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.

12. Mistakes of the Past

"Who are you?"

Thorin repeated as the figure before him seemed not to hear, a hard edge to his voice that warned his patience was fast running out.

"Thorin."

Hearing the highly uncharacteristic note of gentleness in Dwalin's voice, the king risked a glance at his companions to find them showing no hint of alarm. At least not at a stranger in the room. No, Bofur and Dwalin were staring at him with no hint of amusement upon the toymaker's face now, only consternation. Thorin's head swiveled back around to find a room empty of all save a few broken chairs and the scattered bones covered in cobwebs. Sweat slicked the handle of Orcrist as he waved it vaguely at the place where he had seen the intruder.

"There was someone there, a man, I swear!"

Anger coursed through the king at the silence of the other two dwarrow, one hand batting out to send broken chair bits slamming against the far wall. How dare they doubt him now, after all they had been through together? Was he not Durin? Was he not faultless- Horrified at the thought, Thorin brought himself up short, heart beating wildly. There was no one without fault, not even Durin, despite the legends the dwarrow had long cherished; he knew this, so why had he allowed such an attitude to enter in? Troubled, the king sank down onto the only remaining upright chair, though it was missing its back. Closing his eyes, the memories and emotions swirled, carrying him far back into the past, to another king equally as troubled.

First Age, About 590

"Durin, you cannot hide in your underground tunnels and ignore this any longer! Do you not know what has happened beyond your walls? Do you not care for the suffering?"

Thorin's hands slammed to the table top as he surged back to his feet, sending bones skittering through the vision of a man, the same one as before, returned, shouting at him. No, not a man.

Half-elven. Durin ground his teeth at the presumption of this upstart young lad, daring to lecture him!

"You presume much, mariner! Of course I care, but there is nothing I can do beyond providing safe haven for those able to make it. I will not see my people slaughtered!"

Eärendil snorted contemptuously, waving away the words as if mere babble.

"The people are already being slaughtered – elf, dwarf, Edain, it matters not to Morgoth or his minions!"

"Melkor."

"What?"

The tall man-elf turned to gape at him as if he had spoken a tongue foreign to Middle-Earth.

"I said that his name is Melkor, not whatever you lot have labelled him. Use it, or get out."

The words were grudging, but necessary. This stubborn child, however, was not to be so easily put off.

"Do you side with him, then? Truly? Do you have any idea what he means to do to this world? What the taint he fostered has already done to my wife and children?"

Durin finally met his gaze, blue to blue, both too stubborn to break and look away. Seeing the sincere desperation and emotional pain there, the dwarf finally nodded, sighing heavily. Small wonder the man came to them hidden in layers of cloaks, identity closely guarded.

"Aye, lad, I've heard, and I'm sorry, but I cannot ask my people to stand with you."

That broke whatever control his visitor had exhibited up until now. With tears in his eyes, Eärendil swept his arm across the table, sending metal goblets bouncing off the council room walls hard enough to dent them. Chords stood out in his muscular neck as his face reddened and twisted with the force of his grief-stricken rage as he bellowed at the king.

"Why?! You tell me why!"

The guards were quick to crash into the room, but Durin only waved them off, going around to the other side of the table with a heavy step, the weight of his years dragging upon him today.

"Sit down, lad. Such anger will harden the heart and damage the soul. No one blames you for not being there when your home was attacked. Elwing managed to escape, did she not? And your twins?"

Eärendil slumped, one hand that had been clenched in fury moments before now cupping a head that was lowered in defeat.

"That was not Melkor, but Maedhros and Maglor, fulfilling their cursed oath. I have been told that the boys were spared and are being treated with kindness within their captor's household. I can do nothing more for them while Melkor yet lives to rain his fire and darkness down upon this land. So long as he holds the other two Silmarils, they have no other enemy, for the third was borne to me by my lady wife, it is beyond their ken." His gaze snapped up to once more bore into the king's. "We have our best chance now, while all are united against a common enemy, the kinslaying momentarily forgotten, but to have any hope of victory, I need the armies of the dwarrow!"

Durin sat down heavily, wracking his mind to find a way to explain the predicament Eärendil's request placed the dwarrow in.

"And I wish my people to live, Eärendil. You ask that I take up arms against one of the Valar when the Khazad only live on the sufferance of those very beings! You forget that we are not like you. We were never meant to be, and that gift of life can be as easily stripped from us if we dare to raise a hand against them!"

"Yet your brothers in the west led their people into two of the greatest battles!"

Durin grimaced, having known the other would bring this up. The actions of his brothers, the fathers of the Broadbeams and Firebeards, were often whispered as justification for why they should risk the very thing the mariner now asked, but as with most things in life, it was more complicated then they realized.

"Aye, against Melkor's lieutenants only, and both paid with their lives! Azaghâl, at least, should have known better than to take such a risk, but he knew only the Khazad would be able to stand against the fire of Glaurung. I cannot, I will not, ask my entire race to march to their deaths! Which is what it would be without the permission of the other Valar! "

Eärendil's eyes narrowed, a calculating look coming into them that Durin did not care for at all.

