Chapter Text
It had been nighttime when Thorin was born, and in the hours that followed the old infirmary’s ceiling had been littered with glow worms. It was his first hazy memory: the warmth of his mother’s breast against his cheek and the image of the cavernous hall above, dotted with tiny lights, beaming resiliently despite the darkness around them. Every time one light went out, there had been two to take its place. Such had been his first hours on this earth: finding life even in complete darkness.
Since his life had once started that way, it now feels odd for him to die under the clear skies. The hilltop is basking in such magnificent light that even with his failing senses, Thorin is able to both see and hear the victorious arrival of the eagles. They glide past the sun in orderly formation and he watches them as they go by, almost envying the effortless ease they carry themselves aloft. His own body grows heavier by the minute, making him feel as if it is him who’s lying at the bottom of the Long Lake instead of Smaug, the huge birds sailing over like the shapes of boats.
Thorin isn’t the only one to notice the unexpected reinforcements. From his place crouched beside him, Bilbo is raising his chin and staring at the sky in disbelief equal to Thorin's own, had he still possessed the strength to show it. Thorin can’t quite believe that Bilbo is actually there in the flesh and not a mere figment of his wishful imagination. I wish I could have seen him, he remembered thinking, just as he finally collapsed in the snow -one last time.
And just as unexpectedly as he had done all those times before, appearing in that peculiar way of his that made it seem like he simply cut a tear in the canvas of the universe and slipped through - Bilbo had come.
As Bilbo watches the birds, Thorin keeps watching him; miraculously unharmed, his head haloed by the sun, he’s everything Thorin could hope for from a comforting sight. It makes him grieve the loss when his mauled body gives an involuntary twitch, drawing Bilbo’s worried attention back to him once more.
Since he has lost the feeling in his limbs quite some time ago, Thorin is surprised to see his right hand rising as if by on its own account. Bilbo hurries to clasp it, clinging on to it so tightly that despite the numbness and the clove he is wearing, the touch is unmistakable. As long as he can feel it, Thorin knows, he still has time.
A peaceful death is not something he has ever expected to have, nor is he in any way prepared for the rare chance to say his goodbyes. Death has never blessed his line with time when it comes to moments like these. Everyone he has ever loved and then ultimately lost had been taken suddenly; his grandfather, his brother and Dís’s Víli at Azanulbizar; even his father, disappearing into the charge and never to be seen again. Now there is only a dull ache where Thorin could have sworn his heart once dwelled and the hollow pain begs to remind him that if anything, the list has only grown since - but it is as if his mind feels ready to fight till his very last breath instead of recalling the cause for its sudden absence, so for the time being, he lets it go.
He focuses on scraping together a handful of words for Bilbo instead. It is a fool’s errant, since Thorin knows that nothing he has to say will ever suffice, nor can any apology undo his numerous mistakes. In addition to that, there is now a bundle of feelings he doesn’t yet have a name for and not enough time left to figure them out. But the nature of them is such that - as much as he hates to inflict Bilbo even more suffering - it makes Thorin selfishly glad that out of all possible people, it’s actually Bilbo who is with him at his final moments.
Thorin knows it’s wrong to make him witness this, so he tries to make his words sound as comforting as Bilbo’s presence is to him. He hardly knows what he is saying, but he soon finds out that when his mind fails to find the words, his heart carries on for him.
In the end, there is only the essential left – his dying wish granted, even if he in no way deserves it.
“Farewell,” Thorin tells him. “Master Burglar.”
Until then Bilbo’s manner has been almost complying, as he hovers between clear denial and forced cheerfulness. But as he hears the words, his brows fall into a hard line as he seizes the front of his armor. ”No, no – don’t you dare!” Thorin sees him craning his neck, casting a desperate look around. “Help! Somebody – anybody – help!”
Far above them, the eagles are swarming back and forth between the hilltop and the battlefield below. Just before he closes his eyes for good, Thorin sees how one of the massive shapes separates from the others as it begins to circle downwards.
It feels much more like a vision than any ordinary type of dream.
In it, Thorin finds himself standing at the gate of Bilbo’s garden. The gate is closed and somehow he already knows that he doesn’t have the means to open it.
At the far side of the garden Bilbo is crouched beside a small patch of dirt, digging the ground with his bare hands. Even from the distance Thorin can see that he has soil under his fingernails as he lifts something he just uncovered into the light, cradling the small object gently on his palm like a wounded bird. It is not until Bilbo pokes it with his finger that Thorin recognizes it as the acorn he picked from Beorn’s garden.
On the surface there seems to be nothing wrong with it. Yet there is no sapling growing from it and when Bilbo experimentally pinches it between his fingers, it caves in on itself and turns to mush.
Suddenly, the revelation strikes.
It was never meant to be, Thorin understands. It was rotten all along.
Slowly, Bilbo lets the spoiled seed fall from his hand - and in that instant, something pulls Thorin back into wakefulness.
When Thorin fully comes to, everything around him is dark. Whereas he would normally find a level of familiarity in it, now the sudden contrast is enough to throw him off; the whiteness of the icy hilltop is still embedded to his eyes as if it has been branded into his very mind and now with all the light gone he’s left disorientated and shivering. As he cranes his neck slowly from one side to another, the splitting, aching sort of pain he feels near his right temple makes it especially hard to grasp any sort of clear understanding of his current surroundings. His vision on that side is equally blurry, his eye itching with something grainy.
He’s lying in a tomb. The notion strikes seemingly out of nowhere, but once he has thought of it, the feeling becomes impossible to shake off. There is no sound to be found in the hush of the unfamiliar room and not a single soul is present besides him, if he can still be called as such. Even if some part of his mind is still rebelling against the idea of being dead, it now seems like the only plausible explanation.
But if he truly has arrived at his Maker’s Halls, then what now? Is he expected to simply stay here in waiting until the world is made anew – or, Thorin thinks with a sinking feeling inside his chest - is this to be taken as some form of punishment? Is this joyless pit of despair to be his cell, where he has to contemplate the price of his greed for all eternity - where he will be forced to remember time and time again everything and everyone he had been willing to sacrifice for its sake…
Fíli.
It's like a specific corner of his mind has been separated by a veil and that same veil that just got pulled violently aside; as quickly as the name comes back to him, so does the rest of the memory. Bile crawls up Thorin’s throat and he staggers to sit, suddenly under so much agony that it renders him unresponsive to the physical pain that flares near his chest. If Fíli is here – Mahal forbid if they both are somehow here - then he should find them, to beg for their forgiveness, to see if he can still –
“So,” speaks a booming voice from his left, making him jolt. “You’re awake, then.”
