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After years of listening, a stone comes to life,
And the candle in the tiny grass;
And the night, like a wife, comes home;
A feather, in this touch of wind, flies back
To the lost bird and everything I do not know
Begins to sway at once
--James Tipton
----------------------------
And so, the day draws nearer.
Thorin stands atop a cliff along Erebor’s façade, overlooking the valley below his kingdom, watching the first torches of Dale being lit in the darkness of early dawn. The air is thin and sharp, bitter and cold with the promise of an unkind winter. Thorin is not worried about what the brutal season will bring—in the six long years that have passed since their rightful home was reclaimed, Erebor has left the shadows of its tortured past and been rebuilt, remade and restored to its proper glory. His people thrive in the heart of the mountain, the fires of the caverns are lit once more and the mountain gives of her treasures freely as if making up for lost decades. The trading routes have reopened and barrels of cured meats, preserves, crops, wild oats and furs are imported at regular intervals from not only the cities of men such as Dale, but also Mirkwood and Rivendell, home of the elves. It is a tentative alliance Thorin and Thandruil have struck, fraught with disagreements and strained from the bad blood that still flows between the two kings, but Legolas is a good mediator for his people, as Ori has proven to be for his own. In return, Erebor exports its own goods and services; the work of their smithies and their jewelers are still renowned throughout the lands for their expertise.
The line of Durin has been restored and the people of the Lonely Mountain prosper. And now that stability has returned to the land, the day has come for their king to be crowned.
Though he has ruled and none dare contest his place on the throne, nor the worth of his sister-sons, tradition dictates that the passage of time correlates to the crowning of a new leader. Since there has been no coronation since the reign of his father, the people still consider this the years of Thráin II, son of Thrór, even though it is his son who sits upon the throne. Tomorrow, the sun will set on a new era—Erebor will enter the era of Thorin II, one that promises to be a golden age of peace and prosperity not seen amongst the dwarrows for far too many tumultuous years.
Thorin knows he should be happy, fulfilled. He is home, his people thrive and there is a King under the Mountain once more. His nephews are finally in the land of their birth, prized and respected amongst their people, treated with all the reverence and endearment one would expect of their station. And though Dis may still be a little sore at knowing he led her boys into a battle that could have very well been the end of them all, it is worth it to see her returned to her proper rank, with all of her fiery grace and timeless beauty. He should be happy. And yet, there is a part of him that still mourns; not for a cold, empty stone that is now counted among the possessions of Dale’s king, but for the halfling he blamed for its loss. For the halfling he nearly put to death because of it.
Thorin is a great many things, but a fool he is not, and he understands now the suffering he has condemned himself to in turning away the hobbit when Bilbo sought only to avoid more unnecessary bloodshed. Their words of parting at the gate have poisoned his dreams loudly for nights on end, and the look of defeat and pain that contorted Bilbo’s face as he was turned away has etched itself into Thorin’s memory. There are many things he has done in this life that he would take back, mistakes and follies he would wish to undo, but none so much as his banishment of the hobbit.
The company had been slow to forgive their King, and Balin still gives him dirty looks whenever the halflings name is brought up.
“It is in poor taste to make Erebor’s princess climb rocks to beg your audience.”
Thorin looks behind himself and smiles. Dis, though small even by dwarven standards, is agile and swift because of it, and makes light work of the crag that separates them. Though it is not exactly hidden knowledge that the line of Durin and that of Elves mingled at one point in time—many, many moons ago—if there was any doubt of it, Dis would have put them to rest. She was comely in the fashion of Dale’s Noblewomen; beardless and fair skinned with slanted eyes a startling shade of blue. Her figure was slight, though her strength suffered little for it. But it was her hair—fine, silken and pale gold, a color that was cannon among the elves of Mirkwood and exceedingly rare among her people. Her unorthodox appearance made her the target of abhorrence and adoration alike, from kinfolk and outsiders equally. Despite this, there was never a rift between herself and her siblings, who loved her still even as they despised the elves whose traits she carried. Even as they despised the blood of elves that secretly ran in their own veins.
“I had not expected you to rise so early. I was told you worked yourself into exhaustion in preparations for tomorrow’s festivities,” he says. She moves to stand by his side and he looks down at her, noting the touch of weariness beneath her almond eyes. “I have not regained our homeland so that you may continue to work yourself like a mule.”
