Chapter 19: The Mountain awaits

The shores of the long lake Thorin remembered had been a green garden land, fields and crops as far as the eye could see, but that was a thing of long distant memory. Nowadays the shore of the lake was the gate to the wilderness, the desolation stretching north. The entire company was at the shore, loading the horses. The horses and provision had been a surprising but welcome gift from the men of Esgaroth for which Thorin was grateful, with autumn upon them time was running short to be at the mountain before Durin's Day.

"Thorin?" he saw Kili approach him, his son had already saddled his horse, being one of the good riders in the group he had volunteered to take one of the larger animals. But he had something he wanted to speak to Thorin about, only that there had been little time in the city.

Walking over to the white horse, Thorin saw something lie beside Kili's pack on the soft sands. A rather large warhammer, made of dark steel. He could at once feel the echo from the weapon, any spellsmith would and Thorin with his finely attuned senses could hear the weapon sing to him. "Kili?" He asked, his eyes still on the weapon. "I take it you found a forge and time?"

"Something like that," Kili replied. "what do you think?" he could tell that his Uncle was curious. Thorin was a spellsmith of tremendous skill and had taught Kili and his brother, the younger bladesmith wanted Thorin's opinion on the weapon he had created.

Thorin picked up the hammer, the shaft was made of steel as well and the lower end was spiked, to be used in combat as much as the head. Now that he touched the weapon he could feel the powers coursing through the metal, there was strength in this weapon, pain also and a lot of fire, this weapon was made for slaughter, to mercilessly weed out the enemy ranks and then to come back for more, it would never fail its carrier and would not break under any common attack, it also held a strength it would only yield to its true wielder… the weapon was one to ride a bloodstorm with and come out on top. In the hands of a weak wielder though it could corrupt the wielder to become a butcher… such weapons always had that precarious balance if the wielder was not strong enough for them.

Contrary to Boromir's sword that was vibrant with rage and unbridled destruction, this hammer held less uncontrolled emotion, but it would bring a flood of blood and tears on the enemy. "What is his name?" Thorin asked, knowing the weapon had one.

"Stormcaller," Kili replied.

A good name, Thorin admitted, fitting, this was the weapon of a warleader, of someone fighting in the front rank, calling down the storm of blood, the wrath of battle. "I'd have called it Widowmaker," Thorin's comment was friendly, a light joke between two arcane smiths.

"There is not enough hate in it for that," Kili pointed out. "I have yet to master the skill to add cold to a weapon, icy rage and hate…"

Thorin put the weapon aside. "Kili! You have manifested the flame years before your time already and I would wish for you to never experience such hate and cold to be able to put itinto a weapon." Thorin was sure that the only one of the three of them to safely use cold in his weapons would be Fili, he was the only one who did not need hate and desperation to reach that point. And it remained to be seen whether Fili would ever manifest the spark and be able to work powers into his weapons. The gift was rare. "And I am worried to see how young you manifested the skill."

Kili shrugged. "It happened… it felt natural, like the fire has always been talking to me."

Many of the great smiths had talked like that, Thorin knew, his own mentor most certainly had and he too could hear the whispers of the fire, the deep voices of steel and stone but… he had been well over one hundred when it had begun. And he had rarely allowed himself to go all out, usually he retained a tight control while working, the few times he had pushed to his limit had been draining, frightening. One had to be able to pull all of himself into the work, pour their very soul into the hot steel and trust one would survive the crucible. It took a generous, giving soul, to do it, and a fearless heart to not fear the flame and the hammer. But Kili… Kili had an open, giving soul, Thorin knew that and while he was relieved to see that his son had not lost that trait in all he had been put through… he was worried. "Kili, there are dangers down that road," he began. "You have to put a lot of yourself in such works, of your soul, of your heart… and you can easily get destroyed by the process."

