Chapter Text
It is beyond vexing, Thorin Oakenshield cannot help but think, tossing aside the rather…blunt letter from his sister enquiring where exactly her eldest son was, since he has evidently not arrived in Ered Luin with the rest of the expedition.
He is King Under the Mahal-help-him Mountain, yet finding a simple straight yes or no answer is a seemingly impossible task.
Well, the question itself is not so much the problem- rather, those he would ask it to have proved frustratingly hard to find. On perceiving the follies of his nephews, he had spoken at length with Dwalin, Balin and Dain, and some two days later had sent for Kili to explain himself.
His youngest nephew, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Dain had persisted in offering ‘help’ of some kind, and Thorin had eventually waved him off in frustration, agreeing to whatever it was his cousin was proposing.
It is not so odd nowadays for Kili to disappear- he had not been born under the earth and stone, to Thorin’s regret, and sometimes seeks the open spaces with greater alacrity than a son of the line of Durin should. And more than that, since the incident with the Arkenstone, Kili has held his uncle in somewhat less regard than previously, and did not seek out his company or approval.
It cuts Thorin deep, this estrangement from a once beloved nephew- but he’d had a mountain to rebuild, an heir to teach, people to rule…and a halfling to forget. And so the distance between him and his youngest sister-son grew and festered, and he cannot see the way back.
He has thought perhaps to send Kili back to Ered Luin as he had done a year or so ago, until Dis is ready to depart from there with the last of their returning kin, but the boy is loath to be separated from his brother once more, and what good it would do Thorin is at a loss to decipher. Only now, Fili is gone on some fool’s errand seeking what cannot be found, and Kili remains.
They knew. Thorin realises grimly. They knew I would trust Fili over Kili, that I would not question his sudden desire to depart, would give him leave to go unchaperoned when I made certain his brother was guarded. Still, the absurd venture Fili was on is likely more than half of Kili’s conception- he who loves Billa Baggins almost as much as his uncle did.
No.
Does. Whispers some unbidden corner of his mind, the sharp bite of a fly Thorin cannot bring himself to swat.
He will not think of it, but he can remember Kili’s dark eyes burning as his brother gripped his arms to hold him back from striking Thorin. You had no right. Kili had snarled, worse than Frerin in one of his passions. She was ours as well, you had no right to send her away. How could you.
Thorin clenches his fists indignantly. Do they not know, his brave strong foolhardy nephews, the futility of their decision to go over his head? She will not be found, not where they look, he had asked for word and received none in the early days of her absence when he was still fool enough to hope, and she was nowhere to be seen.
She does not want to be found.
She does not want him to find her.
(In his deepest thoughts, his darkest nightmares- he fears that she is dead.)
He cannot entertain false dreams, nor allow others to do the same.
(he fears that she lies broken in the wilderness, life stolen by his wilful fury, his denial, his rage, that he sent her to her end-)
Is it from fear, then, he asks himself. Fear of what might be found. Or of what might not.
(he cannot endure it, to think her eyes no longer peer about her with the mixed up yearning that comes from losing one’s mother too young, that her lips are parched and have lost their colour, her cheeks wasted and grey, and that it is his fault, all his fault in his damned selfish pride-)
He is King Under the Mountain. He told her to go, and she went.
(stumbling, she shoved Dwalin away from her, fled as one hounded from Mandos’ halls, and he turned his back to rest a hand against the cool comfort of the stone, and feigned not hear her sharp ragged breathing, let me go, you know nothing Thorin Oakenshield, nothing of what I do nothing nothing nothing-)
She is gone.
(-lost-)
Those who seek such a treasure do not remember that, but he does. She was not taken or stolen, nor did she flee of her own will.
(-all soft white noise in his head, a battle, Frerin- no Kili, fallen, where was his brother, his nephews, FiliKiliFrerinThrainThror King Under the Mountain and her, where was she, he sent her from his side he had to, she knew not what she did, she knew, Billa-bring her back to me he needed wanted her needs her now)
He had relinquished her. She gave herself willingly, and he had thrown her away.
