Chapter Text
A chill spread through him, starting from the sharp ache in his torso and slowly flowing towards his paralysed limbs. There was no sight, no sound, no touch to distract him from the sense of helplessness overtaking his every thought. Only pain. Regret. And flashes of memories that flickered like visions under his blind eyes.
A quiet voice singing along the looped chords from a harp.
Childish laughter as three siblings ran under the shiny arches of a lost home.
A gleam trapped in the silver bent under his hammer.
Desperate for comfort, the dwarf latched onto those visions. An iridescent glow simultaneously began to flood his surroundings, and his skin defrosted as the air rose in temperature. All his senses alighted at once. His body felt like it was being scorched to ashes, so he doubled over and took shelter further into his mind, away from the agony and into the soothing embrace of familiarity.
It was proud smiles and metallic clashes exchanged between brothers in arms.
It was a merry evening spent with his Company, everlasting bonds forged by trial and trust.
It was an acorn sitting in the calloused palm of an unexpected and dear friend.
All the while the light grew brighter, swallowing him and everything around. The world turned white. The dwarf knew no more.
—
Thorin awoke with a gasp, one hand rising to the middle of his chest. Cold sweat trickled down his back as his fingertips hovered over the unblemished skin — as if afraid of injuring himself. Slowly, panic made way for confusion and he eventually redirected his hand towards the bedside lamp.
Shadows withered away in a switch, revealing a small bedroom: a single bed and scratchy sheets that curled around his legs, a desk whose shelves were empty, and an antiquated dresser upon which stood three wooden frames. Next to the door, a duffel bag lay on the floor along a pair of overworn boots.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and held his head, absently noting how short his hair felt between his shaky fingers. It was like his mind had been stirred, muddling everything beyond recognition — every single memory, just locked out of his reach. He stood up and was dismayed to find that his body also felt foreign.
Nothing felt right. But then, at the moment, he wouldn’t be able to define what right should feel like.
Thorin stumbled through the task of donning a blue henley and a heavy pair of jeans, both clothes having been found at the foot of the bed. At last, he forced himself to breathe out slowly before settling on approaching the photos on his dresser. Though nothing could prepare him for what he saw. Vertigo hit as soon as he looked at the first picture: his own self smiled at him and stood against a backdrop of rolling hills, holding the waist of a shorter man with curly red hair and matching hiking gear.
His gaze went to the other frames. There was a candid shot of two teenagers, one blond and the other dark-haired, holding their thumbs up at the camera. The last picture depicted himself once again, in his early youth and holding an axe, one foot propped on a felled tree.
Vibrations broke his focus. It was without a thought that his hand made for the mobile phone stashed inside his bag, momentarily grazing the silver tassel attached to the zipper. He unlocked the device to reveal a text message.
Good morning, love. I hope the trip went well. Let me know when you’ve arrived safely.
Thorin hit the call button.
Backed against a corner of the room, he listened to the ringing and tried to find his words. The fog clouding his head made even the simple action of thinking feel strenuous.
“Hullo! Did you just wake up? How—”
“Bilbo? I-Is that you?”
There was a short pause before the metallic, yet calming voice returned. “Dear… Is something wrong?”
Thorin sat against the wall, his long fingers raking through his cropped hair. “It feels wrong. All is wrong. What is happening to me?”
“Thorin, be with me for a moment?” Bilbo asked. “Just breathe… Are you at your father’s place then? Don’t tell me Thráin already made you upset. It would be a new record.”
A beat passed as Thorin took this newest factor in consideration. And it dawned on him.
He was in his father’s cottage up in the mountains, where Thror — his ill grandfather — also spent his retirement. Thorin had been invited to stay a week and enjoy a short holiday before he was to return to the City to spend his 48th birthday with Bilbo, Dis and the boys. It finally made sense.
So why did a strong sense of aberration still prevail?
“No, I haven’t seen him yet. I… I just—” Thorin groaned in frustration. “I must be tired. I miss you. How is everything on your end?”
“I miss you too. Keep me updated on how you feel, alright? You know you can reach me anytime.” There was a dull sound Thorin recognised as a hardback book being set on a side table. “The twins called. They are unusually chipper today. Kíli wants me to go with him to archery club this afternoon, says I could try taking a shot or two. Well, that’s just a disaster waiting to happen! Have you seen the size of their bows, the strength it requires? Light as I am, I'm as likely to shoot to the wall as the arrow itself!”
