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linasofia · 2 years ago

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Around the Riverbend

This is my entry for the TSF 2023 event. I teamed up with the wonderful artist @legolasbadass and the masterpiece above is her creation. Link to her original post. Give her some love!!😍

I had so much fun during this event and it's thanks to you, @legolasbadass. 💙💙💙

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC

Summary: In Nordic folklore, the Neck is a malevolent water spirit who took the form of a naked man and played a violin or harp so beautifully that he would enchant women (and children) to follow the music and lure them down into the river—where they would eventually drown. This is a story about Thorin, a lonely Neck who one day witnesses a beautiful woman washing clothes in his river.

Warnings: A bit angsty

The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and the horizon appeared to tremble from the warmth. The air was filled with tiny winged warriors, ready to defend their queen if a sudden threat to their miniature realm should appear. A narrow river cut through the endless green landscape, separating the fertile hills from the real wilderness. On both sides of the river, where its banks met crispy grass, wild thyme, lupins, and buttercups covered the ground, filling the air with their characteristic smell. The dark, glittering water followed the countless bends without obstacles, for the persistent river had tamed the landscape long ago. Only the ancient rocks—created when the world was still young and violent—refused to bow to its will, but time had made the stones’ surface smooth and slippery. No matter how strong the sun appeared, the river would always be there to offer all living things a chance to quench their thirst or cool off from a long walk. But the river was also treacherously deep in some areas, and it was said it had a soul. The river gives, and the river takes, was a saying well taught among the gentle folk living over the hills, and songs were sung to honor those who paid with their life when the river was capricious.

The air stood still above the river and reached a higher temperature than it had for a long time. The banks along the river were dry, causing any movement to stir the sand. Not even a gust of wind made the leaves rustle, and the only sound heard was the distant noise from a waterfall. During these warm summer days, the light never went to sleep—for this was the land of the midnight sun.

On a large rock by the shallow end of the river sat a tall figure who dipped his feet in the water. Sturdy trees in distinct shapes grew close to the banks, and their branches provided shelter from the merciless sun—and cover when the brooding-looking creature needed to remain unseen. From a distance, he looked like an ordinary man, a warrior even. He was broader over the shoulders than most men who came to swim in the river, with muscular arms and large hands. His wide chest was covered in curly hair, dark as a moonless night. The most unusual cerulean shade graced his eyes, causing his stare to resemble both the sky and its dramatic reflection in the water. Despite his thick fingers, the creature could play the harp more beautifully than any other tones ever heard. He was a Neck—a water spirit—and the only of his kin, as far as he knew. During the golden hour, when the river bathed in warm light and before the animals came down to soothe their burning throats with water, the Neck let sweet tones roll from his strings—to calm his loneliness. Many were those who had listened to his music and blindly followed him without thinking of their safety. A golden harp was his only possession, and its delicate strings were made of fair hair taken from the scalps of the innocent maidens he had enchanted in the past. The countless strings were thin but twisted hard to last a long time. Not even the sharpest sword could cut off the strings, and the fingers on whoever was trying to play his instrument would bleed. On one occasion, he had tried to replace a broken string with his own hair, but the harp made a shrieking sound during his first attempt to strum it. From that day, he learned that only the fairest of hairs could create the tones he craved.

The wind had whispered an unknown word to him for as long as he could remember. The word bore a resemblance to thunder, and eventually, the Neck named himself Thorin. He was a lonely spirit, bound to the life-giving river and unable to leave it. Some would certainly call his destiny sad—if they knew he existed. But he always stayed out of sight, and the animals who came to drink barely felt his presence. Thorin had no knowledge of his age, but he knew he had seen the oak closest to the river bank grow from a small acorn to the impressive tree it was now. His long, dark hair was marked by time and for every summer that passed by, his reflection revealed how the thin braids at his temples gradually turned whiter. Thorin lived off what the river provided him, but his restless mind always searched for the pure soul who would make his lonely misery end. He was certain she was out there; it was only a matter of time before his One would make her way down to the river. She was destined to pass the cruel sacrifice of drowning, and he would give her the ability to breathe in his kingdom, far beneath the glittering surface. Then she would be his to cherish—forever.