Arching a fine brow, she snorts, looking away from him. The sun is just starting to rise; jade green with edges of gold stretch slowly from the horizon and for a moment, she seems captivated by it. “Long have I dreamed of this day; to be home, to be with my family in the land of my birth and to see you crowned. You will be king on the morrow and I would work myself into an early grave to see to it that it is the greatest celebration of our time.”
Her words make his chest tighten. “If only they were here to see it.” He would have liked for his father to see this day. More than that, he would have liked to for his brother to witness their triumphant return. The sting of their deaths has never left him, nor the countless lives that have been lost since.
Dis inhales a chest full of mountain air, then exhales with a faint sigh. “They would be proud, brother mine,” she says, still watching the horizon. She reaches out, clasps her slender fingers over one of his hands, and smiles. “As am I.”
Even after all these years, he does not feel worthy of her praise or her revere. Though she has never blamed him, he has never forgiven himself for losing their brother, for not being able to save Frerin; someway, somehow. “I did not do it alone,” he argues, returning her touch. “Fili and Kili—“
“Have brought honor to our house as well. Their father would be proud as proud as I.”
“And the rest of the company—“
“I’m aware.”
“And—“
“Your burglar, of course.” Looking away from the horizon, she turns to him and offers a small smile.
He has only spoken of the hobbit to her a handful of times, but no doubt her sons and the others have near deafened with their tales and praises. “Yes,” he replies quietly. “And the burglar.”
Her eyes are sharp and focused as she looks into his. It was once rumored that she had been blessed with Aule’s Sight; the power to pierce the veil of this world and see as far as the Gods themselves. And while that is not wholly true, Dis has a way of looking into one’s eyes and straight into their very soul. No secret is safe from her; the heart will spill its truths beneath her clear gaze. “How long will you deny yourself? I have watched your spirit wander half awake all these years. Surely you wish to have him back.”
He sighs. “This is not a conversation we have not had before.”
She harrumphs in her delicate fashion and looks away. “Indeed.”
He has considered it, many a lonely night. Always, always he decides against it, convinced that the hobbit would not appreciate the king who so quickly turned on him, so easily belittled him in the wake of all Bilbo had done for them. Surely the halfling would turn him away. It was easier, Thorin decided, to let his pain be his penance. He deserved little else for his treatment of the poor burglar.
“You cannot keep your heart broken forever,” she says after a lengthy silence.
And Thorin, not one to be challenged, answers; “Watch me.”
*
The next day, Erebor is a flurry of activity.
There are loose ends that need to be tied up and last minute preparations that must be completed before the sun reaches high noon. There are cooks and servants shuffling to and fro, members of the court bustling about. Thorin snatches a few brief moments with his sister, who moves among crowds of noblemen and common folk alike, giving orders and reminders and overseeing the final set up. Fili and Kili have not been idle in the least, and together they tend to any business their mother sees fit to give them. It warms his heart to know that his kith and kin are intent on making this a grand affair and certainly they should for he is not the only one who has missed the rich culture and traditions of their land. He has given his people back the land of their births, their homes once more and in return, they will give him their loyalty and their love. A fine trade, Thorin thinks.
Thorin himself is prepped in the same fashion as the kings before him; washed and oiled from head to toe, dressed in rich garments with a complicated array of buckles and fastenings. His hair is combed, brushed and plaited by dwarrow maidens who blush and stumble timidly in his presence. When they are done, he gently dismisses them and they leave with lowered eyes, pink cheeks and murmured words of thanks. It is not overlong before there is a knock at the door, and thinking little of who may be on the other side, he grants them entrance with a single word.
“Old friend,” a familiar voice greets smoothly.
Thorin turns away from his window and his smile comes unbidden when he sees the tall, lean figure standing in his doorway. For a half second, he’s at a loss as to who the man is—fine white robes, a staff of pearly bone and wintry hair hanging loose and clean over strong shoulders—but it is only for a second. “Gandalf!” They meet each other in the middle of the room and the wizard kneels down so that they may clasp one another in the fashion of brothers. “I had worried you would not be able make it,” Thorin says, when they finally part. “Tell me of this new finery,” he says smiling still, and pats the white cloth along Gandalf’s arm. He finds that it has the renowned softness of elvish fabric.
The wizard smiles, standing once more to his full height, before he offers a simple answer. “A change. One for the better.”
