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.
7. Bridge to the Abyss
"This way, my lords."
Thorin was amused, though he was careful not to allow it to show. Having a dwarf lead them was unnecessary, as he could probably find his way through much of the ancient realm in pitch darkness without a qualm, but he let it pass. There would be a time, probably soon, when he would have to allow it to be widely known that he held the memories of his previous incarnations, but it would keep for now. Let his people get used to not only being within the city, which was already making many jump at shadows, but also working with elves and men, not to mention the magic imbued in the very stones here.
Walking the diagonal hallway from the gate room, Thorin ran his fingers along one hall, memories, or at least pieces of them, darting through his mind. So much history, here, forgotten and waiting to be rediscovered – triumphs and tragedies, death and new life, friends and enemies, it set his head spinning just to think of it. How many of the old tales and legends would prove true? Two more small rooms, and then the mountain opened up before them, ceiling so high that their lanterns could not find its height, and an abyss that plunged into endless darkness at their feet.
The bridge, as Frodo and other members of the Fellowship had warned, was broken; a thin span of rock jutting out into nowhere, the other side too far for even an elf to leap. Beside him, the king heard a soft noise of distress from the hobbit. Gimli and Legolas were quick to step to his side before any others could react, speaking soothing words too soft for the king to hear. To Thorin's other hand, Fíli stood gaping in astonishment at the sight before him, one hand immediately going to Kili's shoulder as the brunette hung back, almost seeming reluctant to re-enter the room.
Not that Thorin blamed him. There was a feeling about this place; a sadness, and distaste that was hard to fathom unless one knew of the events that had taken place here. The fall of an Istari in a fight with one of the oldest, and strongest, of Morgoth's allies could not help but imbue the very stone with an echo of sorrow. The oldest prince ran a hesitant hand over the wall nearest to him, walking up to the very edge of the split in the floor, where it ran off into the mountain.
"This is impressive. I wonder-"
"Fíli, I need you over here."
Kíli cut his brother off abruptly, waving from where he stood by the foot of the span, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else, even Mirkwood. One hand held his walking stick so tightly that the knuckles were white, the wood shaking slightly with the strain of the weight he was pressing on it, while the other wrapped around his torso, as someone would who was trying very hard not to be ill. The prince's face was pale, with only the barest hint of two pink fever spots on his cheeks giving it any life, though his eyes were steady, determined.
Not for the first time, Thorin felt a stirring of unease about his decision to allow his older two nephews to be here, but brown eyes met his own with a silent warning not to say anything. The king pursed his lips, but reluctantly nodded, glad the other at least had the sense to request his older brother's presence when he determined just how disturbing reading the stone where such evil walked might be. The Kíli who had first rode from the Blue Mountains on the quest for Erebor would have simply, and mulishly, plunged in, determined to do for himself no matter the cost, never realizing that such actions did nothing to prove his adulthood to the others.
Now, the brunette prince knelt to touch the stone of the ancient causeway, hand visibly trembling as he did so, and Thorin almost called to him to stop. As many times as he had now witnessed Kili's abilities, it still seemed somewhat uncanny, even for a dwarf. Usually, it took several minutes of concentration, the others gathered staying respectfully, though skeptically on the part of the men, silent. This time, however, the prince almost instantly jerked backward with a startled cry, only his older brother's quick reflexes keeping him from tumbling onto his backside. Kíli did not seem aware of anyone else, shaking his hand as if it burned, body trembling and eyes locked on the bridge remnants. Thorin was next to them from one breath to the next, hand reaching for his younger nephew's shoulder.
"Kíli? What is it?"
He breathed, though he need not have asked after getting a good look at the other dwarf's face. It was pinched and white, breathing rapid, and eyes horror-filled. Thorin knew with a sinking certainty what the other must have become a silent witness to. Over the other prince's head, Fíli's blue gaze sought out that of his uncle, worried and questioning. Thorin swallowed hard.
"The Balrog were Maia, Fíli. Servants of the Valar, even as Gandalf was, and Sauron. Such power – and evil – cannot walk fully revealed without leaving a permanent echo in the very stones."
It was Durin I's knowledge that he now passed on, and he could feel the dwarrow Father's anger and disgust at the defiling of his home, powerful enough to give test to even Thorin's legendary control. That one had faced such creatures head on, and the thought of one within Khazad-dûm… Instead, he focused on Kíli lest he lose himself to the past once more, relaxing slightly as the prince's eyes at last seemed to take on awareness of his surroundings. He should never have allowed his nephew in here, never asked this of him! Why did the knowledge of the other Durins always seem to come too late? The prince fumbled momentarily, then tried to force himself to his feet.
