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Chapter 3

While dwarves scurried about Erebor, preparing for unwanted guests, Fili and Kili worked to drum up support for their scheme. First, they asked to speak to Thorin's closest advisors. While the brothers passionately argued their case, Dwalin sat stone-faced with his arms crossed over his chest, and Balin ran his fingers through his beard and pulled out the tangles.

"So let me get this straight, lads," he began after a final tug. "You want us to help you humiliate and terrify our noble dwarrowdams to the point that they run shrieking from our halls?"

Kili turned to his brother in dismay. Like many plotters before them have discovered, their plan sounded much better before they let others in on it.

"Not exactly," Fili countered with a pleading look. "We just need to persuade them to leave uncle be, and if they have a terrible time here, it would change their minds."

Dwalin sat unmoving, but Balin pushed to his feet and wagged his finger.

"Have you forgotten, my lads, that our womenfolk are rarer than mithril and that we are to treat them as rare gems to be cherished and protected?" he said firmly.

The brothers glanced at each other while Balin harangued them on their duty to the females of their race. One of lessons they learned early and repeatedly throughout their lives was that dwarrowdams were their race's true treasure and that all dwarrow were to give their lives for even the lowliest. For a moment, their training warred with their loyalty to Thorin. Then Fili thought of Princess Onkra waddling about Erebor barking orders, and loyalty won out.

"And they are as delicate as the petals of a flower …" Balin huffed with his hands on his hips.

"Do you really want an oinker on the throne?" Fili shouted finally, silencing Balin who was about to argue that dwarrowdams were Mahal's finest filigree creation.

"You were saying, brother?" Dwalin rumbled after a moment of silence, his thick mustache twitching. "As delicate as the petals of a flower?"

Balin's nostrils flared as he advanced on the princes.

"Have you no SHAME!" he seethed. "How dare you call a lady of noble blood such an odious name!"

But Fili would not back down and stood toe to toe, matching glares with the old dwarf.

"I think he meant to say 'The Oinker,'" Dwalin offered calmly.

Balin looked over aghast.

"Not you, too, brother! Have you forgotten yourself?"

Dwalin remained unruffled.

"He means Princess Onkra," he said, "and you can't fault him when Thorin calls her the same."

Balin's mouth formed a perfect "o."

"Do you remember the time that Dain traveled to Ered Luin with his daughter?"

Balin searched his memory, and all watched him twitch and shudder when he recalled the peevish and homely princess. It was only a month-long visit, but she almost sent the dwarves fleeing to the Shire. Walking about with a plate in her hands, she spent the entire visit stuffing her face with jam tarts and making outrageous demands like ordering the kitchen to stay open around the clock so she could have hot apple pie and fresh biscuits dusted with powdered sugar and nutmeg whenever she wanted. Balin rubbed his mouth and cringed. The already obese princess insisted that the seamstresses stop their work to make her a new gown.

It was never finished because they kept having to enlarge it during her stay, Balin thought. Why didn't Dain say anything? He should have taken a birch switch to her behind years ago.

"Durin's beard," Balin said heavily as he took his seat. "What a tangle."

He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. But he wasn't ready to concede their point just yet.

"Still, did you ever think that the king might actually fancy one of them?" he asked. "And what if he did and we scared her off? What then? I cannot believe that they all are as, erm, unsuitable as Dain's, er, daughter. And what about our alliances? A stunt like this would not be forgotten in a hurry, that's certain."

Growling in frustration, Kili kicked a chair, and Fili threw up his hands.

"So we stand by and let uncle bear more of King Thror's madness?" he asked heatedly. "He's suffered enough!"

Dwalin chuckled. It was hard to tell since his shoulders shook only slightly.

"No doubt Thorin's already working out how to deal with this," he said, "but I'm with you on Princess Onkra and the others. The council deserves as much as we can dish out for this."

"Brother!" Balin exclaimed. "It isn't our place to interfere."

"It is when it concerns what's best for Erebor, Balin," Dwalin argued, "and The Oinker isn't."

"Stop saying that! 'Tisn't respectful!"

"But it is fitting," Kili spat, "and noble dwarrowdam or no, uncle doesn't deserve such a fate."

"So," Fili said, "what can we do to help him?"

Balin drummed his fingers on the table. He was definitely not happy about the state of affairs, but Princess Onkra? A cold chill ran through him as her piggish face reappeared in his memory.

