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.
Author's Note: As some of you have noticed, I tend to blend the movie and book events for my stories. For Lord of the Rings, I favor the books, but may reference some minor movie events. For the Hobbit, I favor the movie(s), because, let's face it, other than Thorin, Bilbo, and Gollum, the characterizations in that book are at best sparse (Even Gandalf seems to have little purpose beyond timely rescues and ticking off Thorin!). This story will update every Monday, with the occasional bonus chapter sooner, if life permits me extra time to write! Enjoy, and thank you to everyone who has already reviewed! You guys rock!
2. We See Once More
It was almost an hour later when Thorin had returned to the peak, rejoining the others who'd stayed respectfully back when it became clear where their king intended to go, sending only his ever present bodyguards to stand as silent sentinels around him. He could see the question in Dwalin's eyes, his old friend, cousin, shield brother, who'd been by his side for so many dark days. A slight nod brought a grimly satisfied smile to the old warrior's lips, as if he'd had confirmed for him what he'd known all along. Perhaps he had, Thorin mused even as he bathed in the warm memory of seeing his own face in the water, crown of stars settling about his brow and glowing until they eclipsed all else. Dwalin had often had more faith in his liege than Thorin had in himself, especially when it came to finding the best path for his people.
Thorin's mouth drew down in a frown as thoughts of old reminded him of his nearest, and likely to be troublesome, neighbor. In the far distance to his left as he sat upon the rise was the smudge of trees that marked the golden wood of Lothlorien, the realm of the elven lord Celeborn, though no longer of the Lady Galadriel. When first Bilbo Baggins, and then Frodo, had chosen not to sail into the West, she had gone with the other two bearers of the Elven rings of power, Elrond and Tharkûn, that most meddlesome of wizards, upon one of the white boats. The Lady had bid her husband to remain here a while longer, however, to aid the steps of the younger races in this new age.
Thorin had rolled his eyes at the news, such instructions showcasing the sheer arrogance of the Firstborn, but also knew that Galadriel was unlikely to have meant it in such a condescending manner, at least not consciously. She and Elrond, of all the ancient elves that still walked Middle Earth, were the last to treat others as mere children, though both had their fair share of pride and utter surety in their own superiority. Too bad they'd both left over ten years ago now, leaving that arrogant, no good pile of trouble known as Thranduil behind, not to mention Celeborn. That one had a very low tolerance for dwarrow due to being kin to Thingol, the ancient elven king betrayed and murdered by dwarrow from Belegost. Of course, those had been of no relation to the Longbeards, but apparently if one dwarf was likely to commit such a crime, all must be, for the elves would fling such proof into the faces of dwarrow whenever the opportunity presented itself. For that reason, among others, Thorin had never planned upon, nor asked, for any help from elves, despite Galadriel's offer fourteen years earlier.
Other aid, however, had been gratefully accepted when offered before he could even ask, and not all had come from the other dwarrow kingdoms, though all six had sent at least token forces after it became widely known that Thorin was, in fact, Durin VII. Thorin's lips twisted into a bitter grimace at that, trying not to allow his temper to rise once more at the grudging response of the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, and Blacklocks, all eastern tribes, who'd agreed to each send a mere twenty-five volunteers – if they could get them. As these were the most likely to have members of the Death Warriors cult imbedded within, Thorin had been almost thankful for that token, and deliberately insulting, response. He'd heard the rumors after the War of the Ring, and seen the weapons seized from Sauron's forces that were not the make of Men, orcs, or elves. How many had aided Sauron during that time, hidden in the shadows where they still lurked, waiting to strike an exposed back?
The Stonefoots, Firebeards, and Broadbeams had more than made up for the other three's stinginess, each sending almost one hundred warriors, all battle-tested. With the three hundred from Erebor and the Iron Hills, this gave Thorin a little over six hundred dwarrow, a very respectable force even without outside aid. Given the close confines they'd be fighting in throughout much of the ancient kingdom, it would've been hard to have accepted more, especially with the others who swelled his numbers further.
