Archive of Our Own

T.A 2822
June 30th

“Frerin, I can't put the braids in if you don't sit still,” grumbled Thorin, placing his hands on his little brother's shoulders to push him back down onto the marble stool. “Don't you want them anymore?”

“I do!” Frerin chirruped, swinging his legs and gripping his knees, beaming up at Thorin.

“Then sit still,” he replied, cupping Frerin's cheeks and squishing them a little, smiling when his brother laughed in delight.

Despite his youngest sibling having turned ten at the beginning of May, to him Frerin still looked like the tiniest pebble imaginable. His golden hair lay around his shoulders in soft ringlets, and impressive flaxen strands covered his round cheeks and chin. Though his beard was still too short to braid, it was wispy at the sides, and thicker around his chin, in true Durin nature.

“Which ones do you want?” Thorin asked, starting to gently comb through Frerin's hair, still a little damp from the morning bath, and delicately oiled already by amad.

Frerin still took his bath with amad and adad in the mornings. Dís and himself, at thirty and forty-four, respectively, had long grown out of it, yet a little thrill of pride tugged at his belly when Frerin had insisted Thorin be the one to braid his hair for the performance.

“The same one you have. No! The same one Dís has. No! The-- … I want the same one you have,” he said, bouncing a little where he sat. “It's not copying. We're brothers so we should have the same, it's not copying.”

“I don't mind if you copy me,” Thorin said, rather graciously in his opinion.

While he loved Frerin with all his heart, it was a bit annoying when he wanted exactly what Thorin had all the time. Especially when Frerin been younger, and had cried unless they were wearing or doing the same thing. Dís had been the same way, when she was newly carved, and amad had said if he'd had an older sibling, he'd have done it too. As it was, it was him they looked up to. Sometimes the feeling made his heart swell with pride and determination, but sometimes it was a little frightening.

Frerin pouted, crossing his arms dramatically. “It's not copying!”

“Alright,” agreed Thorin easily, starting to separate out strands of hair. “Well, you can't have all the same as me, because you're not over thirty yet, and you're not third in line to the throne. Which ones do you want? This one?” he asked, squatting down in front of Frerin to point out the braids woven into his own hair, most of it laying loose down his back and shoulders. “This one is the line of Durin. This one is for good health, and a long life. Dís has one for sharp wit. Do you want that one, too?”

Frerin eagerly nodded, running his little fingers over the different braids in his big brother's hair. Thorin let him touch for a moment before standing again, pressing a kiss to Frerin's forehead.

“Alright. Sit still.”

“I will,” the young dwarf nodded, his expression solemn.

Naturally it lasted all of a few moments before Frerin was bouncing on his seat again, too excited to stop himself. Luckily Thorin had some experience with putting braids in bouncing pebbles' hair, and while one or two were a little wonky – including a made-up one for 'fifth in line for the throne' – the end result was presentable enough.

For Frerin, anyway.

“There,” he declared as he clamped the last mithril clasp into place, stroking his hands over the acceptably neat braids.

“I wanna see!” exclaimed Frerin, leaping from the stool and running over to the mirror on Thorin's dressing table. He jumped up and down to try to see himself, but was too short without a stool to climb on.

Thorin laughed, picking him up from behind and holding him around his middle. Frerin rested his feet on the edge of the dressing table, letting out a noise of delight and clutching onto Thorin's arms.

“Better?”

“Mmnhmn!” the young dwarf beamed, turning his head this way and that, Thorin narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face by the metal clasps. “I love them! Thank you, nadad!”

“You're welcome, naddith,” he replied, planting a kiss to Frerin's cheek before putting him down again and taking his hand. “Come on. It'll be starting soon, and if someone has to come looking for us, we'll be in trouble.”

Frerin nodded seriously, holding onto Thorin's fingers as he was led from the room and down the corridor towards the chambers where the rest of their family would be gathering.

Today was the first day of the Midsummer Festival, and it was opening with a performance of Elbereth and the Seven Fathers. Over the years he'd seen a few numbers performed here and there, his favourite being 'Welcome, Welcome!', but he'd never seen the whole thing before.

Though the troupe was mainly Ereborian, several of the leading figures had come from the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills, and even as far as the Orocarni range. Rehearsals had been happening for months, and Erebor was as busy as a new mithril mine. Dwarves from all over Middle Earth had been arriving for weeks.

While the excitement in the air was intoxicating, as he and his family were shuffled from event to event he'd found himself growing exhausted under all his finery. His polite smiles were strained, and his mind turned to desperate wishes for a quiet chamber where he could read his books or play his harp in peace and quiet.

“Thorin, is there really gonna be an elf in it? Elbeth?” Frerin asked, swinging Thorin's hand as he walked.

“Elbereth,” he corrected with a small smile. “No, it'll be a dwarf. A real elf wouldn't much like performance, I don't think.”

“Because she's silly? Can't elves be silly, sometimes? They've got to have pebbles like me, don't they?”

Thorin blinked, raising his eyebrows as he led Frerin to the heavy doors of the waiting chambers.

“I... suppose so,” he said slowly. “I haven't really thought about it. Next time the envoy from Mirkwood is here, you should ask them.” The look on his grandfather's face would be worth the scolding he was bound to get for encouraging Frerin to ask such questions of an elven king.

He pushed open the doors, inclining his head at his gathered family.

Thráin was sitting on a low chair, Dís perched happily on his knee as she showed him the new beads braided into her beard, a beautiful mix of colours and metals. Several Thorin had forged himself, hands guided by his father. Raina, his grandmother, was setting the prince's crown on Thráin's head, making sure it was held in place by his intricate braids.

