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.
6. Where Once Lanterns Burned
The first steps of Lord Durin Returned into his ancient kingdom were less than majestic; he staggered, hands grabbing to hold him upright as his head seemed to explode internally into a whirlwind. Around the king, the stone walls illuminated by flickering torches seemed to ripple as if alive, one moment appearing roughhewn and uncompleted, the next covered in opulent velvet banners, then morphing to be sheathed in the gleam of copper.
Voices rang in his ears as ghostly figures faded in and out of sight, hammer and chisel expertly wielded pounding a counter beat to the cacophony of languages. The rough shouts of dwarrow sounded from all sides, to be answered by the light baritone of a Man, unseen, or the musical lilt of elves giving way to the high, almost childlike patter of hobbits, all overridden by the harsh gutturals of orcs and goblins. Thorin hit his knees hard, hands reaching to try to block some of the noise even as he squeezed eyes shut, fighting to connect with what was real, where in time he truly was, who he was…
Hands, hard as stone and just as real, were upon his shoulders, digging in harshly enough to leave bruises as someone demanded that he open his eyes, hot breath upon the king's face. The command was gruff, but the voice was one he should know, that should be almost as familiar as his own.
"Thorin! Answer me!"
It was the name that snapped the king finally from the memories long enough to open his eyes, latching onto the face inches from his own with a stare that greedily drank in every tattoo and scar. The king brought his hands up to lightly press into the other's forearms, but he could not yet bring himself to speak, too many other voices and faces flickering in the periphery of his vision. The other scowled, giving his king another shake with a low growl of frustration before turning his focus to someone behind Thorin.
"Help me get him up and out of here!"
"N-no."
Dwalin. It was Dwalin, his oldest friend and shield brother, who held him upright, and he was Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII. Slowly, the dwarf forced away the memories, staring hard at the walls behind his friend until they stayed the bare stone, slightly scarred from fighting, and the skeletons remained, no longer changing into guards or workers. Finally, he tightened his hand slightly on Dwalin's arm, meeting the other's searching gaze squarely, the words of the elven twins from the night before running through his mind.
"I am well. I'd not expected the memories to be so strong."
Dwalin did not look at all happy, but he nodded, lending a strong arm when Thorin sought to stand, aided on the other side by Fíli. There were not many whom Thorin had told the full truth to- that each reincarnation of Durin possessed the memories of those who had come before, and that occasionally those bits of history would be more real to him than the present he was in. It had been a direct assault upon Thorin's core identity that had taken years to fully come to terms with, and he thought he had learned to control when it came upon him. Apparently, he was wrong.
Stumbling slightly, the king went through the respectfully parted guards to run a hand along the wall, trying to look casual as he used the touch to not only support wavering steps, but ground himself in this time. Dwalin and his three nephews were almost tripping over each other in their attempts to hover close by. Thorin's voice was soft, barely carrying to his companions, as he put words to the chaos in his mind.
"I see our kin, so long ago, hewing and shaping these very stones, but it overlaps with so many other memories, those who have been greeted here, both friend and foe that it is hard to sort out."
"This is the first place you've been where all six of the other Durins have walked."
There was a sense of awe to Kili's tone that brought a slight smile to his uncle's face, who had often been the one to have a lap full of dwarfling on cold winter nights, the tiny brunette begging for more stories of Durin even as he struggled to keep sagging eyes open so that his uncle or mother would not banish him to bed instead. Fíli, who had been learning of their history in lessons with Balin, had rolled his eyes and continued to play by the fire, uninterested, but Kíli had snuggled in, content and secure in a way he was at few other times. The memories lightened his mood momentarily before darkening again as he fingered a scar out of the rock, most likely caused by a weapon missing its target.
"Bofur, sort through any armor or weapons for dwarrow make, and set them aside. Discard the filth, see if our smiths can use it for base stock. Dwalin, find some volunteers to remove the orc and goblin bodies beyond the valley and burn them. Fíli, if any of the remains are dwarrow, see if you can find anything upon them to aid in identification and see to proper treatment until they can be entombed with honor. Kíli, I want you and Therin to accompany the team to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, you have command." Thorin turned to pin Legolas with a glare, easy enough when the elf was taller than all around him. "No one goes across without Kili's approval, no exceptions!"
The king had definitely not forgotten the elf's scramble across an ancient and potentially very unstable bridge in Mirkwood forest! The tall prince, however, merely raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unrepentant. Thorin grit his teeth, but chose not to press the issue, transferring his scowl to Kíli, who grimaced, but nodded.
