Chapter 4
Several suns had shone and fallen over the Blue Mountains since he last saw Lord Balin, yet Thorin took no notice. His thoughts remained attached to an inexplicable force he called fate pressing him to restore the pride of his people. With each passing day, more reasons revealed themselves to him, goading him to pursue the Mountain, and end his people's misery. This misery, however, was a thought heavier upon his mind than on any other. None quite shared his concern with it, as none really could. There was only one whose birth duty regarded the isolated mountain. However, this misery acted as the anchor of his reasoning. He had convinced himself that this feeling was shared by those who fled with him. Those who had been there on that day, who had witnessed Smaug's calamity, must inevitably be intimately aware of the same misery that afflicted him.
Nonetheless the people of the Blue Mountains, new and old, led a decent life. Dwarves littered the streets daily in an organized frenzy. Markets opened, weapon and armor smiths heavy at work, crafters of all kinds supplying the nearby villages of men with fine items of war. Commerce humbly flourished in every corner of the main city beneath the mountains.
Walking past them, Thorin was looked at with both respect and curiosity by the people. Decades had passed since he first led them in their fiery exile, picking up the fragile pieces of a collective will to live. Many had turned from him in the process, begging shelter in the towns of men in exchange for hard labor. They were fewer still by the time they arrived at the Blue Mountains, as some succumbed to wounds, famine or illness.
The refugees were welcomed warmly by the people who resided beneath the mountains, and their King, a Highlord called Faolán, welcomed Thorin as the Heir of Durin's Folk. The years passed and their worries diminished, but the people's admiration for the oaken prince only grew wilder. Every child knew the story of Thorin, who, with a shield of oak defeated a fearsome foe. They also heard of the splendor of time's past in the Lonely Mountain, a kingdom of mithril, diamond, and gold.
Yet Thorin's enduring fame did not always work in his favor. He had the love and loyalty of his people, yet no true authority over them. Lord Faolán, aware of his people's admiration for the exiled prince, granted him the title of Highlord and offered him a seat in his council as an advisor. In the decades that followed the long march from the mountain, Thorin had never accepted nor declined the offer. He spent his days laboring in the great forges of the mountain, becoming a skilled blacksmith in no time. He often travelled between the mountains and the villages of men, earning his wealth in partial anonymity. This only made his fame grow among those who knew him.
Walking through the busied streets, Thorin made his way to the royal halls where he sought an audience with Lord Faolán, King of Ered Luin. Upon reaching his hall, Thorin briefly gazed at his surroundings. Despite being involved in Lord Faolán's court, he seldom stepped in his throne room—the images of his father's hall lost in fire were all too alive in his mind.
The smaller throne room was none the less regal. Shards of sapphire fell from the stone ceiling in curtains of azure that glittered like a river of stars. Moonlight shone through the archways at either side of the throne, where an elegant balcony was carved on the side of the mountain. The King's royal guard stood dutifully at each side of the grand hallway leading to the throne. At the sight of Durin's Heir approaching, the guards raised their forearms to their chests, greeting him with kingly respect.
Lord Faolán was conversing amicably with one of his sons when he took notice of Thorin's presence. "My Lord Thorin," he exclaimed, "a rare yet welcome sight in these halls." He dipped his head in a slight bow, signaling both respect and authority over him.
"I have come seeking your counsel" Thorin's deep voice seemed to echo in the room like no other.
"A rarer sight still." affirmed the King, more to his amusement than Thorin's. "Please, leave us." He gazed at his son and personal guard. "I shall enjoy the Prince's company in private." At once, the guards escorted themselves outside. Faolán's son gradually followed after them, naively resenting being less interesting to his father than the prince-in-exile.
"Tell me," the King said after the last step had faded out of hearing, "what troubles you?" The King clad in a cloak lined with diamonds and sapphires walked into the balcony, the gems tickling the polished stone floor that led outside. Thorin followed soon after. The night air brought a sea of cold in its arms, showering the two royals in early winter's breath. Thorin chose his next words carefully.
"Home." He stated. Upon hearing this, Faolán's sigh followed his heavy eyes to the sight behind him. No longer was he a captive of the peaceful beauty of the mountains shrouded in blue moonlight around him. His thoughts were now fixed on the determined glare adorning Thorin's face. "The Mountain besieged by dragon fire," said Faolán in a sigh.
"Durin's Folk have been in exile for far too long. They deserve to bask in the glory of their kingdom restored." Thorin said.
"You are aware of what stands in your way. Smaug the Eternal, the lord of dragons, ageless he remains beneath the mountain, indomitable even to you." Thorin remained silent, allowing the King to reveal all his thoughts. "Restoring your kingdom will not ease the heart of your people. The memory of that day and the decades thereafter will haunt them like a plague. No victory now can restore what was burnt."