With the sound of the voice now acting as his anchor point, Thorin is able to see that the room isn’t as dark as he initially thought it to be nor as empty. A small light, something he first takes to be but a product of his mind – a ghost of a memory of the glow worms - flickers first and then starts grows stronger as the candle’s wick catches flame.
At first Thorin can’t believe what he sees, for how can he be here even if he, too, had perished in the battle. But as the figure stands from its post and slowly draws nearer, it becomes clear that Thorin's eyes had not been lying.
“Tharkûn.” Only when he hears the word spoken aloud, uttered with a hoarse voice, Thorin notices his mistake. Switching over to the common tongue, he croaks, “Gandalf. What happened to you? How are you here?”
“And where precisely do you think we are, I wonder?” Gandalf asks.
Even in his current state Thorin can feel irritation lifting its head inside him – cursed wizards and their sheer inability to give a straight answer. “I would have guessed that we are in Mahal’s company once more,” he says slowly, “but I wasn’t made aware that wizards were also welcome in his Halls – or poor imitations of kings for that matter.”
Gandalf regards him silently for a moment, his face expressionless except for the deep lines that have been born from years of worrying and mingling alike. But when the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes next crinkle, they do so for the sake of a small smile. “I have no doubt in my mind that when the time finally comes, the Halls of your ancestors will welcome you with nothing but fervor. However, this might not yet be that day.”
Thorin still can’t quite understand what he’s saying to him. Everything hurts too much and not all of the pain is of the physical sort. He opens his mouth so speak, if only to ask whether the Wizard is simply some taunt that has taken a human shape, sent there to torment him with false hope. But before he’s able to voice his doubt, another tall figure rushes forth from the darkness. “By Eru’s beard, Gandalf - it worked!” As he speaks, the Wizard Radagast peers at him in clear delight, his face now hovering closer than Thorin would actually prefer. “I wasn’t all that sure it would, given that he’s certainly much larger than Sebastian if not less prickly…”
“Sebastian?” Thorin becomes more profoundly confused by every passing moment. Surely Gandalf is fit to act as his tormentor, but as it is, he holds no ill will against the other wizard.
“A hedgehog, if I’m not entirely mistaken.” As if he’s looking for confirmation in a highly specific matter, Gandalf glances in Radagast’s direction. When the other wizard hums encouragingly, he nods to himself, before finally turning back to address Thorin. “Radagast and I do have some skill when it comes to treating wounds that are beyond the abilities of others, but as for how you are still with us, I must confess that your own stubbornness might have had a crucial part in it.”
“Or the stubbornness of others,” Radagast adds in a low chuckle.
Since Thorin knows how little he prefers to be corrected, he’s surprised to see Gandalf granting his friend a small smile. “Perhaps that as well, yes.”
“I’m alive?”
“Indeed. A little worse on the wear and currently running a fever, but given the circumstances that's hardly nothing. I have no doubt in my mind that very soon you’ll be back on your feet.”
As improbable as it still seems, Thorin is slowly beginning to accept that they are telling him the truth. The pain harnessing his every limb is too palpable to be of the imaginary sort and when he lifts his hand to brush against his forehead, it burns to the touch. When he looks around the room once more, he thinks it is entirely possible that he’s currently residing in the same infirmary where he was once born. The bare stone bed he’s laying on has been covered with hastily thrown quilts and furs, and when he lifts the collar of the unfamiliar shirt he now has on him, he finds that someone has draped his chest in clean bandages.
He had survived. When Thorin meets Gandalf’s eyes once more, he’s obviously beaming at the fact. Even Radagast, a mere stranger to him, seems relieved beyond measure. Witnessing their joy on his behalf, Thorin feels the sudden need to bury all three of them alive in that very chamber.
“Why?” he manages to snarl. At his words, the light fades from the wizards’ eyes, their bushy brows frowning in unison. “Why did you waste your powers on me?”
Now is Gandalf’s turn to be confused. “Waste?” he says. “This was a kindness, Thorin. We were only trying to help.”
“’Help’?” The corners of Thorin's lips pull into a painful sneer. “Don’t you see that what you have done to me is worse than anything I could have ever imagined? I made my mistakes and I would have gladly accepted my fate. Now, I’m left to live with the knowledge that others had to pay for them with their blood!”
A new wave of pain blinds his vision for a moment. When he can see Gandalf’s face clearly once more, the Wizard’s features have melted into a disappointed scowl. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that you feel that way, and I’m certain that others do as well. Bilbo was naturally quite worried, and the boys –“
Boys. Once Thorin hears the word, he registers nothing else of the Wizard’s rambling. So it was just as he had dreaded, he thinks blankly – they are both gone.
“Tell me,” he hears himself say, his voice flat. “Has someone at least carried them back to the Mountain? Or is that beyond the reach of your so-called miracles?”
“Certainly not!” Gandalf bristles at once. “What do you take me for, Thorin? Or do you honestly think I wouldn’t search for them the moment I got the chance?”
Until then, Radagast has followed their exchange with a bewildered look. But now something like understanding flashes in his eyes and he hurries to tug at his companion’s sleeve. “Gandalf, I don’t think he knows!”
On his part, Gandalf only frowns in irritation. “Knows what?”
“That we’re alive.”
Three heads, Thorin’s included, turn to the door.
Fíli and Kíli stand at the darkened doorway, leaning on each other like they have always done. Fíli has his hand thrown across Kíli’s shoulders like he’s careful not to put too much weight on his other foot, while Kíli has his hand draped around his brother’s waist to support him. The braids of Fíli’s moustache have become undone, wisps of blond hair brushing against his bloodied lips, and Kíli’s hair is a wreck. The longer Thorin keeps staring at them the more he finds these kind of new details to focus on, as if a part of him needs to prove that his mind simply can’t have come up with all of them on its own; as if the sight of their missing clasps and ruined braids is evidence enough to make them real instead of ghosts.
It's starting to feel like Thorin is actually seeing them for the first time since they parted in Lake-town. In the time between, he hadn’t gotten them back, not really. Before just now, he thought he never would.
Kíli is the first to understand what is needed of them now, as he hurries to say, “We’re alright, honestly! See -”
He nudges at Fíli and together they hobble over. Once they are finally close enough, Thorin slowly reaches out to touch them; he runs his hands across their arms, their shoulders, their cheeks. Finally he places both of his trembling palms flat against their chests, feeling the victorious thundering of twin hearts beneath and can’t quite separate the one from the other.
