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.
45. Rise of Khazad-dûm
"I wonder if there's ever been a king who was hit in the head so many times his brain was scrambled to mush?"
That cheerful question, spoken with just the right degree of sincere wondering, definitely did not make Thorin's list of the best ways to waken. Before he could summon up enough wits to grumble at the offending Dwalin, however, another voice chimed in, adding insult to injury.
"First there had to be brains enough in my dear brother's head to scramble, Dwalin. Given his actions lately, I strongly doubt there are."
Dwalin's dry huff of a laugh answering Dis' sally greeted the king as he finally managed to peel one eye open and glare up at his younger sibling. He did not manage more than that before a muscular arm pulled his body upright to lean him back against pillows someone else rearranged. For several moments, it was all Thorin could do to hastily swallow against the rising nausea, his head beating a counter beat to his heart at the change of position.
"You throw up on me again, Thorin, and you're cleaning it up yourself."
Thorin bit back a groan, eyes still closed as he hovered on the edge of renewed unconsciousness, trying to recall what he had done to so anger those closest to him. He was certainly receiving no sympathy! Finally, he forced himself to focus wearily on Dis, noting the worry in her blue eyes that her voice did not convey.
"Forgive me, sister, for feeling half in the grave once more. What happened?"
"You allowed the cult to use your head in place of a bell. Uncanny impersonation, too." Dwalin leaned in on his right, sticking two blunt fingers in the face of his best friend. "Twice, Thorin!"
Thorin's eyebrows drew in as he crinkled his forehead, fighting to stop those fingers from doubling in number. Irritably, he swiped at them, attempting to bat the arm away.
"Do you mind?" Turning his head ever so carefully, he looked his sister full in the face, wincing at the grief and anxiety he saw there. "The boys?"
The news could not be all that bad, not if these two were teasing him the way they had been. Still…
"I'm fine. Few new bumps and bruises is all." The dry tone matched the roll of blue eyes at his mother as Fíli entered the room, the barest hint of a concealed limp making him drag his left leg. "Nori's taking wagers on which healer Kíli drives to insanity first, though. They're still trying to keep him bed bound. You might need to threaten him with the frying pan again, Mum."
Thorin blinked, trying to make some semblance of sense out of that as Dis flushed, gently batting her eldest on the shoulder.
"A frying pan?"
Somehow, the regal princess of Durin and such a commonplace kitchen item did not go together anymore, no matter how frequently he had watched her using one in the Blue Mountains. Not as they had during the exile, when she was a harried wife and mother first, princess second. Dis' lips twitched and she shrugged, one raised eyebrow daring him to comment further.
"There were extra supplies piled in the corner of the room. It was the closest thing to hand."
"Besides," Fíli grinned, "Frodo swears that Sam defeated several orcs with one in the Records Room. He's with Kíli at the moment, trying to distract him."
"And why aren't you there, as well?"
Dis asked pointedly, silently demanding an explanation from her normally predictable son. Fíli grimaced, mustache braids bobbing as he shook his head.
"I had to step away. He keeps insisting upon seeing Therin and I can only put him off with excuses about both of them needing to heal for so long."
Therin! Alive? Thorin's head shot around, a pulse of pain punishing him for the rash move.
"He's alive? That dagger-"
"Would normally have been fatal, aye." Dwalin acknowledged, patting a chair at Thorin's bedside with a pointed look at Fíli.
The prince huffed a bit in annoyance, but the careful way he sat told his uncle that he was not as fine as he pretended.
"The battle ended only minutes after you fell, Thorin." Fíli shook his head with a grimace. "I swear Elladan and Elrohir must have jumped from the balcony, they were there so quickly. They saved him."
"And Kíli?" Thorin raised an eyebrow at that telling omission. "I had thought I made it clear that the two of you were to evacuate as soon as the fighting started."
The prince winced again, head ducking as his hands toyed with a small throwing knife. "We tried, Thorin, but we must have missed a cult member in our own ranks. The tunnel blew and collapsed on the lead team. Fortunately, Kíli wasn't truly injured in the fighting beyond some bruises where his armor stopped the blows. Senata thinks he completely exhausted himself and his body just... dropped unconscious. He's fine, now."
"It's you who had everyone worried."
Dis added, handing her brother a cup of some herbal drought.
"What do you mean?"
Thorin asked, holding the healer's concoction while trying to decide if the foul stuff might do his head more harm than good. Usually, they just left him to heal on his own with such an injury. Dwalin snorted, face thunderous as he stalked from the room, almost tearing down the blanket serving as a door to the sickroom.