"And if I were to win the hand of the Valar themselves to our aid? Would you then stand with us, Durin King, High Lord of the Dwarrow?"

Durin recoiled, horrified at the realization of what the young mariner proposed.

"You are mad, boy! The punishment for setting foot upon Valinor is death! Would you leave your children orphaned?"

"They will be cared for by kin if we cannot. I see no other path to end this madness! Now… Will you pledge to me the might of the dwarrow if I succeed?"

Durin sighed, standing strong even as his heart whispered that he would not see such foolish bravery again. And wondered if Middle-Earth would prove deserving of the sacrifice.

"Aye, you have my word. Should you bring the Valar to aid us, every dwarrow of all seven kingdoms who can bear arms will stand with you, Eärendil the Mariner."

The man nodded, satisfied, weary steps a bare whisper on the stone as he left the room. Durin stood for a moment in the silence, wondering if he would ever see the fool again, and praying that he would.

"The blessings of Mahal go with you, lad. You'll need it."

The room seemed to ripple and change around the king, banners appearing behind each chair as if by magic. With widened eyes, Thorin took in the symbols of the seven families, the dwarrow seated there each examining a ring. Glancing down, he had to physically restrain himself from tearing the familiar, gaudy thing from his own hand, revulsion rising within. As fingers pressed together, he could have sworn he felt the cold edge of the metal and the heavy weight of the stone within even as something nagged…

Second Age, About 1550

Durin III frowned at the ring upon his finger, trying to decide just why it made him so uneasy. Celebrimbor had made it himself, after all, not that too pretty stranger the king could not help distrusting, no matter how taken with him the elves seemed. He had been asked when this whole thing began how many should be made, and answered seven without pausing to think. Seven was a sacred number for the dwarrow, after all, not like the unlucky thirteen.

To them, thirteen was the worst number of all, for it signified the Seven Dwarrow Fathers with only six of the dwarrowdams; the seventh, the wife of the Blacklock Father, had been lost to treachery early in the First Age. True, the culprits had been caught and cast out, becoming the petty dwarves, for no true dwarrow would claim them, but the number had forever become associated with evil doings and dark tidings, to the point where dwarrow would do anything to avoid it. Take, for instance, the levels that he was in the process of adding to Khazad-dûm – the sixth and seventh levels up would be completed at the same time to avoid the kingdom ever possessing that ill-fated number.

So what was it about this ring, made and gifted by a trusted friend, which set him to contemplating such ill numbers?

Thorin swallowed hard, iron will literally grasping the memory and thrusting it far from him as the wreckage around him became more solid than dream once more.

"Thorin, look at this!"

Bofur's eyes were wide, staring at the scrawl of something upon the far wall. Standing, the king made his way over to his friend, jaw tightening as he drew closer and realized that the ink used looked to have been blood, and not all of it the black of the dark creatures. Atop some of the Black Speech was another symbol, unfortunately all too familiar recently.

"The Death Warriors."

Third Age, 1

Durin IV ground his teeth as he glared at the dwarrow surrounding him, daring any to contradict the evidence he had just laid out, the damning symbol written in dwarrow blood. What excuses would be offered now, with such clear proof at last placed before them? The Broadbeam, Firebeard, and Stonefoot kings all looked as disgusted as he was, but the other three… One hand clenched in frustration, but the other no longer could, an iron facsimile in place of the limb that had been there only last year.

Iron Hand, they had begun to call him, but he would show them another reason for the name!

"I will have each and every head of the cult members within the kingdoms, let none escape! I want this evil mined from the depths!"

"Durin, we cannot simply-"

The objection was cut off by the slam of iron on stone. He was done with listening to platitudes and whining, they would remember the pledge to follow Durin in all things affecting the seven kingdoms as a whole or he would remind them with steel!

"I do not wish to hear excuses, I wish to hear results! If you must strip every dwarf in your kingdoms to find their wretched sign, then so be it!"

With that, the king stormed from the room, heedless of the consternation he had left in his wake.

"We knew them to be here."

Thorin breathed, blinking away the rage of another time and life, though he could well understand it.

"Some of these bones are of men."

A solid thud resounded through the room as Dwalin cast away one of the offending objects in disgust.

"Old or new?"

There had been men in the kingdom often enough, mostly merchants, but a few who actually lived among the dwarrow, adopting their customs. Some had been refugees, others, smiths who sought to learn the secrets of the dwarrow even knowing that they would then never be allowed to take them outside the mountains. There had also been the envoys of their allies, of course, so it was conceivable that some became trapped within when the Balrog drove the dwarrow out.

"New. I think we found our treasure hunters." Dwalin held out a coin to him, which held the clear profile of Gondor's current king, but as the dwarrow king took it, he realized that the blood had cemented two together. Flipping it, his stomach dropped, for this was no mere coin, one of thousands minted in a king's reign, but a token, of which only seven were minted to honor a new dwarf lord. This one shown in his hand, the mithril highlighting the etching still bright despite the years, symbols of a long dead owner teasing at his memory.