"Well, your notions will only bring us infamy, lads"—he paused and looked each in the eye—"so we need something a little more subtle while protecting our more worthy lasses among the wolves."

"Sows," Dwalin amended.

Fili and Kili plopped themselves down eagerly. This is what they hoped for. Without saying so, Balin and Dwalin had signed on.

"We'll need the others," Dwalin said. "There's too many to do a proper job of it."

"Aye," Balin replied while lost in thought. Dain's daughter was nothing if not persistent when she wanted something. He twitched again, remembering her screaming long and loudly for a necklace she saw on the neck of passing dwarrowdam until he thought his ears would bleed. "Princess Oinker—Onkra!—alone will be quite a challenge."

Thorin walked back and forth along the ramparts above the front gate, struggling to find his own strategy. Asking his nephews for help was a mistake. He would never be charming no matter how hard he tried, and he wasn't willing to try that hard. But he couldn't be openly hostile either, lest he offend the clans and risk conflict or even war. Hmmm. Whatever the council decreed—and may they all be struck with boils on their backsides!—he wasn't about to offer himself up on a platter to satisfy a law that should never have been written in the first place.

I don't need a wife anyhow, he told himself.

After pacing for a good while with his hands behind his back, he decided to be correct and civil, but no more. He would do nothing to encourage them but instead would freeze them out with royal disapproval. After all, he only had to pick one, and whomever she was, she'd have to put up with his indifference for the rest of her life.

Aye, that'll work. She'll know where she stands and leave me in peace after a child is conceived. I hope it doesn't take long.

Meanwhile, other members of the company agreed with a zeal that remained undiminished after Balin's stern lecture on the delicacy of dwarrowdams.

"So no bodily injury?" Nori asked. Dori rapped him on the back of the head.

"Ow, what? I'm just saying that we could arrange a few accidents," Nori argued. "Nothing fatal, mind."

"We don't want to hurt them," Dori replied, "just make them leave—quickly—and they couldn't do that if we broke their legs."

Balin shook his head in dismay.

"We need to somehow disqualify them all," he said. Then he frowned and pulled on his beard. "No, they need to disqualify themselves, aye, that's it. Then our honor won't be questioned."

"And just how do we get them to do that?" Kili wanted to know.

"Carefully, lad, very carefully," Balin replied thoughtfully. "This needs to be planned and deliberate, like a game of chess."

Gloin tapped the side of his nose.

"Oin could help with that," he said. He nodded at the Fili and Kili. "He's down in the apothecary. You'd better speak to him there."

Fili and Kili walked quickly down the stairs and across the Great Hall, acknowledging the bows and curtsies of their people along the way. Although they were always raised as princes, they never got special treatment at Ered Luin. Everyone was too busy there building, working, and struggling to survive to think of the niceties. A quick bob of the head did just as well and, more often than not, they were dispensed with when everyone rolled up their sleeves to pitch in. Now rank was again important, but they grumbled, knowing that it only made it harder to skulk about without getting caught.

The apothecary and sick rooms, which Oin oversaw, were separated from the rest of Erebor by three corridors: one that led to the mines, the second that opened on a lower level, and the third that had its own exit out of the mountain. Its ingenious design allowed the wounded to be brought directly to the infirmary, while those with contagious diseases could be quarantined from the main population. The dwarves had learned well over their long years that disease could spread quickly in a contained space, so they took every precaution. Unlike the rest of the mountain kingdom, the infirmary's general décor was plain and without statuary or heavy tapestries. Its simple furniture and decoration made it more sanitary and easier to clean. The entire area smelled of strong soap and bleach, but the beds were soft, and the sick well cared for.

The brothers found Oin mumbling to himself as he cleaned out and rearranged his stores. Looking up, he greeted the princes jovially, but his face turned dark when the brothers explained their mission.

"And we need to plan our strategy like a chess game," Kili said.

Oin looked unconvinced as he sorted packets of herbs.

"You want to frighten our womenfolk and cast a stain on Erebor forever?" he asked as he angled his earpiece. "I'll hear no more! Now go away, and I'll pretend this never happened!"

Kili sighed. "The Oinker is coming for Uncle Thorin."

Oin stopped. "The Oinker?"

"Princess Onkra," Fili said flatly. "You remember. The daughter of Dain?"

Oin's eyes flew open as a memory pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. Her! His mouth turned down as he recalled a screeching harpy who demanded treatment for every imagined ache and pain and then called him an incompetent buffoon in front of the court. He rubbed his leg where she kicked him. On rainy days it still throbbed.

