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.

19. A New King Rises

As the would-be king's body sank to rest upon the bottom of the pool of water, his mind ranged far, seeking what images Mahal would show to guide his coming reign.

*Durin I smiled as he saw what the years and skill of his people might create, though flashes of an indefinable darkness and fire troubled his heart. He began to make plans for a future he knew could not be avoided, building a refuge that would stand against the evil days to come.*

*Durin II could not stop the tears as he surveyed the great hall, the scene of so many a merry feast with his uncle and cousins, filled now only with death. Elves and dwarrow lay cold and still, many with weapons still lodged in each other's bodies, death bringing a unity that life could not abide. Around him, the king watched as walls darkened and crumbled, twisted, dark creatures darting from shadow to shadow. The gleaming pile of riches upon the feast table called to him, but as the king reached out a trembling hand, all turned to ash. Standing tall as the vision began to fade, he vowed to himself to never let this horror become true.*

*Durin III had seen the ring of sunflowers he stood within blacken and tangle, petals becoming the fangs of snakes biting those surrounding it. One hand resting against the sealed doors of Khazad-dûm, he mourned that he had understood too late.*

*Durin IV had seen only a single ray of sun breaking the roiling surface of a titanic storm to light up his face. When the time came and the foreseen winds howled around his kingdom and his heart, he allowed that single ray, that shred of hope, to settle within his soul and never let go, even when faced with the hate-filled, crazed eyes of his only son.*

*Durin V had recoiled in horror as the small mithril statue of the drake made to honor his ancestor came to life in a frenzy, clawing at his heart. Though the meaning had become clear in time, he could not bring himself to take the actions necessary to thwart its dark promise.*

*Durin VI had sneered as his mounds of wealth took fire, cascading down upon him. Instead, he pushed the image forever from his mind as the result of ancient folly and superstition, even as the Balrog's whip descended.*

*Durin VII did not try to stop the tears as the ancient halls became bright with color and life all around him, the ring of forge hammers a sweet accompaniment to the laughter of children at play. This was what he asked his people to sacrifice for! In fact, as if thought had summoned them, the dead appeared around him, smiling and nodding in satisfaction as they, too, took in what their deaths had won.

Balin clapped a hand to his back, a twinkle in his eye as Óin called out a greeting, ear trumpet poised to catch the reply. Bifur showed a child the toy he had made, and Mablung gave a salute to the dwarf king. Thrain nodded proudly, wife on his arm, and Vidri simply stood to the side, tears running down his own beaming face. Fundin leaned over to gently correct a child's grip on their first hammer, and Thrór sparred with Dori. To one side, Dain, Nain and Thorin Stronghelm were quietly conversing. As one, they turned and bowed to Durin. Beyond were so many he did not know personally, but he knew why they were here, nodding in approval at his work, which their blood at purchased at a price so dear, all happy, content. Save one.

Flames caught the king's attention, slow steps carrying him toward one wreathed in fire. Around him, the happy chatter seemed to falter and die, giving way to a cackling, malicious and insane. This, then, was his foe. He edged closer, noting how the corner where the figure stood had become enveloped in a darkness whose tendrils reached out, destroying all that they touched.

As Durin stepped cautiously from the bright kingdom restored into the darkness of the crumbling rock, a fetid odor hit him, worse even than the stench of Azanulbizar's aftermath. Understanding came with gut-wrenching clarity. This, then, was what the dreams and memories had been trying to warn of, an enemy that must be confronted lest all his work fail and the dwarrow race fade to mere myth. But who was it that could so wish their own people harm? He inched ever closer, palms itching for the reassuring weight of a hilt tightly gripped.

"Hello, Thorin."

The malicious chuckle distorted his name, twisting it into a curse in a way not even Smaug had managed.

"Who are you?" He snarled back, tears streaming down his face as he watched his people turn to dust with the touch of the shadow. "How could you wish such torment upon your own people?"

