Hello everyone. This time there's another outtake from The Journal, an extensive version of Thorin's flashback in chapter 59. It's mostly movie-based, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!
Chapter 5
Erebor Was Lost
"Visions appeared on his mind's eye, memories of the day Erebor had been taken. He recalled the fire, the almost unbearable heat, the fear, the screams and he had to remind himself that getting lost in his memories would do nothing whatsoever in helping him to take back what Smaug had taken."
The Journal, chapter 59: Homecoming
Later Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, would sometimes wonder how it was possible that a day that began so good, could end in such misery. It was one of those things he did not have an answer to, as he sat near the fire, staring off into the distance, where the area around Erebor was still burning, the smoke obscuring the Mountain itself from view.
And then to think that the day had started out as an ordinary day. Well, it had not been exactly peaceful. He was woken when a little piece of rock broke from the ceiling and fell onto his stomach with considerable force. That was what it felt like anyway.
'Ugh!' he sputtered, cracking one eye open to see what was happening.
He found himself looking at two twinkling blue eyes, framed by messy black hair, that no one had bothered to put a comb through since the owner had gotten out of bed. 'Morning, brother!' the little menace said cheerfully.
'Dís,' Thorin acknowledged with a groan. 'What are you doing out so early?' Precious few the female dwarves may be, but his sister was a wildcat and not even a dwarf in Thorin's opinion. Where she got so much energy from and so early in the morning too, he'd never know.
Dís shook her head. 'You're late,' she corrected. 'Ma says you have to inspect the guards with Balin as soon as you've eaten breakfast.'
He remembered that, remembered that all too well. And he was in absolutely no mood to inspect any guards, not when his bed still felt so very comfortable. 'Get off,' he demanded. Dís was still jumping up and down on him, which did nothing at all to increase his appetite. 'Why hasn't someone done your hair yet?' His little sister was dressed, but her hair was a mess.
'I was busy,' she said haughtily. 'I needed to wake you. And ma says that if you don't get out, she'll send Frerin with a bucket of water in next.' She grinned mischievously. 'Can you stay in bed for a little longer?'
Thorin snorted. No, he would not risk that if he could help it. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one from his siblings who didn't live to make mischief as a daily job. 'I don't think so,' he said as he worked himself up into a sitting position. 'Here, let me have a look at that hair.' He didn't wait for an answer, just lifted his sister up and turned her around so he could get at that bird's nest she called hair.
'Thorin!' she protested, but he paid her no heed, taking the comb from the bedside table and putting it through her hair. That made her sit still at least. 'You're boring,' she commented. 'Frerin is more fun.' She sounded as if she was pouting.
Thorin could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'Frerin is more fun, is he?' He tied off the simple braid he'd made – anything more complex would be a waste of time, since she would run around all day and undo all his work anyway – and tickled her sides. 'We'll see about that.'
Dís let out a high-pitched squeal as she writhed to get away from him. 'Thorin, let go!' There was one thing this little lady excelled in, and that was in screaming as if she was a pig led to slaughter, making Frerin pop in.
'Where are the orcs?' he demanded, holding his sword up with a grin. 'Ah, I see! Don't fret, princess, I'm here to save you!' With those words he dove on the bed and the whole thing ended up in a wrestling match that lasted at least ten more minutes, the result being Thorin being pinned down, with Frerin holding down his arms and Dís sitting on his legs to prevent him from moving those.
'I yield! I yield!' he laughed. 'Will the little orcs now kindly get off so that I can inspect the guards?'
Frerin frowned and looked at Dís. 'What do you think, little sister? Shall we let him?'
Dís looked thoughtful. 'I'll need to think about it,' she said in a perfect imitation of their mother.
Thorin took advantage of both their distraction to throw them off and make a run for it, grabbing his clothes and boots on the way out, locking the door to his bedroom behind him to buy himself some time. Frerin would pick the lock within minutes, but he did give himself a head start, which he would need, because he was late. The braids in his hair and beard were still more and less in place and he fixed them as he grabbed breakfast on his way out, chewing on it as he put on his boots.
'You're off, then?' his mother asked. Lady Theyra was a tall dwarf, but Thorin was almost as tall as she was these days.
'Thanks to those two orcs I'm late enough as it is,' he nodded. There wasn't any real malice though. Although he would never admit it out loud, Frerin and Dís provided some well-needed distraction these days now that his responsibilities grew ever heavier. It was good to remember to laugh and his siblings never passed up an opportunity to remind him how to do that.