They beam at him with weary but rascal-like smiles, a reminiscent from their childhood. They are both so very alive, and Thorin still doesn’t think he deserves any of it.
“It can’t be.” Thorin turns to Fíli, still recalling the sense of utter helplessness and humiliation, as he had watched him trash in Azog’s grip. “I saw you fall –“
“- and it broke my leg and knocked me out. I only woke up when Kíli and Tauriel found me.”
Perhaps his eye is to blame yet again, because it has taken Thorin until now to notice the Elf. He rather suspects that she has been present this whole time, hovering a few steps behind his nephews’ backs in the manner of a spooked dove. Even in the gloom, Thorin can see that she has splashes of orc-blood caked on her ethereal face, like tar on marble. As he tries to recall her name, Thorin remembers distantly that Kíli might have mentioned it as a part of the tale of how he came to survive the poisoned Morgul-arrow.
Even if she is a healer, for the life of him, Thorin can’t think why anyone would deem it wise to let him see her here at this moment.
The fact that Thorin's hand finally slips away from his cheek is enough to alert Kíli of his change of mood. “She saved us all countless times in Lake-town!” he argues instantly. “Without her I wouldn’t have survived the poisoning, let alone the battle!”
“She and Legolas came to help us at the Hill when they learned we were in danger,” Fíli concurs in turn. “It was Tauriel who told him to shoot that arrow at Azog.”
All Thorin can remember is that there had been a spray of blood. But whose exactly, if not Fíli’s? He wrecks his brain for the truth and after much difficulty, the actual memory comes to him; the unexpected arrow, piercing Azog's hand just as he was about to rail his sword through Fíli, providing enough a distraction for him to wiggle loose from the pale orc's grip – and then fall. It hadn’t seemed possible to survive such a drop, not when it was always Kíli who was in habit of tumbling down from trees and rooftops, landing each and every time on his feet, nimble as a cat.
Kíli still appears agitated, no doubt ready to defend the Elf at moment's notice, but in the end it’s actually Fíli who places himself between the bed and Tauriel. He fixes Thorin with a hard look as he says, his voice only audible for the four of them to hear, “Don’t even think about sending her away. If she goes, we go.”
Over his shoulder, Thorin can see that Kíli’s eyes have turned bright. At some point the Elf has placed her hand protectively on his arm and now she does the same for Fíli, squeezing it just barely.
Thorin doesn’t say it, but he knows that right now, he would grant them anything they thought to ask, let it be the Seven Rings or the very breath from his lungs. He can let them have this, even if having one of her kind inside Erebor’s walls still feels like a betrayal of sorts. In any case, Thorin suddenly finds himself far too exhausted to argue. By the time Balin and Dwalin come rushing in as well, the rest of the Company following at their heels, he has to focus hard on getting even the simplest of confirmations out of his mouth.
Yes, Thorin half-convinces, half-lies to Balin, while he tries his best not to focus too hard on his red-rimmed eyes; he’s fine now. No, no, you did the right thing, he assures Dwalin, shocked that he should even question it in the first place, staying and defending Bilbo.
One by one, people keep piling in in order to see him well, until the room is so crammed that it becomes hard to breath. The second time Thorin tries to violently cough up his lungs Óin begins to usher them back out, claiming that he needs to rest. With a hollow smile Thorin watches them go, cherishing the fact that at least he didn’t see to lose any of them, even if it means ignoring the simultaneous feeling of something still missing.
Óin then moves on to forgo a full examination of his injuries. Thorin hisses when he pulls aside the bandages draped around his torso and that is how he learns of the gaping wound he has on his chest, courtesy of Azog’s blade. When he complains about his eyes he gets offered a wet rag soaked in herbs, and while it doesn’t remove the blurriness completely, it at least takes care of the itch. Óin sounds optimistic when he predicts that in time he might yet gain back his full vision.
“Once this heals, Dwalin will no doubt be cross at you,” Óin says, softly tapping the edge of the scrape on Thorin's temple. “You know how proud he is of that scar of his and now you have one to match.”
When he finally prepares to leave as well, Thorin makes sure to thank him for his excessive care, even if he still doesn’t quite see the point of it.
Long after the room has quieted down, and only Óin can occasionally be heard passing in the hallway, Thorin is finally about to give into exhaustion when a soft rustling catches his attention. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment more, so when he finally opens them he finds Bilbo already sitting in Gandalf’s vacated chair, like he once again materialized out of thin air.
The first thing Thorin notices is that somewhere between then and now, someone has given him a new jacket. This one’s dark ochre in color, the shade of harvest moons. When he tries to recall what might have happened to the old one, he’s surprised to realize that most likely it was too covered in his blood to be salvable. The idea of Bilbo still wandering around in it hours afterwards makes something churn deep in his gut.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bilbo hurries to explain, once he notices that Thorin's eyes are open. “They told me that you were finally awake and I… I guess I just wanted to see it for myself.”
Thorin decides to believe that he’s actually there, and that this isn’t yet another dream. Unexpectedly his tongue feels thick in his mouth. “I’m sorry if I caused you distress.”
A peal of strangled laughter escapes Bilbo’s lips. “’Distress’?” he repeats, a little hysterically. He doesn’t look all that amused anymore. “Thorin, I thought you were going to die out there! So yes, color me distressed.”
Thorin doesn’t know how they have managed to reach a point where it seems like every sentence he wishes to speak to Bilbo starts with ‘I’m sorry’. The fever is catching on and he finds it hard to focus on anything else but the soft curl of Bilbo’s mouth. It still holds true what he thought earlier; that if it had been the last thing he ever saw, then he would have died a happy man. Now, he has to live long enough to see it turn into a grimace because of something he did.
“There is no reason why you should have stayed,” Thorin says, nearly stumbling on the words. He means for the battle; he means not after the way I acted. “Not after everything.”
Bilbo looks caught off-guard, his mouth already opening in what Thorin suspects is yet another argument – but it never comes. Instead those lips of his pull into a tense line, and he turns his face away when he says, “Well, I guess I’ll be off soon enough.”
There is a slight possibility here that they might be talking about two different things. But before Thorin can even begin to sort that out in his jumbled head, Bilbo is already rising from his chair, his feet clearly in a hurry to whisk him elsewhere. Thorin reacts instinctively and catches him by the elbow before he goes.
Bilbo looks up from the hand to meet his eyes, his face a canvass of confusion, and once again words fail him. “Stay safe,” Thorin pleads, and desperately wishes he could do more than just ask.