"Kíli, you shouldn't-"
A quick wave of the hand, almost cutting the air in its sharpness, stopped Fíli's inevitable protest. The brunette turned to look about him, as if searching for something.
"I need a piece of rock larger than a fist."
His voice was a bit hoarse, but steady, even as his request sent the others scrambling. Balan, the ranger, was the first to step forward, holding out a bit of broken wall with the elaborate scrollwork still intact.
"Will this do?"
He asked the prince softly, getting a nod as Kíli took the thing and tossed it with one smooth movement. All eyes followed the rock as it sailed through the air in a gentle arc to land on the bridge where Frodo, Legolas, and Gimli remembered last seeing Gandalf the Grey. Instead of simply bouncing off the bridge, however, the stone it landed on cracked with the sound of a firework exploding and crumbled to fall into the darkness below. Kili's whole body shuddered once more under his hand before the prince finally turned to look at him.
"The whole bridge is unstable, a trap waiting for the unwary. We'll need to use the full rope bridge, instead."
"One of us could have been on that!"
A voice breathed from behind them, setting off low, earnest muttering among the waiting dwarrow, elves and men. Thorin grimaced, knowing that there would be no moving his nephew from the mountain now, but resigned to it. Kíli had never been one to let go of something once he had determined to do it, a stubbornness inherent in the line of Durin that Thorin had frequent reason to curse!
"This room looks as if it were built before the abyss was here."
The comment from the brunette drew the attention of several of the dwarrow nearest them, including Bofur, who ran one hand along the wall, much as Fíli had earlier.
"You're right, lad. Thorin?"
The king swallowed against a mouth gone suddenly bone dry, memories filling him at that slight prompt, images that provoked a past horror of his own.
Second Age, 1421
"My Lord! The gates are destroyed, the creature is inside the mountain!"
Durin II cursed as he jerked around at the message, fury and impatience rising in equal measure, heedless of the inarticulate noise of protest from his grandson, who had been buckling the rerebraces on his grandfather's upper arms.
"The archers?"
The king demanded, impatience radiating from him, though there were none who were quite so adapt at all the buckles and pieces as the younger dwarf. The runner, anonymous in his barbute helm, shook his head, still gasping for breath after his run up the guard stair.
"Th-the...they bounce off the creature's hide as if it were mithril!"
"But it does not have wings?"
His grandson, already marked by irrefutable signs as Durin III, demanded as he finally managed to grab hold of his king's flailing hand long enough to wrestle it into the last bit of mithril armor. The dwarf lord grunted, not quite sure why it mattered if the beast had wings, as it would not find itself able to fly far within these walls. Of more concern to him, at least, was whether this was a fire drake, or one of its lesser kin.
"Any sign of breathing fire?"
He quickly overrode his heir's words, absently wondering once more if the boy had addled his brain from being hit too many times in training. The messenger was quick to shake his head, relief evident.
"Neither."
"Then maybe it's not truly a dragon?"
The prince asked as he handed him the glittering mithril ax that matched the armor he wore, both handed down from the original Durin, and said only to be used or worn by those of the name lest they betray the bearer so presumptuous as to assume he could walk in place of the king.
"Not all dragons have wings." The king grunted, rolling his eyes, "Nor will most weapons penetrate their scales unless you strike the underbelly." Turning to his heir, he raised a pointed eyebrow as his helm was set into place. "That is, unless you'd rather try for the inside of the mouth."
"Ah, no."
Durin III returned drily, hefting his own weapon before waving his grandfather to proceed him, which was all the invitation that the older dwarf needed to start a sprint toward the site of the battle. Behind the king came the thunder of armor as more warriors fell in behind, scrambling to keep up in their much heavier steel.
For too many years now, Khazad-dûm had been a kingdom under siege, the vile, twisted creatures who had once made up Morgoth's armies taking delight in striking at the dwarrow and their stone fortress, but this was the first time they had seen a dragon this far to the south. Normally, it was the infernal orcs and goblins, both of which bred like rabbits, or the lumbering trolls, ambushing their settlements or the joint patrols that they ran with the elves of Eregion, but the world seemed to be growing darker once more, as if some lieutenant of Morgoth's yet lived, stirring up strife.
The rumble of the very bedrock of the mountain almost knocked the king to the floor, only grabbing fast to his grandson holding the older dwarf up as all of them stopped, gazing about in shocked alarm. The king, however, grit his teeth, muttering several curses in Khuzdul before giving the prince's arm a shake.
