#kings of carven stone

[i-am-pinkie]

This is another of those aus that I go back to again and again.....it's just that good 😊😁

Even if he never heard those words again it was alright.

He knew.

for @shinigami714​; inspired by the truly incredible Kings of Carven Stone series.

voilà minou, un p’tit cadeau pour toi! (*≧ω≦*)

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[catz4ever]

Thranduil Fanfiction

"Amongst Starlight"

Chapter One: "Arnor"

It's finally here! A few things:

-The main character is NOT Aragorn's mother, she is named after her.

-My elvish translation is a little shaky as this is my first fic using the language.

-Thranduil is officially present in chapter two, so he's coming, I promise. This is just an introductory chapter!

-I welcome all suggestions and discussion, so please feel free to comment below or send me a message! I hope you like it!

*if you would like to be tagged in future updates on this fic please let me know! I tagged a few of you below who already notified me*

*AO3 is giving me some trouble so it's not posted on my account yet but this is the rough copy*

@coopsgirl @tigereyesf @warriormirkwood

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In the Northeastern plains in the forests of Eriador lay the remnants of the ancient Kingdom of Arnor. Since the fall of Numenor, many tribes of its descendents hid themselves in the wilderness. Long had they avoided the orcs who patrolled their lands, living in peace while keeping their people safe. Rumors had emerged of a young prince, the son of one Arathorn, who had survived an orc raid and named the heir of Elendil. His true identity was hidden from many say for those who were close to the late chieftain of the north and the elves who kept him safe. In Rivendell he secretly dwelled under the name Estel and thrived under the care of the house of Elrond. The remaining men were called rangers by many in Middle-Earth and were rarely seen. They lived scattered across the north and  concealed by the many woods and hills available to them.

 Just east of the old ruins of Fornost lived a small group of Dunedain. They were a simple and humble people but kept mainly to themselves, avoiding contact with outsiders; making their home at the foot of the weather hills as a protective measure. Their chieftain was Talion and he ensured the safety and prosperity of his people. Deep in the woods of his realm is where our story begins.

The sun rose over the horizon in the early hours of the morning, the evening's dew still coating the ground. In the distance, the quick pounding of hooves could be heard as two horses raced through the winding trails of the forest floor, each with a rider on their back. One of the horsemen was a young woman, her auburn curls danced playfully along her back, shining like fire in the rays of the morning sunrise. She was clad in a deep green tunic and matching trousers, with brown boots laced up to her knees. She stood up in her stirrups and whistled, pushing her steed to a faster gallop. Her horse was a beautiful dark grey mare, a hand or so taller than her companion's mount who was only a few feet behind, trying to keep pace with her.

 She kept glancing back at him and laughing at the hilarity of her lead. The young man behind her was older but similar in appearance, and taller. He did his best to encourage his horse to shorten the distance between them, but to no avail. As they continued to race through the woods, a white falcon soared above the treeline, following them closely. Around his ankles were a pair of jesses, woven lengths of leather meant to allow his handler to secure him when perched. His pale feathers danced as the breeze in the skyline passed by, and he let out an excited screech as he watched the mounted competition below him. The two riders sped through the valley and they ran into an opening where the river met a beautiful meadow. Once the woman crossed the water to the other bank, she pulled back on the reins, easing her horse into a gentle trot. Moments later, her companion crossed the stream and caught up with them, matching his steed's pace with hers. She glanced over at him and laughed, a proud smirk on her lips. 

"It appears I have won, dear cousin. So you must uphold our terms," she teased. He shook his head in disapproval but smiled back at her. 

"I'd hardly count this as a fair victory given you had a ridiculous head start," he mocked. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. 

"It's not my fault that you didn't secure your saddle girth properly," she replied. 

"You could have waited…" he said. 

"Indeed I could have…but where's the fun in that?" she said back, chuckling along with him, "Or would you rather sort this out with a rematch if sorts?"

"Perhaps a sparring match would settle the scale… You win, I'll give you the information you want. But if I best you, you'll have to clean my saddle and tack for a week," he replied. She gave him a mischievous grin and dismounted, pulling a broadsword from a sheath at her side.

"Very well, but we both know who is more skilled with the blade," she teased and began to circle him, the sharp point of her sword pointed in his direction. He brandished his weapon and twirled it quickly in his hand, finishing his display with his elbow raised to his shoulder, blade at the ready. 

"Come then, Gilraen, let's see these superior skills of yours…," he mocked, motioning with his hand to step forward. She tilted her head quickly to catch him off guard, then lunged at him, catching his blade against hers. He parried her blow and held her there, pressing the steel of their weapons together so she could not move. He slowly slid the edge of his blade up hers until it barely touched the cross guard. 

"You'll have to do better than that…," he said, smirking at her. She pushed him off and stepped backwards, holding her sword's blade so the flat end was balanced on the back of her other hand. Gilraen was swift and impulsive with her blows, while her cousin favored a more defensive stance. For several minutes they took turns striking and parrying until one of them lost their footing. After blocking one of her swings, the young man tripped over his own feet and pummeled to the ground. His weapon fell from his hand and he lay flat on his back, her foot pressing on his chest. She playfully held her sword up to his neck. 

"Surrender…," she ordered, smiling down mischievously at him. He raised his hands in defeat and laughed.

"Alright….I yield…," he replied. She sheathed her sword and offered her hand to help him stand. Brushing himself off, he secured his own weapon back at his side and walked over to his horse. He pulled a small roll of folded parchment from his saddle bag. She ran over and tried grabbing it from his hands.

"Come on then, let me see it!" she pleaded as he dangled it above her head just out of reach. Before their race across the countryside, Eothyn had mentioned that he had received news from outside of their realm regarding a summoning. Where or whom the message had been sent from was not mentioned.  The agreement was he would share this information with her if she won. 

"Patience…this is an official parcel and I'd hate for it to be ruined," he said, handing it to her. Before opening it, Gilraen noticed a familiar insignia in the wax seal. A bright star in the middle encircled by an intricate pattern of vines twisted beautifully around the border. It was the family crest of the house of Elrond; the message had arrived from Rivendell. Her eyes lit up and she excitedly looked at her cousin.

"This is a summons from Lord Elrond!" she said happily as he nodded in response. Unfolding the paper, she began to read the letter to herself. "Lord Talion, I am pleased to inform you all arrangements have been officialized. I have been on speaking terms with the King and he has agreed to travel to Imladris. We request the presence of you and your family in the valley so we can proceed with our agreement as discussed.  In a few days time, I will send one of my sons to accompany you. I hope this letter finds you and your kin well. I look forward to your arrival. Elrond."

She looked quizzically at Eothyn, her eyebrows twisted with confusion. To her surprise, he seemed ashamed of the news and pressed his lips together nervously.

"What is this then? What arrangements is he talking about?....Eothyn?" she asked, waiting for an answer.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this…but there's something you should know," he replied shyly. 

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The agreement in question is marriage," he explained to her. 

"And why aren't you supposed to tell me this?" she demanded. 

"You have been chosen by Elrond and my father to partake in this arrangement," he said. 

"Me?!" she screamed, "and you agreed with this? You're perfectly fine with me being handed off to some stiff nosed king?!"

"He's not just any King. He is the Elven King, Thranduil," he told her. 

"I suppose that makes it all better then," she shot back, raising her arms in disgust. 

"At least we have the opportunity to visit Rivendell again. Elrond is a dear friend and I know you've missed the beauty of Imladris more than any of us," he said, trying to calm her anger.  He tenderly placed his hand on her shoulder. She gave him a small smile but he could see tears gathering in her eyes. 

"Forgive me, I took my anger out on you…this is all so sudden and unexpected," she replied. 