"Father," Kili grabbed his shoulders. "The flame has to burn you to cinders and the hammer has to smash you while you work like this… only thus you can come through the crucible. You have to light the pyre and prove that the legend of the Phoenix is true. I know it is dangerous because you come to like it too quickly, and if you don't control how much you do, you will drain yourself, but… I am careful at that, much as I love it, I will not burn myself out."

Like it too much? Thorin was amazed at the thought, while he could do it and create great works if he chose to, it was a great measure of will he needed to pour so much of himself into one work, he always had to push himself to do it, he could not imagine to revel in the process and liking it too much. He averted his eyes, he knew that this was the fatal flaw in himself, the part of his soul that was greedy, that wanted to possess and not give. He had striven all his life to combat the trait that had driven his grandfather mad with gold, but he still carried it. All the prouder was he that Kili was free of the taint. "The next time you work… I would like to be there, to see it." he said. "It is a good weapon you created, strong and powerful, the weapon of a warmaster."

Kili smiled. "You know for whom I made it," he replied honestly. "Mister Dwalin."

Thorin understood why Kili had spoken to him first, the gift of a weapon from a Prince, especially a weapon said Prince had created himself, carried the connotation of an oath in itself. And Dwalin was sworn to Thorin, a thoughtless gift could create confusions in loyalties and Kili was well aware of that. Thorin's eyes strayed past Kili and out to the lake. Born in exile and grown up under the guise of a nephew Kili had never been formally presented as a Prince of the Dwarves prior to their departure and when he had been on the day before departing for their quest no one had offered their servitude. The only follower he had was Boromir, and the warrior had been sent to him by a strange fate. Again anger rose in Thorin, both his sons, Kili and Fili, should have been raised a Princes, not wanderers. He considered simply letting this gift stand and see Dwalin's oath transfer to Kili, the old warrior would understand and protect Kili as fiercely as he had protected Thorin. He liked Kili, was close to him already. No, Thorin was not ready to let go of Dwalin, he needed him.

"Dwalin was your weapon's master, but after you passed the trial, we didn't have a ceremony," he said out loud, the whole situation had been messed up. Kili should never have gone against a whole warg pack, the trial should have been called off, and Dwalin had seconded him. It was something perfectly normal, many candidates asked for a second with less dire odds. But it had created bad blood, many felt the great warrior was favoring Kili and it had poisoned the situation after. By the time Kili had fully recovered from his injury Dwalin had been off, away for a war erupting in the east.

Kili's eyes shone, understanding. "This is not exactly a ceremony but… a good place to thank him for training me." He agreed. With what lay ahead, it would only be appropriate.

Thorin looked for Dwalin who had been discussing something with Boromir, pointing to Bifur's pony. "Dwalin," it did not take more than a short gesture of his head for the warrior to understand and join them away from the others.

"Thorin, Kili," Dwalin said when he stood with them. "Is something wrong?" His whole demeanor bespoke the fact that he expected them to have some detail of the journey that was not to be shared with the group.

"No, things are all right," Kili said, seeing the small nod from Thorin. "But with all that lies behind us now… and what awaits ahead, I remembered that I never thanked you for training me up as a warrior."

"T'was a privilege, lad," Dwalin waved it off, honest affection in his voice. "And you learned well." The way Dwalin's eyes strayed to the reaches ahead, the I hope it was enough remained unsaid.

Kili had taken up the heavy hammer, he had to use both hands to hold it, and Thorin could see how the muscles in Kili's arms tensed when he presented the weapon. "Dwalin, you taught me to fight, to stand and to face death like a dwarven warrior should," the young warrior smiled at the older dwarf. "You have my gratitude for your teachings and your protection. May this serve you well."

It was not quite the traditional words, but it was the words that fit best, Thorin thought, when Dwalin took the hammer with one hand, handling it with practiced ease. A part of this ceremony included – at least if the charge was of the royal house – forgiveness for all punishments the mentor had been forced to dish out over the course the training. In court it was a formal necessity, here it was clear that Kili had long understood why he had earned those many punishments and long forgiven Dwalin for the stern discipline. Thorin watched them embrace and then step back. He knew he'd never hear Kili refer to Dwalin as 'Mister Dwalin' again, nor would Dwalin grumble about the young imp that would be this old warrior's death one day, that had been between mentor and student and now was past.

