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.
28. Remnants of the Past
Thorin was awake at dawn, unable to sleep anymore as his mind insisted upon supplied horror after horror from too many years of history, tragedy playing out time and again despite all that his long ago kin could do. Thorin knew what warning the dreams whispered; time was running out for Kíli. He was certain of it, he just was not sure what more could be done.
Pulling himself out of the blankets near his still sleeping nephew, he was careful to leave his boots off as he padded quietly across the stone to the small folding camp table where they had laid out the maps. A blunt finger gently traced each line that marked off where the teams had searched before coming to rest on the room in which he had fought the troll.
"We sent teams to follow the track of the brute last night."
The king blinked stupidly at the mug Nast held out to him for a long moment before accepting it and taking a long swallow of the bitter coffee within. The younger dwarf smiled faintly at the king's grimace.
"Dwalin made it. Said you would need it after last night."
Thorin grunted, trying to decide if he should thank his shield brother or throw him in the pool outside the western gate. Whoever had told Dwalin that he could actually brew coffee either had no taste buds left, or was an exceedingly cruel individual. Thorin suspected Dis. Or perhaps Balin. His older cousin always had had a subtly wicked sense of humor, especially when given the opportunity to torment his younger brother or Thorin.
"He was right. What are you doing up so early? Didn't you go out with one of the night teams?"
"Yes, and I haven't actually been to bed yet. One of the other teams said they found something we should see, then I have to go meet my father. Apparently, he didn't bother waiting for a message."
That garnered a snort and roll of the eyes. At least that meant that everything was stable enough in
Erebor and Dale that Nori felt comfortable leaving. He had wanted to come with the army, but Thorin and the princes had persuaded him to stay in the mountain long enough to ensure that the cult would not seek to take advantage of their absences to move against the princesses.
"For a thief, Nori never has been the most patient dwarf around. I'll wake Fíli. Is there a team ready to go out?"
"Yes. They're eating breakfast now, but I'll make sure there is some left for the two of you."
"Make it something we can eat while we walk, it's probably the only way I'll get Fíli to agree. And make sure Therin is ready to come with us."
A part of him was still livid with his youngest nephew for the blatant treason of his actions, but a deeper part had begun to whisper that it was the actions of a foolish child, nothing more. Could he not find a way to forgive a mistake made in innocence? But what of the very real consequences of those actions for Fíli and Kíli? Did that not warrant the punishment of an adult, fully aware that what they did was wrong? Blood versus justice, and either way he chose, he had to lose!
His fist slammed into the table top, making the coffee left in the earthenware mug splash out onto the map, several dark brown dots beading up and beginning to swear the ink. Swearing, Thorin glanced around for a rag, then grabbed the parchment and gave it a shake away from the other maps beneath. When he was satisfied that it seemed dry, he spread it back out, grimacing at the lines of coffee stain cutting haphazardly through the walls of the southern section of the city.
Would that they could so easily cut through all their troubles in such a way! Weary of such heavy moral contemplations when he was not yet even fully awake, he knelt to gently shake his oldest nephew, a cup of herbs meant to counteract the remnants of the sleeping draught already waiting nearby.
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As Thorin had suspected, it did not take long at all for Fíli to be up and armored, pacing impatiently as Thorin consulted the map one more time. The thump of dwarrow boots on stone alerted the king to the arrival of the search team they would be with, but he was not expecting the gathering that awaited him when he glanced up. He had known Dwalin would be there, especially after commanding Therin to be included, and Nast was on the disgraced prince's other side, but behind them stood Legolas, Tauriel, Faramir, Bofur, Kifir, and Frodo, as well as Einarr, Senata, and one other dwarf Thorin did not know on sight. When the king raised an eyebrow at such a large number, Bofur shrugged.
"The lads insisted, and I wasn't about to turn them down with three who aren't warriors in the bunch. Besides, Nast will return to camp after they show us whatever the team found last night."
Thorin nodded, eyeing the elven lady carefully even as he noted with amusement that Bofur had neglected that two of the party were most definitely lasses. Both, however, could fight, so the king had no objection to their inclusion. Tauriel was a warrior trained, good enough to be Captain of the Mirkwood Guard, and anyone who did not believe those who healed also knew the fastest ways to kill were clearly mentally deficient!
"Your leg is sound?"
One flame red eyebrow went up, as if daring him to object to her presence.
"Yes."
"Lead the way."
That was directed at the strange dwarrow with Nast and the Blacklock, Einarr, whom Thorin was finding he did not mind the company of, despite his heritage. Dwalin looked to be less than pleased, but had his hands full prodding along a silent, downcast Therin. Unsurprisingly, the trio led them through the room where Thorin had been attacked and the resulting hole to retrace the troll's steps for about twenty minutes. Finally, they branched off, entering the ancient tombs deep under the southern edge of the city. There, across from the tombs of Durin II and his wife, Frey, was a door propped carefully open.