“Ah! There you two are! I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten yourselves lost,” Thráin called, keeping his head still. Frerin bounded over, clinging to his leg and jumping up and down with excitement.

“Adad!” he cried, a wide beam on his face. “Adad, is it time now? Are we going now?”

“Yes we are, now that you have arrived!” Thráin laughed, bending down as soon as Raina stepped back. He plucked Frerin up and held him close, chuckling as he pressed a beardy kiss to Frerin's cheek – much to the young dwarf's loud delight.

While Frerin's braids had looked fine in his bedroom, surrounded by the beautiful works in his parents and grandparents' hair, his work seemed suddenly vastly inferior, if not outright messy. One was too tight, another too loose, and the one he'd made up seemed strange and out of place. His mother brought him out of his thoughts, stroking her hand over Thorin's hair.

“Your braiding looks very neat, ukhshamithê. Frerin's very proud of them – as you should be. Only forty-four, and already doing such intricate work.”

Thorin nodded, turning his head to rest his cheek against Geldís' shoulder. He watched his father adjust the Prince's crown on his head, a giggling Frerin still in his arms.

One day he'd wear the same crown, when Thrór passed into the halls of Mahal, and his father became king. While the thought brought a childish tingle of excitement with it – to be crown prince, and then king...! - the tug of dread was far stronger. He didn't want to reign if it meant his family had to pass before him. Thrór ruled so easily and gracefully, managing all aspects of Erebor with great skill, and his father was the perfect sculpture of the mighty king.

Thorin wasn't so sure he'd measure up. He took much more after his grandmother, quieter and keener to observe and work in relative silence, while Dís was as sharp and cunning as their mother and Frerin as loud and cheerful as their father. Geldís had always called him ukhshamithê, and though he'd learned how to hold himself and how to act through personal discomfort, there were still some aspects of ruling he found exhausting. And yet his father and grandfather seemed to handle them with ease.

He exhaled slowly, pulling back from his mother with a little smile. It was just age, and experience. In time he would rule and he'd do the best he could for his people. He'd be just, loyal, fair, and kind. Like his father, and his grandfather.

“All ready?” Thrór called out, patting down his beard and sending Dís off to walk with Thorin and Frerin, Raina taking her husband's arm with a small, stately smile.

They assembled, Thrór and Raina at the front with Thráin and Geldís arm-and-arm behind them. Then came Thorin and Dís, Frerin between them, both his little hands in one of theirs. Thorin's heart lifted to see his family, the strong figures of those he loved beyond anything else, and as the doors opened and they began their walk towards the Mazzul’alfâm, he held Frerin's hand a little tighter.

Before long they were joined by the royal guard. Thorin nodded his head at Dwalin, crooking a small smile at his friend, who was wearing his most serious and solemn expression – despite wearing the armour of a guard-in-training. He was soon to turn fifty, though he looked almost eighty. His beard was full and thick, and his figure was tall and bulky even for a dwarf. He was going to be a formidable warrior one day, just like his mother.

Their procession made its way along the King's Walkways, Frerin tugging at Thorin's hand as he skipped, using both their hands to swing himself and laughing happily. It wasn't long before they were descending into the Mazzul’alfâm.

The cavern was carved in a deep semicircle directly from the granite, but gold and silver coated the walls and floor. Along the curved edge were balconies in long rows, boxed off into separate compartments and stacked three layers deep. A high stage sat against the straight back wall, the front edge of it curved to mirror the room, and two long walkways sprouted from either side, curving to the sides and disappearing under the balconies to lead into the back rooms for the actors. Little arches were built into the walkways leading on and off the stage, so dwarves could duck underneath them without disturbing the actors.

Around the two walkways was a grid of carven marble, small sections cut off into squares with narrow strips of stone wall marking the edges of the boxes, each just wide enough for a dwarf to nimbly run across should they need to leave or move between compartments.

Inside each square sat a group of dwarves, families turned towards the stage and ready for the show. Many had brought picnics, but dwarves moved with agility along the narrow dividers with baskets and trays of wares, selling sweets and food and drinks to the laughing, merry spectators. Each vendor wore a metal sign on their backs, engraved with the markings of their shop, all with a sigil and most with slogans. The walls came up to a sitting dwarf's stomach – high enough to clearly mark a space, but low enough to easily see the stage.

While Thorin had always thought those compartments looked more appealing, the line of Durin occupied the royal box, a balcony twice as wide and tall as any of the others, and sat right opposite the stage. It had the best views, but Thorin felt it was removed from the fun of the roaring crowds down below.

Three chairs had been placed at the very edge of the box, and behind them sat four more, on a raised stone floor, so their occupants could see easily over the heads of the first row. A couple of other seats were dotted around the sides of the box for those who would be viewing with the royal family.

As Thrór stepped into the box a roar went up from the crowd, the noise making Thorin's heart race. It felt like a literal wall of sound as his grandfather held up his hands.

“The whole kingdom looks to be here,” Dís said, clearly fighting a grin off her face.

Thrór took his seat, the middle left from Thorin's view behind him, Raina sitting to his left, on the edge. Thráin stepped forwards to another earth-shaking cheer, sitting to his father's right as Geldís sat next to her husband, on the far edge.

Then it was their turn. Thorin held Frerin's hand tighter, glancing to Dís before they walked forwards. It was difficult not to close his eyes as a third cacophony of noise burst out around them.

Thorin gripped the edge of the box as he sat himself down on the leftmost chair, helping Frerin onto the one in the middle – the seat raised further with cushions – Dís taking the rightmost seat. When Frerin reached sixty, Thorin would sit in the middle, Dís to his right, and Frerin to his left. Until then, as Frerin was the youngest, he sat between them.

