#I have more in common with thorin oakenshield than vi

[ghostlyerlkonig]

But there are butches in media, you shouldnt have to relate to a man. Vi from arcane is one.

i am aware of Vi. Unfortunately you must have missed the part of me specifically citing this dwarf;

As a character I see traits I, as a self proclaimed butch dyke, prefer to enjoy in characters whose masculinity i relate to. Violet does not fit that bill for me. FOR ME.

You cannot just slap a pixie cut on a dyke and call them butch for me to get attached. Butch is an identity and a gender for me. I don't see it strapped to a deep seated feminine with a masculine overcoat. So when I say "brok is butch to me" I am not looking at the fact that the fucker has a cock and balls as if that means jackfuck, im looking at his character and who he is and why.

And this next part i don't want you, anon, whoever you are, to feel like you are being pushed at and blamed for shit you didnt know because I took this out of my bio on this account after someone spent a week telling me if I'm taking testosterone I can be a lesbian and I'm just a man but I am literally on testosterone. I don't look like a woman. I don't look like a masculine woman. I make no attempt to be feminine in any way physically*.

I go to my customer facing job where men treat me like a cis man, of whom only one of my co workers knows I'm trans because I don't hide it but she doesn't know the extent of identity and assumes trans man with no complexities. I get asked about whiskey and stereotypically men's drink and women are hesitant to ask me about wine because women's drink.

The last date I went on, she asked if I would shave so I looked less like a man and reacted poorly when i said no.

So no. Not Vi. Are there masculine women characters I relate to? Yeah. But maybe 5 of them are officially Butch, nor do I relate to every other butch in the world because I am different than a lot of them. I see Scorpia get tossed in a lot and sure for some, she's more fem than I care for. The last two i really connected in a way with were Max from a League of their Own and Anne Lister from Gentlemen Jack.

Two. Officially Butch.

so yeah. Youll forgive me if I tend to turn my eyes to male or masc characters more than character #300 with a pixie cut. It's not me "having" to relate to a man. I just do. And until the Bechdel-Wallace Test is understood as a measure for LESBIANS in media, not just if woman talk to woman about Object instead of man, i don't think I'm getting much.

[thetimelesscycle]

The Hobbit Fanfic: The Heart of Erebor - Chapter 62

Summary: ‘He could stand the wild light in his uncle’s gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. He endured seeing the dragon’s greed take them all. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn’t expecting it to be this.’-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.

Inspired by the following quote from ‘The Hobbit’: “So grim had Thorin become, that even if they had wished, the others would not have dared to find fault with him; but indeed most of them seemed to share his mind-except perhaps old fat Bombur and Fili and Kili.”

*Cover Art Courtesy of Toastytoastie

/THE HEART OF EREBOR\

ACT VI

-The King Beneath the Mountain-

Chapter 62

At Journey’s End

The raiment Thorin was to wear for his coronation had been made by his own sister’s hands, the fruit of the months she had spent idle in Rivendell as her sons regained their strength. Like those she had crafted for Kíli, they had been made for a purpose, and Thorin could do nothing but shake his head in disbelief at the faith she had had in him even then. For the colours were not those of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thraín, grandson of Thror, exiled heir to a lost kingdom, but rather those of Erebor’s King; deep, midnight blue, trimmed in black fur and emblazoned with gold that wove its way through shirt, tunic, coat and mantle all. The last time he had seen these colours donned by one of Durin’s eldest line had been the day Thror died, and a part of him still rebelled at daring to try and wipe away the stain of Thror’s actions; to impose his own name upon a tarnished crown.

For today, he ignored those doubts. They had no place here, with his decision already made and events too far in motion to be stopped. All that remained was to accept the fate that fortune had brought him. A better fate than he deserved, or had even hoped for after all that had passed, so that he still wondered if some new calamity would not befall them all before the day’s ceremony was even complete.

“You wear them well,” Dís observed, as her reflection appeared in the long mirror beside his own. “But, then, you have never wanted for a kingly bearing.”

Bemused, Thorin shook his head as Dís set down the small chest she was carrying and crossed the distance between them to straighten out his collar. There was no real need, but he knew better than to try and tell her so. She had been waiting for this day nearly as long as he had, though she had never dreamed of a splendid coronation in Erebor’s reclaimed magnificence.

