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sotwk · 2 years ago

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The Broken Shield (Thorin & Frerin brotherhood fic)

Written for the TSF 2023 Event by @thorinsspringforge

Event Partner Artist: @cycas

Story also features Thranduil Oropherion and the Elvenqueen Maereth (SotWK OC)

Summary: Thorin and Frerin, the young Princes of Erebor, rise above the grudges and prejudices of their forefathers to forge an alliance with the Elves of Mirkwood during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. But the tenuous bonds of friendship are shattered when tragic losses suffered by both sides lead to grievances, misunderstandings, and an even greater divide between the two races.

Word count: 9.5 k

Content: Brotherly bonds, war, angst, family drama, Dwarf-Elf relations, Line of Durin history, Mirkwood and Thranduil history, Thranduil's family, pre-BotFA, pre-Oakenshield

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Major character deaths

To Read on AOC: Link

Artist credit: @cycas

The Broken Shield

Third Age 2791, Dunland

With a furious scrape of chair legs against the floor, he was out the tavern's door faster than Thorin could have anticipated.

"Where are you going?!" Thorin scrambled after him, nearly colliding with a hapless barmaid and her fully laden tray in his haste. "Frerin, stop! Wait!!"

But his brother did not listen; he did not even slow his angry pace. This had become a disturbing pattern with Frerin of late. The steady, reliable young dwarf who used to never question anything his elders told him, was mutating into a stubborn goat who seemed to challenge half the orders he was given. Whether the change was due to Frerin's recent achievement of reaching the age of maturity, or because of the lady that had inflamed his passions to reckless heights, Thorin could only guess. He only wished his little brother could have picked a better time to lose his heart and head to a dwarrowdam.

But he probably should have kept this opinion behind sealed lips.

"I said stop!" Thorin finally came close enough to seize the retreating dwarf's shoulder. "If you would only listen--!"

“And what would listening get me?!” Frerin flung out his arm to wrench Thorin’s grip off him. “More reasons why I shouldn’t pursue my own happiness? If I wanted those, I would have gone to Father or even Dis instead of confiding in you.”

His words reeked of a hurt that lashed at Thorin. In happier times he might have beamed with pride to hear himself being compared to King Thrain. Now he flinched at it, knowing it was intended as an insult, especially coming from Frerin.

“My counsel on the matter is for your own good." Mahal! The words stumbled out of his lips before he could stop himself from proving his brother right. That was exactly the condescending line their father would say.

"Why do you all insist on knowing what is best for me?!" Frerin exclaimed. “I love Ezri, and she has always loved me, and I am blessed to be chosen as her One. Do not dare imply that you can offer a greater life than the one I can share with her."

"Frerin, you are a Prince of Erebor," Thorin stated calmly, even though he actually wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake sense into him. "When we reclaim our home from the Dragon, it shall rise back to its place as the greatest kingdom on Middle-earth. Your proper place is home, where it has always been, Under the Mountain. Not…here!"

He threw his arms out at their village surroundings, unconsciously revealing his disdain with a sneer. "You have a higher purpose beyond staying in Dunland, eking out a living as a common blacksmith, peddling your craft to Men for a pittance."

"You know I care not about my crown or title," Frerin declared. "I have said it many times, emphatically, for years now. But you all turn a deaf ear because you refuse to accept my choice."

Thorin guffawed and clutched at his hair with both hands, as though it would help him hold on to his dwindling patience. "You are mad if you genuinely believe Father would ever accept you renouncing your birthright."

"Which is why I came to you!" Frerin shot back. "I thought if anyone still might understand and care about my wishes, it would be my brother. Or is it asking too much for you to take my side on the matter?"

“Frerin,” Thorin sighed. “You have not thought hard enough about this. This cannot truly be what you want in life.”

“Not all of us seek heroic glory in battle, or legendary fame from great deeds, or gold and jewels one could do nothing with but pile and hoard,” Frerin said. “Some of us desire nothing better than a cozy home to return to at the end of an honest day’s work, where a hearty dinner and a wife’s kisses await, and the songs and laughter of little ones.”

Thorin finally softened as he regarded the earnest conviction on his brother’s face. “So is that it?” He shook his head. “You would stay behind and leave us to deal with Azog and his armies, and all the challenges that still lie in the long road ahead?”

“That is not what I said.” Frerin moved close to grip Thorin’s forearms. “It was my grandfather too whom they murdered, and make no mistake, the same fire burns in my belly to seek vengeance. I will go to war against Azog with you, and only after we have won shall I return to make a bride out of my betrothed.”

His grave face cracked into a smile. “I know you need me to watch your back, your Highness . I will not make you beg for my axe.”

Thorin chuckled weakly and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, however can I repay such magnanimity?”

“By returning the favor. By helping me to return home safely so I can make good on my promise to Ezri.”

By my life, I shall. Thorin vowed silently. But before he could open his mouth to tell his brother so, they were interrupted by a shout from further down the dimly lit street.

“Thorin! Frerin!” When the figure in the shadows came up to meet them, Thorin recognized their kinsman, Balin, slightly out of breath. “Finally--I have been searching everywhere! You must come to your father’s house immediately. The King has called for a council and everyone awaits you.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. “A council at this hour? What could be so urgent?”

“An elf has turned up requesting an audience with Thrain.” Balin’s voice dropped to a tense whisper as he looked meaningfully at Thorin.

“A rider from Mirkwood, bearing a message from the Elvenking Thranduil.”

Third Age 2793, The Greylin River

Thorin could not recall ever seeing a full moon so large and bright, a great lantern high above the valley, illuminating the military encampment sprawled out by the riverbank. Dwarves preferred to fight their battles underground, in tunnels and caverns where their skills gave them certain advantages, so something about being out in the open, in clear view of their enemies, made Thorin uneasy. But King Thranduil had sent out keen-eyed scouts who reported no signs of hostile elements nearby, and the roving Elven patrols kept constant watch of the perimeters while the remainder of the army took their rest.

