#dworin week

[toomanyroleplays]

Hey Gang

So to say the least I am ever so bored and looking to get some new roleplays up and running. First off the very most important thing to know about me is I'm 25 coming to you from the Cringy One Direction Roleplay era. So please please please be at least 18 but I would prefer 20 and up in a perfect world. I ONLY write on Discord in the third person. My minimum is two paragraphs and my max well she's all over the place typically around five paragraphs. I'm ghost and cringe-friendly. I love building playlists and interest boards for RPs and world-building and just all the OOC chit-chat you could dream of. I'm looking for romance and if all parties are comfy some spice in the plot along with everything else we could ever dream up within reason. I'm open to writing all pairing types and OCxCC or CCxCC but no OCxOC sorry! But I double! :) Fandoms and a little more about what I'm looking for in each one. Marvel/MCU/Comics: I am a die-hard Phlint shipper and I am always down to write them. I have hardcore missed this pair so damn much since Omegle left us. There are other canon ships I'm down to write as well the list is hella long and fluctuates with my mood so please ask and I'll happily supply you with that list and whom I write. I am also always down to write OCxCC for Marvel. I'm open to ABO and BDSM AU's in this fandom as well. Hobbit: I've kinda got a half assed OC/fan species idea but like fuck if I know. So like while I wanna say I would be down to write OCxCC I'm probably gonna lean towards CCxCC but you never know I might be in the mood to bust that sucker out. I'm all for Thilbo always have been. Have you read An Unexpected Addition by karategal on AO3? I've basically taken it as canon now. Anywho other ships also include Dworin, Dwori, and Boffins. WWE It's cringe I know but shit dude I love that silly wrestling. Ask me about it in the DM's if you're interested. We can work literally anything out. I love it all. Criminal Minds bring on the OCxCC or CCxCC would love to do a Marvel CCxCC crossover though I could be talked into an OCxCC cross over. Ships I kinda love em all for the sake of not making this post any longer I'll put in my top four but feel free to ask about others. Hotchgan, Demily, Morcia and Moreid Harry Potter Golden Trio I'm looking for OCxCC please don't ask me to play Voldy or like any Malfoy. Characters are 18+ so no Hogwarts sorry fam. Uh plots all I can say is buckle up I'm a little bit of a goblin. Marauders era OCxCC or CCxCC looking for alternate war endings. Rare pairs, and heavy world-building. Please do not ask me to write snape I can't go there.

Ok OK so last one and like this shit is hella specific so don't mind me I'm just being hopeful. Percy Jackson (TV series) I read book one years ago gonna start a read-through soon. I am Specifically looking for an AresxF OC of mine. I'm hoping to find someone flexible and willing to help me make sense of this cracked-out plot I've had bouncing around in my brain for weeks.

If any of this interests you please feel free to shoot me a message on Discord or interact with the post and I'll reach out.

pythonsmonty

[mainecoon76]

Dworin Week 2018: Opinions?

Dear Dworin shipmates,

At this time of year we usually started planning Dworin week - gauging interest, collecting prompts, and so on. We’ve done so for four years in a row, and I���m proud of us all.

This is the first year I’m getting the feeling that… the community isn’t as active as it used to be. Which is the way things go, and I can’t complain because I’ve been more active in the Silm fandom, myself. But I’m not sure we’ll be able to create enough fanworks to fill a week, and the event shouldn’t become a stressful obligation for anyone.

I don’t want to drop it completely, though.

So my idea is to have a Dworin Weekend: Celebrate our dear old ship for two days, create as many fanworks as we like, maybe collect a few prompts in advance, and have a virtual ale together for old time’s sake. Newbies would be welcome, of course.

Opinions?

[judayre]

Back in July it was Dworin week and I 100% intended to write for it.  I even got started!  But then I lost my ability to write for.... what has it been? Eight months?  At any rate, I finished the day 1 prompt (finally), so I’m posting it.  If I get around to the rest (or last year’s Nwalin), I will post them too.

It had been a long time since Dwalin had seen Thorin - both busy doing the things that made them money and brought food to their families.  It didn’t take a second look for him to understand how it had been for Thorin.  There were dark circles under the prince's eyes and he was too pale,  his hair was loose and tangled - stringy where it wasn’t matted.  Even his beard was longer than he kept it normally, but it was uneven and unkempt.

Something had caused Thorin to give in to the despair that ate at him.  Dwalin set Óin's tea steeping and guided Thorin to the bath.  That Thorin went willingly and made no protest meant he was deeply in need of someone to lean on for strength, but Thorin knew his position and there were few he would lean on.

Thorin was quiet as Dwalin bathed him, trimmed his beard, and took care of his hair.  He made no protest to the tea, not even to make a face at the taste.  Dwalin began to fear Thorin was catatonic until Thorin looked at him as he tucked him into bed.  Dwalin smiled at him and ran his fingers lightly down Thorin's face.  He kissed his brow and then left him to sleep, secure in the knowledge that Óin's tea would work.

Thorin was able to stumble out of the bedroom under his own peer.  Hours had passed and Dwalin had used the time to clean and cook something.  It would do Thorin good to eat and to see things at their best.

"Good morning," Dwalin greeted, holding him by the shoulders and kissing rim swayed into it, touch-starved in the best of times.  Dwalin kept an arm around him into the kitchen and served out soup and bread.  Thorin fed himself, but was silent through the meal.

Finally he put down his spoon and looked up.  "You’ve forgotten the date," he said, voice rusty from disuse.  "This is the month the dragon came.  And my grandfather's head was sent to us by the Orcs in Khazad-dûm.  Azanulbizar was at the start of the month, and my father disappeared in this month as well."

Dwalin opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but Thorin continued.  "They want to crown me," he said, voice shaking,  ¡it’s been so long they say there is no hope anymore.  He must be dead."

Thorin's voice choked off into a sob at the word, and Dwalin could see the storm of emotion that Thorin kept down so tightly that sometimes he lost himself to it.  He leaned forward to press his forehead to Thorin's, one big hand on the back of his neck, and was glad that Thorin's eyes slipped closed and his breathing steadied at the comfort.