“I have something to show you,” she said, as her hands ran over the raven’s head clasp at his neck, tucking and smoothing as she went. She seemed… almost anxious. Or was it excitement? There was a tremor in her hands and an expression on her face he could not quite name.

“More gifts?” he teased her gently, drawing her eyes away from her fussing. “Erebor already owes you more thanks than anyone.”

“And Erebor had best not forget it,” she shot back, finally satisfied enough to retreat a step so she could glower at him more effectively. “Else it might yet face my wrath.”

“Peace, sister.” He held up a hand in surrender, his response utterly serious. “I will not forget.”

He was not speaking merely of the clothes he wore and Dís understood that, the briefest gleam of remembered fear flashing in her eyes before she simply nodded. Without another word, she turned back to the chest she had carried in with her. Lifting the lid and almost reverently removing the wrapped object within, she carried it back to him, holding it aloft for his inspection. Curious, and strangely trepidatious, he gently peeled back the concealing layer, only to freeze with it still grasped in hand, eyes wide in surprise.

The crown that rested, nestled amongst the silken fabric, was not that which had once adorned his grandfather’s head. That had been lost during Thorin’s battle with Azog, or perhaps even after, when Bolg had claimed him as his prisoner. No, this… this was Frerin’s work. Thorin recognised it as the same his younger brother had spent many a night carving around a campfire, a trail of dwarven runes and tiny figures sweeping about its edge, telling the tale of Erebor’s misfortune, and the young prince who had risen from the ashes to lead his people.

But, whilst Frerin might have begun the work, other hands had finished it. Polished wood had been gilded with precious metal, overlaid and intertwined. Skilled hands had preserved and embellished, without ever impeding upon the heart of its creator’s design. As he turned it slowly, reverently in his hands, Thorin belatedly realised that Frerin had not simply written the tale of Erebor’s downfall. Of course he had not. He was the only who had ever believed, right from the very beginning, that Smaug would one day be overthrown.

At the back of the crown he had etched a depiction of a mountain aflame, rising up out of the perfect circlet, its people fleeing in either direction to escape the devastation. They fled, passing beneath the curve of bent dragon wings, and disappeared into a mist of runes and uncertain horizons, only to re-emerge under the rising path of ravens at flight, returning to a mountain crowned in gold and running silver, meant to rest upon his brow.

“He gave it to me.” Dís said softly, watching him turn it slowly in wonderment. “Before Moria. It was unfinished, imperfect, and meant to be a promise that he would return to finish what he had started.” She let out a quiet sigh. “He did not, of course, but when I could bear to take it out and look it at it once more it seemed too beautiful a thing to let fade into memory. I gave it to Nali the year that Fíli was born, and he finished it as best as he was able.”

“It is magnificent,” he whispered, fearful that anything more would destroy the significance of this moment. He held in his hands the fledgling beginning of a hope that had somehow endured throughout all the years of misfortune Durin’s Folk had suffered. It was not just a crown, it was the memory of the hands that had forged it, the lasting touch of lives long extinguished, who somehow still made their presence felt despite the long years they had been absent. “Thank you, Dís.”

“Wear it with pride, Thorin,” she answered him just as softly. “This is a victory long awaited and hard won for many.”

“I shall.” Returning the precious gift to the safety of its wrappings, he passed it back into her keeping. “Is the gathering complete?”

“All who were summoned have arrived.” She nodded, placing the crown back into its chest. “Erebor is ready to crown her king.”

“Then we shall not keep her waiting.” Thorin cast a final glance at his reflection, reading in his eyes the resolve that had now settled in his chest, firm and steady. For this day was not simply his victory, his triumph. It was the fulfilment of a hope long awaited, and he would not let his fears rob others of the chance to see that dream realised. “Today, the Sons of Durin come home.”

~The Heart Of Erebor~

Unlike Kíli and Thorin, Fíli had never worn the official colours of his mother’s house. Not the silver and blues Thorin had favoured even as a king in exile, or the vibrant red and gold that was his right as heir apparent to a lost throne. His raiment had always leaned instead towards that his own father had favoured; simple browns and pale greys and greens, the practical colours of a common house. He hadn’t known at the time the truth of Nali’s lineage, an inheritance some would call shameful, he had simply seen no point in pretending he was anything but the prince of a kingdom lost. Ered Luin had no place for finery and false pomposity; it was a humble realm, and he had been content to be a humble prince.

