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.
To my reviewer Jessie- Thank you so much! I'm glad you have been enjoying these stories so much, it really is why I like to write. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, with all its coming ups and downs.
A huge thank you to everyone who reviews, favorites, and follows, you really do make my day!
16. King of Carven Stone
"Well, that coulda been worse!"
Bofur's cheeky comment brought an immediate huff from Dwalin, who swatted the smaller dwarf before Thorin could, almost sending him headfirst into the stairs they were climbing. It was moments like these that had always caused the cheerful ex-miner to grate upon Thorin's nerves.
"Shut it!" Dwalin growled, "Every time you say that, things start falling down around our ears!"
"Occasionally literally."
Thorin added drily, fixing the unrepentant Bofur with a glare, which only made the councilor grin wider. It was hard to forget about five hundred pounds of ugly, diseased flesh falling on top of them, no matter how insane the day had been. They walked in silence for the next several minutes, reaching the council room they had been in the day before, where Thorin dismissed the guards with a nod of gratitude. Before going in, however, the king leaned against the old stone door and swallowed hard, working up the nerve to allow the usual mask to slip from his countenance. Turning to Bofur and Dwalin, he laid bare for them to see the fear, doubts, and anguish he had been so carefully concealing.
"Am I truly doing what is best for our people, or am I once more allowing my own desires and need for revenge to lead me to the fool's path?"
Dwalin's face hardened, eyes blazing at the doubt he saw in Thorin, but Bofur pursed his lips thoughtfully, meeting his king's gaze with the same openness he had always displayed but Thorin had so long dismissed. Well, he would not ignore the other now. He desperately needed the words of someone he trusted to say that he was not allowing the past to be repeated. When the hatted dwarf stayed silent, however, he offered a further confession.
"All I have seen in the memories of the other Durins lately is pain and death. I fear that it may be a warning that I am ignoring."
"But warning of what, Thorin?" Bofur cocked his head, none of the usual grin and teasing manner evident now. "There's no way o' knowing if there is a way to change anything. Do I believe that you are being reckless? No, I would not be here if I did, you know that. And what is to be gained if we should pull out now?"
"Nothing." Dwalin spat out with a scowl, "The cult won't stop. And if it is the idiots back there who worry you, send them home. Dwarrow can do this on our own."
Except Thorin was absolutely certain that this time, they could not. Every time he had even begun to consider sending the others away, he had such a strong premonition of disaster that he was certain it had to be from Mahal himself. Before he could respond, however, Bofur rolled his eyes and allowed his uncanny ability to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time free rein.
"Oh, aye, and that worked so jolly well for us back at Erebor!"
Thorin winced as Dwalin's knuckle dusters clacked against one another as the warrior's hands bunched in rage. Bofur, as if suddenly aware of how that sounded and who he was standing next to, took a hasty step back, hands raised in supplication. One of the king's hands upon the bulging forearms forestalled another fight before it could begin.
"Enough. I asked for his opinion and I will not fault him for giving it, Dwalin. Bofur speaks nothing but the truth."
"Don't be misunderstandin' me, now. Nothing would be served by pullin' out because of one missing patrol and a few hotheads! I would give it at least a few more days, Thorin."
The king sighed, nodding as he heard his own thoughts echoed back to him. He knew to act now, while he was certain some important information was still missing, would be folly, but had needed the reassurance of hearing it from another. Besides, if he were falling to gold-sickness or his own stubborn nature once more, Bofur was the one dwarf with the army who would not hesitate to tell him to his face, Dwalin or no Dwalin. Before Thorin could move once more to enter the room, however, Bofur stopped him with another question.
"Thorin… This was a dwarrow kingdom, and we all know how fond our great race is of secrets. Could there be passages, hidden ones that our saboteur is using?"
"There are, Bofur, but many were created when no Durin was alive to remember them. Others… I know that they are there, but I cannot quite grasp the knowledge until I am standing before them. My mind bounces from one Durin to another, showing me bits of history, lives lived long ago, that I cannot always grasp or order."
