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“Careful now,” Thorin called out, lantern held high as he slipped down the gravel and shale path. “It's all loose rock.”
“D'ya need a rope?”
“I'm good, Dwalin.” Thorin dug his heels in and raised the lantern a bit higher. “I think I see it!” From behind him he could hear a stir of voices, but the tunnel distorted the words.
Long had the dwarven nations of Arda been searching for the lost kingdom of Erebor. The last records they had of it was from the Fifth Age, when the Age of Man had been brought low by wars and diseases, so much so that the other races of Arda had experienced a resurgence. There had been an ebb and flow to their peoples for several Ages afterwards, but by the Tenth Age things had seemed to level out.
The Fifth Age records were all that they had of Arda's past. Records of previous Ages were only known in lore, and most of it was suspect. The elves, still around in the Tenth Age, were all born in Arda and even the oldest of them went back to the Sixth Age. There were whispers that from time to time strange beings, sometimes even elves, had come from the Far Western Shores, from Aman, but Thorin doubted such tales were true. The only race not seen on Arda that were mentioned in the Fifth Age chronicles were the so-called hobbits, a race of beings that no one scholar could agree on just what they were. A fragment of what some called an older record, the pages literally falling apart in the Fifth Age and only slivers remained in their most secure museums, said that these hobbits once lived in a place called the Shire, wherever that was. But that record was suspect too in Thorin's opinion, since the guardian of that particular museum would let only one researcher a year in to study the precious artifacts and Thorin had been petitioning this Gandalf Olórin for a decade and still hadn't received an answer back.
Thorin had been the head of antiquities at the University of Ered Luin for twenty years. If his sister was right with her genealogy – and she usually was – their family had some sort of connection with the ruling families of the Longbeard Clan. Such ruling systems had been defunct since the Fifth Age, after the almost extinction of their peoples in the Fourth Age and the birth of Durin VII. Thorin was still not sure if he believed all the claptrap about the line of Durin and Durin the Deathless. Their people were supposed to return to Mahal after Durin VII's death and yet here they still were. Perhaps it was an old legend that had been corrupted, but who knew?
Thorin shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The sloping tunnel was full of chipped rockfall, but the ceiling still looked like it would hold. While his people were still predominately in professions that revolved around the earth, many of the races of Arda had branched out beyond their original traits. And with the acceptance of the Uruk-hai, goblin, and orc populations, many found their calling in places that most did not expect. All the races, however, did tend to keep one or two of their original traits. For the dwarves it was their stonesense and Thorin's told him that the rock about him would hold.
Down, down the tunnel went and the deeper into the earth the stronger the buzzing feeling in his bones grew. Thorin could hear his team behind him, coming down in a careful line. Bofur was sure to be the one manning the ropes – Thorin had gotten into the tunnel before Bofur could arrive and he knew he'd be paying for that later. He just couldn't wait. Thorin had been leading excavations for years at the university, but never before had they struck gold like this.
Dori, wondrous, glorious Dori had gotten a slot at the Ancient Manuscript Museum six months before. Dori had gifted that same damnable Olórin a box of his own home baked cookies. Dori had gotten a second invitation that included a tour and impromptu lecture about the oldest manuscripts in the museum's collection. Olórin even let Dori scan a few of the scraps of what Olórin called the Red Book of Westmarch. Dori, part of Thorin's antiquities professors, had a specialization in ancient food culture. It seemed as though Olórin was particularly fond of the same topic. At any rate Dori had come away with more information from the Ancient Manuscript Museum than any of Thorin's professors had in a decade. And it was in those scans, quite innocently, not even noticed , that they'd found part of a map.
The Red Book of Westmarch had been written and rewritten and written over for Ages. Olórin had yet to allow anyone to test the scraps themselves in an attempt to determine the exact age of the artifacts. From years of previous study, though, everyone agreed that the thin scraps themselves were probably from the Fourth Age. Some argued even earlier but Thorin doubted it. At any rate, the style of writing, the fading of the ink, the composition of the paper, all of it did clearly point to at least the Fourth Age. Many of the scraps had several layers of writing on them, sometimes scraped off in places and rewritten, and sometimes just written over in different styles of ink. It was on one of the larger scraps that Dori had scanned, when they put the images through a filter, that they started to notice...symbols. Familiar symbols. Very old familiar symbols.