His mother tugged the braid in his beard softly. 'Don't you say that you did not enjoy it, lad.'
Thorin smiled. 'Well…'
She nudged him in the right direction. 'Off with you. Try to be home in time.'
'I'll try,' Thorin promised. And try he would, but there were no real promises he could make. That used to be different some years ago, but that was when his grandfather was still paying more attention to the ruling of the kingdom than the contents of the treasury. Thorin tried not to let this bitter him, but he could not deny that King Thrór's behaviour worried him. It seemed to have gotten worse in the last month again and so ever more duties fell on his father and Thorin. He would not object against those – one day they would all fall to him, he had been told for years – but it was the reason for this that worried him. And there was nothing any of them could do, nothing a healer could give a medicine for. The affliction was of the mind and it frightened the young prince more than he dared to say.
He met up with Balin near the front gate, waiting with the patrol. 'You're late, laddie,' he commented, an indulgent smile on his face.
'I was set upon by a band of vicious orcs,' he answered with a straight face. 'And I had to fight my way out.' He cast a look around, noticing that they were still missing one other dwarf. 'Won't the king be joining us?' A shiver went down his spine; he had a very good idea of the answer already, but he needed the answer.
Balin indeed looked uncomfortable. 'The king is otherwise occupied,' he replied tactfully.
He is counting his gold in the treasure room, more like. Thorin quashed the thought immediately though. His grandfather was still the king and as such he was entitled to respect. He was not showing that by agreeing with Balin in public. And the less news of the seriousness of the situation seeped through to the outside world, the better it would be for everyone involved.
'Then we will go without him,' Thorin decided. That was the only thing to be done now. If he continued as normal, then he could maybe even fool himself that everything was normal, at least until he would see his grandfather again. Then he would know that things were not normal. He was at least grateful that his grandmother wasn't here to see it. He was sure it would have broken her heart to see it. Come to think of it, his grandfather's affliction seemed to have begun four years previous, shortly after her death. He was loath to dismiss that as mere coincidence.
Balin nodded. The patrol made ready to go, when a guard descended the stairs in a hurry. 'My lord,' he said, bowing to Thorin. 'There is a storm coming from the north.'
Thorin frowned. Storms were not unusual in this area, but it was unusual that a guard made mention of it. After all, the Mountain had weathered many storms and had never even been damaged in one. It was the way of mountains: they endured.
'Why are you mentioning this?' Thorin asked sternly. 'If the gate needs closing, you can see to that.'
The dwarf opposite him, only a year or two older than the prince, looked fairly nervous. 'There is something wrong, my lord,' he said. 'The wind is coming from the north, but it is as hot as the wind blowing from the deserts in high summer.'
Thorin could not explain why he felt so uncomfortable at hearing that, but it was a fact that hot winds did not come from the north. The winds coming from the north were cold and icy, never even near warm. Something was wrong now that they were.
He took the chairs two at a time as he made his way to the top of the front gate, the guards at his heels. And the closer he came to the top of the staircase, the warmer the air became. It was a dry kind of heat, the kind one felt when there was a fire nearby. The sounds of the wind were drowning out most of the other noises outside. And even though it was hot here, a cold shiver nonetheless found its way down Thorin's spine again. He knew what this was.
In the back of his head a memory stirred of days spent in the library, being taught history by his teachers. The old dwarf who was tasked with teaching him had told of the expedition to the Grey Mountains and how it had failed because of the dragons that had driven the dwarves out. He vividly recalled the tales old Vurin told then. 'First, my lad, there was always a hot, dry wind to announce their coming,' he had said when Thorin had asked him how his ancestors had escaped the beasts, because surely there was no possibility of escape once they came. 'That was how they knew when to run.'
A hot, dry wind was blowing now and from the direction where there still lived dragons. It was commonly known that the Grey Mountains were still infested with the foul breed, but it was also common knowledge that they never ventured south, not this far south. Had one of those now done so?
He turned back to Balin. If his suspicion was right, there was no time to lose. If he was wrong, he would be making a fool out of himself, but that was a risk he would have to take. 'Sound the alarm,' he ordered. 'Call out the guard. And do it now.' The longer this unnatural feeling storm went on, the more he became convinced that he was not wrong, even though he knew he wanted to be.
But Balin knew too. He was rather bookish in his spare time, knew their history by heart. But Thorin could see that he did not want to believe it, not yet. 'What is it?'