Dís, of course, had known this, and she had worked a mother’s wisdom into her weaver’s thread. The tunic he was wearing now was a darker red than even Balin’s counsellor’s colours, as near to brown as it could be whilst still paying homage to the position he was about to assume. Where Kíli’s had been trimmed in silver, it was a black thread that wove its intricate pattern about his hems and collar, and the clasp fastening his cloak in place was not the traditional raven’s head emblem, but rather the simple silhouette of the mountains he had called home for all of his young life. The only piece of true finery he was wearing was the clasp in his hair, Frerin’s clasp, and he was content with that.

He would have been more content were he free of the brace on his leg, but the healers had been adamant that if he meant to go without the cane he would have to wear the support, and Elrond had only reaffirmed that decision when Dís had quite cordially - and deviously - requested his opinion. The horrid contraption was digging into his leg, even with the careful padding that had been applied, and he was fairly certain he was going to be well and truly tired of it by the time the day was done. But this was Thorin’s coronation, and he was Thorin’s heir; he needed to look like he had the strength to follow in his uncle’s footsteps, not a crippled old man.

“Durin’s Beard!” Rin - who Fíli was fairly certain had been left in the brothers’ company as much to keep him out of mischief as to be of service to them - was currently leaning over the back of the chair Kíli had claimed after helping Fíli get his boot over the brace. His eyes were fixed on the sheet of parchment in Kíli’s hand, wide with dismay. “I’m glad I don’t have to remember any of that. I always thought coronations would be simpler; crown the king and then throw a feast. Instead, there’s all this ceremonial nonsense as well.”

Amused, hearing echoes of his younger brother in those aghast words, Fíli explained, “If it were an ordinary succession I'm sure it would be simpler.” Adjusting his cloak one final time he limped across to join them. He had already memorised his part in all of this, but it had never hurt to double check. “This is an old ceremony, one that has not been used since Moria was still in the hands of the dwarves. And most of the words are Thorin’s. Balin just wrote it all down so we wouldn’t get lost.”

“But it’s Khuzdul.” Rin lifted his gaze to his elder cousin, a pinched expression on his face. “And Lord Thorin invited elves. Isn’t there some sort of a law against that?”

“There is no law,” Fíli assured him. “This is an important occasion, of course it will be conducted in our own tongue. As for the elves… Lord Elrond probably speaks Khuzdul better than you or I do.”

“It still seems strange,” Rin mused, plucking the parchment from Kíli’s hand when he moved to lower it, scouring its contents himself. “Uncle Steinn said it has always been custom to hold such important events in private, but Lord Thorin has invited a great many outsiders.”

“They are friends,” Kíli told him simply, after a glance Fíli’s way. “For the most part. And Erebor needs to reaffirm those ties.”

“Exactly,” Fíli said with a nod of approval. “Today is less about the king than it is about the mountain. Erebor may be an old kingdom, but in the eyes of those that matter it is now a fresh face, unknown and unpredictable. The manner in which Thorin has chosen to handle his ascension is a statement to all of his future intentions in regards to Erebor’s place in Middle Earth, and we, as his kin, are responsible today for ensuring the right words are heard.”

“Then I am doubly glad it is not me,” Rin asserted. “My words are never right.”

Kíli chuckled at that, reaching up to retrieve Balin’s carefully arranged instructions from the younger dwarf. Fíli was fairly certain Kíli had memorised what was to come just as well as he had, but if it eased his nerves to continue rehearsing his role in his head then his elder brother wasn’t going to comment. In truth, he was quietly surprised that Kíli was not more outwardly anxious. Something as momentous as Thorin’s coronation would have seemed like the perfect time for his younger brother’s old fear to raise its ugly head. Yet, though he had been quiet, there had been none of the borderline panic Fíli might have expected. He wondered, briefly, if he should raise the matter, but reminding Kíli that he had good reason to be uneasy when he was not seemed like a poor decision. Besides, Fíli had his own concerns to plague him, it would be far better if at least one of them had a cool head.

He doubted Thorin would be anywhere near as composed as he might strive to appear.