That is the bitter truth of it.
He is not one for introspection, or he was not, and Thorin dislikes the thoughts that come upon him ever more frequently now.
He has done what he thought was right, what he knew to be-
(-right. So had she. His halfling, pretty brave laughing with her golden hair in his hands and her wide red rimmed eyes, come here my love I’ll protect you, down in the dark she whispers, shines)
Thorin’s fingers scrape at his beard, longer now, but not so long that he cannot reach the line beneath his jaw she liked to seek with her soft questing mouth. His body tenses at the ghost of her touch, remembering the places she would find to set him burning.
He carries her in his very skin. None can know how close she remains, or how far apart they are sundered.
Perhaps that is his true folly, the not telling, the secret keeping, how he wants to hold onto her memory and never let go, cannot relinquish it in the absence of her person.
Is his silence, his possession, his hold over what is left of her to them, truly what has driven Fili and Kili to seek her out?
Thorin will have the truth at length from Kili, so truly it makes no matter –there is the fact of the handkerchief, though, and all that lies behind it.
Probably a mistake, initials meant nothing, but in spite of that- he’d dispatched Dwalin to find Nori, only to be informed that the erstwhile trickster had left Erebor a week ago for who knew where. Nori could have stolen the handkerchief anywhere, from anyone, and his nephews would have easily taken it to be Billa’s.
They miss her greatly. Thorin is well aware of that, thank you very much.
Kili had not been discovered in his quarters or the market or the treasure halls. Thorin had sent men to Mirkwood to ask if the young prince had been seen there, only to have them return with Thranduil’s cocky brat of a son- who spent a few days flitting about being tall and elvish and unhelpful before Kili’s whereabouts were uncovered and he was finally persuaded to leave.
It had been particularly galling, Thorin recalls, being interrupted in the middle of counsel by Dwalin trailing in one of Bombur’s innumerable brood of tiny dwarrows, who had blurted out that Kili had ‘gone down the deep mines with unca Bofur’ before scampering off the way it had come.
Typical. Kili is no miner, but he would have known that there was no hope of getting him out, and deep mine missions could go on for months. That was discounting the catacombs that led up and out of the mountain, which any of the deep miners could have shown Kili.
No, there had been nothing to do but wait- Bofur’s group is due up soon, and then Thorin will have to speak to Kili, if only to rebuke him for his foolishness. Dain, as good as his word, has sent dwarves after Fili who would be sure to keep an eye on Thorin’s nephew.
Fili will return anyway, or turn up in Ered Luin, even if he does manage to give Dain’s dwarves the slip. As Thorin has told himself, time and again, it is likely this will come to nothing.
For all purposes it is nothing- he has put her aside, and that is nobody’s business but his own. If he spent all his time regretting the mistakes of what seems like a past life he cannot bring himself to fling away, how would he lead his people, maintain his kingdom?
Impossible. This is folly and he knows it, and he takes a moment to shake his head over the fact that his nephews, with all the knowledge of the world their quest has given them, do not know the same.
Perhaps not, but it is after all not only a matter of this ridiculous deception his nephews have undertaken but that they lied to him in order to achieve it, and that he cannot accept.
From now on, he will mend the broken fences between himself and Kili, he will strive to be an uncle again to Fili rather than simply a King, and things will be better. His sister will return and help him, Nori will turn up sooner or later like the bad penny he is (no he doesn’t quite understand the term but Billa said it a lot and these are the things that stick in one’s mind) and then perhaps Bofur will stop looking so glum all the time since it is really most unlike him.
Dwalin will continue his ridiculous yet amusing attempts to court their young librarian whilst avoiding detection from the two older sons of the line of Ri, Thranduil will agree to the trade terms Balin has set out or Mahal help him Thorin may have to kill the pointy eared bugger, Gloin’s wife (and Bombur’s for that matter) will see that there is really no need to keep on tutting at him and sending up baked goods, for he is perfectly fine, and things will, in short, be exactly as they should-
“WHAT IN MAHAL’S NAME IS THAT?”