The question may have been rhetorical, but Thorin answered it all the same. 'Dragon.' He shouted that warning to the inside of the Mountain too. Maybe he would be made out as a fool when it did turn out this was just an unusual storm, but that was a risk he was willing to take, because it was much better than the alternative.
It was as if his call summoned the beast. A burning pine was thrown into their line of sight and he all but froze into place. He had been right. Maker be good, he had been right.
But there was no time to freeze into place, not now, not when the dragon breathed fire on the battlements and the dwarves manning it. Even despite his warning, many were taken by surprise, burned to cinders before they could even begin to run.
Thorin thanked his quick reflexes for his next action of roughly grabbing Balin and hiding behind a large column as the sea of fire emerging from the beast's mouth fell all around them. The air was hot, unbearably hot and the stench of burning flesh and hair made the dwarf prince want to throw up on the spot.
And the fire seemed to last forever, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. But eventually it did stop and he let go of his friend. Both of them were panting, trying to process what had happened, although Thorin wasn't sure he wanted his mind to linger on the events he had witnessed. Where only minutes before the guards had stood, there were nasty burns on the floor, but nothing else. The dragon fire had removed all other traces of their existence. No remains were left.
Balin walked up the battlements. 'Thorin, it's gone! It's gone, laddie.' A relieved smile graced his face.
Thorin remembered his lessons and he did not smile. 'But it will be back before long,' he answered.
The next half hour passed in something of a blur for the dwarf prince. Guards told him the firedrake had made for Dale and was dealing out death there as they were speaking, but in Thorin's mind there was hardly time to think of anything but the defence of his own kingdom. He felt for the people of that city, but he also knew there was nothing he could do for them, nothing at all. And he had his own people to think of. Their own doom was fast approaching, for that beast would not find what he was surely looking for in Dale.
The front gate had been closed and Thorin's own father had now appeared to take some of the responsibilities. Thorin was glad of it, even as he could not help but notice that the king himself was still nowhere in sight. But that too would have to wait until this was all over.
Deep down inside he feared the outcome of this fight. History had taught him a good few lessons about dragons and he knew they were strong, determined and vicious. The dwarves that had settled in the Grey Mountains did not really have any chance to defend themselves. The dragons were too strong for them, too big.
But they did stand a better chance, he told himself. Erebor was a strong kingdom, with defences that had yet to be overcome. The front gate took ten dwarves to even move if it was not locked and bolted the way it was now. They did stand a chance. Not all was lost just yet. And if he had any say in the matter, it would never be lost. This kingdom, like the mountains, had been made to endure.
'Ready, lad?' a voice came from his right as he marched up to the head of the column.
The dwarf looked to his right to see Frár, one of his father's personal guards. He was getting older, but he was the kindest soul Thorin had ever met. When Frerin and he had still been very small he'd let the two of them climb on his knees and back and use him for a horse. They could get away with nearly everything. As they grew up, Frár was the one they sparred with in training, who gave them advice, even though they weren't always looking for it. Now, it was a reassuring thought to have him with him.
He nodded, even though it was a lie. How could anyone ever be ready for something like this?
But ready or not, time had run out. The sound of a furious dragon pounding at the door made Thorin grip his spear tighter. Even though it had been made by dwarves and would therefore be stronger than any manmade weapon, it felt like a toy in his hand, something that would hardly be any use against a firedrake as big as the one he had seen.
One minute. One minute was all it took for the great lizard to make the door fly off its hinges and then there was no more time to think. The beast descended on them in a rain of fire. Thorin ducked and felt the heat passing just overhead, indicating that he had ducked only just in time. He looked up, only to see the dragon pass over him. And for a moment there he feared he would soon find himself crushed under its paws, but they passed over him, deeper and deeper into the Mountain.
It was then that he realised that they did not stand a chance. How could they stand against such a monster? It walked over them, burned them, flung them out of its way as if they were nothing more than annoying insects. The few spears that did come into contact with the dragon bounced right off the scales. The beast did not even seem to feel them. In that moment Thorin, son of Thráin, was afraid.
'Run! Get out of here!' he bellowed. He would rather be taken for a coward than that he would have them all lose their lives here today. It was part of the strategy lessons his grandfather had tried to impart on him. Better to live and fight another day than to lose lives in a battle that you cannot win, he had said and he was right. And this was such a battle. Could they ever win against a monster such as this one?