Oddly enough, that was almost a comforting thought. It would be easier to be serene knowing that Thorin needed his support. His uncle was facing down many demons on this day, and Fíli had a duty - as his heir, his nephew, and a member of his company - to make sure he did not face them alone. His own ghosts might haunt him still, but they would be quiet for now, lost in the bustle of important events, ready to ensnare him when a still moment fell. He would face that moment when it came. The coronation was more important, and he did not intend to miss a single minute of it.

~The Heart Of Erebor~

One of the advantages Bilbo had swiftly discovered came with being considered an important person was that people tended to like to put you in high places. Whether this was so that they could better see you, or to simply get an errant halfling out from underfoot was up for debate, but it did mean that the place that had been given to him to watch the crowning ceremony had a clear and sweeping view of all the events that were about to unfold. He could not have picked a better spot had he tried, and he settled in beside Gandalf with the smug knowledge that his recounting of this event at a later date would need no outsider narrative. He was to be a firsthand witness to it all, humble Hobbit from the Shire though he might be, and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he would finally be able to see the tale end in the way he had always believed it should.

His first glimpse of the restored throne room was a far cry from the dilapidated ruin it had been when he had last set foot on the grand walkway that split the cavern in two. That walkway had been repaired so as to leave no trace of the damage Smaug had rendered upon it in his fury, and widened as well, so that ten dwarves could walk abreast and still have a safe margin such as a hobbit might prefer on either side. The platform upon which the throne rested had also been enlarged and raised, allowing space for two more seats, one to the right, and one to the left hand.

The throne itself was entirely new, Thror’s old seat of power removed and replaced with a freshly hewn piece. Bilbo was too far away to see the details that had been carved into the stone, but he had visited the mason as he worked, and he knew the meaning of the dwarvish runes set in a semicircle that would curve above Thorin’s head. ‘Loyalty, Honour, a Willing Heart’. There would be no Arkenstone to glitter in that place anymore, it had been put to rest in far more fitting surrounds, and Bilbo was glad of it. He had no desire to set eyes on the accursed thing; now, or ever again.

As if in response to his darkening thoughts, the fires that lit the room were suddenly extinguished, plunging all into total darkness. At the same time, drums began to roll, a steady beat that reverberated off the walls of the high chamber, thundering through the very stone on which he stood. It was Erebor’s heart brought to life, pounding in time to his own chest, and Bilbo clutched the low wall that separated him from the chasm so as to better feel that pulse. For a moment, that was all he could feel, all he could hear, then a chorus of voices rose in a strange tongue, chanting in time with the drums. They, too, echoed, caught by the arms of a cavern meant to receive them, and flung back into the empty spaces til none were silent.

“The challenge,” Gandalf murmured beside him, and Bilbo suddenly remembered he was not alone in the darkness. “Thorin must answer it.”

At the far end of the chamber, where the steps climbed up from the hallways below, a twinkle of light appeared, faint at first, but growing brighter as the torchbearers ascended. Bilbo could not see how large the procession was in the darkness, but he recognised Kíli and Fíli as the two holding the flambeaus aloft, and the shadow walking between and a step behind them could only be Thorin. As they reached the summit, the two princes turned to the side to light the first of the twin torches lining the walkway, and instantly the chanting voices fell silent, though the drums continued to sound their steady rhythm beneath Bilbo’s feet. Thorin paused, standing between the two sources of light, and Balin stepped forward, speaking loudly enough his voice carried to even those sequestered away in the furthest reaches of the throne room.

Bilbo, for his part, did not understand a word of it, the dwarvish tongue rolling over and through him like the very drums still sounding in the deep, imparting no message, but leaving reverence in their wake. Thorin replied in kind, his voice firm, filled with the same determination Bilbo remembered from that gathering so long ago in Bag End.

“The answer is given,” Gandalf continued, so softly Bilbo had to almost strain to hear the words. “Now the ceremony begins.”

The drumbeat quickened as Bifur and his cousins stepped forward to divest Thorin of the majority of his belongings. They took his sword and scabbard first, the rings upon his fingers and the clasp at his throat. His cloak was stripped away, and the coat that lay beneath it, and then the tunic as well. Erebor’s King was left standing as he had once stood on the shores of Laketown, robbed of everything but the very shirt on his back. He did not flinch or protest throughout, standing tall and proud, his eyes focussed on the pathway that yet lay before him.