Knowing of the damage done by the battle between Gandalf and the Balrog, Thorin had spent several weeks during the winter exploring potential solutions with Erebor's finest engineers. They had decided that the answer to not only that issue, but all the gaps in the deteriorating corridors could best be dealt with by the construction of temporary bridges. Several teams had been created with grappling hooks to throw across. It was then Kili's job to read the stone and ensure that the hook was secure before allowing the most agile to cross with more ropes, then place a wooden span across.
In this, at least, the inclusion of the elves was an aid unlooked for, as few could so easily cross a rope with as little risk as their fleet-footed warriors. Also, elven archers would take their places alongside those of the dwarrow, with bows of longer range and keen eyes even in the dim light. That there were dwarrow who could match them with a bow at all had been a shock to some, but not all that surprising given that it was the favored weapon of their younger ruling prince.
Kíli had taken to holding impromptu lessons with any dwarrow who cared to appear on the range one afternoon a week. Both Fíli and Thorin had been concerned, at first, remembering only too well the many times other dwarflings had taunted the brunette for his choice of weapon, but it seemed that the mountain was ready to embrace change, even if that meant the use of an 'elven' bow. That it allowed the prince to practice with a weapon that would not unduly strain his back and legs as the footwork and stances involved with swords would was quietly noted, but never spoken aloud.
Tasks assigned, the king finally allowed himself the luxury of sinking to an out of the way piece of rock, the memories too strong to deny any longer.
"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 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. "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 uninclined 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."
******* The Hobbit *******
"Why do you bring me such a being?"
Durin V boomed out, hearing his deep bass rumbling in echoes from the far corners of the chamber and making the quaking captive in his guard's hold let out an undignified squawk. Gone were the days when this chamber served as a grand reception room, copper covered walls refracting the light to bath the finest of Khazad craftsmanship displayed there in its glow. Now, the only items adorning the walls were racks of well-used weapons, kept razor sharp should they need to stand between their people and an invader, be it orc, man, or dragon. The destruction of Sauron before his iron tower had not brought the peace that the Last Alliance had so desperately sought, for greed had been too deeply lodged in some to ever stop grasping for what was not theirs.
"A thief, lord, caught attempting to steal from the back of our wagons."
Durin grunted at that. The wagons that ran between the main kingdom and their settlements in the Grey Mountains were encountering more and more trouble, both from bandits and the drakes that inhabited the nearby Withered Heath, though only two of those monsters had been seen in the last one hundred years. Now, a full guard company of fifty dwarrow went with each wagon, where only twenty years ago, ten would have sufficed. If this continued, they might have no choice but to abandon the northern halls, at least for the foreseeable future. To be faced with those attempting to steal before the wagons had even been fully loaded and were still upon the doorstep of the city, however, was a new problem.
The culprit had evidently gotten over his fright, glaring defiantly at the king. It was a creature nearly a head shorter than most dwarrow, and bearded, though it did not have the length and elegance of one grown by those of Durin's own clan. Scruffy clothing of the style favored by the children of Gondor and the unwashed knots of hair spoke of a hard life, as did large, wary brown eyes, though this was no child of Man. It could not be, for the feet of the creature were either out of all proportion to its size or it favored absurdly made foot-wear! The king swept his eyes up and down the thing, allowing a bit of a sneer to curl his lips.
"What is this, then? Half of a goblin, a hob-goblin? Or some new twisting of the race of Men?"
The guard laughed heartily at their king's sally, but the creature bristled, drawing himself up as if attempting some form of intimidation, though the results were more comic than threatening.
"I am not of Men; disgusting, loud brutes tramping through where they don't belong! And I most certainly am not a goblin!"
For all its raggedy appearance, the words were precise, with none of the lazy slur of the uneducated. As if suddenly aware that he should not have spoken, the captive clamped his mouth shut with an exaggerated snap, glaring at the king as if such a lapse were his fault. Durin slowly circled him one more time before stopping and sticking his face in very close, making the small being flinch.
"And what did our half of something attempt to steal, exactly?"
The king hoped to hear that it had been merely food, for times had been hard throughout Middle Earth, and he would be able to go lightly on the little creature, maybe even send him away with some journey bread. If it had not been for the shoes and beard, he would have sworn this was one of the Harfoots, the shy race that lived to their north, or one of their cousins, the Fallohides. Neither of those, however, would have been forced to steal from Durin's Folk to feed their kin, as they were the main source of the dwarrow's own freshly grown food. They, in turn, received forged goods and protection, should they need it, from the dwarrow, a fair trade upon both sides.
"This silver horn, my lord, meant as a gift for the peoples of the far north."
