A New Path

Thorin thinks he might murder his sister-sons.

The tension is thick between them, so thick you could cut it with an axe. He is not sure what caused the crackling friction between them, but he is about five seconds away from doing something drastic about it, like bashing their heads together or locking them in a room to shout out their frustrations at each other.

'Have they always been like this?' One of the elven twins' hisses at him. Dwalin grunts in response, and Thorin simply sighs as the two boys continue to relentlessly launch themselves at each other.

Sparks fly as Kíli's bow meets Fíli's blades with a metallic shriek. The twins wince at the sound, but his sister-sons are neither affected nor perturbed, too focused on trying to one-up the other. Their movement is sharp, more refined than he ever remembers it being in this life or the other; Fíli moves with a speed and flexibility that is clearly elf-taught, a blur of blades as he charges relentlessly at his brother, but it is Kíli that continually draws Thorin's eye. The grace with which he moves, like the swelling of a river, as if he is intune with his surroundings–it is all Billa.

Pride burns in his chest, but he's not sure whether to revel in the feeling or be concerned at the ruthlessness of their spar. He looks at Dwalin, but his friend just shrugs helplessly as if to say what do you want me to do about it?

His attention returns to the ongoing fight. Kíli ducks under one of his brother's furious blows, his feet moving quickly to try and sweep Fíli's legs out from underneath him. Fíli is too fast, dodging the blow with a graceful backwards handspring Thorin has certainly never seen him do before. Where in Mahal's name did he–

A twin whoops loudly. Ah. Of course.

'Do ye want me to intervene?' Dwalin asks him quietly. Thorin's gaze flickers between his sister-sons before he shakes his head.

'Whatever this is,' he flicks a disgruntled hand at the brothers, 'they need to work it out themselves.'

'If ye say so,' Dwalin shrugs. He shuffles off to the side, lugging one of his great axes behind him. The twins, less interested in the murmurs between the older dwarves and more in the blood-thirsty spar unfurling before them, move closer to the fighting dwarves.

The sun warms against his neck, the air thick with the heady scent of thriving plant life. In the distance, a stream trickles quietly, a murmur against the gentle hum of elves going about their day. Thorin inhales, pulling the cold air into his lungs, the chill a reminder of the encroaching winter.

The time for them to reach the mountain grows shorter, but despite the reminder of the looming deadline, Thorin feels strangely at ease within the halls of Rivendell. A complete contrast to his last visit in that other life, where their stay was strained with distrust and impatience.

'Good afternoon,' Lord Elrond greets as he appears at Thorin's shoulder.

The dwarf inclines his head, loath to pull his eyes from the sparring, 'Good afternoon.'

Elrond folds his hands neatly behind his back. His eyes follow the brothers as they continue to slash at each other, a contented silence falling between the two rulers, until finally he says, 'I hear you plan to leave us.'

Thorin nods, 'We depart in the morning.'

'So soon,' Lord Elrond hums. Thorin's gaze flickers between the elf and his sister-sons; Kíli lets loose an arrow that misses his brother's face by mere centimetres. A furious look crosses Fíli's, a frustration burning in his eyes that concerns Thorin. His heir has been increasingly short-tempered of late, something he hoped would ease during their stay with the elves. He hoped Fíli would have found his way by now, instead he appears to be lingering in the middle of it.

Thorin runs an exhausted hand across his face, he would need to speak to Kíli again.

'I have something I must ask of you, Master Dwarf.'

Thorin turns to look at the elven lord he is quickly coming to see as an ally–and perhaps even as a friend. He cocks one thick eyebrow, 'Aye?'

'I would ask that you allow my sons to accompany you on your journey onwards.'

Thorin's brow furrows. The twins? This elven lord wishes for him to take his only sons into danger to reclaim a birthright that belongs to Durin's kin.

'Why?'

'I have foreseen a great many events, Master Dwarf,' Elrond intones.

'They say foresight is both a gift and a curse.'

'They would be correct,' Elrond nods. Thorin almost turns from him then, but there's a flicker across the elf's face, a crack in his usual poise that gives him pause. 'I assume you understand what it feels like to see those you care for destroyed by forces beyond your own reckoning.'

Thorin says nothing, allowing the words to settle between them. Then quietly, 'I do.'

Even before the dreams, Thorin was witness to atrocities he would not wish on his worst enemy. His grandfather's execution at Azanulbizar, Frerin's cooling body left abandoned on the battlefield, the grief of Dis at the loss of her husband, the starvation of his people in the coldest winters, disgust and distrust from the elves–

Elrond is speaking again, pulling him back from the brink of darkness. 'When Isildur turned from me, I saw a dark future stretching before me, one full of inevitable pain and darkness, but eventually hope. I thought I had no recourse with this path. Until I met a mischievous Hobbit with a weary look in her eye.'