The figure seemed to pause, then thrust itself into his face, fire making his skin crackle and burn as he screamed, high and long. The last thing the king saw before unconsciousness gave relief to his torment was a glimpse of a familiar, trusted face.*

With a gasp, Thorin surfaced in the center of the pool, water streaming down his face as hands, now unbound, paddled to keep himself afloat. He could not stop the trembling as one hand wiped down features unburned, pain fading with the vision. With another deep breath, he plunged back down into the deep, hands finding the rough cloth that he had been clothed in mere minutes ago and bringing it to the surface with him.

Blain smiled as he clutched the makeshift bag to him, one hand and feet kicking toward the shore. Within, he knew, were the stones of the king, markers representing the ones he trusted the most in his soul, both living and dead. They would be given out in the days ahead, each one as unique and treasured as the dwarf that it represented. For now, he had a people who needed their king.

Thorin reached up, accepting the aid of Therin and Fíli as they pulled him from the waters of the Kheled-zâram, a blanket ready to wrap around his naked form. His legs refused to hold his weight as he slumped back to his knees, his nephews sinking with him.

"Thorin?" Fíli whispered hesitantly as the king brought one hand up to cup his nephew's face, eyes drinking in every last wrinkle and braid of hair as if seen for the first time. "What did you see?"

"Death." The prince blanched, making to pull away, but Thorin's hand slid around to the back of his head, keeping him in place. "I saw the death of our race if we do not end this here, now, and for that, I will need Kíli. I am sorry, Fíli."

The blonde closed his eyes; a deep breath exhaled, seeming to take the weight of a mountain with it.

"I understand. We will do what we must."

Energy renewed, Thorin thrust himself to his feet, accepting the rich velvets that his nephews held out to him. Dwalin was standing just beyond them, back tensed as he stared out into a night that was fast fading into the coming dawn, but he was not the only guard. Further out, the light peeking over the mountain touched upon a ring of men, elves, dwarrow, and one hobbit, standing as a living shield for the king.

Catching Fíli's eye, he tilted his head in silent question, though at their motive, not their right to be there, even if they heard some of the ancient words he had spoken. If Middle-Earth was to have true peace at last, they must learn to respect one another's practices, and too much secrecy would only serve to further the distrust.

"They followed, silently. We weren't exactly in a position to tell them not to, and none so much as attempted to look over their shoulder once we were here. Besides, there was just a feel of…correctness about it. I-I know it isn't proper, but-"

"No, Fíli, you acted rightly." The conservatives among them would protest, but Thorin was not above using his new position to tell them where to take such objections. "This was for all of us, dwarrow, elves and men alike."

He had now seen too much of what the arguments of the past had brought to all of them. He might not ever be comfortable in the presence of some elves, but there were a few he was also beginning to call friend. As he dressed, he tried to remember actually deciding upon starting this ritual, mind a curious blank after Senata sewed up his side.

"Here, Thorin, this needs to go over those stitches first."

Fíli quietly told him, approaching his uncle with a small metal bowl. The ointment within was cold on his skin, but not as bad as the water had been, and it immediately soothed the burning ache along his side. The blonde then took a small pad of clean cloth, binding it over the wound to protect it before stepping back with a nod.

"I do not remember leaving the healers' area."

Thorin finally admitted, voice muffled as he pulled the dark blue under tunic over his head. Nearby, Dwalin snorted, words carrying over to them though the warrior did not turn from his guard post.

"Aye, we gathered that when you tried to walk through a wall before we even blindfolded ya. Balin warned me that some of the ancient rituals contained a power of their own, but I'd forgotten."

Thorin nodded absently, allowing his nephews to lead him to a boulder, where both princes began combing out his hair. As they worked, the king's eyes went to the distant peaks of the mountains under which his kingdom lay, so clear in the morning sun. Odd, that Zirakzigil should look misshapen…

The king sucked in a breath as he recalled the old wizard, Gandalf, telling of his battle with the Balrog and realized he was looking at the far off ruins of Durin's Tower, normally shrouded in clouds. Would the body of the dark creature still be there, poisoning the peak, or had the pure sunlight burned away its evil once and for all? It was one more item to add to his list of what must be dealt with, but he knew that this was a journey he could not take alone. It remained to be seen if the others would still consent to follow, to put their faith in one whose judgment had been flawed, or if he had already doomed himself to failure.