Bilbo seems ready to simply laugh it off, but Thorin thinks that something about the look in his eyes makes him sober up. “We won the war. I hardly think there’s anything to worry about anymore. And besides,” Bilbo says, while tugging aside the collar of his jacket to show him what’s hidden underneath, “as memory recalls, a certain someone insisted that I should wear armor as well. It might have come in handy, if only the rock that knocked me out wasn’t aimed at my head.”
When he says nothing for the longest of time, Bilbo’s face eventually softens. “I meant that as a joke, Thorin.”
Thorin wants to argue that he hardly considers his safety a laughing matter, and if anything, Bilbo just pointed out his continued inability to protect him. After the Arkenstone, the mithril shirt was the most valuable thing in the Mountain – and it still wasn’t good enough. While Thorin doesn’t doubt the skill of his ancestors for once second, he has no such trust in himself. He nearly asks Bilbo to hand the gift back then and there, so that he could hide it in the treasury with the rest of the finery, cursed as they have become by his touch.
“Thorin?”
Shaking his head, Thorin forcibly tears his eyes away from the mail shirt and meets Bilbo’s eyes. “I’m tired. I think it is best if you go now.”
When Bilbo does leave, his shoulders squared and his jaw clenched tight, only Thorin’s damaged right eye keeps track of him; his blurry shape fleets from the room like a will-o’-the-wisp, the memory of his golden jacket still remaining in Thorin’s mind long after he’s gone.
When Thorin stirs for the second time, it is with the pressing sense that there is somewhere he desperately needs to be.
Since he’s currently so deep within the Mountain, there is no way to tell precisely what time of the day it is – but judging by his esteem it can’t be more than few hours since he last awoke.
Luckily Óin is nowhere to be seen, so he isn’t there to stop Thorin as he staggers up from his bed with considerable effort. He’s distantly aware that his body protests against the idea of moving, but he hardly pays great attention to it in his need to head out of the room.
Just as he had initially expected, he had been brought down to the old infirmary. As he makes his way through the musty corridors and finally up a pair of stairs that lead towards the more central parts of palace, he has to keep himself from stumbling on his own feet. His vision swims and plays tricks on him; perhaps it has more to do with his temperature than anything else, when the great torches on the walls turn into tiny clouds of fire, seeking to lure him into their scorching embrace. Thorin drags his resisting body onwards, until he finally turns a familiar corner, and finds himself standing ankle-deep in gold.
Before now he hadn’t even been aware where his feet were taking him, even if at the same time the prospect of any other destination had seemed impossible. The minute his feet touch the coins, his mind feels at peace.
While Thorin allows his weary gaze to rest on the riches stretched ahead, sudden pride begins to swells inside his chest. He thinks how multiple armies had tried to take it from him, only for all of them to fail, as the might of Erebor had crushed them like they were nothing more but tides breaking against the mountainside. Thorin has long since know that his role was to act as a bedrock to his people, and hadn’t he proved to be precisely that, keeping safe this part of their legacy that now rests at his feet.
With that in mind, he slowly crouches down until he’s resting on his knees in the treasure, and then extends his hand to run it gently across the coins. Little to his left lies a golden picture frame, decorated with tiny jewels, and unexpectedly it serves to remind Thorin of the Company’s only night in Lake-town, when he had overheard Bofur trying to explain the true significance of gold to Bilbo.
It had taken him some time to find a suitable comparison, but once he had, Bofur seemed quite pleased by it. “It’s a little like this,” he started gravely. “Imagine you have a painting that you’re quite fond of.”
“That doesn’t call for much imagination,” Bilbo countered, chuckling. “I’m sure you don’t remember it, but on my parlor’s mantelpiece I have such pictures of my parents. I think they originally received them as a wedding gift.”
Bofur nodded. “There you go, then. Now, imagine that – in addition to those pictures being precious to you – someone you knew and cared about actually made them. That he or she painted each stroke with care, and the result of all that hard work is hung there, on your very wall. Knowing that, wouldn’t you say that it would be considerably harder for you to part with such a piece than it already is now?”
Thorin had watched as understanding colored Bilbo’s face. Blinking, he stammered, “But surely dwarves don’t feel like that about every single coin you happen to come across?”
“Well, no,” Bofur had admitted after a moment. “But then again, not every scribble is a masterpiece, is it?”
But for him, Thorin understands now, they are. Every tarnished coin, every uncut diamond still waiting for their time to bloom, armors long since rusted shut – they are all that masterpiece. All the rubies are cousins to those he remembers his mother once braiding in her hair; all the pearls resembling crystallized tears, shed by those that lay dead because of Smaug. He now knows without a doubt that if it should come to it yet again, he would be ready to wage war for the sake of a single brass coin.
What he feels in this moment is pure worship, transcending something as petty as mere greed.
Just then, he feels something relatively soft give away under his boot. It makes a curious cracking sound as it does and more than anything it’s the noise that makes Thorin glance down, almost in passing. But what he sees roots him to the spot.
There, peaking between coins like a coy flower reaching towards the light, is a bony hand, its fingers now crushed to dust by his foot. Only little to its right is another, and now – when he knows to search for them – Thorin suddenly sees them everywhere he looks, charred skeletons curled in on themselves in waiting of a fiery death, this great graveyard hidden in plain sight; a river of blood coated with silver and gemstones.
He backs away from the sight in horror, his feet slipping in his haste and sending him crashing in the gold. He keeps on crawling backwards until his palms meet stone, and only then he staggers to stand and flees into the nearest hall.
As it is, he nearly slams straight into someone as he rounds the first corner.
“What on earth is the matter, Thorin?” Gandalf asks. When Thorin’s first animalistic instinct is to shy away from him as well, Gandalf reaches out to brace both of his broad palms against his shoulders. “There’s nothing chasing you, if that’s what you fear.”
“That is where you’re wrong,” Thorin pants, barely recognizing his own voice. “As long as I remain in this Mountain, there’s always something chasing me. I was a fool to believe otherwise.”
The Wizard bends down to look deep into his eyes, his gaze searching while Thorin forces himself to stay still and bear his scrutiny. Eventually Gandalf seems to finds what he was looking for, since in the next moment he straightens his spine with a weary sort of resignation. “Ah. I can’t say that I wasn’t afraid this might happen.”
“Can you not lift it from me?”
Thorin already knows the answer before Gandalf shakes his head ruefully. “You dwarves are a remarkable folk, in both good and bad. What ails you is far older and powerful than us Wizards, and very resilient.”
“So this is it?” Thorin says, his desperation growing by the minute. “Are you saying that I’m doomed to my grandfather’s fate?”