Ah.
Among his many excellent and admirable qualities, Thorin’s cousin, neighbour and ally is possessed of a voice capable of travelling effortlessly through several layers of stone. When Dain Ironfoot shouts, whoever he is shouting at knows it and so does half the mountain and quite possibly the elvenking on his ridiculous wooden throne.
And, given that his royal chambers are just down from the guest quarters allocated to the Lord of the Iron Hills during his extended visit to Erebor, so does Thorin Oakenshield.
Sighing, Thorin pushes himself up from the table in his solar that has quite against his will become what Balin calls a ‘thinking spot’ and goes to see what is the matter.
Another shout, one of “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU BLITHERING HALFWITS!”, hastens Thorin’s progress down the corridor. Worry curdles briefly, though he doubts this has anything to do with either of his nephews.
He does not knock before entering the chamber, mainly because the door is already ajar. Dain is pacing up and down, mighty grey beard bristling with aggravation, in front of a small group of dwarves who look like they would do anything to be anywhere else right now.
Three striplings, the tallest with altogether too much oil in his beard, and two older warriors that Thorin recognises. Toinar is a veteran, blood of both Erebor and the Iron Hills, one of Dain’s most faithful guards. Thorin’s father always spoke well of Toinar, and though Thorin knows him by naught but reputation, it is enough.
The leader he knows better. Hanr son of Halfren is a skilled captain, strong in both battle and peacetime, proud in his honour and ruthless in his ambition. He had briefly courted Dis whilst Thorin’s people sought refuge in the Iron Hills, and though his prowess is oft spoken of, his character is given less glowing reports.
Whatever his reputation, Hanr knows rank and file as well as any dwarf should, and he is first to take the knee when Thorin enters the room. The others do the same in a slightly haphazard display, and do not rise until Dain irascibly orders them to do so.
“What news, cousin?” Thorin asks the Lord of the Iron Hills- he guesses it cannot be good, if a scouting party has returned to such a loud and ungentle welcome.
“Oh, well, I’m not oversure, all told.” Dain is rubbing at his beard, a troubled look in his eyes. “Cept that I could not have chosen a stupider group of clotpoles to tail yer nephew if I’d done it on purpose. I’m sorry, Thorin.”
Here, Thorin grit his teeth. Dain was a plain-spoken dwarf at the best of times, rough in his manner as he was hearty, and for him to actually apologise in this way unsettled the King Under the Mountain deeply. As did the mention of Fili…
“For what?” Thorin asks, injecting an extra layer or two of depth into his voice.
“My lord!” Thorin turns around to see that Hanr has taken a knee again, a habit that Thorin is not used to, still, after all his years in exile.
“Speak then, and much good may it do ye.” Dain nods.
Hanr almost scrambles to his feet, keeping his head inclined respectfully. “My Lord Thorin, I have grievous news to tell you, and I regret to say that-”
“Does this concern my nephew? I do not see him here.” Thorin says gruffly, forcing down any unkingly residue of panic that comes from Hanr’s grave bearing and the downcast eyes of the other four dwarves.
“Nor shall you, m’lord.” Hanr says. “My company and I, we followed Prince Fili as Lord Dain commanded us in your name, and we…we found evidence of a most terrible betrayal, your highness.”
“Betrayal.” Thorin says hollowly. He cannot fathom what Hanr, he who is called Silvertongue, is getting at.
“Yes. We followed him all the way west, to a house in the region of the Shire, and there we observed, if you’ll forgive me, Lord Thorin, that he was habitating with a young woman well known to yourself. A Miss Billa Baggins, if you please.”
Blood begins to roar in Thorin’s ears. It cannot be- she was gone, she had not returned to her home, she could not have done so. “What do you mean by this?” he asks, stiff and unbelieving.