The young dwarf laughed delightedly, clapping his hands together and bouncing on his seat as the crowd below him cheered. Thorin tried to smile, inclining his head and waiting for the noise to die down as Dís waved and Frerin laughed.

Dwalin sat down on one of the other chairs, his mother following suit, as did his grandfather's advisor, and a servant brought three little tables beside each of their chairs, a small selection of treats and water on each.

The lukhûdu'arisî dimmed and a hush fell upon the crowd.

Thorin sat forward.

It was about to begin.

A single stream of light shone down upon the stage, and tiny bulbs twinkled like a multitude of stars along the stone ceiling. From the sides of the stage figures gathered in near silence, hidden in shadow. Music started to play – fiddles of all sizes, wooden flutes, and singing stones hit with cloth-covered hammers. There were harps, too, and Thorin could see the gleam of brass and silver.

The stream of light moved, trailing over the stage and down one of the walkways until it alighted on a figure.

Thorin's breath caught. The figure wore a diamond-studded blue cloak and hood, and stood easily three times as tall as the tallest dwarf. It moved slowly but gracefully, and kept its head bowed as it moved to centre stage. The train of its cloak fanned out, rippling across the stage like clouds in dusky twilight, the beam of light following its slow steps. Finally it reached centre stage and turned, starting to sing.

“Our Middle Earth is newly carved,
And yet of light the lands are starved.
Bleak forests shroud my heart and eyes,
The Dark Lord's evil blots the skies.”

As the figure sang it pulled back its hood, lifting its head into the light. An audible intake of breath swept through the chamber, Frerin grabbing suddenly at Thorin's hand.

Elbereth.

It was as if an elf had really wandered onto the stage, though Thorin knew the actor was a dwarf. Elbereth's brown skin shimmered in the light, dusted with silver powder and flecked with speckles of silver paint like freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was like pale sunshine, and had been threaded through with strands of gold and silver, the strings of metal catching and playing with the light.

She seemed to sparkle, twinkling like a star herself. Her beard had been coloured to that of her skin and neatly oiled and combed, pulled back behind her neck and ears, as if she had none at all.

“Far have I wandered through the trees,
But in me blooms a vast unease.
For I have walked to see the stars,
And lost my way upon the paths.”

One by one the stars above her extinguished.

The most amazing thing was her height, and her proportions. Thorin sat forward, his eyes widening as he realised how they had done it. From the waist down and from her shoulders outwards she was encased in a thin, wooden armour. It had been polished and coloured to match her skin, her legs and arms nestled inside them. Her fingers, long and elegant, were wooden, and her feet had to sit at Elbereth's mid-thigh.

In the Mannur Bunûn he had seen puppets and toys, their limbs threaded through with metal wire. You could slip your fingers through little loops and pull to make them dance or walk, and a group from the Orocarni mountains used life-size puppets with incredible, intricate joints for performances.

This had to be the same thing, but on a larger scale. Elbereth reached upward, her fingers splaying wide as if they were real.

“Long did I travel, much have I seen,
But all is dark that once was green.
Too lost am I in Melkor's trap,
I feel his jaws around me snap.

O hear, o hear, some friendly soul!
O see, o see, my heart still whole!
O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

Elbereth suddenly sank to her knees, and a murmur of awe rose from the crowd. Her body was a feat of engineering unlike anything they'd ever seen before. She drew her cloak around her as the last of the stars dimmed to nothing.

“O hear, o hear, some friendly soul!
O see, o see, my heart still whole!
O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

“Is someone going to help her?” Frerin whispered, standing on his seat and tugging Thorin's hand. “I want to sit on your knees!”

“Shh,” he breathed, pulling his little brother towards him, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Wait and see. It's a happy story, remember?”

Frerin nodded, clinging to Thorin's arms. The warm weight of the pebble against him was soothing, and he rested his chin gently on Frerin's shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the smell of hair oil and soap wash over him. When Dís had been younger, he'd held her like this, too. His siblings were like little quiet moments in the storms of court life.

When he opened his eyes again, seven dwarves were making their way along the walkways towards Elbereth, each one holding a different instrument.

They were the seven fathers, each clad in the colours of the chambers from which they'd awoken. Durin led the procession with his harp. As father of the Longbeards and the dwarves who ruled Erebor, he was to be the leader in this play. Thorin's mother had told him about the production she'd seen as a child, with the father of the Broadbeams in the leading role.

Durin was the tallest, clad in blue azurite and looking like a single, pale star in the night sky. Then came Národ, their body seeming to leap with fiery garnet as they shook their sticks of silver bells, more made from gold wrapped in shining strings around their tawny fingers and wrists. They were followed by Khardín, his broad arms lifted high and dripping with sea-foam agate like the waves of the ocean breaking around the sandy beige of his exposed skin. He clapped two ringing stones together, altering the pattern and strength of his strikes to make different notes.

Fróra was next with her violin, green malachite glimmering on her black skin as if she were a living, walking geode. Then came Dwólir, swathes of purple sugilite hiding almost all of their skin, though flashes of russet brown peeked through as they played their long flute, fingers fluttering over the little holes. Bílan followed, her golden hair woven with shards of topaz as brilliant as crystallized sunbeams, a pink tinge under her fawn skin and the notes from her golden whistle as bright as she was. Last was Órva. Silver powder had been brushed over his marble skin, and sweeping grey material trailed around him, moonstone glimmering over his figure. He carried a viola, the rich sound all but flooding the cavern.