'Billa,' Thorin's lips twitch.

'With her appearance that certain future became muddied and my ability, my foresight, it became…inaccessible,' the elven lord continues. 'Instead, I saw within her, a new future, a brighter one.'

Thorin replies, 'You are not the first to be affected by my ghivashel, nor will you be the last.'

'She will make a fine Queen of your people, son of Thrain,' Elrond affirms. 'But there are many dangers still to be faced. I may not have the foresight I once had, but I know my sons will be of great benefit to your company on the journey ahead, just as a true truce between our peoples will serve as a great benefit to both our kingdoms.'

Thorin sighs, and leans on his axe. The twins are undoubtedly great warriors, skilled and merciless, but to add more to their number would defeat the purpose of keeping their group small, not to mention further highlight the rising tensions between Kíli and Fíli. Besides, he is hesitant to pull apart Billa's careful planning.

And yet. His eyes flick towards Elrohir and Elladan. They are fixated on the show between his sister-sons, their bodies lined with tension, as if they are anticipating–

The King To Be Under The Mountain almost groans, 'They can hear everything we are saying.'

Elrond laughs. The twins' flush simultaneously, the first sign of embarrassment he has seen from the usually brash and confident brothers.

'We are known for our exceptionally good hearing, son of Thrain.'

He snorts, rubs a rough hand down his face. What would Billa do if she was here? Laugh at the twins no doubt, before scolding them for listening into conversations they should have no part in. Then she would turn to Elrond and say–

'Only a fool would turn down an offer from an elven lord,' Thorin says slowly. He turns the full weight of his gaze on Elrond, 'But your sons, are you sure you are aware of the dangers they may face joining us?'

'Do your sister-sons?'

'Aye,' Thorin says, 'I gave them the choice to join me or forge their own path.'

'My sons have been offered the same choice,' Elrond replies. 'My request comes at their behest, although I have to admit that I see the reasoning behind it. If they had not voiced their appeal, I would have inquired about it myself.'

Thorin weighs up Elrond's words. He does not remember Elrond's sons from that previous life, although he admittedly knew very little or had very little interest in knowing about any of the elves or their settlements. It makes him uneasy.

Still, he can almost hear Billa in his ear, assuaging his worries with gentle hands against his brow.

Forgive me, ghivashel, he thinks, your plan may need some adjustment.

Finally, he nods, 'I will allow it.'

Elrond inclines his head, the picture of refined grace until–a twin whoops loudly, while the other tries to shush him, startling the nearby Dwalin. The elven lord lets out an audible sigh, and Thorin shakes his head with a mirthful grin.

'One last thing, son of Thrain.'

'Pray tell, you do not have cousins you wish to accompany me as well?'

'No,' Elrond smiles, 'I thought you might wish to know that I have spoken to the Elvenking.'

Thorin resists the urge to smack his head off his axe, and instead, releases a loud exhale.

'It is not bad news, my friend.'

'I think it depends on what you mean by "bad",' Thorin mutters. 'I have no grief with the Woodland Realm's King, it does not mean I wish to converse with him.'

'He is glad to hear of your plans to free Erebor from Smaug's clutches…'

'I bet he is,' Thorin grumbles.

'...and wishes to offer his assistance in whichever manner you see fit,' Elrond ignores Thorin's dark mutterings. 'There is no requirement to speak with him, but it may be in your best interests to do so. As you said, only a fool would turn down an offer from an elven lord.'

Thorin gives Elrond a side glance. A small part of him, the hard part that wants nothing more than to throw the Elvenking into the deepest cell in Erebor and see how he likes being starved for weeks on end, despises Elrond for even suggesting a parley with the elf he once wished would die by dragonfire. Another part of him, the part that still feels the pain of Erebor's battlefield, knows Thranduil suffered the same losses as his kin. The sight of the king's true face, the waste of skin and twisting scar tissue, has been seared into his mind for years; he does not trust the Elvenking, he will never fully trust the elf, but he also recognises the words that fell from his forked tongue as the warning they were supposed to be.

–Mahal, she almost died. Anger flares in him, knocking loose the memory of those terrified eyes peering into the heart of him, body dangling over the ramparts–

Doesn't mean he has to like it though.

'If you would appreciate some insight from a new friend?'

Thorin glances back up at the elf, and then nods, 'Speak.'

'Thranduil's help is not so easily won. His decision to offer his assistance will come at a cost,' Elrond says. 'And there is only one thing he would seek within the mountain.'

