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Her hands were aching - sore and cramped from the delicate needlework, the babe in her belly hardly making her labours easier. Nor, for that matter, was the babe at her breast. “Sssh, little one,” Princess Ralia cooed down at little Thorin, her firstborn son tucked against her side, his bright blue eyes already so inquisitive despite being so young.
Little Thorin burbled in displeasure, wiggling against her, his hands trying to grab for the dark silk that spilled across her lap. Ralia chuckled, setting down her bone needle to catch that curious hand and pepper it with kisses. This made Thorin squeal in delight, his wiggling only increasing as he pressed closer to his mother, always a glutton for any and all affection.
“You’re a little terror my son,” she teased, Thorin not yet understanding her words but he burbled in delight anyway. His had been a difficult birth - his body angled all wrong, her own body, so exhausted from her long labour, barely having had the strength left to push him out.
It’d taken twenty hours for him to crown, but her trial was not yet over. Thorin had been born silent, surely dead and in that silence Ralia had died with him. But her son was a fighter and after a few, desperate moments he’d begun to scream and her life returned to her with it.
But that terror was not so easily forgotten and she’d kept Thorin close ever since, always encouraging his babbling just to ensure he was still there with her. She knew it was impractical to have him here at all, they had wet nurses that would allow her to pursue this craft without the added hindrance. But, as she watched Thorin marvel at the golden thread she couldn’t imagine him being anywhere else.
“One day, this map will be yours my son,” she told him, taking the moment to rest her sore fingers in his soft hair, soothing the boy with both the motion and her voice. “Yes, really,” she continued, answering Thorin’s little babble, “every Durin must know how to make their way home.”
That sentiment made her pause for a moment, her eyes drifting over Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, the first thing she’d stitched into place. “Look,” she said to Thorin, shifting the map closer to him, letting him see Erebor in all its glory. “That’s our home little Raven, our kingdom. Erebor.”
Thorin gurgled, waving his hands at it, pressing his stubby fingers against the golden thread with a happy little burble of B’s, close to speech but not quite there yet. Ralia smiled, feeling her heart swell as she repeated the word for him, “Erebor, Air-re-boar...”
“Bor!” Thorin cried, looking rather pleased with himself and Ralia couldn’t help but chuckle, ruffling his hair. “That’s it, you’re doing so well little Raven.” But, Thorin, clearly unsatisfied with just that, dropped his hand down over Dale and repeated “Bor!” before looking up to his Mama for approval.
Ralia admired his spirit but she was not one to praise without cause. “Not quite little one, that’s the city of Dale, our friends and allies. You’re too small to go there yet but, one day, I’ll take you to their markets, get something nice for your father.”
“Can’t you treat me to nice things now?” Came the warm, slightly mischievous voice of Thráin as her husband walked through the doorway, a small pouch open in his hand. Ralia rolled her eyes fondly at him as Thorin cried out in welcome, reaching for his father.
“You are treated well enough already my love,” Ralia noted...before expectantly opening her mouth for one of the candied dates he’d just been picking at. Thráin obliged, popping one into her mouth before he scooped Thorin up and spun him in a circle, the boy shrieking in delight.
“A king can never be too indulged, my sweet,” Thráin smirked, cheekily giving Thorin a candied date despite it being far too late for such a sugary treat. “Have you finally murdered Thrór my darling or are we planning a coup?” She retorted, raising her elegant brow.
Thráin pouted but didn’t look at all chastised, “a prince then, Mahal forfend my wife should ever hear me be semantically incorrect in my jesting,” he sassed but Ralia only sniffed, her tone mock serious, “quite right too, I’m not ready to be queen yet, I’ve enough weight in my belly without that abomination upon my head as well.”
Thráin chuckled weakly, the pair of them sharing a long suffering look. The new crowns had been Thrór’s idea after seeing the monstrosity the Elvenking had made for himself that year - all twisted thorns and flash-dried berries. Ralia didn’t understand why another king’s crown merited the creation of an entirely new pair for their own sovereigns. But, apparently, the old elegant silver and sapphire bands were not grand enough for their people anymore.
No, Thror‘s new crowns were heavy, somber things, gilt gold and obsidian, a burden upon the head that Ralia did not understand the point of. A king carried their people already, they hardly needed the weight of their treasures as well.