The seven fathers surrounded Elbereth, their music crescendoing in glorious sweeps. It was clear to any dwarven ear that each was not only an actor, but a master musician as well, and their instruments rang with magic. The sound was amplified, as deep as the deepest mine and as tall as the tallest peak. It boomed and sang, each note quivering with emotion. It was a music of the sort you heard in your dreams, Thorin thought, or when you pressed your ear to ancient stone and closed your eyes.

Every dwarf in the cavern was silent, breathless before the spectacle. The music softened, dying out as they lowered their instruments. Durin began to speak.

The cavern had been crafted to send the sound soaring around the stone walls, so that every word uttered on stage was carried to the entire crowd, loud and clear.

Thorin was instantly engrossed in the play, watching as Elbereth explained how she had become lost and weary under Melkor’s shadow, while the seven fathers discussed it, each giving reasons for and against helping her. Finally Durin spoke, reminding them that against their enemy, they were one ally. Elbereth had to be escorted to their mountain, and aided.

The fathers guided Elbereth to her feet, and, with another rousing burst of music, led her off the stage. Applause from the crowd thundered through the chamber, Frerin twisting on Thorin's knees to grin up at him.

“I love it,” the little dwarf declared, squeezing Thorin's hands.

“Then you'll be pleased to hear there's much more to see,” he said, nudging Frerin to face the stage where the actors were returning, a second song starting up.

This one was a much more merry tune, each of the fathers taking turns to describe the mountain – their home – to Elbereth. She dipped and twirled, her soft laughter mixing tunefully with the dwarven singing. Somehow their voices managed to match the intensity of the instruments, and Thorin couldn't help but wonder if they had a magic rune tattooed on their tongues, or the roof of their mouths, as there would be inside their instruments. Certainly, their voices were instruments in their own right, and they seemed heavy with ancient skill.

Moved by heavy cogs and levers, slats of painted wood pushed up from the floor and shot out from the sides of the stage, a dwarven gate suddenly appearing in front of the characters, and a mountain rose above them. Bulbs set into the slats twinkled to life, the mountain gleaming with light.

Frerin gasped, eyes widening almost comically as he watched, and Thorin himself felt a thrill race up his spine at the sight. This really was the production of a lifetime.

The song finished with another hearty round of applause, the fathers taking Elbereth up to the gate. Órva stopped them. They couldn't just take Elbereth into the mountain, he said. The ways of the dwarves were secret, and all she needed was to rest a little, and study some maps to find her way back to the elves. They would sneak her in.

More music started up, but this came from the wings – scores of musicians playing their instruments in perfect harmony. The single beam of light followed the actors as they ducked and rolled across the stage, around the wooden mountain. As they moved the music mimicked their actions, and Thorin's sides ached with laughter to see them dodge and tumble as if hiding from guard patrols. The wooden slats shifted and changed, the mountain seeming to spin slowly until a secret side door was revealed.

The fathers ushered Elbereth through it, the music finishing with a triumphant blast. A pair of deep blue curtains dropped across the stage, the lights going up.

“Is that it?” cried Frerin, looking back at Thorin with wide eyes.

“No, no. This is just a rest. Here,” he said, nodding to the trays of refreshments being brought in. Frerin's expression lit up, and he wriggled off Thorin's lap to sit on his own seat, happily tucking into his treats.

Thorin looked down to the crowds below, watching the vendors run nimbly across the ikhdâr, handing out their craft and taking coin all with one hand. The room smelled like hot sugar and salted meats. Heavier scents of wine, ale, and honeyed milk drifted up to him, yet the air was clear. Pipe smoke was discouraged, as an errant cough could mar a performance, and it was considered common courtesy not to smoke in enclosed areas where pebbles had to breathe it in.

Before long the lights dimmed again, and the curtains drew back across the stage. It had been reset to look like a small room within a mountain, and Elbereth perched on a chair, the seven fathers around her in different outfits of the same colour as those they’d been wearing before. They began to speak, alternately describing the rest of the mountain to Elbereth and sighing over what a shame it was that she couldn't see it.

“Frerin,” Thorin whispered. “When Órva says, 'whatever shall we do', we all shout, 'put a disguise on her'. Alright?”

Frerin nodded, his eyes wide as he shifted to kneel in his seat.

A moment later Órva turned to the crowd, throwing his arms wide open.

“Whatever shall we do?” he cried.

The cavern thundered with the voices of the dwarves, families trying to shout louder than the others, and the howling laughter of hundreds of pebbles ringing above the rest.

“Put a disguise on her!”

“What was that?” Fróra said, putting a hand to her ear.

“Put a disguise on her!”

Thorin laughed along as he heard the booming voices of his father and grandfather behind him.

“I think Mahal is trying to give us a message,” said Dwólir, shaking their head. “But I just can't hear him!”

“Let's try one more time,” Národ said. “What message is Mahal sending us?”

“Put a disguise on her!”

“Put a disguise on her!” chorused the seven fathers, clapping their hands and stamping their boots as the cavern shuddered with merriment from the audience. Music leapt from the wings again, the audience clapping along to the catchy rhythm. The fathers began to sing, dancing in complex patterns as they wove their way around each other.

“Welcome, welcome, Elbereth! Our friend beneath the stone!
Come and see our home!
Come and see our home!
Let our ways be known!”

Elbereth knelt down onto the ground, her body moving as if it were made of flesh and blood. Fróra tied two boots to the elf's knees. Frerin howled with laughter.

“Boots to hide your too long legs,
Wherever you may travel.
To dance around the brimming kegs,
And maybe win some namel!”

Then Durin tied two gloves to her elbows, folding her fingers up to touch her shoulders.

“Gloves to hide your too long arms,
Our kin you have enthralled!
You start to show your wits and charms,
and all will fall in amrâl!”