At daybreak, a few short hours away, the entire combined force of nearly six thousand strong will commence their march towards Gundabad, and their people’s great war against the Orcs shall begin.

Thorin massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his right arm resting heavily against the lyre propped upon his thigh. He had tossed and turned uncomfortably in his cot whilst Frerin snored away on the other side of their shared tent, before he finally gave up on sleep. He took his golden instrument and hiked a distance away from camp, seeking out a secluded spot at the eaves of the forest where he could play in peaceful solitude. Music, especially melodies played by his own hands, was usually effective at soothing his nerves, but even an hour later the anxiety that had taken root in his chest ever since they set out from Dunland still refused to be tamed.

Thorin laid his fingers against the lyre strings to try once more, searching his memory for the tune of a childhood lullaby. However, the very faint rustle of shifting undergrowth caused him to leap up to his feet instead. The lyre fell to the ground with a thud, and his hand closed around the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt.

The tall, lithesome figure of a lady stood just a few feet away from him, close enough that he had to tilt his head back just to gaze fully upon her face. She appeared unperturbed by the dwarf's aggressive stance, although the four Mirkwood soldiers that stood just behind her noticeably tightened their grips on their spears.

"Prince Thorin." The lady dipped into a graceful curtsy before him, sinking so low that the voluminous skirt of her dress pooled against the patchy grass. "Good evening."

"Queen Maereth," Thorin answered, bowing from the waist in return.

The Queen of Mirkwood affixed her soft gaze and warm smile upon him, and the tight knot in Thorin's chest seemed to finally loosen. Although they were only recently acquainted, Thorin had been in the presence of the Elvenking Thranduil's wife multiple times already over the past few months, for she sat at her husband's side in every single meeting held between the Dwarven and Elven leaders. The Queen's beauty, a pure and natural radiance that surpassed the rarest and finest gemstones ever unearthed in Erebor's mines, did not escape the dwarven host's attention, and enchanted most of those who laid eyes upon her.

At the same time, something about the ethereal presence of Queen Maereth unnerved Thorin's father. At the council gatherings, King Thrain avoided any direct communication with her, muttering to the side that military dealings should only be between one king and another, as was “proper”, although he never dared suggest dismissing Thranduil’s wife from the meetings. And true to his principles, he left all interactions with the Elven host, their supposed allies, to his lieutenants.

Frerin surprised them all with how instantly he developed a camaraderie with the Mirkwood elves. It was only a week ago that the Elven army had arrived to join the Dwarves and set up camp alongside theirs by the Greylin River. By nightfall of the first day, Thorin found his brother at the Elven camp, the lone dwarf sitting around the fire with a group of Mirkwood soldiers, deep in his cups and slurring in speech. As an aghast Thorin dragged him away, Frerin chortled about how he shared a name with his new elf-friend, Feren. Since then, the younger prince continued to spend more time with the Elven soldiers than with his own people, and Thorin decided there was no point in preventing the phenomenon, if even the kings of their separate camps seemed unbothered by it.

Unlike his father and brother and their quick judgements, Thorin remained unsure of his feelings towards their new allies. Cautionary tales passed down by Dwarven elders warned heavily against trusting Elves, and the Sack of Erebor, an event that he himself witnessed, gave damning evidence of Mirkwood’s questionable loyalty. And yet there they were, about to launch perhaps the greatest war effort in the history of their race, and they would be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with a previously sworn enemy.

Alas, Thorin’s father had not allowed him to attend that first meeting with Thranduil, so the prince still did not know what had led to the sudden alliance, and Thrain stubbornly refused to enlighten even his own sons.

"May I join you?"

Queen Maereth’s words pulled Thorin’s mind back to the present, and as his attention shifted back to her, and he beheld her lovely and tender smile, the answer dawned on him, clear as the sun emerging from the cover of dark clouds.

Her. It was because of her. Of course.

Stunned by his own epiphany, Thorin could only utter a vague grunt, but he nodded in assent, which seemed good enough for the Lady.

She addressed her guards with a few words and, much to Thorin’s surprise, all four promptly bowed, turned about-face, and disappeared into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

He watched in helpless fascination as the Queen settled upon a low flat stone, mindless of the damp dirt on her fine green gown. Perhaps it was the absence of the silver crown she always wore to the councils, or the wildness of their forest surroundings, but there suddenly appeared a pleasant earthiness to the Queen that Thorin had never noticed before. Not an ounce of her Elven beauty was diminished, but it shifted somehow from being a piercing and untouchable flame, to a warm and inviting hearth.

Thorin stepped slowly towards her, their faces now at level with each other. "You did not have to send your guard away on my account."

"I prefer we have our privacy, and they are not needed here,” the Queen responded. “I told them I will be safe in the company of a great warrior."

A bold assumption to make , Thorin thought, although internally her words made him glow with pride. He was a near stranger to her and had done nothing to merit such confidence. But as he gazed upon the fair vision she made sitting there, like a delicate flower freshly bloomed from the earth, Thorin felt a swell of protective instincts from his gut. A fierce conviction that he would spill his own blood before letting any harm come upon someone so pure and trusting.

A long, unbroken silence hung between them as the Elvenqueen stared at Thorin intently, unabashedly. Thorin did not meet her eyes, nor did he shrink away from the attention. He bent over to pick his lyre off the ground and rest it against the base of a tree, but he remained standing, now closer to the Queen than any of his kin had ever come before.

“Forgive me,” Queen Maereth said at last. “I am sure you are wondering why I have sought you out alone like this.”

“Perhaps you have words for me that you wish not for my father to hear?”

“You are as wise as I thought, Prince Thorin.” She smiled and folded her hands across her lap. “But I also thought mayhaps you too have things to say to me away from the ears of others. King Thrain has made clear that he has no interest in anything I have to say, but I sensed it is not the same with you.”