Hands clenched empty air at the strength it took him to admit to such failings, even to these two. Thorin Oakenshield had never been accused of being an overly open dwarf, though Dwalin was the closest person he had to a brother with Frérin so long dead. As for Bofur the irreverent and annoying, he was the lodestone that kept drawing his king back to the proper alignment, painful or not. Taking a deep breath, Thorin headed into the room and back into the mists of a time long forgotten.
Second Age, 699
"What has happened?"
Blain could barely feel his wife's hands upon his shoulders, forcing him down into one of the bare stone council seats as he stared at the Lore Keeper of Khazad-dûm, Reglin. The room was chill without all the tapestries adorning the walls, the stone hard without its cushion, yet more hints that something had gone drastically wrong within the dwarrow's greatest city.
"A plague, lad. At its worst, we lost almost a hundred a day, and more still die."
He did not hide his shocked alarm at that, exchanging a panicked look with his wife.
"Do we know the cause? Or a treatment? Frey should not be here-"
"Peace, Blain. I would not have allowed either of you within the city if we believed there to still be a chance of infection. Anything that could be contaminated has been burned, including the bodies of the dead, though the elven healers say it can only infect those bitten by the ticks. None would risk the black death over a few velvet draperies."
"Black Death?!"
The smith paled, his grip on his wife's hand tightening, and he heard her gasp. They had both been present when her grandfather, a noble within the court of the Stonefoot king, received the reports from nearby villages of men. All within had been found dead, rotting where they lay, the tips of noses, fingers and toes all gone black. It was only when some returning dwarrow merchants had come across victims still alive that they realized the putrid rotting of the extremities began well before death could mercifully end their suffering. Had it been simple luck, then, that had prevented the dwarrow from catching this disease previously?
"Men who have caught the disease have all been dead within a week if not days."
Frey whispered and Blain nodded, recalling the same reports. Reglin sighed, sinking wearily down into a chair himself.
"Aye, that's true enough, but dwarrow aren't men, are they? It started with a more lethal type, which did kill within two weeks, but with the aid of the elven healers, many have begun to survive it. The trouble is that about half of those who survive the initial sickness are taken by the fading about a month later, even children. You know nothing can stop that once it has started."
The smith shook his head, trying to sort through all the information in his mind even as his heart wished to reject it all as some horrific tale told about the campfire. Children essentially dying of old age? What nightmare had he come home to?
"You talked Uncle into sending to the elves? To Amdir?"
Reglin smiled faintly, for it had been he and Blain who had long been working upon the king to at least open a diplomatic exchange with their tall neighbors, advice that had not been well received. The queen's family had been of the refugees from Gabilgathol, known to the elves as Belegost, the original home of the Broadbeams. Some of those betrayed by Thingol were kin; the elves were not the only ones upon Middle-Earth to have a long memory.
"Yes, finally. They were able to help us find the source- rats that had come in with a shipment of livestock from the new Númenórean settlements to the south. Once we killed the creatures and burned anywhere the ticks on them could have infested, there has been no new reports of illness, just the fadings. It was only then that the king would consent to having you sent for."
"But why? I can do nothing!"
"Go to your uncle, Blain. It is not my place to tell you."
"Thorin? What is it?"
The king blinked, surprised to find himself tightly gripping the edge of the conference table, Bofur and Dwalin both regarding him warily, as one would a creature gone mad with foaming at the mouth. Looking down, Thorin noted that it was Bofur's hand upon his arm not that of the old Lore Keeper, Reglin, but some part of him was not yet back in the present.
"I- I must… I need to find-"
His voice trailed off in confusion as he gestured vaguely toward the corridor, not able to put into words the tug of the past that he could not deny. As he attempted to move toward the door, however, Dwalin intercepted him, large hands coming to rest upon his shoulders and give him a gentle shake.
"There won't be anythin' there, Thorin. Our scouts say the entire level was looted long ago."
"There is something…"
Thorin's eyes focused past his friend, shrugging off the restraining arms as he stumbled toward the door.
Frey's arm settled about his shoulders, a warm, solid reassurance that he needed more than even air right now. Gently, she guided his fumbling steps, keeping him moving when dread would have stilled his feet. What could be so drastically wrong that Reglin, his old mentor, would not be willing to even hint at a warning?