Frerin shrieked with delight, bouncing on his chair hard enough the wood creaked as Elbereth's long hair was swiftly braided into a dwarven style and Národ produced a fake beard, attaching it to the elf's chin and securing it in place with strings. The chamber juddered with laughter, whoops and cheers echoing in time with the jaunty tune.

“Welcome, welcome, Elbereth! Our friend beneath the stone!
Come and see our home!
Come and see our home!
Let our ways be known!

Hair to hide your naked chin,
And give your skin some shelter!
See how you now seem like our kind,
Let's sing and make a keltar!”

Finally Dwolír strapped a few pieces of mismatched armour to her chest and stomach, and hung an axe at her side. Elbereth started to dance, the performer somehow moving the body so it jigged and twirled on its knees, now level with the fathers.

“Steel to guard your elven heart,
And halt a swift attack!
This will fool the slow and smart,
The genius and lalâkh!

Welcome, welcome, Elbereth! Our friend beneath the stone!
Come and see our home!
Come and see our home!
Let our ways be known!”

The song ended to thundering cheers, the fathers forming a circle around Elbereth as they danced and clapped. When the cheering subsided, they began to speak again.

Thorin reached out to steady Frerin as the pebble clambered back onto his lap. He pressed a kiss to his little brother's cheek, wrapping his arms tight around his soft middle.

This was one of those days he was going to remember forever, like the first time he'd taken Dís out for a walk around the mountain, just the two of them. The warmth of his little sister's hand in his, the overwhelming feeling of pride and the need to make her happy, to protect her, had all become intermingled with the sights and sounds of Erebor. Her bright blue eyes had shone like sapphires.

On stage, the fathers had begun to show Elbereth around the mountain as the scenery revolved. Stalls on wheels were pushed to and fro by dwarves painted the same colour as the stage floor, blending in seamlessly as the performers called out greetings and advertisements.

Most were jokes, based on real goods sold within the mountain. Portions of the audience roared with delight as rivals appeared as ridiculous caricatures, and Thorin couldn't bite back his laughter as a certain 'Master Hófur the Toy-maker' was wheeled on, his hair a shock of black and white stripes in an elaborate bow on top of his head.

Weird and wonderful toys hung from his cart. There were models of Iron Hills boars with eagle wings, and mechanical crows in every colour. Soft cats in strange poses, and even a few lanky elf dolls. Each was a remodel of a popular toy in Erebor, several of which Thorin or his siblings owned.

In the audience, Ófur leapt to his feet, laughing even as he shook his fists at the stage, his streaked hair in a much more sensible style than his counterpart on stage. Thorin spotted the dwarf's son, Bifur, jumping up and down beside his father but clearly overjoyed by their appearance in the show. 'Hófur' bowed and scraped, throwing handfuls of toy mice to the audience. Then, with amazing aim, he chucked some up into the royal box. Dís and Frerin let out cries of delight as they caught the gifts. They were exquisitely crafted, their curled tails turning to wind the little wheels inside them and send them skittering off in all directions.

More vendors appeared and went, and by the time the fathers and Elbereth had walked through the marketplace, the audience had been plied with more sweets and toys than they knew what to do with. Frerin's hands were sticky with sugar as he grabbed at Thorin’s own in his delight. The amazing scenery dipped and spun, showing them forges, royal chambers, and dancing rooms. A platform of musicians was pushed past, another upbeat, lively tune starting up.

It was an old work song, one all dwarves knew the lyrics to. The chamber boomed with music, the audience joining in as performers from all the dwarven kingdoms moved across the stage. There were dancers from the Grey Mountains, dressed in silver and steel, tapping out complicated rhythms with their boots and leaping high into the air.

Then came performers from the Iron Hills, riding their decorated boars. Their iron-shod feet tapped and clacked across the stage, moving with trained precision to mimic the drums as their riders whooped and cheered. Some stood on their hands on the saddles, others playing trumpets along with the chorus of the working song, all dressed in reddened leather and copper. They threw shimmering metal hoops and balls back and forth, passing them through and over and under each other, and never dropping a single one.

Afterwards came a group from the Orocarni mountains, each carrying long, wooden, hollow tubes. They hit them against each other as they danced in twirls and dips, the hollow sticks singing out notes in perfect harmony with the music. Then followed the performers from the Blue Mountains, juggling batons of fire and metal spirals that fizzed and popped with sparks in different colours, tiny fireworks lighting the room.

The loud ringing of a bell cut through the music, the dwarves halting in their procession as the music died with funny sounding squeaks and whines.

“Ah!” Dwólir cried. “We are summoned to the gates!”

“An enemy approaches, and we must fight,” Národ said. The seven fathers drew their weapons, but as Elbereth struggled to hold her axe between her elbows, Durin shook his head.

“It is too dangerous for you to join us. Come, hide in here, but do not come out until we call for you.”

Elbereth nodded, putting her axe by her side once more.

“And what shall you say, when you come for me?”

Bílan patted her shoulder, guiding her into a little room on the edge of the stage.

“We shall make a grand noise outside the door, and then you can join us again. Until then!”

“Until then!” Echoed the seven fathers. They turned, lifting their assortment of weapons and ran off the stage and into the wings with a cry.

The curtains came down, the lights went up, and the chamber burst once more into clapping and the noises of conversations and laughter. More refreshments for the royal box were brought in, and Frerin was taken to the washroom to clean the sugar from his hands and beard.

Thorin moved to sit next to Dís, smiling at her as she waved down into the crowd.

“Is he well? Víli?” Thorin asked, keeping his tone soft. Dís went bright pink under her beard, shooting him a steely glance – one of warning.