The dwarf's eyes focused on the huddle of tall figures, too large to be dwarrow and too muscular to be elves, standing near the heads of their horses, displaying the patient nature of warriors well used to the interminable wait before battle. When the kings of Gondor and of Rohan had learned that Thorin was at last preparing to move upon his ancient realm, it was felt that the Free Peoples of Middle Earth would all benefit from the cleansing, and so, the two major realms of Men had sent representatives. Two hundred strong, all were veterans of the last battles of the War of the Ring, vouched for by those few among Men Thorin trusted, and unlikely to be intimidated by the roughest dwarrow.
Leading the group from the reunited realms of Gondor and Arnor was Mablung, the Ithilien Ranger, and his counterpart from the other side of the mountains, Balan, a Dúnedan, and distant cousin to the king. The coincidence of the name had been oddly reassuring to Thorin, especially when the tall, rangy man with the thick black hair had confessed to having met and admired the elder dwarf lord when Balin paid Bilbo a visit in the Shire many years before. While Rohan had also sent a few men, most of the Rohirrim were too uncomfortable below ground to be of much assistance, instead pledging to form a perimeter guard so that foes could not trap the dwarrow within Khazad-dûm. They would be taking orders from the two rangers, as several of their men would be with the outer patrol as well. Most of the support offered by the horse lords had come instead in the form of supplies, and the rangy, wild ponies to haul such things, for they had not forgotten the aid and friendship once given them by the ancient dwarrow of Khazad-dûm.
Even the Shire had sent canned goods from their gardens and pipe weed from their fields, along with pigs and other meat upon the hoof. The harvests in that small, once more peaceful land had been exceptional for the last decade, and true to their nature, the hobbits were happy to share. Most of that largesse was due, of course, to the combined influence of Meriadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, and Peregrin Took, the new Thain of the Shire. Not to mention a certain former gardener turned Mayor and Master of BagEnd. Merry and Pippin, as they preferred to be called, had both made the journey to Erebor to offer the aid in person, a trip made much shorter and safer by the escort of Elrond's twin sons.
As Frodo had but lately returned to the mountain kingdom he used as his main residence from his latest wanderings, it had made for a joyful reunion, replete with the type of mischief the younger hobbit duo and the dwarf princes, all three of them, had been notorious for, though Thorin had noted Kili's odd reluctance uneasily, seeing it as yet one more sign of the profound changes worked upon his nephew by the traumas he'd endured.
It had become clear after they returned to the mountain that much of the cheerful, prankish Kíli that had finally emerged toward the end of that journey had been a façade, purposely forced into place to alleviate the worry of his kin. The Kíli who'd appeared after the mess with Frár had been more serious, often solitary, and haunted by some unknown worry that he stubbornly refused to confess, even when cajoled upon by Fíli. Even his marriage and newborn son, while lightening the prince's darkness, had not been able to completely return him to the dwarf they'd once known.
When the hobbits had come, Thorin and Dis had both seized upon the slim, fading hope that they might fully revive the prankster, but it had been evident before long that what was shown was again forced. The hobbits' visit had presented its own complications, Thorin noted sourly, gaze slipping to a small knot of several dwarrow, a contrasting pair of brunette and blonde heads in the center, the sun glinting off of the mithril, silver, and gold beads capping the braids of the ruling line of Durin.
Six Months Prior- Erebor
Thorin paused at the door to the old council chambers adjoining the royal apartments, which had been redone as an office for his nephews. There was no murmur of voices, surprising given the urgency of the message summoning him here. Fíli and Kíli, it seemed, were always at work these days, proving to be the exceptional rulers that he and Dis had seen hinted at throughout their childhoods- unlike their still somewhat wild younger sibling, Therin. That one was proving to be a constant source of trouble, mostly because he had an appalling habit of acting before thinking things through, making Therin seem the youngest of Dis' children when, by pure age, that spot went to Kíli. Perhaps because of that, more than sheer convenience, Therin was referenced as the youngest prince of Durin by almost all, as he actually was by birth order. Now, Thorin could only wonder what trouble he might have been up to that had caused his older brothers to summon their uncle, for anything that urgent almost always had to do with the black haired font of impulsivity.