Thorin laughed, but even to his own ears it sounded uneasy. “You presume a great deal about me, my lady.”

“I do not presume; I see .” The Queen’s kind eyes flashed with firm reproach. “And when I look at you Thorin, I see Durin alive once more. The very same fire that once burned in your ancestors shines bright from your whole being."

Her unexpected declaration made Thorin freeze. Part of him wanted to wallow in such profound praises of his character, but a voice in his head decried her honeyed words as suspicious. After all, elves were notorious for employing riddles and fancy speeches for their machinations. Still, curiosity rose above all, and when Thorin regained his voice, he said, "You speak as though you knew him.”

"I knew them ,” said the Queen. “I had the honor of calling several of the great Dwarf Kings my dear friends." A fond reverie swept across her face. "But it was Durin the Third whom I loved best, he who ruled Khazad-dûm at the height of its glory."

"You saw Khazad-dûm…" Thorin whispered, finding himself suddenly breathless. His mind spun at the thought of it, of standing in the presence of one who had walked the halls of his ancestors’ now lost and ruined kingdom. An elf . He had heard the tales of Elves from the ancient ages who had been proclaimed "dwarf-friends", who built bridges between the two races, although those alliances never endured past their lifetimes. Therefore Dwarf historians wrote them off as aberrations, and not accomplishments to seek out or aspire for.

"I lived in Khazad-dûm as Durin's guest for several years," said Queen Maereth. Her eyes closed as she paused for a moment, clasping her hands together over her breast, and she murmured something in her Elvish tongue that Thorin could not hope to guess. "I shall always be grateful for the kindness Durin showed me, and to this day, many centuries passed, I have yet to find a more loyal or generous friend."

It could not be. It was too much. Thorin folded his arms across his chest and finally turned away, forgoing his princely manners. Everything she was telling him conflicted with everything he believed about the Elvenking and his family. Faithless, manipulative frauds who cared only for themselves. The Queen's accounts had to be lies…or else the stories told by Thorin's father and grandfather were.

"The White Gems, Thorin."

Thorin whirled around suddenly. "What of them?" He spoke more sharply than intended, but she could not have broached a more sensitive topic. The cause of Thranduil's ire against Erebor, the reason why he allowed the Dragon to besiege the Mountain without lifting a finger to lend aid. Those accursed White Gems that now lay buried in Smaug's hoard along with the rest of Erebor's treasures.

"What reason did your grandfather give for refusing to return them to us?"

Thorin's brow furrowed. He had been present at that fateful exchange, and had witnessed the cold, silent fury of the Elvenking when King Thror refused to relinquish the necklace he had commissioned for his wife.

"He said the gems belonged to Durin's House by birthights," Thorin said slowly. "Because they came out of the mines of Khazad-dûm…" He stared at the Queen, eyes suddenly wide as though he had been struck.

Queen Maereth smiled sadly. "I cannot blame your grandfather for coveting them. It must have pained him to see treasures from his ancestral home in the hands of Elves. But we did not steal the White Gems, or purchase them from raiders. They were a gift from Durin the Fourth himself, who wished to honor us on our wedding day on behalf of his late father."

"Did he know of this?" Thorin demanded, even as he dreaded the obvious answer. "Was my grandfather aware of this history all along?"

Now the Elvenqueen was the one to turn her face away, the voluminous waves of her dark hair momentarily blocking the sorrow that graced her features. "Truth inevitably grows distorted the longer stories are passed on, and prejudices creep into interpretations." She shook her head. "Thror made decisions on what to believe, and those are the versions he presented to your father and to you as truth."

"So this is why Thranduil despises us,” Thorin said bitterly. “Why he withheld his army and merely stood by to let Smaug drive us out of our home."

The Queen’s hand suddenly came to rest upon Thorin’s arm, her touch warm and gentle as a mother’s caress. "My husband does not hate you or your people, dear Prince,” she told him. “His inaction that day is a mistake he has come to regret, even though he would never admit it. He is a proud king, and your grandfather inflicted one too many wounds upon that pride. But my lord did not withdraw from the field that day out of revenge or spite."

“I suppose you have another grand tale to explain his motivations, then.” Thorin could not help the rush of hot anger that flared within him at the memory, and he stepped back, away from the Queen’s reach. “If you can offer a good explanation as to how your husband managed to do nothing but watch the Dragon raze not just Erebor, but the entire town of Dale…" He clenched his fists against the assault of the horrifying images the repressed memory roused in his mind. “...how he could turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to thousands being incinerated right in front of him… I would like to hear it.”

“Had I been at Thranduil’s side that day instead of across the Mountains visiting my kin, things might have been different.” The grief that descended upon the Elvenqueen’s fair face almost made Thorin regret his harsh speech. “We could not take back what had already been done, but in the aftermath, we aided survivors in every way we could.”

“If aid had come sooner, there would have been more survivors instead of dead!” Thorin growled. “If aid had come sooner, we would have stood a chance at defending and keeping our home.”

“Erebor would have been taken, even if our army had marched out to fight. That is for certain," the Queen countered. “And we would have lost so many more lives. Perhaps even the lives of the last two sons that remain to us.”

Another silence dropped between them as Thorin fumbled with her words. It was the first he had ever heard of the Elvenking having a child or heir, and he had not considered that there might be several of them. What sons? No Elven princes had arrived with the army and no mention was ever made of them at the councils.

“He already lost one son to dragons, and he refused to risk another,” said the Queen, her voice now barely above a whisper. “That is the thought that ruled my King’s decision to turn his army back.”

“I do not understand.” Thorin muttered, pangs of shame now surfacing above his cooling rage. “You have lost a son to dragons? Has your family encountered Smaug before?”