When Kili was called away by Fili, Thorin reached for Dwalin's arm, holding him back. "Dwal," he said, looking past the warrior to the northern horizon. "If…iIf I do not come back from this…" he sighed. "Keep an eye on them."

"I'll protect your family as long as I draw breath, Thorin," Dwalin said fiercely. "But you won't die on this quest. Even if I have to find a way to marry the dragon and Thranduil… but you will not die here. Not when we are just on our way home."

Dwalin's grumbling suggestion about Smaug and Thranduil drove away the melancholic mood Thorin was in, making him all the more glad to have his friend by his side.

ADL

The wind had turned; a cold gale was blowing form the north and clouds were gathering along the autumn skies, leaves where whirling with the wind, dancing in the air like they wanted to forget the coming cold. Kili rose in the stirrups to get a better view on the hills ahead, before guiding the horse to walk up to the ridge. It was the tenth day of crossing the Desolation of Smaug and he had often volunteered to scout ahead, to search for a path through the wilds. It gave him time to get acquainted with the grounds near the mountain and to think of possible plans. Many things he could see in this land gave him clues about the dragon, there were burned hills that had seen fire only in recent years, and there were boneyards where he had found the remains of the dragon's hunts for hill goats and mountain sheep.

After finding these, he had also found a few other traces, including some old paw prints backed into the mud near a dying pool that told him something about the approximate size of the beast. None of these pieces of information were particularly useful right away, but they helped Kili to put together a picture of what he was faced with. He wished he knew more about the situation inside the mountain, but until then he could only learn what he was presented with about his adversary.

"You take to brooding like you want to beat your father at the art," Boromir had caught up with him. "Any new tracks of the dragon?"

"Not much, another bone ditch west of us, Smaug the 'Magnificent' has been dining on wild sheep for a while," Kili replied lightly. "He probably could also complain about too much mutton." He had forgotten that Boromir could read his emotions through the bond; until he saw the glance the man cast him.

"Playing mind games is useless until you see the enemy formation," he said.

"Voice of experience," Kili found the sage advice made him smile. "It's not just that, Boromir. I know I can't form a real plan for the dragon until we have found the door inside and scouted his lair. It is… this place."

"The desolation?" Boromir asked, as they rode ahead together, finding something of a stable path for the others.

"No, I am not bothered by finding bones and dragon traces all about," Kili explained. "I don't mind the dragon dung either, better to find it out here than inside the mountain." He looked over the hillsides where brown heather and grass marked grey ridges. "It is this place… my father, Dwalin, Balin… they speak of this place like it is… beautiful and all I see is a waste worse than the lone lands. I see that mountain ahead and I am farther from home than ever."

"It's their homeland but not yours, not yet at least," Boromir understood what Kili tried to explain. The young dwarf Prince had been born to Exile, growing up in Eriador or wherever the wanderings took his family. Home to him was the crumbling remains of Belegost and a smithy that was sitting on a half collapsed rock pillar.

"I don't know if it ever will be," Kili sighed. "I shouldn't talk like that, father missed Erebor for so long, I shall have to learn to love this place. But…" He shook his head. "No buts. This is home, the Kingdom of Erebor and all we need to regain it, is to kill a dragon."

They crossed another ridge and down in the vale they saw the scorched remains of a city, ruins of walls and towers slowly crumbling, the elements long having continued the work of the fire. In the grey autumn light the remains of the city looked gloomy and sinister but Kili smiled. "Now… that looks more like home," he said with a wink to Boromir. "We better have the group turn west, or we should end up at the main gate."

