Dwarven Lullabies and Other Battles

Thorin Oakenshield woke suddenly, awoken from the depths of sleep by a sound so piercing and relentless that it pierced his dreams like a blade.

His first instinct was to reach for the sword placed carefully on the bedpost, old habits die hard, but his hand encountered nothing but air. Instead, what he found was something far more terrifying than any enemy he had ever faced in battle.

Her new-born baby girl, Erebet, was screaming at the top of her lungs from inside the intertwined cradle.

For a moment, Thorin simply stood there, staring at the stone ceiling of his chambers, as if it contained secret wisdom on how to silence a crying infant. Beside him, Geira moved weakly, her feverish body trembling under her furs.

A sad smile escaped him as he gently adjusted the flap of fur on her shoulders with his hand.

She had fallen ill shortly after Erebet's birth, and although the healers assured them that she would recover, her condition left her too weak to care for their child. Which meant... Another deafening wail. Thorin groaned, throwing off the blankets and sitting up.

"I'm coming ," he murmured, as if he were speaking to a fellow soldier rather than a

member of his own flesh and blood.

The thought was both ridiculous and reassuring. This was Erebet.

His Erebet.

Erebet... Erebet... it took him weeks to accept that unusual name Geira had chosen.

"It reminds you of Erebor don't you think? And then... it reminds me of the Sindarin stories I used to read when I was little, with my aunt."

Yeah. He owed her, at least that much after so much... but it was never right to dwell on such memories here, not so sad.

The little bundle that had entered her life only a few weeks before, and already ruled her world with a power greater than any crown she had ever worn. He staggered out of bed and made his way to the elaborately carved wooden cradle placed near the hearth, where the little girl waved her tiny fists in the air, her face red with rage. He bent down carefully, scrutinising her as if he were inspecting a newly forged weapon.

"What do you want?" he asked her in a deep, hoarse whisper. It was a silly question. She was a child; she could not answer him. But he felt compelled to ask her anyway.

Erebet responded by howling even louder. Thorin sighed.

He had faced hordes of goblins and dragon fire, had led his people through exile and war, but none of this had prepared him for this. He had always thought that raising his children would be the duty of nannies and their mother, but with Geira ill, the task fell to him. And for Mahal, he would not be beaten by a creature that fit his forearm perfectly. It had not happened with Fili and Kili would not be touched now.

He took her in his arms and cradled her awkwardly against his chest.

"There, there. You're safe," he murmured, his deep voice booming against her small form. She was so small, so fragile.

This terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

"Are you hungry?" he mused, remembering the time when Dís had told him, shortly after Fili was born, that babies cry when they want to eat.

Or was it when they needed to be changed? Or when they craved comfort? Damn it all, he should have paid more attention when Dís was raising Fili and Kili. Erebet's cries continued unabated. Desperate, Thorin paced back and forth across the room, cradling her gently as he had seen Geira do in those first days after giving birth.

"Take it easy, baby. I'm here." He wasn't sure if those words were addressed to her or to him. The door creaked open and Balin's grizzled head appeared, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He gestured to him towards the bed where Geira still lay and with icy silence pointed with a gesture of his head the policy that led to his private study, the one he used when he wanted to take a rest.

Without delay Balin followed the dwarf lord's directions and they met again a few seconds

later in the next room.

"Thorin, lad, are you all right?" she asked him, closing the study door behind her.

Thorin frowned.

"Do I look alright?" Balin chuckled as he approached.

"No, I dare say not." He studied Thorin for a moment before his gaze fell on Erebet. "Ah. The young princess is restless, I see."

"That's one way to put it," Thorin murmured.

"He will not calm down." Balin murmured thoughtfully. "Have you tried breastfeeding her?"

Thorin's frown deepened.

"How can I do that? Geira cures her, and she is too sick."

“Ah, but there is goat's milk in the kitchens,” Balin suggested in a thoughtful tone. "Sweetened with a drop of honey, the little ones take it quite well."

Thorin exhaled through his nose.

He had not thought about it.

With Erebet still whimpering in his arms, he strode towards the door, with Balin in tow. The journey to the kitchens was long and studded with curious dwarves sticking their heads out of their rooms to witness the sight of their king, a mighty warrior, a legendary ruler, marching down the corridors of Erebor, clad only in robes ruffled by sleep, with a screaming child in his arms.

When they reached the kitchens, Dwalin was there, sprawled out on one of the huge stone benches, surrounded by mugs of ale and ham-eaten bones, even though at that hour the common people were drinking tea or some other drink to wake themselves up.

Captain of the guard he was, and had remained, even though Thorin had offered him a more formal role, Dwalin wanted to carry on with what life, of night patrols and unlikely hours. It was so early that it was late, not even the cooks cooking breakfasts were up.