“I don’t think I will use that crown for myself,” Thráin admitted, echoing her thoughts as Thorin stuffed another date in his mouth, her son thankfully oblivious to the concerns that would one day lie at his feet. “No, ‘tis not our way,” Ralia agreed, her gaze dropping back to her half-finished map. “We are beautiful without the need for such pomposity, we have nothing to prove to the Elvenking.”
Tharin bent down, gently kissing his wife’s forehead with a soft, sure fondness. “No, we don’t...although he does have lovely hair,” he mused with no small amount of envy. Ralia laughed, playfully elbowing her husband, “you vain little mole!” She teased before adding slyly, “but, my heart, I don’t think golden hair would suit you, we’d not be able to tell your head from your backside.”
Thráin snorted, arching his brow, “and why is that my Pebble?” Ralia smirked, throwing her husband a mischievous look, “because the sun already shines out of you arse enough already~” She cooed, only to start squealing as Thráin pounced, tickling her mercilessly as Thorin gurgled with delight, the family falling into a laughing huddle before the fire, the map pressed between them.
Her hands were burnt - the flesh of her fingers reddened and swollen, wrapped tight in ointment coated bandages. Princess Ralia knew she should’ve been resting in the healer’s tent, curled in the hastily grabbed blankets and grass-stuffed cushions, surrounded by her children.
But her children could be children no longer, their home torn away in fire and terror, their mourning wails of their People still filling that now desolate valley. Thorin, the eldest and most prized by Thrór, had not left his grandfather’s side, the old king’s eyes hollow with a grief he couldn’t comprehend, his heavy crown still sat upon his brow even as his throne burnt.
Frerin, her second son and the quickest of them all was rushed off his feet, darting from tent to tent, taking count of how many of them yet survived. A head for numbers that boy - he’d have made a fine treasurer or merchant but life had not been so kind. And now her son, her golden prince, was forced to put a number upon those that remained.
It would not be high.
As for Dís? The light of her life, her daughter and her treasure? She’d cuddled the orphaned children close to her, despite being barely an adult herself, wrapping them in blankets and songs to keep out the cruel reality for just a little longer.
Ralia had nearly lost them all just hours before, Thorin on the battlements, Frerin and Dís in the library, deep in their studies. The alarm had sounded just as she’d risen from her armchair, the scarf she’d been trying and failing to knit finally besting her. But a moment later, the world fell apart and she’d found herself in the corridor, unable to run in two directions and having to make that terrible choice.
She’d gone left, towards the library, fighting against the tide of panicking Dwarrow, the roars of the beast soaking into the Stone, poisoning their home against them. The library was low, near the treasure room, knowledge and gold held equally precious but in that moment Ralia had wished they’d not held both so highly.
The heat and terror had built as she’d descended lower, the screams of her People growing louder and louder. She whirled around the last corridor just as a gout of flame devoured the walkway below her, the dragon having reached the hoard. The heat soaked upwards, into the metal of the door handle, scorching her palms as she wrenched it open, the air acrid.
She’d rushed inside, screaming for her children, ignoring the pain in her hands. And there, they were there, terrified but alive, them and just twenty others. But there was no time for joy, the dragon was roaring and they had to move, now.
And so they ran, the main door to the library burning now from a fresh gout of flame, forcing them up through the narrow builders passages left after the lower levels construction, the effort of closing them never seen as worth it. Like rats they were forced to scurry, one at a time, scrambling to escape their home before the air itself choked them.
They’d made it to the secret door, unable to stop running until they hit the surface, the breeze soaked with blood. All collapsed then into a desperate huddle, hands gripping to whatever scrap of each other they could reach, clinging to the life they’d all nearly lost.
Behind them the hidden door closed, sealing shut, sealing them out for who knew how long. But, in that moment, Ralia didn’t care, she just held her children close and wept as the pines burnt below them.
She had no tears left now, her lungs hallowed by the smoke, her heart cinders. Yes, she should’ve been resting but she could find none, not until this labour was finished. “Oh my Dove, please, you need not do this,” Thráin breathed as he entered the tent, seeing Ralia struggle with the coarse thread and chipped needle.