"I know…which is why I wanted you to know ahead of time so you weren't caught completely unaware," he told her. She paused for a moment and looked tenderly at him.

"For that, you have my thanks," she said and hugged him tightly. As he held his cousin there, the silence of the morning was broken by the mellow call of a small elven horn. She looked up at him and grinned cheek to cheek. 

"They're here!" she shouted happily. Reaching for a small whistle in her pocket, she put it to her lips and let out a pattern of high pitched tones. In the skies above, a white speck began to grow into the shape of the falcon who had been following them. He screeched happily and she held out her arm, protected by a thick bracer made of leather, allowing him to land gracefully.  Taking a dried strip of squirrel jerky from her saddle, she gave it to her falcon as a reward. She carefully stroked his back feathers with a sincere fondness. 

"Shall we greet our friends from Rivendell, Astar?" she asked the falcon. He bobbed his head and neck quickly and chirped in agreement. Astar perched himself on her shoulder as she mounted her steed. Eothyn readied himself and his horse for the inevitable race home.  She glanced over at her cousin with a mischievous grin while he wasn't looking and positioned her horse next to his. Carefully, she undid the buckle of his saddle girth as he was focusing on securing his belt and faced in the opposite direction. 

"Race you back?..." she teased while winking at him.  

"Only if we both start at the same time, and no cheating," he said back to her sternly. 

"I wouldn't dream of it!" she lied. Coaxing Astar back onto her arm, she lifted her arm up, and he took off into the blue sky above. Her cousin placed his foot in one of the stirrups and hoisted himself onto the saddle. 

"On my mark then," said Eothyn. 

"Don't trust me, do you?" she asked, mockingly.

"Not for a second," he teased back, "three, two,...one!"

And with that, both horses took off as their riders squeezed their sides. Within a few feet of a full gallop however, Eothyn's saddle loosened and snapped off, causing him to fall off of his horse and into the grass of the meadow. 

"You cheater!!!," he yelled after her as she galloped ahead. 

"Never turn your back on an opponent, cousin!" she yelled back, laughing as she continued down the trail. Minutes later she entered the border of the forest and the small village of theirs came into view. Careful to watch for any children playing in the square, she made her way to the great hall, where her uncle Talion was waiting to greet them. Their guests had arrived just as she did and the villagers whispered with excitement as the elves dismounted. Glancing back behind her, she saw Eothyn leading his horse while carrying his saddle and smiled. 

The commander of the company had long dark hair and grey eyes. He was clad in silver silk that draped over a beautiful suit of armor that was both light and sturdy. Indeed this was one of the sons of Lord Elrond, but it was not clear which one he was until the hood of his cloak was removed. There was a small scar on his left cheek that led to his ear. It was a battle wound from orcs when he and his brother rescued their mother from her torment. Before he could even reach Talion to greet him, she ran forward and jumped into his arms, embracing the young elf.

"Elrohir!!!! Mae Govannen, Hîr nìn! (Well-met/welcome, my Lord!)" she exclaimed joyfully. Elrohir lifted her off the ground and laughed happily in response to her greeting. 

"Mae Govannen, mellon nìn! Le hannon! (Greetings my friend! I thank you!)" he said back, squeezing her gently and ruffling her hair. Setting her down he turned to Talion, walking over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Talion did the same to his elven friend and they nodded, smiling happily. 

"Elrohir, Mae Govannen, Gi nathlam hí! ( You are welcome here!)", Said Talion, nudging the elf's shoulder. 

"Mae Govannen, Le Fael (thank you/you are generous)," said Elrohir.

"Where is Elladan?" asked Gilraen. He smiled in her direction and began untacking his horse. 

"My father has sent him to Mirkwood to accompany the King on the long road to Rivendell," he explained, "do not fret, he will be there for the festivities."

"Tolo ar nin (come with me), we have much to discuss before our departure!" Said Talion. Eothyn handed Gilraen his horse's reins and followed his father and their elven guests into the great hall. Before she could ask if she could join, the doors closed behind them. She huffed with frustration and blew into her small whistle to beckon Astar. Within seconds, the small falcon found his way to her arm and landed gracefully.  He waddled up to her shoulder and perched on the leather padding, nudging her for a reward. She laughed and reached into her saddle bag for the dried meat and gave it to him. Stroking his wings, she looked back at the closed doors, knowing the conversation was about her future. 

"I think it's perfectly indecent to plan a marriage without one's consent," she told him. Her falcon let out a small series of soft screeches which she interpreted as an agreement. 

"You're lucky you do not have to worry about such things, Mellon nìn (my friend)," she told him, walking her steed and her cousin's back to the stable. 

"I wonder what he's like…this elven king? From the little I have heard about him, he sounds callus and cold," she said, "what I don't understand, is why me? Why did he choose me?"

Astar tilted his head with curiosity as if he was just as stumped as she was. She took the horses into their stalls and secured them before safely putting the saddles back in the tack cellar. Grabbing a wooden bucket, she scooped a large portion of oats and grain and began feeding the horses their breakfast. A choir of hungry and excited whinnies echoed throughout the stable as she began to fill their feeding troughs. When she had finished, she took a broom and swept the alleyway, removing the dirt and stray pieces of hay from the floor. 

A couple of hours later, Eothyn walked into the stable and motioned for her to follow him. Before she entered the great hall, Astar leapt off of her shoulder and flew over to a fence post to perch. She entered to find the elves and her uncle gathered around a large table in the center of the room. 

"Gilraen. We apologize for the secrecy but we wanted to make sure all was in place before telling you," said Talion, pulling out a chair for her to sit in.

"Tell me what? The news of my apparent betrothal to the elven king?" she asked snidely. Eothyn immediately blushed and looked away from his father. 

"How did you…?" he asked, his eyebrows twisted in confusion. 

"Eothyn told me already," she shot back. 

"Of course he did," he replied angrily, glancing over at his son, "that summons was confidential." 

"She was going to find out either way," said her cousin. Talion gave him a cold and piercing side glance.

"That will be enough from you, boy," he said, nodding towards a chair, "sit please and kindly remain silent for the rest of this discussion." 

Eothyn did as his father asked him, making a point to slam the chair on the ground before sitting. Gilraen held in her laughter as best as she could, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. Elrohir and the other elves glanced around awkwardly, taking care not to get involved in the conflict. Talion cleared his throat and composed himself before speaking again.

"Many apologies, gentlemen. I believe Lord Feren has an official statement from the elven king to deliver before we begin with the proceedings," said Talion, gesturing to an elf across the table. Gilraen did not recognize him and noticed he was wearing duller tones than the elves who had come from Rivendell. His hair was almost as red as her own, but it was straight and fell over his shoulders with a neat elegance. He seemed nervous and a bit fidgety in the company of his kin, but stood and spoke with authority. He bowed in the direction of Talion and then Gilraen. 

"My Lord,....my lady…, indeed I do. If you will allow me to do so, I will read it aloud," he replied, unrolling a sealed scroll. Talion nodded in approval and motioned for him to continue. Before he could begin, Gilraen interrupted the silence with her disapproval. 

"If this is an official statement of the king's intent to marry, should he not deliver it himself?" she asked sarcastically. Feren swallowed hard and looked over at her uncle, setting the parchment back on the table. 

"I beg your pardon?" he asked with a tone of shock. 

"He has chosen me as his wife, has he not?" she replied.

"Gilraen…a great honor has been bestowed upon our house. You will address the king's council with respect," said Talion. 

"It's alright, Talion, let her speak,"said Feren,"you have been chosen, my lady yes."

"Does he not want to meet his bride in person?  Or is he too busy to bother with pleasantries?" she asked with a scowl on her face. 