Third Age, 1713

Durin V slumped, hand laying limp atop the list as he stared sightlessly at the far wall of the chamber. Though no longer the main council chamber, this conference room was preferred by the military as it sat just down the hall from the rooms taken by the generals. Unfortunately, that usually meant only the worst news was presented to the king here, making him always dread setting foot inside, and it certainly lived up to that dreaded purpose today. He could almost see the beast in his mind's eye, scaled body twisting and writhing as lethal jaws snapped with bone crushing force.

Scatha, a fire-drake, though flightless.

The worst fear of any dwarf, and the source of many a tale to frighten children, had just come to life in the north, seizing several dwarrow settlements and amassing a huge treasure pile. He was ambushing any who came near without remorse, including their allies among the Eotheod, and they could do little to stop him.

The king had sent a troop of one hundred armed with some of their best weaponry, including a mobile windlass crossbow and arrows tipped with mithril in hopes of felling the beast. That had been six weeks ago, however, and no word had returned… until now. A patrol of men had snuck close to Scatha's lair only to stumble upon the remains of his warriors. Now, the list of the dead stared at him in accusation, whispering that he should never have let them attempt such foolhardiness, a bloodstained gold token carried by the leader the only remains to show grieving families.

"My lord?"

The quiet intrusion by his aide received only a rude grunt in reply.

"Durin, the council wishes to know if we mount a full army against the dragon."

"With what?" He laughed bitterly, "I already sent the best weaponry we have. What chance do we have against one of the creatures who took down mighty Gondolin? No, I will waste no more lives. Pull the remaining settlements from the Grey Mountains, let the beast sit and rot!"

The king waved the other dwarf away, unable to abide a witness to his grief and despair, the round medallion biting into his hand. He would have to ask, but he doubted Fris would deny him the honor of mounting this into the wall of the conference room as a remembrance of her husband and those lost with him. It was unusual that such a memorial would be made here instead of in the halls of the dead deep below them, but Durin wanted all whose greed called for risking the attentions of those foul creatures in the north to remember the price paid.

This should have been the age of might for the great kingdom, with Sauron gone and his people at peace, but it was not to be. First had come the dragons, with their tricks and impenetrable hides, stealing what was not theirs. Then, the Witch-King of Angmar, a seemingly greedy mortal king whom none could kill, or even face. He had destroyed the remaining kings of the Dúnedain and their kingdoms, the once mighty descendants of Numeanor, though the elves had been able to drive dark king off at the last.

However, they had not killed him, and every year new rumors surfaced of the tall form being seen and the death that followed. He was not the only one, either. Black cloaked figures had appeared throughout the lands, leaving death and despair in their wake. None knew how many there were, some saying one, others more, but Durin had been keeping careful tally of the sightings, and they appeared in too many places to be all the same, be he man or creature. In fact, if his information was accurate, there seemed to be nine of the things.

Idly, the king twisted the ring he so rarely wore on his finger, then stopped, gut twisting as horror overwhelmed his grief. Nine…

A hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear made Thorin gasp, coin and token clenched tight in his fist, turning to face his old friend with more than a hint of annoyance. There was something here he needed to know, he just had to sort through the overwhelming flood of memories until he found it!

"What is it, Dwalin?"

The warrior merely raised an eyebrow at him for snapping before giving his king a bit of his own bite.

"I feared you would repeat the prince's little trick from last night."

Thorin gave a short, sharp nod, accepting the gentle guidance of his two friends as they had him sit back upon his previous seat. Truthfully, the memories he was attempting to sort through were overwhelming him, making him lose where the other Durins stopped and 'Thorin' began, a very disconcerting feeling at best. He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, fighting the boulders of years past that threatened to bury him.

Something nudged his hand and he glanced down to find Bofur offering a water skin. He gave the other dwarf a faint smile, raising it to his lips only to almost choke on the strong bite of liquor on his tongue. He gulped, feeling the warmth run down to his stomach and spread, relaxing him, even as he spared a reproachful look for the unrepentant councilor. Bringing ale when they were to be alert at all times!

"Thank you, Bofur, I needed that." The king gazed around, the wreckage flickering with images of the room in its prime. "There is something important here, I just need to find it!"

"It's near supper, Thorin. We need to return."

"Aye, there's nothin' more to be done today, and the lads will be looking for you." Bofur appealed, taking back the waterskin and stowing it on his belt, though not before taking a healthy swig himself.

For a moment, the king considered dismissing the other two dwarrow and staying to continue his search, but a rumble reminded him that while he may be the reincarnation of Durin, he still needed to eat.

"Fine. Order this room sealed. I want nothing touched until I can return tomorrow. Did our missing patrol turn up?"

"No."

That single word held all of the fears that haunted Thorin's nightmares, mind already racing with different plans for going forward from here if the worst possibility should prove true.