"You’ve been doing the work all this time," Dwalin said, voice low.  "Take the title that will give you more respect.  When he returns, he can be your adviser and live in leisure."

Thorin snorted a laugh, the best sound ever, and his hands clutched at Dwalin's arms.  "Do you think he will?" he asked.  Not a question he would ask most people but he had always trusted Dwalin.

"Hope doesn’t die until you let it," he said firmly.  "I will continue searching until you tell me not to."

"Keep looking," Thorin begged, hands moving up to tangle in Dwalin's beard.  His eyes were smoother when he opened them, the main storm had passed.  "Your king asks it of you."

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Cookie Raids!

Art by Kazuki-MENDOU

Part of my Dworin week collection as well as the Fíli Ficlets.

Dwalin was standing in the kitchen when he felt the tugging. Looking down at the small face that stared up at him hopefully, Dwalin smiled. “Cookies?” Kíli asked, giving his best puppy eyes. Dwalin chuckled, ruffling his dark hair with a large palm.

“Cookies, eh, karkith?” The little boy nodded seriously. Dwalin crouched down, leaning in conspiratorially. Kíli grinned, the game familiar. “You know what we need, then, Kíli-lad, don’t ye,” Dwalin rumbled, catching sight of Fíli’s golden head around the corner of the doorway. The older dwarfling ran into the kitchen with a loud war-cry, echoed by his younger brother:

“Cookie-raid!”

Dwalin grinned. Scooping up a dwarfling in each arm, he felt Fíli scamper up to sit securely on one of his broad shoulders. Kíli – less brave when it came to scaling the heights that was Dwalin – settled contently on his arm, pulling out the tiny toy axe Bifur had carved for his fourth name-day.

“Du bekâr!” Fíli cried loudly, showing the way with his own toy sword and a fierce scowl copied from his uncle Thorin on his face. Dwalin tried not to laugh, as he obediently jogged through the house.

“Are the cookies in here?” he asked, as they entered each room, making Fíli and Kíli both cry out loud ‘No!’s and continue to the next room. Frís looked up from her mending with a calm smile, while Dís simply shook her head in fond exasperation.

“Only one each, lads,” she called after them as the raiding party retreated from the sitting room. “That includes you, Dwalin!”

Charging onwards, Dwalin clambered over tables and chairs – or, as Fíli proclaimed, strode across mountains and valleys – enjoying the sound of the dwarflings’ laughter. Reaching the front door of the house, he opened it just in time to startle Thorin who was coming home from the forge.

“Cookie-raid, Dwalin?” the dark-haired Prince of Durin’s Folk asked, pressing his lips against Dwalin’s cheek in a quick greeting and ruffling Kíli’s hair fondly.

“The Evil guard tris to stop us!” Fíli yelled, brandishing his small sword at Thorin, his firm grip on Dwalin’s hair helping him keep his balance.

“Yeah!” came Kíli’s voice a few seconds later. Thorin grinned.

“The Evil guard has taken a hostage!” he exclaimed, deftly picking Kíli from Dwalin’s arms and tickling the small dwarfling who resembled him so much. Kíli shrieked with laughter.

“Oh, no,” Dwalin said, trying to stem his own laughter. “We must come to the rescue, Fíli Fabarâl!”

“Chaaarge!” Fíli commanded, also hooting with laughter as Dwalin took advantage of his free arms to launch a full-scale tickle attack on Thorin. When Thorin crumbled to the floor, Kíli joined the attack, until his Uncle was pleading mercy beneath the onslaught.

“Ahh, do you surrender, Thorin Uzbad?” Dwalin asked devilishly, his deft hands finding all the right spots.

“I yield, I yield!” Thorin cried, breathless with laughter.

“The Evil Guard is defeated,” Dwalin said, while Fíli nodded proudly. “Now he’s been enslaved to do our bidding!” the warrior chuckled, winking at Thorin as he pulled him to his feet, Kíli still nestled in the crook of his arm.

“Onwards, to cookies!” Fíli cried from his vantage point, his sword pointing towards the pantry, where Dís kept the cookie jar on the top shelf, out of reach of small fingers. Dwalin obediently went for the door, Thorin trailing behind him with Kíli waving his axe in the air.

Reaching the jar, Fíli reached in for his prize, holding up the cookie with an expression bordering on reverence. Thorin cracked up laughing; the look was copied straight from Dwalin, who scowled playfully at him. Kíli’s small hand found his own reward in the jar, nibbling happily as Thorin returned him to the floor. Fíli slid down Dwalin’s arm, grabbing his brother’s hand and dragging him off to the sitting room to show off their prizes to Dís and Frís. Picking two cookies from the jar, Thorin held out one while he bit into the other. Dwalin returned the jar to its shelf, nicking his cookie from Thorin’s hand.

“So I am your slave now, Dwalin?” he smirked, chuckling when Dwalin stroked his beard thoughtfully, munching his cookie. He nodded. “And what would you have me do, O Master?” Thorin whispered into Dwalin’s ear, nipping the lobe gently.

“Come here and kiss me sweetly,” Dwalin commanded, returning Thorin’s smirk. Pulling Thorin closer, he leaned against the kitchen table as he accepted his sweet reward. Sliding his thick fingers through Thorin’s long dark hair, Dwalin smirked against Thorin’s lips, feeling his lover’s kiss turn hungry. One of his hands travelled down Thorin’s back, following the corded muscles to the small of his back and cupping his arse gently.

Thorin kissed his way slowly to Dwalin’s other ear, his tongue playing with the cuff. “Take me to bed, Dwalin,” he breathed, pressing his hips insistently against Dwalin’s, making them both groan softly.

“Oh, really?” Dwalin smirked. “Me wee slave’s a wanton one, hmm?” With little apparent effort, he picked Thorin up, making the blacksmith prince wrap his legs around his strong hips as he carried him to their shared bedroom.

“Work was slow today,” Thorin admitted. “I had plenty time to think of… other things,” he moaned, rubbing himself against the bulge in Dwalin’s breeches. Dwalin grinned, catching him up in another ardent kiss as he toed the door shut behind them.

“Well, that does sound intriguing, me wee wanton,” he rumbled, his voice turning more gravelly, “tell me more.”

