Chapter Text
The silence in the disused chamber is reminiscent of a funeral hall, but Thorin pays no mind to that, nor to Dori’s irate hand flapping or the threatening tilt of his nephew’s eyebrows. All his attention is given to the tiny fauntling in Kili’s arms, and her round eyes stare back at him with equal astonishment.
“Kili…you-” The King Under the Mountain can scarce force out the words, such is the constriction in his throat.
“What?” Kili asks, that pseudo-jovial air replaced with an edge of sharp mockery. “What, Uncle? What could you possibly have to say?”
“Kili, do not-” Thorin begins, blinking hard and trying not to see Vili glaring at him the night before Thorin, Thrain, Thror and the other warriors left for Moria, asking how he could possibly do this to Dis and what, was Vili supposed let them go and get themselves killed for what exactly? The image is disconcerting, for it is Fili that throws to the boys' father, but Kili’s tone of voice right now thrusts Thorin into the past like nothing else.
And it does not help. Not in the slightest.
“Go ahead.” Kili continues, brash and scoffing. “I’m listening. Freya is too- how’s about you try and explain to your daughter why she is here rather than at home with her mother. Or better yet, why her mother isn’t here with us?”
Thorin’s daughter looks bemusedly from her cousin the other dwarrows in the room as Kili hisses his recriminations. Thorin feels rocks settling in his chest and throat in place of the hooks of earlier, and he struggles to control the rage and frustration that has sprung up again.
“Kili.” Thorin steps forward, intending to lay a hand on his nephews shoulder but thinking better of it when Kili jerks backwards, unsteady on his hurt leg, and when Freya buries her face in Kili’s jerkin, obviously afraid. “Give me the child.” he orders, voice very low. He will not ask, he is king under the mountain and the girl is of his line, his blood and his seed, he will not, cannot beg simply to hold her.
“Why?” Kili asks, suddenly confused and a boy again. Thorin grits his teeth- does his nephew think him indifferent, callous even towards his and Billa’s child?
He clearly has much to set straight, and most of it of his own doing.
“Because I am her father and you are upset and about to fall over.” Thorin says simply, reaching out to steady his nephew. Kili jerks back again and nearly does fall, knocking against the table and cursing in Khuzdul.
This, it appears, is enough for Dori to overcome his conniption fit and bustle over, snap “Young ears are flapping!” and manoeuvre the small girl-child from Kili’s grip.
“As if she understands.” Kili grumbles as Thorin eases him into a chair. His face is ashen and it seems days in the deep mines without any rest on his mangled limb have taken their toll. Kili gives his hurt leg a disgusted glance. “Bloody useless…would’ve been better if they cut it off.”
“Never say that.” Thorin growls. “You are not useless, and I…regret how things have gone between us. Would that I could make amends.” The silence is back, and he senses that both the brothers Ri are staring at him in something like awe from behind his back.
“Was that an apology, Uncle?” Kili quips, his brown eyes twinkling in a disconcerting mixture of japing and Frerin-ish sincerity disguised as flippancy. Thorin sighs heavily and backs away so he can look his nephew in the eye.
“Don’t push your luck, boy.” he warns. “I may have…mishandled some of this, but I’m still your uncle and your king.”
“And I’m Freya’s cousin and Fili’s brother and Billa is my friend and they’ve all been hurt and it seems like I’m the only one who gives a damn.” Now there is challenge, and no mistake. And what, exactly can he say to answer it?
Thorin feels exhausted down to his bones all of sudden, wondering just how much of the hurt that has gone and is still to come could have been avoided but for his own selfish whims. Well, he is not solely to blame, but even so…
“Dori.” He appeals to the silver haired Ri son, holding out his hands for his daughter. Dori fusses and tuts a while, but gives Freya a gentle pat on the head and hands her over to her father.
The child, his own flesh and blood, is still and stiff when Thorin holds her at eye level, gripping securely under her arms. Her face remains slightly crumpled in a temper, and there is a definite pout on her lips.
“Do you know me, little one?” Thorin asks, praying that she will show him some recognition, that Billa could not have left her wholly ignorant of her sire and heritage. It could not be so.
It is. Freya- Mahal be blessed she is barely the length of Thorin’s arm and perfect in every way, her black curls falling in a mess and her nose and chin strong, like Dis, like his mother- slowly shakes her head. “Nah-uh.” she supplements, and Thorin has to supress the urge to gather her to his chest and never let her go, no matter how unkingly that might appear.