The Queen raised her eyes from the ground, and in holding her gaze, Thorin saw for the first time the truth of her age, hidden beneath her unfaded youth. The wisdom in her eyes, borne from countless years of immortal existence, made him realize the indescribable burdens she must carry upon her shoulders.

He never thought he would ever feel pity for an elf until that moment.

“I have shared enough for one evening,” she said with a faint smile. “It was not my intention to shake your faith in the things you have been taught. I only wish for you to understand better my King’s mind, and to know that our family has always valued our friendship with Aulë’s Children. My people are marching into battle side-by-side with yours tomorrow. I would have you trust that the Elves of Greenwood will protect you as our own.”

“But would they, oh Queen?” Thorin raised his eyebrows. “It remains unclear to me why Mirkwood should now do such a thing for us, when the crime committed by Azog was against our house alone.” He wondered if she suspected his father’s private theory, that Thranduil’s sole motive was to force Durin’s House indebtedness, and the Elves' so-called friendship was merely an expensive service that would have to be paid for later. King Thrain had accepted the Elves into their ranks as mercenaries, not friends.

“That is where you are wholly mistaken, Thorin.” This time the Queen frowned, and the soft lines of her face grew taut. “My family has endured unspeakable losses at the hands of the same Enemy that murdered Thror. This war belongs to us all, and so we shall take our stand together to put an end to these monsters that have taken far too much from us.”

“And what of the sons you spoke of? Might not Thranduil abandon the cause again out of fear of losing them?”

If the Queen took offense at his brazen sarcasm, she did not show it, which only deepened Thorin’s guilt. “Our sons stayed behind in Mirkwood, charged with ruling in their father’s absence.” She tilted her head to the side, pinning the dwarf with a searching gaze. “You are still too young to have children of your own, so it may be difficult to understand the fierce instinct to protect the ones you brought into this world.”

“I have no wife or children,” Thorin responded. “But I still understand the willingness to give my life if necessary to protect someone I love. I have a younger brother, Frerin, whom you have already met, but you may not remember…”

“Oh, I remember Prince Frerin indeed.” Queen Maereth’s sudden laughter was the sweetest, most musical sound that dissolved whatever bitterness lingered in Thorin’s heart. “It has certainly not escaped our attention how much your brother has enjoyed visiting our camp. My King is convinced he is mad, but it amuses him nonetheless, and I for one have not been delighted by a dwarf's charming manners in far too long."

"Just this morning he approached me, very boldly but ever so courteously, and asked me for a favor to carry with him throughout this war." The Queen gestured at her waist, where the intricately embroidered bodice of her green dress joined with the flowing skirt. "I gave him the sash off my gown and told him I would be honored for him to bear it."

Thorin felt his jaw drop, utterly flabbergasted, but when no words could pass his lips, a bark of laughter rang out. "That is the sort of thing Frerin would do," he admitted. "Particularly if he had been goaded by your soldiers, which I suspect is what happened. It was kind of you to indulge him."

"By that favor shall my blessing accompany your dear brother into battle," Queen Maereth said softly. "I shall pray it always leads him to a safe return."

“He left behind the woman he loves to come here," Thorin said abruptly. "His betrothed. I would see to it that he returns to her in Dunland to make good on his promise to marry her and have the future he desires."

"Then may it happen as you say." The Queen nodded. “But what of you, Crown Prince? What awaits your return after this war?”

Thorin shook his head. “There is no future for me in Dunland," he said flatly. “Only in Erebor. As my father’s heir, our people look to me to secure their own futures. I can seek no happiness of my own until I help reclaim our home."

There was a pause as the Queen regarded him even more intently. "You will lead your people back to the Mountain.” She spoke as though stating a fact, as certain as one would be of the sun rising to usher in a new day. “It shall be achieved by you, in time. So long as you learn to heed the counsel of the wise, of those you might regard as outsiders. Resist the flaws of your fathers, and do not be so hasty to regard the world with suspicion. The greatest victories are won with help coming from the most unexpected of places, so you must keep yourself open to receive it."

"Is that not what we are doing now, my lady?" Thorin swept his arm in the direction of the camp in the far distance. “Who could have foreseen that Dwarves and Elves would ever come together under one banner this way?”

“It is an auspicious start,” the Queen agreed. “I feel hope is renewed strong with this alliance, and that we shall prevail so long as it remains unbroken.”

“It will not fail from our end,” Thorin declared stoutly. “As a dwarf-friend, you would know that we honor our word once it is given.”

"I do believe that, Thorin, Son of Durin." She reached out to offer him her hand. Thorin grasped it, lightly at first, but was surprised by the strength he felt from those slender fingers pressed into his palm. He moved his other hand in to completely encase hers, and they sealed the gesture with an exchange of smiles.

“With all the power in me, I shall see to it that the Elves reciprocate your loyalty. Only hours from now, you shall see for yourself." Deep pride glowed on the Queen's face. "You will see the difference it makes to have the greatest warrior in Middle-earth fighting on your side."

Artist credit: @cycas

Third Age 2793, Mount Gundabad

Thorin pressed his clenched fists over his eyes and pulled in a slow, deep breath that shuddered through his lungs. After the emergency war council ended and all the Dwarven officers in assembly followed King Thrain back out of the tent, the prince sat alone in the dead silence, for a long time motionless as a carven statue upon his chair. His hollow stare bore straight into the canvas flap through which they had all exited, walking off to proceed with business as though absolutely nothing of significance had occurred.

When he thought enough strength might have returned to his legs, Thorin staggered to his feet. But something in the act of just moving returned his mind to the realities of the present, to the memories of the last twenty-four hours, and the tenuous stranglehold he kept on his emotions shattered.

And finally, Thorin wept.

The Elvenqueen was dead. He might never have believed it possible, but he was one of the few witnesses to lay eyes on her broken body being carried out of the pits of Gundabad, a most wretched sight that would surely haunt him to his last day.