'The white gems of Lasgalen,' Thorin replies. 'I am aware of the dispute.'

'Are you aware the gems were to be for his late wife?'

The words strike Thorin hard in the chest, 'His late wife?'

'They were to be a gift, I believe,' Elrond explains. 'One she never received.'

In a flash, Thorin is standing in those halls beneath Erebor again, treasure clinking at his feet as he searches with a single-minded determination for the Arkenstone. He remembers ignoring the chill in the air, the feeling of grime clinging to his skin, the gentle calls of his kin as they tried to pry him away to eat or sleep. But nothing mattered save for the Arkenstone until–he remembers seeing the gems, he remembers holding them and appreciating the way the light refracted through them, creating an ethereal glow that warmed his chest, reminding him of his Hobbit's hair against firelight. He could tell the gems were crafted with a careful hand, delicate but strong, and for one moment, he toyed with the idea of gifting them to his ghivashel.

Then something else caught his eye, something that shone like the King's Jewel, and he was gone, enveloped in the warm embrace of greed once more.

If the beauty of the gems was once enough to make him think of his Hobbit, he can only imagine the relief they would bring to a grieving king.

His own dying words to Billa ring in his mind.

'I shall consider it.'

'Excellent,' Elrond claps him on the shoulder. 'I shall let him know of your plans, so he is aware that you may be found on his lands. The rest is down to you, son of Thrain.'

Thorin hates that. He quickly smothers the feeling, unwilling to reveal his turmoil to his new acquaintance, not when he has already made such an effort to turn over a new leaf of respectability, and certainly not when he knows Billa would threaten him with her best skillet should he be rude to their host.

Mahal, his Hobbit has ruined him.

'You have my thanks, Lord Elrond.'

'And you have mine,' Elrond replies. 'It is no easy task to see darkness in the world and decide to put it right.'

The elven lord smiles knowingly and then retreats with a swish of his great robes. The twins depart quickly on his heels with grateful nods to the soon to be dwarven king. The show of respect warms Thorin, who inclines his head in kind.

He waits until the elves have fully departed before he turns his attention back to his fraught sister-sons. They are completely oblivious to the departure of their audience, still focused on their fight. He can see the rage bubbling between them, it lingers in the air with a strength he can almost taste—bitter and sour on his tongue.

Thorin whistles sharply, and they both halt, heads turning in sync towards him. Sweat drips down their faces, their arms trembling and chests heaving. Idiots.

'Wrap it up,' he rumbles. 'We leave at first light.'

They are slow to respond, but they do. Kili returns his bow to his back, while his brother sheathes his blades and walks off without another word. Thorin watches him go, his chest tightening at the wordless departure. Perhaps he was wrong to bring Fíli with him? Perhaps he should have made it clearer that he was not asking Fíli to follow him into danger, that his path was his alone to walk.

'He almost had me there.'

Kíli's voice breaks through his ruminations and Thorin turns to him with a small prideful grin, 'You almost had him.'

Kíli waves away his praise with a limp hand, 'That was nothing. Billa makes it look so much more graceful.'

'Aye but she's had years to perfect it, lad,' Dwalin calls from his spot under the shaded trees. 'Ye've made it yer own in mere months.'

Kíli flushes, his cheeks turning a rosy shade Thorin remembers from his childhood, 'I suppose.'

'Take pride in your work,' Thorin says shortly, reaching for Kíli's shoulder. The young dwarf beams at him, and it takes all of Thorin's strength not to embarrass the lad and envelop him in his arms as he did when he was a wee dwarfling. Instead, he gives his shoulder a tight squeeze, and says, 'You should rest and prepare for the long road ahead.'

'Yes, uncle.' Kíli ducks his head and moves to start collecting his scattered arrows. Thorin nods at Dwalin, and moves to step away, his mind already turning to the journey awaiting them in the morning–when a thought rises, unbidden. He wonders, surely not?

'Kíli?'

The dwarf peers at him, 'Yes, uncle?'

'Pack light, I'll need you prepared to scout ahead,' Thorin rumbles. 'We may pass through Mirkwood.'

The lad pales, eyes widening and his mind no doubt lingering on flashes of autumn and murmured promises under cold starlight. Suddenly Thorin has his answer. Kíli may not remember everything, but he remembers enough.

'O–of course, yes, uncle.'

Thorin turns, stalking from the clearing towards their lodgings, smothering his smirk. Well, if he has to inevitably put his pride to one side to deal with Elvenking, he may as well have some fun while he does so.

A long road of dangers and treachery lies ahead, but if there's anything his gamzûna has taught him, it's that the only thing better than the cold sting of battle and the lure to adventure, is making sneaky plans.