“I must,” Ralia crooked, stabbing into the silk, the hateful dragon half-rendered in twine, curled above Erebor like a stain. “I must mark it now, I fear I will not have the strength later.” She whispered, her voice catching but her fingers remained steady in their work.
Thráin was by her side a moment later, his remaining eye filled with tears she could no longer shed. He didn’t say anything, no words in Khuzdul or Common could capture their grief and so neither tried. Instead, he knelt before cot and rested his forehead against hers, his hands gently taking the map from her.
“I will finish it,” he whispered, “my Light, you must rest.” Despite it all, Ralia chuckled, weak and cracked, “since when can you sow my silly little goose? You can not even repair a button.” Thráin let out a half-chuckle of his own, almost a sob. “Tis why I have you my Joy, to guide my clumsy hands.”
“Always,” Ralia breathed, closing her eyes and shifting her head, both of them just taking the moment to breathe, the map pressed between them.
Her hands were bloody - as was the silk of her most precious map, the golden thread stained to ruby. It was easy enough to remove - one cup of salt for two cups of water, scrub until the water ran clear.
If only her tears could be so effective, the silk would be pristine.
But it was not, yet still they fell, soaking into the fabric but her hands didn't stop, none remained here to gentle them. Thorin, her eldest and now only living son was lying unconscious, arm broken, his heart shattered.
Only the former would ever heal.
He'd avenged them both - Frerin, her Light, her laughter, her quick little Dove, snuffed out by a blow to the spine. And Thráin, her One, her Joy, the embrace that never faded...He'd died guarding their son's body from defilement.
He'd had his map upon him when he died, wrapped in red ribbon, tucked against his chest, his heart-blood now soaking through her fingers.
She'd been the first to touch that heart, all those years ago, dancing under torch-light, treading on each other's toes. It was fitting, in a way, that Ralia would be the last one to hold his heart in her hand.
"Mama?" Came the voice of her youngest child, Dís, an adult now carrying an adult's grief, her voice cracked from screaming.
Ralia closed her eyes, unable to offer any comfort, her hands unable to stop their tireless work. There was the sound of movement and then Ralia was embraced from behind, her daughter's weight settling against her back, too large to be carried now.
Her hands shook, raw and red from the salt, the water cracking open her palms...but she couldn't stop, not until the map was clean and whole again.
"Mama," Dís repeated, pressing her forehead to Ralia's spine, as if to give it the strength to withstand this crippling blow. "Mama, please, you...you need to eat something."
Ralia swallowed, fresh tears escaping her eyes, catching in her beard, not yet but soon to be shorn. It was their way, you see, grief without beauty, the ache brought to the surface.
But not yet.
Not until this was done.
At her lack of response Dís released her mother and stepped around her, coming to a halt beside the basin and it's blood-water. "Mama," she repeated, firmer, something of her father in her voice.
"You can stop now, let me take over, go eat something." Dís encouraged, lifting Ralia's hands free from the water and taking up the linen towel to carefully dry them.
Ralia didn't react at first, her daughter's touch like sandpaper, despite how gentle she was being. The silence stretched on for several minutes, Ralia's hands now dry but Dís didn't release them.
Eventually, with a trembling voice, her daughter spoke once again, "Mama...Thorin's not ready to be king, he's too young, it'd be too much." Ralia sighed, the fresh stab of grief rupturing a new wound into her heart.
"I will lead," she breathed, sure despite its softness. "We must go West, the East is lost to us now...And Thorin would only send us South by mistake."
Dís chuckled, a weak, brittle sound but it carried the touch of life that'd see them through this. "No wonder he needed you to make him a map of Erebor," she recalled, trying to coax her Mother into lighter thoughts.
It worked and Ralia sighed again but this time with fondness, "aye, I don't think I've ever met a Dwarf with worse Stone-sense, I fear he may be an Elvish changeling."
"Mama!" Dís cried, horrified...before adding teasingly, "does that mean I get to be Prince?" She asked, the joke cutting a little too close to their grief for her Mother to laugh but she did smile.
"No, my daughter, and all the better for it." Ralia admitted, turning her hands to thread their fingers together. "The West is different, the Dwarves there live close to the surface, among birdsong and trees...They are a lighter People, the Stone cradles them less closely."