"I see," he said slowly. Then he turned and grabbed a tray behind him.

"Well," he said, "I'll not help you embarrass our womenfolk, not if Erebor hung in the balance! What a notion. Outrageous! Beyond the pale! Not to be borne!" He pinned the brothers with a reprimanding scowl. Fili and Kili flushed and looked down, shifting their feet. He nodded finally, having made his point.

"Now if circumstances were different and, say, we had to repay an insult," he continued, "we could get the offending parties where they lived, so to speak. This tincture here would make them belch uncontrollably. Ha! I use it to relieve gas pains."

Fili and Kili's head jerked up.

"Tasteless and odorless," Oin said, "and they'd never know! But acting dishonorably toward these ladies who are coming so far? An unforgivable breach of honor. Never! Only three drops are needed."

He pulled out another bottle.

"And this!" he chortled. "Quite by accident I mixed two medicines together and caused a terrible, weeping rash on my hands that itched like the hair of a warg. Now I want you both to put your plan out of your minds once and for all. Do you hear me? Rub a little of this on a goblet or fork with a cloth, and a few hours later—boils!"

The brothers watched intently as Oin pulled out jar after bottle and explained their more interesting uses. Then he reached for a small, blue-glass flask.

"Oho," he said, "and this is my little beauty that I usually keep locked away. Did it ever occur to your lordships that the king may have his own plan for dealing with the situation? Let it be, I say. You'll just cause trouble. I discovered this quite by accident as well. It tastes like grapes, so it has to go in the wine. It has the effect of, erm, accentuating behavior. Have I made myself clear? The reputation of Erebor is at stake, so conduct yourself honorably, for Mahal's sake!"

Fili and Kili nodded quickly.

"How would this work—exactly?" Kili wondered with a nod toward the little bottle. Such a thing might only increase someone's greediness or determination, and that would surely make matters worse.

"Well, lad, it takes understanding your opponent," Oin said with a frown as though Kili should have known better. "Tactics, lad, tactics! It's not for everyone, of course, but if she's—he's!—fond of food, for example, this'll keep him eating until he gets sick. Catch on? Precious as gems our womenfolk are, and you treat them with all the respect they deserve! I'll not hear another word!"

"So how much…?" Fili asked, waving his hand at the bottle.

"Two drops, er, or three if they're on the hefty side," Oin answered, "but I won't have any part in it, lads, so count me out."

Finally, the dreaded day arrived. Thorin shrugged on his specially made royal tunic and surcoat and yanked at the tight collar with a curse. Then he tugged on his black boots with silver tips. He pushed back his hair with frustrated grunt and looked at himself in the mirror. His lip curled at the grim face that glared back at him. All at once, his shoulders dropped.

Why, grandfather, why? Did you not think I'd take care of our people?

He tried to cheer himself with Kili's words, but they faded in the face of what or rather who was coming. At least he knew Thror didn't write the law with The Oinker in mind. He died long before the princess was born.

Leaning against an oaken door carved with scenes of victory from the Battle of Five Armies, he groaned and then took a deep breath and straightened up. He shouldn't complain. Marriage for political reasons was common among all races, and many before him had done the same. Even his cousin Dain wed to secure an alliance. How else could he end up with such a daughter? Thorin dimly remembered her mother and shuddered. No wonder Dain only had one child. He tried consoling himself with the thought that some of these marriages worked out well enough, but he didn't feel any better.

Thorin looked again in the silvered glass and inhaled sharply. He didn't recognize himself. He leaned in and examined his face, seeing deeper lines, gray in his beard, and more silver in his hair. For a moment, he looked like a spectre, haunted and ghostly like a king of old risen to face his descendant.

Must be a trick of the light. He glanced around at the flickering lamps whose wicks needed trimming.

Then he faced his reflection.

What do I want? he thought. The face in the mirror looked surprised.

You never asked that question before.

Thorin spoke aloud to his mirror self. "I'm asking it now. What do I want?"

His reflection had no answer, and it opened its hands helplessly and then dropped them to its side. Thorin looked down at his hands, callused and hardened, and flexed his fists. Too many years of service had robbed him of himself, and he was shocked to realize he had so little life outside his duties as king. Suddenly, he felt hollow like a rotting tree and wondered how he had missed out on so much. He was always pushing, always fighting to build the lives of others, but he had never built his own. He had loyal companions and valued them greatly, but he spent little time with them now outside of official functions. Sifting through his memories, he realized that he missed the camaraderie of the quest.