Only when he thought of his grandfather, he realised that the king had not been seen all morning. And Thorin knew beyond the shadow of a doubt where he was. It was also the same place the dragon would be headed for. Maker be good.
'Frár, Turi, get them out of here, now!' he bellowed at the two closest moving warriors he could see, trying not to look at the warriors that were not moving for fear of recognising them. And he could not allow anything to cripple him now. Grief and mourning would not be until all was said and done. There simply was no time.
Frár was shouting something, but Thorin could not make out the words over the noise in the halls. There were screams and dragon's roaring. The smell of burning flesh was invading his nostrils, making the dwarf prince sick to his stomach, but he pressed on, shouting at his people to run as he passed them. How many heard him and obeyed his command he would never know. Thorin feared that there were less of them than he had hoped.
Later he may wonder why he was not afraid in that moment, and he might decide that there were more important things to be felt. Panic, aye, there was that, but there was determination also and a sense of duty that had been instilled in him ever since he was a boy. Anger was more present, boiling in his blood, fuelling his every step. Furious he was. Maybe it was unnatural, especially when the rest of his people seemed to have descended into chaos, making for the front gate as fast as they could, while he was running in the opposite direction.
But none of that mattered now. Just a little distance ahead of him he could see king Thrór's head, making for the treasury, clutching something to his chest.
'Grandfather, no!' Thorin yelled. He had lost track of where the dragon was some time ago, but he was bound to be somewhere close. The echoing in the halls and the many screams made it difficult to pinpoint where the dragon's roaring came from. But he remembered Vurin's lessons all too well. 'Gold, my lad. Dragons will always crave gold more fiercely than we crave air to breathe.'
He forced himself to run faster, grateful for all those times Frár had made him run around the training grounds until he was sure he would collapse in exhaustion. It paid off now. The roars of the dragon were intensifying in volume and Thorin knew that his assessment of where the beast was headed had been correct.
He ran into the treasury only feet behind his grandfather and king, who was in the process of kneeling on the stones, as if he was looking for something. The madness must have a firm grip on his mind to make him disregard his own life in such a careless way. The piles of gold were thrown all across the room, moving like waves on the river, making it all too clear that there was something big and dangerous behind it. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, Thorin felt a twinge of fear.
'Get out of here!' he bellowed at the king, grabbing him like a bag of flour and dragging him out of the treasury with him. With his free hand he pointed his sword in the direction of the beast. It would not do anything to save his life should the drake see him, but it made him feel a little more secure, if only a little.
He did feel better once they were back in the main hall and he had kicked the door to the treasure room firmly shot. It would do nothing to save them, but hopefully it would buy them a little time.
And he would need the time. Before now, his grandfather had been too much in shock to protest the treatment, but now he had come to his senses and he fought Thorin off easily. King Thrór had the advantage of age and experience over his grandson and Thorin found himself knocked to the ground forcefully. 'What are you doing?' he hissed. The madness burned in his eyes and for just a moment the dragon seemed wholly unimportant in comparison with the madness that had taken hold of the King under the Mountain. 'You were trying to steal from me, weren't you? You won't get it, you hear me?'
Thorin tasted blood, but he could not care. He rose to his feet and, praying that the Maker would forgive him for this, hit his grandfather across the face. 'Grandfather, please!' Thorin was not the kind of dwarf who pleaded with others, but now he did, and almost without thinking.
The gleam of madness disappeared, sanity returned and for a moment the King under the Mountain looked utterly shocked and appalled, and not by his grandson. 'My lad…' His voice trailed off as he saw who it was that he was talking to.
'We need to get out of here,' Thorin merely said. 'The Mountain is lost.' As much as it pained him to even think it, this was the truth. The consequences of it had to wait until later, until they were far away from the danger the dragon posed. Later.
King Thrór did not waste any words on the matter. He merely nodded and followed Thorin out of Erebor. The dwarf prince tried and failed not to look at the corpses that littered the stones. He did not give himself the time to stop and look at faces; even without looking he knew that there would be people he knew and cared for amongst them. He did not even know what had become of his own family.
The light of the sun, no matter how obscured by the smoke that rose up from the burning fields, was one of the most welcome sights he had ever beheld. It was a false sense of safety, he knew, but it was something. And with relief he noted his father standing close by, overseeing the evacuation of Erebor, although a small voice in the back of Thorin's head told him it was more of a flight than an evacuation. He kept that thought to himself.
The line of Durin was not given to expressing emotions, but Thorin's father looked relieved when he saw the king and his own son.