And then she does something that will forever cement Thorin Oakenshield as the biggest and most sentimental fool ever to reside under Erebor, King or no. She reaches out with her little fingers, eyes bright, takes hold of Thorin’s beard, and pulls.
“Oh, now.” Dori says, dabbing at his suddenly watery eyes as Ori and Kili stare goggle eyed at Freya, who is holding a fistful of Thorin’s dark facial hair and looking around in confusion, unaware perhaps that she has just performed the most instinctual act a dwarfling can- reaching for their father’s beard when first being held by them.
A little late, perhaps, but it makes no matter. “You shall know me now, my treasure.” he assures the little girl, the endearment slipping as easily off his lips as if he has been saying it these three or four years past. As he should have been, reminds the dark bitter part of his soul where blame is wrapped up.
“Why?” Freya asks pointedly, and it strikes Thorin suddenly, that though her eyes are his they contain a will as old as Durin’s line, and as strong as her mother’s. Please Aule that it will serve her well is his strongest hope.
“Because I am your father- your Adad.” He says, bringing Freya close and pressing his forehead gently against hers. The customary blessing will have to wait until the morn, prayers given to the maker for her health and safety and prosperity, but this at least he can give her, a gesture of acceptance, acknowledgement- of love.
Though she looks enthralled by his actions, his words give the little one pause, for her lips tremble slightly. “Na-uh.” she protests again, coughing a little in the thick air of the disused chamber. “Don’t have a da.”
To have her state it baldly like that, as if she is telling him solemnly that the mountain is made of stone, the sky is blue, one gets wet when it rains and Dwalin is going to sneak into Ori’s quarters tonight- it sends a hollow sting through him.
“Merry does. His da’s Unca Saradoc, but Missus Lobelia says I got no da cuz mama was imp-impr- cuz mama ran away and...” Freya huffs in confusion, and Thorin is torn between the urge to frown at the thought of malicious gossip against his woman and their child and the bizaare impulse to smile at Freya’s attempts to rationalise it in her three or four year old mind.
“Who said what about Billa?” Kili asks dangerously, attempting to get up. Thorin realises that the dust in this room is doing neither Freya’s lungs, Dori’s hair or his nephew’s state of temper any good and suggests they relocate to his own chambers where the search for Freya can be called off.
He watches Kili carefully as the boy gets up, both to make sure his leg is not troubling him too much and to note how he keeps Freya in his line of sight at all times. You do not trust me, nephew, and I am not sure I trust myself, but what else are we to do? Thorin wonders.
Of course, Mahal likes to make Thorin’s days just that little bit extra challenging when really he already has enough on his plate what with elves and wayward nephews and daughters and whatnot, and he immediately runs into a worried looking Dwalin as when they reach the door to the kings chambers.
“Oh, thank the maker, you found her.” Dwalin all but groans in relief as he follows Thorin and the other three dwarrows into the room.
“Of a fashion, though I think Dori and Ori are the ones who deserve the credit.” Thorin says- he is too relieved at having his daughter in his arms to be upset at their apparent deception, but an explanation would be nice, he decides as he sits down and attempts to settle Freya onto his lap.
She appears to find Dwalin fascinating though and does not cease squirming until he steps into her line of vision once again. “Oh really?” Thorin’s head guardsman asks, eyeing Ori warmly. Dori makes a dissatisfied noise and crosses his arms.
“She was hiding in the library, apparently, in a right state. How did she even escape from- well, for that matter, who did bring her here?” Dori asks, looking properly perplexed by these goings on.
“Dain’s captain, Hanr.” Thorin says, and though Dori nods sagely, Freya reacts to the name by taking a flying leap off of Thorin’s lap and running to hide behind Kili and Ori’s legs, from where she has to be coaxed out slowly by Dori’s assurances that Hanr is not coming back and the promise of the return of a mister teddy-bear.
Thorin shares a look with Dwalin, who affirms his wordless request. “I put the lads in the lock up and Hanr down in the hole. See if that’ll shut him up fer a while.”
“Good.” Thorin replies- it is not good, not at all, the five are loyal dwarrows who thought they were doing right, but that must be weighed against the snatching of a child, not to mention the trauma caused to Freya and to her mother. What must Billa be doing, he thinks suddenly, scarcely able to breathe from his longing for her.
“Uncle Thorin?” Kili asks, distangling himself haphazardly from Freya. “What’s going to happen now?”