Thorin chuckled, continuing his slow rubbing. “I’m sure you know just what I want… Master.”

[moosefrog]

The Ugly Princeling. I was looking through my photos the other day and came across a photo of myself at age 11. I was a hideous troll-child! XD It’s a pretty funny picture that captured that awkward time of a child’s life when puberty has started to rear its ugly head and some parts of you are adult and some parts are still a child and you just look awkward af.

Then I thought about Thorin and how awkward he might’ve looked and I decided to draw that. XD Eventually he grows into his nose, his adult teeth stop looking so huge and awkward in his too-small mouth, his ears don’t stick out quite so much and his childish facial hair becomes more majestic.

Also, he stops letting his mom dress him.

This is from an AU where Thorin’s angry outbursts as a child was a source of constant worry for his parents. They sent away for Dwalin, a cousin, to come be Thorin’s companion/friend to see if that would help soothe Thorin’s temper.

Dwalin’s outfit includes a ‘modified’ dwarf-sweater! he cut off the sleeves and ribbed neckline and cut a V in it. He was already a little badass as a tween. XD He started maturing earlier than Thorin so he’s taller/bigger than his cousin. (Thorin sulked SO HARD when he realized his younger cousin was speeding past him into adulthood!)

Of course, what Thorin’s parents didn’t count on was... Thorin being able to talk Dwalin into all sorts of mischief and rule-breaking. And vice versa. 

There’s proportion issues happening here. Dwarves are so hard to draw, sometimes, and tween dwarves even more so! But, overall, I’m happy with how this came out and I like the feel of the pic Really, just getting to draw Thorin in romper-shorts was hilarious fun! I drew this with a 0.3mm Pentel mechanical pencil then finished it off with a regular HB pencil. Drawn on Paris Bleedproof paper. It seems that no matter how large a piece of paper I use, I always end up running off of the edge!

[stand-up-and-fight-daleks]

[fic] Perhaps even silver

Fandom: The Hobbit

Pairing: Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield

Warnings: Gold sickness, PTSD, Minor injury (self-inflicted), Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives

Rating: T

Dworin week day 1: Despair –  Hope (light on the hope)

AO3

Summary: The worst part wasn't the sickness. 

                   It was never knowing if it was going to happen again. 

                   Or if it already had.

It came out of nowhere even though everything had been going well. Or perhaps because everything had been going well.

One moment he was smiling quietly to himself, the next he was driven on to his knees and out of himself by a terrible flood of fear.

*

“Thorin! Thorin, what are you doing, stop that!”

He didn’t know where Dwalin had come from, he hadn’t heard him, but there he was, dropping on the floor next to him and pulling him into an embrace that was a bodylock by more than a half. Thorin struggled frantically, trying to get free, trying to get back to ridding himself from the last bits of jewellery he still had on him. Dwalin didn’t let him.

“Get them off,” Thorin pleaded. “I have to get them off, please, get them off me!”

Dwalin loosened his hold slowly and reluctantly, and only just enough to remove Thorin’s ear cuffs. He did it as gently as he could, but it still stung, and when he was done both the cuffs and Dwalin’s fingers were stained with blood. Thorin’s hands had shaken so badly that he hadn’t been able to open the locks and finally he’d panicked and tried to tear them off. He hadn't noticed the pain at the time but he did now, and feeling all the fight draining out of him made his hands shake even worse.

“I had to get them off,” he whispered. Dwalin hadn’t asked, but he felt like he had to explain. “I had to get them off.”

“Why?”

Thorin glanced to his left. The ring lay on a warg-skin rug, exactly where he’d dropped it. It was a miracle Dwalin hadn’t stepped on it when he’d barged in. A gold-flecked piece of lapis as long as his finger-joint set in heavy silver; beautiful, but barely more than a trinket amongst all the gold and gems in Erebor. Dwalin had found it in a heap of treasure he’d been sorting through a month ago, and he’d brought it back to him with a knowing smile.

Thorin didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry or scream.

“I thought you liked it,” Dwalin said quietly.

“I do. I love it.” Thorin’s voice caught a little. “I can’t have it.”

“Why?”

”Don’t you see?! I love it!” Thorin clawed at Dwalin’s shirt, desperately willing for him to understand. “I have to get rid of it, before...”

“Oh.” Dwalin pulled him properly into his lap and wrapped his arms around him, less tight this time. “Do you feel like... back then?”

Back then. As if nine months were ancient history.

“No.” Thorin said hollowly. “Not yet.”

“But-”

“I won’t risk it.” Thorin lifted his head from Dwalin’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, jaw set. “I won’t! I could’ve killed you-”

“Nah, you couldn’t have.” Dwalin nudged their foreheads briefly together. “The way you flailed around you couldn’t have cut through a ripe pear, let alone me.”

That really shouldn’t have been comforting, but Thorin felt a little better all the same. Dwalin could take him out if he wanted to, if it happened again. He just had to hope that he would want to, that he wouldn’t just stand there and let him-

No.

No.

Unthinkable.

“I can’t risk it,” he repeated. “Maybe it would be better if you-”

“If I what?” Dwalin snarled. “’Cause after I’ve followed you to exile and war and half-way across the bloody continent, the answer’d better not be ‘left’ because of this.”

Thorin didn’t answer. Right here, cradled against Dwalin’s warm body, he was as safe from his own madness as he was ever going to be. But he had no way of knowing how safe that would actually be in the end, for him or for the people around him. He couldn’t risk it. Besides it wasn’t fair. He was never going to be less than grateful, but it wasn’t fair to ask this of Dwalin.

Again.

Even though he’d volunteered.

Again.

He was suddenly exhausted to the bone.

“What the hell happened, Thorin?” Dwalin asked after a long silence. “It’s been ages since you’ve tried to push me out of the door for my own good.”

Ages. Nine months.

“I thought I’d wear it,” Thorin said monotonously. “The ring. I was actually clean for dinner for once, and it’s not like we often get the chance.”

Not so long ago they wouldn’t have gotten a chance to wear much jewellery because they hadn’t owned much of it. That was no longer a problem, but only a very select few wore anything but battlefield decorations before going to work in reconstruction or clean-up – hard and dirty work was liable to lead to ruined finery – and most were too tired to do much besides eat and sleep afterwards.