Thorin looks into his old friends eyes and sees something there—something that he doesn’t recall ever noticing before. Gandalf’s eyes are wiser, brighter. But there is something else too; something powerful. Something haunted. The king’s smile slips. “And at what price?”
The wizard shakes his head, fine hair swaying lightly at the gesture and clasps Thorin’s shoulder tight. “That journey is a tale for another time, my friend. Today is a day of celebration, and I for one, am certainly eager to have good tidings for which to celebrate!”
The dwarf chuckles lightly and decides that Gandalf is right. The story can wait, at least, for the moment. “Yes, a day of celebration, indeed.” His gaze slips back to the open window.
“And yet, your mind wanders elsewhere.”
Thorin does not answer. Then again, he does not need to.
“He is well,” Gandalf offers. “In good health, and good spirits.”
The king smiles, and speaks without ever looking away from the brightening horizon. “Truly?”
The wizened Istari moves to stand beside him. “Truly. He is happy once more amongst his gardens and his every growing collection of books—“
At that, Thorin laughs, remembering the rows of bookshelves crammed tight with endless volumes. Bilbo loved reading and was all the more clever for it.
“—and he’s even grown a bit!”
“You jest, surely!”
Gandalf laughs. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or the slant of the land, but I daresay he’s grown half a quarter of an inch.”
He remembers how impossible small the hobbit had been. Even among Thorin’s own kith and kin, who were already miniature compared to the elves and men, Bilbo had been a tiny, frail looking thing, who turned out not to be quite as frail as one thought. “My heart is glad,” he answers honestly, “to know he lives in peace and comfort; it does my spirit well.”
Gandalf squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, aware of all that is not being said. “And yet.”
Thorin closes his eyes. “And yet.”
*
It is high noon and the sun hovers in the middle of the sky.
The dwarves of Erebor are gathered outside the gates of the kingdom and along the balconies that stretch across the palace façade; nobles and commoners stand elbow to elbow to get a view of the one who is to be their new king. Most of the rites have been completed; Dis and her sons stand to the right of Gandalf, Dwalin and the rest of the original company to his left. Kili is crying so hard his nose is near dripping and Thorin would think it an awful display of noble etiquette if he didn’t find it so horribly endearing. Fili is not blubbering, but he is not dry eyed, and Dis weeps openly. There are some in his company and among the crowd who share similar tears of joy and there are others who, like Balin and Oin, merely look upon him with undisguised pride.
It is the day he has dreamed of. This is the moment they have all fought long and hard to claim.
Gandalf takes the crown handed to him by Dis—a replica of the very one his father wore; the original lost to time and circumstance, though the craftsmanship of this new decorations is altered slightly—finer, with shimmering stones of sapphire and onyx. Thorin lowers his head to await the final step and the wizard smiles.
“Now come the days of the King.”
Thorin feels the weight of the crown settle atop his head. Tears threaten to bloom in his eyes, but he takes a deep breath to steady himself.
“May they be blessed.”
There is a triumphant applause and cries of joy among the crowd before Thorin has even pulled himself to his full height. Kili and Fili throw themselves into his arms amid cheers and cries of victory, and he clutches his sister-sons to his chest and blesses them in Kuzhdul. When they finally step away, he pulls Dis into his arms, spins her about as he often did when she was a mere babe, and kisses her temple. She cries and laughs and holds him tight to cry some more. Gandalf’s laughter is a rich echo amid the sounds of his people.
Soon, the cheers begin to die down, replaced with a wave of curious murmurs and whispers. Thorin and his family can feel the shift in the manner of the crowd and follows their anxious gazes.
From the south, a group of men—men of dale—approach the kingdom. A gasp from him startles his attentions to the east where—Mahal, save him—there is an approaching entourage of elves. He can tell from their dress, some bearing earth tones and some dressed in pearl white, that some of them are of Mirkwood and others from as far as Rivendell.
Gandalf reaches out to stop him from unsheathing his blade and the mood of his people altogether shifts from mild worry to a thick, viscous fear. Thorin remembers this feeling all too well. Beside him, Dwalin and the rest of his company move into position.
“I do not believe they mean any harm,” Gandalf assures.
Dis frowns and steps closer, reaching for Thorin’s hand with both of her own. “They sent no envoy to announce their presence or willingness to partake in our celebration. I know not why they’ve come.” Kili and Fili take a defensive stance on either side of the king and princess.