Slowly the shadows in front of the old oak became longer, indicating the sun’s journey over the sky. Thorin watched the stillness of the water around his favorite rock and snapped his fingers to create the smallest vibration. His harp lay next to him, and it glowed like fire in the sun. Suddenly, he became aware of a movement further down the river. Thorin usually stayed in the more narrow parts of the river where the water was shallow, allowing him to keep sight of both banks at the same time. When he squinted, he saw the shape of a person moving along the river, walking straight in his direction. A woman, more precisely. Without disturbing the water, Thorin slipped down from the rock and hid behind it with water up to his waist. He waited in silence as the woman came closer, but he knew precisely how to move to avoid discovery. She carried a large basket, and as she sat it down near the water, directly in front of him, he understood why she had come. From his position behind the rock, Thorin could easily observe her, and the first thing he noticed was her hair. The woman had long, fair hair—forced into a thick braid and secured at the end with a blue ribbon. In the afternoon light, her hair shone like the sun itself, and Thorin gaped at the sight. She wore a dress that reminded him of the many cornflowers growing beyond the sandy banks. The fabric was of a simple kind, as so often when hugging the body of a woman from beyond the hills. Over the years, Thorin had noticed that the peaceful people living near the water and traveling by foot often wore these kinds of fabric to shield their bodies. On a few occasions, he had seen small groups of riders and carts pulled by large horses. Those people often wore fabrics that glittered like frostbitten river reed in the sun, but they never stopped long enough for him to learn who they were or where they came from. Usually, their animals drank water, and then they were gone as quickly as they came. The folk from the hills beyond the river were of a different kind. They regularly came to the river to bathe or clean their belongings. Some of them were only children, and those were the times Thorin had most trouble remaining undiscovered, for young minds are curious by nature and far more reckless than their parents. And they liked his music.

The woman in the cornflower dress grabbed something from her basket and waded out in the river until the water reached above her calves. Then she sank the dirty fabric into the water and started to whip it with the piece of wood she held in her other hand. Water splashed around her, staining her dress—but she did not seem to care. Thorin watched her as she worked, and something about her intrigued him, and it was not only because of her unusual hair. The woman was young but not as young as the previous maidens who had failed to resist his harp. Her sleeveless dress was of a simple cut, offering him a fine view of her tanned skin. She was clearly used to working hard; her feminine muscles were strong and well-defined. With tireless strength, she carried on, working through the small mountain of clothes in her basket, and Thorin found himself wishing she had even more chores to do. Every time she stretched her back, he admired the curves of her body, and when she bent down over her basket, he could not tear his eyes from her behind. Thorin felt confused; he had seen beautiful maidens before, naked even—as they sometimes came to bathe, alone or in a group. Without knowledge of what waited in the dark water, they unconcernedly exposed their skins to his eyes. He had never been attracted to any of them as much as the fair-haired beauty.

As he gazed at the woman, Thorin came to think of another young maiden from long ago when his braids were still dark as the eyes of a heron. He had never forgotten the fiery maiden who came to the river evening after evening, yet always alone. The warm light of the sun made her hair glow like copper as she lowered herself into the river, and in the cover of the dark water, Thorin dived under the surface and swam very close to her. He had a feeling she knew someone was watching her, and she was not afraid—she liked it. The way she used her hands to clean her body was something he had never seen, and he allowed himself to take great risks to be near her. Hidden by the dark water, he could have reached out to touch her—but he never did. When he got bored of just watching her, he grabbed his harp and let his seductive notes fill the air. She was so easy to snare. Sadly, she was not who he was searching for, and she paid the ultimate price for his misjudgment. Thorin dressed her body before he left her at the bank further down the river. Such beauty was better to cover before someone with foul intentions found her. Someone like him.

Clear, light tones suddenly filled the air, and Thorin listened intently. A sweet melody floated over the water—like mist rising on early summer mornings. The young woman had stopped beating the dirt out of her laundry and was rinsing and twisting the fabrics. As she worked, she gave air to the feelings she carried inside, and Thorin had no problem understanding the longing behind her words—for they lived inside him as well. Long strands of hair escaped her braid and framed her face beautifully. She pushed the locks back repeatedly with her wet hands, but the hair had a will of its own, it seemed. The locks wanted to be free, to be able to dance in the wind on stormy days and caress her cheeks when she lowered her chin. Absently, Thorin stroked the strains on his harp. The length of her hair was perfect, but his harp was still intact. He had no need for it—yet.