Thorin wasn't sure who got a hold of Bifur first, but their resident Ancient Khuzdul expert had been roused out of bed at two in the morning and dragged down to the university labs where Thorin, Dori, and Dwalin had camped out at. Bifur, who Thorin quite honestly did not know if he ever actually spoke modern Westron at all these days, had taken one look at the screens and shoved them all out of the way. It had been several hours but by the time dawn started to stain the eastern sky red, they had a translation.
Erebor . The fragment that Dori had scanned, a throwaway picture, taken just to be complete about it all, was part of a map. A map . To Erebor .
Thorin had grown up listening to the legends about Erebor. They all had. Hell, Thorin had been named after one of the kings, but he forgot which one. Dis had even named her own children after the fallen princes of Erebor.
(Thorin had been secretly horrified but then Dis had gotten absolutely drunk after her husband left her when Fíli and Kíli were babes and told Thorin that she had named the boys that because she had secretly wanted the fallen princes of their legends to live and so Thorin had been forced to actually like the names then. It was awful.)
They all knew that Erebor had once existed. There were still relics that showed up from time to time. Most of them were in museums but every so often an artifact would come up at auction that would stun the academic circles. One such item, a mithril shirt made for a child or very small dwarrow, had made the headlines during Thorin's first year at university. He had been fascinated by the shirt, by the clear markings that showed that it had been made in Erebor, by the fact that it had come from some hush-hush family who had paid a lot of money to keep their names out of the press. All of that combined had Thorin taking more and more history classes until he ended up with a degree in antiquities.
And now he was here. In Erebor. Crawling down through a tunnel that had opened up during a recent quake. Bofur's team had scoped out the area, finally declaring it safe. So now all Thorin had to do was keep his footing and follow where this tunnel would lead him.
There was a narrow opening at the end. It took some wiggling and popping off a button or two from his heavy flannel shirt, but Thorin made it through. He stumbled, almost losing his lantern, but caught himself before tripping head over feet into the chasm stretching out in front of him. Thorin looked up, raising his light to get a better idea of where he was standing. What he saw instead took his breath away.
Ancient faces stared down at him, worn with time and the elements, carved from the very rock about him. Dwarven faces, faces of kings, of legends. They stood at attention along the walls, hands resting on the pommel of their swords, waiting in silence and stone. Thorin felt his throat go tight with some emotion he could not name as he stared up at his ancestors. All of the ancient dwarven nations had been lost to time. But to find one, to find Erebor , meant they had finally found one again. Found a piece of their history, of their people, of their place in this world.
It meant everything.
A clatter of stone behind him told Thorin that Dwalin was sure to join him soon. He still could not talk, could not even move from his spot near the sheer drop of the ledge. He did manage to hold out an arm as Dwalin wiggled his way through the tight opening. Dwalin grunted as he took the hand up...and then just kept holding Thorin's hand as he stared up at the carvings that extended up into the vast dark ceiling.
One by one his men came down the tunnel and onto the ledge. One by one they all stopped and stared, taking in the statues, the carvings, the stairs that Dwalin had found as Dori and Ori were making their way through the opening. They had started their decent into the tunnel early in the morning, barely after dawn. As the sun rose they found that the ceiling was not whole – or perhaps had been designed in some way to let some natural light in. For, as the sun rose, the dark peeled back, showing the walls and the carvings, but more it allowed them to peer over the ledge and into the chasm...and see the network of crisscrossing bridges that spanned the space below.
They had made it. They were in Erebor . Thorin couldn't help but hug his boys tight when Fíli and Kíli finally came through the opening. They had followed Thorin into academia, with Fíli as a professor of smithing history and Kíli of ancient weapons. There was no way he wasn't taking them with him when Thorin's request for this particular expedition was granted.
“Well I'll be,” Bofur was saying as he peered over the ledge. He was laid out on his belly, Bifur on the ropes behind him, just in case the edge gave way. Thorin didn't think it would. His stonesense had always been stronger than most. Once they'd made it in through the tunnel, everything felt solid to him. Well made, well carved, well cared for. There would be no crumbling, not from the works their hands made.