"You scared us all, Thorin." Bofur's tone was the most serious the king had ever heard it. "T'was like watching the bloody Battle of the Five Armies all over again. I thought we'd lost you before you could ever rule. Again!"
Anyone else, Thorin would have chided for dramatics, but to have that level of emotion from the normally cheeky Bofur... Silence fell, broken only when the curtain was once again pushed aside to admit Senata, closely followed by Wyvern and one of the twin sons of Elrond. The king's eyebrows shot up, then he narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he would be able to extract any coherent answers from such an unholy trio. Senata set the tone immediately, eyes flashing fire as one finger stabbed at the cup he held.
"That is supposed to be empty, Thorin Oakenshield! Unless you truly wish to become Durin the Dead!"
That, of course, caused the king to plant the vessel on the bedside table still full, glaring at the dwarrowdam.
"And just what is that supposed to mean?"
He did not bother remarking on the rather novel tone she took with her monarch, knowing it would do no good.
"It means, my king, that like an egg, your head will scramble if you do not rest and allow the crack to heal! Who even allowed you to sit up?"
"Crack? I wore a reinforced helm."
Granted, his head hurt enough for her words to be true, but most who took such injuries died. Bifur had been the rare exception. Senata planted her fists on her hips, jerking her head at the king.
"Show him, Wyvern."
The young man stepped forward, an egg in a steel cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. Carefully, he hit the outside of the cup once, making the egg quiver, then again. Abruptly, the shell spider webbed and cracked, filling the inside of the cup with the goo that had been safely in the egg minutes before.
"Your head, helm and brain, my king." Senata bit off the words pointedly, a small smirk of satisfaction coming as she saw Thorin pale. "Now, everyone out. He needs rest. Wyvern…"
"Aye, I've got it."
The young man answered, one sweep of an impossibly long arm sweeping the others toward the door while the ailing monarch found himself being forcibly made to lie flat again by the dwarrowdam healer. It took much less time than he thought to find his eyes slipping closed into sleep, even with the two still tutting over his head and other, more minor, wounds. Even as he did, though, the king could not help worrying over his younger two nephews and a family situation that was obviously still unsettled.
****888888*****
Two weeks later, Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII, stood upon the partially destroyed watchtower high above the western gate of Khazad-dûm. Below, mixed teams of men, elves, and dwarrow worked at removing the last pieces of the ancient holly trees and stone from the wrecked doors. The foul lake had been drained by Ranger teams joining them from the west and now the gate stream had also been re-established, aiding in washing away the filth of centuries. Unfortunately, there had been no sign of recent occupation by the beast said to lurk here, causing equal parts relief and consternation to the king; thus, Thorin had chosen to make the four day trek through the ruined western halls to the far gate to see for himself.
Some among the teams had taken the lack of yet another brutal battle as meaning the brute had died, leaving its corpse to rot in the foul mud of the lake bottom alongside its unnumbered victims. Others cheered that the creature had fled, perhaps as far back as the fall of Sauron, though how such a feat would be accomplished, they could not say. Thorin, however, had a darker, much nastier suspicion.
"Einarr, Ori and I all think it's in the lower waterworks somewhere."
Thorin stiffened at hearing his own fears put into words by the gruff voice of his closest, and oldest, friend, moving slightly to the right in silent invitation for the other to join him. He had always been a dwarf given to solitude and dark, brooding moods, keeping his own council, traits that fit well with Dwalin's own taciturn personality. Perhaps that was why it had taken so long for the company to note the signs of gold sickness in him upon the quest. It was also most likely why they made a point of not allowing him to go off alone now, even when that required days of walking to catch him.
"I trust you posted a watch." The look of disgust the warrior gave him was enough to win a faint smile from the stern king. "You lost the dice throw?"
If Dwalin was surprised Thorin knew of their usual method of deciding on who would brave the king's wrath when he was like this, it did not show. He only snorted, rolling his eyes at Thorin.
"Didn't bother with you way out here. Kíli couldn't make the trek, Fíli won't without his brother, Bofur's with Ori and Nori always cheats anyway, so…" A half smile and a wave as if to say such considerations should have been obvious. "You've been keeping to yourself a lot since the healers let you up, Thorin. What is it?"
This time, it was the king's turn to snort, shaking his head. There were some things that thankfully never changed, and Dwalin's bluntness was definitely one of those. This time, he counted with a question of his own, though he knew it would only delay the inevitable.
