Work Text:
You stood behind the company and Thorin Oakenshield himself, listening intently to the verbal barrage of threats and accusations that roared from Thorin’s lungs to the ramparts below. He had already forced Bilbo to join Gandalf amongst the army of elves in a sickened rage - breaking the covenant he had made to his burglar on the dotted line of the contract only months ago.
The company now kept silent, but you could feel them shift uncomfortably. The pompous threats that flowed from Thorin’s mouth were no longer honorable, no longer in line with who Thorin had once been just days before. Now that his heart had laid lustful eyes upon the stores of gold inside of Erebor, his countenance had changed; his reasons for reclaiming Erebor had altered drastically.
Your jaw clenched as you forced yourself to remain silent. You were growing frustrated with Thorin’s attitude and his disregard for his own kin. In his flippant rage, he hadn’t thought about the results this rampage could cause for the dwarves who stood by him, much less considered the consequences it would have for the weary people of Lake-town.
You all stood gazing beyond the stone barricade that Thorin had ordered to be erected in haste the day before. The exchange between the two kings was becoming so vastly infuriating that you could hardly contain your temper any longer. You heard the elven king below tell the bowman next to him that Gondor would pay a hefty price for the Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone. It was an obvious tactic to provoke Thorin’s rage all the more in his sickness.
The way they delivered their words seemed as if they had rehearsed this entire argument. It was a ploy. And it was working. Thorin paced the barricade in a hot frenzy, much like a mad dog unable to contain his wrath.
“I will KILL YOU! By my oath I WILL KILL YOU ALL! ” Thorin yelled in a fury of red rage, blind to the deception that the woodland king was trying to bring down upon him. He was ignorant to the trap the bargeman and his elven ally had scrounged up in an effort to avoid battle and claim their share of the wealth that lay cradled in the cold reaches mountain.
Your temper finally snapped. You could bear this deception no longer.
“Thorin - !” You began to yell, but your confrontation was lost amidst the elven king’s retaliation.
“Your oath means nothing!” Silence fell for a moment after his voice boomed above the ramparts. The anger of the fair-haired elven lord had been invoked by Thorin’s stubborn refusal to cower to his hidden schemes.
“I have heard enough.” He added, turning the majestic beast he sat upon towards Dale with graceful ease. When the pensive silence had once again descended, your anger flared.
“THORIN OAKENSHIELD!”
At the sound of another voice rising above the chilled wind, King Thranduil halted his elk and faced the mountain once more. All eyes returned to the barricade, searching for the one whose voice had broken out above the rest; for the one who now dared defy the King of Erebor. Thorin whipped around to face his challenger.
Much to his surprise, he turned to find you stepping through the crowd of dwarves. The company gazed at you in stunned horror. All eyes below continued to search for the voice, only catching glimpses of (h/c) being tossed by the wind.
Gandalf and Bilbo, who recognized your voice, exchanged a glance of shock.
Gandalf himself grimaced as he heard you, fully aware of the potential your temper harbored. The company themselves, including the burglar, had only witnessed your rage once before when Thorin had rashly laid accusations against Bilbo about his assumed escape in the goblin tunnels. Despite the unsettling nature of it, your temper was transfixing to witness.
You had an air of elegance and kindness that poured forth without fault, with a purity of heart and soul to match the great lords and ladies of Gondor and Rohan. Although only a traveler and mercenary, you bore the grace of a noble. To witness your wrath was not only a rarity - it was downright terrifying.
Thorin looked enraged to even look upon you, which made your skin crawl all the more. In his sickness, your anger did not faze him as it had before, like it did so many others. It only fed the flames of his own emotions - and loosed a heavier heap of despair upon your heart.
“Do you not see what your pompous greed is doing?!” You shouted, your body beginning to tremble from the anger boiling inside of you.
“How dare you address me, son of Thrain, your king, in such a manne-” He began in an unfeeling tone.
“How dare I address YOU?” You scolded, stepping directly in front of him. Unknown to you, you had now revealed yourself to the multitude below. Every eye was upon you. You stood a good foot above Thorin, glaring down at him.
“How dare you put all of us,” Amidst your echoing words, you gestured to the company. “Your friends, your family, at the mercy of your arrogance! You will bring war upon us all!”
He faltered, taking a few steps back. The company gaped at you.
“Can you not see beyond your own greed?” When you received no answer, you continued. Now that you had confronted his ego, you aimed for his heart; for conviction. “How long must we follow a man we do not know?” You asked, your voice richer in tone and more powerful than before. "Where is the man we knew when a band of Orcs was hunting us? The man who would die for his kin?“
It was now obvious to the multitude what you were fighting for, or rather who you were fighting to save. In your outburst, you were begging Thorin to open his eyes, to break through the dragon sickness. But to Thorin it went unnoticed - you were now a vice, an incessant thorn in his Durin hide. He stepped towards you abruptly, wildly, and lashed out with his most venomous retaliation.
