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.
41. The Weight of Justice
Thorin surveyed the warriors gathered in the great hall as they shifted restlessly, waiting for the court to begin. The months of fighting had taken its toll upon all of them. Many showed evidence of healing wounds and all wore the weary expressions of those required to be constantly on alert for danger. The end, however, might finally be in sight, though he could not tell them.
Sharing the rough platform with the king were his older two nephews. Kíli was seated on a small camp stool, with Fíli directly behind. It looked as if the blonde prince was standing rigidly formal, but Thorin knew it was no ceremony that made him do it. Kíli was surreptitiously leaning back against him.
The younger prince's red rimmed eyes shed involuntary tears whenever he glanced at a torch, but at least he could see again. Senata and Wyvern had both argued long and loud against putting their royal patient through such stress, but Kíli had insisted that there was no choice. The issue of Therin had festered long enough, threatening to divide the army, and since Thorin could not yet move to deal with the cult leader, he pushed to resolve this, instead.
As it stood, there had been multiple skirmishes with the cult over the last seven days. Two of those had been large enough to count as small battles, with the casualties to match, but while victories, had been far from decisive. Frérin's slash and run tactics were slowly drawing away Thorin's strength without risking the cult's position.
Yesterday, though, had finally given Thorin the first sparkles of a gem of an idea. Now he just needed to mine the rest of it out of the extraneous rock and hope there were not too many hidden flaws.
Early evening, the previous day
Thorin crouched, waiting, the mithril ax in his hands glittering in the torch light while the reassuring weight of Orcrist pulled at his back. Ahead of him, several warriors were shifting debris from the doorway to the northern mithril mines, a critical part of reviving the ancient kingdom. With the aid of Ori's tunnel map, the upper levels of the city were finally secure. The secret passages that the cult knew about were now blocked, and those they did not closely guarded while Thorin's warriors used them. Now, both forces stood in stalemate, each refusing to give way while probing for weaknesses in the other.
The cult had the advantage of numbers due to their goblin and orc allies, while Thorin had high ground and his knowledge of the secrets of Khazad-dûm to his. Still, the cult refused to stand and-
"'Ware!"
Dwalin's shout was cut off in a pained scream, then a compact body slammed into the king, sending them both rolling. Thorin had a flash of sharp teeth in a black mouth, then his armored fist came around, braining the goblin in the temple. As the limp body collapsed on top of him, Thorin gagged on the fetid odor, pushing the creature aside. His hand had just closed on his ax once again when a huge man loomed over him, face painted in a hideous red and black mask.
Huge hands grabbed him, lifting the king high over the Easterling's head as he squeezed Thorin's upper arms to still the king's struggles. Before the man could toss the dwarf, however, two things happened to alter the fight. First, Thorin's ax slipped from abruptly numb hands, dropping onto the giant's shoulder. Any other metal might have hit with bruising force before clattering to the ground, deflected by the brute's rough chainmail. Not mithril. It slid through the rusty metal links with the ease of a butter knife, biting deep into the tender flesh beneath. The man howled in rage and pain, ready to pummel the king for his misfortune when the second change occurred. What appeared to be a boulder to one side rose up, revealing an elf with bow at the ready. A twang and the brute was skewered by an arrow directly in the throat. As his captor toppled backwards like a felled tree, Thorin felt himself tumbling through the air to land with a gasp on the hard stone floor, weapons and armor sending up a horrific clatter. A hand appeared, pulling him easily upright to face the grinning elven prince.
"I have been told that no one tosses a dwarf, least of all their king!"
With a cheeky grin at Thorin's growl, Legolas turned back to the more serious work at hand, defending them both while Thorin wrenched his ax loose. Then they were both wading through blood and bodies, enemy faces a blur as new ones took the place of the fallen much too quickly for a mere chance encounter between rival patrols. The mithril ax split open both helmet and skull on an Uruk-hai, but became lodged. Thorin gave one tug, then abandoned it, Orcrist flashing a light trail of blue as it swept out of its sheath and through a gangly little goblin.
"Look out!"
The yell was source less, but it jerked Thorin's head up as he almost negligently swept aside a cult dwarf. The massive, bulky outline of a troll filled the doorway. Any hope that it was one of the almost mindless cave variety was swept aside as a huge voice boomed out.