“And I just-” Thorin swallowed. “I loved the way it looked. I was so happy I had it. And I couldn’t stop thinking, once the reconstruction is over I can wear it more often, I can have more-”

He couldn’t go on. He could almost taste it still, the terrible paranoia burning through him until he’d barely known who he was, who anyone was, or why he should've cared.

“Thorin, kurdel,” Dwalin whispered hoarsely. “You aren’t insane for being happy you have something pretty, or for wanting-”

“You can’t know that!” Thorin hissed. “I can’t know that! I can’t tell the difference, so I can’t have it, I can’t have any of it, how am I supposed to- I can’t-”

The corners of his eyes were burning.

Dwalin didn’t say anything. He simply pressed Thorin against his chest and stroked his hair and back like he did when he woke up shaking from a nightmare.

“I can’t-”

A tearful whimper turned into a sob and something final inside him shattered, and then he was crying hopelessly with his face buried to Dwalin’s neck, clinging on to him with desperate strength, choking on the words he was afraid to speak.

“I can’t-”

I can’t tell if I’m going mad.

I can’t tell if I already have.

I can’t tell if I can beat it again, please help me, I’m tired, I’m so tired, I’m so so tired...

[heartoferebor]

Since I made you happy yesterday I’m gonna make you sad today. A short sory in two acts, centering around certain courting clasps, canonverse.

Warnings for canonical character death and grieving.

[hattedhedgehog]

I found this old unposted Dworin sketch in my Hobbit art folder and added a bit of colour.

[formlessvoidbeast]

Dwalin had given his heart once.  Thorin took it and kept it, and held it still and forever.  Dwalin had no regrets.  But Thorin did not have use for everything that Dwalin's heart could do, and betimes Dwalin still was restless, with a kind of love he could imagine but had never yet embodied.

My dear @werpiper’s first nwalin week ficlet! <3

[mainecoon76]

You’re absolutely not late! But you’d best tag this with dworin week so all can find it. :)

Two warm up-sketches for the Dworin week … yeez, I’m late, I’m sorry!

[mainecoon76]

Dworin Week, Day 1: Hope - Despair

On AO3                       

Thorin’s grandfather had never been so radiant as on the day before the battle.

Aye, Thorin had seen him on his marble throne, clad in robes of velvet and mithril jewelry, with diamond beads glittering in his beard. The king had walked the halls under the mountain in all his splendor, a true son of Durin for all to see, loved and revered by the people of his prospering realm. They still loved him as he stood before them near the gate of Khazad-Dûm, humble in his plain armor, and asked them to fight with him one last time. A battle of despair, with little hope of success, but they followed him readily; for his part, Thorin would have followed him anywhere. If there ever had been a dwarrow who could end the nightmare and lead their people to a new home, it had to be Thrór.

Now Thrór was dead.

Thorin had seen him fall, and thus had no trouble in finding the body. The head had been more difficult to locate among the slain, the mass of bodies and limbs and blood both red and black. Balin had eventually shooed him off to look for his father and brother, and Thorin had spend futile hours staggering across the battlefield while carrion crows screamed in his head and the stench almost made him retch. At nightfall Dwalin found him and dragged him back toward the camp, where Thór’s body had already been cleaned and arranged on a sheet. They had covered king‘s severed neck with cloth and concealed the mutilation of his face in bandages that served nothing but his honour. Beside him lay Frerin, his young face too pale and still to merely be asleep.

That had been on the previous evening.

Thorin was mildly surprised when light began to flood the world anew, and birdsong sounded brightly through the thickets around their camp. How could the sun rise again when all hope had fallen to ruin? It was one thing to rush to battle in the knowledge that the odds were slim, but quite another to be proven right.

The flap oft the tent rustled behind him. Heavy footsteps approached, but Thorin did not turn: he recognized those steps, heavier that they used to be, but still distinctive. Dwalin dropped beside him and placed an arm around his shoulder.

„Let them rest,“ he said.

Thorin had no words to return. For a long while they sat in silence, and Thorin found himself in desperate envy of the dead before him – oh, to lie down beside his brother and never rise again, here at the end of all hope! But Dwalin’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, warm, solid, alive. Finally, after his night-long vigil, Thorin‘s sight began to blur; finally he allowed himself to let his head sink against Dwalin’s chest, and he buried his face in his friend’s bloody tunic and wept.

********************************

Many years had passed since Dwalin had seen his king in velvet and gems. The shining armor of a murderous lunatic had done little to inspire his awe. Yet now, as they got ready to charge into the battle for Erebor, Thorin was clad in simple chainmail and the goldlust was gone from his eyes and Dwalin had never seen him so radiant.

One last time they would follow him, as he had asked. One more battle, and then their quest would come to an end: to what end, Dwalin could not tell, but he allowed himself to hope it would be a good one. Stories needed a good ending, their burglar used to say, even if that did not always mean a happy one.

They would know soon enough, for now Bombur sounded his horn, and the barriers in front oft the gates broke. Armor clattered and feet shuffled as the companions prepared to charge, and then Thorin turned, just for a moment, to catch Dwalin’s eye and smile. It was a smile Dwalin had seen too rarely in all their time together, usually reserved for the private moments when they had allowed themselves to dream: a smile of wild, boundless hope.

Perhaps, Dwalin thought grimly, perhaps after all those years of hardship and suffering they had finally earned their happy ending. Surely they deserved it.

[judayre]

I e had the first two lines written for over a week.  But how could anything live up to them?

"You should go before you get it too."

Thorin snorted, not impressed by Dwalin’s sacrifice.  He put a damp cloth across Dwalin’s forehead and sat to continue his mending.  "You haven’t got a pox or a plague.  You aren’t likely to die unless it’s of neglect."  He slanted a look at Dwalin to express his opinion of that.

"You’ll miss the last caravan of the season," Dwalin pointed out, tense despite his aching muscles.  "Don’t we need the money?"