This area of Khazad-dûm was a vast maze, eerie in its silence, home only to the dead. Overhead, an ancient bridge arched between two more tombs, statues of ax wielding dwarrow standing eternal guard. Of course, not all of the dead of the city had been interred here. Most had been removed to catacombs built into the mountains north and south of the city, the entrances carefully concealed from those who would desecrate them. Only the royal families and high dwarf lords were returned to the stone deep under the actual city that they ruled. Thorin raised an eyebrow at their guide, curious.
"How was this found?"
The warrior turned to give his king a short bow.
"Dagrûn was with us; he bears blood of the line of Durin. It is far removed, but it was apparently enough to open this door as he walked near it."
The king frowned, but said nothing even as he felt Fíli tense beside him. They both knew that not even the ancient be spelled doors of the Longbeards would open at the mere proximity of someone like that. What could possibly be so special about the room beyond? Thorin ducked through the short doorway, one foot kicking aside some scraps of filthy black leather, and held up his torch. Beside him, the king heard Fíli suck in a noisy breath.
"Thorin! Look!"
The blonde toed a pack sitting half empty against the wall amid piles of torn cloth and other remnants, Frodo's name stitched onto the shoulder strap. It was the very one that Rose Gamgee had made him, and that the hobbit had reported missing several weeks earlier.
"Looks to me like Kíli may have been correct. Our thief was not a part of the army after all. This area has been lived in much too long."
Bofur gave his king a sad smile as he picked up the pack, looking into it as he spoke.
"Aye," Fíli answered bitterly. "For all the good it does us. I heard what that Broadbeam said last night."
Thorin grimaced, wishing he had allowed his anger to reign and throttled that dwarf last night. It had been a patrol leader, reporting to his king, who had the gall to ask how much longer they would waste time and lives searching for one who must already be dead! Instead, the temperamental king had growled something unflattering and walked away, leaving a grim-faced Bofur to explain some realities to the idiot before Thorin did something he would regret later.
Afterwards, the councilor had candidly admitted that he was half tempted to call Dwalin's attention to what had been said and leave the fool to the armsmaster's untender mercies, but had settled for berating his fellow Broadbeam harshly, and loudly. Then, with the same fear that had been growing in all of them the longer the prince stayed missing in his eyes, he had asked if Thorin still believed Kíli to be alive. Thorin's answer now replayed in his head as he watched Frodo sorting through his pack and Fíli poking about the small piles of rags and other garbage throughout the room.
'I believe that should Kíli die, somehow Fíli and I would both know it. So long as the Arkenstone continues to pulse with his heartbeat, I will not give up. He is counting upon us, Bofur.'
"Thorin…"
Dwalin's summons carried an uncharacteristic note of pain. Turning, the king was surprised to see the warrior part of the way into a little alcove that had gone unnoticed when they first walked in. As he got closer, Thorin could not stop his own moan of anguish. Someone had taken a pile of rocks and converted it into a memorial, melted wax showing where at least one candle had burned in the past.
The possessions scattered there were clearly of dwarrow-make, mostly bits of beads, hair clips, or other small trinkets, like a lock of a child's downy hair. In the center, however, were three items that had clearly caused Dwalin's exclamation. Thorin's fingers trembled as he gently traced the etchings upon a battered silver ear horn, then picked up the coin next to it. On one side was his grandfather's image, the other holding that of a much younger dwarf, but still recognizable to Thorin as Balin, Under Lore Keeper of Erebor until its fall and then Lore Keeper of Thorin's Hall in exile.
It was Balin's commemoration of lordship, one of seven coins made every time a new dwarf joined the king's council. One, of course, had been in the possession of Thrór, placed in a carved quartz box lined with velvet that held a copy of all such coins struck during the king's reign, and lost to Smaug long ago. Balin had carried the next coin struck, the other five being given to close friends or relatives. Thorin and Dwalin both still carried their copies.
Blinking back tears, the king next lifted the third item that had caught his attention after carefully returning Balin's coin to the exact position it had been in previously. This was a small piece of parchment set into a tiny frame of silver, though the glass that had originally protected the quill and ink drawing must have broken out at some point. One shard still remained, and naturally, Thorin's finger found it, drawing a drop of blood that smeared on the tarnished silver as his eyes lingered on each of the fourteen miniature sketches, each one done with breathtaking detail. Thirteen dwarrow and one hobbit looked back at him, captured in time for all eternity.
"Ori…"
Fíli breathed as he peered over his uncle's shoulder, making Thorin smile sadly as he offered the item to his eldest nephew. The blonde prince took it carefully, almost reverently, as if afraid it would crumple at any moment. Thorin realized his mistake a second later as unshed tears sparkled in the corners of the prince's eyes once more and his hands began to shake, eyes locked on the tiny representation of his brother, complete with cheeky grin. The three royals had been portrayed in the center of the montage, a delicate black line around them made up of their personal sigils woven together and repeated over and over.