“No offense, sir, none at all.” Hanr is quick to assure him. “But it seemed they were living as man and wife.”
Momentarily, it feels as though he is between the teeth of Azog’s warg, being thrown around like a dog would with a scrap of gristly meat. He is hot, then cold, and his hands twitch convulsively.
Then it passes and Thorin Oakenshield is stone, his fury settling over him hard as granite, and it must show in his eyes. He cannot fathom anything, not Hanr’s words, not the faces of the dwarves in front of him, not Dain’s presence at his side.
All he can see is wheaten yellow hair, dimpled cheeks, wet mauve lips and fast moving hands, he knows not whether the images in his head are of Fili or Billa or both of them, for he sees bodies locked together, beautiful and profane, and disbelief, warring with anger, curdles in his heart.
“What proof have you of this?” He finds himself asking, wooden.
“Oh, none, and it matters not!” Dain fair spits the words, flinging a blunt hand through the air as though to easily dismiss the claims that have stolen the breath from Thorin’s lungs.
“It matters.” Thorin says, scarcely knowing what words come forth from his lips. He closes his eyes briefly, wondering which would be better- to believe and let anger flow and ebb, or to deny such a thing entirely.
“Debur was the one what saw ‘em. Maybe he should tell it.” Suggests one of the youths, pushing forward the dwarf with the well-oiled beard.
“Indeed.” Hanr says, eager now in a way that Thorin does not like. “Tell the the King of this treachery, boy. Tell it all and tell it true.”
The dwarf is the eldest of the three striplings, and he licks his lips before beginning his story. “Well, when we saw what was what, your kingliness sir, Hanr set me to watch the halfling woman’s house, on account of how as I know- well, it don’t matter, but I saw them, I did, they was always touching and those little looks, smiling and kissing- and I just knew, even if it weren’t for ‘em bedding down in the same room most of the time- and there was-”
“Alright.” Thorin stops the boy before he is tempted to throw him out of the door. “Alright. It is enough.”
“Thorin.” Dain says, and Thorin struggles to meet his cousin’s eyes. Dain is a good dwarf, rough and hard yes but the best of them often are. Still, Thorin cannot stand the almost pity he sees in Dain’s face.
“What?” he bites out.
“There’s more. More important than hearsay regarding Fili and your little burglar-”
“She is not my anything, Dain. I think that has been made abundantly clear.” Thorin’s rage is stone, yes, but it lives and breathes, a wretched ugly thing, and if he were not as old as he was or hard as he has become, he would be riding to the Shire to challenge his nephew to-
To what? To fight for a woman who no longer wants him? A woman who, though he calls her his in the privacy of his heart, though he claims her still in darkness and secret, may now love another.
Love Fili.
His heir. What is he to do?
“Be that as it is, Thorin, there’s something more important, ye have to see it though I doubt you’ll like it much, I-” Dain’s voice is almost pained.
“I like this little and less as it is, Dain, what is it you wish to tell me?” Thorin asks, voice rough. He feels blinkered as though in a dark tunnel.
“Erm.” says one of the boys, the youngest one by the look of things, a dark featured dwarf who knots his hands behind his back when Thorin looks at him.
“Go on, Gleli. Might be as you’re good for somethin’ after all.” Hanr prompts the lad, and Thorin is seized by the urge to lay him out with a fist to the jaw.
“It’s just…I don’t know how but she must have sneaked out while you were talking, she’s a little terror like that…Snapdragon’s gone.”
The eruption is immediate- Hanr goes purple and starts towards Gleli only to have Toinar shove him back with a growl, Dain makes a face like he has just sat down on a sword blade, the other two young dwarfs add their voices to Hanr and Toinar’s argument and Thorin has to shout to make himself heard.
“What-” he asks in a dangerously quiet but genuinely befuddled tone. “Is a Snapdragon?”