Something in Gandalf’s expression softens considerably. “I want you to know that it was never my intention to cause you this kind of pain,” he murmurs, his manner clearly meant as sympathetic. “I’m aware that you watched as Thrór slowly fell under the same sickness; I only dared to suggest that you take back your home because I truly believed you to be unaffected by it.”
“But now that it has happened, you have no means to cure me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
In that moment Thorin utterly and completely despises every single part of his own bruised body, from the gaping hole in his chest to his marked forehead, and down to the very marrow of his bones. “Then I have nothing left,” he whispers.
“As bleak as it may seem now, I would advise you to remember that you still got to keep your life. Not many who fought in the battle can still say the same,” Gandalf points out, not unkindly, but firmly enough to make his opinion known.
It hurts Thorin worse than any sort of clear accusation. “Do you call this living?! Being a willing slave to a dragon’s hoard, polishing diamonds that might as well be headstones!” One of the Wizard’s hands still rests on his shoulder and he knocks it away, the force of it setting his chest aflame. Angry tears threaten to fill his vision. “Do you not see that I would rather count myself among the dead than endure this cursed existence?!”
His own fury and horror choke him. A wave of fresh pain, far more noticeable than any before, washes over him and it nearly makes him loose his footing.
Gandalf reaches out just in time to prevent it, his hand firmly resuming its previous position.
“Dark nights tend to brings dark thoughts. Everything will seem brighter in the morning, you just wait and see.” He tries to tug him gently along, but Thorin doesn’t move. Noticing his stricken expression Gandalf suggests, still far too kindly than Thorin would prefer, “Come now, let us get you back to bed.”
Eventually Thorin allows himself to be led, if only to make sure that he keeps away from the treasury behind him.
Back in his bed, Thorin stays awake for a long time and stares at the dark ceiling above with hollow eyes. This time there are no glow worms to be found there, and it might as well be a mirror he’s looking into, the way he can’t find any signs of life.
The firm resolution finally comes to him in the odd hours of the morning. After, he can find it in himself to sleep for a few hours, and only when he does, that part of his mind that constantly dreams of gold rests as well.
The long night is finally starting to make way for the new day. This time of the year sunrise happens late, and as Thorin watches dawn breaking over the horizon, he finds himself wondering whether from now on he will be doomed to see only this: the first light of the rising sun turning the surface of the Long Lake tauntingly golden, and the sky above it, painfully crimson as if it’s alight with great flames. Perhaps there might yet come a day when he can witness sights like these without making such comparisons, but at that moment it feels impossible to even imagine.
Next to him Fíli is silent, his eyes taking in the same view. The door of the hidden entrance remains ajar behind their backs, as they are both sprawled rather ungracefully on the outcropping beside it; Thorin had foolishly asked Fíli to join him up here before his tired mind had had the chance to recall his nephew's ruined leg. But at that point there was no stopping Fíli, not even when Dwalin had all but carried him up most of the stairs along the way. Dwalin had even supported him more than Thorin really cared to admit, all the while muttering under his breath something about royal stubbornness.
When asked for an explanation, Thorin had said that the fresh air helped him to keep his mind clear, but truthfully his willingness to have this particular discussion at this very spot is due to more sentimental reasons. The location of the hidden door was a secret that had been passed on from Thrór to Thráin, from one king to another, and by Gandalf’s doing it had finally come to him as well. For the very talk they are about to have, this seemed like the place to do it.
Eventually, Fíli is the first to break the silence.
“I don’t understand,” he complains in a distraught manner. “Why is it that lately you always make me choose between you and my brother?”
Since his face betrays no great emotion, Thorin is surprised to discover how upset he actually sounds. As he turns to face him properly and Fíli does the same, Thorin's met with a pair of angry eyes, the very same he remembers coming across in Lake-town when he had tried to separate him from Kíli. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Fíli continues. “You brought me here to tell me that you’re leaving.”
Thorin forces down a heavy swallow. “Yes.” There is no point in denying it.
“But why?” Now the betrayal in his nephew’s voice is already making way for raw desperation. “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, and even if there was, we forgive you – we all forgive you. I’m sure even Bilbo –“
“This decision has nothing to do with my feelings,” Thorin snaps, more forcefully than he had originally intended. In the brief silence that follows, he looks away and takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down once more.
After a moment it’s Fíli who continues, this time also in a more controlled fashion. “It still seems to me like you’re taking the blame,” he demurs. “You think that if you relinquish the throne, the men and elves are more willing to reconsider forming an alliance with Erebor in the future.”
“Did Balin tell you that?” Thorin asks, unable to hide his shock.
“You know that he would rather cut off his beard and shave himself bald than speak a word against you,” Fíli scoffs. “No, believe it or not, I actually figured as much myself.”
He’s right, of course. Thorin knows that both of his nephews had helped Bard’s children to safety under Smaug’s attack and for that, the man certainly owes them. Based on their attitude towards the Silvan captain, they also hold no ill will towards the Mirkwood folk. While he had wallowed in his greed, Fíli and Kíli had managed to forge a base for friendly relations with their neighboring kingdoms.
Fíli shakes him back from those kinds of dark thoughts, when he says, “Ever since we were little, me and Kíli were taught that what’s in this Mountain is our legacy. It was you who made us believe it.” He captures Thorin’s gaze and holds it. “Everything we did - we did it for you. You deserve this, Uncle, more than anyone else.”
It is as if something inside Thorin is rabidly becoming undone. He brought Fíli here and expected him to listen without an argument, like he was still that obedient little boy who once watched Thorin with silent awe in his eyes as he gave him his first sword. Now, it feels as if he has to let that same child down by revealing what sort of a travesty he has made of their birthright.
“How can I deserve it, when even now I threaten to doom us all.” Thorin knows he sounds possibly mad, when he whispers, “The gold - it still has me in its claws.”
Fíli’s eyes turn fearful as understanding fills them. “But we thought you were cured!”
Ruefully, Thorin shakes his head. “When I close my eyes, all I see is coins. I have to remind myself to eat and drink and sleep, to forcibly keep myself from stealing back into the furthest treasure chamber imaginable. If I continue to stay in this Mountain, I fear that there might yet come a day when I’m not strong enough resist that urge.”
Twice now he has managed to break free from the spell, but both of those times had only lasted for so long. Eventually his luck will run out and then he will be snared back to that bottomless abyss of his own mind.