"Come on, boy. This one's a strong one. If we don't get there fast, he could bring down the entire mountainside!"
That seemed to snap the other dwarf out of his stupor, both royals briefly outdistancing those guards who had not been as lucky about keeping to their feet. From ahead of them rang the sounds of battle- the sharp clang of metal on stone, the grunts and cries of pain, shouted warnings and the roar of the mighty beast.
Skidding down the last hall and through the doorway of the main feasting and reception hall on the main level, it was only a fast dodge and shove by the prince that prevented the king from being swept instantly off his feet by the huge scaled tail. The first sight of the dragon took Durin's breath away, the thing filling most of a room normally able to seat over 300 dwarrow, standing easily twenty feet high at the shoulder with a head the size of a wagon. It was completely covered in bronze scales that flashed hints of silver-grey around the belly. Had the creature not been attempting to destroy his city, it was a sight that would have taken away many a dwarrow breath at the sheer beauty, a vision of metallic sculpture fit for the finest king's hall.
That such intelligent, beautiful beasts had been so corrupted by Morgoth that there was no chance of redemption was one of the tragedies of the First Age of Middle Earth. Men claimed that the dragons had to have been created by Morgoth, but dwarrow records stated otherwise, written by Durin I himself long before. Morgoth, or Melkor as he was originally called, had never been granted the power to create, only to twist and corrupt, as he had when elves became the first orcs and dwarrow were twisted into monstrous trolls only to be returned to the stone from which they were made at the first touch of sunlight. No amount of beauty or pity, however, would keep the king from killing the thing.
"You cannot win, dark creature! Leave this place and I will spare your life!"
The shout caught the beast's attention, which Durin realized a minute too late might not have been a good thing. The teeth that were shown glittered like dozens of mithril spears longer than a dwarf was tall.
"And why would I do that when the stink of dwarf is only overtaken by the reek of fear, puny king? How many shall I kill? Two dozen? Five? One hundred?"
A twitch of the massive body and dwarrow warriors were sent flying in every direction, several impacting walls to slide down, still, on the floor.
"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
The war cry of the dwarrow was ripped from a dozen throats as the warriors renewed their charge, an intricate dance of torchlight sparking off of varying colors of armor, ducking and weaving about the gleaming limbs of the great creature. Finally, the king was able to slide along the floor under the claw, mithril blade biting deep into scales that other weapons could not so much as scratch. This, in turn, made the dragon rear and twist to confront this tormentor, momentarily exposing the underbelly. Even as Durin was forced to concentrate upon not being killed, he caught the swift blur of arrows from the corner of his eye, noting in satisfaction that at least one had struck true. It was not, however, a vital hit, serving only to enrage their foe while allowing drops of deadly blood to splatter as the beast wrenched the arrow free.
"'Ware its blood!"
Durin bellowed, only to gasp as his single second of inattention cost him dearly. One swipe of a massive claw sent him flying across the room to impact one of the enormous stone columns, and he felt at least one rib give under the punishment. Hitting the floor and lying momentarily dazed, he could hear the cry of at least one dwarf who'd been unable to heed his warning, the hot stench of burning flesh unmistakable.
As his vision cleared, Durin twisted to catch sight of his foe once more, attempting to scramble up only to be sent tumbling again as the dragon flung itself around, landing hard on the floor in an odd belly flop with tail, teeth, and all four claws lashing out to scatter dwarrow like so many fall leaves. Forcing himself upright once more, the king dove back into the fray, the Ax of Durin once more biting deeply and its owner again hurled away. This time, though, it was a wall that bore the impact and his head that connected first, sending stars flashing before he started to black out.
Some part of him screamed that he needed to stand, to fight, though he could not remember why, and when he tried, arms and legs wobbled like ill forged steel, folding under the pressure to send him crashing back to the ground with a clatter that made his head hurt even more. Someone was shouting, pulling at him, but he could not be stirred to discover who or why. His body was lifted, then slammed down, a rib giving way and stabbing into his chest with a pain that finally tore consciousness away for good.
That he regained awareness again at all was a pleasant surprise, despite the pain of mangled insides; he did not need to hear the soft weeping nearby to know that his wounds were mortal. Without strength to open his eyes, he lay, wishing he could swallow against the foul taste in his mouth. Then, as if in answer to that unspoken wish, a hand lifted his head ever so slightly, cool metal pressed to his lips.