Thorin opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. What are they to do now? Answers do not come easy, but there is one thing that stands out.
“You will stay here with Dain and Balin, look after Freya whilst Dwalin and I go to the Shire to fetch your brother back here, and Billa as well. We’ll bring them home.” This plan is sudden in its formulation, but Thorin likes to think it sounds reasonably plausible.
Kili makes a face, whether at the thought of being technically in charge of Erebor or just general distaste at Thorin’s ideas the King cannot properly tell. Ori is allowing Freya to poke her fingers through his hair (and was that courtship braid there last week?), but Thorin’s attention is caught by Dori, who is looking at him as though he is a dwarfling up to his elbows in soot.
“What?” he asks, for King though he may be, Dori of Ri and his steely grey glare are not to be trifled with if one knows what is good for them.
“You as well.” Dori says in a despairing tone of voice. “I must ask, highness, are the entire line of Durin completely unaccustomed to what it means to raise a child?”
“If you are questioning my abilities with regards to Freya-” Thorin begins hotly, for Mahal knows Dori does like to get his beard in a knot over things…
“I’m not questioning anything, except this- do you really think Billa Baggins is still in the Shire? Really?” Dori asks lightly.
“Where else would she be?” Dwalin asks, as Thorin’s mind goes straight to the elves of the hidden valley and their welcoming arms the last time Billa found herself in need. Perhaps she is there even now, and-
“On her way here of course. To find her daughter.” Dori says simply.
Dwalin snorts, and Thorin thinks vaguely that this must be the first civil conversation his head guardsman and Dori have had in months. “She wouldn’t dare. Nor be so foolhardy.” Dwalin shakes his head at the thought.
“She would.” Dori bristles. “She is a parent- a mother- and that little girl is all she has.” The silence that meets that statement- seemingly wrung as it is from somewhere painful deep in Dori’s chest- is somehow worse than any earlier quiet of this unlikely evening. “And I suppose…she thinks that she is all Freya has.” he adds, eyes flickering uncomfortably around the room.
“So we need only wait, then?” Kili sounds half excited, half terrified.
“Mama?” Freya perks up from her perch in Ori’s arms, and Thorin’s heart decides it would like to take a short holiday to the heretofore unknown region of his throat. Freya’s hopeful chirruping leaves everyone in the room feeling flaccid and useless, for they had and do love Billa Baggins in their own ways, and Thorin suspects that, when and if she does get here, the halfling is going to be buried under a pile of ten or so dwarves before he can even get to her.
Oh by Mahal’s hammer, please let her be coming. He does not know if he can stand another day without her- wait, no, that is not correct. For he has stood years without her, has been perfectly satisfied with his Kingdom and his throne and his jewels-
“Where is he!? I’M GONNA KILL HIM!” Thorin’s uncomfortable brooding is interrupted by the sound of a guard’s head (probably young Sirn) hitting the floor as a familiar voice penetrates the thick stone walls of the royal chamber. Freya covers her protruding ears (round and dwarvish, Thorin notes with a flicker of pride) with her small hands as it is brought home to the dwarrows in the room that Dain Ironfoot is not the only dwarf whose bellow can rouse the entire mountain.
Quite effectively as well, as Bofur, Head Warden of the Eastern Mines, former resident of Ered Luin and erstwhile member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, bursts through the door clad in soot stained clothes and punches Thorin Oakenshield across the face.
Or attempts to, rather- his cousin is on his heels and Bifur manages to grab Bofur by the arms and deflect the blow so that it only glances Thorin’s jaw. Bofur’s hands are twisted from years of backbreaking work, but he still lands a powerful blow despite that and his forced restraints, and Thorin staggers backwards.
Dwalin goes to heft his axes, but stops, seemingly as surprised as the rest of them that gentle, personable Bofur has just attacked the King Under the Mountain. Even more surprising is his immediate lapse into calm, his habitual smile back on his face.
“You.” He says to Thorin. “Are a fucking idiot. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Billa shaves your head in your sleep.” That is all, it seems. Bofur grins sheepishly at the company, obviously aware of their shock and awe at his behaviour.
Bifur reprimands his cousin quickly in Iglishmek gestures, and Bofur shrugs, reaching up to right his hat. “Someone had to say it. So is this her then- oh no…”
Thorin turns to look in the direction that has stilled Bofur’s ever chattering tongue and realises what the unsettling background noise is. Apparently, the exhaustion and the fright and the confusion happening around her has finally caught up with Freya, and as the dwarves of the company look on helplessly, Thorin Oakenshield’s daughter succumbs, at last, to furious and inconsolable tears.