“I told you that in confidence,” she muttered, glancing back at their parents, who were deep in conversation.

Thorin raised an eyebrow, leaning his arms on the railing of the balcony and looking down into the crowd where the young, blond dwarf was sitting, beaming up at the royal box.

“And I've kept it, just as you asked. Not that you need it, but you have my full support. You say it is umral, and I believe you.”

Some of the fight dropped from Dís' shoulders, and she looked down into the crowd again, stroking her hand down her beard.

“Not that I need it,” she repeated. “He's well. He brought me a necklace he forged himself. His mother showed him how to set topaz in gold. I said it would look better on him, and he said he made it so I'd see the colours of his beard and eyes, and think of him.” By the end her voice had turned a little dreamy, and she gave Víli another small wave.

Thorin swallowed down a short laugh, reaching out to gently squeeze his little sister's shoulder. Love was love, and was powerful enough to melt the iron of even Dís, much to his amusement. He remembered all too well when she was a very small pebble, loudly declaring at dinner how she'd never marry anyone, and would instead rule her own mountain. No matter her future, all he wanted for her was happiness, at whatever cost.

“You're in my seat!” Frerin whined, reappearing from the washroom. He was more damp, yet less sticky.

“My apologies, little whetstone,” Thorin said sincerely, moving onto his own chair and letting Frerin climb back onto his lap, holding him close. “Ah, I see I am the seat.”

Frerin giggled, swinging his leg and making a satisfied noise of agreement, leaning back against Thorin's chest. He rested his little hands on top of Thorin's own.

A moment later the lights dimmed and the curtains rose up. The crowd quieted, and the vendors perched on the little ledges between the boxes hurried to finish serving their customers.

Elbereth sat on a crate, still in her dwarven garb, waiting for the seven fathers. She sighed heavily, leaning against the wooden wall of the little cube of her room in the middle of the stage, and started to sing.

“I never thought a warmth like this could live beneath the rock,
I thought these people lowly, a cold and dreary stock.
They seemed to think of nothing, only stone and war,
But I was helped with open hearts, and welcomed through the door.
These chambers ring with music, with happiness and joy.
There's life beneath the mountain, and halls that they call home.

And yet in books my people write: belligerent the dwarf!
Slow and empty-headed, so much they don't know of.
I can see the power of words that are not true,
They twist and shape the feelings of the many from the few.
These chambers ring with music, with happiness and joy.
There's life beneath the mountain, and halls that they call home.

We learn to fear and look away when we don't understand,
Our hearts turn cruel and withered, we chase them from their land.
But in my time of need, they led me through the dark.
The mighty dwarves of Erebor have saved this singing lark.
These chambers ring with music, with happiness and joy.
There's life beneath the mountain, and halls that they call home.”

Suddenly there was a loud crash, a vendor having fallen on the very edge of the stage. His wares spilled down into the audience around him, and Elbereth jumped to her feet.

“Ah!” she cried. “The grand noise, outside the door!”

The vendor leaped to his feet, saluted the audience, and ran off into the wings. Thorin laughed, giving Frerin a little squeeze and handing him a segment of candied fruit. On stage, Elbereth opened the door and stepped out the room – on her knees and her arms tucked inwards to make herself seem dwarf sized.

Two dwarves walked out from the wings, hand in hand. Frerin and Dís squealed with delight, the audience bursting into cheering. The two dwarves were obvious caricatures of Thrór and Raina in their youth.

Thorin looked behind him to his grandfather and grandmother, grinning when he saw them roaring with laughter and linking their fingers together.

Elbereth peeped around a corner, watching as the two dwarves embraced and then kissed with a comical smacking noise. Then they continued their walk across the stage, still hand in hand. Another round of applause followed them off the stage, and Elbereth started to walk again.

“Where are the fathers? I heard their call, but they have disappeared! Perhaps I have gone the wrong way.”

She turned, and before long a group of dwarves walked onto the stage.

“Ah,” Elbereth said to the audience. “Here are some dwarves! I will ask them if they have seen the fathers, and soon be found!”

Frerin clutched at Thorin's hands, swinging his legs as he chewed the candied fruit.

Elbereth bowed deeply at the group as they called out a cheerful greeting to her.

“My fine dwarves! Over yonder, I heard a kelkar!"

The group of dwarves gasped loudly, staggering back from her as the audience exploded into laughter.

Frerin howled, clapping his hands together.

“She said kelkar! Not keltar! She got it wrong!” he crowed, his mirth pulling a chuckle from Thorin's own lips.

“You must tell us more about this kelkar!” exclaimed one of the group, hand going to his weapons. “Only now have we fought at our own gates, and there is danger in our halls.”

Elbereth scratched her chin through her fake beard.

“I saw two dwarves, lost in banel.”

The group of dwarves staggered in shock. Thorin could feel Frerin shaking with laughter, his hands slapping at the railing in front of them. He couldn't bite back his own chuckles, pressing a kiss to Frerin's cheek. Elbereth had, of course, meant namel.

“And what then? You must tell us!” cried another dwarf from the group.

“I saw their hands clasped in amrâd!”

The chamber quaked under the noise from the group of dwarves on stage, and the audience. Shouts of amrâl, amrâl! echoed around them, but the characters were deaf to the audience. The group drew their weapons with a loud shout, beginning to run around all over the stage, swinging at invisible enemies.

Elbereth turned on her knees, looking around in surprise and alarm.

“Malâk!” she said.

As if on cue, the audience bellowed back at her as one:

“Lalâkh!”

“Cleaved into malâk!! The enemy walks among us, and must be in disguise!” wailed one of the dwarves on stage.