"You speak of yourself, (Y/n) (L/n)?” He seethed, uttering your name as if it left a foul taste upon his tongue. “You are no friend of Thorin Oakenshield.”
As his poisonous words settled in your mind, your mouth fell agape as a pang of hurt that tasted bitterly of betrayal sliced through you. For what seemed like long minutes, you only bored into his crystal blue eyes. Where they were once enchanting and warm, they were now cold and calloused. In a mere flash of instinct, your wrath burst once more like a rupturing flame.
“And you are no king,” You spit out the words as if they were hot coals upon your tongue. “Not one I ever knew! You’re a sick and selfish reprobate! Look what you’ve become! Your greed and your blind ambition have meddled your mind, Thorin Oakenshield. You are no longer worthy of such a title. You are no longer worthy of your father’s halls!”
As the words echoed around you and down the mountain, you could feel the company take in timid breaths, awaiting Thorin’s response. They were stunned at your courage to try and shake the dragon-sickness from his bones and even more stunned at your choice of words. The multitude below stood in awe of your confrontation, seeing how it was now transitioning into a more brazen fashion than Bilbo’s attempt had only minutes before.
Silent glances of disbelief were exchanged between armored elves and the lords upon their horses. Faint mutterings of astonishment spilled out into the air with an uneasy release. Thranduil, the Great Elvenking, bore a smirk of satisfaction upon his chiseled lips; in his eyes, the dwarven scum was getting every ounce of confrontation he deserved. He could practically feel the swaying of the tide.
Your chest heaved as each breath turned sharp and laborious, as the sting of betrayal siphoned the wrath from your body. Although your heart was now basking in its own agonizing pain, your adrenaline remained and fueled your heavy breathing and trembling hands. Your (h/c) hair whipped in the wind, making your frustration flare each time the winter air tossed it back against your cheeks with a sharp sensation. Even strung in a braid and contained in dwarvish beads, it had torn itself loose, provoking you all the more.
You jabbed a finger at him, your anger still burning with all the heat of its raw emotion, “The very sickness you once detested has overcome you! The sickness of your grandfather!”
“Do not speak to me of my grandfather! You know nothing of-”
“I speak the truth, Thorin! Every single one of us can tell you’ve changed. In the seduction of your riches, you would willingly unleash a war so terrible upon all of us! On our people!” As the last words left your lips, your face fell.
You gestured once more to the dwarves who stood around you, their own expressions mirroring yours. As you looked at them, you noticed the glistening shimmer of tears in some of their eyes. Then, you looked back at Thorin and pointed to the multitude below as you continued.
“On others! Even dooming those who dwell in Laketown, who have already suffered from Smaug’s desolation. You are forsaking old alliances! These people used to keep trade coming into Erebor and Dale, they were our neighbors!” Your compassion was beginning to outweigh your wrath as the questioning faces of those that stood below began to understand; you were trying to save them, too. “All of this risk, just for your hoards of gold that will amount to nothing if we all end up DEAD!”
You paused, your chest rising and falling rapidly at the expense of your fury. You felt as if your chest might burst, but you kept going. Your confrontation was not yet spent of its capabilities.
“I CANNOT and WILL NOT follow such a man into battle! Not for these petty reasons and not for noble ones, either; so long as that man is you.” Before Thorin could interject your accusation, your gaze turned to the snowy-haired king upon his stag as you stepped forward to the edge of the barricade wall. When he found your eyes burning into his with a profound sense of conviction, he adjusted his posture almost timidly. “And YOU! You provoke his sickness for your own selfish intentions! You forsake your own kind with this quest for sacred heirlooms! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
You glanced between both kings as you let one last bout of words fly from your lips.
“Both of you should be! Kingship is not about wealth and power - it’s about your people! And you’re both forsaking them to ruin! All of us! Even yourselves! What about old alliances? You have the chance to repair the bonds between your races, and yet you trample over the opportunity! And for what? Your pride? Gold? Silver jewels? Worthless things!” You turned back to Thorin, casting an accusing palm towards King Thranduil. “You let this elven king dig under your skin, his own foolish pride only setting your sickness ablaze even more! Can you not see the schemes at play here? Are you really so blind, Thorin?”
A cloud of dense silence descended upon every soul who witnessed the scene. King Thranduil’s stunned expression faded into one of curiosity. Thorin’s expression only hardened as your convictions echoed in his mind. Gandalf, Bilbo, and the others…they only feared for you now that you had finished your speech. As sick as Thorin was and as driven by arrogance as Thranduil was, they knew very well that the spiteful words of threat would not end there.