ADL

They made camp that night in the shadow of the mountain, standing at the mighty feet of Erebor for the first time in 120 years, Thorin had a hard time to fight off the ghosts of the past. Was this lonely desolate land truly the same beautiful country he remembered from his youth? Craning his neck he looked at the mighty flank of the mountain, finding the familiar sight hardly changed. Yes, this was home, his home, the Kingdom of the Dwarves. Gingerly he touched the grey rocks, feeling the rough stone under his fingers, the familiar echo of the mountain touching him.

"Sleep a few hours," he told the others. "Tomorrow we begin to scout the area. We will go in groups, always two together. Balin... you are the sharpest of us, I want you to go with Bilbo. We need to find the right spot before Durin's Day comes. Dwalin and I will scout the old sewer exit and the old ventilation shafts coming up from the deep. Kili, you and Boromir scout the main gate, assess the siege doors and anything else that might be of import there. Oin and Gloin, you take a look at the old high road and Bofur and Fili, you assist Balin and Bilbo. Bombur and Bifur have camp."

They all accepted their tasks without much discussion. Tired from the ride across the desolation they all lay down to sleep soon enough. Thorin too stretched out on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to find sleep and finding it harder than usual. He was here again… in his homeland. His father and grandfather had dreamt of this day but both had died without seeing their home again. And even Thorin's own journey here was an ominous one, it had been easy to believe in a sign back in the Ered Luin, back then in spring it had been so easy to believe that fate finally had given them a chance and a dragonslayer. Now, in the cold autumn night it was harder to stave off the doubts and the whole undertaking seemed more desperate than ever.

Thorin was walking the high halls of Erebor, the usually busy and noisy city was subdued today, most dwarves making haste in their doings, but trying to do it quietly. Whenever they saw him, they bowed deeply, their kind words hardly reaching him. 'Mahal with you,' 'Blessings upon your family' and 'The Deep's blessings upon you.' He hardly heard them and they did not expect their hero to truly recognize them. Not on a day such as this.

The rumor must have spread quickly from the palace, that King Thror, Thorin's grandfather had fallen ill. That was not such big news unto itself; Thrór was 243 years old and had become frail since the dragon's attack. Some said that seeing his grandson battle the beast under the great gates of Erebor had shaken his old heart. The news that their old king had caught a winter fever would not have caused such a stir, but this time it was different, whispered the servants at the palace. This time it was worse, Thrór had not woken in two days, he was failing rapidly, he lay in fever… he was dying. The latter rumor had reached the city in the afternoon and ever since the subdued mood had settled in.

Thorin mounted the long stairs to the palace, his own absence from the grand halls had been a reprieve from his grandfather's illness, a time to breathe and calm down. "Thorin," Balin came hurrying towards him, the councilor looked serious. "Please come with me… there is not much time."

"Is it… he is not…?" Thorin could not say it out loud.

"Aye, Lad," Balin replied. "He is dying, he will be with Mahal before the night is out. He wants to see you."

They reached the royal quarters where two healers just left, escorted out by the Captain of the Royal Guard. Thorin could hear Thrór's voice in the background. "Send them all away, Daroin. The healers, the wise ones… all. I am King and I have the right to die in peace!"

"There are none left, Sire, the last have gone." Thorin could easily discern Daroin's deep voice. "But Prince Thorin is here."

Thrór coughed. "Good. Send him in and that little brother of yours as well. Then go and find me a Goblet of wine, bring your harp while you are at it."

Thorin entered the room, finding Thrór sitting on his bed, supported by cushions. All the councilors and healers were gone and Thrór leaned back on the cushions with some expression of triumph on his tired face. "Thorin," he said with a smile. "I am glad you came. I already put it all in writing with the old vultures, but I want you here now."

"Put what in writing?" Thorin asked confused.

"You succession of course!" Thrór replied. "I can hardly die this night and leave my succession unclear. You are my only heir, the only heir I would want. The man who killed the dragon!"

"What of Thrain?" Thorin asked, he did not say 'father', he had not since the events during the dragon's attack. While he was calmer now about what transpired, he still found it hard to fully forgive Thrain's weakness.

