Chapter Text
The battle of the five armies was just a memory of yesterday (literally) when the King and his nephews were laid to eternal rest under the Mountain with their respective weapons; Fili with his twin swords, Kili with his quiver and now-broken bow and Thorin, son of Thrain, his Orcrist laying on his chest, laid there by the Elven King, Thranduil.
After the traditional period of mourning for a king passed, Dain, son of Nain, from the Iron Hills was crowned as the king of Erebor. When the call to take a bow to the new king, everyone pays their tribute as commanded. Except the old warrior. Even some of the company just bows slightly, but Dwalin stands his back straight, looking up to the throne and the king sitting on it.
“Has the battle left you deaf and dumb? Bow,” one of the Iron Hill dwarves spats at him in low voice, turning his own gaze back down.
“Dwalin, son of Fundin, brother of Balin. Why are you not bowing to your king?” Dain roared from his position, but his voice was not angry, but demanding.
“I bow no king, thus mine has been buried beneath this very mountain. I shall pay my tribute only to him. To Thorin Aokenshield, son of Thrain”. Dwalin had his eyes cast on the “false” king, but his eyes full of grief more then hatred. “Also, I would bow only his true heirs after him”.
“Denying your king, but also placing someone on his place and naming other than his own son as the successor, is punished at treason by death. But you, Dwalin, son of Fundin, were one of the Company that took our home back from the dragon. Also fought bravely against the enemy of ours, proving your loyalty to your kind. Thus shall I only deem you exiled. You may have right to pay your tribute to YOUR dead king only, and ONLY on Durin’s Day. That shall be the only day you are allowed to set your foot into this mountain, if chosen to attend the celebration.”
Dwalin acknowledged his position as exiled and turned his back to the ledge with the throne. “Anyone who keeps me as a false king, shall have a chance to leave the mountain. When morning rises, will those TRAITORS be cast out.” Restless movements washed over the now standing crowd, no one daring to stand against their new king. And so Dwalin’s broad figure had left the great throne hall, leaving his former comrades.
He did not feel angered by the others’ choice to stay. After all, he basically had spent his whole life alongside Thorin, so had Balin, who once had said Thorin was one he could call king, Dwalin could not but agree. And so they had, laying their king inside the marble tomb after the great battle. Dwalin laid his eyes on the twin axes he had gotten back when the elves had paid their visit at the King Thorin’s funeral. Everyone was gifted back their belongings which were taken away when they were captured in Mirkwood. He placed Grasper and Keeper on their holders, ready to be strapped across his back for easier transport.
A knock got his attention and exhausted he just told them to come in. Tired smile graced his lips for a moment, meeting the ginger hair, now cut back to its original length when they had left the Bag End. The bowl cut was back once again on the scribe’s head.
“Odd hour for your visit, little one…” Ori slipper through the doorway and closed the door. With long dragging steps he took place near Dwalin, wanting to say something, fidgeting for a moment. “I tried to stand but Dori and Nori kept me still…” the scribe whispered, seemingly ashamed. Dwalin did know this, tho. He did see Nori keeping his other hand on Ori’s shoulder and other clamped over Ori’s mouth, preventing any vocal protest.
Ori kept his head bowed in shame, regretting not putting more effort into standing up, bur Dori’s great strength had held him firmly planted to his place.
Large hand cupped the back of his head, while other curled around his shoulders pulling him closer to the warrior. He did not smell like blood, gore and metal like last time but just plain faint scent of metal, hint of smoke. Ori circled his arms around the large torso, earning a chaste kiss atop of his head.
“I already packed my things. I am ready to leave,” Ori said against the wide chest. Dwalin sighted as an answer. He knew to expect it. “Won’t you say goodbyes to your brothers before leaving?” asked the warrior, still holding the smaller one in a gentle hug. Ori was the only one to know about Dwalin’s more affectionate side, which needed to just feel someone else near him, reminding there can be someone alive in his presence, that he wasn’t scaring everyone around him. And the scribe hit just perfectly in his arms.
“I left them a letter. If I stayed to tell them I am leaving with you they would just lock me inside for rest of my life. And I don’t want that”. Dwalin wound his arms under Ori’s and lifted the other up, latter’s legs tangling freely up in the air, and placed him on the bed. “You’d better sleep now, I finish my packing quickly. Then I join you,” the warrior whispered against the other’s hair after pressing a kiss on it. When he pulled away, the scribe was fast asleep. He always was when Dwalin was near, knowing he would always be safe near him.