Especially not by Thorin’s condemned tongue, dripping with the curse of dragon’s greed. However, to you, the silence made you feel hopeful. You thought, perhaps, you had broken through.
Until he spoke again.
Thorin stepped forward until he was mere inches from you, and although he was shorter in stature, his domineering countenance made you feel like a child. A little girl thrust in front of the sharp fangs of a ravenous wolf, about to be devoured in his bloodthirst. When he spoke, it was quietly unnerving but loud enough to be heard by those who stood outside of the mountain. For the first time, he sounded like a snake, with truly venomous words - his vowels slithered out from his corrupted tongue, heavy and poisonous.
“The riches of Erebor, the heirlooms of Durin, are invaluable! You scum! You wouldn’t know the treasures of this kingdom from the dirt under your boots. After all, that’s all you’ve ever known, (Y/n). All you’ll ever be worth.”
Immediately, your shoulders dropped, your posture sagged, and your throat burned as it tightened with the threat of tears. Your mouth fell open slightly as the hate in his words imprinted itself in your mind. Your wrath had been spent, your energy debilitated.
Before your eyes, Thorin Oakenshield had changed entirely. Any amount of hope for his redemption escaped into the bitter air, evaporating like the mist that clung to the mountain and its towering pines. Your friend was gone, lost in the depths of a lifetime’s search to find his home, buried in the rubble of destruction, and suffocated in a sea of glimmering riches.
Amidst the numbing pain of betrayal, you felt someone touch your arm. You turned to find Balin with a sympathetic look on his comforting features, beckoning you to step away. With one pleading glance to Thorin, you retreated into the gentle touches of the company, whose silent whispers of admiration and warm traces of their hands on your arms offered some ounce of peace. You may not have succeeded, but your efforts had been nothing short of sincere.
As you turned back around and faced Thorin, who had turned himself towards the wall, slowly drawing his sword from its sheath. You could see the anger boiling beneath his skin, the pure wrath bubbling over the edge of his temperament like scalding liquid. You watched as he let his blade drag onto the ground, staring down at his feet, contemplating his next bombardment of slanderous threats. You didn’t expect him to turn around and bring his eyes upwards to meet yours. When he did, the company took in a stolid breath.
His eyes were distant and full of fury; such hatred you had never seen in his once warm eyes. It sent a shiver through your body as you met his gaze, feeling the wrath therein channel itself directly towards you as if no one else was standing around you. The presence of Balin, Bofur, and Nori faded from your senses as Thorin took slow strides towards you; you couldn’t focus on anything else but the fear that struck your heart as he neared you.
You were the prey, and he, the hunter.
“You BETRAY ME!” His voice bellowed out, crumbling your resolve like pebbles loosed from the mountainside. The dwarves around you shifted, sharing wary glances, remembering what had happened to Bilbo just moments before when he had stood up to Thorin. It was the reason the halfling now stood several meters down on the ground, on the edge of the elven army, next to the towering Grey Wizard.
“Bind her! Her loyalty is fault with lies!” He barked, glancing to Dwalin and his nephews, thrusting his sword towards you. When they made no effort to obey him, Thorin growled and swung his sword around haphazardly, gesturing for them to move towards you. “I said bind her!”
When it was evident they would do no such thing, no matter how many times he gave the order, his gaze returned to you. He looked hungry; ravenous for power.
“Then I will do it myself.” Thorin threw his blade onto the ground where it then clattered with the sharp pierce of metallic ringing. He took on monstrous stride forward, his greedy hands prepared to grasp your wrists in his harsh grasp. But before he could reach you, Dwalin stepped in his way, shielding you with his own body.
“You make such haste in turning on your own,” Dwalin whispered, his heartbreak evident in the shattered posture of his usually rigid stature. He shook his head slowly as the man before him became unrecognizable; Thorin Oakenshield was now a stranger, even to his own kin.
“My own? Signing a contract of service does not make you a dwarf,” Thorin seethed. As he spoke his next words, he looked directly at you, as you had been the one that spoke instead of Dwalin. “It will never rid the wandering sludge from your blood! You vile vagabond!”
“Thorin, please. I only wished to hel-”
“AAAAGH!” He yelled, silencing you with the echo of his voice. “If you do not wish to be cut down, then rid me of your filth, you wench!” With every foul name he called you, a little of your heart was left bruised and scathed. He, Thorin Oakenshield, the most meritorious dwarf you had ever met, had threatened death upon you. He wanted you gone from his side, removed from his company, or better yet, dead.
He had trampled your friendship under his feet as though it had meant nothing.
“But, I-”
“Go, lass, while you can,” Balin whispered from your right, gently guiding you away from Thorin’s reach and towards the edge of the barricade. Dwalin and the others watched as you grasped the rope in your hands and hoisted yourself up and over the edge. You descended slowly with an almost numbing pace, your mind overcome with the grief of being cast out and your body slowly feeling the exhaustion of your efforts.