Thorin stilled, then moved to sit on the bedside and pressed a cool hand to Dwalin's flushed cheek.  "My first vow is to you," he said, voice soft and deep as thunder.  "Before any of my people, even Dís and her boys.  It will be tight, but we’ve been doing better the last few years.  We won’t starve."

Perhaps it was the fever, but Dwalin’s tears were closer to the surface than usual.  Thorin patiently wiped them all away and never left his side.

[aowyn]

[Podfic] The Chaos of War

The Chaos of War by @joyfullynervouscreator​​ | read by @aowyn​ | for @officialtolkiensecretsanta​

Length: 31:59, downloads: mp3 | Blooper Reel: mp3,  length: 1:38

For the Dworin Week 17 prompt 'Meeting'

Thorin is stuck in the Durin's Folk camp on the night before the final battle to conclude almost seven years of interspecies warfare. Dwalin is marching to join his family and friends. Their first meeting in nearly a decade won't be what either of them dreamed of.

The Major Character death warning is for canon-deaths: Fundin, Frerin and Náin.

May require tissues.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Category: Gen, M/M

Fandoms: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types

Relationships:  Balin & Dwalin & Fundin (Tolkien), Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, Thorin & Thraín, Dís & Frerin & Thorin Oakenshield

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Balin (Tolkien), Fundin (Tolkien), Dwalin (Tolkien), Original Dwarf Character(s), Azog (Tolkien), Dáin Ironfoot, Frerin (Tolkien)

Additional Tags: Battle of Azanulbizar, Waiting for War, Backstory, Dworin Week, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Canon - Book, Post-Battle of Azanulbizar, So.many.feels, Podfic & Podficced Works, Audio Format: MP3, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes

Language: English

[catchcrows]

me, coming back to the fic two days later having forgotten what i added: what the fuCK >:0

me: haha that's really sad i should put that in the fic bc it'd make people sad

me: oh. oh now i am sad too. argh how could i have foreseen this

[joyfullynervouscreator]

The Battle of Azanulbizar

The Chaos of War

This was one of my entries for Dworin Week 17, previously published on Ao3

Warning for canon deaths, and a possible need for tissues.

Chapter 1

“Word from Lord Náin, King Thraín!” the young messenger cried, hurtling into the tent that held the Durin Commanders. She was brandishing a scroll, sealed with the Stars of Durin and the personal seal of Nain of the Iron Hills. Fundin sighed. His brother in law had done as little as he could for the Ereborian refugees after Smaug’s attack, offering only supplies to his cousin-kin. The slight rankled, even if Fundin could understand Grór’s strained relationship with Thrór being the cause of it. He wondered what the Lord of the Iron Hills – conspicuously absent from Thraín’s command tent – had to say that required a messenger.

“Give it here, Æsa 'Udshankhuzd[1],” Thraín said, reaching for the scroll. Haga, one of the other commanders looked up when the King chuckled.

“Good news?” he wondered; the King’s smiles were rare as mithril these days, and after six years of warfare – mostly in the long-abandoned tunnels beneath the Misty Mountains, with a distinct lack of proper maps – Fundin could not blame him. He had never favoured war, being a born diplomat, but he had known that it would be futile to attempt to change Thraín’s mind after Nár brought back the news of Thor’s ignominious end. He had tried to stop young Thorin from making the attempt, though the Prince had not listened, and King Thraín had ended that discussion by calling his eldest a coward with no family honour.

“Nain’s bringing in another gangbuh[2], led by Lord Fundin’s cousin Gufa. They were unexpectedly delayed by the weather, but they’ll be here by morning, in time for our assault on the vale.” Thraín replied. The tense atmosphere inside the tent lightened slightly. The King’s attention landed on Fundin next, standing beside Balin. “Your son will be leading his own maznakkâ’, cousin. You should be proud of young Dwalin. I’m certain he will prove himself an able commander in the field.” Thraín’s head was bent to read the short missive, and missed the slight fear that crossed his advisor’s face at the news. Commanding a maznakkâ at such a young age – for a warrior relatively untested – was a great honour, and though Fundin had no doubt that Dwalin had earned his commission, he could not help but wish that at least one of his children could have stayed away from this war. A futile wish, in all ways; Dwalin was a warrior born and had already fought with Náin’s army in the south near Gladden, joining the Orocarni tribes in routing the Orc-forces there.

“Dwalin is coming?” Thorin couldn’t help but ask, the name that had been so familiar on his tongue until the day Fundin had sent Dwalin away to the Iron Hills to foster with his aunt and uncle – Lord Náin and his Lady, Rádveig, who was Dwalin’s mother’s twin sister – falling easily from his lips. He had never admitted to anyone how much he missed his friend – and lover, the small voice in his head reminded him – but Thorin suddenly felt a curious sense of uplifting at the thought that he would soon see Dwalin again, for the first time in almost ten years. Beside him, Balin smiled widely. He had gone back to the Iron Hills to visit and carry messages, so he had seen Dwalin more recently, but Thorin knew that his friend missed his brother far more than he let on.

The conversation turned to the battle they would fight in the morning; going over strategies and battle-plans until Thorin’s head was drooping with tiredness, and Fundin sent him off to join Frerin for supper and a good night’s rest.

Lying in his bedroll, Frerin’s golden curls pale in the darkness of their tent, Thorin wished that Náin’s reinforcements had arrived at nightfall, as originally planned for. He did not envy those who would be marching through the night, but even more than that, he wished that he had had a chance to speak with his long-absent friend before the horror of battle surrounded them once more. He wondered if the young warrior would have looked at him with the same fondness he had often dreamt he had seen in Dwalin’s eyes when he last saw him in the bleak Dunlands where the Erebor diaspora had first settled. In the dark of night, on the cusp of dreams, Thorin allowed himself to see once more that look in Dwalin’s eyes, the look that made him feel warm and tingly even when he was huddled alone under his blankets in the coldest of winters. He was not yet ready to call it love, but…soon.

  Dwalin was marching through the gathering dark. They had been delayed by a minor blizzard three days ago, and though the Fabarâl had tried to reach the Azanulbizar valley at the agreed-upon time, it had been impossible to catch the wasted hours. Instead, they would arrive in the morning. Dwalin scowled at the thought. Around him, his maznakkâ shared his disgruntled expression. No one liked the situation, but as Dwalin did not have the power to move them faster than their marching feet would take them, there was little release from the annoyance.