Dís bit her lip, her voice a whisper, "father would've hated it," she noted, fighting back a sob. "He always...always struggled so much with the blooms and sunburn."
Ralia nodded, swallowing roughly, fighting to keep her composure. "Your father was Stone-strong and true, the surface was never his place...nor was it Frerin's...but now we must carry them both across it's back until we can bring them home."
Dís looked faintly alarmed at that, her eyes flying back to the map. "Mother, Erebor is lost, the dragon...there's no way back." But Ralia was not moved, her heart taking up the weight that had pressed upon her husband.
"Not yet my Blue-bottle" she conceded, her hand rising to run through Dís hair. "But, our time will come, the ravens will return as will we."
"Haven't we lost enough already?" Dís asked, her heart younger, less embedded in the Stone, the surface kinder to her skin, the sun already making its mark. "None would follow us now, not after this catastrophe."
It was a bitter pill to swallow but Ralia knew it to be true, it would be decades before the other Clan's ever forgave this folly, if they ever did. But they were Durin's folk and they did not run from a fight, however long it took.
"Then we will stand alone, as we ever have," Ralia replied gravely, "and when the time is right, we shall reclaim our Homeland." It was a decree as much as it was a promise, a vow that stilled her quaking heart, the grief collapsing into diamond.
Dís, however, looked far less certain, her grief softening her into clay. "As you say Mama," she agreed, clearly not desiring an argument but clearly not of the same mind.
But her daughter was wise, now was not the time for strife between them and so Ralia pulled Dís close, their love for each other unconditional.
In the long, tireless years that followed Mother and daughter found common ground despite their diverging paths. Dís found a new life upon the surface, taking up the Broadbeams songs and simpler ways, finding joy under the clouds.
Ralia, however, grew closer to her son, guiding his course until he was ready to take up his father's mantle, Erebor ever calling, the map home always kept secret and safe between them.
Her hands were wrinkled - Age had taken it's toll, their long years of exile and rebuilding marked into her flesh like the rings of a tree. And like a tree her daughter had taken root here in the Iron Hills.
Ralia had not been fond of the doe-eyed lad Dís had brought home with her one long summer’s eve, not at first. Young Sindri was a strange one to her eyes, wearing soft wools and weaving flowers into his beard.
It was not the Durin way, their strength came from what endured, their stones, their furs, their leathers - Golden thread and black silk.
But these light, gentle fripperies, so fleeting and meaningless to Ralia, clearly meant the world to Dís, offering a lighter, more hopeful world.
She could not deny her daughter that, even if her pride warned against such a match.
But, as ever it seemed with Durin pride, she was proved wrong. Sindri was a gentle, soft-spoken husband to her daughter, thoughtful and considerate in all the ways Dís needed.
They bore a child within the first ten years of marriage, little Fíli - their lion, born screaming much to his father's shock and his mother's delight. He was a gold child, healthy and bonny, always curious about the world.
Perhaps strangely, he took to Thorin the most, always reaching up to be carried in her son's strong arms, laughing with delight as he was hefted to the sky.
While Kíli, born but two years later - an extremely rare occurrence among their people, well, you could never keep the lad still. He never crawled, simply rising to his feet and tottering off into the wide world.
Kíli had his father's heart, he forgave the world much and loved all, as if its dangers would pass him by if he smiled at them kindly enough. It was not the attitude of a Durin...but Ralia adored them both regardless, even if she could not keep up with their fast legs and faster mouths.
But the death of their father had brought them to a halt, the kind, gentle world they knew shattered around them in that awful moment. It was a fresh tear in her old heart, now worn to leather by the endless years of exile.
Now it was her turn to stand vigil beside her daughter as that unfathomable grief choked them all once again. It was a long, slow process but slowly Dís bloomed once again, taking strength from her sons.
Ralia held little value to trees but she couldn't deny how firm their roots could hold against the storm.
However, not everyone had formed roots as Dís had done, Ralia herself had not and nor had her son. Thorin took Sindri's loss heavily, his back near breaking under the weight of yet another loved one he couldn't save.