"Thrain? Pah!" Thrór waved it off. "He went crazy, ran scared, wet himself and ran screaming murder from the mountain. That is no King, and no son of mine. I hear he was found by some young fool down from Dale who took him in. Thrain is a Prince no longer. You… you are my heir. You defended the mountain and our treasures; you are the future of Erebor."

Thorin bowed his head, accepting his grandfather's wishes, he had heard praise such as this a lot, since that day and usually it was sweet to receive the praise for the fearful battle he had fought. "I was not alone in that fight, grandfather." He reminded the old man.

"Your guard did good and their duty. A good royal guard is treasure unto itself, remember that when you are King. Your boys did splendidly, and Fundins sons… now I will forgive him on going on siring children right until he died, he produced a number of fine sons. But you, Thorin. You killed the dragon, you stood when Thrain ran and our armies failed… you did it. I could not be prouder and you will make a fine King. Just spare me the long funeral speech – I have heard enough of those when they buried Nain. What a bore! No one wants to hear those dusty speeches, so make it short for me, will you?"

"You are not dead yet, grandfather," Thorin reminded him. "And you seem much better today."

Thrór shook his head. "No, my boy, these are my last hours. Soon I will go home to my fathers… I have seen Mahal's shadow fall upon me and I am at peace with that. I know the treasure in good hands with you, you will protect the mountain and the hoard. You will be the new King. Now… I want to go happily."

Daroin returned, bringing the Goblet he had been sent for. Thorin could smell the heavy note of a red Malvasian wine, Thrór's favorite wine. The King took it, his eyes going to Daroin. "I did not do right by you, naming you Captain of the Guard, Daroin," he said with a sad note. "Knowing I had so few years left."

The Captain bowed. "I knew where it would lead, Sire, and I accepted gladly."

Thorin tried not to look at him. Daroin would follow his King into the Grey and to Mahal's halls, to fight for him. It was tradition and the reason why any newly crowned King would call someone of his own generation to the post of Captain of the Guard. But Thrór had outlived three captains, with Daroin the fourth to serve him. Balin and Dwalin would see their brother walk into the pyre voluntarily. Thorin did not want to think of that.

"Aye, you did. Still, I wish I could leave you to protect Thorin… but we will have to leave that to your brother." Thrór took a long sip of wine. "Did you bring that harp?"

"I did, my Lord." Daroin replied, unbothered by the talk of his own death, he had known that it would come.

"Good… sit down over there. This is my night of passing…" Thrór made himself comfortable. "Sing the ballad of the dragon, Daroin, sing of how my heir slew the dragon…"

Thorin startled from his sleep, hands shaking, sweat beading on his brow. What had he been dreaming off? He buried his face in his hands, letting the pain wash over him. He had not killed the dragon, and his grandfather had not died in bed but on the blood field in Azalnubizar. His people had not known peace nor true prosperity in more than a century.

"Can't sleep?"

Looking up he found Kili sitting on a rock, keeping watch. A short glance at the moon told him it was three hours before morning. "Shouldn't this be Bofur's watch?" Thorin asked.

"I couldn't sleep and sent him back to bed." Kili replied, he sat leaning back on his arms, relaxed, like he was just enjoying a cool autumn night outside the mountain. "Boromir was not tired either, sometimes we can split the night between us."

"That makes three of us that don't sleep," Thorin observed, noticing from Kili's words that his friend too was having troubles with rest. "I sometimes envy Dwalin or Fili for their deep slumber."

Kili smiled warmly at the two sleeping figures a few steps away. "I don't," he said after a while. "Envying would be to want to be them… and I can't do that. I am what I am, and I wish to be none other."

"Who allowed you to grow up like that?" Thorin walked over, sitting down beside Kili. "I dreamt of the dragon," he said softly.

Kili reached out for him, his hand finding Thorin's shoulder. "He can be killed, Thorin. Greater wyrms than him have died. We will find a way, once we are inside the mountain. We got this far, we will go on to very end."