Ahead, he could see the blank wall that made the corridor look like it abruptly ended, and stopped, startled to actually see the defensive door to the royal quarters closed tight. How many times had he heard the story of the building of Khazad-dûm? How Durin had chosen to layer the defenses by creating a special door to hide the inner halls that would disappear completely when closed? No force of arms, not even dragon fire, would unseal the portal without the proper sequence. How, as a child, he had longed to see it thus just once, to put his hand up and press the proper spots, to see it retract into the wall! To the imagination of a dwarfling it had always whispered of tales of magic and ancient heroes!
Too bad not even the best door could defend against an illness.
Thorin stood before the blank wall, even as Blain had, the heated discussion between Bofur and Dwalin an irritating buzz in his ears that he paid no heed to. Let them debate whether he had finally gone mad if they wanted, he knew what needed to be done!
Blunt, battle-scarred fingers instinctively found the clever latches, triggering the proper sequence as if it had been he, and not Blain, who had been drilled in them his whole life. He felt a slight *pop* as the final catch was touched, the hair on his arms standing on end, but nothing else happened for a long moment.
"Thorin? What did you just-"
Bofur cut himself off with an astonished gasp as the wall seemed to slide into itself, though not with the noiseless smooth action it must have once had. Beyond was a dark corridor, the air smelling heavy and dead, but a tapestry still hung just within, colors dulled only by the dust upon it. With a shaking hand, Dwalin held the torch near, revealing a scene of a battle from long ago, the dwarrow taking on a monstrous appearance in their heavy helms made to resemble creatures of legend. The councilor reached out to touch it, but Thorin was quick to intercept his hand.
"It is old enough that it may crumble with a touch, Bofur. Get a scribe down here to record everything we find."
"Right."
His old companion scrambled off without another word, leaving the two others shaking their heads in amusement. Some dwarrow never changed.
"What was this place?"
Dwalin asked, still peering intently at the tapestry, as if trying to memorize the formations and tactics shown.
"In the time of Durin I and II, it was the quarters of the royal family, though Durin III moved them to the sixth level after his grandfather's death. This was then made into quarters for the Warmaster and his lieutenants, along with the royal weapons' storage."
"Weapons?" The king smiled as Dwalin's attention was decidedly caught by the word, his old friend finally tearing his gaze from the wall hanging to question him more closely. "Do you think there might be…?"
Whatever the warrior was about to ask, however, went unheard as the king's attention slipped once more into the distant past.
Blain stood in the doorway to the royal quarters, stomach tightening at the stillness in the corridor beyond. The bare walls felt cold and hard without their tapestries, making the smith shudder. His wife's hand upon his arm felt as hot as a mithril forge in comparison. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs attempting to mask the foul musk of sickness. All four doors to the apartments of the princes were shut tight, something that Blain could not ever remember seeing during the day, as he or one of his cousins always seemed to be going in or out.
Each had been given their own small suite of rooms upon attaining their twenty-fifth year, moving from the nursery attached to the king's apartments to one of those now concealed by the closed doors. All were identical, containing a sitting room, small study, bathing room, and two bed chambers. Blain no longer lived here, of course, having moved to the artisans' area near the main markets when he chose to pursue his craft over the path of the military or royal advisor, but he was still a frequent visitor. How many of those rooms now stood empty, their occupants succumbing to this disease? The oldest and youngest of his cousins were both married with children, and Blain dreaded facing tombs holding the snuffed out remains of such young lives. Talí was barely half a year old!
"Where are the children? We should at least hear them."
Frey's whisper cut across the eerie silence like a knife, making him start. Normally after a long absence, they would be swarming him by now, adults and younglings alike, voices vying with one another to be heard. Blain did not answer beyond a tightening of his lips as he began to move determinedly forward, praying to Mahal that the little ones were only confined to bed, recovering. In his heart, however, he knew how unlikely that was.
The king's door was ajar, his aunt's chair in the main sitting room already draped in black, the dwarrow color of both birth and death. They had come from the black core of the very mountains, and to that darkness would they return until called forth by Mahal once more to remake the world. A small sob from Frey had him tightening his hold on her hand. The black drape over the chair was the only cloth in the room, with even the rich fur rugs by the fireplace having been removed, no doubt to burn.
"Who comes?"
A familiar soft voice called from the next room, making Blain sigh in relief. Thank Mahal, at least one of his cousins yet lived!