The melancholic melody she was singing penetrated Thorin’s skin, found its way to his tormented soul and wrapped itself around his lonely heart. An unfamiliar and strange feeling spread in his chest, making his heart beat faster. Her words could have been aimed directly at him when she sang of all the beautiful things he had never known but still instinctively felt he wanted; tenderness, love, and someone to hold close. The young woman’s voice was unlike anything he had ever heard, purer than the morning’s first ray of light and softer than a swift summer breeze. Her tones would harmonize perfectly with his—if he caressed the golden strings. Together they could create something extraordinary.

Thorin observed her every move carefully, and from his hiding place, he could not spot any signs of belonging on her body. No rings on her fingers nor braids in her hair—nothing indicating that she already had a chosen one in her life. Even if her hips were wide enough to bear children, no man seemed to have claimed her yet. Thorin felt a rare stream of heat rushing through his body at the thought. He was suddenly warmer than he had ever experienced, not even during the year’s hottest days. The heat came from the depth of his core, created by the music of his pulse and her singing in his veins. For a moment, he wondered if he was ablaze, and he lowered himself deeper into the water to cool off the burning feeling on his skin. The water never failed him; it helped his skin to control its temperature, and his mind regained its usual sharpness. The young woman in the cornflower dress was special in a way he could not explain to himself—all he knew was that he could not tear his eyes from her. When he turned to the river for guidance, he was suddenly met with silence. It was as if the river was forcing him to feel for himself. Could she be the one he had spent a lifetime waiting for? Was he looking at his One? His grip around his harp tightened.

When the basket was filled with wet fabrics, she left it by the river. After a quick glance around, she grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it in modesty as she waded out in the water until it reached up to her thighs. She wore no stockings, Thorin noticed, as he caught a teasing glimpse of her skin before the water shielded the sight. Her cheeks blushed like the sky during sunset, revealing how warm she was after her hard work, and Thorin marveled at the satisfaction she appeared to experience in the cooling water. How he wished for her to pull the dress over her head and throw herself out in the deeper part of the river. The water would wash away all her sweat and help her forget the chores for a while. Maybe she was a good swimmer—some of the people over the hills actually were—and could easily make it to the opposite side of the river. If so, he would follow her. Protect her. When Thorin was underwater, his eyes adapted well to the darkness, and it allowed him to see things others could not. It also made it easy for him to approach those he wanted to avoid being seen by. Humans’ skins sometimes glimmered like the scales of a trout in the water, but this woman was not that pale. The sun had kissed the delicate skin on her arms, yet Thorin suspected not all of her body had been exposed to the burning sun. The thought of seeing what she hid under her dress made him quietly groan. Greed slowly corrupted Thorin’s heart—she could belong to him. Her voice already had the power to brighten his inner clouded sky, and if he took her to his kingdom, she too would be bound to the river. She would never be able to return to the place she came from, and they could be together—forever.

When the first mellow note vibrated through the air, the woman looked up with a startled expression. She instantly let go of the hem, and the skirt fell down into the water and created a pool of wet fabric around her. Thorin let his fingers run along the strings—echoing her melody—and it made her smile softly. Her face was beautiful while frowning, but now, when his music made her features light up like the sun, Thorin realized he was smiling as well. At first, she seemed to hesitate, but then she took a few steps in his direction and started to sing again. Without thinking, Thorin gave his harp life, and the notes rose to the sky effortlessly. The woman’s soft voice harmonized with his music, followed the same winding path, and spoke of promises neither of them understood. He watched her as she came closer, and to his delight, he saw the same golden light in her eyes as he had seen in others several times before. When she fell silent, Thorin knew he had succeeded. She was defenseless, captured by his music, and she would follow him to whatever place he led. With a pleased grin, he dived under the surface, swam quickly further away and then emerged again. The moment he broke the surface of the water, light from the sun hit his wet skin and made it sparkle. His hair appeared to be even darker than before—as well as his eyes. But the beautiful fair-haired woman did not even blink; only the sweetest of smiles formed her lips into a sensual shape. Thorin lifted his harp again and tenderly caressed the strings. Another of his melodies floated over the water—tones filled with the deepest temptation—and formed an invisible leash to wrap around the neck of whoever heard them. It never failed to make the listener unable to resist following the sound of his harp. And it did not take many heartbeats before the woman started walking, her eyes resting on a spot far beyond what Thorin could see. As soon as she came closer, Thorin dived again, and then again, leading her away from the relatively safe parts of the river. Around riverbend after riverbend, she followed him, and he played with growing desire in his heart. He wanted her—needed her. Her body and soul would eventually be his. Blinded by greed, he ignored what would happen to her if she was not his One. The river got deeper, she was up to her waist in water, and the river started to become restless. It tore at her dress as if trying to wake her from her trance. But it was to no use, for no woman nor child could stand against the power of Thorin’s harp.

