Chapter Text
He was so beautiful, with his large hazel eyes, and his curly mop of hair, and his face framed by a halo of golden sunlight. It didn’t matter that he was covered in grime or that there was blood on his bruised temple. The only thing that could make the hobbit more breathtaking in that moment was if his look of despair turned to a smile and the tears running down his cheeks were to cease. If Thorin had strength enough to do so, he would reach up and dry them himself, but he could hardly keep his eyes open, let alone lift his entire arm. But oh, how he wished he could cup those round cheeks in his palms or feel those soft lashes flutter against his fingertips at least once. As he was unable to do so, he had to settle with just staring up into the hobbit’s devastated face, which was steadily growing blurrier and blurrier as time went by.
Despite how muddled his thoughts were becoming, Thorin found himself thinking that if this was the last thing he ever saw, at least he would die happy knowing that Bilbo was alive—that he hadn’t been the cause of yet another pointless death.
Releasing a shuddering sigh, Thorin finally let his eyes fall shut, too exhausted to keep up the effort of holding them open. The hobbit spoke then, but he was already too far gone to understand the words. All he could make out was the anguish with which he said them. It sent a twinge of pain through Thorin’s chest—or maybe that was just the stab wound. Either way, it was accompanied with a wave of guilt and the urge to comfort his burglar, though he knew there was nothing he could do now. At the very least, he had gotten the chance to apologize for his actions on the wall.
It wasn’t ideal—a dying plea for forgiveness was not nearly enough to make up for the enormity of what he had done—but it would have to suffice. He hadn’t the time to do any better than that. Already, he could feel himself fading.
Soon he would be laid to rest in stone.
***
Thorin was alone in a cold, dark abyss. He had no sense of how much time was passing by, and as far as he knew it could have been only moments that he was there or centuries. The lack of sensations in the place was both terrifying and maddening. He could feel nothing—couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or shut. It seemed possible that he didn’t even have a body at all. Maybe he was just a thought floating there in the darkness. All he had was the icy cold and the fear that he would be stuck there forever.
As he had lay dying on the frozen waterfall above the battle, he’d thought that he would finally get to see the Halls of Waiting and be reunited with his family after so long of being separated from them. He longed to feel his mother’s arms around him and to see Frerin once again. He needed to find Vili and apologize for leading his sons into such peril. And Fili and Kili, his two precious boys, he had to tell them how much he loved them. Before the battle, he’d said nothing about it, thinking that it was unnecessary. Surely they knew how much he cared—how much they meant to him.
Now he realized he how much of a fool he had been. He had to make things right, but he couldn’t do that. Not while he was trapped there in that place of nothingness.
At some point, he began to wonder if he would ever see the Halls at all. Maybe he would be stuck there for eternity as punishment for his crimes. After all, hadn’t he succumbed to greed and locked himself inside a mountain full of gold, leaving his kin to die in his name? Even worse, he had turned on the one he owed his very life to—had tried to throw him from the wall and kill him, and for what? A silly, glittering stone? Not only had he betrayed the trust of a member of his Company, but of his friend. His One.
Yes, after everything was said and done, Thorin could finally admit to himself that it was true. The fussy, homebody hobbit—who was too concerned about handkerchiefs and armchairs and had never wielded a blade before their meeting that fateful day in the Shire—was his One. He had wasted so much time trying to deny it, and now it was too late. He would probably never see Bilbo again. He knew nothing of the afterlife of hobbits, but he did know that one would likely not be allowed to join him in his. What did that matter, though, when he himself might not be allowed in?
It was painful to think, but he knew that he didn’t deserve to await the remaking of the world in the Halls of his Maker. Not after everything he had done—all the mistakes he had made.
At least, that was what Thorin had managed to convince himself by the time he suddenly realized that he could feel stone against his back and that the cold was gone, replaced by a comforting warmth that reminded him of home. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see columns of carven stone towering above him and he stared up at them in confusion for a moment. It didn’t take long for him to understand, and when he did, he closed his eyes again.
This cannot be right, he thought as he took a shuddering breath, I shouldn’t be here.
Yet the warmth didn’t go away, and he became acutely aware of the fact that he was laying on the floor, and eventually it became too uncomfortable for him to take anymore.