"Stand aside, boys, I'll deal with this bunch! I have an excellent recipe for mixed dwarf and elf pie I've been meaning to try!"
Thorin groaned, wondering if all mountain trolls had cooking aspirations or if the Valar simply had a sick sense of humor today. Surely Mahal would not do such a thing to his first creation?
Einarr appeared at the king's elbow with a roll of the eyes.
"Just once, I'd like to meet a troll who prefers vegetables! Aim for his eyes!"
The directive was bellowed at the archers with them, including Legolas. Both dwarrow ducked as the iron spiked club whistled over their heads, the troll too busy swatting at arrows to pay much attention to his aim. The ground fighters were using the lull to organize into strike teams.
"Here."
The Blacklock shoved Durin's Ax at the king, who grasped it gratefully. Orcrist was sharp, but nothing could match a mithril blade.
"I'll go low, you have a better chance of getting through that hide than I do."
Even as they spoke, Thorin watched as a man dodged around the troll to strike at the legs with a sword while the dwarf he was paired with sprang off a debris pile, ax swinging. The troll swatted him into a wall with a clatter and bark of laughter.
With a nod and a roar of their own, Einarr and Thorin raced forward. Einarr hunched over, allowing the king to spring off his head and shoulders to land a blow. The troll bellowed angrily, spitting out a tooth.
"I'll kill you for that, little dwarf!"
"You're welcome to try!"
Thorin taunted back as Legolas literally ran part way up the wall to twist around in the air, thrusting a long bladed knife into the troll's eye. The brute screamed in pain, huge hands letting go of the club to swing wildly as he covered the wound. It was what the other members of their little group had been waiting for, swarming their opponent. He would not be making his pie ever again.
As the clatter of weaponry died down, the king glanced around, relaxing as he noted the absence of any more enemies. The other cult members had obviously taken the troll's downfall as their signal to leave.
"Where's Dwalin?"
It was highly unusual not to have his shield brother at his side in combat, though Einarr had proven himself an acceptable substitute.
"Took an arrow in the side early on. One of those needle point type intended to go through chainmail. Healer has him."
Iari, a lord of the Broadbeams and old friend to both of the Erebor warriors, nodded back towards the door they had come through. Thorin swore softly, fear running down his nerves, for Dwalin must have been sorely wounded to have willingly left the field. How many more of his friends and kin would pay the price for this place? Was he falling into the same obsession that had taken his grandfather? Again?
"There's another problem, Thorin."
Iari cut into his thoughts with the reluctance of a bearer of ill news. Thorin snorted, heading toward the huddle of wounded surrounding the healer they had with them, Wyvern.
"What?"
"Therin is missing."
"No." Wyvern pounced on the statement before Thorin could react, not bothering to look up from his patient. "Keep pressure on that and sit down for a few minutes." As the dwarf he was tending scooted away, the healer finally glanced at the king, gesturing at another dwarf who was seated nearby, head down and a hand holding a bit of bandage to the back of it. "He stumbled over a moment ago with a head wound. Said he got hit early on and fell behind the boulders over there. Unlike certain others, he had the sense to stay down when the troll appeared."
"Dwalin?"
Thorin demanded next, not seeing the large warrior anywhere.
"I already sent him back to camp with the second patrol that came when they heard the fighting. The arrow head looked to have buried itself in a rib. Best let the elven healers deal with it in safety then here, where we might be attacked again at any moment. It's not serious, but he won't be fighting for a while."
******888******
It felt decidedly odd to be without the huge dwarf at his shoulder, negligently leaning on his war hammer as he glared at the restless crowd. In his place, Dwalin had assigned Einarr, to the surprise of all, especially the Blacklock. As silence fell over the gathering, all eyes turned to the royals, waiting. Nearby, an anvil was rhythmically struck, the sound making the non-dwarrow among them flinch.
Proceedings such as these were one of the few parts of dwarrow culture regularly seen by outsiders. Dwarrow justice was public, and often very messy. Thorin only hoped it went the way he had scripted with his nephews. Catching Fíli's eye, however, the blonde gave him a sharp nod before leaning over to speak softly in his brother's ear. Good enough. Best to start now, not waste any more time.