"Come. I want everyone except the sentries gathered on the market concourse."

*****888******

By the time the princes had arraigned him in suitable garb and armor, dwarrow, elves and men were all crowded together, shifting restlessly in the vast space. To one side was a pile of orc and goblin bodies that had yet to be disposed of, and someone had the foresight to spread fresh hay and herbs upon the floor where so much blood had been spilled.

Nodding in approval, Thorin made a note that they would need to set torches around the blood patches until each one could be cleaned. Such things were notorious for attracting the highly poisonous rock vipers that lived in the deep caverns of the south, feeding upon hot blood. Nor would it do to attract rats, whose fleas and mites carried all manner of diseases.

Interesting, that many of the somewhat reluctant allies were no longer attempting to put space between themselves and anyone of a different race. Instead, there were actual groupings of dwarf, elf, and man standing silently together without attempting bloody mayhem. Of course, for every one of those he saw, there were two more exchanging glares, hands occasionally straying to weapons hilts as if wishing to be anywhere but here. Well, those would be even less pleased when the king was finished!

Someone, probably Bofur, had arranged several supply crates into a makeshift stair and platform, allowing Thorin to raise above the milling crowd. He bounded up it with renewed energy, giving a grateful nod to the sorrowful councilor where he stood just below it. Bifur deserved to have the ritual entombment of a hero, but Thorin would accede to what the family wished.

"As many of you know, I have spent the night in one of the ancient rituals of the dwarrow people. It is traditional for our kings to spend vigil the night before they are acknowledged upon the shores of Kheled-zâram, which I have done!"

There was some muttering at that, especially among the older dwarrow, as one of their most sacred, and secret, rights was spoken of in the presence of outsiders for the first time. Thorin knew the taboos he broke might bring more anger down upon him, and even drive a few into the arms of the cult, but it was necessary for their allies to understand the full import of the words he now spoke. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his voice to wash over the crowd.

"I have knelt in the steps of Durin, and looked into the still waters. There, the crown long hidden in watery depths rose to shine about my head. I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, grandson of Thrór, of the line of Durin, am Durin VII, the Last and Returned as foretold in our most ancient texts! Will you, the free Peoples of Middle Earth, heed my claim to the throne of Khazad-dûm and aid in its retaking, not just for the dwarrow, but for all peoples who hold no ill in their hearts to come and go as they will?"

Several of the elves paled as they heard publically acknowledged for the first time what rumors had been whispering for the last fourteen years – that the ancient dwarrow father truly had returned. Some among them surely remembered one or more of the other Durins, perhaps even met them. They, of all the assembled, would have the best idea of what this could mean.

Interesting, though, that while many of their leaders had known of this for years, they did not share it with most of their people, even after committing warriors to helping him here. Then again, those who appeared the most upset also bore the red hair coloring of the Woodland Realm, not the brown, black or blonde common in Rivendell and Lothlorien.

Thorin shifted his gaze to their other allies, interested to see how the more worldly, less mystical men would assess such a claim. Men shifted for foot to foot, murmuring among themselves, some scoffing in open disbelief while others merely shrugged. They, Thorin was certain, did not quite know what to make of his announcement, but most were willing to wait and see. After all, they did just have a king return, an event that many had said would never come to pass.

The dwarrow, of course, roared approval, weapons glinting in the torchlight as they were shook in the air, owners screaming at the top of their voices. As the king held up his hands for quiet, his pride in his people swelled, for each dwarrow clan wasted no time in voicing their approval, each according to their traditions.

"Durin's Folk hail our King! May his beard grow ever longer and his forge fire never fail!"

A beat behind that, his two conscious nephews added their parts.

"I, Fíli, Prince of Erebor, acknowledge Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII, as King of Khazad-dûm! Erebor stands ever at the ready to the call of her king!"