The rumble of the waterfall became louder, and Thorin increased his effort so he would not lose what he had worked so hard for. His music needed to drown the noise from the fall, or the woman with the fairest hair would wake from the enchantment too soon. He just needed to lead her around another riverbend, and then they would finally be looking down at the gate to his kingdom. Thorin could picture her falling, but he was supposed to follow her—and catch her—before she passed the point of no return. If her body were resilient enough, they would then be able to enter together.

The river banks narrowed the gap between them, the trees grew even closer to the water, and their long branches framed the magical-looking scene. The air was filled with mist rising from the fall, and it gave the area a spectacular light. The fall itself was dangerously high, and the river sent cascades of water over the edge, creating a mesmerizing—but violent—entrance to the Neck’s underwater realm. Below the fall waited a long row of black, large rocks, and only Thorin knew how far they reached—and how to avoid getting smashed against them. The melody changed to compliment the dramatic nature, and by the brink of the fall stood his woman—waiting—in her soaked dress. The water was less deep here, so he could see more of her, and while the dress clung to her body, he greedily took in every shape and curve. Soon he would be able to touch her. She would slip on the flat rocks he knew were placed right in front of her. They all had. In perfect harmony, the two of them would then spend the rest of their days together, and never before had his heart been more convinced he was right. All he demanded was a few more steps.

One of his precious strings suddenly broke and was left hanging by a single piece of hair, forcing Thorin to stop briefly and rethink his notes. Losing a string was not critical, for most of his melodies could be played in a slightly different way, but it disturbed him enough to shift focus. Instead of continuing, he came to think of her song and the meaning behind the beautiful words she sang while working. Parts of the song spoke of longing for someone who could heal a shattered heart, but at the end of the many courses, one line stood out from the rest, and he remembered the words clearly: I ask you to be mine.

Thorin was already holding his harp in place—ready to fulfill what he had started—when an unwelcome feeling of doubt erupted in his chest. He tried to ignore it, but the cold feeling spread with his blood to all parts of his body and made his skin itch as if he had a rash. Like a massive tidal wave, realization hit him, and it threatened his inner river dam to collapse. He was not asking her to be his, and even if her words of love were true, she had certainly not approved of what he was determined to do. Despite that, he was more than ready to put his own needs first and take what he wanted. Thorin took a deep breath to steady himself and bring order to his chaotic mind. But what if what he truly needed was something deeper? Something pure, formed by consent between two souls and spoken with mutual words. True love. He tasted the words. True love could not be forced, he knew that deep inside his lonely heart, yet he spent all his life denying it.

The waterfall roared his name, and Thorin started weighing his options. If he broke the enchantment and approached her, the risk of having her running for her life was exceedingly high. She could hurt herself badly on the slippery rocks. He was aware of their differences in appearance, and his natural nudity was not customary—maybe even disapproved of—among the gentle folk living over the hills. On many occasions, he had seen the men who came to swim in his river and none of them were sculpted like him below the waist. Never in his long life had he lifted an enchantment, and therefore, he lacked knowledge of what would happen when she drew her first breath without his invisible leash. Thorin knew he possessed a mighty power, and he sensed a risk she might not recover quickly from it. He watched the woman as she trembled. The currents tearing at her clothes were strong and cold, and her skin was silently protesting. Her beautiful smile had the power to wake the northern light, but his mind refused to leave him alone. Would she be able to love him if she knew how he captured her and sent her tumbling down the waterfall? Could she forgive him if he passively watched her body fight in the water until no air was left in her lungs? When the light of day finally disappeared from her eyes—and his kiss marked the beginning of their union—would she then accept him as her One? Thorin could feel every heartbeat vibrating in his chest, and his breathing turned shallow as he slowly shook his head in answer to his questions. When he lowered his harp, he perceived the truth; he wanted her to choose him out of free will—not by death.