"Let Therin, son of Dis, grandson of Thrain, stand forth!"
Silent, the other warriors parted to allow the youngest prince to walk forward. His clothing was rich, as befitted a son of Durin's blood, embroidered with his personal sigil around the hem and cuffs. Glancing to the right, Thorin saw the anguish upon the face of his sister and knew she had tried to stop the choice. Vili, however, had his eyes locked on Kíli, his nephew by blood and son by marriage, in open challenge. It seemed that the former miner was determined to make this as difficult as possible.
Thorin shot his marriage-brother a warning glare before turning his attention to the miscreant before him. Therin's chin was up, defiance and anger there in equal measure, while just a hint of pain from yesterday's injury also lurked.
"You stand accused of endangering the life of Prince Kíli of Erebor through malicious intent and of collaboration with our enemy, both offenses punishable by death. However, the latter is somewhat mitigated by the mostly unwitting nature of your aid, though you still failed to report such treasonous words uttered against your own kin, a lapse that normally merits corporal punishment. Do you deny these accusations?"
For one moment, Thorin believed the boy about to break down, but then his stance stiffened, and the defiant petulance was back. There was fear in Therin now, but he did not allow his voice to falter.
"I stand by my oath. I took such actions, though I never intended to hand the prince to the enemy. All I sought was to give him his just due for the pain and dishonor he had heaped upon me!"
There was a murmur of shock and anger from the watching dwarrow. Thorin had to bite back the retort the arrogant little dwarfling so richly deserved for that, recognizing that Therin was obviously still caught up in the 'I was wronged as a child, so it's not my fault' rot he had fed his father. Allowing his countenance to harden, the king decided to force his nephew's hand.
"They were your decisions and actions, were they not? No other controlled nor threatened you!"
Therin scowled, flicking a contemptuous glance at his brothers before allowing his lip to curl into a sneer at the king.
"Yes, they were my actions! My choices! My stupidity! Is that what you wished to hear, Uncle?!"
There was stunned silence at such a brash, rude display, then a soft voice spoke, cutting through the shock.
"I would speak in defense of the accused, if it please Your Majesty. Before he can allow his stupidity to sink him further into the quicksand he pretends not to see?"
A low, muttered oath came from the oldest prince, just loud enough to draw a hiss of censure from Dis as the small form of the hobbit elbowed his way forward.
"We will hear the words of Lord Frodo, Hero to all Free Peoples of Middle Earth."
His formal, cold tone conveyed quite clearly that he did not welcome them, however. He wanted to finish this with the least amount of fuss and stress to Kíli as he could, and the hobbit was not helping. Until now, Frodo had stayed clear of the family dynamics beyond expressing his anger at Therin for the poor choices his friend had made. The hobbit had viewed it as a family issue, one that he was not in a position to interfere with. Now, those polite restraints had obviously been removed.
"While I do not condone Therin's actions, I ask that you remember that he is unversed in the ways of war."
Well, that was true enough. Even during the siege of the mountain during the War of the Ring, the boy had been kept deep inside, sheltered with the young dwarflings and their mothers.
"The Shire is a peaceful land, where such actions, while malicious and ill thought out, would not have the tragic consequences they did here." Frodo shifted nervously, one hand worrying at the stump of his missing finger, a sure sign that what he was about to say was personally raw. "At W-weathertop, during the quest, my own kin lit a fire high on the hill, unwittingly signaling the Nazgul hunting me. I was h-hurt, almost killed, by their actions, but I do not blame them."
For a long moment, Thorin was at a loss for words, astonished. Frodo did not willingly speak of what he had suffered on that long journey, especially not Weathertop. For him to do so now... How was he to refute the hobbit's words without sounding as if he insulted the courage the other showed?
"Merry and Pippin did not wave a torch to signal them because a stranger told them that they should be jealous of the heavy burden you bore, then abandon you there, either. In your analogy, Lord Frodo, that is how Therin is accused of acting."
Fíli's harsh words rang out from the side, startling the king with their vehemence. He saw Kíli flinch as Dis began to softly cry, finally prompting the stiff figure next to her to try offering a bit of spousal support. She would not bear Vili's touch, however, brushing him off to stand straight, unheeding of the tears, a proud princess of Durin. Thorin's heart ached at the action, knowing that his next official act might well be the dissolution of their marriage; a rare act among dwarrow, but not unheard of when the bonding was a political one.