"I, Therin, Prince of Durin's Blood, stand in for my cousin, Nalin, son of Dwalin, Prince of the Iron Hills, and acknowledge the return of Durin as Lord of Khazad-dûm. The Iron Hills will ever answer the call of kin!"

That, of course, was not strictly true, something Dwalin had been quick to point out when he heard the proposed wording. Thorin had waved that away, knowing that the Iron Hills would never again make a similar mistake while guided by the steady hand of its newly appointed prince.

"Broadbeams pledge mattock and mastery to the King of Khazad-dûm! We will return the mines to their former glory!"

"Ironfists will stand, axes every ready, awaiting Durin's word! Khazad-dûm shall be defended to the last dwarf!"

"Firebeards pledge the ring of hammers revived in Durin's forge and a careful accounting of every piece!"

"Stiffbeards will stand steady behind Durin Returned, never moving except by his will! We will be the strong backs and rolling wheels to carry the commerce of Middle Earth!"

"Stonefoots stand ready to supply the fires once more! The coal shall come from the east!"

There was dead silence as the expected seventh voice did not immediately join the growing chant. All turned to stare at the small group of Blacklocks, several of the gazes already openly hostile. The black-haired dwarf who led them glared right back before turning to stare up at Thorin.

"The Blacklocks will heed the words of the Lord of Khazad-dûm."

It was grudging, and hardly the enthusiastic pledge of the others, but Thorin still breathed a sigh of relief. If the seven had not been willing to stand with him this time…

There was a stir among the men as Balan, the tall Dúnedain, pushed his way to the fore. Once there, he swept his upper body into a full courtly bow, an action so out of keeping with his rough clothing and wilderness wise ways that Thorin heard Bofur stifle a chortle. To Thorin, it was a needed reminder that this man also carried the blood of ancient kings, though several relations removed from the line of direct descent.

"A beg pardon for my absence, Lord Durin. A messenger arrived from my cousin and king in Minas Arnor."

Thorin silently inclined his head in acknowledgement, taking the sealed parchment from the ranger. He glanced at it, intending to set it aside to read later only to have both eyebrows hike up in shock at what he saw. The letter was addressed to Durin VII, Lord of Khazad-dûm, and the crest pressed into the wax was the official winged crown and stars, not Aragorn's personal sigil. How had the man known that Thorin would declare his title openly now? Quickly, the king broke the seal, scanning the message before returning his attention to the army before him.

"King Elessar of Gondor sends greetings and a pledge of alliance to the King of Khazad-dûm! What word is to be returned? That petty arguments and spurious suspicions of any whose race is not our own divide us? That we cower before a surprise attack and assassins sent to slay our leaders? That we do the enemy's work for him?"

"NO!"

The roar of utter rejection that greeted that notion filled the vast hall, making the very stones ring with denial and renewed purpose. As he repeated some of the same points made only yesterday morning by his nephews, he caught the eye of both Fíli and Therin, giving them a nod of approval. Fíli smiled slightly in response, the skin around his eyes barely crinkling, but his uncle knew this was not from lack of emotion. The oldest prince would not be whole until his younger brother stood at his side again.

Therin, by contrast, puffed up so much that Thorin almost regretted his action. He had hoped that the fact that the boy had come up with some of the notions meant he was finally using his head for more than a blunt force weapon! Returning his attention to the army, the king raised both hands, waiting for the silence to descend once more before speaking.

"Hear, then. Hear all of you, my pledge to the Free Peoples of Middle Earth! Khazad-dûm will be restored to the center of commerce it once was, welcoming all who come in peace. But we will also be the strong walls, the refuge held secure for any who need it should evil surface once more. And the wealth that is amassed here will be used not just for the welfare of dwarrow, but for all Middle Earth, that we may live in peace and plenty! In token of that, new doors shall be raised upon the eastern gate, but they will not answer to one word for friend; they will be inscribed with the word in every language! Let past anger and hurt be left outside the gates as we begin anew!"