Immediately upon returning to camp with his company, Thorin stood before the Dwarven council to deliver his account of the battle. His report was hopelessly garbled and raised many questions he could not answer, but those present managed to cobble it together with the fragments of news and hearsays picked up from the Elven ranks and form a coherent story.

The news of Queen Maereth’s abduction had reached their camp in the cold darkness of a moonless winter night, and the chaos that had erupted from the Mirkwood host was unholy. The Dwarves were woken from their sleep by the noise of over a thousand Elves scrambling to form ranks as the word spread like literal fire setting their tents ablaze, and there arose a terrible cacophony of enraged shouts and anguished wails, spoken in a tongue they could not understand.

It was not until much later that the Dwarves discovered Thranduil had ridden out all by himself, immediately, without delaying even a moment to rally his guard, or to strategize, or to brief his confused and panicked soldiers. Without warning he simply vanished, leaving his officers uncertain of what they were to do next in such an unprecedented crisis.

Yet somehow, orders came from the absent king. The Queen had been located. At morning's light the Elven army finally set off in great haste, and after many rejected attempts to communicate with the Mirkwood lieutenants Thorin managed to force an answer out of them as to where they were marching off to, so he could lead the Dwarves to join them in the rescue.

Back to the depths of Gundabad, the orc captors had taken her, barely more than a league away. The Dwarves and Elves had spent the last three months laying a relentless siege upon the ancient stronghold, waging battle after battle, and winning decisively each time. Their armies cut through Gundabad's defenses with overwhelming ease, slaughtering the orc legions until only dredges of their filth remained, withdrawing to the deepest caverns, clinging to their nests like stubborn roaches. The Mountain should have been one final purge away from being utterly won.

Instead, their enemy had lashed out with their most devastating blow yet.

“There was nothing left for us to do,” Thorin told the commanders of the Seven Houses. "By the time our forces arrived, a thorough razing had already been accomplished. We chased down a few survivors attempting to escape, but the Elves had exterminated the rest." He paused and closed his eyes briefly, as a vivid memory flashed in his mind, and he corrected himself. "Or from what I could tell, Thranduil had carried out most of it."

"I heard he was half dead when they found him," one of the officers grunted. “And entirely mad.”

“That preening peacock has always been mad. Charging into Gundabad on his own without waiting for even a single soldier to cover him.”

"Foolish bastard."

"He was injured," Thorin broke back into the exchange, grimacing as the nightmarish image of the blood-drenched Elvenking once again crossed his thoughts. "Far more seriously than he has ever been. But he walked out of Gundabad unaided, even carrying the Queen himself. I did not get a chance to speak with him, and have not seen him since."

"He has not shown himself at all since this whole disaster started," Thrain burst out, pounding a fist on the arm of his throne. "What kind of king sends a messenger to deliver notice of his retreat? Or perhaps I should just be thankful they didn’t simply fade into the night without a word of warning!”

"Their queen is dead , Father." Frerin's tone was sharp when at last he broke his silence. Only Thorin caught the slight tremor in his brother's voice and he gratefully realized he was not the only one with grief swelling in his chest. "It is only right that they go home and lay her to rest."

"Pulling out the entire army in the middle of a campaign?!" scoffed a Firebeard chieftain. "It stinks of typical Elf weakness."

Frerin stood abruptly from his chair. "There are rumblings from the Mirkwood camp about a betrayal," he said loudly. "Committed by our people. It is being said that it was one of our escorts sent with Queen Maereth that betrayed her to the enemy, and assisted in her abduction."

A chorus of indignant shouts immediately rose in the tent, but Thorin remained silent. Frerin's friendship with the Elves still gave him reliable sources of information, and this accusation did not surprise Thorin at all. The same suspicion had dawned on him when he pondered how the ambush on the Queen's convoy could have occurred. Meticulous plans had been made to take her by a safe route home over the Grey Mountains, through passes known only to Longbeards who had long dwelt in those lands.

The Longbeards King Thrain had offered up as guides were people Thorin had never met before. They were distant relatives who came forward to answer the call to arms, claiming descent from the Gloin who once ruled over the Grey Mountains. But Thorin knew little else of these so-called relations, and he doubted his father had the time to get any much better acquainted.

“The orcs slew the entire escort to capture her! Dwarves and elves alike, indiscriminately!” bellowed another officer. “How dare they accuse us of treason, when lives of our kin were also sacrificed to shield their Queen!”

“I should have been the one to do it,” Frerin said bitterly. “I volunteered and you forbade it, but I should have insisted upon it. I should have gone to ensure Queen Maereth’s safe passage.”

Thrain stared at his son incredulously. “You are a Prince of Erebor, not some Queen's maid!” he exclaimed. “We were not remiss in our obligation. We gave her a strong and proper escort, but the mission was compromised. Our enemy outsmarted us. It was an unfortunate incident, but one we could not have predicted or prevented.”

“Unfortunate?!” Anger blazed in Frerin’s bright blue eyes. “Is that what you would call it? Bad weather is unfortunate. A spilled barrel of ale is unfortunate! The Queen of Mirkwood was murdered, when she was supposed to be under our protection! How can you be so dismissive about such a failure, that is now a stain on our honor?!"

For once, silence dropped like a stone upon the assembly. Father and son glared at each other for a tense moment, until King Thrain growled, "Leave my sight, Frerin. Do not return until you have rid your head of nonsense and cleansed your mouth of insolence."

Thorin watched his brother storm out of the tent and almost wished he could join him, but he stayed behind to hear the continued grumblings of the Dwarven leaders.

"We brought this upon ourselves, joining with elves, who have time and again proven fickle and faithless."

"We have gotten some use out of them, at least. Gundabad was quickly won, and at barely any cost to our ranks.”

“Hah! Let them be cowards and run back home! We shall advance without them and show them the true meaning of grit.”