"Many apologies my lady, but the king thought it best to conduct the personal introductions in Rivendell," said Feren. 

"Did he?" she asked, mockingly.

"He wanted to ensure everything was conducted properly under Lord Elrond's guidance," he replied sternly, "now if you please, I would like to get back to reading this so we can continue with all the proceedings."

"Very well…," she said.  

She sat there crossing her arms, annoyed and partially embarrassed for the way she had spoken, but nodded in agreement. 

"Thranduil Oropherion, King of Mirkwood and Lord of the woodland realm, thanks you for accepting his offer of marriage. By accepting these nuptials, the following will be granted to you and your kin: you will be given the title queen of Mirkwood and thus have free reign of the forest and the surrounding realm of the Elven kingdom. You will leave behind your home in Arnor and take permanent residence in the woodland realm. The remaining kin left behind will be granted an annual sum of gold to insure their security and survival. All Gilraen's living expenses and personal needs will be funded in full. No family dowry is expected for payment, and will not be required for Gilraen's agreement. The king wishes you well and looks forward to meeting you once you arrive in Imladris," said Feren, rolling up the scroll. 

"That is quite a generous gesture is it not, Gilraen?" Talion asked, glancing over at his niece. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and shrugged. 

"If you say so…," she replied.

"Excellent! I believe we have an accord, Feren," said Talion reaching across the table to shake the elf's hand. Feren happily followed suit, sealing the young woman's fate when their hands met.  

"King Thranduil will be pleased. We should leave for Rivendell soon to make arrangements for the marriage," said Feren before sitting down. Elrohir then stood from his seat, and addressed the room.

"My company and I will be happy to lead your family safely to Imladris, Lord Talion," said the young elf. 

"We would be most grateful. I will see to it that the lady and my family are packed and ready to leave at first light," Talion replied happily. The company of elves stood along with their leader and bowed reverently at Gilraen and her family. She and the rest of the Dunedain present stood in response and bowed as well. 

"Abarad (until tomorrow)," said Elrohir before leaving the hall. Once the elves had left, Talion slammed his fist down on the table, making Eothyn and Gilraen jump. 

"What on earth was that for??!!!" he yelled at Gilraen. 

"What?!" she said back.

"Your behavior in that council was completely out of line!" he screamed. 

"My behavior?! And I suppose planning an arranged marriage behind my back is perfectly acceptable!!" she replied angrily. 

"You are of age and it is time for you to step up and accept your duty as a woman in this household," he said sternly to her. 

"Oh, Is it also my duty to accept any proposal blindly just because my choices are made for me!?"

"I promised your father I would look after you and ensure your future is taken care of. This is what he would want for you!"

"DON'T YOU DARE ASSUME WHAT MY FATHER WOULD WANT!" she screamed, pushing her chair to the floor," he would allow me to speak for myself and choose my own path!"

"He is NOT here, Gilraen. I am your guardian and you will do as you are told!" yelled Talion. She walked up to her uncle until their noses were nearly touching. Her face was red and tears began to pool in her eyes. Her lips trembled as she spoke, but the fire in her eyes remained. 

"He would be ashamed of you…" she said in an aggressive whisper, pain in her voice. Talion could not speak, and lowered his head in silence, her words like an icy dagger in his heart. She began to weep and left the hall, her cheeks soaked with salty streams of tears. When she had slammed the door behind her, Eothyn touched his father's shoulder and smiled.

"Let me talk to her. She just needs time," he said to Talion. His father nodded as he watched his son chase after Gilraen. He shook his head and exhaled with frustration. 

"What am I going to do with her, brother? Please give me patience," he spoke to the empty room, as if his deceased sibling was still there. 

[volcano-fire-dwarves]

(At the foot of the volcano to the south, a monstrous door of stone slowly opens. A group of short, rather stout humanoids, skin made of stone and iron, lava pooling in the eyes, fire bursting from their heads and faces and arms and legs and chests varying in strength and size like hair, march out in unison. Armed with hammers and pickaxes, swords and shields, and axes and bows, they are determined to prevent the return of the ice people, heralding the return of the fire dwarves from long ago, buried beneath their volcano.)

OOC

Epprbcu blog, ran by the same person as @john-tendrils-exclam-the-eighth and like six other blogs. Help/hj. The fire dwarves don't like the ice people, live beneath a volcano, and have returned from the weird nebulous backstory time of John that no one he's not directly affiliated with actually remembers because they heard the ice people returned and aren't very happy about that. They'd have shown up sooner, but the sun vanishing weakened them. They mine a lot.

TAGS

The King beneath the mountains: Interaction tag

The King of carven stone: Ask tag

The lord of silver fountains: General posts

Shall come into his own: Lore tag

The rest should be self-explanatory :3

[sugurugetos]

@lotrweek 2024 — Day IV: Gifts, Burdens and Choices ↳ ARAGORN II & THORIN II OAKENSHIELD + Prophecy

01. All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost. The old that is strong does not wither. Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken. A light from the shadows shall spring. Renewed shall be blade that was broken. The crownless again shall be king.

02. The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone. The King beneath the Mountain shall come into his own. And the bells shall ring in gladness at the Mountain King's return. But all shall fail in sadness, and the lake will shine and burn.

[sanjoongie]

𝕄𝕠𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒𝕪~ ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕍𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟

🌃Pairing: Kang Yeosang x Reader (f)

🌃Genre: smut, pwp

🌃Au: fantasy au, harpy au, royal au, concubine au

🌃Trope: concubine/king

🌃Warnings: penetrative sex, sex at great heights

🌃Rating: 18+, MDNI

🌃Word Count: 275

🌃Summary: As the human concubine to the King of the Harpies, there's some perks to when he visits your bed chambers

🌃divider by @cafekitsune

🌃Day Version | Masterlist | Tongueday

Fucking Yeosang while your upper half was hanging off your balcony always added an extra zing to your sex. The king of the harpies enjoyed the way fear zested your sex, and so, this is how he took you majority of the time.

His moans echoed out to the rocky coast and contested the very waves crashing against the cliffs. Sometimes, if the waves were choppy enough, the salty spray would hit your face.

“Everyone warned me once I got a taste of the cunt of a human, that I'd never fuck one of my kind again,” Yeosang moans behind you again. “They were right to warn me.”

The rough stone of the carven fort that was Yeosang’s Harpy Palace dug into your hips as Yeosang’s girthy cock stretches you out again and again with each thrust. Yeosang bid you to only wear the most diaphanous of clothing, that covered even your face, but did nothing to hide your body. It also did nothing to soften the push of the balcony's edge against your plush body.

“My king,” You cry out, feeling your climax ascend with every rub of Yeosang’s cock against your g-spot.

“Go on,” Yeosang chuckles, “Make every harpy woman in this clutch want to be you, you wanton vixen.”

“I’m the only one that can satisfy your desires,” You moan loudly. “This is the only pussy that you want.”

Yeosang back winged, waving his body behind you. “Only you can satisfy me, concubine.”

The feeling of Yeosang filling you from behind and the roar of the sea below made you moan in fear and lust. It was not a moan of disappointment.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of Menegroth

Today’s Silmarillion Daily contains two events - one is the building/carving of Menegroth and the other, happening around the same time in Valinor, is the births of Turgon and Finrod.