Thorin was unaware of the shouts of alarm, did not even feel Dwalin's iron grip momentarily delaying him so that Bofur could scurry to keep up. In his eye, it was not the large warrior who held him, but a beautiful, distraught dwarrowdam, softly whispering encouragement as he paused for a second before answering, gathering strength for the trial ahead. He was heedless of his true surroundings as he moved toward the inner room, where he saw the glow of a fire, a large bed, and a dwarf bowed with grief in the chair nearby, not a room empty of furniture save for a few racks for weapons that had long been absent.
The bedchambers were dark except for the glow of the fire and a single crystal lamp by the bed. His youngest cousin, his elder by a mere eleven years, Thain, sat in a hard wooden chair, a rough wool cape around his shoulders to keep off the chill. Swallowing hard, Blain forced his eyes to where his uncle lay, tears sliding unheeded down his cheeks as he realized that the stillness of the small, wizened form was well beyond that of a deep sleep.
"Blain? Is that you?"
The younger dwarf flinched, hitting his knees on the floor by his cousin's chair as he took in the prince's milk-filmed unseeing eyes.
"Y-yes, Thain, it's me."
His gaze strayed back to his uncle as he gripped his cousin's hands, a muffled sob from behind telling him Frey had also realized what had happened.
"May he rest in Mahal's arms." The ritual words choked him, forced out between stiff lips. "What may I do to aid you, my prince?"
Thain let out a long, shuddering breath before pulling his hands free to fish under the portion of the cape that draped over his lap. He pulled something out, shaking so hard that he almost dropped it before allowing Blain to see.
"You can accept this."
Blain's eyes widened, head shaking frantically as he tried to back away only to be stopped by Frey's hands on his shoulders. Thain smiled sadly as he held out the gold and silver crown of Khazad-dûm.
"I can only imagine your face right now, cousin. You never expected nor wanted this, but there is no one else, Blain. Both of my brothers, my marriage-sister, and nephews are dead. Láni might yet die, and Talí is both female and an infant."
"And what of you?"
Blain suspected the answer before he even heard his cousin's cynical snort, but he had to ask, mind reeling for any alternatives to what he had never allowed himself to contemplate, even in nightmares.
"I? What good would a scholar be upon the throne? Even if I thought myself equal to such a task before this, the illness has left scars upon my eyes, stealing my sight. Our people will not accept a blind king, nor should they be asked to. I have already formally abdicated and Father proclaimed you Crown Prince." Sightless eyes turned toward the bed, the next words barely audible. "I think… I think seeing you home was the only thing he held on for. As soon as Reglin brought word you had passed the gates, he let himself sleep."
Blain nodded dumbly, stumbling as he pushed himself to his feet and over to the side of the dead monarch.
"T-touch does not-?"
"No. Though we have been burning the bodies as it was thought not to risk a return."
Blain nodded, tears dripping onto his uncle's cold, still features as he bent, placing a kiss on the forehead of the only father he remembered. Anger burned at the unfairness of such deaths and the shattered remains of the life he thought he had mapped out.
"How could this happen, Thain? Reglin mentioned an infested shipment of livestock?"
"Aye, including some woolen goods meant as gifts for the royal family from the lords of Umbar. We all had them in our rooms, Blain!"
"An act of war?!"
The smith twisted around at his wife's outraged hiss, mind numbed by grief only slowly understanding the implications. Thain just shook his head.
"We don't know. The wagoneers were all among the first to die, and when sketches were sent to our envoy in Umbar, they denied any knowledge of the men or the shipment."
Blain nodded, fist tightening so hard his knuckles ached. Anger had given way to the knowledge of what he must become and do.
"So, I have a kingdom in chaos with thousands dead, orcs and goblins at our very gates, and the possibility of an undeclared war with an unknown enemy."
"I'm afraid so, cousin. You forgot to mention that you must undergo vigil tonight, as your assumption of the throne must occur as soon as possible. The elves, at the least, know the true extent to which the kingdom is crippled; we dare not show further vulnerability. Long have they coveted what we hold."