“The King is laid bare before his people,” the wizard at Bilbo’s side narrated, his voice somehow wrapping around and through the steady pound of the drums. “He must prove himself worthy of the marks of his rank”

Having stood as silent and still as statues til now, Fíli and Kíli turned as one to march to the next pair of torches, lighting them and then stepping once more to the side. With measured strides, Thorin crossed the distance between them, halting as he reached the edge of the torchlight, and Oin stepped forward, devoid for once of his ear trumpet, to bellow his challenge. His words were picked up by the many, the chant repeated threefold in time to Erebor’s throbbing heart before their voices faded into silence again, leaving only the constant, unrelenting beat of the drums. Thorin let the silence last ten counts, and then he made his response, clear and calm and certain. Oin turned, raising his arms as he spoke to his kinsmen, and then received their roaring response. Before Bilbo could ask Gandalf what had happened, Bofur reappeared, returning to Thorin the tunic he had stripped away a few moments before.

“They have judged him worthy to stake his claim,” Gandalf explained before he could give voice to his question. “He may proceed to the second trial.”

The rhythm quickened again, and Bilbo caught himself clutching tightly to the stone beneath his hands as he watched Thorin’s nephews light the next pair of torches, and Gloin step forward to issue the second of the challenges custom demanded be made. Again the chanting rose around them, and again Thorin waited to make his response, delivering it with the calm serenity that befitted a king. His cloak was returned to him, slung about his shoulders, and the drumbeat grew faster still. As Bilbo watched, the same actions were repeated over and over, with Dwalin and Lofi and Tyrth and Svala and finally Dís. Each time Thorin was challenged, and each time he replied, his voice never losing its certainty, never betraying the doubt Bilbo knew still lurked in his heart.

As Dís fastened the clasp on his cloak once more the drums reached a pounding crescendo, only to fall suddenly and utterly still as Kíli and Fíli lit the final set of torches; those that burned at the foot of the throne itself. Bilbo’s own heartbeat filled the silence, quick and loud in his chest, and he leaned forward eagerly to gain a better view of the final trial Erebor’s king must face.

Dain stood upon the steps, clad in full armour that caught the firelight and shone in the strange semidarkness. His ax was in hand, the haft resting against the ground, the head just above his fingers. His voice, when he spoke, was no chant or rehearsed line, but a clear and blatant demand, obvious even to Bilbo’s untrained ears.

“Erebor’s King seeks the solemn oath of his successor,” Gandalf said, then tilted his head to add, “Or so it would have been, had Thrain followed Thror as was meant to be. Dain must now play that role.”

Bilbo nodded, not daring to break the silence as the wizard had done, watching instead with rapt attention as Thorin approached the throne. He did not mount the steps, kneeling instead at their foot to lay his drawn sword upon the ground, speaking with a sombreness that was just as unmistakable as Dain’s fierceness. The Lord of the Iron Hills spoke again, sharp and short, and Thorin answered. Thrice more was he questioned, and thrice more was his oath given, a promise that did not need words to be understood evident in every line. Satisfied at long last, Dain laid his ax to rest, turning to lift something off the throne. He descended the steps to raise it above Thorin’s head, holding it aloft long enough for Bilbo to realise it was a crown, and then he lowered it.

No sound was heard as Erebor’s King was crowned, as Dain drew Thorin to his feet, then stepped away and to the side to allow his kinsman to mount the stairs and take his rightful place upon the throne. Only once Thorin was seated did Dain speak again, not in the dwarven tongue, but words that could be understood by all.

“Behold Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror!” The Lord of the Iron Hills boomed. “Behold the King Beneath the Mountain! Long may he reign!”

The cry was taken up as the drums thundered forth again, joined now by trumpets, and Bilbo heard his own voice amidst the din, caught up in the thrill of the occasion. All across the throne room fires sprung alight once more, and he could see the same sense of triumph he felt shared a hundred times over in the faces that were revealed. This was the moment they had all been waiting for, the hero’s victory, the journey’s end. It was over, really and truly over, and he could not wait for the official proceedings to come to an end so they could celebrate properly.

After all, there was no better way to honour such a grand achievement than with an almighty banquet.