Here’s the part on Menegroth:

Now Melian had much foresight, after the manner of the Maiar; and when the second age of the captivity of Melkor had passed, she counselled Thingol that the Peace of Arda would not last forever. He took thought therefore how he should make for himself a kingly dwelling, and a place that should be strong, if evil were to awake again in Middle-earth; and he sought aid and counsel of the Dwarves of Belegost. They gave it willingly, for they were unwearied in those days and eager for new works; and though the Dwarves ever demanded a price for all that the did, whether with delight or with toil, at this time they held themselves paid. For Melian taught them much that they were eager to learn, and Thingol rewarded them with many fair pearls. These Círdan gave to him, for they were got in great number in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar; but the Naugrim had not before seen their like, and they held them dear. One there was as great as a dove’s egg, and its sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea; Nimphelos it is named, and the chieftain of the Dwarves of Belegost prized it above a mountain of wealth.

Therefore the Naugrim laboured long and gladly for Thingol, and devised for him mansions after the fashion of their people, delved deep in the earth. Where the Esgalduin flowed down, and parted Neldoreth from Region, there rose in the midst of the forest a rocky hill, and the river ran at its feet, There they made the gates of the hall of Thingol, and they built a bridge of stone over the river, by which alone the gates could be entered. Beyond the gates wide passages ran down to high halls and chambers far below that were hewn in the living stone, so many and so great that that dwelling was named Menegroth, the Thousand Caves.

But the Elves also had part in that labour, and Elves and Dwarves together, each with their own skill, there wrought out the visions of Melian, images of the wonder and beauty of Valinor beyond the Sea. The pillars of Menegroth were hewn in the lines of the beeches of Oromë, stock, bough, and leaf, and they were lit with lanterns of gold. The nightingales sang there as in the gardens of Lórien; and there were fountains of silver, and basins of marble, and floors of many-coloured stones. Carven figures of beasts and birds there ran upon the walls, or climbed upon the pillars, or peered among the branches entwined with many flowers. And as the years passed Melian and her maidens filled the halls with woven hangings wherein could be read the deeds of the Valar, and many things that had befallen in Arda since its beginning, and shadows of things that were yet to be. That was the fairest dwelling of any king that has ever been east of the Sea.

And when the building of Menegroth was achieved, and there was peace in the realm of Thingol and Melian, the Naugrim yet came ever and anon over the mountains and went in traffic about the lands; but they went seldom to the Falas, for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it. To Beleriand there came no other rumour or tidings of the world without.

There’s another tidbit about Menegroth in History of Middle-earth (The Peoples of Middle-earth, “The problem of Ros”):

…the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of his stronghold of Menegroth…was called the Menelrond [heaven-dome], because by the arts and aid of Melian its high arched roof had been adorned with silver and gems set in the order and figures of the stars in the great Dome of Valmar in Aman, whence Melian came.

The section further states that Elwing named Elrond in memory of this place, and that this was held to be prophetic, as it foreshadowed Elrond choosing the kindred of the Eldar and “carrying on the lineage of King Elwë [Footnote: Also also that of Turgon; though he oreferred that of Elwë, who was not under the ban that was laid on the Exiles.]”, while Elros, named for water, crossed the seas and became King of Númenor.

I feel like Menegroth in the passage above comes about as close as anything else we see to Eru’s ideal for the Ainur and the Eruhíni: dwarves and elves and a Maia all working together in Middle-earth to make something beautiful with their different skills and knowledge. The decision to do it in incited by the awareness of danger, but that leads not to hostility but to cooperation and beauty. It’s not in Valinor, but it recalls much of Valinor and of the Valar: the carvings of trees and woodland creatures recall the forests of Oromë, the nightingales the gardens of Lórien, the tapestries of history (and visions of the future) the halls of Vairë and Mandos. Different peoples get a glimpse of things they don’t fully understand, but are drawn to: the dwarves can’t stand the sea, but they nonetheless love Círdan’s pearls.

This is what makes the way Menegroth ends such an absolute tragedy, and it is what makes Legolas and Gimli in The Lord of the Rings the redress of that tragedy: their visits to Aglarond and Fangorn, each understanding what the other loves, is a kind of echo of the unity of these caverns carved with trees and forest-creatures. They’re putting things right. (As, in a different way, Galadriel is putting Fëanor’s story right, and Elrond is putting Thingol’s specifically right.) Not putting things back exactly as they were, but healing them.

[oreliel-from-valinor]

The King beneath the mountains,    The King of carven stone, The lord of silver fountains    Shall come into his own!

[vermakesthings]

Lament for Blonicku (Full Version)

Oh Blonicku, oh Blonicku,

May light eternal shine on you,

Where Mark was found, the Nuthri's strings,

The oldest land, of mountain kings

Monarchs who sat on carven thrones,

regents of gods now bound by bones,

who bore the earth's holiest jewel,

By divine right the world they rule

The eldest land, the great refuge,

the world in chaos, Nirum's deluge,

a land for all that's free of war,

the healers hands beyond the door

First comes the eldest queen, Nrolin

Who risked a trek to war and sin

Request to earth to raise his hand,

The mountains shall protect the land

Then Vlorindul, the king of kings,

To him the choir gladly sings,

He took to stone and earth to bring,

The door to home, the only spring,

Oh Blonicku, oh Blonicku,

May light eternal shine on you,

Palace and homes, they shined so bright,

The peaceful land, the greatest sight,

The princess born so fair and wise,

The kingdom feared, for her demise

T'was born of mortal kind, and yet,

The Mark did come, released her debt.

The prince, a house of fallen grace,

The house betrayed, attained his place,

Upon the thrones of mountain kings,

The princess loved, exchange of rings,

Oh Blonicku, oh Blonicku,

May light eternal shine on you,

Your land ruined, the door is closed,

Your spark is gone, the kings deposed

Your line yet shines, the mark is strong,

And when the dark marches along,

We shall return to you again,

refuge in mountain kings' strong land

Though now your land ruined and gone,

The door opens, to bring the dawn,

We wait for you in years beyond,

In lesser lands your ruin spawned,

Oh Blonicku, oh Blonicku,

may light eternal shine on you.

[astarab1aze]

Nations and Their Cities (4)

Norhaven - north of chimachi across the bay of lights, south of the barrowfells and east of breslin

Capital: Stönmead

Cities: Hakkon, Blodfjor, Edda, Vulkholm, Calder, Andervik, Ealdermorne, Brithfar, Virith, Bogwood, Juniper, Dyrheim, Holmesberg, Balta, Skivik, Florstad, Beorn, Norsiche, Helm, Røyk, Smibølg, Mjødjord

Sights: Bonnesäx Forge (the largest dragon bone forge on the continent), Khuthd's Well (lava flow under the forge), Ruins of V'hai (ancient elfhen ruin beneath Stönmead), Alfskog ('forest of elves'), Trollhammer (grave of the trolls), Dødsflamme (monument to those who died from dragon attacks), Bay of Lights (shared with Chimachi for funerary rites), Flaxen Fields (fields of blessed golden grain), King Ragnvar's Apiary (royal beekeepers), Steinhage (a 'garden' of carven stone statues), Hvit Isfelt (ever frozen pools people use to skate or fish), Kjempoppe (cliffside site of a massacre, used for suicides now near Skivik), Lord Seidr's Mysterium (arcane emporium belonging to renowned diviner Seidr of the Open Mind), the Seething River (river of boiling-hot sulphuric water), The Bee & Bear Meadery (famous meadery run by bees and bears in Mjødjord), and more.