Dark clouds started to gather in his inner sky, and his lonely heart tore at his soul. Together they could end his misery, and a lifetime of searching would be over. But the possibility he earlier refused to ponder crept over him. Another thought—cold and sharp—sank its massive claws in his exposed heart, and when it got a tight grip, Thorin knew he could no longer hide from his own mind. His self-doubt fed from him as a starving leech and rapidly grew stronger. If the woman he was about to claim as his was not the one he so desperately wanted her to be, history would repeat itself. She would fight a doomed battle against the river but eventually end up on the river bank—as so many had done before her. Thorin acknowledged the longing in his body, but the more he thought of the meaning behind the words in her song, the more he questioned himself. Even if her lips no longer moved, he could still hear her beautiful voice echoing somewhere between his hope and despair. Time was running out, and he needed to continue if he was not going to let her slip from his grip. But Thorin’s fingers refused to strum across the strings. He tried again, but no tones came. Desperation boiled in his blood until suddenly, he understood. He could not proceed. She deserved to make her own choices; her life belonged to her, for she was indeed special. With a heavy heart, he took in the shape of the woman he was convinced—until just a few breaths ago—was meant to be his forever. Her fair hair was damp, and she seemed to sway like a young silver poplar during an autumn storm.

By the river stood an old weeping birch, dipping its long branches in the water. Thorin had seen the leaves fall from the old tree every autumn, but he had never been more grateful for the shelter it provided under its green ceiling. From a distance it was impossible to see beneath the branches, but Thorin could peek out. When he was certain he was well hidden, he sat down—and waited.

Time seemed endless, and Thorin was just starting to wonder if the woman would recover at all when all of the sudden, she shook her head. With a confused expression on her sweet face, she looked around, and for a short while, her gaze lingered on the old birch. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he feared she could see him. Or sense him. But then she turned her attention to the water and carefully took a few steps backwards. Her slender hands rubbed her naked arms as if waking them from a slumber or bringing warmth back to the skin. The woman reached for her skirt and collected as much as she could of the wet fabric before slowly walking to the opposite side. The banks were steeper on that side, and she crawled, visibly dizzy, up from the water. Her dress that used to bear a lovely shade of cornflower before, was dirty when she reached the safety at the top of the bank. She looked back over the river, and Thorin could only guess she carried a strange feeling in her chest. Even if she did not remember how she got to the fall, she most likely understood at least part of the danger she barely escaped from. The noise from the waterfall was usually enough to keep sane folks at a distance.

Under the tall weeping birch, Thorin remained unseen, and he lowered his head, ready to be judged by the river. Pieces of his shattered heart scraped against his lungs as dry sand on sore skin, and it made it harder for him to breathe. Very carefully, he plucked a few strings, and the sad notes reminded him of large drops of water dripping into an already filled bucket. His knuckles were unnaturally white—caused by his tight grip around the harp—and a salty taste lingered on his lips when he slowly ran the tip of his tongue over them. For the first time in his life, he had done an unselfish act, and even if he doubted the pain was worth it, he could now call himself honorable.

That night, the glowing sun unexpectedly came to rest below the horizon and abruptly marked the end of summer. The people living over the hills spoke about the strange whim of nature long after the remarkable event. As darkness fell over the landscape, Thorin slowly loosened the fair strings from his harp and let them float away with the river. They glittered like gold when they disappeared over the edge of the waterfall, and Thorin sighed deeply. Stars glimmered in the sky, and the moon’s pale light made Thorin’s temple braids shine like silver. He was a fascinating creature, but as so often with lonely souls, completely unaware of his beauty. Without even the slightest hesitation, Thorin took a deep breath of the warm evening air, then gracefully entered the gate to his realm for the last time—and sealed it.