With a sigh, he pushed open the door, only to find himself staring at an empty room, a cup on the floor rocking gently in a puddle of water the sole sign of recent occupation. Puzzled, Thorin glanced back at the guard who stood as still as a statue next to the entrance. It was no one he knew well, but the young dwarf had made no move to stop the king from entering, and neither of the princes was allowed to leave their chambers without at least one guard in attendance, so one of the two must be within.
As Thorin had warned, the threat from the cult known as the Amrad Azaghálh had been far from ended with the death of Frár. That first spring had found Thorin at the head of an army that included representatives of all seven dwarrow kingdoms riding to retake the Iron Hills. There had been a few short, but bloody, skirmishes with dark dwarrow and their allies, mostly Men from the East and orcs, but overall the retaking had been easy. Too easy. All had been wary, looking for an enemy that stayed in the shadows waiting to pounce, though none believed it to be Fain. That unworthy and his henchmen had all fled before they reached the inner halls, showing themselves at last as the cowards Dwalin had long ago named them.
Reassured that the Iron Hills was safe and rebuilding under a handpicked representative of Erebor, the king had returned to the Lonely Mountain only to find that there had been another attempt on the lives of his older two nephews. Kíli had come through without a scratch, but Fíli had suffered a head wound that kept him bed bound for almost a week, and had necessitated their older kin's insistence upon guards even within the mountain. It had also redoubled his resolve to deal with the cult before thinking about Khazad-dûm.
Four more years of warfare had resulted, cleansing the sacred halls where Durin first awoke beneath Mount Gundabad, and razing the filth of Goblintown so the High Pass was once more secure for travelers, but still they encountered only handfuls of cultists, leaving most of the fighting to those remnants of Sauron's and Saruman's forces that allied with them. Then, eight years of silence- no attacks, no rumors being spread, nothing! Except that last fall a band of Men with more courage than brains had ventured into the pit of Moria lured by whispers of the mithril waiting there… and vanished into the darkness. When word finally reached Thorin, he knew with a dread certainty where his enemies hid, and so now he planned.
With a bitter twist to his lips, he allowed the door to swing shut, moving further in. To his right, Fíli's desk was covered in scrolls and pieces of parchment with half-illegible notes scrawled upon them, while Kili's stood empty save for a map… of Khazad-dûm? With a frown, the king leaned over to more closely examine the old parchment, noting that someone had laid a piece of onionskin paper over the top with notes upon it in Kíli's neat hand. The rustle of the heavy tapestry on the back wall being pushed aside alerted the king that he was no longer alone as a young dwarrowdam in a rich blue velvet dress entered from the concealed door to the inner apartments. The young one started as Thorin straightened, allowing the door to swing closed.
"Thorin! I did not expect you here!"
There were suspicious rings of red around her eyes and she sniffed a little, hand clutching her skirt as if to stop the automatic reach for a handkerchief.
"Vestri. What's wrong, child?"
The older of Glóin's twin daughters, and the wife of the younger Prince under the Mountain, tried to force a smile, but it wavered, disappearing almost instantly. Thorin crossed to her, opening his arms in invitation, and his marriage-niece collapsed into the embrace, shoulders shaking slightly as the tears renewed.
"I'm being silly. Senata says he'll be fine, it was just a bad fall and a bit of a fever, but-"
Thorin stiffened at the muffled words, drawing the younger dwarf back so that he could meet her startlingly bright green eyes, the only way he had to tell the twins his nephews had married apart, for her sister bore the intense Durin blue irises of her father's paternal heritage.
"What happened?"
She sighed, sinking onto the low settee he led her to, and shook her head.
"Merry and Pippin came to visit, and Kíli drew them into a discussion on Khazad-dûm using an old map Nori's son, Ori, found buried in the archives. The boys were playing on the floor, but grew bored when everyone seemed more interested in, and I quote, 'Dumb, boring, stinky drawings so bad that Kala could do better', and left."