Strigane - west of myrrdin, south of viostra & kavast, northwest of nilmyrion

Capital: Sisyphia

Cities: Aylmunt, Vina Morte, Blodmire, Femura, Radialis, Lyka, Grimshkari, Craven, Balefiera, Coffindwell, Heartland, Sepulchria, Sangesivin, Orga, Medens, Rufus, Gravis, Upira, Libitina, Stricat, Schelet, Sacrificare, Exutus, Iumenta, Vivere, Frigor, Aortia, Vaalichia, Nixtriga, Enavryn, Kharne, Kainsgrove, Nospirita

Sights: Dead Fens (wetlands full of preserved bodies from previous conflicts), Night's Sacred Ground (the land on which Sisyphia is located), Night's Cathedral (a bastion of Strigani education for both humans and undead), Sanguinach's Pit (a still active volcano in the Strigani Dragon's Spine), Castle Severa Gor (a glorified prison), Sanctum Ossus (castle built from bone), Letum Dominus (monument to a long-dead lord), Sanctus Os Infernum (the Strigani gate to the hells), Memoria Insidium Pools (a series of small, blood red pools mirroring the hells), Kaer Dēle (witcher school), the Bloodwood (ironically named forest of pines that bleed red sap), Ashblight Gap (plains and forests still effected by the Mad Empress' war), Zâneferus Garrán (fey pools), and plenty more.

Breslin - east of the dustveil, north of the a'virda fhal'tir, west of norhaven, yuurei, and chimachi, northwest of kopari & j'verdien

Capital: Briquette (locally pronounced 'Bricket', like cricket with a b)

Cities: Vinia, Myrrmid, Raidd, Shadecopse, Peartree, Dead Sow, Cottonwood Village, Buckhorn, Almasc, Vettiver, sister cities Close and Far (in relation to the capital), Braeburn

Sights: Owlit Valley (a valley almost totally inhabited by owls), Blackthorne Brush (an ill-omened extension of the Vitalean Blackthorne Bramble), Crown of Bonnesäx (the true tomb of the famed dragon), Hargraven's Refuge (sanctuary lands for animals), Coldfire Fortress (old citadel built into the mountain near Briquette, serves double as an underground tunnel to the Barrowfells), Forbidden Nesting Grounds (ancient dragon nests), Pettablossom Church (heretical dragon worshippers in the Nesting Grounds), Progenitor's Start (temple honoring the Firsts of mythical species, gods unto themselves), the Copper River (muddy-orange river flowing out of the mountain), The Dragon's Wall (flat, sorta cliffside of the mountain), Drakehaven Manse (Knights of the Dragon headquarters), and so on and so forth.

[bluehourskyeli]

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

 

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

 

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

 

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

 

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

[thorinsghivashel]

The King beneath the mountains,

    The King of carven stone,

The lord of silver fountains

    Shall come into his own!

His crown shall be upholden,

    His harp shall be restrung,

His halls shall echo golden

    To songs of yore re-sung.

The woods shall wave on mountains

    And grass beneath the sun;

His wealth shall flow in fountains

    And the rivers golden run.

And the bells shall ring in gladness,

    At the Mountain-king's return!

But all shall fail in sadness

    And the lake will shine and burn -J.R.R.Tolkien

His Majesty,Thorin II Oakenshield son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A kind he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

"The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" - J.R.R. Tolkien

[volcano-fire-dwarves]

*the anon disappears like they were never there

|+ 1 bucket of snow|

Wha- right.

[lairesta]

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring --

.

[neostriatum]

ešretū of a burglar

[AO3] [Dreamwidth]

-

The hoard of gold is cursed. Bilbo looks at Thorin and suspects the Arkenstone is, too. This beautiful, thrice-blasted stone weighs heavily in his hands and he would like nothing better than to give it to another’s. Whose hands, he thinks bitterly, could hold the Arkenstone without breaking under its thrall? No mortal being, and that is certainly the truth.

-

It is one dreary day, nominally no different from the last, when Bilbo finds himself in conversation with Balin.

“If- if the Arkenstone were to be found,” Bilbo asked, refraining from cringing at Balin’s sharp, knowing look, “Would that help him?”

His friend sighed, “No. No, I do not believe it will.” They both looked at the corridor, where Thorin doubtlessly lurked beyond it, focused only on a symbol of his kingship rather than how much loyalty he already had from his Company, “Tis best if it remains lost.”

He watched Balin watch the air in front of them, face composed in the stare of one traversing memories no one could accompany, heart falling.

“Mahal help all of us, it will not help him.” Balin heaved a weary breath that seemed to rattle down his beard, walking by to pat him on the shoulder.

Bilbo remained rooted where he was, staring at the self-same green stone comprising the mountain, “Mahal help us all,” He said wonderingly, fingers drifting into his pocket, “Indeed.”

-

It was no small thing to sidle up to a brooding Thorin – certainly he had enough practice of it in Laketown, where thoughts of the mountain consumed his friend until nothing else had any room. But manage it he did, or else he could not call himself a burglar if he could not even steal but a moment of time.

They walk side-by-side across the hoard of gold for a while, Bilbo waiting for Thorin to be roused from his thoughts. Were his heart not feeling so treacherous, he could almost enjoy it.

“Burglar,” Thorin greets him, when they have reached one corner of the room and must pivot to avoid the wall.

“Master Oakenshield,” He replies gamely, his smile thin but earnest.

A scoff is his reply, but Bilbo knows enough to tread lightly. He stares at the gold, wondering if he’ll ever forget the sight of so… much of it. Instead, he sighs, almost wistfully, “Erebor must have looked beautiful.”

Thorin is distracted by his comment, and chuffs a quiet laugh, “Aye, Burglar,” The king turns toward him, all that focused attention on him instead of the hoard, and it’s a little dizzying, if Bilbo’s honest with himself, “Erebor was once the pearl of dwarvendom, a center of trade between East and West where all could gather and rest in its halls.”

Bilbo feels himself smile in response to the affection and takes the chance to start slowly drifting, trusting that Thorin would follow him while he asks guileless questions about the man’s home – it works, and he holds his countenance in carefully attentive repose. All we need is a cup of tea, he muses, and this would just be like elevenses in the Shire.

They’re slowly moving out of sight of the treasury and all its glittering, placating malevolence, and Thorin’s face softens with each step in boyish remembrance at the beauty of his home, voice a fond murmur as they traverse the dusty halls. Eventually it is only them, breaths reverberating in the silence.

Thorin’s face isn’t suspicious, not quite, not to the same carven veins of anger that lurked the same way Smaug did. But it isn’t quite the same loveliness that had pushed the pall of sickness away just moments ago. “Burglar,” the king intones, voice low, “What did you want? Truly?”

He inhales, heart unsteady, “Truly?” Bilbo wishes to sink into Thorin’s side, hide away from the legacy of so much death reeking and sneaking in this mountain, “I- I wish to give thanks. We have survived, and retaken the mountain. That… is no small task, and- and I’d like to be grateful properly.”

This king in front of him is melting back into Thorin, all sweet-eyed and awe-faced. It lingers between them, drying his mouth and making him blink away the emotion quickly. Another breath for courage, and he continues, “Surely there is a place for that, here?”

“Aye, my burglar,” Thorin says warmly, and it almost sounds like an endearment. A hand is placed on his back, branding as it guides him gently further into the mountain, “There is such a place, where we give our thanks to he who crafted us. Many used to pilgrimage there, and our inn was always full of well-wishers.”

Bilbo nods, wondering when his incessant string of gambles is going to run out, but nevertheless he leans into the supporting hold of Thorin’s arm. Were it another day, another problem, he would have more sincerely enjoyed this stroll through the dim corridors.

As it was, he contented himself with imagining what Erebor would look like with all of its glittering lights renewed, winding halls and towering columns bustling with life and laughter. With Thorin at his side, the silence was companionable now, and Bilbo could tell himself that it was because he was there with the king.