When your boots finally hit the ground, you tottered ever so slightly before releasing the rope. You stared at your feet, using all of your strength to will the onset of your tears to fade. A voice from above pulled your eyes upwards once more as they glistened with the salty liquid of remorse brought on by the loss of your companions.
“Bring up the rope!” Thorin shouted, and seconds later Bofur and Gloin peered over the edge, sneaking sorrowful expressions, and began pulling the rope upwards over the rampart. You watched the swaying rope as it ascended and finally disappeared with a flick. You swallowed hard and turned on your heel, only allowing yourself one moment to bring your head up to look for Gandalf and Bilbo, then returned your gaze to the ground as you made your way to them.
You were blind to the dozens of eyes that were upon you as you made the trek to Gandalf’s side - eyes that belonged to your friends up on the mountain, from those that stood at attention in the elven army, and of those that belonged to Bard the Bowman and King Thranduil himself. The Bowman spent a glance at you and Bilbo, sympathizing with your predicament. A sense of respect formed within him for both of you as he realized that you wished no ill to fall upon the innocents that now dwelled in Dale, preparing themselves for their death.
Gandalf reached a hand forward as you neared him, clasping your shoulder with the gentle press of encouragement. You offered him a smile, but it was barely noticeable under the weight of your grief. When you turned back to the mountain as you stood at his side, his hand fell on your other shoulder, giving you a steady touch of approval.
“Well met, (Y/n). He needed it,” Bilbo said with brighter smile than the one you had mustered, winding his small arm in yours and giving your hand a tender pat. You turned your face slightly to look at him just as a tear slipped from your eye and cascaded down your cheek. You swiped it away quickly and offered the hobbit a nod in agreement. Bilbo frowned. “He will remember our words soon enough, (Y/n). He’ll come back from this.”
“Yes, you did very well, both of you. Now let us hope it will count for something,” Gandalf added, “He needs to be woken from this sickness.” He slipped from behind you both and walked forwards a few paces, returning his attention to the mountain.
You didn’t comprehend the words he shouted in return to Thorin’s resumed onslaught of blind threats as you stared ahead blindly, nor did you notice the raven that landed near Thorin’s side that would signify the help of his distant kin, and you most certainly didn’t notice the gaze of the Elvenking that had flickered repeatedly from the dwarves and their empty threats to you where you stood, your gaze empty and your sorrows pluming around you so openly.
He took no special notice of the halfling that clung to your side, apart from wondering what companionship could exist between the two of you. It was obvious that you both had been easily targeted by Oakenshield’s sickness, not only for your outright defiance, but for your race. You weren’t of the Durin blood, nor even of dwarven blood, which would easily set you apart from the rest of the company. Dwarves reeked with pride and stubborn prejudice. He was surprised to see that either of you had been members of this futile escapade to begin with.
Thranduil had been quite mesmerized by your performance, although the words that had been directed at him did in fact prick at him with a menacing sense of conviction. He took great intrigue in your perceptive skills; you had been able to see through his schemes only minutes after his arrival. Your countenance fascinated him, especially in the way you had been able to put forth wisdom in the heat of your unkempt temper.
Thranduil’s observation had been cut short when a thundering echo of footfalls flowed from the east. You turned to follow the growing sound, only to lock eyes with the Elvenking himself. Your eyebrows drew forward as his quirked upward and his eyes widened slightly in a hint of embarrassment. Just then, a horn blew out into the air, warranting every eye to turn and see a line of spearheads swell over the hillside, followed by the gradual reveal of a dwarven army clad in iron armor.
“Ironfoot,” Gandalf murmured, his face twisting into a grimace. You drew near the wizard with Bilbo at your side. A brazen collection of cheers rung our from above you where the company stood, raising weapons in allegiance to their arriving kin. The Elvenking turned his elk about and shouted out a call to arms which turned his army towards the east in one fluent switch of direction. You watched as he disappeared into the ranks with Bard close behind.
You kept Bilbo close to you as you followed Gandalf out onto the plain. You cast one last glance at Thorin, whose eyes were locked onto his cousin, Dain, who was descending the hill ahead of his army. As you watched the men and women of Lake-town stagger themselves up to the front with a sense of relentless courage, and the elves of Mirkwood standing with elegant precision around them, you turned to the army of dwarves that swept over the hill like a violent wave.
A sense of dreadful panic fell over you.
Who were you to fight for?
Who were you expected to fight for?
You wished no ill will on any of the three parties standing ready for war. You only wished for peace, for the return of old alliances, and for the reassurance that your friends would survive the horrors that would shortly begin.