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Taglist and others who might be interested: @lathalea @legolasbadass @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @enchantzz @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @xxbyimm @mariannetora @haly-reads @sunnysidesidra @rachel1959 @knittastically @quiall321 @medusas-hairband @fulltimecrazy @s0ftd3m0n @emrfangirl @glimmering-darling-dolly @lilith15000 @clumsy-wonderland @theawkwardbutterfly @exhausted-humxn-being @beenthroughalot @chaikittie @piscesvancouverite @sotwk @dontaskmehowdontaskmewhy @mrsdurin

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legolasbadass · 2 years ago

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The Shadows Which Fire Throws

Summary: Thorin thought he had lost everything when the dragon came and forced the dwarves of Erebor out of their homeland, but when his brother Frerin perishes in the climactic battle in their years-long war against the orcs, Thorin discovers the true meaning of loss. A few years after the Battle of Azanulbizar, Thorin travels from village to village, seeking work as a blacksmith so he can help support his family. One day, he catches young boys playing near the forge, and the sight brings back memories of his childhood in Erebor and his brother, whom he misses dearly.

Relationship: Thorin & Dís & Frerin

Rating: G

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: This is my entry for @thorinsspringforge! Thank you to my amazing friend and partner for this event @lathalea for all your support and feedback. She created a wonderful moodboard (see above) for the event, so make sure you give her some love for that❤️

The fire of the forge burned in Thorin’s eyes as he swung the hammer down on the anvil with such force that he felt the blow reverberate through his body. Another day of work. Another day of enduring suspicions from Men. The skills of the Dwarves were revered in all Middle-earth, but the Dwarves themselves were looked upon with disdain—like a foreign curiosity that did not belong in this part of the world.

Thorin, once the heir to the most powerful kingdom of Dwarves, was now forced to wander the villages of Men and beg for work. An ache stabbed his chest as the sight of Erebor returned to his mind, unbidden. The halls bathed in golden light. The roaring fires and the songs of the blacksmiths echoing through the forges. Thorin tried to banish the memories by focusing on the task at hand—by reminding himself that he was but a blacksmith now and Erebor was lost, but that only reminded him of just that—everything he had lost. With each blow of the hammer, images of his homeland tore at his soul. But working as a blacksmith was the only way he managed to feed his family, so he swallowed back the pain and carried on.

It was spring now—but that hardly mattered. It was always warm in the smithy, and Thorin cared not for the little things which made the passing of seasons so marvellous to ordinary folk. Leaves turning to fire and gold and coming to rest on the forest floor. A blanket of glittering snow enveloping the land. Flowers waking from their sleep, bathing in the morning mist. It only reminded him of how quickly his life was slipping by him. And Thorin did not want to be reminded of that.

Outside the dark smithy, the village carried on as it always did. Farmers visiting from nearby lands and stopping at the dilapidated inn around the corner for a pint or two. Carts rolling on the muddy streets toward the market, where bakers and butchers and even a weaver or two sold goods to their neighbours. Travellers seldom stumbled upon this corner of the world. It was forgotten. A mere shadow of what it had been in days of old.

Just like him.

On the other side of the narrow street from the smithy was a group of young boys. They were playing a game involving dice Thorin knew from his childhood. Thorin found that fascinating—how children of different races, in all corners of the world, played the same games—but he might have found more joy in the sight if it did not remind him so much of his late brother.

Frerin had been such a lively boy, always pranking his siblings—and unsuspecting adults. Always smiling and laughing. Thorin supposed he must have been that way, too, once. At least, that was what the stories his mother had recounted and his memories told him. But he often felt like those memories did not even belong to him. They belonged to another life. And now, only the cracks in his heart remained as proof that once, he had been that young boy. Full of life. Full of hope. Even his body sometimes did not feel like his own. His mother used to say that there was honour and glory to be found in scars, for they marked a warrior’s victories. Thorin’s body was a map of all the fights he had survived, yes, but there was nothing glorious about it. It was a reminder of all the people he had lost—all those he had failed to protect.