He had commanded soldiers before, one of the youngest ‘Uzkhâs Durin’s Folk had elected, but he had earned the accolade. His maznakkâ currently consisted of half Iron Hills Dwarrow and half Ereborian refugees, and while he knew that his Durin blood weighed heavily in the minds of his Ereborian soldiers, the Iron Hills Dwarrow respected him for the long line of Iron Hills generals his paternal sigin’amad had married to the Durin blood to spawn his own Adad. Fundin was a diplomat, like Balin, though he was a highly competent ’Azghzabad[3], something probably owed to his amad’s teachings. Dwalin’s sigin’adad, Farin, had been a merchant like his adad, but sigin’amad Geira had been a warrior born and bred, ‘iron in her veins’, as they said in the ‘Hills, the daughter and granddaughter of generals and commanders.

Geira and Farin had been a peculiar couple to look at; a small, plump dwarf with a shrewd mind for numbers, and a rather tall warrior with a fierce scowl and more muscles than Dwalin had seen on anyone else. In truth, he resembled her greatly, having grown into his own large bulk over the years, something she had foretold on the day of his birth, to believe Balin. Dwalin smiled at the thought. Geira had died with Smaug’s attack, her massive axe in hand as she tried to defend her son’s home against the overwhelming odds. It was the way she would have wanted to join Mahal’s Guard, Dwalin knew, the loss of his first Master-at-Arms no longer so raw. He still remembered the lessons she had barked at him, when he was still little more than a pebble; the day she had given him his first axe, teaching him the ancient warrior’s stances and forms he had later passed on to the new recruits he would help train in the Iron Hills as part of his own training for the role of Uzkhas.

Someday he might stand as Thorin’s ’Azghzabad, he dreamed, ruthlessly suppressing the joy he felt at his imminent reunion with his friend. His thoughts turned to Thorin, imagining those blue eyes, lit up with his smiles, as they laughed together at one of Frerin’s abominable jokes. He did not let himself dwell on the other ways Thorin’s eyes would smile at him; it had been nearly a decade since he had last seen the Prince, who might have easily found a different bedmate. Stroking the handle of his axe, Thorin’s face swam before his eyes. He had been surprised when Balin brought him the gift, from Thorin – his own work, marked with his raven – for his 50th Name-Day.

Letters could not bring the same closeness as actual conversation – Dwalin had never been fond of writing, and his letters usually ended up sounding like terse military missives to him, no matter how long he slaved over the word choices. Flowery words were Balin’s trick, Dwalin knew, content to let his brother handle all such things while he concerned himself with killing the things that needed killing, and protecting those who needed protection. The only time words seemed to flow for him was when he was writing music for his viol, and even then he was better at laments than happy dancing tunes, Dwalin thought wryly.

“Three hours rest!” The command of Gufa Fabarâl – a cousin on his Adad’s side, though distant – meant a chance to sleep, something Dwalin would have appreciated more if it had not also meant that he was three more hours from reuniting with his Adad and brother – and Thorin. He knew better than to grumble, though, and simply set out his bedroll, falling asleep almost immediately with the ease of one used to catching sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself.

It was dark when Thorin woke, Balin shaking him and Frerin both awake and sending them off to fill their bellies. The sky was covered in a dense layer of ominous clouds, the sight settling like a ball of lead in Thorin’s gut. Not for the first time, he wished that he had been able to send Frerin away, that Thraín had not allowed his youngest son to come along and play at war, a terrible sense of foreboding weighting his shoulders.

“Stay near me, Frerin. Promise,” Thorin implored, catching his brother’s sleeve as the younger dwarf was in the middle of telling a joke to the appreciative audience of three pretty dwarrowdams.

“Always, Thorin,” Frerin smiled, knocking his forehead against his oft-too-serious older brother’s. “My place is always beside you.” Thorin gave him a rare smile. His unease had not lifted, but he felt better for the small comfort. They would be part of the Vanguard, directly under Fundin’s command, following Thraín into battle.

Marching into the battle that the Children of Mahal would forever call nothing but Azanulbizar when they left it, Thorin felt proud of his kin. Around him, rank upon rank of heavily armoured soldiers marched, silent until they reached the East-Gate, where they cried their challenge as one voice, the sound shaking the very earth beneath them. Thorin would not have been surprised to hear that their war-cry had caused an avalanche in the mountains far above his head, but when they looked up it was not cascading snow they saw, but thousands upon thousands of Orcs, all along the western slopes.

Thorin no longer remembered how many he had killed over the last six years of war, but the numbers were high, the sustained losses so heavy that none of them had expected a force such as this to be waiting for them. Thorin found Frerin’s hand, giving him a squeeze that Frerin returned with a pale smile. Before them, multitudes of the ugly beasts were pouring from the Gate, their jeers loud in the crisp morning air. No sun lit the valley, giving the Orcs the mercy of hiding its face which Thorin considered another poor omen – or would have, if he had been inclined to believe in omens. Of course, the Dwarrow could see fine, some of them actually better in this half-dark than in bright sunshine, their Darksight eyes inherently suited to the lightless life under ground, after all. Still, the sight was a worrying one. They had not expected the enemy to be able to muster such numbers still, after the decimation they had suffered in their ranks since the war began, but Thorin realised quickly that the Dwarrow were vastly outnumbered. What was worse was that the Orcs currently possessed the significant advantage of high ground, which meant that their own army had to move quickly to seize the slopes. Just as Thorin thought that, the horn blew; his Adad’s signal.

“Baruk khazad!” They cried, as they launched the assault, “Khazad ai-menu!” Bellowing along with his fellows, Thorin charged, pushing through the sparse trees that lined the valley. Keeping his promise, Frerin stayed right beside him, his bow twanging as he aimed for the archers above. It was rare for ranged attackers to fight in the Vanguard itself, but Frerin would never leave his beloved bow behind, and his arrows felled many before he had to abandon it for his sword, forged during the three years it took to gather their forces before the War against Orcs truly began.

