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.

18. A Crown of Light in Waters Deep

Thorin slowly picked his way through the bodies of the slain, each face and splatter of red blood another blow to his already reeling conscience. How many times had the ax-ridden Broadbeam miner stood by him, who was not even his king, through the years? Azanulbizar, guiding them to Ered Luin, the new settlement, the quest… And it ended here, where so many others' lives had also ended, Moria at last claiming her due from the final family group who had followed Thorin so faithfully. Balin, Fundin, Frérin, Thrór, Óin, Ori, now Bifur… How many times would he lead his people to such slaughter before he finally learned? Why must it always end in fire?

Casting about in despair, he stared at the contorted bodies, mind struggling with this new reality. There, to his left, two dwarrow, back to back, defending one another even in death. To the right, a man, then an elf with the russet hair of the Woodland Realm, a people who hated him, yet still here, dead. More pain, more death, more destruction-

"Why?!"

The scream tore through the cavernous hall, echoing from another age, another Durin, equally stricken with grief as he watched the bodies of his people burn. Thorin was not even aware that he had hit his knees by Mablung's contorted corpse, lying next to Bifur's, or that the scream that had filled his mind had been his own, startling all near enough and cognizant through their own pain to hear it. He paid no attention to Nast, Bofur, and a few others warily shepherding others away while Dwalin crouched next to his distraught king.

"Thorin!" He felt the hands on him, had to keep himself from snarling and shoving the other away, the intrusion profoundly unwelcome. Right now, he wanted nothing more than for someone else to feel the pain that he was in, friend or no. "Thorin, you're bleeding. We need to get you to the healers."

His old friend, however, was less real to the dwarf king right now than the red of the blood, the red of flame…

Second Age, 699

Blain watched, numb, as the flames consumed the bodies of his uncle and oldest cousin's child, little Dain, along with the thirteen others who had died this day. The cold metal of the royal circlet pressed down upon his brow, a weight far heavier than the material it was made from. He watched as flesh turned to ash, never to be reunited with the stone as was proper, and felt the fraud as tears ran unchecked down soot stained cheeks.

His entire world seemed to be burning in that hot flame, and for the first time, he saw it as destructive, stealing away what should have been, instead of the force of creation he had so long deceived himself into believing he had harnessed to his will in the forge. He never felt the hands that guided him away, to the pools for bathing and proper garments in preparation for the vigil night by the Kheled-zaram, the ritual of kings.

It was the sting of a needle and the cold drip of water from a cloth that brought Thorin back to the present, though it was more as an observer than a participant. He made no move as the thread pulled through his sliced flesh, knitting the pieces together so that it might heal once more, barely felt the sting and tug. When had he come to the guardroom that the healers had taken as their own?

There was no stir of curiosity about his own condition, just eyes slipping over the heads on makeshift pallets, blankets rising and falling with every painful breath, until one just across from him stilled, refusing to move again. The healer in attendance simply folded the rough wool over the dead man, a weary sigh the only acknowledgement of a hard fought battle lost once again. All were equal in death. It was the sight of the familiar unruly dark brown hair of the next patient that the exhausted healer checked on that finally drew Thorin back into the present long enough to speak one name.

"Kíli?"

Senata lifted her head from her careful stitchery, giving him a reassuring smile.

"He'll be fine. Between the concussion he is still recovering from and the exhaustion, I wanted him where I could watch him for a while, that's all."

Mind awakening from the numb daze he had been in, Thorin's blue eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of well-meaning deceit.

"Fíli and Therin?"

Now the healer snorted, rolling her eyes, a typical response when dealing with the princes of Durin.

"Fíli's fine, superficial cuts and bruises. He's asleep on the floor on the far side of Kili's cot. He, at least, was smart enough to keep a mail shirt on even in camp-"

"I had taken it off to be repaired!"

Thorin objected, though he did not have the heat in the words they normally would contain. Not that it would garner any attention from the healer anyway. Senata had learned her selective hearing from her mentor, Óin. Sure enough, it only earned him another eye roll as she continued as if he had not spoken, one of the few outside his family who would dare such blatant disrespect to their king.

"-Unlike a certain king I could name whose side has been neatly flayed open to his ribs and whose scar will not be nearly so neat if he does not stop moving!" Thorin bit back the sharp retort, simply too heart sick to allow his temper free rein. "Therin will have a spectacular black eye where he dropped his guard on the left again, a mirror of Kifir's. I've already sent both those two off with poultices, though I think Master Dwalin meant to have a word or two with them."

More like three or four, along with hours of practice to correct the sloppy guard. Thorin nodded absently, thankful once more for the steady support of the large warrior. Dwalin would see that his nephew was alright, and that he would not ever make the same mistake again.