Thorin heeds Gandalf’s words, to the amazement of the crowds. “Very well. Let us find out the meaning of their impromptu visits.” It is a very diplomatic response, indeed. They are allies with the men of Dale, but that means little in the world of politics. Peace is still a delicate, brittle thing in Middle Earth and Thorin is ever vigilant.
The men of Dale make it first, with Bard leading the group and greeting with a “Hail, Thorin, son of Thrain, King under the Mountain!”
Thorin cannot help but smile at the title. “Hail, Bard, King of Dale! Be welcome among my kith and kin.”
The crowd of dwarves part to make way for the men, starring up at them and murmuring in hushed voices of awe and fear and doubt. Some of the men carry animal carcasses over their shoulders and the few womenfolk who accompany them carry woven baskets filled with breads and pies. Bard is carrying an unadorned wooden box beneath his right arm and when he is close enough, he and Thorin clasp each other’s forearms in the fashion of comrades.
Bard smiles down at him. “Forgive us, for not sending word ahead of our arrival. We thought to surprise you on this day, the day of your coronation, and hope that our presence, though unexpected, is still welcome.”
“The men of Dale are always welcome in my father’s halls,” Thorin answers.
“Although a warning would have been a bit more appropriate,” Kili adds, followed by a pained sound that was quite possibly the result of his mother and brother shoving their elbows into his stomach.
Bard takes no offense and is able to find humor in Kili’s words and laughs. When he untucks the wooden box from beneath his arm, the quiet exchanges that began between the dwarves and men halt quite suddenly. “A gift,” Bard says and opens it.
It is the Arkentstone, sitting brilliant and fine against a velvet cushion. Those in the crowd that see it—that know it for what it is, begin mumbling in hushed tones. Thorin feels a rush of something he cannot name and beside him, Dis tenses.
Bard and his people look quite pleased with themselves, but Thorin can feel nothing but distaste. There were times—far and few between—that he had considered what it would be like to reclaim the stone, to feel the cold weight of it in his hands, to have the family heirloom returned. And yet, he can find no joy in seeing it. Rather suddenly he realizes he does not want it. The last remaining treasure of his house, the boon of Durin’s line. And yet, he does not want it. The King of Dale seems to realize that the King under the Mountain does not take to his gift as expected. “Are you not pleased?” He asks, as if slighted.
“It is cursed,” Dis says in a soft voice. “It is abzagel,” she explains, lapsing into the tongue of her people.
Thorin knows she is right. He had been willing to pay for this stone with blood—his own, that of his kith, his kin. That of the one he loved so dearly. His grandfather had found it in his gold lust, in his madness for riches, and his father had revered it above all else. Thorin would not become his father. He would not become a king consumed by greed and he would not let this cursed heirloom tear apart the kingdom he has worked so hard to rebuild. “She speaks truth,” Thorin says finally, surprising not only the crowds but his family. “It has been naught but a curse to this land and her people.” He shakes his head. “I am pleased with the intent, but I beg you keep the stone, and should it bring no harm to your kingdom, consider it a gift from one king to another. But should it prove a bane to you as it has to us, cast it into the deepest part of Ekkaia and there let it remain.”
Bard looks shocked—though pleasantly so, as if some part of him were reluctant to part with it. He closes the wooden box with a sharp snap and Thorin feels as if a weight has been removed from his shoulders and releases a breath he didn’t remember taking. “So it shall be,” Bard answers. “I will honor your words.” His eyes shift.
“And so you should, for he is King.” It is Elrond’s voice, rich and warm.
The fair folk now stand among the dwarrow’s, who stand around the men, all of whom stand around Thorin and his family. Those who once fought against one another now stand together without the threat of bloodshed and death. Elrond stands at the head of his people, along with a elven maiden who might be the fairest among the them and a man who looks nothing like the elves—dark and rugged in a way—but dressed just as finely as them.
Thandruil leads his people and is, of course, as friendly as the first frost of winter. The King under the Mountain stares down the King of Mirkwood and it is very well only propriety (and Ori and Legolas) that keep them from snapping at one another.
“We were not expecting a visit from Eru’s First Children, but we are most pleased for it.” Fili steps forward, leaving Kili and Dis behind to offer his words of greeting.
