Chapter Text
There is gold surrounding him, burning molten and shining at his feet and dragging him down to drown inside the molten gold, trapped like he had tried to entangle Smaug, claws like dragonfire tearing through his mind and ripping it to shreds and he can't breathe
you are the heir to the throne
dying out there
is this treasure
gold is ours
Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór!
take back your
Smaug flickers in the air before him, the shadow of a dragon's tail and a twisted wing, scarred flaming eyes rising in front of him with the face twisted into a mocking sneer, did you think you could stand against me?
i am fire
Screams in the night air, fire blazing beneath the moon, rendering houses and homes to cinders
i am death
And then he blinks and it is not Laketown that burns before him but Erebor, dwarves stretching out hands of desperate supplication that, when he looks back, have been rendered to ash and charred bone
Fire in his head, fire in his heart, fire in his mind and he knows he's going insane but Mahal help him he can't stop
Claws tear through him and he feels it, sees the blood spatter as his golden armour is rent apart and the red hisses and spits where it contacts the burning gold that drags him down, down into the dark where he cannot see
is this treasure
truly worth
more than your honor?
Treasure, gold, the hoard beneath the mountain, his treasure, his kingdom, hishishis, protect it from them, they want to take what is not theirs, they will steal from you
i gave it to them
He blinks and suddenly the gold is gone, and instead there is whipping winter wind atop the ramparts and a face he calls friendbeloved except his hands are around Bilbo, trapping him as he fights, golden hands on a pale fragile throat, and voices screaming from a thousand miles away, and then a deep rumble as if of thunder, if you don't like my burglar, then please, don't damage him
Thorin blinks and then the dark and the gold are back, and a sinking horror in his stomach, a memory that slips through his hands like smoke and wavers in his mind like morning mist in the wind, flickering faintly but even those few brief glimpses are enough to horrify him
what have i
d o n e
Thorin tries to stand, to pull himself to his feet but the golden armour he wears has become shackles, pulling him down and bringing him deeper into the darkness, choking off his breath until his vision goes nearly black from lack of air, blood still pooling from the deep gaping wound torn across his chest and dripping onto the molten gold where it hisses and steams, pain sparking through his entire body from the heat of the metal against his flesh
And then an unearthly scream echoes through his mind and if he had breath left Thorin would have cried out in agony as the shriek tears wounds open through his skull, but instead all he can do is twist his face into a rictus of pain and try futilely to jerk his hands up to his ears
A dragon claw strikes him across the face, sharp talons digging into his flesh and drawing blood and sharp bursts of pain and then he is drowning in the gold, breathless and blinded and immobile, flames flickering in the corners of his vision but gone once he blinks
(he can't breathe)
“Thorin!”
The voice stabs right into his mind and his eyes snap open almost involuntarily, and then there is a hand on his arm only that is impossible because he is drowning in gold, burning shattering breaking destroying gold and it chokes the breath from him and sends his vision into wavering lines that mock him endlessly and a fire in his eyes and throat and blood that leaves him screaming from the pain of it and the gold is in his lungs and tearing his mind apart and he
cannot
b r e a t h e
“Thorin, eyes on me,” Dwalin says with a voice of something approaching panic, and through his blurring wavering blackening sight his friend brother ally's face is clearly visible, one hand cradling his head and the other on his shoulder, and he sees the bright emerald stone of Erebor behind his brother's head but that is impossible, he is far away, in Ered Luin, in the dusty broken fragments of a life stained with soot and smoke and forgework, alone and wandering, a crownless king, nothing worthless useless penniless pointless broken better off dead
“Thorin,” Dwalin starts, and then lifts his head and roars, “Fíli! Kíli! Galley of the Kings, now!”