"The alternative is far worse." Thorin reasoned. "Allowing a once great kingdom to fade into legend and ruin. Kin scattered across Middle-Earth without a banner to unite them. The legacy of the dwarves dwindling like a dying flame. Death is preferable to this."
"The might of a dragon is not easily overcome."
"A dragon dormant for decades. Perhaps its body also lies in ruin."
"And if it merely sleeps?"
"An army might conquer it." Thorin said defiantly.
"I will not shed my kin's blood over that worm's claws! Peace is worth more than the treasure hoard on which he sits." Faolán turned away from Thorin in a fit of restrained fury. His own son was part of the King's army. To ask him to send them to their deaths was an outrage to him. It was madness, the kind that plagued Thorin by blood.
Faolán had given an end to their exchange. He made his way back into the warmth of the throne room, where braziers had been lit to fight winter's chill. Thorin kept himself a distance away, a quiet rage threatening to boil in his mind. Before leaving the room, the King turned and faced him once more. An opportunity presented itself in his mind. Softening his features, ever so slightly, he calmly spoke again.
"I shall call forth my best warriors. Gather from them willing companions, for I will not command them to join you. Venture to the mountain and confirm that the beast lies dead, or else slay it yourself. Do this and the might of my kingdom will help you restore yours."
True to his word, Lord Faolán gathered a small council to hear Thorin's request. One by one they arrived and settled in the regal arm chairs that circled the fire-lit chamber. Some where speaking amongst themselves of life's daily tidings while others were more intent on listening to any hint regarding the reason for their summoning. All rose from their seats and placed their forearms across their chests with a light bow as Lord Faolán entered the room, Thorin to his side. It was unclear to whom they had shown this reverence.
Thorin immediately scanned the faces that stood around him. Some he knew—Lord Balin, for instance, was among the dwarves, offering Thorin a glance of support from across the room. Others their names he knew, or their faces. Some were oddly unknown to him.
"I thank you Lords for heeding my call once more. I have sent for you in an embrace of solidarity for the plight of our brothers and sisters in exile. Your presence in this room represents the bond between our families—those born under Ered Luin and those refuged within it." He paused slightly and motioned the dwarf lords to take a seat. Then, he continued.
"The Lord Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, rightful heir to the mountain throne, has decided that the time is right to reclaim the lost city of Erebor from under the dragon's grasp."
At the mere mention of this news the faces in the room twisted in fear and judgment of what they perceived as madness. Thorin was glad that Faolán, ever joyous of the sound of his own voice, decided to unveil the true purpose of the meeting himself, leaving him free to examine each reaction undistracted. Among the dwarves gathered, most initially expressed surprise; little gasps where heard running in a circle around the room. Faolán waited a moment for the lords to still before he continued, chuckling inwardly at what he knew the reaction of his people would be.
"In honor of our shared ancestry, I have offered Lord Thorin my earnest support. I have summoned you here today so that through you my word can be done. The task is a perilous one. You shall venture to the mountain and either find the beast slain or slay it yourselves. As your Lord and protector I cannot, in good conscience, command you to leave the safety of your home, your responsibilities, aspirations, and your family, to join in on a quest where, if the beast yet lives, death might be your sole certainty. I can, however, offer you the opportunity to step forth of your own volition for the honor and glory of your people. The choice is yours, without prejudice."
With those words, he sat down on a sapphire-encrusted tall chair and watched as silence overcame them. Thorin remained quiet as well, passing quick judgment to all present, still watching their reactions intently.
The silence dragged out like a long, summer day. The Lords were deep in thought, contemplating the offer before them. Should they step forth and accept the summons, not only would they march towards certain death, but some felt that to follow a royal other than their own was a veiled offer of treason set forth to test where their loyalties laid. On the other hand, refusing the quest would brand them cowards in the face of danger, fleeing from the dragon while it still slept. Knowing these where their thoughts, Faolán's mind grew amused. To him, there was no question that the quest would fail. Due to the slightest chance of success, however, he could not afford to become the King who opposed the High King of the Dwarves. As a calculating ruler, he had just done what was needed to ensure his kingdom's survival regardless of the outcome of the quest.
At length, a voice pierced the silence with the rare sound of a warrior's courage.
"If my King walks towards the mountain, dragon or not, so shall I." He turned his gaze from Lord Faolán to Thorin. "My axe is at your service, as it was for your father before you."
The dwarf Lord's name was Dwalin, younger brother of Balin; a face Thorin knew well.
Author's Note: Wow! I can't believe I almost abandoned this story! The good news is I already have around 3 or 4 more chapters sketched out. Let me know what you think so far! I will try and update soon.