Chapter Text
War.
Thorin ponders the thought from the strong voice in his mind, then echoes it. “I will have war!” He shouts from the Erebor’s battlements, and Fili and Kili look on in fear.
“Uncle--”
“Not now, Fili. Go ready the others for battle.”
“Please, Uncle--”
He doesn’t trust you.
“GO!” Thorin roars, and his golden-haired nephew grabs his younger brother’s arm and pulls him out roughly. Kili casts a sad look back in his direction, but Thorin turns away, focusing his gaze down on the grey horizon.
The young one doesn’t trust you, either.
“They are my nephews,” Thorin huffs, crossing his arms. “They will listen.”
They mean to take your throne, your gold.
“They would not,” Thorin says aloud. “They are loy--”
“Thorin?” Balin’s voice rings out from door. “Who are you talking to?” The elderly advisor steps out onto the stone balcony, looking out towards Laketown and Dale. He steps up beside Thorin, the metal of his boots clacking as he moves.
“Nobody,” Thorin huffs, his fingers gliding along the edges of the stone. He can’t tell them about the voice in his head, the one that’s been there as long as he can remember. For most of his life it’s been quiet, occasionally muttering gentle reminders about Erebor and their forgotten home. It’s been wistful, and even comforting at times, telling him about the wealth and history of the dwarves.
It was there when his father took him aside one day, asking if he’d heard voices in his head. He denied it, of course; it sounded preposterous. But his father looked relieved, and told him how proud he was of him, and that was let be. Thoin didn’t understand; the voice was kind, and it brought him peace and a sense of stability.
After his father and grandfather were lost, the voice grew stronger; he trusted it, listened to it. He ruled his people well, and he credited the voice for helping. And then the voice reminded him of Erebor, and his duty to reclaim his home and his people’s wealth. His wealth, it told him.
“Thorin?” Balin asks again. “Are you feeling well? Perhaps you should come inside, Bombur has made dinner.”
Balin has been his advisor for as long as Thorin has ruled; before, his grandfather’s advisor. His advice was always sound and the elder dwarf had aided him countless times.
He has also defied you.
Balin would be the first to tell Thorin when he had made a mistake, or when he needed to take action when none had been pursued. Balin wasn’t afraid to stand up to Thorin and point out his errors, and demand that he do right. Others told him Balin’s counsel was invaluable; that his skills and perceptions would complement the future king’s. He had generally come to agree with that assessment, keeping the elder dwarf at his side and confiding in him.
He could take your crown and rule Erebor. We must cast him out.
“I will join you when I’m ready.”
“You need to eat,” Balin says. “You’re unsteady on your feet, I’ve watched you all day. Now get in here.”
“Go!” Thorin roars.
Balin frowns and shakes his head, muttering and entering the mountain again.
Thorin listens to the sound of Balin’s boots fade.
We can’t trust him.
Thorin looks out from the battlements again; growing armies gather below the giant dwarven statues that adorn Erebor’s broken gates. Inside, he has only thirteen. Twelve dwarves and a hobbit.
The hobbit knows more about the Arkenstone then he lets on. Kill him and retrieve what is rightfully yours.
Thorin turns away and walks into the grand halls. The robe he has found, one of his grandfather’s, drags along the viridian stone and leaves a path through the dust. His fingers brush the tip of the dagger tucked into the elegant garment, and he feels a tingle course through his body. He grips it tightly.
“Dinner is ready, are you going to join us?”
Bilbo stands outside the door to the chamber where the others have chosen to make a temporary home. There is muted chatter from inside but no laughter tonight; undoubtedly word of his decision to go to war weighs heavily on their minds.
If any one of them chooses not to fight, you must make an example of them.
“Balin said you were distracted. Is there anything I can do?”
Kill him. There is nobody else around. Slit his throat, find the Arkenstone, and kick his body off into the chasm where it belongs.
The dwarven King grasps the dagger, now warm in his hand, and begins to withdraw it from his robes. It’ll be quick for the hobbit; across the throat, before he can twitch or scream. He can deny having seen him; perhaps he wandered off, lost in the vast corridors of Erebor. Nobody would find--
“Thorin,” Dwalin appears in the doorway.
Thorin’s hand drops back down into his robe, letting the dagger rest in the pocket.
“I’ve put aside a bowl for you.” The warrior, Thorin’s closest friend since the passing of his own brother, watches with a glint in his eye. Bilbo ducks back into the room with the others.