Even with his nephews, whom he loved dearly, he felt set apart. They loved him, too, he was sure, but they never did anything together just for enjoyment. It was always about training or needs to be met. It took them all nearly dying to just spend time together.

Late that awful day, he woke up to the sounds of groans around him and thought that he was still on the battlefield. As his eyes cleared, he realized that he was in a tent surrounded by wounded. Looking around, he gasped when he saw the still bodies of his nephews.

"No, no!" he had cried weakly, and he tried to move, to get to them somehow. Just then, the tent flap opened, and Oin bustled in.

"No, Thorin, you can't," he said, "else you'll tear the stitches. Easy does it."

But he struggled all the more.

"Fili!" he cried, "Kili!"

Oin pushed him down by his shoulders.

"They're alive, my king," he said. "They're just unconscious."

"Truly?"

"I swear."

He stayed awake for as long as he could, waiting to see any sign of life, before his eyes closed against his will. When he woke again later, he saw Fili looking at him and Kili trying to reach out his hand. He was not ashamed to feel tears.

"My lads," he said weakly. "Mahal be praised."

Soon they were moved to a separate tent, and they talked and talked. Thorin shared stories of Dis, their father, and himself when he was younger, and he listened to their hopes and dreams. He grew even more proud of them if that were possible, but he deflected most personal questions. They made him uncomfortable and, after a while, his nephews stopped asking.

Who am I apart from being king?

After staring at himself and finding no answer, he growled angrily and tugged at his robes. It was too late to consider such things now even though he felt his chest aching with regret. He breathed deeply with one hand on his heart and then pulled open the door and threw his head up proudly. No one would see his unhappiness and confusion as he strode strongly down the stairs and across the hall. His people would never guess that with each step, their king bled a little inside.

I am king. That is enough because I will it so.

He looked up at the vaulted ceiling and the wide seams of gold and crystalline quartz winking like sunlight, and he swelled with pride, deciding to forget such nettlesome questions. His life was his mountain. He fought for it and would die to defend it. Perhaps it was enough to be remembered as the one who reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps.

Let those who think we live in dark caves behold the light that never dims!

His eyes took in the glory of his kingdom, and he smiled despite his circumstances. He would always have his mountain. Its walls were polished to a high luster, and its many diamond and gold chandeliers gleamed and twinkled in the torchlight.

Like a sky full of stars.

Calmed temporarily, Thorin slowly strode toward his throne room. The council met him outside the entrance. One fat and pompous dwarf, called Dolor, stepped forward. He bowed and then scrutinized Thorin's attire with confusion.

"You wear unusual dress to meet your bride, you highness," he said with suspicion dripping from every word. "Did someone die?"

The council murmured at the king's all-black garb. Only his high collar embroidered with silver kept it from being mourning robes. One by one they whispered their disapproval.

"Not yet," Thorin replied tightly, "but 'tis still early."

"We're only doing our duty by King Thror's command," Dolor replied firmly, "and we expect your majesty to take his command as seriously as we do."

Thorin clenched his fists, and the council shuffled back from his angry face.

"Do not ever question my loyalty to my grandfather again," he said with barely controlled fury. "It is only my respect for him that allows this travesty to continue."

Then he threw open the door and stomped inside to where Fili and Kili stood. Thorin arched one brow, but Fili and Kili simply nodded and took their places by his side. They also wore black with embroidered collars. Someone must have tipped them off. Well, good. Thorin appreciated their show of solidarity. Their welcome would be formal and correct but cool to any who entered. The council could hardly expect more. Then bugles sounded to announce the approach of expected guests.

Thorin sat on his throne and turned his hard gaze on the door. Council members walked in and stood in their customary aisle, and all the company except Oin walked in and took the aisle opposite. Some of the company chuckled when they saw what Thorin and the princes wore. So their liege would play the part of the black king. They grinned and whispered approvingly under the wary gaze of council members. The two sides then glared at each other until Bofur gave them a wink and jaunty smile. After a few minutes of veiled insults passing back and forth between the aisles, a herald stepped forward and announced the visitors' arrival to the main gate. The board was now set, and the players were in place. After taking a deep breath, the black king made the first move.

"Herald, do your office." Thorin said regally with a nod.

All heard the massive doors creak open.

"So the game begins," Balin muttered.

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