***
“You ought to go to bed.” Thorin tells his nephew some hours later. Kili gives a small, noncommittal grunt, but his drooping eyes stand at odds with his refusal.
On his lap, a red eyed and hastily fur wrapped Freya has finally succumbed to sleep. When her crying first started, Thorin had ordered the dwarrows of the company to vacate the room in hopes that less noise and fuss would calm her down.
They had done so with minimal resistance- Bofur had given him a look that pitched between furious and apologetic for his loss of control- and an aside explanation that sometimes even Kings needed a punch at times.
Dwalin had given him a knock on the shoulder and slipped from the room, attempting to slide his arm around Ori only to be politely elbowed out of the way by an irate Dori, resulting in an argument that carried down the corridor. And, most probably, would continue for the rest of the week.
Kili had stayed though. Quieting Freya had been a joint effort between uncle and nephew, and after trying several different methods- singing, walking her up and down, attempting to feed her- Thorin had eventually realised that his daughter’s hurt could not be soothed by those she did not know and most probably feared.
A chest in the corner of the King’s chamber is kept locked at all times, for it contains precious things he would rather forget. It was to this chest that Thorin went after his daughter subsided into heart-breaking grizzling into Kili’s chest, unlocking it with the key around his neck and sifting through the contents.
A small sword, elf made- more of a letter opener, really. A wooden comb, a pipe and a leather satchel- and a coat, small and tattered, a deep shade of maroon that is not quite red. “Here.” He had said, balling up the travel stained material (he would not let them wash it, for it still smelt of her, like lilacs and warm skin and pipe weed) and giving it to Kili.
“You kept this.” His nephew said tonelessly, but it did the trick nonetheless, and Freya eventually fell into a fitful sleep wrapped in her mother’s coat and a fur from the hearthside, her eyes red and her head tucked into the crook of Kili’s neck.
And now, Thorin sits in the same chair he always does when there is nothing else for it, and opens a small book, a book which is covered in pale grey fabric of gossamer thinness, wrong and foreign beneath his fingertips, and bound up with threads of thick white lace. The pages are thick, with notes and scribbles and flowers pressed between the paper leaves.
This book is not meant for the hands of one such as him, rock and stone king, but here it is.
I feel I must be a terrible imposition on Lord Elrond and his family, for they are being unbearably nice to me. Bringing me Elevenses, even, and I cannot stop crying so they must think me dreadfully ungrateful.
Thorin has opened the book several pages in, and the rest of this entry is blotched, as though tears had fallen on the paper, smearing the ink and the dear spidery hand it is written in. He breathes in hard and flicks the page a few times.
All I do these days is write, it seems. There’s a bench in the gardens I come to sit where it’s peaceful, reminds me of Bag-end. Only not really, because Rivendell is graceful and beautiful and so impossibly large, but I feel…I feel as though we are safe here, at least for a time.
And oh, I can feel her sometimes as well, pressing away inside me. She twists and turns like nobody’s business, and is fain to give me a moments rest. She is going to be just like her fa
But I must not think of that. It is folly beyond all count.
Thorin has to sit back for a moment, because it is as though she is speaking to him. Is that why she wrote this, then, to address her rough foolish lover who had cast her away, who must have seemed to her cruel above measure.
And he had been.
I dream of him. Only in my dreams he is dead, and I do not know if this frightens me or not. He is…so precious, they all are, the very best of dwarves, of all creatures, even if loving them has ruined me.
One would think it is hard to be sad here, but I am giving the most maudlin of widows a run for their money. I had wanted to forget.
Forgetting is both impossible and hurts much more than having already forgotten would.
Have you forgotten me, my King under the Lonely Mountain?
Mayhaps I am not worth the forgetting.
Never, never must she think that, and it cuts Thorin deeper than he can articulate to see her pain written so plainly for any and all to see.
He feels almost wrong in his reading, intruding on her mind and heart- books, things he has always considered more practical than anything, are special to his sweet Billa in a way he does not and cannot comprehend. Of course she would choose to give her secrets to one of them.
So he covets it, pores over her words and commits the strokes of her pen to memory as their daughter sleeps safe beside him, and stores up the scraps of her leftover affection in his heart. He will keep her, if only she does not fade out of recognition.