Blain's lips thinned, considering that. Amdir had never been the easiest of neighbors, but there had been talk of founding another elven kingdom upon the western side of the mountains, one that would be populated mostly by Noldor. Perhaps now was the time to begin serious talks with Gil-Galad. Let someone appointed by that worthy spar with the overly haughty Sindarin lord, show him that dwarrow need not rely solely upon his good will. He regarded his cousin for a moment before resting a hand on his shoulder.
"And you, Thain? Is there anything I can do to further aid you?"
"Yes." Blain inhaled sharply, not having expected an affirmative answer, especially with the way his cousin had stiffened, as if unsure of what he was about to request. "Go to the back wall of my father's study and touch it."
Thorin blinked, one hand automatically seeking to brace himself upon a table that was no longer there, and falling to the floor with a grunt. Something long and thin poked at his ribs even as his companions turned to him in alarm.
"Thorin! What's wrong? Do we need-"
"M'fine!"
He managed to gasp out, one hand rising to halt any attempt to run for aid. With a grimace, he forced his body to inhale, bringing limbs back under control and pushing himself up to see what he had landed on. It was an ax, though different than the ones that Thorin was used to seeing, for the blade was a series of jagged teeth, similar to a saw. With a quirk of his mouth, he handed it to his friend, watching with amusement as Dwalin's eyes gleamed before turning away, feet heading him towards the door once again.
"What are you doing? That's a wall!"
Blinking in surprise at the voice in his ear, the king glanced around to realize he did not recall leaving the room after handing the odd ax to Dwalin, nor coming into this one. Pulling his arm out of the restraining grip, he gave the dwarrowdam a sad smile even as his nerves sent a chill up his spine.
"I must do this, Frey."
Thorin blinked, and the dwarrowdam was replaced by the gaping mouth and reddening face of Dwalin before he found himself lost to the memory once more.
Blain raised a shaking hand to the wall, not quite touching it yet. He had heard stories all his life of what might be hidden here, remembered his cousins daring one another to sneak into the forbidden room and try touching the wall. He had never been included in the game, though he could not recall why, nor decide if he would have had the nerve to attempt it. It had seemed so… outlandish. A wall that only the next incarnation of their long dead leader could open? Stories for children, to keep them out of even greater mischief! Next, some fools among men would whisper that only the one destined to be the next king could pull Durin's Ax from the stone it had been lodged in! Any dwarf could do it, they just had more respect than to try. That weapon was for only one dwarf, and the time had not yet come for it to be used in battle again.
"Thorin!"
The king winced at Dwalin's outraged bellow, finally glancing around the old study. To one side, several casks were stacked, one having tipped over on its side to spill a familiar powder across the floor.
"Flash flame?"
He asked, hoping in some minute way to distract his old friend, but Dwalin merely gave a grunt of agreement, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place. Bofur, of course, was already chortling. He really hoped he was wrong as to what had actually annoyed the large warrior.
"What?"
Thorin then demanded with feigned irritation, a tactic that had so often worked with Dis.
"Frey?"
Dwalin spat out the name, and Thorin bit back a groan as the warrior proceeded to eye his two companions, as if debating which of the two to smack first. Unfortunately, he and Dwalin had been friends and sparring partners too long for the bald dwarf to hold back out of respect for royalty, especially when the only other one present was a member of the company. The king decided to copy one of his nephews' favorite tactics and continue playing the innocent.
"Frey was the wife of Durin II, a Stonefoot. Where did you hear the name?"
Getting just the right amount of confusion in his voice was much harder than he had expected given how easily the older two rascals he called his sister-sons did it. Bofur had now devolved into slapping his knee in glee as he bent to catch his breath.
"Y-you just called him that! Guess we know where Kíli gets the trouble telling lad from lass from!"
"Oh, shut up."
Dwalin snapped, giving the councilor a shove, which turned into a satisfied grin when Bofur's feet tangled, landing him unceremoniously on his backside with feet sticking in the air. Thorin, meanwhile, fell back upon his most put upon, I'm about to lose patience look.
"If you two are quite through?"
He did not wait for an answer, turning instead back to the wall and fitting his fingers instinctively into the proper key spots. It had never truly been that only Durin could open the wall, just that he alone knew the secret to triggering the mechanism. With a faint grinding quickly catching the attention of the other two, the stone pulled in and slid to the side, blasting them with stale air.