'Get him out of here,' Thorin muttered.
The small nod Thráin gave in response to that told Thorin that he understood. The madness was a powerful thing, and unpredictable. King Thrór may have walked out of Erebor of his own volition, but there was no telling if he would not rush back the next minute.
As for Thorin himself, his mind was in chaos, filled with thoughts of both rage and despair. He had a fierce wish to rush back in to fight the monster by himself, if only to do something, anything at all, but his duty to his people had to come first and Thorin knew that. It had been taught to him ever since he was a child. And with his grandfather not paying much attention to his duties and his father too preoccupied getting Thrór out, that duty fell to Thorin. There were still so many dwarves inside the Mountain and so few outside. He had to go back and make sure as many as possible would make it to safety, wherever that was. That was his duty as prince after all.
And it was a heavy one, one he was afraid he would be too young to shoulder, but there simply was no time to dwell on such thoughts and so he ran back, sword in hand, for whatever good it may do him. He had spotted Dís with a group of children, her eyes wide with fear. She was still trying to be the strong princess though, grown up before her time. Gone was the mischievous lass who had wrestled with him only this morning. But at least she was alive and that was what counted. Except for his brother and his mother, his family at the very least had been accounted for.
He ran into Frerin when he was near the gate. His younger brother by five years had his hair singed a bit, suggesting he had come quite a bit closer to the firedrake than he should have been. But he appeared to be otherwise uninjured and his eyes were sparking with righteous rage instead of with mirth, as they usually did. It was a frightening change in his younger sibling, but Thorin did not allow himself to dwell on that either.
'How many are still inside?' he had demanded.
Frerin shook his head. 'I do not know,' he replied. 'Too many.'
He did not allow himself to think of the dangers as he made his decision. 'Then we will go back and see that as many as possible are evacuated.' He had been on his way to do that anyway. The difference was that he now involved Frerin in it as well.
Frerin did not protest. Instead he followed Thorin without question, as he'd always done since the day he had learned to walk. But it was easier said than done, for they were the only two even trying to go back. Panic had broken out among the people and they were running for their lives, some of them with only the clothes they wore, others clutching as many valuables as they had been able to grasp to their chests. Thorin found he despised them, to think of wealth when so many needed those arms to lean on.
Frerin had followed his gaze and spat on the ground. 'They disgust me,' he muttered under his breath. It was very unlike him to talk like that. Frerin had always been the happy one, the careless one. He'd had all the privileges of being a prince of Durin's line, whilst having to bear none of the burdens that came with being the heir to the throne. Thorin sometimes envied him for that, but now he only regretted that his brother had needed to change so drastically in so short a time.
Thorin did not reply. There was nothing he could say that could make this any less horrible and he had a task to be done. They were getting ever closer to the main gate and he could already see his mother standing there, ushering people through it with a calm that was in sharp contrast with the panic Thorin could see on so many other faces. Once again he admired her strength of mind and wished he had but a fraction of it. No matter how great the crisis, she always kept a clear head and balanced his father's sometimes fiery temper. They were a good match and right now her calm composure was a gift from Mahal himself. Even though she must know there was a dragon lurking close by, she never wavered and even when the most horrible sounds were heard from within, she never left her place. He had to admire her for that.
'How many are still in there?' he asked as he joined her.
Her reply was the same as Frerin's had been. 'Too many, my son.' She may sound as if she was in complete control, but Thorin was not easily fooled. He heard the concern and the helplessness he himself experienced.
'I will try to find more men to help you,' he promised, even when he doubted how many he would be able to find that would be brave enough to come back with him. Dwarves were not known for cowardice, but to go up against a dragon would be a fool's errand, a suicide mission.
She merely nodded, not pointing out that his plan would never work. 'Good,' she said. 'Frerin, help Darin here.' She pointed at a young warrior who was barely able to remain on his own two feet. There was blood trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. On his own he would never be able to make it out of the Mountain to safety. 'Thorin, you take Frár out.'
Frár had collapsed next to the gate, sporting bad burns and bleeding wounds. He had been in the thick of it and although Thorin did not say it, it was nothing short of a miracle that he was still drawing breath. And he had only been beside Thorin when the dragon had descended on them like a hungry wolf on defenceless sheep. Such a small distance between safety and danger.