Opening his eyes again, he sat up and then climbed to his feet. It was strange. After being fatally injured, he should have been in some of pain, but he wasn’t even stiff. He felt as healthy as he had ever been. Looking down at himself, he found that he no longer had any of the armor that he had donned for the battle. Now, he wore only a simple tunic, trousers, and his boots. There was no blood or grime on any of the clothing, and when he lifted the tunic to peek at his chest, he found no evidence of the stab wound Azog had given him. Actually, there was no sign that he had ever been in any battle. All of the many scars that he’d gained over the years were nowhere to be seen, and besides the ink of his tattoo, his torso was otherwise left unmarked.
Somewhat unnerved by the sight, Thorin let the tunic fall back into place and turned his attention to his surroundings instead. He stood in the middle of a large, empty hall lined lengthwise with two rows of stone columns that rose to a ceiling far above. Below his boots, the floor was polished smooth as glass and he could nearly see his reflection looking back at him. On one end of the hall, a throne stood empty on a raised dais. He stared at it for a moment then tore his gaze away and walked over to the column nearest to him. As far up as he could see, there were intricate images carved into stone. Reaching out, he ran his hand over the lines curiously.
“Thorin Oakenshield.”
He jerked away form the column like he’d been burned and spun around to face whoever had spoken. A few feet away stood a dwarf who had thick auburn hair and beard, both long with many beads and braids. He looked middle-aged, but his eyes held the wisdom of a being far older than any that Thorin had ever met before. Older, even, than Gandalf. It took only a moment for him to realize whose presence he stood in, and a moment more him to drop to one knee and bow his head respectfully.
“Mahal,” he breathed.
“I thank you, my son, but there is no need for it. Please, on your feet. I would have us speak on equal ground, not with you beneath me.” His voice fell silent after the words and the only sound was his footsteps as he walked closer.
Thorin looked up, eyes landing on the hand held out to him. He hesitantly took it and allowed the dwarf to help him to his feet. Up close, he was surprised to find that he stood an inch or two taller than him.
Once he was standing, the dwarf spoke again. “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time, though I admit it was not meant to be like this.”
Blinking, Thorin somehow found his voice. “I am sorry, but I am not sure what you mean.”
“You are an honorable dwarf, Thorin son of Thráin."
Thorin may have thought he was joking, but there was no hint of humor in his deep voice. The words were completely serious, and that confused him more than anything. He didn’t deserve to be titled as such, especially not by the Maker himself. “I thank you for your words, but—”
“But you do not believe them. Why?”
“I...I failed. I failed them. Dwalin and Balin and the others. Fili and Kili.”
“You have been through much, Thorin. You served your people well, even when many others would have turned their backs. You provided for them. You retook the mountain.”
Mahal spoke with no judgement in his voice, just kind curiosity. He acted as though he were just another dwarf—looked and sounded like one, too. Had Thorin met him under other circumstances, he never would have recognized the being for who he truly was. Maybe it was for that reason that he was able to answer the question. “I allowed dwarf blood to be spilled for the sake of my pride and greed. I fell to the madness.”
“Ah, the sickness. It is a terrible thing. I would not wish it on anyone, yet even I am powerless to end it.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice, and he fell silent for a moment, studying Thorin with wise eyes. “Still, you overcame it in the end—something that even your grandfather hadn’t the strength to do. You returned to your own mind and went to aid in the fight, even when it seemed that all hope was lost. I do not see that as failure.”
Maybe it was not the best idea to argue with a literal god—especially when that god was complimenting him—but Thorin had always been somewhat hard-headed. “I may have reclaimed the mountain, but what of my sister’s sons? It was my foolishness that lost them their lives.”
Mahal didn’t seem at all surprised by his arguing, or offended by it. He simply considered him appraisingly for a moment. His stare was one that Thorin could not hold for long, and he looked away, dropping his gaze to the floor. The Maker thought him honorable, and Thorin himself wasn’t even sure why he was trying to convince him otherwise. Maybe it was his lingering guilt of all that had happened. If he had only just…
As if reading his thoughts, the dwarf spoke up once again. “Tell me, given the chance to go back and change things, what would you do differently?”
The question was not one that Thorin had to search out an answer for. “I would ensure that Erebor was better protected—better prepared for a dragon attack. I would prevent the mountain from ever being taken.”
