother of Thorin's failing. He will not tell his mother of anything.

Fíli yells, rushes forward. Falls to his knees, and the sudden splash of red blinds Thorin for a moment, and now he is terrified. Not of what Dís will say. Of what she will not say. She will not speak. She will weep.

A flash of pain right through his chest, and Thorin thinks it is heartbreak, but then sees it is a spear lodged in between his ribs. He laughs, a terrible hollow laughter. He weeps. Tears blur his vision and so he does not notice another spear aimed at him. And another. Neither reaches his heart. No need; it is shattered already.

"I am sorry, little sister," he whispers, falling down to his knees. He knows that he will not tell her. He will not be there to tell her.

He staggers, tries to get up, falls onto his back. Closes his eyes.

Distant shouts. The swishing of blades. Beloved voices, now silent, beloved faces, still like stone. His heart in tatters. The sky forgiving, vast and wide and open over his head.