Bilbo’s laugh washed over Thorin. As the animated rambles went on, he held onto the voice like a lifeline, his single token of comfort among the uncanniness of this reality.
—
The old door closed behind him with a click. Time had left its mark on every surface of the house: the sickly green wallpaper covering the place was discoloured and stained; ancient lamps lighted the corridor and had long passed the age to qualify as safety hazards. And yet, the wooden flooring did not creak under Thorin’s soles nor did the stairs as he made his way down to the parlour. There, the air was dry and pleasantly warm, heated by the fireplace burning at the heart of the lodge.
A mirror hung near the entrance. Pale blue eyes met Thorin’s from the other side of it. Finding no answer in the stranger staring back, he moved on to the kitchen.
A melody swelled in the air, complex harmonies clashing with the high-pitched sizzling of cheap speakers. The notes flowed into each other, sometimes with thunderous gravity and other times light as feathers. Thorin stilled on the doorway, and quietly watched his father sway to the music.
“I was waiting for you,” the older man said. He straightened up from his chair. “Pour the coffee please?”
Following a series of familiar and practiced movements, Thorin filled two mugs — one with drip coffee and the other with green tea — and set them on the table along some fresh pastries. Thrain barely acknowledged the food, electing to focus on Thorin’s golden ring instead. And focus ever longer. Irritation made Thorin lower his left sleeve to cover his fingers. His father roused out of his stupor with a frown.
“I apologize for missing out on your arrival yesterday,” Thrain said as he switched off the music player. The sound of his late wife’s recorded works tapered off to a stop. “But you did come quite late.”
Silence filled the cramped space.
“So, tell me how you’ve been. How is work?”
“Work is fine,” Thorin replied and slowly sat down.
“How is Dis and the boys?”
“The business.. Her business is doing good at this time of the year.” His voice sounded stiff despite himself, though it improved each passing second. “Fili is about to start his history major and feels very excited about it. Kili is still figuring out what he wants to do. Whatever he chooses, I know he’ll be great at it. He still ranks first in archery tournaments, you know. That boy is a menace,” he ended in a smile.
“Wonderful! They’re growing up so fast. I too used to have a bow as a kid. My father would teach me how to wield it on his days off.” Thrain lifted his pointer finger. “Like I did with you and your axe once.”
“It’s different.”
“Perhaps it is. Still I could show the twins the Mountain someday… They would enjoy the fresh air, and the scenery…”
Thorin held his breath. But his father spoke no further. The truth was, many years had passed since Dis and her family were last invited to see their two elders. Thrain had the habbit of burning bridges.
“Balin invited Bilbo and I for dinner the other week,” Thorin ventured. “His health is improving. He is fully recovered from the surgery he underwent for his knee last month. And Dwalin… Dwalin was also there. They both want to know how you—”
“I like the new haircut.”
Thorin looked at his father in mild shock for interrupting him.
Thrain pressed on nonetheless, “It suits you. And it’s elegant. Maybe you could convince the boys to follow your example? The long hair is going to be a problem if they want to end up with respectable jobs.” He then chuckled, “Or respectable women. Your grandfather used to always say…”
There was Thorin’s cue.
His father’s prattle tuned out, he put the tableware away and patted his pockets before pulling out an abused cigarette pack. He shook it at Thrain with a weak smile, then slipped onto the back porch. The fresh air was a relief. Bringing his lighter up to his fag, he let himself be mesmerised by the fiery glint casted inside his wedding band.
The first inhale did a considerable job at unwinding the tension in his body, and though confusion still nagged at him, he felt more sane already.
A field of tree stumps stretched before him, courtesy of his family on his father’s side — most of them logging workers from father to son. Thror took pride in having built the cottage from the pines he had felled himself, and was content with spending the rest of his days hidden away from the outer world and its ever-evolving modernity. Years had gone by, and even sickness didn’t deter the recluse from leaving his corridors. The house was eventually passed down to Thrain, who packed his bags and moved in as soon as possible.
Thorin was next in line to inherit the place. The thought left him indifferent.
Cigarette stubbed out, Thorin walked back around to the front yard and through the front door. Once more he came across the mirror and took in his reflection: short black hair intertwined with grey strands; small etched lines running across his forehead and his clean-shaved cheeks. This time, he was able to put a finger on the familiarity of his features. It only made him more resentful. He fled to his bedroom in dire need of a distraction and set to sort his accursed, overflowing e-mail box.
Though the thought clung to him regardless.
I look like my father.