Knowing that there is no other way than this, Thorin reaches out to seize Fíli’s shoulder. “You saw what that sickness did to me, what it made me become. But you and Kíli – you are unaffected. This curse has no hold over you. Do you see what I mean?”
Behind Fíli’s head, the great stone statue of Thrór keeps to its tireless watch. Fíli lifts his chin and for a passing moment their profiles aline – but then he leans forward and the similarity is gone, as ill-suited as it was. There is nothing but uncertainty in his voice as he slowly says, “You once told me that the day I was made king, I would understand sacrifice better, even if the one I'd be forced to leave behind was of my own kin.”
Thorin lets out a deep sigh. He thinks that from this point on his memory is forever branded by the image of Fíli, mere moments away from what at the time had seemed like a certain death by Azog’s hand and still urging him and Kíli to safety. “Despite of what I’m asking you now, it was a poor lesson to teach. You have always put others before yourself - that is the sign of a true king.”
For the longest of time neither of them speaks. The sun is fully arisen above the skyline when Fíli finally heaves a sigh of his own. “And what if I don’t feel ready?”
Thorin almost tells him that he certainly didn’t; that after Azanulbizar, when the battling had ceased, he was hardly fit to lead anyone. Since the dead had been so many, they had no means to carry them home and were forced to lay them rest there as best they could. He remembers standing at the brink of the shallow grave of his family and wishing nothing more but to bury himself beside them; but in his hand he still had the piece of wood that had saved his life, a makeshift shield that had already become something short of a title. It was the weight of that shield – a symbol of a promise he suddenly knew he owed to his remaining people – that had made him turn his back to the tombs, even if years later, it still feels like some part of him had lingered behind that day.
But what’s important is that Fíli isn’t him. His spirit isn’t tarnished or bended by countless losses, nor his heart tainted with bitterness. He knows enough about loss to have a healthy respect for it, but he doesn’t court death in the same way as Thorin knows he himself tends to. He’s exactly what Erebor needs now – a new heart, one made of flesh instead of stone. His only regret in the matter is that he can’t stay to witness any of it.
Thorin moves closer to him, making it easier for Fíli as he gently presses their foreheads together.
“You were ready a long time ago,” Thorin murmurs to him. “If anything, it was my mistake for not realizing it sooner.”
As it turns out, the Lord of the Iron Hills as well as both sons of Fundin seem to be in the opinion that Thorin has finally lost his mind for good.
When he had returned back to the infirmary (much to Óin’s satisfaction) Thorin had sent for the three of them to be brought there. Dáin had arrived first and after a hearty meeting Thorin had undergone the effort to ask after his soldiers, only to learn that a great number of them were now wounded and twice as many dead. By the time Dwalin had finally returned with Balin in tow, Thorin already felt much surer about his decision.
After he has explained to them what had transpired last night, and what he intends to do about it, a heavy silence follows. Dáin begins to stroke his beard anxiously, while the two brothers exchange a look that is positively brimming with unsaid words. As usual, it’s Dwalin who decides to speak his mind first.
“You want to know what I think?” he says, crossing his arms against his chest. “I think this is absolute caragu.”
This time even Balin, ever the proper one, seems to agree with brother’s choice of expression. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head, laddie?” he inquires, eying worriedly the scar marring Thorin’s forehead. “In any case, if what you felt last night was in fact the sickness, then surely it was only a momentarily lapse. Once the fever breaks you’ll feel much better and then we can discuss –“
“If I wait much longer there won’t be a discussion – I’ll be too mad for counsel.“ Thorin turns to Dwalin, forcing out the rest of the words. “Or have you already forgotten how recently it was that I made a threat against your life? “
That clearly manages to catch Dwalin off guard. “You weren’t yourself!” he huffs, almost offended on his behalf.
“No, I wasn’t. And I have no wish to repeat that experience.”
Meanwhile Dáin still holds on to his silence, no doubt listening to everything that has transpired prior to his own arrival. Tales of the gold-sickness are so well-known by their people that this is hardly the first time he comes across mentions of it, and from his composed reaction it is easy to deduce that at some point during the previous day he has also learned about Thorin’s recent succumb to it.
In the meeting between the leaders of the Seven Armies, Dáin had been his only vocal ally, even if he hadn’t dared to finance the quest while Smaug still posed a real threat. But he had sworn to Thorin that – should they find the dragon dead or managed to miraculously kill it – the dwarves of Iron Hills would aid them any way they could. When Thorin had called them for war, he knew he was purposefully extending that goodwill. Part of him had even relinquished the idea that when the battle was won, he and Dáin could finally talk like king to another – or perhaps even as a king to his lord.
But what the accursed sickness had made Thorin forgot, was that Dáin had never seen him as his inferior; not even now, when he had all the right to do so.
In his shame Thorin has dropped his gaze to his lap, so it nearly startles him when Dáin’s hand lands on his unharmed shoulder. “Fíli’s a fine lad and well cut for the job. So he’s still a bit wet behind the ears – so were we both, once upon a time. But Thorin, be honest; did someone put you up to his?” He leans closer, murmuring with an air of confidentiality, “It wasn’t that blasted Tharkûn, was it? He can be kind of a push-over, always has been.”
“Fear not, cousin,” Thorin answers, and for once, finds it in him to smile. “The fate of this kingdom does not lie at the mercy of wizards, nor their whims.”
“How will you know that,” Dwalin drawls darkly under his breath, sly as a fox, “seeing as you plan to leave?”
Apparently Balin all but agrees, since he’s now shaking his head. Thorin seeks out his gaze in turn. “Before we even entered the Mountain you were the first to warn me about my grandfather’s fate. If only I had listened then, it would have saved us all from a world of grief.”
Balin closes his eyes, a long-suffering expression well known to Thorin from all those times his temper had gotten the better of him in some official delegation. But as uncalled for as many of his outbursts had been, more often than not Balin actually agreed with the sentiment behind them. That is how Thorin already knows to expect it when the shoulders beneath the red tunic finally slump.
“Fine,” Balin sighs. “Let us presume for a moment that you decide to abdicate and then leave. Where do you plan to go?”
“Back at the Blue Mountains,” Thorin answers immediately. “Where else?”
Dwalin lets out an exasperated grunt. “And tell them what, exactly? That you reclaimed your throne, but were too dainty to actually sit on it?” Then, because he’s still the same person that once carried Frerin’s body away from the battlefield when it became apparent that Thorin couldn’t, and who fought by his side not long after he threatened to kill him, “If you think that I’m going to let you drag yourself back there with your tail between your legs, then you have another thing coming. It’ll be the death of you!”