The black-moustached dwarf grinned, sipping from his mug with an expression of open

amusement.

"It looks like the little girl beat you."

"She did nothing of the sort," Thorin grumbled. "I simply have yet to find the right way to pacify her."

Dwalin smiled. "Yes, keep telling yourself that." With a frown, Thorin took the warm milk Balin handed him and hesitated. He had never fed a child before. It seemed... unnatural that his hands, accustomed to handling steel, should be tasked with something so delicate. But Erebet's cries pulled something deep inside him, and so he placed her in his arms and guided the small cup to his lips. For a moment, there was silence. Then, thankfully, she latched on, sucking enthusiastically. Thorin let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.

"That's it," he murmured, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. "That's better, isn't it?"

Dwalin chuckled as he lifted his legs onto the table. "Aye, what a sight. The mighty King Under the Mountain, conquered by his own daughter."

Thorin shot him a glance of lightning, but there was no warmth in it. He looked down at Erebet, his small face serene as he drank, and felt something inside him change.

The thick black eyelashes relaxed but still wet with tears, the pale face without any scars, the small mouth without beard or signs of time, the dark hair shaggy like his mother.

He had spent a lifetime fighting for Erebor, for his people. But this... this was a different kind of battle. It was not fought with swords, but with patience and love. And Mahal would help him, he would win it. As Erebet finished his meal, his small body relaxed in Thorin's arms, his former fury now but a distant memory.

She let out a small, satisfied sigh, her eyelids trembling as drowsiness overcame her.

Thorin looked at her, feeling a strange mixture of relief and triumph. He had won that round.

But as he turned to leave the kitchens, Erebet let out a sudden, sobbing belch, followed immediately by a warm, wet sensation seeping through his tunic. Thorin froze, his face a mask of horror as Dwalin roared with laughter.

"Well, boy, welcome to fatherhood!" exclaimed Dwalin, patting him on the back as he rose from his stool, a gesture that certainly did not improve the situation. "A valiant warrior defeated by a little milk and regurgitation."

Thorin groaned, slightly displacing Erebet from his now wet chest. "He did it on purpose," he muttered darkly, but Erebet merely snuggled deeper into his arms, completely innocent.

Balin, ever thoughtful, handed him a clean cloth. "Better get used to it, Thorin. I'm afraid there will be more."

Resigned to his fate, Thorin dried his tunic as best he could and, with a sigh, decided to return to his chambers to change. The path through the halls of Erebor was marked by curious glances: the dwarves noticed the damp stain on their king's tunic, but Thorin ignored them with the dignity of one who had faced dragons but had been defeated by an infant.

Arriving at his quarters, Thorin placed Erebet on the cradle and changed the tunic into a new one, dry and worthy of a king. The little one puffed in his sleep but did not wake up. Thorin gently took the child in his arms, savoured that moment of peace for a moment, then went out into the halls again.

Balin was waiting for him not far away, walking with a leisurely pace and his hands behind his back. "You are already marked as a father, boy," he said with an amused smile, eyeing Thorin's figure. "Do not worry, there is no greater honour."

Thorin Oakenshield straightened his shoulders, determined to face the day. Erebet was snuggled against his chest, her small breath warm and steady, her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. The warmth of her weight, though slight, held him in a way the crown never could.

He made a decision.

Instead of postponing his commitments, Thorin decided to get on with the day. There were matters to attend to, decisions to be made and, now, a daughter to cradle during all this. Balin observed the scene with a knowing smile. 'You'll need your hands free, boy,' he said. He pointed to one of the adjoining rooms, a small service room where the maids prepared cloth for members of the court. "There should be some clean cloth there."

Thorin nodded, following him with his gaze. Balin entered and returned shortly afterwards with a piece of soft, strong cloth, suitable for supporting Erebet's weight. With expert gestures, he showed how to create a sling to secure Erebet to Thorin's chest. The king remained motionless, fearful of binding his daughter too tightly, but when Erebet gave a satisfied sigh, Thorin relaxed.

"There. Now you can be king and father,' Balin said with a wink.

Thorin grunted, but gave him a rare, grateful smile. And so, he set off again, determined not to let regurgitation or insomnia distract him from his duties

The halls of Erebor were golden and echoing, the light of torches danced on the polished stone. By now, between one thing and another, the morning was well underway and the noises and lights of the mountain were crackling, and Erebet, oblivious to all this, continued to rest undisturbed, lulled by the noise of Erebor. As Thorin walked through the green marble stairs and corridors, the dwarves interrupted their work to glance at him. Some tried to stifle smiles; others offered nods of respect, their gazes softening as they noticed the small bundle on his chest.