It drove a stake through her son, cleaving him from the Iron Hills once and for all, his gaze turning eastwards and never leaving. Of course, the heirs of Durin came first, the boys needed their uncle at their side to raise them True, to breathe the Stone into their lungs and Durin's glory into their hearts.
Uncle, the boys called him, the mannish word strange on Dwarrow tongues but Thorin wore it with a soft pride, allowing them this foreign affection.
Affection, curiously, her son had chosen not to pursue for himself. Of course, being a Durin had inherent responsibilities to the line that, with Frerin's weighing that heavier against her eldest son.
But, with Dís birthing not one but two healthy sons the responsibility was lifted, the Line remained strong, it did not need to be straight. But Thorin had not sought a One, not even in Dwalin who Ralia had assumed would be a natural match.
However, she was wrong and they remained only as Brothers-in-the-Stone and few else were allowed as close. It was only now, on the eve of the Company's departure that Ralia understood why her son remained alone - He could not be whole until Erebor was reclaimed and she had been the one to ensure that was so.
And, for the first-time, she couldn't help but wonder what her pride had cost her children.
"Mother," Thorin greeted her, helplessly formal even when they were alone, his hands reaching for her own. "We depart at dawn, as the sun rises."
"So you know which way is East, if nothing else," Ralia teased, squeezing her wrinkled hands around his heavy, calloused ones. "Aye," Thorin agreed, a little sheepish, the earnest boy still living within the serious Dwarf.
"They boys are definitely coming?" She asked, a note of doubt in her voice. Dís had been furious when she'd discovered her sons had volunteered but they were adults now and her words could only sway, not demand.
But she'd still taken the boys aside for the last week, giving them counsel that left Ralia uneasy. Dís had raised her boys kindly, letting them fly with the wind, tempering the grief that came with being a Durin.
Ralia had allowed it, she'd allow her children anything but it was not their way, not how kings were raised. Perhaps this quest would be the making of them, she certainly hoped so.
"Aye, they are," Thorin confirmed, his tone carrying a heavy layer of guilt settled within the pride. "Good, they'll keep you sharp," Ralia smiled, soothing away her son's frown with a brush of her knuckles.
"Let's go over the route one more time," she requested, Thorin going to her draw to withdraw the thick cotton bag, the map rolled safely within.
"Balin should have this duty," her son insisted for the tenth time in so many days, "I have no eye for distance or direction." Ralia knew this to be true and yet, it felt wrong for any other hand to touch that which was so precious to them all.
"Then use your heart, my wayward son," she suggested, carefully unrolling the map across her work table, the silk as inky black as the day she'd weaved it. "My heart is a weak thing," Thorin confessed, his voice soft, "I should have already set out upon this task, I have tarried in cowardice."
Ralia felt a lump curl in her throat, knowing she'd played no small part in that view. "Perhaps," she admitted, "or was it love for your Sister-sons and their need for stories? You're no coward my son, your heart is Stone-true."
Thorin swallowed, shying away from the praise, "I have been parted from the Stone for a long time, I never learnt its Lines...Perhaps I am unfit to lead."
It was tempting to immediately refute him but Ralia knew her son too well for such empty platitudes. So, instead, she rose and pulled him close across the table. "Then you will inspire my son, crown or not." Thorin sucked in a harsh breath, ever disarmed by his Mother's wisdom and he sank into her arms, the map laying on the table between them.
His hands were empty - The map was gone and now, now he would suffer the brutal humiliation of reclaiming it.
He'd been careless, Thorin knew that, he'd been so swept away in the righteousness of their cause he'd grown lazy. They'd been on the road for several weeks, taking his Mother's advice to leave early least he ere in the route.
But, perhaps in wry humour, Thorin's course, for once, remained true. They'd crossed the Lune river without any trouble, walked through the Westmarch and now came to a pause, several leagues from The Shire.
Thorin had heard the stories of this place, of its insular, petty inhabitants who mocked Dwarven beauty from their burrows. They were beneath his concern and notice, they posed no threat and so he scaled back the night watch to just Ori.
Ori was young, a fraction younger than Kíli but of age regardless, much to the displeasure of Gimli but he and Glóin were unmoved by his pleading.
Something had to remain if this ended in fire...