ADL

Bilbo had always stated he liked holes and that being the Master of Bag-End meant having some interest in holes and their digging, preferably in a nice place with green meadows and much room for a garden, thank you very much. Now he was not so sure if this was still true. The day long journey through the desolation had been depressing as had their first nightly camp in the shadow of Erebor. But with each day they spent searching up and down the mighty flank of the mountain, Bilbo began to discover things about the lonely mountain.

Maybe it had something to do with Balin's company, who would tell him stories about the mountain while they climbed up and down the narrow paths in the dry grass. But it was not only that, it was the mountain itself, grim and grey, it had a majesty and serenity that surprised Bilbo. Not even the mighty peaks of the Misty Mountains had made him feel like that. He often compared the mountain to Thorin, for there was a definite resemblance.

Meanwhile Bilbo found himself volunteering for more and more hours of searching the grounds and when Balin tired and could go no further, Fili would come along, or Dwalin would say he could do with a few hours of walking. To Bilbo's own surprise he found himself more and more in Thorin's company when they headed out. The dwarven leader was more restless than ever but he conducted this search with a will and vigor that Bilbo found inspiring.

Far too quickly Durin's Day was upon them, and they were still unsure about the right spot. "Thorin," Bilbo said when the light of afternoon settled in. "there was this place further up, we saw yesterday. I know we thought it too far up, but I think I spotted a trail leading there."

The dwarven king looked at him thoughtfully. "Very well, show me the way." He said, following Bilbo as they walked across the mats of dry grass and past some of the thorny bushes growing there.

Climbing ahead, Bilbo looked for the point he had spotted the day before. "There, do you see that small trail leading up the rock face? I think it is a ledge, if we can climb it…" before he could go in he found himself lifted up, so he could reach the narrow ledge. Bilbo grabbed it and began to pull himself up, he had been right; there was a small path here. He turned around to aid Thorin but saw the dwarf already following him, climbing the rock like a cat. It reminded him vividly of the storm in the Misty Mountains and Thorin aiding him and Boromir.

"What is it?" Thorin asked as he reached the ledge, he had noticed Bilbo's gaze.

"I just wondered… did you learn to climb here?" Bilbo knew that such questions were the easiest way to wake Thorin's moody temper but the dwarf hated evasions even more than impertinent questions.

"I did," Thorin said as they followed the broken path, balancing on the ledge. "Dwalin and I would sneak out of the Mountain and make forays all over the sides of Erebor. His brother Daroin would come after us, to punish him for slipping away from training and send me back to my grandfather like an unruly whelp."

"So Balin and Dwalin have another brother?" Bilbo was astonished, he had already learned that Dwarven Families were complex and their genealogies differed from Hobbits, but he had never heard any mention of any relations of the brothers.

"Daroin died the day the dragon came," Thorin told him, speeding up his step and deftly jumping over several rocks to get further up.

Sighing Bilbo followed, he knew this had been the wrong question, all too often questions would hark back to the terrible losses the dwarves had suffered. How could they live with that? What did Balin and Dwalin feel now, having returned to the place where their brother had died?

"Bilbo!" Thorin reached down to lend a hand, pulling him up. When the Halfling had solid ground under his feet again, he saw a small patch of grass with a huge grey rock and… a thrush was picking snails on the rock. "Stand by the grey rock when thrush knocks…" Thorin whispered. "This has to be it. Bilbo… it has to be."

The Halfling looked at the rock wall behind the grass; it looked nothing different than any other surface on Erebor, only… smoother. The wall was even, with little to no spurs of rock, nor any other mars. "I think you are right, Thorin," he whispered, a strange feeling settling on him. The sun was already sinking and this… this must be the door. When he had first heard this door spoken of it had meant little to nothing to him, but now that he stood here, it meant everything. This was it; this was what they had come for. The door into the dragon's lair.

The last rays of sunlight fell through the gaps in the clouds, casting a warm red light on the rock, interrupted by the shadows of the few meager bushes. One single ray touching the smooth stone and the shadow lying upon it melted away, revealing the keyhole.

Author's Notes

Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D