He lulls you in with his trust. But he knows he holds power over you; he waits to strike.
“I would serve myself,” Thorin says.
Yes, he could be trying to poison you. To take your crown when you are in such a precarious position. We cannot remove him here. Perhaps we can turn his own tricks against him.
“Eat from the bowl you set aside. I will fetch my own.” Thorin wanders into the hall, the rest of the group turning and watching him.
They are envious of your power, your wealth. They mean to take what is yours.
Thorin collects a bowl from the floor and Bombur stands ready with his iron ladle out and a smile on his face.
Slow, fat, stupid. He is not an urgent threat. He will likely die early in the battle. Don’t waste your efforts on that one.
The King reaches out and pulls the soup spoon from Bombur’s clumsy fingers, dropping the scoop back into the pot and mixing the contents before pulling out another spoonful, filling his own bowl. Bombur watches with wide eyes but says nothing.
“This one should be especially good,” Bofur says, propped up against the wall with Bifur beside him. “Found some old spices down the hall in a room. Should be a tasty meal fit for a king,” he says with his usual easy-going smile, and the rest of the room seems to relax. Bifur mumbles and takes a big mouthful.
Bifur is a strong fighter; Bofur entices the others with his words. Simple merchants and miners they appear to be, but these ones are clever and strong. They will have to be removed from the mountain.
Thorin sighs and moves along the wall, choosing a simple chair in the corner, his back to the wall where he can monitor to the others.
Yes. This is safe.
He keeps his head down while he eats but stirs when somebody approaches, and looks up.
“We found some ale down below,” Dori says, holding out a mug. “Did you want some?”
None of them can be trusted.
Thorin takes a bite of his soup. “No, I don’t,” he says. “This is enough.”
“Are you sure? It looks like it’s the good stuff--” Nori cuts in.
“I said no.”
They’ll stab you in your back while you sleep.
Thorin’s eyes float over the room to Oin and Gloin.
Greedy. Suspicious.
Ori.
Weak, pathetic.
Fili, Kili.
Scheming, reckless, useless.
Thorin hesitates and stares at his sister-sons.
He would take your crown.
“No!” Thorin stands from his corner, heaving his bowl into the wall and storming out. Thirteen pairs of eyes watch but look at each other hesitantly.
Because they don’t care about you. They hope you’re going to never return. They’d rather you roam the corridors of Erebor endlessly, lost in your own thoughts.
“I would rest easier without you.”
You would have nothing without me. I am your ambition. I am your conscious. I am your pride. I am your nostalgia. I am you, Thorin. You are me.
Thorin swallows and walks the halls.
Worthless. A king of a village to the west. You would be sitting in a forge, slaving to men and other dwarves, not a king under a mountain. A laborer. You’d be nothing without me.
“Leave me alone!” Thorin’s hands clump into tight fists, and he walks swiftly down the stone catwalk.
The others will destroy you. You must destroy them first.
Thorin stops, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. His sanity is at strained; he no longer knows which thoughts are his and which shouldn’t be. He slides down the wall, sitting and wrapping his arms around his knees; not very kingly but nobody is around to see him fall apart. Would he care if they did? He just wants to be saved from this madness inside his mind.
It would be easier if you just listened to me, obeyed me, we could work together and then I wouldn’t have to be here. It would be quieter.
He straightens and considers it. Perhaps it’s right. It has helped him get this far. Would he be the dwarf he is today if the voice hadn’t prodded him to this point?
Get up. It’s time to act. It’s time to remove those who threaten your position.
Thorin draws himself up and takes a deep breath. There is something comforting about deciding to listen to the voice; but yet he feels a weight like no other on his shoulders. He winces as if its pressing him into the stone; every footfall echoes through the corridor with more certainty than before though.
That’s right. You’re the king. You will rule with certainty, and none will dare question your authority.
Thorin raises his head and continues into the grand halls. He is no longer dwarfed by its size, but walks regally through as if the pillars bow to his grandeur. He holds his head high. When he reaches the rooms that the company occupies, he realizes they’re asleep - how long had he been wandering on his own? He peers into the first room to find Balin, Dwalin, Oin and Gloin asleep.
Keep going.
In the next are Nori, Dori and Ori; the older brothers surrounding the younger, weapons within reach.
Not yet.
the next room contains the forms of Bombur, Bofur, Bifur and Bilbo.
The hobbit. He may have the stone.