Thorin gave himself over to the bloodlust, barely noting the scrapes he received as he snarled, felling his enemies with impunity. His shield took most of the damage, the left arm absorbing the brunt of any blow he was not quick enough to dodge. Another forceful blow of a mace splintered the shield, and Thorin threw the pieces down with a roar of annoyance. He knew, however, that they weren’t winning, seeing dwarrow fall on either side of him with an almost detached mind; his only focus on the next enemy to kill, the next attack to evade or parry and return in ferocious blows of vengeance. Thinking quickly in the unexpected lull of the battle – they were retreating back through the trees slowly – Thorin picked up a large oaken branch, broken off in a storm perhaps, but the branch had broken in such a way as to form a natural handle as it lay along his forearm, taking the place of his splintered shield.

“FRERIN! NO!”

Thorin heard the cry, though it did not register at first. His heart filled with dread as he dispatched his current enemy to whatever awaited Orcs in the hereafter. Turning, an act that felt like it took an age, he watched the smile that still lingered on his brother’s face, even as he stared in horror at the bloodied spear that pierced his chest from behind.

“Frerin,” Thorin croaked, catching Frerin’s body as the younger Prince of Durin’s Folk collapsed, bringing them both to their knees. “No, nononono,” he moaned, trying to stem the gushing blood, even as he knew that it was pointless; Frerin was already gone. “Frerin! Frerin, please!” he wailed, paying no attention to the battle around him as his hands were stained crimson with his brother’s blood. He vaguely heard a growl, but the sound was far away and did not concern him, watching the life leave the golden-haired dwarf he had loved since he was no more than a bump under Frís’s jewel-toned gowns. He didn’t register the legs that stood like tree trunks on either side of him, firm against the swarming Orcs. He did not hear the thunks and the snicks and all the other sounds an axe makes when it cleaves flesh from bone, when it rends armour, when it is wielded by a master in berserker rage.

“FRERIN! NO!” Dwalin screamed. Gufa had split their gangbuh in two, sending five maznakkâ to aid the retreat of Thraín’s forces while the other followed Lord Nain to the East Gate. Dwalin had seen what Frerin had too: the orc who was aiming to cut off Thorin’s head as he stooped to pick something up off the ground. Dwalin, however, had also seen what Frerin had not. Dwalin had already been running, but even as he screamed the warning, hurling one of the well-weighted throwing axes his Aunt had made for both him and Dáin before they left, he knew it would do no good; he would not be swift enough to take the head of the Orc whose spear was aimed at the young Prince’s chest as he turned to defend his brother.

Frerin’s sword described a perfect deadly arc as he cut off the large Orc’s head before it could take Thorin’s. The small throwing axe buried itself in the back of the Orc’s head. Dwalin’s feet had wings, he was sure, as he sped towards the brothers – one he had called brother himself, and one he would call so much more if he’d let him – but it was too late. With a bellowed roar, his axes swung, his legs firmly planted on either side of Thorin, who seemed entirely subsumed by grief. Dwalin did not care. In his hands, Grasper and Keeper were living entities, whirling death at the end of his arms. Dwalin saw nothing but the red haze of fury. He vaguely heard Thorin’s whimpers, his pleas, his cries of agony, but as he stood there, the vengeful protector incarnate, he only cared for the next Orc to come at them, ending up hacked to pieces before him.

Chapter 2

From the Official Account of the Battle of Azanulbizar and the Burned Dwarrow:

The battle swayed back and forth across the floor of the valley. The youngest Prince of Durin’s Line, Frerin, was slain among the trees near Mirrormere, along with Lord Fundin, son of Farin, son of Borin. King Thraín of Durin’s Folk had been wounded in the first assault of the Vanguard upon the western slope, as had his oldest son, Prince Thorin, whose shield splintered so that his only means of defence was an oaken branch; henceforth he was deed-named Oakenshield for his valour in battle.

Lord Náin from the Iron Hills arrived near midday at the head of a force of fresh troops. Náin and his Dwarrow cut through the Orc lines with their mattocks, chanting, "AZOG! AZOG! AZOG!" until they had reached the steps of the gate, where Náin called for Azog to come out and fight. When Azog emerged from the inner gate with his guards, Náin was already exhausted and half-blind with rage. He tried to swing as hard as he could, but Azog darted aside and Náin missed, splintering his mattock on the ground. The orc kicked Náin in the leg when he dodged the Dwarf's blow, making him stumble. The momentary distraction was enough for Azog to try to behead Náin, like he had done his uncle, but his thrust was blocked by Náin’s mail. The protection was so thick that the blade did not penetrate, though the massive force of the blow broke Lord Náin’s neck. The Lord of the Iron Hills died instantly.

Even as Azog gloated over his victory, he looked out over the valley before him, and came to the realization that his entire force was routed. Those that could were fleeing southwards, and all his guard was dead. With that knowledge, he fled back to the gate. Náin’s only son, Dáin, whose foot had been crushed by an Orc’s mace, ignored his pain and leaped up the steps with his red axe. Before Azog could retreat into the darkness of Khazad-dûm, Dáin took his head with a mighty swing, bellowing his grief and rage. The Pale Orc fell, and the Battle of Azanubizar was ended. The slaying of Azog, remarkable as Lord Dáin was only 32 years of age, and the later replacement of his foot earned Lord Dáin the deed-name Ironfoot.

 The Dwarrow stood victorious, but when we began to tally the bodies that littered the field, half of our forces were dead or mortally wounded. The wounded were lying in tents, in the care of harried healers who would ultimately be too few to save all those they might have been able to if there had been more knowledgeable hands. The Orcs suffered even worse casualties, with ten thousand dead, but it was little comfort.

After the battle, King Thraín wanted to enter and reclaim Moria, the ancestral home of Durin's folk. However, due to their losses, the other Houses were not willing to participate in ousting the last Orc stragglers, and since young Lord Dáin claimed he had seen Durin's Bane beyond the East-gate, King Thraín refrained from entering.

The survivors stripped our dead so the Orcs could not plunder them, and cut down all the trees in the valley, which would remain bare ever after. They made many pyres on which to burn the dead. They could not bury them all in tombs of stone, as was their custom, because it would take too long. From then on those that died in Dimrill Dale were known proudly as Burned Dwarrow, remembered in the annals of our race.