"How many dead and wounded?"

He did not wish to hear the answer, but knew he must, to understand the scope of the disaster he had brought them to. In his mind, another voice whispered sadly to his wife as they watched the burning pyre.

"How many have we lost that fifteen in one day is considered not only a blessing, but a mere trifling?"

Senata's hands stilled, head ducking as she blinked away tears.

"That one across from us was fifty-nine that I know of, but the count will go higher. Wounded, I have lost count completely."

"We do not expect twenty-one more to last the week, Blain. The death toll will reach twenty thousand then."

"Almost one third of our population!"

The about to be crowned king murmured in horror, unable to fully grasp such a reality. How could his people have been brought to this? What had their stubborn insistence upon holding onto the insults of the past done to them? He had witnessed elven medicine too many times to discount the aid that would have been given and what it would have meant for his people, had the king only been willing to ask.

The population had only just regained the high mark it held at the end of the First Age, despite the influx of refugees from the ruined cities of the Broadbeams and the Firebeards... Reglin rested a hand upon his shoulder as tears streamed unchecked down the young dwarf's face.

"I know you are exhausted and grieving, lad, but our people sorely need a leader, and the only way that will happen is if you stand vigil tonight."

Thorin understood then what he must do. It was time to complete the ancient rites that would formally acknowledge him as king of Khazad-dûm, and seek the guidance of Mahal in how to lead his people forward, even as Balin had done when faced with the despair of knowing their ancient foe had returned, taking the life of Kíli before Erebor. Even as Blain now did, his heartbreak and reeling for the proper path a reflection of Thorin's own turmoil.

Later on, he knew he must have spoken to someone about what he intended, because none spoke to him or barred his path as he made his way down to the small guardroom off the entrance to the city. Standing before the far wall, he allowed a single drop of his blood to bead on the end of his finger, then touched the key stone. Obediently, the door slid from its hidden base, allowing the king to enter into the plain, cold room, a trough cut into the floor its only furnishings.

Servants entered on silent feet, pouring the water into the waiting bath as Blain stripped his clothing off, allowing it to drop to the floor with a disregard he never would tolerate at any other time. They would be taken and burned in the forge flame at the center of the kingdom, he knew. One foot stepped into the water, bumps raising on his skin at the chill, though he did not say a word.

The cloth ran over Thorin's skin inch by inch, nothing overlooked, and he blinked, realizing that it was Fíli and Therin aiding the preparations. His oldest nephew looked strained, mouth tight and eyes red-rimmed as he concentrated upon every swipe of the cloth. The cost to the prince was beyond his comprehension, to be standing here now, battling the rising panic with every breath to attend his uncle in what must seem the worst timing. They had planned for this ritual, all knowing their parts, but not until the city was securely theirs once more. Reaching out, Thorin laid a hand along the side of Fíli's face, all the comfort he could offer in this moment, receiving a faint smile in return.

Blain held patiently still as hands undid every clip, braid and ornament in his hair and beard slowly, feeling their way. Thain stood waist deep in the water, sightless eyes fixed on the darkness beyond his cousin. This was for only the closest of blood-kin, to wash away the former life of the one who would be king, and the blind prince was the only one he had left. A shudder went through the younger dwarf as the last of his ornaments was stripped away.

It was odd, this feeling of nakedness, of being without any of what made him 'Blain', though he knew now that the name was merely a label meant to hide him from his enemies until Durin II was able to take his rightful place. This was as it should be, though, for he was returning to the stone to await the making of Mahal, whatever the result. Dripping, he slowly pulled himself out of the stone trough, accepting the rough toweling then standing still as his attendants inspected him to ensure that every last trace of dirt had been washed away.

Inspection passed, Thorin stood as a rough tunic of homespun wool was pulled over his head, the grey-black of the dye still smelling pungent. He gasped as some of the coarse fibers caught at the newly stitched wound in his side, a few trickles of blood slowly finding their way down his side. Knowing what was to come next, the king held out his wrists, but Fíli blanched, quaking hands dropping the rope as he turned and fled from the room. Thorin longed to call to him, but those who were as yet rough stone, unforged in Mahal's sight, could not speak. It had always been planned for that to be Kili's part, and never spoken of within the oldest prince's hearing.

Therin swiped the rough cord from the ground with a scowl, which only lessened slightly when the sounds of distressed retching came from the direction in which his older brother had fled. Turning back to his uncle, the young dwarf started to place the bindings, signifying the would-be king's total submission to the will of the Valar for his life, then stopped, fingers tracing the bracelets of scar tissue already present on Thorin's wrists. Therin swallowed hard, but the hands that tied the cord were steady.