Everyone knew of the queen's state of health, and they were astonished at the king's behaviour: nannies and ladies, including Princess Dìs, were more appropriate for such a task, r never would they have expected to see Throin perform the task of father so openly and so flawlessly while he was also king.

And Thorin knowing this was ... proud.

He pulled his shoulders higher and higher as he descended the mountain's foundations.

His first stop was the forge. The heat of the molten metal enveloped him like a cloak, and the clangour of the hammer on the anvil was a familiar and comforting rhythm.

The yellow and orange colours invaded him, suddenly making him feel at home.

The forging masters stepped forward when he saw him enter with the princess, approaching him with scrolls and states of metal procession with such a calm and silence that Thorin often had to ask for repetition.

He understood that they were doing this so as not to wake the sleeping princess... but in the meantime there were still hammers and anvils banging about, political speeches wouldn't have made much difference.

Having taken care of the more urgent matters and seeing his daughter still sleeping blissfully

snuggled on his chest, he decided to wander around the forge a bit, and without delay allowed himself to go towards the armoury.

Dain, who by now was a frequent visitor to Erebor, because of the small bundle Thorin clutched to his chest stood there, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forehead damp with sweat.

He looked up and burst into laughter. "Well, what a sight. Thorin, the hammer king, wearing his little one like armour."

Thorin gave him a dry look. "Even warriors need their shields."

Dain chuckled and put down his hammer. He approached, scrutinising Erebet with unusual gentleness. "A beautiful girl," he said.

"How is the favourite princess of the realm of all ages today?"

Yes, Erebet was the only reason Daìn had returned to the Iron Hills only twice since his birth.

Thorin sighed, letting him see her better "Sleepless in the night hours"

"Why would you prefer to do anything else at night cousin?" she winked at him "You could plan a little brother for her."

Just the thought of keeping Dain in Erebor even longer in case it really happened made him shudder.

"Geira is sick and I would honestly prefer to sleep a whole night," he cut in.

"I bet he will have your stubbornness."

"May Mahal grant her to steal her mother's patience," Thorin replied ironically, knowing how little Geira had.

Dain smiled but said nothing. Instead, he extended his hesitant hand and, with Thorin's nod of assent, gently traced a calloused finger across Erebet's small forehead. "A forge fire flows in his veins. I see it."

Thorin's chest swelled with silent pride. He knew it too. Erebet had been born of stone and steel, forged by hardship and hope. She would be strong.

With a decisive gesture, Thorin stepped into the depths of the forge, eager to present the beating heart of their kingdom to his daughter. The rhythmic clangour of hammers echoed around them, an ancient and familiar sound. The dwarves worked with intense concentration, their faces lit by the glow of the fires, their muscles tense in the effort of creation.

Dain followed him a short distance away, silent, his hands crossed behind his back as he watched Thorin. There was respect in his eyes, and perhaps even a hint of melancholy.

Thorin stood beside one of the great forges, watching the sparks fly as a sword took shape under the expert hands of a craftsman. The metal glowed, alive with heat and potential. Thorin looked at Erebet, whose light breathing merged with the rhythm of the fire. His life, like that glowing metal, was yet to be forged.

"It is here that we shape more than steel," he murmured to Erebet, his hand resting gently on her back. "It is here that we shape our future."

Dain remained silent, his gaze lost in the flames of the forge. Finally, with a thoughtful expression, he approached and handed Thorin a small, unfinished silver pendant. "For you," he said in a low but firm voice. "I've carried it with me for years, it's a piece of silver mined during our first digs, a symbol of what we've painstakingly built. I wanted to temper it in the mountain fire, but I could never find the right moment."

He paused, his gaze dark. "But now I see that the time is right. There is no greater strength than that of a new life. I want her to have it, to grow with the strength of our home to protect her."

Thorin took it reverently, feeling the warmth of the silver still imbued with the energy of the forge. He traced the barely visible runes on the surface, symbols of protection and strength. Carefully, he pressed the amulet into Erebet's small palm. "May the mountain's strength be yours," he whispered, pronouncing an ancient but ever-living blessing.

As they lingered there, Erebet moved slightly, a soft, satisfied murmur escaped her lips. Thorin smiled, a rare and open smile. In that moment, he realised that nothing was more fitting than to introduce her to the forge: the heart of their art, the fire that sustained their people and would forge his daughter's future as well.

Because one day, she too would know what it meant to be forged by fire, to be moulded by trials and come out stronger. And until then, she would have him, and the mountain, and all the strength they could give her.

Thorin lingered at the forge longer than he had initially planned, reluctant to part with its comforting warmth and vibrant energy. The glowing embers cast a flickering light that danced across his features, while the rhythmic clink of metal on metal echoed through the air. But other responsibilities beckoned, drawing him away from the intoxicating allure of the forge. As he strolled through the vast halls carved in stone, the intense noise of the forge gradually gave way to a more subdued hum of activity. The dwarves bustled about, each engaged in their own tasks with an industrious spirit that was a reassuring constant within the sprawling realm.