Lord Elrond cannot know what to make of me- I wept all over him today because Elladan (that’s his son, who has a twin, Elrohir, and they hunt orcs and remind me of Fili and Kili only more serious and…elves) picked me up and put his hand on my belly, wanting to feel her kicking…
I just started sobbing everywhere, not even because of what he did but because before only I’ve felt her. She was mine, and safe inside me.
And if anyone else should be feeling her it’s Thorin. I don’t mind saying it even though it’s pathetic- he has wrecked me and I cannot bring myself to care. Perhaps because it forced me to realise that Thorin was her father and I could never really and truly renounce him- and never have him again at the same time.
It wasn’t Elladan’s fault that I couldn’t bear it, only he was frightfully apologetic and when I couldn’t stop crying his father arrived and sort of…hugged me. Well, not a hug like we hug at home, or how my boys hug, but more stately and elf like- putting his arm around my shoulder and patting it a little.
I shouldn’t write this down, but I think he might know what it’s like to feel the stretch of so many miles between you and one you love, to know they are safer and happier and better being where they are. Without you.
So you must wait behind and try to bear it.
Thorin tosses the book to the table again, not knowing whether to feel disgust at himself or at the elves. Thinking of them pawing over her makes him want to destroy something, but the fact that they comforted her when he could not is worse.
She is his. Was and is and always has been his, quick sharp little burglar with her freckles and dimples, and he is a King and when he had her she was pliant and supple in his arms, trusting him so completely, it had been such a long time since anyone had done that, and he had been so blessed that she would even look his way.
She has drawn too amongst the pages- flowers, small garments, patches of simple colour and faces- a woman, inscribed the lady arwen is said to be the most beautiful creature ever to grace middle earth. she leaves tomorrow for the Golden Wood and was gracious enough to let me draw her so the little one can see when it is born, only I feel I’ve done her no justice at all.
Elves. Thinking themselves superior. Thorin is sure Thranduil would call his prancing blonde son the most beautiful creature ever to walk Middle-earth as well. Perhaps he and Lord Elrond could have a contest over whose child was prettiest and stop snatching other people’s burglars while they were at it.
Impatient and feeling sour and rash to the core for his frivolous thoughts, Thorin flicks to the end of the book.
I did not expect to bear for so long as I did, so you must forgive me if I do not write more here, since I have so little space to fill up. Elrohir jokes that we should give this back to master Erestor, so that he can record it in Elvish ‘for posterity’, but I can’t imagine what about my shame and disgrace and moping is in any way momentous in history.
Little hobbits do not belong in the affairs of Big Folk, not even dwarves. My Freya, my little girl, she is all Durin in her looks, but small enough I think. She will be quite safe in the Shire. I have tarried here too much I fear, and feel a kind of longing to see Buckland and Tuckborough, the mill and the Green Dragon, oh and the Hill. Even the Brandywine would be a welcome view.
it is easier to own to that than to say I wish for mountains and forests, for silly bejewelled dwarves who never stop and think about that which they do
It makes no matter, either way, for it is time for me to go home. Perhaps I’ll just have to work out where that is on the way. Such is true enough of the last journey I went on.
Whether I can truly return or not, it will, I suppose, be rather nice to know.
Had she, then? She has made no attempt to return to him, yet now she comes.
Thorin closes the Mahal damned book and takes a look at the sleeping children on the floor. Kili grips his cousin gently, and much as Thorin wishes to hold his child, his treasure, he would not disturb them for the world.
Hurry then, my love. For Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, knows at last where his heart is. It is with the woman he so ignobly turned away, with the child she carried and birthed in her exile, their precious daughter, and Billa Baggins will be shown all that is due to her.
There is much to prepare, and half formed plans swim into his mind. He will write his sister, bid her return so she can meet the mother of his child. This is still a grim business, but perhaps there is some joy to be found.
Yes. Perhaps. He knows his love better now, in spite of their aching distance. Her soul is bound up in the Shire perhaps, in green hills and flowery downs, birdsong and blustered skies. But her heart…he can hope, he must believe, her heart still belongs to him.
He will do everything he can to show her the depths of his regret, but he will not break from his need for her. A crown of flowers he will make, in the fashion of the shire, but in red and emerald jewels, set in gold burnished bright as her silken locks, and she will know herself for the treasure she is and the one she has given him.
Precious beyond all measure. Cherished. Adored. Loved.
This time, Thorin tells himself, thinking of the chest and its contents, the treasure beneath the mountain and the Arkenstone set above his throne, this time, he will do things right.