Maybe it had taken mere moments to arrive at their destination, or maybe Thorin’s hand drifting to his and nestling him closer to the man’s side folded hours neatly into minutes, but eventually they were at a gate. No mere door was this, polished silver inlaid with carefully-formed inscriptions and gems alike that likely told some story repeated to every dwarf-child upon their family’s knees, but to Bilbo’s eyes was an unknown, grave beauty.

A man, taller than any of the others depicted, was hard at work on an anvil, a forge so bright in colour that Bilbo imagined he could feel its heat alongside the smaller figures in the image. Both of them stood before it, taking in the sight. Its mere presence seemed to drop Thorin’s shoulders lower, his head bowing with it.

It wasn’t tense, this posture, but it was… humble. Something in the lines of Thorin’s shoulders reminded him of the guest who had met him at the door of Bag End, and of the eyes who had stared at him unflinchingly over the evening campfire for most of their quest. Were it another life, Bilbo imagined he could see the young man who carried the duties of his line with pride rather than grief, and suddenly he felt abruptly glad for this hare-brained idea of his, even as he burrowed deeper into this king’s hold.

This is a king I could follow, he thought, remembering Balin’s quiet words, so early in their quest that he felt like a different person entirely. They swayed there in each other’s embrace, madness seeming a far-off concept that only lurked in stories meant to urge children to bed.

The god of every dwarf, Mahal, felt warmer in his engraved image than the entirety of this mountain, one arm perpetually raised to strike at the metal held securely on his anvil. It was a sight that burned into Bilbo’s eyes, bright and clear despite his eyes being firmly shut and ensconced as he was in the buckled folds of Thorin’s coat.

Words were murmured above him, deep and rumbling like the mountain itself, and for a moment he merely sighed contentedly. “Mh?” He mumbled, flexing his warming hands in the wool caught between his fingers, “What is it?”

A laugh then, equally as quiet, and Thorin ran hands down his back to part them gently, “Thank you,” He said, smiling and clear-eyed, “I had nearly forgotten of this.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back, feeling altogether like a puddle held upright, “Of course,” He replied, gentle, “Thank you for showing me.” There was a tap to his forehead, Thorin looming close even as his smile was closer, “I would show you the whole of the mountain, Master Baggins, if you would let me.”

His breath caught on a forgotten sob, hoping such a venture would actually become the truth, “I would more than let you, Thorin,” He said, “I would be there step for step.”

It was a moment that began to stretch thin, the hold of madness never lurking further than the pull of poisoned gold, and he watched as Thorin’s face shifted in remembrance of what they had briefly snuck away from. The warmth of Mahal’s image at his back was soothing, but scarcely so over the dreadful draft of sickness warping over the king’s features once more.

“You may be the only one, Master Baggins,” Thorin intoned, a frown worming onto his face, hands that previously restrained their strength now gripping firmly as the king straightened, “Be careful where you step in this mountain, burglar; one step could easily be your last.”

And Bilbo nodded, feeling his throat clog with despair as the king led him away from Erebor’s carefully-sealed respite.

-

The treasury, if possible, seemed even colder than before. Bilbo flexed his toes into the pile of gold and trinkets he stood upon, attempting to warm them and his heart to something above frozen. He saw that the rest of the Company was unaffected, a net of digging hands cast over the hall in search of something already sequestered in his pocket.

It wasn’t the only precious item hiding in his pocket, and he resisted the urge to squirm in place as he watched over the others raking through the coins. In a way, he was grateful that Thorin commanded he remain apart from the search for the Arkenstone – he wasn’t sure he could handle pretending it was a useful activity.

Balin was sitting off by a divot of columns, ostensibly resting his legs. Their eyes met across the expanse, and Bilbo sighed a nod, making his way over to the dwarf. Clinking coins made for an unsettling background noise to his thoughts, encouraging him to make haste.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Balin commented mildly, breaking off a chunk of cram and passing it over.

“Thanks,” He muttered wearily, settling down beside the older man and hoping he didn’t slide right down to the bottom of the hoard if a coin or two decided to unearth itself. Such stress made his heart patter, and he wasn’t sure how much of it he could take.

Biting into the cram, he realized it smelled vaguely like the ones from Rivendell, and he raised a questioning brow. Balin laughed quietly beside him, “You were the only one to take a washing in the river, laddie. We had repacked the last of it in some oilcloth at Beorn’s. It seems to have held up rather well, I believe.”

Experimentally, Bilbo rapped it against his knee. Limb thus smarting, he grimaced, “It’s well-aged.”

“That is true!” Balin grinned, “And all the better, otherwise it wouldn’t have survived the journey.”

He nodded, letting his gaze follow to where Balin was looking, the youngest of their group a little more merry than their own weary souls. Fíli and Kíli were holding up various objects for Ori’s inspection, the dwarf’s notebook open on his perched lap as the young man no doubt sketched everything held before him with the same swiftness as he recorded the events of their journey.

It made him feel old, all of a sudden, drained and in want of burrowing under the covers of his old bed to weather away the winter in peace. “They have much to celebrate,” He said quietly, “They’ve never been here before, have they?”

“Aye,” Balin agreed, smile fading but eyes retaining their warmth, “A whole new Erebor through their eyes. I am glad, that someone here will not remember the terror of Smaug’s desolation.”

Even Thorin, brooding as he was on his own pile of gold, frowned less severely at the antics of youth, guised as they were under the propriety of taking stock of the hoard. His heart squeezed at the sight, and he chipped off a piece of cram with his teeth, stomach growling.

They sat in silence, observing the others and observing the one overseeing it all. Bilbo sighed, wishing for the warmth of Thorin’s smile, “Are the winters very harsh here?”

Balin chewed on his own bite of cram, sliding a glance at him in acknowledgement. Eventually he nodded, hiding the motion in his beard, “That they are, laddie. These old bones remember it well, how we would close off the main gates and stoked our great forges to weather the northern winds blasting down upon us. I expect it to be no different this year.”

The cram sat like the ash most of this Company remembered half an eon ago on his tongue, tasteless and all-obscuring. Desolate though the lands around most of the mountain may be, there was still game to be hunted in the area – food that had yet to make its way into these halls, no matter how deft the aim of Kíli or how soft-footed Nori was.

Bombur’s enormous cooking pot had lain empty for too long, and a draft curling around his ankles froze his shivers into determination. They would be starved out of the mountain before any imagined enemy came stalking, and Bilbo had no wish to wield a shovel in the service of grave-digging family members so soon after the last. Two graves thus far in his life was two too many, and thirteen more would break his heart into fragments not even the most skilled craftsman could piece back together.

He inhaled, eyes dry and pockets heavy. There was one craftsman he had yet to try.

-

It was while he was convincing himself that he should venture forth into the deeper parts of the entombed mountain that Thorin caught him by surprise, wresting a gasp from the gentle touch upon his shoulder.

“Bilbo,” And, oh, he had never heard his name in that tone, softly rumbling apprehension that turned his fears into liquid. He turned, nodded for Thorin to continue, “There might yet be a war upon our mountain, and I would not wish for you to be unprotected.”

He bit back the daft, instinctive thought to reply with But won’t you protect me?, knowing it was a foolhardy venture at best, no matter how mended their fences were. Thorin was a king, and he… he was a hobbit. The two were nothing alike, and so he swallowed, looking into Thorin’s eyes and awaiting the next pronouncement.

A rare showing of hesitation made its way across the king’s face, subtle and fleeting and yet all the more precious that he was able to bear witness to it. “Thorin?”

Something in his tone must have trod over the silence, and maybe Thorin did hear the wavering, faint impression of his heart reaching forth and saying the My king? that his lips could not muster, for in Thorin’s hands was a glittering drape of chained metal. It looked so delicate in the other’s hands, and he wondered how such a thing could exist in this time, and how something so obviously precious had escaped Smaug’s notice.