Their footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone floors, accompanied by the low rumble of voices and the occasional clink of metal or rustle of fabric. Erebet remained comfortable and quiet in her sling as they moved, and Thorin found himself casting a glance at her from time to time, marvelling at the way her presence gave new meaning to every familiar sight and sound.

The journey took him past the large dining room, where meal preparations were already underway. The rich aroma of roasted meats wafted through the corridors, mingling with the sweet homely scent of freshly baked bread. Several dwarves stepped away from their duties to give Thorin nods of respect, their eyes warm with approval as they lingered over the small bundle at his chest. Thorin responded with a nod, his step slow and his heart surprisingly light. Even the ordinary tasks of his day seemed fresh and full of possibility, and he wondered if his brother's children would see it the same way.

Arriving at the great council chamber, Thorin found Fíli and Kíli already engrossed in discussion. The room was filled with the intense scent of aged parchment and ink, and the walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the great history of their people. Maps and records were spread out before them like a sea of knowledge, the intricate lines and symbols capturing the expanse of their kingdom. To Thorin's surprise and pride, his nephews were not simply passing the time. Their young faces were furrowed with concentration as they carefully studied the drawn plans. Thorin stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the seriousness with which they approached their work. He could see the future of their people taking shape in those crossed lines, in the detailed sketches of tunnels and settlements that promised to secure the place of Erebor for generations.

When Thorin entered, both nephews looked up in unison, identical smiles lit up their faces like beacons. "Uncle!" exclaimed Fíli, rising impatiently from his seat, his voice full of warmth and affection. "We heard you had your hands full this morning." Kíli chuckled, her laughter a light, teasing melody. "More like full and dripping." Thorin sighed but could not suppress a wry smirk. "I see news travels fast here." "Yes when Dwalin is involved," Fíli added with a chuckle, her eyes sparkling with glee. "You know how he loves a good story." Thorin shook his head, his expression torn between exasperation and amusement.

"I won't hear the end of it for weeks," he muttered, casting a glance at Erebet, who seemed blissfully unaware of his morning mischief.

Fíli and Kíli rose to greet Thorin properly, casting curious and affectionate glances at the little princess snuggled against him. "You're doing well with her, you know," said Fíli, in a sincere and admiring voice. "Better than with dragons," Kíli added cheekily, with a mischievous smile. Thorin shook his head, yet a warmth ran through him that rivalled the glow of the forge. The playful company of his nephews was as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins or the solid bones that supported his weight.

Once reunited with his relatives at the large table, Thorin carefully laid Erebet in her improvised cradle, the soft, intricately folded cloaks forming a protective shelter. As he arranged the fabric around her tiny figure, she moved only slightly before surrendering to sleep, her tiny thumb instinctively seeking comfort. The gentle, rhythmic breathing and serene presence of the little princess permeated the room with a sacred stillness, as if her very being breathed new life into the meticulous plans spread out before them. Maps, records and plans for future endeavours unfolded like a river of possibilities, each carefully drawn line a promise of hope for Erebor's lasting legacy.

United in purpose and bound by kinship, they poured over their plans in hushed, firm voices, each word a silent declaration of ambition and strength. In Thorin, a delicate balance had been struck between the iron will of a battle-hardened king and the tender heart of a new father. In that convergence of roles, leader and guardian, warrior and nurse, he found an inner peace mixed with the fierce drive to secure a future for his people.

As the hours passed, the refined murmur of their strategic whispers mingled with the soft, ambient sounds of the burgeoning kingdom. Beyond the council chamber, the halls of Erebor resounded with the vibrant chatter of the dwarves, the enduring echoes of a community built on resilience and hope.

Moving away from the sanctuary of planning, Thorin embraced the rhythm of his day. The corridors he passed through were enlivened by the light of torches dancing on the polished stone and the constant clamour of dwarven labour, a living mosaic of sound and light that, despite its age, pulsed with timeless vitality. Each step brought with it memories of ancient battles, the cadence of an unwavering tradition and the promise of new beginnings.

For Thorin Oakenshield, the day had turned into a vivid tapestry, in which the ancient echoes of stone, the warm embrace of family and the hopeful promise of a future all converged.

Wrapped in a damp tunic but fortified by the delicate weight of his daughter, he strided through the echoing halls of Erebor, his spirit invincible even as the laughter and knowing glances of his people served as simultaneous reminders of the extraordinary journey he was now undertaking. And with Erebet snuggled firmly against him, a silent promise of legacy and renewal radiating from his slumbering form, Thorin marched forth, a king transformed by the delicate and indomitable power of fatherhood.