Thorin knows then that he has choosen well in naming his heir.
“Forgive us, that we offered no forewarning of our arrival,” Legolas answers, his warmth and kindness in complete juxtaposition to Thandruil’s stoic demeanor.
“And why have you come?” Thorin asks, cold and unrelenting. While his people have warmed to the presence of their once-enemies, he is still not convinced that they do not harbor some sort of ill intent.
Thandruil’s eyes flash bright and his lips part, but before he can say a word, Elrond steps closer to lay a gentle hand on Thandruil’s shoulder. “We come bearing gifts—O King under the Mountain.”
Thorin gives Mirkwood’s ruler a disbelieving look. There was a time when such a practice would have been little surprise, commonplace even. He remembers when the elves came to his father, bearing gifts and good-will. But that was long ago and Thorin cannot hear Thandruil’s words without skepticism. “I have mountains of gold, caverns of gems and barrels of mead. I have enough provisions so that my people live in plenty and we have warm furs and good homes. Tell me, King of Mirkwood, what gift might you bear greater than the sum of all these things?” His words are sharp, bitter, needlessly so, he knows, but he feels his vindictiveness is well earned.
It is not Thandruil who answers, but his son. Legolas smiles bright and knowing. “We bring you a gift you could not find in a thousand glittering caverns, one not found in cups overflowing, in rich winter furs or the warmth of home and hearth.”
Beside Thorin, Gandalf begins to laugh as if having just remembered a fantastic joke. The king gives him an incredulous look.
“A celebration indeed!” The great wizard says, and doesn’t stop laughing.
The beautiful maiden beside Elrond speaks and her voice is rich and honey-sweet, and brings to mind the first bite of a ripe summers peach. “It cannot be counted among your treasures, though it is a treasure that has ever lived in your heart.” If her words are a riddle or a prophecy, he can hardly tell. There is a collective shift among the elves—they move aside, parting straight down the middle and making way for something—someone? But he can see nothing, and only hears the faint chime of metal clicking against metal and the hush of flowing fabric.
And then, Elrond, the maiden, and her companion step aside and there are gasps and cries of shock and for a moment, Thorin can’t breathe, can’t move. He is struck dumb and immobilized by the vision—and yes, it has to be a vision, surely it isn’t real—before him. But he is not the only one who sees it, and the elves look too impossibly pleased with themselves for this to be a mere illusion.
It is Bilbo.
He is dressed in the same finery as the elves; robes with elaborate stitching, a hood covering his wild titan curls, a thin coronet of braided metalwork and an opal charm resting between his brows. He looks nothing like the pale, broken creature he turned away all those years ago. The hobbit before him is smiling, bright and sincere, with wide eyes and a healthy red hue to his cheeks. Suddenly there are shouts of “Bilbo!” and “Our Burglar!” and a cacophony of questions and statements from his subjects and then they are surrounded by his company, each of them—especially Kili and Fili—attempting to get a good look at the hobbit. Thorin is still too shocked to do anything other than stand there and watch.
It takes a few stern words and a look from Dis before the company is reluctantly pulling away, leaving just Thorin and Bilbo in the center, surrounded by an assembly of Men, Elves and Dwarrows. There is a collective silence and it is Thorin who finally finds his voice. “…Bilbo?” Were the circumstances any different, he would be horrified at his inability to form a coherent thought.
Smiling, Bilbo steps forward, closing the distance between them. “Well met, Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain.”
Reaching out, he presses a hand to the hobbit’s cheek. The skin is soft and warm beneath his touch. “You are real,” he says, reverently.
Bilbo places his own hand to the one along his cheek, inhales the scent of earth and rain and fire and knows that there is no place else he ever wants to be. “A dream could not love you half so well as I, my King, surely you know that.”
And he knows he does not need to ask, does not need to question, so he lifts the hobbit into his arms (who still fits so perfectly) and kisses him (and his lips are pliant and warm and willing) and there are cheers and applause but none of that matters because Bilbo smells like sunshine and rosemary and tastes of cinnamon and lemon squares and Thorin is finally awake.
----------------------------
And suddenly I know,
I will no longer apologize for loving you.
I whispered your name and the wind whinnied back.
All the horses of heaven are in the pasture tonight.
--James Tipton
*
Abzagel – Bane of all banes.
Ekkaia – The sea that completely surrounds Arda/Middle Earth.