It seemed not to have escaped Thorin’s, however, and it was held before Bilbo as if in offering, “I would know you are safe,” He murmured, “Please. Put it on.”

“What is it?” Bilbo breathed, shedding his coat and holding his arms out in acceptance as he wondered aloud.

“Tis silver-steel, as you would know it,” Thorin replied, hands as gentle as they were before Mahal’s image, setting the mail over Bilbo’s head and he could swear not a single hair was rustled in the action, “Mined by our forefathers, it is rare now, but was once the beauty of all who beheld it in our first home.”

The one you lost, Bilbo wanted to say, biting back the words the same as he bit his lip. The action drew Thorin’s attention as he was adjusting the armor over Bilbo’s frame with careful pinches of his fingers, eyes dark and encompassing. He was not quick to forget the story Balin told all of them, of the home of Durin that earned Thorin his battle-name and felled half his family in the same breath.

A woeful day, and yet here they both were, memories caught between them as a fragile wisp woven into what must assuredly be a strong material, for Thorin was never the type to cut corners on what he considered important. He caught the king’s hands before they could leave him, holding them close as his heart thumped.

“Thank you, Thorin,” And what else was there to say? Nothing, nothing in the wake of a slim edge of joy in the man’s gaze upon him.

He would do anything to keep that joy, and stoke it higher.

-

Mahal looked ever the same, and now, fingers threading uncertainly over the armor protecting him, Bilbo wondered if it was in fact every precious scrap of mithril that faceted their god instead of silver.

Silly me , he thought fondly, No dwarf would ever use less than the best.

He ran his hand down part of the door, feeling the coolness of the metal. It was rather like a river – life-giving, and strong. Perhaps that is what made him such a fitting spouse for a goddess like Yavanna, and for a moment Bilbo could fool himself into thinking he also heard the rustle of trees in the wind along with the perceived warmth of Mahal’s forge.

Home. It felt like home, and Bilbo felt his eyes dampen at the thought of what Thorin must have felt to have seen this after so many years. An enveloping sense of safety that beckoned him forth, and a firmer press upon the door had it swinging open on silent mechanism.

The inside was dim, removed as it was from the sunlight and bits of renovated lighting that showed through the main expanse of the mountain. Still, he found his steps sure, only the faintest traces of dust swirling around his feet in such a well-maintained room.

The love poured forth for Mahal from an entire mountain’s hands was prevalent here, with each chiseled word and inlaid image. He felt as if he could rest here for a thousand years, until Mahal’s halls emptied and the world, as his Company told him, was remade once more. It was a place of giving, and a place of receiving, so strange from the Shire and yet tended with as much care as a hobbit’s hearth and garden.

Offerings still rested upon the large anvil, set as it was just a little ways from one wall. There was a real forge, one that had gone out. Bilbo walked around it in search of some way to start it again – surely no offering would be received unless the forge was lit? This part, at least, was reminiscent of his home, the yearly bough carefully wrapped in ribbons and wishes to be laid in the hearth, sung into ashes with merry wishes for the new year.

A barrel, plainly-wrought and sturdy, was full of rocks that looked and smelled an awful lot like the charcoal Bofur had once described to him. Surely if there was a source of heat, there must be some way to light it? Alas, the wisdom of Thorin’s nephews would not help him here, nor would the pipe and matches laid in his pack half a mountain away.

Some inspection and dusting later revealed a lamp, and Bilbo squinted at it, wondering if it produced a flame in the same mechanism as the one his father had bought from a dwarven trader many years ago. He cleaned it off with the cuff of his jacket sleeve, muttering a short prayer and twisting the knob at the front.

A terrifying noise of sparking cloth almost made him drop the entire contraption, but the smell of burning oil was sweet and reassuring. It firmed his grip upon the wood-encased handle, and the new source of light flung itself across the room, highlighting more details to his untrained eyes. What sparkled dimly in the light was now a cacophony of wonder – what must be thousands of gems creating scenes of dwarven history, reading like a scroll across the expanse of the room, one scene at a time.

For a moment all he could do is stare in awe, turning slowly as his eyes scanned the unknown language and richly-illustrated scenes they accompanied. Everywhere he looked, even in the depths of remembered despair at the attempted destruction of the original dwarves upon Eru’s commandment, there was an abiding affection in every line. His shaking breath echoed back to him, the swaying of the lantern from the depth of his revelation making the scenes feel alive.

Thousands of years stared back at him, and the knowledge of how steadfast the endurance of dwarves were settled over him as surely as the feather weight of silver-steel Thorin had draped so abidingly over him. Bilbo nodded quickly, not sure if it was for himself or the people remembered upon these walls, and turned on one heel back to the forge.

Once his determination was found, Bilbo found it a simple matter to light the forge before him. Everything was arranged in a practical matter, and it was short order to shovel charcoal into the grate, a kit for lighting it on a shelf nearby. The rocks were their own brilliant and unusual colours, but his faith in the Company’s anecdotes proved true when the fire quickly started.

The fabric of his trousers was quickly stained by the charcoal dust, but it was no matter to him as he stood, roughly patting the worst of it out. No great thing happened, but he felt a sense of peace at his accomplishment come over him, anyway. It felt quite similar to lighting the great yearly fire in Hobbiton, something he had presided over as a Baggins for many years now, and his nerves tingled at the comparison.

He turned toward the anvil, knowing the general gist of what he wanted to do, but uncertain quite how.

“Um,” Bilbo addressed the anvil, or perhaps the room at large – and it was certainly large, wasn’t it? He sucked in a breath, remembering the warmth he felt at the gates of this chamber, and nodded firmly, “Hello. I- I would like to give you something, in thanks. For… for keeping us safe. And I would like to ask – if it isn’t too presumptuous, of course! - if you could keep us safe still. Please.”

The forge was warm behind him, and the anvil imposing, so he stared briefly at the ground in front of him. His feet, which before he always thought were quite normal and sensible, now seemed utterly out of place, covered in charcoal and other detritus. The disparity of the sight in such a hallowed place almost made him lose his nerve, but he didn't think someone as- as fatherly as Mahal would throw him out on his ear for the simple negligence of being a hobbit.

He stuttered out a laugh, shaking his head. It bolstered his confidence that this was the right action, and with a quick glance that the grand entrance was still closed, Bilbo swiftly removed the Arkenstone from his pocket and deposited it upon the anvil. Nothing happened, no utterance from above or a shocking display of might, so he let his shoulders down an inch.

“I- I know this is considered a sign of kingship, but-” Bilbo wet his lips, twisting his hands together, “But this is not the Thorin I know. It’s- it’s not the Thorin I love.”

The quiet admission didn’t bring the mountain down about his ears, so he figured everything was quite alright. It didn’t stop his hands from trembling, nor his heart from pounding, but he ventured forth. He had found his courage, after all, and its meagre supply was in great need right about now.

“He is quite changed,” He whispered, “I know he cares, about- about all of us. He would not have fought so hard if he didn’t. And I feel as if… as if we’re running out of time. For what, I don’t know. But I know the look in his eyes, and I don’t ever want to see it again.

“Call me selfish,” Bilbo shook his head, “But it cannot be good for him, this fear he has of betrayal. We all love him, we have all quite literally followed him across the land. I never thought I’d see past Bree! But he has accomplished so much, and I- I do not believe the answer he wants is the one he needs.”

He could not see the gleam of the Arkenstone from beneath its haphazard wrappings, and in this room he could admit to himself he didn’t want to. No matter its beauty, all he could see was the deadened glare in Thorin’s eyes, how it made him quick to anger and quicker to suspect treachery. Thorin was fearless, in the way kings in stories always were, and it made his heart break to see desperation seeping through and Smaug’s curse warping it.