The sun was rising, lighting the mountains on fire, as the dwarves made their final approach toward the Dimrill Dale. Toward the last battle of this terrible war that had already cost them countless lives. The other houses of dwarves had sent troops to aid the Longbeards from all corners of Middle-earth. Before they marched upon the gate, King Thrain spoke to the soldiers ahead of the battle. He spoke of avenging the late King Thrór, Thorin’s grandfather, and of reclaiming the halls of their forefathers. He spoke of honour and glory, but as Thorin glanced back at Frerin, all he could think of was to protect. His brother was far too young for war—too young for all the atrocities the world had thrown at him—but it was too late.

Thorin instructed Frerin to stay by his side. He promised he would keep him safe, but even as he spoke, he knew he did not have the power to make such a promise. Only Mahal could have saved him then, but that was not as reassuring to the exiled prince as it once would have been.

But Frerin smiled back at him. He was afraid, but he was even more determined. Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight, he had said, speaking the ancient words of their house, which their father had so often spoken to them in their youth.

The swoosh of a blade. Splashes of blood. His sword stained black. It reminded him of a quill dipped in ink before it is thrust into parchment by a poet to write words celebrating life and love and beauty. But this was no such tale.

This was a tragedy.

He remembered being a young boy in Erebor, standing in the training grounds, his brother and sister at his side. Always at his side. Together, they mastered the sword, the axe, the bow, and all other such arts their teachers deemed fit for the heirs of Durin to learn. Back then, it had all seemed like a game—a game with no real consequences other than a few bruises the next day. A game at which you always got a second chance. But as the battle drew on and the bodies piled up around him, Thorin knew this was no game. There would be no second chance.

When the first scream tore through the air, Thorin’s blood froze in his veins, and he felt the blow of the mace as though it had struck his own chest. With a deafening cry that could have brought down the mountains from Angmar to Methedras, Thorin tore through the orcs to stand between his brother and his enemy and raised his shield to cover them both. A pale orc with scars carved deep into his twisted, evil face looked down at him. Thorin used all the strength remaining in his body to defeat the orc, not stopping even when his shield was ripped from his hands and he was forced to defend himself with an oaken branch. And by the time Thorin defeated the orc and he could rush to his brother’s side, it was too late.

The snow-covered ground was soaked with blood.

Thorin remembered running through the forest just outside Erebor as a young dwarf, trying to catch up to Frerin and Dís. It was a game; he would close his eyes and let them hide, and then he would have to find them. Thorin was getting old for such activities, but he could never refuse his siblings. The air smelled of bluebells and cornflowers, and golden beams of sunlight snuck through the green canopy overhead, lighting his path deeper into the woods. That day, Thorin was having more trouble than usual finding his siblings, but he was not worried. He could hear their muffled giggles, telling him they were not far, and Thorin knew that no matter the obstacles, they always found their way to each other eventually.

Frerin always came back to him—until now.

When the wicked worm attacked Erebor, desecrating their fathers’ halls and robbing them of their home, Thorin thought he had experienced the most terrible tragedy. But as he stood in the grave that had become Azanulbizar, holding onto Frerin’s limp, lifeless body, he finally understood the true meaning of loss. His tears mingled with the blood and dirt on his cheeks. He looked up to the cloudy sky; the moon was hiding that night, but a few stars looked upon the desolation. Was Mahal up there, watching them? If he was, why did he not help them? Had one of Thorin’s ancestors offended Mahal somehow, and thus doomed their line forever?

When, many hours later, Thorin was forced to bid his brother farewell, he took from his belt a dagger, and as his blood-stained hand wrapped itself around the hilt, he vowed to carry it with him for as long as he lived. Thorin wished Dís had been there, for he truly believed that the three of them together could face anything. They could have protected him together, just like when they were innocent dwarflings.

“Thorin?”

A gentle voice, like the melodious singing of the first birds in spring, pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up from the anvil to find Dís standing in the doorway, the golden light of the setting sun making her silhouette glow. A soft, sad smile tugged at her lips as she watched him uncertainly.

“What are you still doing here, brother?” she asked. “Night is falling.”

“I must have lost track of time,” Thorin replied absently, trying to chase away the memories still floating in his mind, to no avail. “I will join you in a moment.”