The king did not bother hiding his smile at that, knowing the attention span of seven year olds was limited at best. That the two boys, cousins born on the same day and closer than most brothers, with the notable exception of their fathers, had stayed as long as they had was probably only due to the novelty of being around their hobbit visitors. Nor was the comparison to the 'artwork' produced by Fíli's two year old daughter all that surprising, as most maps of Khazad-dûm Thorin had seen made about as much sense as her scribbling, no matter what the child claimed they were. He could not, however, bury the foreboding that nagged.
"And?"
"And… the boys didn't pick up their toys. Pippin stepped on one, lost his balance, and sent Kíli sprawling. He landed-"
He didn't hear anything further, as he was already through the door to the apartments and down the corridor added to allow the needed expansion for the children eight years ago. Both doors leading to the princes' private quarters were ajar, meaning that the divider between the two was pushed back to make one massive room, as it often was during the day, so Thorin simply entered the nearest, though it led to Fíli's side. At the other end of the room, he could see his oldest nephew and sister seated near a large bed, speaking quietly. There was no sign of his other marriage-niece, Vestri's younger sister, Austri, so she must be with the children.
The fact that the brothers had actually married sisters still made the king chuckle, along with most of the rest of the mountain. No one, not even Glóin, had expected anything to come of his long-ago needling of the princes about a potential double marriage with his daughters, but that was exactly what had happened. Austri and Fíli had been mutually smitten almost as soon as they were introduced, though it had not been nearly so smooth between Vestri and Kíli. If the first couple had been in the throes of a bardic tale with love at first sight, the other two had shared instant mutual animosity that stopped just short of all-out war.
For months, the rooms of their families were filled with mutterings, each less than flattering about the other, whenever the two were forced to meet. Unfortunately, with their siblings' courtship, that had been often.
'Kíli is too stupid and stubborn to see past the too small nose on his face.' 'Vestri is a spoiled brat.' 'All Kíli talks about is archery and the mines.' 'She's more in love with gems and gold then any living being.' 'He can't grow a proper beard and his hair looks like a sparrow's nest.' 'She cuts sharper with her tongue than a mithril blade.'
Finally, the two had found themselves waiting alone in a room while their siblings had each run into delay after delay. Of course, had Fíli and Austri realized what was happening, they'd have sprinted back rather than risk the bloodshed likely to result with their siblings left alone with one another, but instead the other two had found themselves stuck with one another for over two hours. What was said in the room had never been revealed, but Kíli had emerged with a black eye and a hopelessly smitten grin upon his face while Vestri's braids were in a tangled mess and her eyes only for the archer. Their families had sighed, shook their heads, and announced not one, but two pledgings, to rejoicing throughout the mountain.
"Fíli?"
Voice low, the king made his way to his nephews' side, perching carefully on the side of the bed where Kíli lay, head pillowed on his arms and back covered by a cloth with the melting remains of ice atop it. The older prince smiled faintly, face weary, but showing none of the anxiety he'd dreaded seeing.
"He finally stopped fighting the herbs and went to sleep a few minutes ago, but his back is very swollen. He landed right on the scar. Vestri went to see about getting more ice from the peak."
"What happened?"
The king questioned again, absently smoothing the wild dark brown hair from Kíli's forehead as he felt the low heat radiating from the younger prince. It was not a high fever, but still worrying given that the younger dwarf had been prone to such things since returning to life. The reply, however, did not come from the blonde.
"Smashed… Smaug!"
Fíli let out a half amused, half exasperated snort at his brother's slurred speech, brown eyes hazy with whatever drug he'd been given fighting to open and then stay that way. Dis silently held up a wooden dragon, perhaps a foot and a half long, made for his grand-nephews by Bofur, one wing and the tail cracked and hanging at an odd angle while the head was gone completely. Fíli took the offending item from his mother as Thorin winced before turning his attention back to his ailing kin.
"Shhh… Go back to sleep, Kíli, I merely wished to check on you."
Kíli made an inarticulate noise of protest that had his brother laughing softly as he tweaked his sibling's nose. Unfocused eyes threatened to cross as the brunette tried to follow the offending finger, one hand batting sloppily at it.