No, the Arkenstone would do no good for Thorin, and he could think of no other’s hand but the one that crafted Thorin. He pressed a hand against his mouth, stifling the sorrow that hounded such thoughts.

“I will not dig another grave,” Bilbo said fiercely, “Not for him! Not for any of them!”

He beat his other hand on his thigh, struggling for composure in a place that held only him and history. The path Thorin was forging now would only lead to death, and it would not even be a useful one. Smaug’s words echoed in his ears, and he gasped a lonely breath, and then another, choking on them.

Whether he could see the Arkenstone upon the anvil was moot, now, eyes blurred as they were with tears. All he could see when he looked upon that stone was death, its light false in comparison to the very real, very warm forge burning behind him. He brought dirtied hands to his eyes, pressing harshly until the fear subsided, chest heaving with the effort of calm.

“Please,” He muttered, “Please. Save them, if you can. For I cannot.”

His thoughts were gently tumbling, like sand shifting under a footstep, sliding and uncovering the blackened tendril of terror that had gripped him since he had travelled through another mountain. It felt so out of place, a stark contrast to the sparkling of polished gems laid in reverence and stories woven with love. It took him more than a single moment to realize his hand was wrapped around his trinket of a ring, and a rush of cold washed over him.

“You,” Bilbo said aimlessly, feeling disconnected from himself. It could be grief, he told himself, of a future within eyesight. It could be, but he knew it wasn’t. His own voice was low, and it startled him to realize how closely it sounded to Thorin’s in the depth of Smaug’s thrall. Precious.

But was it? He realized he was scarcely better, and his hand spasmed over the ring, keen to release it but equally unwilling. I will not part with a single coin! and My precious… sounded awfully alike in the solemnity of this hall. He shuddered, stumbling forward on numb feet and unclenching his fist from its gnarled grasp before he could truly think about it.

“Please,” He said again, feeling almost like his hand had been severed and burned, knees weak from fear, “Please.”

Bilbo sucked in a breath, mind swirling, “Help me.”

-

Later, it could not be recalled what the tremendous noise was. Some said it was the mountain tumbling in on itself, but that was clearly untrue, given that it was still standing.

Some said it was some pall cast over the mountain by Smaug, a dying breath of revenge. But that was also untrue, given how fervently the Company swore that it sounded just like a hammer striking upon anvil, clear and true.

Others, if anyone asked, said it sounded like a curse breaking. Thranduil, in his march upon the mountain, had felt an echo of dragon-fire once more upon his face and then never more, an old scar contented to fade into memory.

Dain, many miles away and still en route only on the word of a long-lost raven of yore, felt the ground shake and his mind clear of long-held anger. He had spurred his army on faster, uncertain what he would find but knowing it was momentous.

Bard had no concept of it, save a comparison to the shuddering crash the dragon’s body made as it collapsed over his home and drowned whomever it didn’t burn. His heart lightened, and he knew to trust it, bow heavy on his back and mind occupied with the fate of his children.

The Company who retook the mountain, they… they could only watch, as Thorin stumbled where previously he was sure-footed, a pained gasp none of them were close enough to decipher, their king running out of the treasury with such haste they were compelled to follow.

It seemed there was no quarry to find, only a straight line between them and their destination. Deeper into the mountain they went, scrambling across stairs as if they were hills, following their king as he went where only he seemed to know. Only when they all happened upon the long-forgotten hall of Mahal did they tumble into a stop, Thorin alone unchanging in momentum as he swung the doors open.

Later, it is said, that Mahal’s anvil had created one more gift for the dwarves. Shattered stone, banished of its tempting glow, and icy shards of gold with broken letters laid upon it, lit by a simple forge and accompanied by a simple, extraordinary hobbit.

The “ešretū of a burglar”, they called it. A one-tenth tithe paid to Mahal in all sincerity for peace, out of a love their burglar later said came from the love he could see around him.

And that, they thought, was a good use of Mahal’s benevolence and wisdom.

-

Author's Notes

An ešretū is “the Ugarit and Babylonian one-tenth tax” (Wikipedia).

It occurred to me, perhaps because Tolkien had his own motivations when writing The Hobbit, that a reasonably simple fix-it would be to just... give the Arkenstone to Mahal (figuratively). It would neatly side-step the issue of who's supposed to own such an item, and reform the ideas of kingship back to pre-Arkenstone levels. Maybe it's an essay for another time, but who knows why exactly Thrór latched so quickly onto it. I'm sure a ring of power didn't help matters, and on that line of thinking I added the One Ring alongside the Arkenstone for similar reasons. Mount Doom the forge of the One Ring it might be, but it's still of the mortal realm - I doubt anything Mahal wishes to hammer on his own anvil would remain as it were.

Accordingly, dwarves probably have their own, thought-out culture in terms of their place in the world and how to navigate it, and I figure it was likely neglected in favour of Tolkien's personal opinions of a narrative and its worldbuilding. Most of my own worldbuilding places aspects of their culture further east, closer to Central Asia (where unsurprisingly, and coincidentally, a lot of mountains are). I figure something like Mahal's Hall has a religious function to it, where one can dedicate a prayer - that isn't at their own hearth - and make an offering. I like the idea of numbers having significance to dwarves, but at the time of this story I'm undecided which shape this room should have, so pretend it's something like an octagon for now.

As for the breaking of the Arkenstone and One Ring, I also like the idea that it's a Silmaril that's been buried beneath the mountain (and dwarves wouldn't know to avoid it, hence A Problem), so breaking it would also break whatever's causing it to glow from within and also its ability to sway the minds of whomever is around it. Bilbo isn't unaffected, but he has priorities of his own that make him also a reasonably good Ring Bearer - there's echoes of Frodo's difficulties in there, because I doubt Bilbo would be able to escape such a repercussion.

The broken letters on the ring is pulled from ancient Egypt, in that they had considered certain hieroglyphs inherently capable of evil and would "break" them by erasing a part so it would be rendered harmless. The One Ring is cold because it is, to my interpretation, literally soul-sucking as a mechanism for how it can both extend a bearer's life but also twist it to its suiting.

Bilbo's comparison to his own culture I drew upon the Yule log (Wikipedia) and Gävlebocken (Wikipedia), with some nudging around to make it more Hobbit-like. I can't imagine that Yavanna, in particular, would be pleased with more burning of wood, but alas if her husband can convince her then I'm sure hobbits can probably get away with it for particular occasions. There's also some obscure mentions to the Fell Winter and Bilbo's parents in there, because every character has their own history tagging along with them, and I imagine Bilbo's altruism has to come from somewhere.

[rannadylin]

The brief glow fell upon a huge sitting figure, still and solemn as the great stone kings of Argonath. The years had gnawed it, and violent hands had maimed it. Its head was gone, and in its place was set in mockery a round rough-hewn stone, rudely painted by savage hands in the likeness of a grinning face with one large red eye in the midst of its forehead. Upon its knees and mighty chair, and all about the pedestal, were idle scrawls mixed with the foul symbols that the maggot-folk of Mordor used.

Suddenly, caught by the level beams, Frodo saw the old king's head: it was lying rolled away by the roadside. 'Look, Sam!' he cried, startled into speech. 'Look! The king has got a crown again!'

The eyes were hollow and the carven beard was broken, but about the high stern forehead there was a coronal of silver and gold. A trailing plant with flowers like small white stars had bound itself across the brows as if in reverence for the fallen king, and in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed.

One of my favorite scenes (from The Two Towers, "Journey to the Crossroads") and I always love finding that king's head re-crowned when I get to Ithilien in game!