"Have you and Ori given thought to the positions I offered?"
"Oh, aye, about as much as they deserve."
Thorin's lip curled slightly as a wave of irritation surfaced.
"Meaning?"
His tone was short and clipped, letting the other know that his patience was rapidly disappearing; not that there was much to begin with.
"Meanin' Ori would have already accepted as Ancient Lore Keeper if the library hadn't distracted him so much he forgot. More of the oldest scrolls are disintegrating daily, so he recruited the walking wounded to sit and copy them as fast as possible."
It was such a normal behavior for the young dwarf that Thorin had to chuckle, pleased with the success of his ploy. Nori and Bofur had both been extremely concerned that the years of isolation and trauma had permanently altered their friend to the point where Ori might begin to fade. If old, dusty books and scrolls allowed Ori to remain in the present with them, then that was what he would be given!
"Good. And you?"
Even as he asked, he could see the answer upon Dwalin's face, and the discomfort it caused as he was forced to say it aloud.
"No, and you already knew before you asked, Thorin. I'll gladly serve on your council and aid whoever you pick, but I'm too old to be the active Warmaster. Glóin is upon the edge of fading and he's twenty years younger."
"And you know as well as I that actual years mean little to a dwarf! The only one you said you trusted to take your place serves as Warmaster of Erebor. Will you leave Fíli and Kíli without expert defense?"
That earned the monarch another glare that would have sent most dwarrow scrambling for a defensive weapon. Thorin simply glared right back. Dwalin gave in first.
"Of course not! No, I want you to offer the post here to Einarr."
At the sound of the Blacklock's name, Thorin's tension drained away, leaving a sense of rightness, as if the final piece of a finely crafted blade had just slid into place. He allowed the silence to linger, however, as he watched the heaving bodies and wood tangled with each other below. Blistering curses in three languages split the air as the team began to right themselves, glaring at the trunk now mired deep in the muck. An exasperated huff was the only warning he had as Dwalin grabbed his arm, forcibly turning the king to face him.
"You already knew what I meant to say, didn't you? His is one of the two new King's Stones you found on the shore of the Mirrormere last week, isn't it? Why did you not say anything?" Dwalin's eyes narrowed angrily at his old friend and Thorin braced himself for the coming explosion. "Why do you hide up here when there is more work to be done than ever before, re-establishing the kingdom? There are dozens of decisions waiting upon you!"
Slowly, ever so slowly, bright blue eyes raised to meet those of the warrior, truth plain for his friend to read in their depths. Dwalin sucked in a breath, shocked, and Thorin waited for the scorn he knew he deserved.
"You fear the gold sickness."
There was a profound sadness and disappointment laying just under the understanding of that statement. Thorin, however, immediately shook his head.
"No. I fear myself."
Only the curses and grunts of those working below broke the long silence that followed those three fateful words. Emotions passed across Dwalin's rugged features too swiftly for Thorin to read, so he waited, instead, at peace with the truth he had finally dared to speak.
"Durin VI was so corrupted that he murdered his own father for the throne, Dwalin. He knew very well that he would have to live with the memories of that deed, and not just his own, yet he still did it. To be both murdered and murderer… Can you truly tell me you could remain sane after that?"
"You are not Durin VI."
Yet even as he said it, the warrior was fingering the dagger upon his belt, the barest hint of doubt in his eyes. Thorin slumped against the stone, a resigned sadness in his posture.
"Am I not? At least in part? I almost brought Erebor to utter ruin within days of reclaiming it. Then I became so focused upon establishing the boys in Erebor and retaking this place that I did not allow myself to question what I was doing. To face what would happen when I actually succeeded. Those who believed that Moria was only a black pit, stripped barren of its former wealth were wrong, Dwalin. There are hidden rooms, vaults untouched by any but dwarrow hands, protected by the most potent of the ancient magics."
"So? You will not fall again, Thorin. The Ring is destroyed, Sauron dead." Dwalin gave his shoulder a stern shake, then his grin turned decidedly wicked. "Besides, if you do start showing such signs again, I'll gladly beat it out of you."
Thorin's laugh rang out over the valley, causing the workers below to glance up, several waving salutes to their king. Dwalin chuckled, accepting his friend's slap on the arm and embrace before a haltingly cleared throat interrupted them. Thorin's eyebrows shot up at the sight of his still pale and hurting youngest nephew with a journey pack and weapons on his back.
"Goin' somewhere, laddie?"
Once more, the old warmaster broke the silence, making the boy flush, though it was Thorin he addressed.