"He only got better as time went on."
Bofur told them, giving Fíli's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Thorin allowed himself to relax as he saw the blonde draw himself back together enough to share the precious item with Frodo and Kifir, who had both crowded close upon hearing the name.
He wished he had been able to leave his nephew back at camp, but knew that the only way Fíli would have accepted that was if he were not conscious to object, knocked out by one of the healers' concoctions. Thorin had seriously considered doing just that, but had been advised by both Wyvern and Senata that it would not be wise for Fíli's mental health. Even now, the prince was dutifully taking a sip out of a water skin filled with diluted valerian root tea, meant to calm his anxiety.
"You don't suppose one of Balin's people really survived, do you?"
Nast's question was hesitant as he accepted the drawing made by his uncle in his turn, gently touching the faces of his kin before setting it carefully back into place. Thorin's eyes met the younger dwarf's, seeing the sudden hope lingering there, and hated to be placed in the position of squashing it. While it was entirely possible for one dwarf to have hidden when the colony was wiped out, it was highly doubtful that he still lived so many years later. Thorin hesitated, trying to decide the best way to phrase his answer when the distinctive clatter of metal on stone filled the room.
Turning, the king raised an eyebrow at Tauriel, who had been poking through a debris pile with the end of her bow. Now, however, she was staring with wide eyes at something on the floor.
"Look!"
Curious to hear such a tone of astonished reverence from an elf, Thorin looked down to catch the unmistakable glitter of torchlight off of mithril as he moved his lantern to light it fully. A few quick swipes to clear the other rags revealed a heavy war ax with a solid mithril blade, a deep blue sapphire imbedded in the pommel.
"Durin's Ax!"
Dwalin breathed, bending to pull the ancient blade from the filth it had been disguised by. It shown as if newly polished, the blade undoubtedly as sharp as the day it was originally forged by the first Durin to walk these halls. Running his hands over it reverently, as if caressing the soft skin and downy hair of a newborn child, the Warmaster turned the weapon over, giving it a few experimental swings.
Then, as if suddenly recalling who else was in the room, he old warrior went down on one knee, holding the blade out toward Thorin as he bowed his head. The others in the room went still as they turned to watch, the heavy weight of destiny filling the air. Thorin did not even need to place a hand upon it to know the heft it would have, or that the ancient inscription on the handle had been worn smooth with time, though it was still readable.
"To Protect and Defend Mahal's People."
The ancient Khuzdul rolled off his tongue as Thorin, Durin VII, accepted his weapon, heedless of the non-Khazad in the room. Smiling, the king could not help but feel as if something long missing had clicked into place as the grip fit his hand perfectly, the blade so light that it could be thrown if he needed. This was a true weapon of the dwarrow! Drawn by the thought, his eyes found the tall Prince of Ithilien, holding it out to the man to inspect.
"You once told me that you thought the blades I bore were some of the finest you had ever seen. Behold now the most ancient craft of my people, made by the hand of Durin himself before your ancestors even walked Middle Earth."
At Faramir's hesitant expression, Thorin nodded in encouragement, giving the weapon a tiny shake. As the man's hand closed on the hilt, a rage filled objection was shouted.
"You dare to allow a non-Khazad to handle Durin's-"
Therin's words were cut off by Dwalin's stern cuff to the back of the boy's head. Thorin turned, every line of his body displaying his regal heritage as he looked down his nose at the offender.
"You have no right to say anything anymore, child, let alone spout the filth fed to you by agents of the cult. If you cannot be silent, I will have you gagged."
Therin recoiled as if slapped, head dropping to stare at the floor, but not before Thorin saw the hurt and confusion in the boy's eyes. His anger was as much at himself as at the young dwarf. Therin was his nephew, he should have spoken with him enough to know of the problem before it had ever come this far, especially after Fíli's warning of many weeks ago.
"I must go and meet my father. By your leave, Lord Thorin."
Nast was the first to break the silence, though Fíli continued to glare daggers at his younger brother. Thorin sighed, accepting the ax back from Faramir even as he turned gratefully to the sneaky young dwarf, glad of the distraction.
"Please convey to Nori my apologies. Under any other circumstances, I would be there to greet him and take him to Ori's remains personally."
"Mine as well, Nast."
Fíli was quick to add, finally breaking his stare to attend to his duties, though it was clearly forced. Nast smiled faintly, laying a hand on his friend and prince's arm.
"I will. In fact, when Father learns of what has happened, I would not be at all surprised if we joined you."
"Not you." Thorin told the lad sternly, "Not until you have rested. If Nori should wish it, we would welcome him, but I am sure there are others who could guide him."
"As you command. Please, keep me apprised if you discover anything about who was here?" Thorin sighed, hating to have to disabuse the faint hope he still saw in Nast's eyes, but the other dwarf continued before he could. "I know that it won't be my uncle, but he might be able to tell us more of what happened."