Their ancestors hands made. Thorin gave himself a shake.
“Where do y'think we are?” Dwalin stood shoulder to shoulder with him, both of them staring down into the chasm.
“I'm not sure,” Thorin frowned, thinking back on all the texts he had ever read about Erebor. “To be this high up...we're probably near the royal wing.”
A stir went through his men, through Thorin too, not that he would admit it. There was something...just something that was urging him to turn right, to walk along the path that ran along the carved walls, underneath the looming statues of his ancestors. There would be an arch there, something told him. He would turn left, then, go three doors down, and there would be his rooms.
Thorin blinked and gave his head a sharp shake. What nonsense. His rooms ? Surely he'd watched too many dramas with the boys. “Let's start getting things mapped out,” he said instead. He turned his head to look at Dwalin when there wasn't an immediate reply.
Thorin found his old friend and lover staring out over the chasm, a strange look on his face, his hand half curled at his waist. “Dwalin?”
“What?” Then Dwalin was back, blinking fast and frowning. “Maps. Right. Yeah, let's get on that then.”
Ori was their map maker. The youngest Ri brother had talked Nori into helping him lug down all the computers and generators they would need to set up a temporary camp on the first ledge they'd come out on. Thorin wanted to move them to a more secure location – there was no need in tempting fate with that ledge – but Ori would need to get started on his points of reference first.
“Let's keep everyone tethered to a rope for now,” Thorin told Bofur as his company...Thorin shook his head again. His crew were all professionals but this was the biggest find of their careers. No need to be reckless, not now.
“You first, m'lord!” Then Bofur paused, an odd look on his face. “Sorry 'bout that. Must be all the excitement. Got your harness?”
“Yes.” Thorin helped Bofur connect the leads and then stepped away, knowing Bofur would get to everyone in short order. Thorin passed Ori and Nori going over the mapping software, with Nori pointing out where best to put their sensors for better reach. Dori had told Thorin, years ago over a long night bailing both Dwalin and Nori out of a local jail in Harad, that their family had worried over Nori for years, fearing he would be lost to the seedy underworld of the slums they had grown up in. Dori had never been prouder when Nori had graduated college with a degree in software engineering.
Thorin set a hand to the worn walls and let his palm smooth along the stone as he made his slow way down the hall. He stopped when the rope at his waist went taut, but up ahead he could see an arch, just like he'd imagined. There were...marks around the edges, words perhaps, or simple carvings, it was hard to tell in the dim light. Surely there should have been torches to light the way but Thorin could see no brackets on the walls, nor anything else that would have illuminated the hall.
There were skylights far above, one of the first things Thorin would set to repairing after they'd taken the Mountain. The forges were in decent enough shape for now, but light was what they needed. Light to see, light to work by, light to fill the greenhouses in the heart of the Mountain, where they could grow their food. His Burglar –
“Thorin?”
Thorin flinched back, the strange dream-not dream fading as fast as it came. He turned to see Dwalin standing just behind him. “Yes?”
“You alright there?”
“I don't think I got a wink of sleep last night,” Thorin managed a laugh. “This is a dream come true. I keep thinking I'll wake up at any moment.”
“It looks different,” Dwalin's gaze went past him, lingering on the far arch, then out over the slowly lightening central hall.
“Than what you imagined?”
Dwalin was silent for a long, long moment. “Yeah. Of course.”
The hairs on the back of Thorin's neck stood on end. Then he gave himself a shake and clapped Dwalin on the shoulder. “Come on, let's help Balin and Glóin with the recordings. I don't think we'll get Bifur away from that slab we passed.”
Dwalin groaned but the tense lines about his mouth and eyes had eased. The moment slipped from Thorin's thought as the day progressed, as they found a larger area to camp further down the hall – past the arch – and into what was indeed the royal wing.