Dís nodded, and as she turned around to wait outside, the silver beads in her raven hair and beard gleamed in the last rays of the sun, and Thorin was reminded of how the sun used to shine upon the highest peak of the Lonely Mountain.

When Thorin stepped out of the smithy some time later and locked the door, night had fallen. Only a thin stream of gold peaking over the horizon remained.

“Will you tell me what is on your mind?” Dís asked hesitantly.

Stone walls. The hard floor of the training ground as laughter echoed all around him. Pine needles burning under the dragon’s fiery breath. His shield crashing against the bloodied rocks.

“I was thinking of Frerin.”

A shadow fell over Dís’ fair face, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. They had rarely spoken of him since the war. In the months following Azanulbizar, all had wept for Frerin, but the pain was too great, and his memory became a wound that refused to heal. His father had always buried his emotions, and with time, Thorin decided that he must do the same. That was the only way he could survive this agony. And now Dís was married, and soon she would have her own family, so it did not feel right to burden her with his grief. It did not feel right to taint her new life with the horrors of the past which refused to let go of him. As such, he was not sure why he uttered their brother’s name on this spring evening, as night swallowed the village in its blue cloak.

“I miss him terribly.” Dís admitted after a long moment of silence, her voice low, as though she was afraid to speak those words. She surprised Thorin again when she said, “Do you remember when we were children, how the Mountain would sometimes wake and Amad would sing to us to comfort us?”

Thorin remembered; as a child, the tremors had frightened him, for he had not understood them. His mother would wrap her arms around all three of them, and her voice would banish all evils lurking in the depths of the Mountain. He remembered her fair voice—so similar to his sister’s—and the gentle touch of her hands against his shoulder. He would have smiled at the memory if it did not hurt so much. He desperately wanted to stop talking about it, but he owed it to Dís, whom he had disappointed too often. Despite the tears clouding her vision, she seemed to derive comfort from the memory.

“Of course, I remember. You would press your little body against me and I would not be allowed to let go until you deemed it was safe—and that often meant holding you until you fell asleep.”

Dís smiled wistfully, and when she reached out for his hand and leaned her head into his shoulder, Thorin momentarily felt once more like a young dwarf whose only heroic feat to date was chasing his sister’s nightmares away.

Dís went on, her voice heavy with emotion. “When her singing was not enough to comfort me, I remember her telling me that as long as we had each other—you, me, and Frerin—then all would be well.”

The scream. The blood. His brother’s eyes looking back at him for the last time.

“I am so sorry, Dís. It is all my fault.”

His sister’s misty eyes sought his gaze in vain. “You did everything you could to protect him.”

If he had, Frerin would still be here. Thorin had failed him—he had failed them both.

Dís’ sniffling pulled him back to the present, and though Thorin barely had enough strength to maintain his composure, he pulled his sister into his arms and held her tight, hoping he could offer her the comfort he sought so desperately.

“Even after all this time, I hate myself for not having been at his side. Perhaps things might have turned out differently….” She shook her head. “But I was not, and we cannot change the past. So I beg you, brother, do not torture yourself needlessly. I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in silence.”

“And you need not worry yourself on my account. I am fine.”

Dís looked up at him and raised her eyebrows, knowing it was a lie. She was silent for a moment; the wind tore at her blue dress, and in her eyes, the light of the stars and moon shone brightly. “No matter what happens—no matter how much our lives may change—I will always be there for you, Thorin. Please do not ever doubt it. I could not save Frerin, but I am at your side. Always.”

A wistful smile lit up his tired face. He remembered when Dís was born. A storm raged on all day, but as night fell and her cries filled the royal chambers, the sky turned quiet, and the pale light of a crescent moon shone upon the mountain. He remembered, too, how her presence never failed to brighten even the darkest of days. Even after the dragon stole their home and they wandered through the wilderness, cold, starving, and exhausted, Dís could make anyone laugh. She could make anyone feel like there was a reason to keep going—like there was a reason to keep living. She was always the strongest of Durin’s heirs, and now, as Thorin pulled her into his arms, a weight was lifted from his shoulders. A weight that he had been carrying for longer than he could remember.

“And I am at yours, dearest sister.”

Her smaller hand took refuge in his as they walked in silence the rest of the way. High in the sky, a crescent moon illuminated their path.

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