“Aye! I never liked the thought of that woodland fairy sharing in our glory anyhow!”

"Thranduil has fought fiercely for our side from the onset of this campaign, and his valor has played no small role in our victories.” Thorin was barely aware that he was shouting, not to be heard above their jabbering, but to release the frustrations that would otherwise cause him to implode. “But this war, which was never truly his to fight, has cost him his wife, his companion for thousands of years, a bond none of us can possibly comprehend. Now you mock him in his grief, calling him a coward for his need to mourn?!”

Just as with Frerin, Thrain glowered at his elder son long and hard, and Thorin thought for certain he too would be ejected from the council. Instead, the King rose from his throne, gave the prince a tight, patronizing smile, and launched into a speech that robbed Thorin of the desire to say anything else.

"I understand you and your brother had been ensnared by the charms of the Elvenqueen. Lovely and fair she was indeed, and I will not deny that her presence gave strength to our hosts. But in the end she is still just a single soul lost, one casualty in this war. And I will not allow the blame for her killing to fall on our people!” The blue gemstone of his great ancestral ring flashed as Thrain waved his hand in stern proclamation. “Thranduil was the one who risked her life by bringing her here, keeping her so close to danger. Perhaps if these Elves treasured and safeguarded their women in the ways we do, this senseless tragedy would not have occurred."

As Thorin wept quietly in the tent at the conclusion of that sickening assembly, he knew that his tears were not merely of sorrow at the fate of the Elvenqueen. He did not think he had ever been angrier with this father in all his life, or more ashamed of his kinsmen, or more disappointed in himself for his inability to tell them all exactly this.

Frerin found him slumped low in his chair when he returned to the tent. The younger prince raised his eyebrows at the pathetic sight but said nothing about Thorin’s watery eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp, disheveled beard.

“Come Thorin,” he said urgently. “The elves have begun their march. They are leaving, right now. You must come!”

“And do what?” Thorin asked dully.

“Let us go speak to them, learn of their plans! Perhaps we can get some idea as to when they will be rejoining us.”

“They are not coming back, Frerin,” Thorin said tersely. "The alliance has been declared broken by both sides. Father and his generals have accepted the Elves' departure. I have certainly heard enough crowing of how we will now triumph in the rest of this war without having to share the glory.”

"Shall we heed the words of those puffed-up wind sacks?” Frerin scoffed. “We have taken very few casualties with the Elves fighting by our side! Is pride really worth more than all the lives we can save by asking Mirkwood to stay with us?!”

When Thorin still refused to budge from his chair, Frerin gave a frustrated growl and grabbed both his arms, yanking his brother to his feet.

"We should speak directly with King Thranduil," he said, pulling Thorin towards the tent exit. "He has as much cause as we do now to want Azog’s head. Surely he craves revenge and will not find rest until the task is done."

“It is not that simple.” Thorin rubbed his temple, where a pounding headache seems to have formed. “Maereth is gone. Can you not see why our enemies targeted her? Much of the Elves’ goodwill towards us rested on her, on the love her husband and their people bore for her. We cannot replace her influence on them, the zeal she inspired in their hearts. Nothing can.”

“I think our relationship with the Elves has grown beyond that, now that we have spilled blood together. The least we can do is try,” Frerin insisted. “Or shall we stand quiet and let her death be for nothing? Because I think she would want us to bring our case to Thranduil, and make him see reason if need be--”

“Just stop, Frerin!” Thorin cried, finally snapping under the weight of grief and exhaustion. “Enough! There is nothing left to be done, and we have to accept that. It is over .”

Frerin did stop talking, for a second, to give Thorin a scathing, disgusted scowl. “Never mind, then.” He released his grip on Thorin’s arm, giving him a hard push away. “Sulk in your corner. I will do it myself.” He disappeared behind the flap of the tent exit.

“Frerin, wait!” As tired as he was, Thorin rushed after him into the evening twilight.

He did not have to venture far to find what Frerin had wanted him to come and see. The Mirkwood soldiers had departed from their now empty campsite and formed a long, wide column that snaked eastward, marching back towards the Greylin, and from there to their woodland home. Many dwarves had come out of their tents to watch the Elven army leaving in the distance, but none were curious enough to approach the giant procession.

Thorin walked quickly to catch up, keeping an eye out for the vibrant blue color and fur collar of Frerin’s winter coat.

The marching Elves paid no heed to the dwarf-prince that came up to walk alongside their lines. Thorin noticed that despite the bitterness of the winter chill, they had all removed their cloaks, leaving their fine golden armor looking oddly incomplete. Instead, long strips of jagged fabric ripped apart by bare hands were tied around the tips of their spears and bows. Thousands and thousands of crimson ribbons fluttered high in the wind, and made the slow-moving column of soldiers appear from afar like a river of running blood.

Looking ahead towards the front of the procession, Thorin finally spotted Frerin, easily noticed next to the line of towering Elves. As he surged forward to reach his brother, Thorin realized they had come alongside the most important section of the cavalcade.

On a large litter borne by the shoulders of a half-dozen Elves, the Queen’s body lay, covered almost entirely by a thick, richly embroidered coverlet, and draped over that was a shimmering silver cloak that Thorin recognized as the Elvenking’s own. Sheer white silk veiled her face, still beautiful and unscathed, but whose pale lifelessness was too saddening to look upon.

Thorin came up to Frerin, who had finally stopped moving, and was just staring helplessly at the Elvenqueen’s body as it passed by. Thorin saw the fear and despair on his brother’s face and reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

The princes remained that way for a while, suddenly transported back to a time during their childhood in Erebor, when two little dwarves stood by the funeral bed of another deceased queen, scared and confused and unable to grasp what a motherless future held for them.

“We should go,” Thorin finally said.

"No," Frerin said brusquely. Determination renewed, he continued walking up the line, his boots crunching against the packed snow. "He is right there ."