Blain held still as the cloth was folded over his eyes, a pang in his heart whispering that this was the only reality his cousin would now know. Hands guided him as he walked, the smooth stone floor giving way to steps and then the rough ground, making him stumble. Whoever walked with him did not allow him to fall, however, instead holding on tightly until he was solidly balanced once more.

He could hear the soft creak of leather and the metallic clang of armor as more dwarrow joined them. He frowned, knowing that there were not supposed to be guards that close, but also realizing that someone had the sense to overrule tradition in the interests of safety. He did not have an heir and they had been attacked not far from this very spot only hours ago. He was pushed down, knees hitting the cold, sharp stone with almost bruising force, then the blindfold was ripped away.

Thorin had feared the memories that would accompany his return to this spot, but when the cloth fell away, he could not hold back the gasp. Though the stone under him had been worn smooth by the many dwarrow who had knelt here over the years, they were not in the same spot where he had released the ashes of his grandfather and brother. Instead, the monument that supposedly marked the spot of Durin's kneeling to look into the lake was about twenty-five feet to his left. How had they missed such a thing? And how had his nephews known to guide him here now?

Trembling slightly, the young smith bent over the water, bound hands about to break the surface when he paused, awed. Beside him, he heard the strangled gasp of one of the guards, the torch light reflected in the water moving until it was just behind him. Though Blain knew that the two guards now leaned over, holding the torches, only the flame and his own image stared back from the mirror-still waters.

Thorin gazed into his own stern blue eyes, the sight still sending a thrill of disbelief down his spine. This time, no other faces joined his. His hands shook slightly as he breached the surface, cupping the mouthful to bring to his lips.

Blain took a deep breath, bringing the shockingly cold water to his lips. A sense of peace flowed through him, wiping away all fear, doubt and uncertainty, as if another now knelt there, a possessor of knowledge, ancient and sure in every movement.

His hands changed, scars and other marks reforming themselves, pausing six times to create a stranger's fingers and palm, yet each as familiar as his own. Thorin closed his eyes as the ritual intonation rolled off his tongue in the rich, thick sounds of his native language. As it echoed from the surrounding rocks, the voice changed, turning into six distinct ones, each speaking the words with him.

'Mahal accept this one of Durin's blood. My hand, burned by the fires of your will; My hand, bruised by the rock with which you made the Khazad; My hand, hard as forged steel as blood runs in defense of your people; My hand, as smooth as the waters, holding the life of a babe, our people continued. May my life be yours, should you find it worthy.'

Blain had never been taught the ritual words, known only to the Lore Keeper, King and Heir, but when his feet had tried to turn him to the only one of those three yet alive, they would not move. When that worthy leaned close as he was led blind to this place, intent on whispering the words, his ears would not hear. He knew now that they did not need to; the oath was already written upon his soul. With scarcely a breath left, he brought the water up and swallowed, knowing that if he was found unworthy, it would be a swift death, the liquid turning to poison, body never surfacing from the pool. Instead, the only sensation he felt was a very prosaic headache from the icy temperature.

Thorin almost spit out the water as a tooth he had cracked a week ago screamed in protest. Only his sheer stubbornness allowed him to clamp his jaw shut in time, the liquid slowly warming until he could swallow. A thousand different tastes exploded in his mouth, each one provoking memories, dashes of personal history laying bare his hopes and dreams, failures and sorrows in equal measure.

Greed, pride, vanity, ego, pettiness and minor cruelties – was this the one who presumed to believe himself worthy of leading Mahal's children?

A terrified hobbit, pleading with him to see reason, to stop this madness before more blood than Smaug had claimed soaked the desolation outside the mountain. Betrayal in the eyes of a nephew, white faced and in pain, as he watched an uncle turn away, calling him weak. The sneer of a prideful leader, a kind word met with a flash of temper instead of thanks, words designed to cut as deep as the sharpest blade…

Hands patiently guiding smaller ones in the first lesson of forge work, though the parents had nothing with which to pay apprentice price. Steady words in the ear of a king, slowly curbing an ancient prejudice with an eye toward turning it into an alliance. Gaining permission hard won for his apprentice Narvi to exchange knowledge with a visiting Noldor smith.

Respect given to Elrond and Galadriel. An apology to a hobbit who sought only to save him from himself. An agreement with a Ranger to teach his nephew a most undwarrow-like weapon. An elven arrow striking a foe seeking his back as his own gleaming blade bit into one set to slay the archer. The hand of a king of men clasping his in gratitude as the gleaming gates of a white city were restored to their rightful place.

These were the actions of a King. Of a Durin.

Images assaulted him then, causing him to sway. Thorin never felt himself fall into the water, body sinking swiftly to the bottom.