But there is no such room in his halls in Ered Luin, no such place for there are no kings, only him, the weakest of Durin's line, the worthless, the useless, the forgotten, the fallen
the faultline
But Dwalin's cry echoes over and over through the halls, and he knows Ered Luin is not large enough for echoes, so where
And then there is a scream through his body and suddenly he remembers Smaug descending upon Laketown, Smaug destroying everything and everyone in the firestorm, Smaug killing Fíli and Kíli and Bofur and Óin, all of those who swore their swords to him and whom he forsook on a moment's whim
liar traitor murderer kinslayer oathbreaker all in one single failure
who is thorin oakenshield
the destitute king of a desolate line
"Thorin, I need you to breathe,” Dwalin says, and had he any breath left Thorin might have laughed, for the fire in his veins and the gold he drowns in will not let him go, it enchains him like a kingdom untouchable, fire and blood in his heart and soul, gold in his chest and dragonfire in his mind
Thorin, I need you to stay awake!
thorin
i need you
to s t ay
a w a k e
The gold swallows him and drowns him and he cannot breathe for the searing heat on his palms and on his flesh, shattering himself to shreds and dragonfire turning whatever is left to ashes
wake up
i c a n ' t
“Uncle!”
The cry is twinfold and echoing through the darkness, two voices so close together that none could tell one from the other, images springing alight in his mind, golden hair like sunlight twin swords flashing like lightning and a fierce roar like a mountain lion, and the other dark-maned and bright-hearted with archer's eyes and a swiftness belying his dwarven heritage, strong and fierce as the northern wind and equally as deadly
“What's happening to him?”
An entirely different kind of gold in the midst of the bright suffocating darkness, hand on his arm and fingers at his pulse point, even though he knows he drowns in molten gold can feel the searing heat upon his skin and knows they cannot touch him without turning to ash
(even if they are already dead)
“I don't know, laddie, I found him like this and I can't get through to him, I've tried but he doesn't see me”
A rough voice, older, stronger, more weary by far but just as fierce underneath the age, an old wolf with greying fur who can still rend flesh and bone without hesitation
“Dwalin, he's not breathing”
Blue eyes and a gentle heart, love and compassion and no less kingly for it all, fire in his heart and light in his blood, bright and exuberant but fiercely loyal under it all
(but that only means he feels all the fiercer)
“I know that, I - ”
“What's going on?”
Young, scholarly, books and letters and candles in the gloom of night
“Ori, get Óin, hurry! It's Thorin!”
The echo of pounding feet in a desperate run, fleeing in search of help, but Thorin knows they cannot reach him, cannot touch him, he is trapped as they intended Smaug to be, trapped as the gold hardens around him and leaves his body forever drowning
“For Mahal's sake, Thorin!”
Dwalin's hands wrap around his shoulders and drag him upright, and a scream leaves his lips in agony as the molten gold drags across his body and the motion jars the wounds torn open and gaping in his mind, tattered pieces of memory and self strewn across the ground in the wake of the dragon, and he cannot breathe
“Get the armour off him, now!”
He does not know who speaks, Kíli or Fíli, but then there are hands fumbling at the clasps and the sound of a dagger unsheathing, and he awaits the touch of steel to the vulnerable artery at his throat, and shock leaves him reeling as the blade instead slices through the leather bindings and hands made clumsy with fear pull away the golden armour, the shackles holding him down imprisoning him suffocating him until he drowns beneath the weight of a dead kingdom
There is a sharp clatter as the armour is thrown aside, except that is impossible because he drowns in the molten heat of gold fresh from the forges, and then hands cup his cheek and hot breath in his face (though never hotter than the heat of gold surrounding him and suffocating him) as Dwalin roars, “Thorin! Look at me!”
Thorin blinks and forces his eyes to close and open, because even though he knows his eyes are open and staring out at what is alternately a dark emptiness or a brilliant shining expanse of molten gold he knows he is not seeing, he knows his eyes are open but they might as well be closed
and on the third attempt the darkness behind his eyes wipes away the darkness in his vision and when he opens his eyes again Dwalin's face is in his, their eyes so horribly close, light heat fire in his eyes and heart, and Dwalin's face drawn tight with concern as he gently shakes him, lips moving though he cannot hear the words
And then he gasps and air is on his tongue, sweet air that he forces into his lungs with the desperation of the drowning, and there is heat still in his heart and gold upon him, dragging him under but he can breathe and he feels Dwalin's hands digging into the cloth beneath his plate armour and chainmail, the golden prison cage chains away and he knows how to breathe again
And the dragon screams in his mind, a roar upon the wind filled with fire and vengeance and the promise of desolation, and Thorin doubles over as the claws tear into him, his breathing stuttering as he retches, tears pricking his eyes from the pain and the sense of wrong wrong wrong he feels in his chest, impossibly hard to breathe, he cannot see, he cannot hear the words around him and the hands on his shoulders and on his cheek feel impossibly distant
the gold is burning into his eyes, searing his flesh and the dragonfire turning him to a charred corpse, flesh and skin and cloth burned away by the terrible scorching heat
he coughs and retches as he convulses from the fire tearing its way into his heart and soul, heat and flame sinking claws deeply into him and rending him apart, and with every spasm blood spatters from his lips onto the gold, shockingly crimson but marred with a shadow that rises above him from behind, dragon wings reflected in the golden mirror he kneels upon
i will not part with a single coin!