Therin, who had stood silent and white faced during this, then broke with tradition, grabbing the hobbit's arm to speak with him in a low, urgent voice. One of the guards moved to stop him, but the king gave a small shake of the head. Let Therin say his piece, especially if it aided in ending this quietly. A glare sent Fíli back to his spot behind Kíli, who looked to be at the end of his strength, pale and perspiring heavily. They needed to get him back laying down, and the worst part had not been even begun.
"I thank Lord Durin and the Council for hearing and considering my words."
Frodo spoke the ritual words before backing away, light blue eyes stormy.
"Would anyone else speak on this matter before we hear from the one whose blood was spilled?"
It was a rather unsettling way to say 'victim', but certainly accurate. Vili started to step forward, but Dis grabbed at the stub of his bad arm, yanking back hard to hiss something in his ear. The former miner scowled, but gave a short nod to his wife, tensely returning to his spot as the silence stretched. Finally, seven slow hammer strokes sounded throughout the large room, signaling the end of this part of the court.
With a slow, partial bow to the princes, Thorin stepped back, joining the other six dwarrow who made up the tribunal, hands fisted to remind himself that he could not interfere in what was about to happen. Fíli took his brother's cane, drawing Kili's good arm about his own shoulders instead. Slowly, the brunette found his feet, then the princes paced up three steps to the edge of the dais. At another stroke of the hammer on anvil, Fíli withdrew, leaving the youngest of Durin's princes to stand alone, the iron wood and steel cane his only support. As Kili's unbound hand wrapped around the wood, the miniature Arkenstone in his palm flared, sending colored lights dancing around the cane in a mockery of the snakes that had almost claimed his life.
Every inch a true prince, Kíli stood tall and straight, face stern and unflinching. Slowly, he pronounced the words that might well permanently tear the family apart.
*****888*****
As he stood with the solid, reassuring presence of his older brother behind him, Kíli prayed that the shaky nerves and nausea he suffered did not show. He must be strong, a child of Durin today! He could not crumple, allow weakness to send him to his knees in front of so many! Deep breaths...
He had thought himself ready, that this would be no different from the monthly Prince's Court he held in the Great Hall of Erebor, but this was no stranger facing him, nor a crime that had happened to another. He was the victim, and the accused his own flesh and blood! Why could Fíli or Thorin not take this one?
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he berated himself for it. He knew why; had it explained again after the first trial where he had been obliged to hand out a death sentence, then fled, to be sick in the first ornamental potted plant he came across in the hall. It was the traditional duty of the second prince to preside over such things, a role he had been trained in as a child with Balin. That did not change because Fíli had refused the mantle of kingship. It was very difficult, returning to that cold stone chair the next month, but he had done it, becoming a more thoughtful, caring dwarf in the process. He could do this, too.
Brown eyes locked with blue below him. Therin glared, resolute, almost defiant, as if daring his brother to go through with this. It was the tiny little mocking smile, however, that snapped Kili's last nerve. Perhaps it was time to remind this arrogant little brat who was on trial here! There had been admission of guilt and excuses in plentiful supply, after all, but not once did Therin offer any apology to the one he had wronged!
"Let justice be done! I, Kíli, son of Dis, grandson of Thrain, Prince of Erebor, ask the council to ratify this judgment: that Therin, son of Dis and Vili, forevermore be stripped of his rank and privileges as a Prince of Durin's blood, and that furthermore, he be kin-wrecked, never again to claim the noble bloodline. He is no brother of mine, but a jealous, petty child of no standing among dwarrow, to henceforth succeed or fail upon his own meager talents."
As the hammer rang forth its slow, seven beat cadence once again, each of the councilors spoke, each 'aye' bringing anguish or triumph, depending upon the listener. Tears streamed unchecked down Dis's face, while Vili was simply livid. Most of the dwarrow, however, were nodding agreement, while even Frodo was sadly resigned.
"Justice is served."