"Just a sip, Father. To help with the pain."
The herbs tasted like the sweetest of nectar to the dying dwarf, a pleasant warmth spreading through his tortured body, easing pain and giving a trickle of energy back. As his discomfort no longer stole all his attention, eyes slid open to take in the sight of the dwarrowdam hovering over him, tear-streaked face fighting to smile for his sake. So beautiful, with her silver-white hair, the same as her mother! Frey had been of the Stonefoots of the east, an arranged alliance marriage that none had expected to turn into love, least of all him.
Of course, he had never thought to ascend the throne of Khazad-dûm, either, being merely the sister-son to a king with three sons of his own! No, the only fame he had coveted was that which came with his unparalleled skill at forging the precious mithril and steel into weapons fit for kings. To be the premiere smith with the odd eastern wife who only added to his talent with her ability to etch metals with acids, even mithril, was plenty for him! Fate, however, had not been so kind that overcast spring day as he returned to the kingdom from the east…
Jerking his thoughts from such unsettling memories, he reached out one shaking hand to caress the locks so reminiscent of the lady he had loved and lost long ago, his only child turning her face into it and planting a kiss upon one scarred palm. It was the bitter part of the legacy left to them by Durin I; that he would live to not only bury his wife after the fading took her at the age of 321, but to also see his child age to look so much older than he! As his strength waned again, she caught the dropping limb, tucking it securely under furs snugged close to prevent a chill. Behind her, he could just see her son, his heir, seated stiffly in a chair, one arm in a sling and face pale, making bruises stand out. As the younger Durin shifted slightly, he gasped in pain, sweat beading on his forehead.
The king shifted a bit himself, but a gurgling breath told him that he would not be able to talk, so one hand fumbled its way back from under the covers, shaky signs forming in the new language the miners had been making popular throughout the kingdom.
'Prince injured?'
Frìs cast a tight-lipped glance over her shoulder, face showing the worry and annoyance of a mother who was being ignored by her adult child.
"Yes. Some of the dragon's blood burned his arm."
Durin sucked in a noisy breath in alarm, eyes widening, for the blood of the creatures could be as deadly as their teeth and claws, not only burning, but causing the person poisoned by its touch to die in agony.
"It's alright, Father. Lady Galadriel sent healers as soon as her scouts reported the attack on the eastern gate, and they were able to give him the antidote in time. He needs to be in bed himself, though, not wasting his strength-"
She cut herself off as the prince muttered something too soft for Durin to hear, though his mother dropped her head to hide her face from them both. The king struggled to pull in a deeper breath, paying for the audacity with sharp pains in his chest and an urge to cough that he dare not give in to. Thank Mahal that Galadriel had decided to move to Lindórinand about seventy years ago, for healers having to come all the way from the west would have been too late! He managed just the slightest hint of a smile as his hands told what his daughter had been too polite to say aloud.
'Sitting with dying fool?'
That earned a snort from the prince even as a weak laugh came from beneath the mithril hair of the dwarrowdam.
"I didn't say that, you're not a fool!"
One eyebrow shot up, as she had certainly called him that in the past. Loudly. And publically.
'Dying, though.'
"Yes."
That was acknowledged with a bitter, tear choked whisper.
'Dragon?'
"The beast is dead, grandfather. Frér killed it, though he sacrificed his own life doing so."
Durin III's soft words overrode his mother's muffled weeping, voice hoarse and brittle, warning the king that his heir was almost at the end of his strength. It was almost physically painful, to think of that bright young dwarf, his principal aid for the last ten years, dead when he had barely the chance to live. Far better that it had been an old dwarf like him than Frér, who would be dearly missed at his prince's side as the young heir dealt with what was to come. It would not be easy, this passing of the soul of Durin I from grandfather to grandson at the moment of the elder's death, though writings left by the ancient dwarrow father had at least warned them of what was to come. Knowing that his time was running short, the king crooked his hand into another sign, recalling the quakes they had felt on the way to the battle with a shudder.
'Kingdom?'
"There is... significant damage."
At this, the dwarrowdam made a low noise of protest, moving as if to go to her son as he shifted again, sitting forward in the chair with obvious pain, but he waved her off.
"He would not thank us for lying to him, Mother, especially now."
He turned back to the king, face grim.
"Its death throes and the flood of blood when Frer severed the main artery to the beast's heart caused a massive quake. A fissure has opened up through the room and beyond, we don't yet know how far it extends or the amount of instability."