not one piece of it!
blue eyes turned scarlet and slit-pupiled in his reflection, blood against glistening dragonscale
thorin, listen to me
thorin
uncle
listen to me!
A hand strikes him across the face, his head snapping to one side from the force of the blow, and then Fíli grabs his chin in his fingers and forces Thorin's head to turn towards him
“Thorin, whatever you're seeing, it's not real,” Fíli snaps, low and insistent, and Thorin cannot help but feel the shocking sense of guilt tearing through him, i failed to protect you and you are dead because of me
your spirits will wander forever, your bodies unburied to make peace with our Maker
i failed you fíli kíli i am so so sorry
“Thorin,” Kíli barks out in a tone no less commanding than that of his brother, “you have to wake up. Focus on my voice, don't let anything else touch you. It's not real.”
“We're here, Uncle. Focus on us.”
“You've been carrying us all our lives, now let us help you home.”
Thorin blinks, and blinks again, and then suddenly everything comes surging up in an unstoppable wave, and he thinks he screams as he falls back, Dwalin just barely catching him and laying him down on the floor as the sickness overwhelms him -
the dragon screams in his mind as wings rise up to eclipse the sun and the great beast descends down upon him, screams echoing in its wake as it descends down towards him, but Thorin sees the wavering forms of Fíli and Kíli standing in between him and it, and somehow the dragon's fire and claws cannot pierce them, and they hold no weapons but simply stand hand in hand facing towards Thorin with one of the great nightmares of his people at their backs and do not flinch as it roars in denied wrath
but then its eyes make contact with him over their heads, and the dragon's lips twist upwards into a dark grin
uncle, whatever it's saying, don't listen to it!
But their words are already too late as the dragon's claws sink into him and pierce deeper towards the heart, blood upon the grey stone and he feels his breathing stuttering and failing
thorin oakenshield
son of thráin, son of thrór
King
Under
The
M o u n t a i n
Thorin's eyes snap open onto Erebor's arching ceiling of emerald stone, so high it is lost in darkness, and his sister-sons lean in towards him but he doesn't wait for them to speak, grasping Dwalin's arm and using it to lever himself up on unsteady legs, and then one hand reaches for the crown upon his brow and flings it as far away from himself as his shaking arm will allow, and he half-expects it to sink into molten gold and for a dragon to erupt from the abyss and tear him to shreds
but instead it merely clatters against the gold with a sound that is almost quiet and Thorin nearly falls to the ground in that second in relief, but Dwalin grabs him by the arm and holds him upright even as the room spins around him and he almost stumbles standing still, how dizzy he is.
“Uncle?” Fíli and Kíli ask together, and Thorin manages three short steps towards them before he stumbles and nearly falls and they lunge forward to catch him before he strikes the ground and Thorin unhesitatingly crushes them to his chest in a relieved and utterly exhausted embrace.
“Fíli, Kíli,” he says faintly before his knees buckle beneath him and he folds to the ground, his head bowing beneath its weight and pulling his two lads close to him and feeling their heartbeats throbbing in tandem, slow and steady compared to his, still racing from the effects of the gold sickness working upon his mind and stealing all conscious thought from him.
“It's all right, Uncle Thorin,” they say, together in this as they always are. “We're alive. We're safe.”
“I'm sorry,” Thorin chokes out, for even if the memories of the sickness waver in his mind like smoke and he cannot hold them steady, he still senses the cruelties he committed under the dragon's curse, under the dark magic rending his mind apart.
“It's all right,” Fíli and Kíli say. “You're safe now, Uncle. You're safe.”
And nestled in their embrace with the sickness slowly retreating from his mind, he at last lets himself believe it.