Durin's heart sank at the words, even as he accepted the finely wrought item. It was some of the best work of his smiths, with images of horsemen from mouth to tip, and would make a fine statement in the halls of the north, encouraging those somewhat odd Men to purchase dwarrow-made goods. The craftsmanship by itself made it worth a small dragon's hoard, without the enchantment that had been embedded within that would stir the hearts of allies while quelling those of their foes. Hand tightening around the horn, he whirled back on the thief, making the small being squawk in fright once more.
"It will go easier for you if you tell me your name and race!"
Defiant brown eyes stared back at him, mouth clammed shut in a parody of a stubborn dwarfling refusing to eat his greens. The king sighed, then snorted in disgust, any sympathy the other might have won now gone.
"Well, you are certainly only half of something. An 'It', then. Guards, take this… half-it… this…Hob-It…to the cells. Make sure he is fed, and dunk him in a trough once or twice along the way. There is no need to dirty our dungeons just because our guest does not know the use of soap and water."
The derisive nickname for the small being rang over and over in Thorin's ears as he jolted back to the present to find a puzzled Frodo Baggins standing near, one hand upon his arm. Twisting around, the king grabbed the startled hobbit's arm, making light blue eyes widen in shocked alarm. Before Frodo could speak, Thorin overrode him, some of the urgency and disquiet felt by the elder Durin leaching into his stance and voice.
"What do you know of the history of your race? You did not always live in the Shire!"
"I- No, we did not." Frodo relaxed slightly at the apparently innocuous question, gaining the slightly abstract look the dwarf knew well from being around Bilbo when he was searching his memory for some tidbit or other read long ago. "There aren't any actual records from before the founding of the Shire, but tradition holds that our people originally lived somewhere in the East, near the Anduin. There were three groups, somewhat different from one another- the Fallohides, Harfoots, and Stoors. Why?"
Thorin barely registered the return question, mind latching onto the final name.
"Stoors? What were they like?"
For some reason, the hobbit paled, then flushed, fidgeting until Thorin allowed him to pull his arm loose. When he spoke, it was while looking at his own feet, not at the king.
"Gandalf once said that they were fisher folk, living near the Gladden Fields on the banks of the Anduin."
"And did they grow beards? And wear shoes?"
Frodo finally glanced up in startlement at that, blinking rapidly as if he had something caught in his eye, and Thorin pretended not to see the glint of tears, finally realizing that his questions had somehow upset the other. The hobbit heaved a deep breath, seeming to settle, and smiled slightly.
"The oldest stories said that they did, yes. They were the ancestors of the Brandybucks and others who settled in Buckland, which is why most of the rest of the Shire considers them very odd. Thorin-"
Once more, the dwarf cut him off.
"And the name 'hobbit'? Where did that come from?"
Now the other shook his head, shrugging, though blue eyes bore into the dwarf king intently, assessing.
"I've no idea, though Merry and King Eomer both think that it came from the Rohirrim's name for us, 'Hoblyta' or hole-dwellers. Thorin… should I find Fíli or Kíli? You don't seem yourself, and you were muttering 'hobbit' over and over. That's why I'm here, one of the others thought you were calling for me."
Thorin could not help the bitter twist to his lips at that, remembering too well when 'hobbit' was one of the nicer names he had given Bilbo. On a bad day, it would have been a derisive 'halfling' instead, especially as the gold sickness grew and the burglar had the temerity to question his actions. Feeling the weight of the past, he laid a gentle hand on Frodo's arm, deeply missing the white-haired old hobbit who was reflected so clearly in many of this one's mannerisms.
"No, Master Baggins, I am fine. The memories provoked here were simply… unexpected. How are you doing, truly? Being here once more cannot be easy, which is why I'd not thought to ask you before you approached me about coming with."
Few things could truly shock Thorin anymore, but the words of this hobbit one cold evening last winter had certainly been one of them, offering to ride here once more! True, this had not been the most traumatic part of that already legendary journey for Frodo, but it could not have been easy, either, especially when he witnessed the fall of Gandalf. As much as Thorin and the old wizard had butted heads throughout the journey to Erebor, he had also been conscious of and respected the other's power. He would not have believed anything short of Sauron himself could take on the Istari and not fall immediately, even Smaug, had Gandalf felt himself at liberty to deal personally with the dragon. The wizard could not, and Thorin had known as much before ever setting out, though he had stayed silent about it to his companions, uncertain if any would follow had they known in Bilbo's cozy hole that the dragon would be theirs to deal with. Or, more accurately, Bilbo's.