"I swear, little brother, if you didn't have bad luck, you'd have none at all!"
"Bett'r'n fobbit heet."
All three could not help laughing now, Dis rolling her eyes as she moved to replace the ice and wet cloth that her son's nonsensical protest had dislodged. Thorin grimaced at the sight of swollen flesh, already starting to bruise around the massive scar where an assassin's mithril blade had originally ended Kili's life. For Thorin, the sight was a constant reminder of the sacrifice his poor choices and lust for gold had demanded, and not from him, but from those dearest to him. His sister, however, must have misunderstood the frown, for she stood back up defiantly, hands on her hips.
"He's never been all that coherent when given pain-killers, you know that!"
"Aye." The king agreed, "That's why he fights taking them so. The pain must have been severe for him to consent, but a back injury and pain droughts do not explain the fever."
"U-uncle…rock. Old and crumbling, waiting. Need me."
Kíli's mumbles drifted off as he stilled, breathing returning to the slow pattern of sleep as tension left his body. Thorin's eyes met those of his eldest nephew, making the other look away, hands suddenly clenched in his lap upon the brightly painted toy until the wood of the tail cracked the rest of the way through to drop upon the floor.
"Fíli." The younger dwarf glanced up at the command in his uncle's voice. "I hope I'm wrong in my understanding of what he sought to tell me, why the two of you summoned me here, but I fear I'm not."
The unhappiness upon Fíli's countenance was all the answer he truly needed. When they had returned to life almost fourteen years ago, Kíli had bonded with the Arkenstone, lending him its healing powers, but also making him one with the mountain, feeling the rock at times as if it were a part of him. Those abilities had come with a price, however, as each time the stone had exerted a greater amount of power to heal, prophesize, or reach across the distance to the mountain, it had sent that energy coursing through the young dwarrow, leaving him with a fever. The more power, the higher the fever, to the point where it had twice come close to killing the young prince. Thankfully, once Kíli had healed from the final confrontation with Frár, the fevers had disappeared as minimal energy was needed to read the stone of his home, and the Heart of the Mountain had remained otherwise quiescent. Until now, it seemed.
"He could see the condition of the stairs the hobbits were describing in Khazad-dûm, though he said it was like pushing through sand to do so."
Thorin snorted at the memory, eyes lingering upon his nephews, all three of them, before returning to the dark, jagged hole that had once been the mighty eastern gates of the ancient city. No, he had not liked what Kíli had said at all, though he'd also been unable to argue against the prince's value to the expedition. To know what tunnels dead ended, or were likely to collapse before they did so, taking valuable lives with them? Or were a trap created by the cult, waiting for a dwarrow to walk into range? He could not turn down Kíli's request to once more join his uncle, no matter how badly he wished to. And of course, where Kíli went, Fíli would be found nowhere else. In their absence, Austri and Vestri had found themselves elevated to co-regency, with the able advice and assistance of Dis, Vili, and their own father, Glóin.
A disturbance near the left edge of the army drew his attention, his greater height upon the rise allowing him to see a large body of horses bearing down upon them. The figures riding them were obscured beneath the dust cloud raised by their passage, but he could see enough to know that they were not dwarrow, nor expected, even if they only numbered perhaps thirty.
"Kíli, Fíli, Therin! Bofur, Dwalin, Nast and Kifir! With me!"
His roar cut through the stamp of hooves and low murmur of voices, making the heads of those called snap around before bringing their ponies onto a path to join him as he headed toward their uninvited guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Balan and Mablung heading out of their small contingent of Men and nodded gratefully when they caught his eye, silently asking if he wished their presence. If this was a group bent upon mischief, Thorin intended to let them meet a united front of multiple peoples, backed by an army. Dwalin, Bofur, and Nast, predictably enough, made sure to place themselves between any potential threat and the royals, though only Dwalin as yet had weapons to hand. The strangers drew to a halt several paces from the dwarrow line, hands held out in a sign of peaceful intent as Thorin got his first good look- and swore.
Graceful, lithe, elven…