But this was a foolish mistake, Ori, for all his youthful enthusiasm, was too inexperienced, too used to the comforts of wool and campfire tales. He was no match to a fully armed bandit and those of them that were would not risk Ori's life.
Thorin had been sure to memorize their faces in that low, crackling firelight, even as they searched and stripped them bare. He focused on their eyes as they tossed their possessions into the dirt, the blade at Ori's throat keeping them still.
He would remember and he would not forgive.
It had taken a week to find the brigands, his Sister-sons ever agile trackers but they had the home advantage. It didn't save them of course, a Dwarf could split a geode with their bare hands, a skull was nothing.
There was a distaste to this of course, Dwarves were a just people, despite what many thought of them outside their Halls. But justice was a concept only and in this unfriendly, hostile world little would've been spared for them.
And so Thorin spared none and had the dead bandits left to the wolves, trying to ignore the queasy look on the face of his Sister-sons. Part of him almost envied them, his sister had been gentle in their raising and he'd indulged in the fantasy as well.
They were boys of stories, of goblins under the bed and Elves in the cellar - All chased away by big, brave Uncle Thorin who'd always keep them safe. But with the bandits at their feet, their blood pooling into the earth? It was a promise he could no longer keep.
It was a quick matter to search the ramshackle camp, their weapons reclaimed in moments but, no, more was missing. Where were their hair trinkets? Where was Óin's fine-bone ear horn? But worst of all, where was his Mother's map?
The fact that question transpired to even have an explicit answer was of little comfort, for it merely led them back on a wild goose chase. Truthfully, Thorin was utterly baffled; bandits would even care to keep a record of sale but then he remembered upon whose borders they treaded.
It seemed Hobbits had a way of infecting everything they touched.
Thorin, perhaps to his slight disgrace, took great pleasure in intimidating the Mannish merchant who had profited of their misery. He was a pathetic man in many respects, with rotten teeth and rotten prospects. But, luckily for both his own sake and theirs, he was an abject coward - surrendering his plunder with but a whimper .
But Thorin's trials were not yet over for his Mother's map - That precious, living memory of his Line...was not there. It had been sold that morning to a greedy, grasping Hobbit by the name Bilbo Baggins.
Thorin's teeth cracked against his gums when he heard this, his fingers curling, as if choking both the Man and this worm . The rest of the Company grew restless at this news, the cruelty of Hobbits were well known among their people, the humiliation of their crafters not soon forgotten.
"I should go," Balin counselled later, the Company settling in for the night, the Watch tripled so they would not be caught off-guard again. "Let's be honest Laddie, I look a whole lot friendlier than you."
Thorin had to concede that and he did with good grace, half-smiling at Balin. "Aye, you are Balin,' he agreed, turning to his oldest friend and adviser. "But it must be me, it is my fault it was taken and I will not stand idly by while I send others to do my work for me."
"So says a king," Balin noted wryly and Thorin scoffed, unable to deny the irony of his position. "But I'm not a king, not yet, not until we reclaim Erebor and so I must do this alone."
Balin gave Thorin a long, almost sad look. "You've been my king longer than the lads have been alive, Erebor or not. Mountains don't make kings, the People within them do and your people are here , following their king...So get over yourself Laddie, you're our king like it or not."
Thorin flushed, ducking his head, affection aching in his chest. "Thank you Balin," he murmured, turning to embrace his dear friend, their foreheads touching.
"Always Laddie," Balin promised, squeezing Thorin once before he withdrew, a fondly exasperated look on his face. "But you better get going, I hear Hobbits are best persuaded at midnight while fully armed so you best go now."
Thorin chose not to comment on the sass directly but he still rolled his eyes, not dissuaded but he did proceed with caution through Hobbiton nonetheless.
Until, finally, he reached the bottom of a low, rolling hill, the Smial on top illuminated by the moonlight spilling across the soil. Bracing himself, Thorin approached, the cobblestones comforting under his feet.
He paused, drew in a deep breath and knocked.
Once, then twice.
He would not knock a third time.
But then the door opened revealing the thief, dressed in a brown bedrobe with sleep tousled hair, squeaking out a 'can I help you?'
And Thorin, the weight of his losses pressing on his heart, straightened, set his jaw and made his proclamation, the doorway the only thing left standing between them...