Bilbo peers at the group, taking note of Bifur’s hand on his spear, and Bofur curled close to the hobbit.
Too dangerous. There is a greater threat.
He comes to the last room; inside are the forms of his two nephews, side by side. Fili lays curled on his side away from his brother. Kili is sprawled on his back, one hand clutching at the hem of Fili’s tunic. Just as he did as a small dwarfling.
Yes. These two would take your throne; cast you aside. They question your decisions, as you saw today. It would be easy for them to claim it from you as your heirs. You must be rid of them.
Thorin slides the dagger out; but his moves are stuttered and hesitant. The large ornate robe hampers his movements somewhat. He allows it to slide to the floor, his hand tightly gripping the blade’s handle, his knuckles white.
We must be quick.
The King under the Mountain pauses and stares down at the pair.
Which one should be first?
Thorin’s eyes flick to Kili.
Thorin watched his nephew pick up the bow, far too large for his tiny frame. Kili pulled the string back and let it go, giggling as it twanged. Thorin smiled and picked up an arrow. “Now Kili, you mustn’t pull the string unless there’s an arrow fitted within it. Pulling the string back creates energy, and if the energy isn’t used to fire an arrow it it reverberates and causes damage to the wood. Do you understand?”
“What’s rev-verb-erev-ates mean?” Kili asks, his brown eyes staring up innocently.
Thorin chuckles. “Reverberates. It shakes. It means it causes damage to the bow. You don’t want to break it, so don’t pull unless you’re firing an arrow.”
“Okay!” Kili grins, picking up one of the arrows and trying to hold it to the string; it immediately drops out. “Oh. How do I do this, Uncle?”
Thorin smiles softly down on his nephew and kneels beside the youngster. “Here,” he says, wrapping his arms around Kili and helping him hold the bow. “Let me show you.”
Kili smiles back, a gap-toothed grin. “Thank you Uncle. You’re the bestest Uncle.”
When did the young one lose that faith and love for you?
Thorin winces.
But the other one, the older one. Maybe he should be first?
He moves over to the form of Fili. The blond dwarf rolls onto his back, placing him shoulder to shoulder with his younger brother.
Thorin watches as Fili swings the pair of swords, effectively parrying Dwalin’s axe. One remains in place while the other swings around, stopping just short of the older dwarf’s calf. Fili turns the sword, tapping the flat side against Dwalin’s leg with a pleased grin.
“Very good, Fili,” the weapon master says. “Go have some water while I talk to your Uncle.” The young dwarf bounds to the other side of the practice circle, braids bobbing along. Dwalin moves to where Thorin stands at the edge, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. “Incredibly skilled. Not many have the strength and control in both arms to fight like he does. He’s quick on his feet and can predict most of my moves. I’m not putting up a show out there. The lad is very impressive, and to think he’s only turned fifty.”
Thorin smiles broadly. “Truly a king in the making. Both intelligent and a warrior.”
“Aye, very thoughtful, that one.”
Fili comes running over, still full of energy. “Mister Dwalin, can we spar again?”
“Oye, lad, I need a break. Can we take a break?”
Fili pauses but then nods. “Did you see, Uncle?”
“I did see that last one. I’m very proud of you, Fili. You’re going to be quite dangerous soon.”
Yes, he is far more dangerous than his brother. He must be first.
Thorin lifts his dagger; suddenly the weight is heavier than a boulder in his hands. “I can’t...they are my nephews,” his whispers. Kili stirs slightly at his words.
They have the biggest claim to the throne. If the others defy you, they will seek to put this one on the throne. The younger one is less of a threat than his brother; he is slower, weaker and can be overpowered. The crown prince must be removed; he is strong, he is fast. Then you will kill the younger next.
“Fili…”
Closer, move a little closer; see how it feels.
Thorin steps around to Fili’s open side. He drops to one knee and observes his sleeping nephew. His chest rises and falls with each breath; he rocks back and forth slightly, likely caught within a dream.
End those breaths. He doesn’t trust you. He would take your throne.
Thorin closes his eyes, picturing the young dwarfling running towards him as he returned from the forge many years ago; braids bouncing along.
Once, perhaps. But no more. You heard him question your decision of war. He would keep you from your rightful position, from the wealth which is meant to be yours.
Thorin wraps both hands around the dagger’s handle and holds it out over Fili’s heart; his arms tremble and a tear slips from his eye.
NOW.
Thorin plunges the knife down.