The Elvenking rode at the very front of the column, separated from his soldiers by a good distance. Astride his great bull elk, he towered above the marching elves, but even higher above the dwarf that boldly approached him.

Thranduil's war steed was a violent, ill-tempered creature. Thorin had watched it mow down orcs on the battlefield, and once saw it nearly bite the shoulder off a Ironfoot spearman just for coming too close. The beast had to be part monster, a lethal hazard that could only be controlled by its similarly dispositioned master.

Sure enough, when Frerin strode up within scope of the elk's sight, it immediately halted in its tracks. It did not buck or make any sudden movements out of respect for its rider, but its nostrils flared as it snorted angrily and dipped its head low to challenge the intruder with its massive antlers.

Behind Thranduil, the entire procession also came to an immediate halt, and a profound silence allowed the dwarf-prince’s voice to be heard loud and clear.

"Lord Thranduil," Frerin called, stopping a safe distance before the elk beast, out of reach from being skewered or bitten. Thorin watched, aghast, as his brother sank down on one knee in a manner of greeting. "Forgive my impertinence and allow me to deliver a message on behalf of my King and our people."

Thorin froze when he realized trying to interrupt his brother, or discredit him by denying the validity of his words, would only rouse the Elvenking's notorious temper. And so he held his breath and stood aside, watching as Frerin pulled out a golden silk sash from the folds of his coat, and raised it above his bowed head.

“We mourn your loss with you," Frerin declared. "Queen Maereth was the kindest and fairest soul many of us had ever seen in our lifetime. We beseech our Great Father, Mahal, to intercede for her during her sojourn in the Halls, and to honor her as the dwarf-friend she was."

Then he rose and braved a few steps forward to offer the sash up to Thranduil, who still had not uttered a sound or moved in his saddle.

"Peace be on your journey as you bring her home to rest," he said as he waited for the Elvenking to accept his offering.

“We will await your return, when we shall rise together in arms once more to avenge her.”

At long last, Thranduil bent down to reach for the golden sash. He gripped it tightly in his fist, but still said nothing as the bitter silence droned on unbearably.

Unwilling to continue letting his brother stand there alone, Thorin finally walked over to Frerin's side. His arrival seemed to jar the Elvenking from his trance and he turned his piercing gaze towards the elder prince.

It was a sight both shocking and chilling to behold up close, the tears that streamed down the cut and bruised cheeks of Thranduil's cold, inflexible face. He inclined his head in a small, vague nod.

The elk lurched forward without warning, forcing the brothers to scramble hastily out of its path. As quickly as that, the Mirkwood army marched on, once again leaving the dwarves at the sidelines to witness their exodus.

"They will be back," Frerin whispered, an unquenchable conviction burning in his eyes. "I saw it on his face."

Thorin did not know how much he shared in this optimism, but his heart swelled with admiration and pride in the bravery his little brother had demonstrated. He just never learned how to express it in words.

"You should have kept the Queen's favor. It was her gift to you."

Frerin shrugged. "And I used it as I believe she would have wanted me to," he responded. "Whenever Thranduil looks at it, he will remember my words and the cause she gave up her life for. He will not let it be for nothing."

He touched his fist over his heart as the Elvenqueen's body was carried past them once more. "For now, we will hold the line until they return."

Third Age 2799, The Valley of Azanulbizar

The uproar of bellowing dwarves and the piercing blare of war horns echoing throughout the sunless valley signaled victory. Had they really won? After six long years of underground battles that culminated in a final descent into hell, was the impossible war finally over?

Thorin reached up to swipe aside the hair plastered by sweat across his face, and only succeeded in smearing more black grime into his eyes. He gasped and clutched his left arm, feeling a shock of breathtaking pain run up from his wrist to shoulder. The bones had to be broken in multiple places, with the damage worsened by his fighting on after it had been injured. It would never regain the same strength it once had even after healing.

As close as he had come and as close as his bodily pain still felt to death, somehow he was alive and standing. The battlefield surrounding him revealed a much grimmer fate for most of the eight thousand dwarves that had marched into Dimrill Dale.

The truth of the death toll had been impossible to notice while the bloodshed continued, but after the last axe-stroke had fallen, it became clear that victory for Durin’s Folk was a questionable claim.

A deep, throbbing ache clawed up Thorin’s leg with each step he took, as he limped across the barren plain, struggling to get his bearings in the black darkness of the cloudy night. Several times, he stumbled over what at first appeared to be a boulder or felled tree, but the clink of chainmail or steel armor announced a corpse.

A handful of torches moved in the distance, as Dwarven soldiers began the task of combing through the field, seeking any wounded left lying among the dead that might still be saved. Only then did it finally sink in for Thorin that he needed to find his brother, and that immediately drove out all awareness of his own pain and exhaustion.

He staggered towards the nearest torch-bearer as quickly as he could. “Frerin. Have you seen Prince Frerin anywhere?!” The blood-stained, swollen-faced soldier merely blinked at him with confused, unrecognizing eyes. Thorin moved on to ask the next dwarf, and then another one, and so on with the same results. Finally he ripped the torch off one of the roaming rescuers’ hands and started searching the field of corpses himself, screaming his brother’s name until his voice ran hoarse.

They had begun the battle literally side-by-side in King Thrain’s mounted vanguard, charging at the advancing hordes of orcs that flowed down the mountain slopes above the East-gate. Their cavalry rams were quickly shot down, forcing them to plunge into the chaos on foot. In the initial onslaught of the orcs, the company led by the princes succeeded in driving their opponents back, and the brothers managed to stay within reach of each other. But then innumerable creatures, including trolls and wargs, began to pour out of Moria’s gate, and the tide of battle turned swiftly ill. Thorin lost track of his men as they fell at a rapid pace, and he was swept away from the sight of his brother as night’s terrible shadows cloaked the accursed valley.