Elbereth took a few steps backwards, not seeming to to notice how her fake beard was slipping down her chin. Frerin gave a little gasp, covering his mouth with his hands, and Thorin felt a lurch of nervousness tug deep in belly, even though he knew the story and the ending.

She was about to be found out.

“Yes, yes, a disguise! It must be how he snuck past our guards!”

At that moment Elbereth bumped into a dwarf, the both of them stumbling. Elbereth's beard slid down around her neck as the dwarf dusted themselves off.

“Terribly sorry, so sorry, are you--... oh!” they broke off with a gasp, pointing to Elbereth.

She reached for her beard, but it was too late.

“The enemy! The enemy!” With lightning speed, the dwarves drew their weapons.

Elbereth sprang to her feet, towering suddenly above the dwarves. Her shadow was flung over them and they fell back from her in fright as she turned and ran. They followed after regaining their footing, shouting and clashing their weapons in a terrible cacophony.

The scenery spun, becoming the little side-gate the seven fathers had snuck her through. Discarding her fake dwarf costume piece by piece, Elbereth fled through the gate and out into the dark forest of painted trees surrounding the mountain. The dwarves stopped at the gate with a cheer, but the audience was silent.

Elbereth ran into the wings, the dwarves walking back into the mountain, and for a moment the stage was empty.

The lights dimmed, the set moving to resemble the trees at the beginning of the play, and Elbereth staggered back onto the stage.

“Oh,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands and slowing to a halt. “Now I am lost again, and chased from the mountain!”

From the wings came the sound of footsteps. Not those of an elf or a dwarf, but heavy and booming.

Thorin shivered, clutching Frerin to him.

“Don't be afraid,” he whispered as his little brother whimpered, the footsteps growing louder. His heart was thumping along with them, and a soft cry went up from the audience as a great shadow loomed over the stage.

Laughter, rough and loud enough to make Thorin jump, echoed around them, and two great shadowy hands, fingers fluttering, dropped from the top of the stage onto Elbereth, enveloping her in their grip as she screamed.

“No...!” Frerin said, clutching at Thorin's arm. “No! Elbereth...!”

“Shh, shh, she'll be alright,” said Thorin, stroking his hand over Frerin's head before placing his palm on the little pebble's chest. Frerin’s heart was pounding under his hand, a tremble in his body. He was so young. Younger than Dís had ever seemed. Dís had always faced her fears head on, running into dark rooms with a yell to scare off whatever might try to scare her. If she was angry, or frightened, or upset, she said so. She acted, as she’d done since she’d first woken. But Frerin froze. Even in play fights, when he was wobbly under the weight of armour he insisted on wearing, if he or Dís came at him too fast, or too ferociously, he froze.

Thorin had had more nightmares than he liked to count of Frerin freezing at the wrong moment.

But Frerin nodded, resting his head against Thorin's shoulder as his pulse began to slow and some of the tension left him. The scenery revolved slowly, the musicians playing a sad, slow tune.

The lights brightened, the scene reset inside the mountain. The seven fathers walked onto the stage, sheathing their weapons.

“No sign of the enemy,” said Durin, turning to his companions. “We must assume him gone, scared by our strength.”

“Aye!” cheered Národ. “And now, to our new friend. I wish to show her the hot springs.”

“And I the great library,” said Órva.

Fróra, striding ahead to the room where Elbereth had been hiding, laughed loudly.

“Our guest will be hungry and thirsty! We shall show her the great kitchens, and she will feast with us. Now, let us call her out with a grand noise. We'll all call her name, and create a grand noise on the count of three. One,” she said, turning towards the audience, “two, three!”

The chamber echoed with the cry of: “Elbereth!”

There was silence from the closed door to the small room.

“Let us try once more,” said Khardín. “One, two, three!”

Again came the cry of Elbereth's name, louder than the first, but there was no mirth in the voices of the audience. Instead it was a plea. Desperate.

Dwólir frowned, pushing their purple robes back from their hands as they knocked on the wooden door.

“Elbereth?” called Bílan, worry creasing her brow.

Dwólir knocked again and finally pushed the door open, revealing the empty room.

“She's gone!” They said, turning to look at the seven fathers. “Would she have left of her own will, or was she found...?”

The clanking of dwarven boots sounded from the wings, and the same patrol that had chased Elbereth strode onto the stage.

“Ah!” said the leader, his voice merry. “Honoured fathers! You will be pleased to know our halls are freed from our enemy – indeed, he was hiding in this very chamber. How we were deceived, my lords, for he came in disguise!”

“Disguise?” Echoed Durin.

Another dwarf from the patrol nodded, pushing her helmet back a little in her excitement.

“Yes, my lord. Disguised as a dwarf, fake beard and all! And when we found out his deceit, he used his evil magic to retake his form. A shadow, terrible and ever-long, sprang from his body, and he grew to nine, nay, ten feet tall! And then he fled from our mighty weapons, the coward that he is!”

The patrol gave a loud cheer, clashing their weapons and spears together. The seven fathers looked at each other in silence, their dismay contrasted against the joy of the patrol.

Then the leader of the patrol reached into his pocket, pulling out the fake beard Elbereth had been wearing.

“Here's part of his disguise, but don't you worry. We chased him out the doors and the gates – and though he fled, we heard his cry of anguish, and then his cruel laughter out in the forests. He is not defeated, but he will not trouble us again.”

Bílan took the beard, turning it slowly in her hands.

“Thank you for your bravery, and your news. Go now, and let us talk in private, if you will.”

“Of course,” said the leader, bowing low. He led his patrol off the stage as they sang a merry victory song, the notes fading as they strode into the wings.

Quiet fell between the fathers.