Reminded once more of the debt he owed his friend, the king drew himself away from his own thoughts long enough to make his own assessment of his companion, pleased with what he saw. Whatever had so disturbed Bilbo's nephew earlier, he showed no sign of it now, cheeks glowing a healthy pink and blue eyes bright. While the Arkenstone had healed the wounds inflicted on Frodo by the blade of the Witch-king and the sting of Shelob at the same time it healed Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin, the hobbit still bore psychological scars so deep that his health was occasionally affected, leaving them to worry as much about him as they did about Kíli.
It was for that reason, Bilbo had confided to Thorin as he neared his death that he believed Frodo had been unable to settle once more in the Shire after the war. Frodo somehow felt that he had been tainted by his contact with the Ring, unworthy of staying within such innocence as the Shire. Why he had rejected the elves' offer of healing in the Undying Lands, Bilbo did not know, asking Thorin to watch over his nephew as much as possible after the older hobbit was gone. Frodo looked down, one hand worrying the stub of his missing finger, as the king had noted he so often did when lost in the darker memories. Reaching over, Thorin stilled the hands, making Frodo raise his head, the words so softly spoken the king could not be certain he meant them to be heard.
"So many of the memories of the journey are fragmented, twisted by the - by It... The nightmares..." He finally focused on Thorin's face. "Aragorn recommended that I try to... confront them? Replace them? I don't know. I just-"
A hand held up cut off the hobbit's partially introspective ramble.
"I understand as much as I need to. Just know that should it become too much, you've only to speak to me. We will provide escort to wherever you wish."
The other flushed, head dropping as the fingers on his right hand resumed rubbing that horrible scar on his left, the king making no move to stop him this time, though he wished to. He was not Frodo's uncle, no matter Bilbo's dying wishes, and could never be to this self-contained young hobbit who thought so many more things than were ever said aloud or even hinted upon on his face.
Hobbits, Thorin had learned the hard way, did not display their inner emotions as readily as dwarrow did, especially the darker ones, instead allowing them to stew silently inside for days or even years before finally bursting forth through the cracks. The forwardness Bilbo had picked up during his travels with the dwarrow was just one more mark against him when he returned to the Shire, though Thorin would have dearly loved to see the faces of some of that stuffy, insular land when the old hobbit so famously insulted them at his last birthday party there! Patiently, he waited out his younger companion, and Frodo obligingly bit his lip, finally bursting out words with an intensity and self-criticism that might have shocked those who only saw the dignified, shy hero.
"I do not know why you all insist upon that! I am no noble or great hero, to be fussed over and escorted everywhere, just a simple hobbit who had the bad luck to inherent a bit of cursed jewelry!"
Thorin could not help the laugh that erupted at the other's self-effacement, knowing that some of it was honest puzzlement, though he quickly turned it into a series of coughs covered by his hand to hide the accompanying smile. This attracted the attention of his youngest and oldest nephews, who joined the king and flushing hobbit at his indulgent wave. Fíli raised an eyebrow at the two as they joined them, one hand casually resting upon Therin's shoulder in the same unconscious intimacy that the golden prince had always shown the brother he had been raised with. At least those two were getting along, the king noted absently, not bothering to question why Therin was there instead of with Kíli as he had ordered, mind still upon the hobbit at his side. Finally regaining control he gestured at Frodo, raising his own eyebrow at the newcomers.
"This one claims to be but a simple hobbit, and cannot understand the fuss raised by whomever's court he is in when he wishes to leave."
Therin started to chuckle, throwing his arm around the hobbit even as Fíli rolled his eyes.
"I don't believe there is such a thing as 'just a hobbit.' Bilbo often claimed the same, and look what he accomplished!"
"Besides," Therin added with a malicious grin at his slightly shorter friend. "Bilbo taught us that the definition of the word 'hero' was one who had the courage to face adversity and the compassion to do it for unselfish reasons. Last I looked, walking into Mordor with just Sam certainly qualifies… well, that, or completely insane."
"And that warrants having guards everywhere? I rather think it proves that I can handle myself, instead!"
"Walk yourself into unending trouble, you mean." The young prince snorted. "I think Aragorn started the escorts in self-defense, so he wouldn't have to be constantly riding off to get you out of trouble! After all, who was it that decided a picnic in the middle of the Barrow Downs was a good idea? Or throwing a rock into the hornet's nest above a sleeping Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' head? Or sneaking off by himself to walk to Mordor even though he had to ask Gandalf which direction to turn going out of Rivendell? Or the time-"
"I never should have allowed you to read my book, you're worse than Pippin!" Frodo cut the other off in exasperation, giving his childhood playmate a shove while he was at it. "Stupid dwarf!"
Thorin winced, unsure of how his dark-haired nephew would react to that given the statements the boy had made the day before, but Therin just grinned, shoving right back.
"Silly hobbit!"