It felt like an eternity before someone finally responded to Thorin’s relentless cries. He was found on the field by his cousin Dwalin, a dwarf who should have been counted too young to join their ranks but was so robust and strong for his age that his own father volunteered him along with his brother Balin.

“Praise Mahal!” Thorin hugged tightly the cousin he had practically helped raise, glad to finally lay eyes on a surviving relation. But when he pulled back and took a closer look at Dwalin’s expression, he found no shared joy or relief, but a face crumpled with sorrowful anguish. The cold dread swept back into Thorin’s chest.

“What is it?”

“Frerin,” Dwalin choked out, cementing Thorin’s fears. “Hurry--you must come.”

They had set him down underneath a tree by the banks of the Kheled-zâram, far enough from the main battlefield so that the stench of death and decay did not overcome the lakeside air. Frerin’s eyes were closed, and he lay so still tucked between two giant roots that Thorin collapsed to his knees with a wail, fearing he was too late.

But his brother’s eyes fluttered open at his voice, and his lips parted in a blood-stained smile. “What took so long, nadad ?” he croaked. “The Halls await.”

“No Frerin,” Thorin shook his head vigorously, clutching his brother’s limp hand in a grip that would have crushed stone. “You cannot go. Your place is still here with me.”

“I cannot obey, Highness.” His chest heaved visibly in dire gasps for continued breath. “I had nearly slipped away. But had to see with my…eyes that you live and will not follow… where you should not yet be.”

“Frerin…”

“Not yet , Thorin.” Strength seemed to return briefly to the dying dwarf’s hand, and he squeezed Thorin’s fingers. “Not for a very long time still.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Thorin said desperately.

“Take my braid…” His words fell to wheezing, as the final dregs of strength he had clung to swiftly faded. “Back to Ezri. I love her. As much as…love… you.”

Thorin did not leave his brother’s side for hours after Frerin breathed his last. He succumbed to a deathlike sleep with his head upon the younger prince’s chest, and wept once more when he eventually awoke to find that it had been no nightmare.

By morning’s light, the dwarves commenced gathering the corpses and stripping all their soldiers of armor and weapons, reclaiming every single piece so that none would fall into orc possession. Balin and Dwalin helped Thorin carry Frerin a long distance to the Longbeard camp set up outside the valley, where the prince’s body could receive care befitting his station.

King Thrain’s angry curses and anguished sobs filled the tent when he finally arrived, hobbled by his own near-fatal injuries, to grieve his lost son. Only then did Thorin finally leave to give his father privacy, and to seek out his cousin so he could make one more request of him.

“It would be my honor,” Balin said gravely. They sat by a campfire together as they made plans, nursing bowls of hot barley stew. It was the only food Thorin had consumed in almost three days, but it tasted like ash in his mouth as he forced it down for sustenance. “I shall start gathering materials immediately. It seems the plan for most of the fallen is to build great pyres, so while the supply of lumber might run short, there will be enough stone to work with.”

“I will scout for a suitable location.” Thorin set aside his half-eaten stew and reached into a pocket in his tunic, drawing out the braid of Frerin’s copper-brown hair that bore a betrothal bead marked with runes. He turned the small silver bead over with his fingers thoughtfully. “Somewhere on a hill with lots of sunshine. He was an odd enough dwarf to enjoy something like that.”

“Then I will build him the finest hilltop tomb I can manage,” the master stonemason promised. “But are you certain you would not rather carry him back home to his sweetheart?”

“Dunland is not home ,” Thorin said darkly. “One may argue that this orc-infested mountain is more our proper home than that place.”

Balin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Then do you have plans to return elsewhere when we are done here?”

“I do not know,” Thorin muttered. “It does not even seem to matter at the moment. Right now, I just feel nothing will ever matter again.”

He staggered to his feet, cradling his bandaged arm across his chest, and excused himself before walking off. He cut straight through the Longbeard camp, willing himself to ignore the growing pile of corpses he passed on his way out. But just outside of the campsite boundaries, another great pile caught and held his gaze--the collection of salvaged Dwarven armor and weaponry.

One item in particular ensnared his attention, for it seemed to have magically appeared in front of him at the right moment, when it might have been abandoned by the Great Gate with the orc carcasses.

He remembered the day Frerin presented the intricately wrought shield to him, the product of a whole month’s labor in the forge. There had been no special occasion; just a proud young smith wishing to prove once and for all to his older brother that he had surpassed him in at least one skill. And truly, Thorin had never borne a finer shield into battle, and he knew he never would again.

He picked up the black-and-silver shield by its edges and stared at the burnished surface that barely yielded a scratch. Only the leather strap was actually damaged, ripped apart by the sheer force of many powerful blows that had broken Thorin’s arm before it even managed to break the mighty shield. It could easily be repaired if he wished.

Instead Thorin laid his shield to rest with Frerin, and had it molded into the stone that covered the top of his tomb. Your death will not be in vain, brother, was Thorin’s last promise before he bid farewell to the hilltop grave. I will not forget the vengeance you are owed, and I will never forgive the betrayers of your trust.

Thank you for reading and your support!

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#TSF23 #thorin #thorin oakenshield #thorin fanfiction #frerin #frerin fanfiction #the line of durin #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #thranduil #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x oc #the elvenqueen #mirkwood elves

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cycas · 2 years ago

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I am excited for the opening of @thorinsspringforge! Here are my arts for an ambitious story that I am much looking forward to by @sotwk which I will link once revealed. Here are Thorin meeting the Elvenqueen, a lady of unexpectedly Feanorian descent who was a friend of Durin himself, and then Thorin having an argument with a rather grumpy Frerin in Dunland. They are wearing Authentic Knitted Dunlandish Jumpers, because dwarven princes in exile can't always wear velvet and furs.

#thorin's spring forge #thorin #frerin #TSF23 #arty stuff

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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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legolasbadass · 2 years ago

Text

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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