"Unc- I mean, your majes- er- Thorin!"
"You were right the first time, Therin. I am and will always be your uncle. The council has already reversed the kin-wrecking, as I told you they would. With time, you can prove yourself worthy of being a prince again."
It was a tone of reassurance that he would normally have only used with a much younger dwarfling, but it seemed to strike the correct angle with the younger dwarf. He flushed again, setting his packs to the side with only a small wince before straightening to face his uncle directly.
"I-I know, uncle, but it does not change what happened. What I did. I- Y-You offered me a chance to live my own life, find out who I am and what I am truly capable of. To define myself instead of having titles, duties and traditions do it for me. I want to take the chance. I'm leaving with the western supply train."
Therin's chin jutted toward the edge of the valley, where several wagons waited for escort toward the west and trade. Some had already travelled from the cities of Minas Tirith and Edoras, coming up from the Gap of Rohan to rest here for several days, and be joined by dwarrow teams. Re-establishing the ancient routes were high on the lists of both Thorin and Aragorn, as it would aid all of Middle Earth to prosper once more. Those with all they needed at home were much less likely to covet what others held dear, and those threatened with the cut off of trade should they persecute those different then themselves would at least pretend civility.
Thorin sighed, contemplating his wayward nephew. In a way, he cheered this decision, as it showed a willingness to be his own dwarf, to succeed or fail upon his own skills. It would also give Therin a worldly wisdom that could not be found with tutors and ornate halls. It was for just those reasons that Thorin had once overruled his sister, letting Fíli and Kíli hire out as caravan guards going between Gondor and the Blue Mountains. But it was also a vast disappointment. Therin was running; from his lack of judgment, his family, his duty as a Durin, and once he began to run, it would be that much harder to ever come back.
"Do your mother and father know of this?"
Therin scuffed at the rock with his boot, not looking at his uncle.
"Aye. Mother was disappointed, but she helped me find decent supplies. Father told me to use the name of 'Vidri'. Said it's what he would have named me if given the choice. Spoke to Fíli and Kíli, too."
Well, at least the boy showed that much courage. Facing Kíli could not have been easy after all that had happened.
"And?" Thorin prompted softly.
"And they said they thought it was probably a good idea, for a while. Kíli gave me the sword he carried on the Quest for Erebor. Said he'd brought it to give to me at the coronation even though it wasn't a fancy enough blade for a crown prince, but the impulse made more sense, now. 'Tis well made, but not more than a good guard could afford. Fíli gave me some money, so I won't starve if I can't find more work right away. Frodo yelled at me for a while about running, then said I'd better stop by and see Merry, Pippin and Sam when I was in the Shire, or if I needed anything. I just- I can't stay here, uncle. I can't be what you need me to be right now."
Swallowing hard against the disappointed anger that would only serve to hurt them further, Thorin stepped forward, resting both hands upon the shoulders of his sister-son. Gently, their forwards bumped together, one hand coming up to cup the back of Therin's neck. The lad was shaking with nerves.
"You always have a home here, Therin, never forget that. You are of Durin's Line, and we do not give up easily." Releasing the young dwarf, he straightened, holding out a fisted hand. "Hold out your hand."
Once the young former prince did so, the king opened his hand, dropping a rough stone about the size of an egg into it. Therin looked at it, nose crinkling as he took in the composite minerals. Thorin could not blame him, really. To the naked eye, the stone looked quite dull, made up of pale colors in no pattern or interesting crystal formation, both of which might have made it noteworthy to a dwarf. Or at least that is what most would believe.
"When you camp tonight, take it away from the campfire for a few minutes. I think you may be surprised."
The king did not add that it also reflected the reality of his sister-son, as well. The disappointments of the surface decisions hid well the true beauty of the young prince within, if only one had the will and patience to see it. Therin's eyes shot to his, wide and glittering with tears the boy was trying hard not to shed.
"A King's Stone? After everything-"
Thorin did not know how to answer that, to give the reassurance Therin so obviously needed, but fortunately, Dwalin snorted beside him.
"I hope that by 'everythin' you're includin' the part where you agreed to a wild plan to fool a madman and save yer king's life, lad. Twice." Dwalin gestured to the lad's gut. "I know those pointy-ears healed you, but be careful of that wound for a while, aye? And come back to us."
Therin's bow was low and respectful, first to the old armsmaster and then to his king, all the ups and downs, collapses and triumphs in his answer.
"I will. I promise."
AN: Only an epilogue to go!