“Really? And what of your hobbit? Were it not for the quest to reclaim Erebor, you would not have met him. Would you change things, even while knowing that it would result in you never meeting your One?”
Caught off guard, Thorin’s eyes snapped back up from the floor. He wasn’t sure why Bilbo was being brought into the conversation, but he still did not have to think long to come up with an answer. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly hoarse. “Without the quest, I may not have met him, but he also never would have left the Shire. He would have stayed in his home with his books and his armchair and would never have known fear, or what it is like to starve. Yes, I would still change things. I may be left without my One, but at least he would be happy.”
“You say that as if you had forced him to join you and your Company. I wonder, what would his thoughts on the matter be?” Mahal mused.
“Why do you ask me these things?”
“I cannot send you back to before the dragon came, Thorin. The past is in the past, and it is too late to fix any of it.” He paused, as if waiting for some kind of interruption, but Thorin said nothing. “The present, however, is a different matter. What happened on Ravenhill was a mistake. The line of Durin was not meant to be broken. Whether through you or one of your heirs, it should have carried on. Durin’s sons were meant to rule under the mountain for generations to come.”
It was possible the words were meant to serve as some comfort to him, but they only succeeded in reminding Thorin once again all that he had lost. Wincing, he forced out a response. “Dáin is a good dwarf, and he will make a fine king.”
“There were many ways that the future might have played out, but Dáin becoming king was not meant to be one of them.”
Silence so quiet they could have heard a grain of sand hit the floor stretched between them, and Thorin struggled to make sense of it all. Maybe his words were true, but what did that matter now? Meant to be or not, Azog had killed the line of Durin. The only one who remained was Dís, and the line could not carry on through her. She could not have another child if she wanted to, and as soon as she was gone that would be the end of it.
After a while, he gave up on understanding and just shrugged helplessly. “What is it that you are trying to say?”
“This is your choice, Thorin. You may walk through that door and reunite with your kin right now. Your grandparents, mother, brother...they await the day that you will finally join them. If that is what you wish, then I will not stop you.” Mahal paused, but it was obvious something was being left unsaid.
Impatient, Thorin prompted him to go on. “Or?”
“Or, I can send you back to the beginning of the quest, and you can fix what was broken.”
“You said that the past cannot be changed.”
“Time is a strange thing, my son, and I will not attempt to explain it fully. Just know that what may be the past for you is still my present. In a way, the events of your past year have all happened in the same instant, and are still happening now. The start of your journey has not yet left my reach.”
“Then why return me to the start?” Thorin asked. “Would it not be simpler to send me back to the battle, before I sent Fili and Kili into the Defiler’s trap?”
“While that may be the simpler option, I do not believe it would be the most beneficial. There are things you must yet learn, and they are lessons that the battle alone cannot teach you. In time, you will understand why it must be so. For now, should you choose to do this, I must ask you to trust my judgement."
Pursing his lips, Thorin glanced over Mahal’s shoulder and looked to the door that he had mentioned earlier. It resided on the wall behind the throne, and looked simple in comparison to the rest of the grand room, but if what the god said was true—and Thorin had no doubt that it was—then it would lead him to his family. He had the urge to run to it and not look back. It would be such an easy thing to do. He could be done, finally be free from the hardships that life had wrought him. Erebor was in good hands.
Still, something stopped him.
“If I were to go back, what would I remember?”
Mahal's smile was wide enough to be seen even behind his thick beard. “Everything. Up to the very last moment at Ravenhill.”
“And this conversation?”
“Yes.”
Looking down at his hands, Thorin let out a long, slow breath.
This was a terrible idea.
With his luck, he would only succeed in making things worse. Still, it was a chance not to be passed up lightly. He had a feeling that there were not many others who were given such an opportunity, and he would be a fool to waste it. Had he not spent his time in the darkness yearning to right all of his wrongs?
He threw one last glance to the door before straightening up and meeting Mahal’s gaze. A time would come when he would see his family once again, but today was not that day.
“I will do it.”
Nodding, Mahal stepped forward and gently pressed his brow to Thorin’s. “Mizùl, Inùdoyê. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil.”
The last thing Thorin saw was mithril eyes staring into his before there was a flash of light and everything went dark once again.