A yearly memorial celebration is held in the honour of the Burned Dwarrow, on the day of the battle, 27 Af’dush[4], a sombre day spent telling stories with family and remembering those who died in the Valley.

The Houses parted ways, returning to their homes to the North, East, and West. Thráin, with what was left of the Longbeard contingent, went back to Dunland and eventually wandered into Eriador, settling in the Southern Blue Mountains. There Durin's folk repopulated slowly, waiting for the day when they could take back the halls of Erebor and Khazad-dum.

Chapter 3

Thorin felt numb, staring at the flames. They had collected all the wood they could find, and the smoke stung his eyes, tearless as he stared in horror at the pyre that would consign his brother’s body to ash, never to be laid to rest in the stone, and he thought he would have crumbled if Dwalin had not been standing beside him.

Dwalin could hardly think. He had stood on the field of battle, and he had known that death was coming for him, had greeted it with a snarl on his face and axes in his fists. He had known that he would die here, defending his Prince, his friend, and the golden-haired lad who had grown more than he had expected since they had last met, but who would grow no more. Thorin had wailed, had whimpered, had roared in pained rage, and Dwalin had followed, protecting his back as he sought vengeance, a mad explosion of metal, wielded against any who’d dare to stand against them. In the rage, he had found a strange serenity, as though he was only nominally in control of himself, watching himself hack and slash and parry and whirl with a sort of detached awe at the death he left in his wake. He had watched Thorin throw himself headlong into the battle, ignoring the wounds he had already taken, ignoring the scratches and bruises he earned as they fought their way across the blood-soaked field.

Surviving had been a surprise.

Finding Balin alive had been equally unexpected, but the look on his brother’s face had told him clearly that he should not expect to see his Adad until Itdendûm beckoned. The pain had been muted, and Dwalin still did not truly believe – and yet he had to, for the fire had caught Fundin’s tunic now, and he wished he could not smell this, he really wished he could hide his face in Balin’s shoulder or Thorin’s hair… anywhere.

Dwalin stood, still as a statue. Not a muscle twitched, bar his painfully tight grip on Balin’s and Thorin’s hands, but their fingers were squeezing his just as tightly, so tight a distant part wondered if any of them would regain use of their fingers come morning.

Thorin had looked to his Adad for comfort, but Thraín had none to give, had few words to spare for his son, whose praises the common soldiers were already singing, and Thorin knew that Thraín blamed him for Frerin’s death. He blamed himself, too, but he wished… oh, he wished… Wishing didn’t bring back the dead, Thorin thought, viciously, as he stared at the leaping flames. He saw without seeing, heard without hearing, stood there, straight and proud, determined to honour the sacrifice that had bought his life by at least watching as the one who had paid the price burned before him, burning his heart to ashes along with him. His fingers hand found Dwalin’s, almost accidentally, and that was all the comfort Thorin allowed himself to crave, ruthlessly stomping down his desire to wail and cry. He was a Prince of the Line of Durin, and he had never hated it more than he did this day, knowing that any tear he felled for Frerin would be a stain on their reputation in his Adad’s eyes. For royalty, grief was private, he had been told, even as they marched away from Erebor and he had been unable to hold back his tears when he realised how many friends and family had not made it out. In public, he must be strong, must carry the hopes of a people on his shoulders, and, oh, how he hated it.

The flames leapt against the star-studded blackness beyond the mountains.

Balin was angry. Angry at the world, at his King, at his Adad, at his Maker. He had seen his Adad fall, had briefly caught a glimpse of Dwalin charging across the field, and he had had no time to speak his last to either of them before a blow to the head had knocked him unconscious. It was sheer luck that he was not among those who were burning as those who could still stand stood watch, their eyes dead and empty, as those who could cry, cried tears of anguish and grief. They could hear the screams and whimpers from his far left, the healers’ tents overflowing with wounded and dying. Balin was angry, because anger was preferable to the crushing grief that waited around the corner as he watched his last true family burn. Now, all that was left was Dwalin and himself, and Balin wondered how this could be the Maker’s plan.

“He is with Amad, now…” he heard himself croak, almost too low to be heard, but Dwalin’s firm squeeze of his fingers told him that his little brother had heard.

“Perhaps… perhaps she will make him laugh again,” Dwalin whispered, as the flames mercifully obscured Fundin’s face from their sight. On his other side, Thorin shuddered.

“Frerin will make them both laugh,” he said, an oath and a plea in one. Balin and Dwalin both nodded.

None of them said another word through the long hours of vigil, watching their loved ones turned to ash.

[1] dwarf (about to reach battle ready age) who is the personal assistant to a lord, general or army commander, often carries messages and weapons or armour on his behalf (like a squire)

[2] March-company, a force consisting of 10 maznakkâ’(fist-force) of 49 Dwarrow.

[3] War-lord – battle tactician and right hand of the Uzbad, the Army’s top commander(Uzbad is also the word for lord & king, who usually filled that role)

[4] early/mid December

[ao3feed-dworin]

[Podfic] The Chaos of War

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2MvPlMt

by elrohir podfic (elrohir)

[Podfic] For the Dworin Week 17 prompt 'Meeting'

Thorin is stuck in the Durin's Folk camp on the night before the final battle to conclude almost seven years of interspecies warfare. Dwalin is marching to join his family and friends. Their first meeting in nearly a decade won't be what either of them dreamed of.

The Major Character death warning is for canon-deaths: Fundin, Frerin and Náin.

May require tissues.

Words: 24, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Balin (Tolkien), Fundin (Tolkien), Dwalin (Tolkien), Original Dwarf Character(s), Azog (Tolkien), Dáin Ironfoot, Frerin (Tolkien)

Relationships: Balin & Dwalin & Fundin (Tolkien), Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, Thorin & Thraín, Dís & Frerin & Thorin Oakenshield

Additional Tags: Battle of Azanulbizar, Waiting for War, Backstory, Dworin Week, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Canon - Book, Post-Battle of Azanulbizar, So.many.feels, Podfic & Podficced Works, Audio Format: MP3, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2MvPlMt