Thorin knows he should argue the point, but at the moment he doesn’t like the idea of deceiving them any more than he already has. “Then what do you suggest?”
Asking doesn’t chance the fact how pointless the question really is. The Blue Mountains or the Iron Hills - which one of the Seven Kingdoms he chooses for his self-imposed exile is a moot point, because in the end, it still makes him this: a crownless refugee, burned to a cinder by his legacy.
But before any of the three of them has the time to answer, a fourth voice behind Thorin's back calls out, “You could always come with me instead.”
Turning slowly around, Thorin has the time to wonder whether their Burglar’s ability to take him by surprise will never cease to amaze him. Ever since that day in Mirkwood when Bilbo had first appeared before his cell dangling the stolen keys, some part of Thorin has trusted him to find a solution to every problem – and so far Bilbo has, even if that solution hasn’t always been to Thorin’s liking.
“In case anyone has forgotten, I actually do own a house.” Bilbo rocks back and forth on his feet, a nervous sort of dance. Even as he speaks, he doesn’t quite meet Thorin’s eyes. “I know it isn’t much, but if you’re in need of a place to stay, Bag End is at your disposal – that is, until you get better of course.”
“Perfect!” Bilbo visibly startles when Gandalf all but leaps out behind a nearby pillar, just in time to clap him affectionately on the shoulder. From the way he complitely ignores Thorin’s opinion, it’s instantly apparent that he gets no say in the matter whatsoever. “I think that settles it. I’ll go and get the travelling arrangements started.”
“You plan to travel with us?” Bilbo asks, clearly relieved. That is, before his eyes narrow to slits. “For the whole length of the journey?”
The Wizard huffs in affronted manner, as if he refuses to acknowledge that it was only recently when he weaseled himself out of a bargain just shy of Mirkwood. But under Bilbo’s scrutiny, he eventually succumbs. “Yes, yes, I suppose I owe you as much. Radagast has already left since he has his own duties to attend, but I think I can spare the time for a more leisured journeying. But we need to get going as soon as possible if we want to avoid the worst of the snow.”
“Surely the path across the mountains is out of the question,” Balin intersects. “If the snow won’t stop you, the goblins will.”
“Yes, I think you’re quite right. But let us worry about that when we come to it,” Gandalf hums, in that enigmatic ways of his that always has Thorin grinding his teeth; based on the looks of everyone else in the room – especially Dáin’s - he isn’t the only one.
Even Bilbo appears worried. Thorin can’t quite say if he’s more dazzled by the vagueness of their travelling plans or Gandalf’s abrupt sanction of what could just as easily have been a mere courtesy; perhaps he didn’t consider that Thorin would really take him up on his offer. Now that Bilbo finds himself saddled with a house guest, his feelings about the matter have become hard to read. Thorin nearly tells him that he is in no way indebted to do this – that no one expects him to accommodate someone who has dishonored him such a spectacular fashion – but before he manages it, Bilbo turns to him and flashes him what at least intends to be a reassuring smile.
“Well,” Bilbo says. “I guess the Shire it is, then.”
The sudden solution still has Thorin reeling, and because of it he can’t quite manage a clear answer. Balin once again saves him from his own incompetence by rushing ahead to shower Bilbo with thanks and declarations of service. Dáin then joins the fray by engaging Bilbo in impromptu conversation about whether they have wild boars near where he lives. That soon turns into a conversation about the local brewage and then, of course – food.
By the time Bilbo is caught up in describing the usual contents of his pantry, Dwalin appears quietly at Thorin’s side.
“At least there’s one bright side to all this sodding mess. The rest of us have to keep tightening our belts for the unseeable future, but as for you…” When Thorin looks at him expectantly, he’s met with a snigger. Something already tells him that whatever follows next, after this the two of them will be even.
And sure enough - “It seems to me, your highness, that you just became a kept dwarf.”
“It almost feels like it's missing something.”
It’s two days after and in that time, Gandalf has somehow managed to find them a small two-wheeled cart and a horse fit enough to pull it. Thorin rather suspects that there’s some unhappy fisherman wandering the streets of Dale in search of the animal as they speak, but if so, he doesn’t wish to linger long enough to find out.
Currently he and Bilbo are inspecting the cart, something that had prompted Bilbo to announce his curious observation in the first place.
“And what is that?” Thorin asks.
At the sound of his voice Bilbo startles, as if he hadn’t been actually aware that he spoke aloud earlier. “Really? You don’t do that here?” His words get followed by a nervous huff of laughter. “It’s just a silly tradition we have in the Shire. Sometimes when people move to a new house, their relatives tie old pots and pans in strings and then attach them at the back. I guess hobbits aren’t really as superstitious as dwarves, but we tend to believe that the racket wards off any evil thoughts the movers might find directed their way.”
“So it brings good luck?” Thorin affirms. “To the new house?”
“Well, yes. Among other things.”
Since this is the first time he hears about a hobbit custom that doesn’t have anything do with either food or pipe-weed, Thorin is actually rather interested to know more. But this also marks the first occasion when Bilbo seems almost bothered with the idea of sharing something of the sort and Thorin doesn’t wish to pry, more than aware of the sacred nature of their own dwarvish traditions.
As it is, he decides to turn his attention back towards the cart, eying the cargo that consists of bedrolls, blankets, food and other travelling supplies. Only now he does pay attention to the fact that, besides a handful of weapons and some cooking gear, there isn’t anything else there of the metallic sort. A necessary precaution, Thorin tells himself, but while he’s forced to accept it, it still leaves him feeling like a starved dog slobbering after a slab of meat. “A poor prize indeed,” he mutters.
Bilbo observes him looking at their charge and is quick to catch on as ever. “I’m bringing you with me, aren’t I?”
“It’s like I already said – a poor prize.”
This time Bilbo doesn’t answer immediately. He inspects the nearest wheel, running his thumb across it in search of any welts in the wood and caressing their sharp edges. “That’s not the way I see it,” he finally says in a small voice.
The others appear before Thorin has the time to answer, carrying the rest of their supplies. Only Daín and his remaining men are absent, since his cousin had decided earlier that this moment should be reserved only for the members of the Company.
Before long everyone’s caught up in doing their best impression of pretending that the three of them are simply off to a short holiday: Dori makes sure for the tenth time that Nori remembered to pack everything he was meant to, while Ori distracts Nori from noticing; Bofur and Bifur talk Bilbo into taking an extra blanket with him, while Bombur sneaks some sausages into his backpack; Glóin reminds Thorin to send his letter to his family and Óin already has a list of Hobbiton herbs that might be useful in treating of his wounds.