That did not sound at all good, but it was becoming harder and harder to force his hand to move, sight beginning to tinge black at the edges as he faded. For his kingdom, however, he would rally one last time.
'Deep?'
"They tell me a lantern on the end of three ropes tied end to end could not reach the bottom, if there even is one. The southern mines report a fissure opened there, as well, though so far there have been no more quakes. I have experts already assessing the stability of the sites."
'Rest. You. Now.'
"He will, Father, I'll make certain of it."
Durin II managed a barely perceptible tilt of his head at that, the shallow breath that was all he dared to draw abruptly choking him. The burble of blood in his lungs was audible now, a trickle coming from the corner of his mouth as he weakly coughed out one last bit of air he had breathed in, then stilled, never to draw another.
"Thorin!"
Breath exploded from the king as he was abruptly torn from memories too akin to his own last moments for comfort, the feeling of drowning slowly fading as his lungs worked to pull in air as they were supposed to. Fíli was the one who had spoken, standing right in front of the king upon the very edge of the abyss, physically blocking his uncle from a fatal misstep. Blue eyes met matching worried ones, the prince's stance easing as he took in Thorin's return to the present. To Fíli's right, he could see Kíli still near the foot of the bridge, one hand braced on the shoulder of the ever-present Kifir to steady himself. Therin was slightly apart from his brothers, scowling fiercely, a seemingly permanent expression for the youngest these days.
"One of the Durins died here," He offered by way of explanation, unwilling to speak further of the unsettling parallels with his own life. While not literally true, it was close enough.
"What happened?" Fíli asked, moving away from the edge of the abyss, much to the betterment of Thorin's nerves.
The king sighed, not masking the bitter hatred in cold blue eyes as he answered.
"A dragon." Dwalin began cursing in Khuzdul until Thorin stilled him with a sharp look, surprised at his friend's sudden presence. "The creature's death struggles must have destabilized a fault line. This was the result."
Thorin waved a hand at the chasm, absently kicking a small piece of debris over the edge and watching as it vanished into the darkness. Dwalin, however, had not seemed mollified in the least by the explanation, still resembling a thundercloud almost bursting with pent-up rain and lightning.
"What is it, Dwalin?"
The warrior scowled, one hand fingering the head of his war hammer as he leaned on it.
"I was overseeing the removal of filth and set my pack down in the room next to the gate room. When I came back, it was gone!"
The reactions to that were mixed, to say the least. Bofur was the first to speak up, caught in between shock, outrage, and mirth.
"Ya mean someone had the gall to steal from ya?!"
"More likely thought it was lost or in the way and moved it." Fíli opined, adding a muttered, "I hope!"
A sound none had heard in too long reached their ears then, softening even Dwalin's thunderous expression – Kíli was laughing.
"I-I'm sorry! I just couldn't- The look on your face-"
"Did you take the pack?"
Thorin frowned, trying to think if he had seen Kíli anywhere around the gate room before coming here, but the prince was already shaking his head, while the youngest of Dis' brood, standing next to his brothers now, was looking awfully smug!
"Therin?"
The king demanded, recalling that the other had been in the gate room earlier when he should have been with Kíli. The prince shrugged.
"It's in the room beyond the one he left it in."
"I know, I already found it." Dwalin grumbled.
Thorin was about to ask what the problem was, then, when the warrior continued, pinning the guilty party with a glare that promised dire retribution.
"What I want to know is where my bedroll, dagger, and one of the extra tunics that were in it went!"
Therin paled, shaking his head frantically.
"I didn't touch any of that, Master Dwalin, I swear! I only moved it!"
"Now, Dwalin, leave the lad alone. I'd hate to have to watch ya given a death sentence for killin' a prince!"
At Bofur's comment, Kíli snorted, having sobered at the revelation that things were missing.
"No court of judgment anywhere on Middle Earth would rule that anything other than suicide, Bofur!"
"Too true." Fíli added, rolling his eyes at the audacity while Thorin's mind turned over possibilities, including how to catch a thief if they had one in their midst.
"Warmaster! We're ready!"
The call made Thorin turn and survey the amount of work already accomplished in surprise, pleased that something, at least, seemed to be going according to plan. A rope bridge made up of evenly spaced boards to serve as a walkway was already tightly strung to the stone columns on either side of the abyss, with an elf and dwarf both on it, testing its strength in various spots. Other dwarrow, with a few men and elves, waited patiently for the word to cross and begin scouting the first section of the great stairs that would lead to the upper seven levels of the stone city. The re-taking of Khazad-dûm had well and truly begun!