Their days were full from the moment they rose to when they stumbled to bed each night. Fíli and Kíli, being the youngest of them all except for Ori, were the ones tasked to go up the tunnel and into base camp where Bombur and Óin were holding down the fort. The boys were the ones to tell them that news of their discovery had reached the internet, somehow, and that there were rumors of other expeditions headed their way. Thorin had been furious but there wasn't much they could do. Erebor was considered an ancient dwarven realm, yes, but there had been treaties and arrangements and other understandings throughout the Ages that meant while Erebor was considered a dwarven cultural site, they alone could not horde it. They would have to share in the riches of their people's history whether they liked it or not.
With that news in mind Thorin and his crew tried to put every minute they had to best use. Fíli had come back the day before with the news that the elven expedition from Greenwood University was already on their way. Thorin had had to walk away for a bit at that. Professor Thranduil and he had never gotten along. Never. Not even when they were stuck in the same jail in Sirion after a bar brawl had gotten out of hand. Maybe especially after that incident. Thorin still claimed that it had been Thranduil's crew who had started the brawl while Thranduil had laid the fault at their feet. It had been an ongoing feud for years.
They had most of the upper levels scouted, so they then turned to the chasm and the delicate bridges they could see arching over the empty space. None of them were keen on having the structures fail on them, but with ropes and rigging set up they were as safe as they could be. Many of the halls they passed had caved in, the rubble too great or too unstable to risk moving it. It grated something fierce but Thorin knew that with more expeditions coming it would open up more money for his unit to use, and with more expeditions it meant more hands to help map the areas they could not reach on their own.
It looked like Thranduil and his prissy elves would be good for something, at least.
Down, down they went, finding the remains of the great treasury, swept bare of a single speck of gold. Thorin didn't like that area. It made his stomach sour and his ears ring. None of his company – his crew – seemed to like it, either. Further down they found the smithies, where they lost Fíli for the rest of their expedition. Then, with his skin prickling with goosebumps and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Thorin led them down a wide tunnel, the floors polished black by time and the passing of many feet. The air grew colder. Not a breath of wind stirred the halls. The only tracks in the dust were the ones left by their own feet as they made their way down, down, down into the heart of the Mountain.
Some strange feeling made Thorin pause his steps, clicking off his lantern. One by one his company shut theirs off too. The darkness was complete, so thick Thorin could not even see his hand in front of his face. Then, just barely, a tiny spark ignited. Thorin found himself holding his breath as the tiny crystals of myth began to wake, illuminating the hall with a blue glow.
The Halls of Stone were a sacred place. Here would be the tombs of their ancestors, one of the few places they could forbid any others entry to. Thorin went forward, following the pull of his heart. The towering monuments arched up into the darkness, not even the glow of the crystals able to chase away the shadows there. From what Thorin could make out the tomb at the very entrance of the Halls was for Durin VII, who was supposed to have been buried in the lost Khazad-dûm. Thorin gazed over the ancient writings, the names of Durin's wife, his children, each of them laid out next to him in their own tombs. No one said a word.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin thought he saw a flash of color. He turned to see the Hall continue on, tomb after tomb laid out in solemn rows. But it was not the tombs that caught his eye, nor the way the crystals were lighting up, one after the other. No, it was the glittering crystal dome halfway down the Hall, sparkling with its own light, and underneath that dome...
Thorin went to his knees in front of the still figure. The strange, small creature – a hobbit , something whispered in his mind – lay with his hands resting on his chest. He looked as though one asleep, fair of face and color, with golden locks tumbling over his forehead. This dome was next to a tomb, placed in the position of the king's consort.
“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered, feeling something hot streak down his face. He did not know why he wept.
He could hear the voices of his company behind him. Confusion and some fear, coming from them all. Then, as Thorin felt Dwalin's hand curl over his shoulder, as he felt his company gather close, that creature's – their Bilbo's – chest moved.
For a long moment no one moved. Silence swept over them all. Then, under that glittering dome, as that chest moved up and down in small breaths like one sleeping, those eyes – Bilbo's eyes – opened.
The glittering dome shattered with the sound of tinkling glass. It faded away like the tiny sparkles of fireworks. Bilbo blinked up at the dark ceiling. He turned his head.
Bilbo's smile was still the most beautiful thing Thorin had ever seen. He could feel Dwalin trembling where his hand was clamped on Thorin's shoulder.
“Well, hello,” his Bilbo, their Bilbo, their Burglar, said. “I am so happy to see you again.”