Only Balin decides to stay well off to the side. Thorin finally manages to convince Óin that he can tell a clover from a fool’s parsley and make his way over to him.
“Everything should be ready, we’re just waiting for Dwalin and the boys.” Just as he speaks, the sound of nearing footsteps catches Balin’s attention and he breaks into a smile. “Ah, here we go then, speak of the devil...”
Even now there is a new sort of dynamic to be found in the way the Company immediately re-arranges themselves. Fíli hardly carries a crown and he certainly isn’t demanding them to make way, but as he arrives he gets given a wide berth and Thorin can see him looking little surprised by it, before he schools his features back into a formal sort of graveness.
Kíli follows a few steps behind his brother, supporting an equally stoic expression. While Thorin hasn’t talked him directly about the sickness, he trusts that Fíli has explained in length why he feels that he must do this.
But out of the three of them it’s Dwalin who comes striding straight to Thorin’s side, dropping a heavy bag at his feet.
“What are you doing?” Thorin hisses.
Dwalin is busy in an attempt to strap a couple of throwing axes in his belt. “What does it bloody look like? I’m coming with you. How do you plan to keep the spiders and those pointy-eared bastards at bay when you can barely stand as it is?”
Thorin is about to snap something back, perhaps to argue that he isn’t completely useless and even if he were, Gandalf can very well keep them safe if necessary. But Dwalin still has trouble with his axe, and in the next instant it slips from his grip and clatters to the floor; but what shocks Thorin more is the fact that Dwalin's hands tremble too hard for him to pick it up.
It’s unlikely that the others have noticed it yet, so Thorin makes the decision to reach down to grab it. While he places the axe carefully back into Dwalin’s hand, he leans his forehead against his and tells him, “I need you to stay here. Help Balin watch over the boys. Keep them safe.”
He hopes that he can convey with his eyes what his words fail to tell: that there is no one else he trusts more when it comes to their safety.
Dwalin doesn’t look happy, but in the end, silent agreement transfers between them. He nods, and Thorin slowly lets go of the axe.
It is then that another clear voice rings out. “I’ll ride with you!”
All eyes turn to Tauriel, who comes striding over the shallow moat as she speaks; through the gate Thorin can see that she has a saddled horse waiting outside. “If you wish to pass through the forest unnoticed, you need my help. I’ll escort you as far as the other side.”
Only Gandalf, who has just arrived on the scene, looks satisfied by the offer. “We could use a guide. I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used to be and the road through Greenwood is particularly tricky, as you all very well know,” he ventures, entirely too innocently to be speaking the whole truth.
“No!” Thorin is quick to declare, just as Kíli’s voice joins his in the choir.
In the stunned silence that follows, Thorin is left to stare at his nephew, who in turn now seems completely blind to his presence as he pushes past him to meet her. As far as the Elf is concerned, he only has eyes for her.
“I only just got you back,” Kíli pleads desperately. “If you think that I’m losing you so soon -”
Tauriel manages to silence him as she suddenly kneels and reaches out to take both of his hands into hers. Thorin can’t be sure, but it seems that she has something cupped in her right palm; Kíli’s eyes widen when he discovers it.
“Do not forget that I was once a Captain of the Guard; I still consider it my duty to see that people cross through our borders safely,” she says. “But I believe that I gave you a promise. Trust me when I say that I intend to keep it.” She brushes Kíli's bruised knuckles fondly with her thumb, as she whispers, “Sevog i veleth nîn.”
Gandalf seems to suffer an unexpected coughing fit. Meanwhile Bilbo is locked in a fierce staring competition with the cart’s wheel, the tips of his ears turning red with effort.
While Thorin can be sure that Kíli has no idea what any of the words actually mean, the two of them already seem to have a language of their own. Witnessing the wordless exchange, Thorin undergoes a small revelation that leaves him with a cold feeling inside his chest. According to ancient dwarf laws, there is no love that isn’t sacred, his mother once told him, not when it is willingly given by one and gladly accepted by the other. It happens all too rarely that one of their race should give his or her heart to another, so when two people find love, it isn’t anyone’s place to judge it, not matter how bizarre they might find it.
It's what makes Thorin avert his eyes at last. When he had thought that he would give Kíli anything for the sheer reason of seeing him alive, even if it meant being courteous to an Elf, never in his wildest dreams he expected it to be something as earthshattering as this.
The pair of them eventually reaches a mutual agreement and Tauriel only nods softly, before turning around and crossing the distance back to her horse.
When it comes his turn to say his goodbyes, Kíli finally has the sense to look a bit ashamed of himself. Thorin pulls him into a tight embrace, and in the end it is the dreadful knowledge that they won’t be seeing each other for a very long time that makes him whisper in his nephew's ear, “I make sure no harm comes to her,” even if it pains him to do so.
Once Thorin and Bilbo are finally seated in the back of the cart and Gandalf has taken his place behind the reins, Bilbo seizes the chance to say his final farewells. Standing on tiptoes, dangling almost dangerous over the side, he takes the time to invite the dwarves for tea, should they ever find themselves travelling nearby his home. As Thorin watches them wave their goodbyes he pretends to smile as well, and he nods to each of his nephews in turn with an expression that he hopes to radiate nothing but confidence.
When Gandalf smacks his lips and the cart finally jerks into motion, Thorin succumbs; whatever strength he had possessed whilst setting his things in order abandons him the instant they make their way through the gates. He knows the others are probably still standing there waving, but for the life of him he can’t turn around to face them. When they clamber over the makeshift bridge, he keeps telling himself, over and over again, that this is right - that it is all for the best. He had been ready to give his life so that his people could live free of Azog’s terror, so as far as sacrifices go, this hardly pales in comparison.
Only when he can be absolutely sure that they are far enough not to be seen, Thorin does look back. The first time the dragon had forced them to flee there simply hadn’t been the time. Now, he drinks in the sight of the retreating gates with the desperation of a man drowning, armed with the sinking knowledge that it is unlikely that he will ever see them again except in his darkest dreams.
In a way Smaug has driven him from his home not once, but twice. Both of those times, he has allowed it to happen. Now, Erebor will prevail and so does the line of Durin, but as for him -
Thorin doesn’t notice that he has started to shake uncontrollably, not until a small hand lands on his shoulder. When he turns to look sideways at Bilbo, Thorin finds his own vision clouded by something else than his mere bad eye can manage.
Neither of them speaks. The cart’s wheels keep on turning, and before long, the gates disappear from view – yet for the longest of time, the Mountain still remains.