It was Thorin's deep, regal tones that brought the affair to an end as Kíli swayed, relief washing through him, along with an ache for this stranger who once could have been another brother. An arm came about him as he watched the final stages of the ancient ritual carried out below him. Like with Thorin when he left behind his old life to become King of Khazad-dûm, Therin would be stripped of all that had previously marked him. This was no willingly cleansing, however, but a brutal stripping, almost as difficult to watch as it must be to live, for family was one of the fundamental pillars of a dwarf's life. To have that taken-
"Come on, Kíli, you need to rest. It's done. He made the choices that led to here, not you. Come on."
Blinking away tears that threatened to blind him once more, Kíli nodded at Fíli's words, stumbling as the last of his strength drained away, burned to ash like Therin's old life.
*****888*****
Therin stood, numb and unresisting, as several dwarrow roughly cut his garments from him, the fine embroidery lovingly hand stitched by his mother ripping away with damning pops of the threads. It took only moments for him to be left standing in nothing but him smalls, rough wool prickly against suddenly cold skin.
He had been warned that this was to come, but a part of him could not believe that it would truly happen. Surely his own kin would not do such a thing because of a joke, no matter how ugly the unplanned outcome! He was a prince, born of royal blood, in line for the throne! They could not! Mind whirling, he grasped for anything that might deny the reality around him as rough hands pushed him to one side, a bonfire flaring so close that his back began to sweat.
His king's stone and sigil! Surely they would be unchanged, permanent stone unheeding of the petty judgment of mortals! Heedless of the staring and whispers around him, he dug into the inner pocket sewn into his small cloths, the smoke of the fire burning his gear making his eyes water. At least, that was what he told himself. The turquoise of the king's stone that his uncle had given him was tarnished looking and dull, sending a wave of nausea through him, but it was the second one that brought him to his knees.
When a child of royal blood came of age, their personal sigil was presented to them engraved on a gem or stone taken from their place of birth. For him, it was a gleaming green Erebor marble about the size of his palm. As he watched, horrified, the stone turned black and crumbled to grit that fell through his fingers to be ground under the boots of uncaring dwarrow shoving past him.
With a keening wail, he hit his knees, the truth finally hitting home deep inside. He was truly kin-wrecked by his mother's family. Therin, Prince of Durin's Blood, was dead, never to be revived. He was on his own, to choose a new path in life and make his way as best he could. He could even return to Erebor if he chose, so long as he made no claim to the royal blood. Should he change his name as well? Reject them as utterly as they had turned from him?
A blanket settled about his shoulders as anger and pain burned, fighting for possession of his soul. By what right did they sit in high and mighty judgment? Did they not make mistakes as well? How could Thorin claim to rule when his actions had not only once brought the free peoples of the region to the brink of war with one another, but led to the deaths of the remaining male heirs of the elder line of Durin? Surely that was a worse crime, and yet no one threatened to take from his uncle what was rightfully his!
"Oh, love..." His mother's arms enfolded him, and some barrier deep inside broke, dissolving into tears on her shoulder. One hand stroked through his hair in a gesture of comfort too rarely given. "I wish I could fix this for you, Therin, but I cannot. I would not blame you if you did not wish me around anymore, but know that I will always love you, my son. Part of this is my failing, too."
Therin let out a moan, arms tightening about her as he could not bear to see her face just now. Did she not realize the truth underlying her words? That even now, she made this about herself, as she had done since he was a child?
"Where is Father?"
He did not want her guilt and suffering added onto his own, needed to distance himself.
"Gone to find you some new things among the supply piles. They will not be of the quality you are used to, but better than standing about in naught but your unders."
Therin nodded absently, allowing her to guide him as they stumbled back to his small corner, only his blankets left untouched by those who had made sure the sentence was carried out. Sinking down, his fingers longed for his pipe, or knife, or anything else that had been his alone to fiddle with. It was all gone. Burned. Except-
There was a crinkle of parchment under the blanket where his hand dug into the wool.
"Please, Mother, I would like to be alone."
It was hard, so hard, to stay civil with her and not wince away from the guilty fussing. Finally, though, she walked away, head bowed, and he fished underneath for the hidden message.
"The truth the false line of Durin does not wish spoken already spreads through the ranks. Await further instructions, our young prince."
Therin allowed himself nothing beyond a single, tight nod, knowing that the unseen watchers would carry his acceptance back to the ears of his other uncle, the one willing to accept him as he was.