'Put your arm around my neck,' he ordered, trying to haul the elderly guard to his feet. 'Come, Frár, we can yet make it out.' He was not entirely sure if his old friend was even entirely conscious, but he at least did what he was told with some help of his protégé. Otherwise he gave no sign of being aware of anything anymore. Thorin was forced to carry his entire weight as he stood up, a burden just as crushing as the weight of duty. He turned back to his mother. 'I will be back as quick as I can.'
A few young children were clinging to her skirts, too scared to go anywhere without someone there to hold their hands, frozen into place, and Thorin made the mental promise to guide them to safety the moment he came back. The little ones were scared out of their depth, eyes wide and faces pale. Some were crying. 'Will you?' a boy asked with a tremor in his voice.
Thorin nodded, conjuring up the most reassuring smile he could manage under the given circumstances. 'I will,' he said. 'I will be back before you know it.'
It was a promise he ended up breaking, but not for lack of trying. He was forcing Frár on as fast as he could, all but carrying him over the road, but it wasn't fast enough. It was only half a minute after he had taken his leave of the small group at the gate that he heard it, the hurricane-like noise and the dragon's furious roar.
He swivelled around and found his mother's eyes, calm, but now with a hint of fear in them. Her arms were wrapped around the children near her. It was the last he ever saw of her. The next moment she disappeared in the dragon's fire and when the flame at long last disappeared, there was no one there anymore. The desperate cry had escaped his lips unchecked and he could feel tears mingling with the sweat that was trickling down his face already. Maybe it was only then that it truly started to dawn on him what they had lost, only now that he had lost someone he held dear. The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt before, but he had to force his grief back for the sake of his people and with the elves appearing on the horizon, he could at least begin to hope that they were not alone in their hour of need.
His hopes had vanished as soon as they had appeared when Thranduil turned his back on his allies and left the dwarves to fend for themselves. Thorin could see the elf's face as he looked down on the disaster unfolding before his very eyes. From such a distance it was difficult to make out what expression was on his face, but he seemed unmoved by the dwarves' plight, an idea that was strengthened when he turned around and commanded his troops to turn back. As they disappeared out of sight, they took Thorin's last hope with them.
As it was, they didn't make it far before they had to stop so that they could allow their wounded to rest. And there were too many of them. Too many were wounded, but there were hardly any medicines, or healers for that matter. There had been no time to fetch any supplies before they had run for their very lives. The elves could have aided them in that at least, even if they did not dare to risk their lives against a firedrake. Now they were left to themselves.
It proved to be Frár's death. He was a fighter and he clung to life with a stubbornness that was their race's most prominent characteristic, but his mind was not strong enough to make his heart continue to beat when the body had been injured so much. He passed on just before the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, fighting till his very last breath.
Thorin left the healers then. It was just one more death on top of all the people they had already lost, but it was the last straw, he supposed. It was just too much. He made his way to a cooking fire that seemed abandoned nearby. How strange that the very thing that had destroyed their home and had killed so many of his people was necessary to keep them from freezing to death. It was irony if ever he heard it.
Heavy footsteps drew his attention away from the campfire. Frerin was approaching, face still stained with blood and ash, beard and clothes torn. He was carrying Dís, who was clinging to him as if her very life depended on it, shoulders shaking as if she were crying. She was crying, Thorin knew, crying because her whole world had been turned upside down and she did not truly understand yet why they were still out after dark.
Frerin looked dishevelled. There was no other word for it. Thorin had grown used to having a younger brother who was full of mischief, sparkling eyes and quick smiles. Tonight, there was none of that. There was only a seriousness that Thorin was starting to associate with their father more and more. 'She doesn't have a coat,' he said. 'And she's cold.' And I don't know what to do. Those words were unspoken, but Thorin heard them all the same and they broke his heart.
Their father was too busy, as was their grandfather, and their mother was no more. And Frerin had come to him, so he held out his arms and took his sister from his brother, tucking her under his cloak. She was small enough to fit in there, so she could warm herself. It was only now that he noticed that her feet were bare. Yes, Dís would do that. She was a wild child, who preferred to run around the Mountain without any boots on. The dragon must have interrupted her game.
She grabbed his tunic and buried her face against his chest. 'I want to go home, Thorin. Why can't we go home?'
He wished there was something reassuring he could say to her, but there was nothing forthcoming. That had always been his mother's job. 'Because we don't have a home anymore,' he replied with heavy heart. He stared into the darkness, seeing his home still burning, with flames and smoke alike rising up to the night sky, obscuring the moon. Erebor was lost and so, he knew, were they.
I hope you liked it. Please review? I'd love to hear what you think!