“We must find her,” Khardín said seriously, looking at his companions. “She will be lost, and alone, and all because of our kin – well meant their actions may have been.”

“A cry,” said Národ, “and then laughter. Perhaps the enemy has found her.”

“If that be so, then we must hurry,” Durin said, reaching for his sword and lifting it high into the air above his head. “We will not leave her to Morgoth! Are you with me?”

“Aye!” Chorused the fathers.

“And you,” said Durin, striding forwards and pointing his sword towards the audience. “You. Are you with me? Will you follow me into the deepest danger, to help our friend, and strike back the evil in revenge?”

The roar of 'Aye' was the loudest from the audience so far, and Thorin's chest squeezed tight, throat raw from his bellowed response.

“Then we go to find our friend! Courage now where courage aches to fail! Courage where evil tarnishes the good! We go now, with courage!”

The sounds of cheering and the stamping of a thousand boots rose like mighty waves, jubilant as the fathers drew their weapons and rushed off stage to the ringing glory of trumpets and horns.

Once more the curtain fell and Thorin had to grip Frerin's tunic with both hands to stop the pebble from flinging himself over the railing in his excitement. He let his brother leap from his lap, watching as Frerin barrelled into the arms of their grandfather, yelling in excitement. Thrór held him easily, nodding along as his youngest grandchild gave a blow-by-blow account of what they'd all just watched.

Thorin turned to Dís, squeezing her hand.

“I should like to be like that,” he said. “One day.”

“Like Durin? Amad says you and him are twice carved already,” she laughed.

“I mean in character, not face,” he grumbled, feeling a blush heating his cheeks.

Dís, a true beauty with her proud nose and thick, dark beard, often teased him about his lack of good looks. He was lean where he should be thick, narrow where others were broad, and though his beard had a braid at his chin, the hair was fine.

His sister smiled, leaning over to press a little kiss to his cheek.

“Thorin, you are already like Durin. Have you not led Frerin and me through life so far? You'll be a great king, someday. Just like grandfather.”

He nodded his head, giving her hand another squeeze. A second later Frerin was scrabbling back onto his lap, chewing happily at a small cake with crumbs in his beard.

“Adad says Elbereth's going to be okay,” he said sincerely, getting comfortable on his big brother's knees and resting his elbows on the railings.

“Of course she will be. We do not let our friends suffer,” said Thorin, the curtains rising once more.

Once more the stage was set with dark trees, the fathers spread out as they walked through the trunks. A murmur of excitement rippled across the audience. Each father carried a weapon from the treasure halls of Erebor, famous blades and axes which had been used since Mahal had carved them.

Durin himself was carrying the very sword used by Azaghâl, Lord of Belegost, which had pierced the belly of the great dragon Glaurung. Its formidable edge glinted, the golden runes along the blade gleaming warmly in the low light.

From somewhere in the cavern, Elbereth's singing slowly became audible. It was so soft at first Thorin thought Frerin was humming the tune, or someone in the audience. But as the fathers moved through the trees it became clearer – though still faint.

“From unshaped rock a home is carved,
and of its warmth my soul is starved.
Bleak hallways shroud my heart and eyes,
The Dark Lord's chamber blocks the skies.

His kingdom hidden in the trees,
his wishes bring me great unease.
Oh how I long to see the stars,
and walk again on dwarven paths.”

The fathers stopped, all turning their heads to listen to her song. Though the melody was similar to her first one, now it was hauntingly sad, and desolate. Thorin felt his throat tightening at her melancholy.

“His mighty army I have seen,
will turn to ash what once was green.
For I am held in Melkor's trap,
and soon my fading soul will snap.

O hear, o hear, some friendly soul!
O see, o see, my heart still whole!
O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

“Mighty army?” Bílan said, gripping her double-bladed axe tighter – the weapon used by Dáin I in the Grey Mountains, battling against the firedrakes of the north. “We seven cannot fight against a mighty army of Morgoth's making.”

“He will grind us into dust,” Khardín growled, swinging the formidable hammer of Zirak the Old in front of him, the exquisite work of the renowned smith flashing the reflected light around the chamber.

“O hear, o hear, some friendly soul!
O see, o see, my heart still whole!
O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

Fróra lowered the bow of Narvi.

“We must return to the mountain, and summon a mighty army of our own. We will march upon Morgoth and rescue our friend from his halls.”

The fathers cheered in agreement and turned, hurrying off the stage to the applause of the audience. The lights dimmed further, the only noise the whirring and clicking of the stage as the scenery revolved, When the lights brightened, the seven fathers were standing on a little platform on the stage, the rest of the space filled with dwarves who had silently crept on from the wings.

Durin stepped forward, and began to explain the tale of Elbereth to the listening crowd. Thorin rested his chin on Frerin's head, both his arms around the pebble's stomach. He gave Frerin a squeeze, smiling when the little dwarf clutched at his hands and rested back against Thorin's chest.

In moments like these he wished Frerin would never grow older.

“Many of you will not return, giving your lives for the sake of an elf. Many will fall to Morgoth’s foul creatures, and will not see our home again. I ask you: what stone are you carved from? Are you Mahal’s own sculptures, forged from the mighty tools in his hands? Will you join me, though our army seems small against such an enemy, and our victory seems hopeless? Do you judge this cause worthy of your blades?”

The speech ended with a mighty roar, and as each dwarf raised their weapons, pounding drums shook the chamber, interlocking beats weaving over each other.

“Ho! Ho! To battle we go!
To fight this fight and best our foe!”

The assembled dwarves began to sing in unison, though it was more a chant than a melody, each dwarf on a different note within the scale. Their boots stamped and blades crashed against shields in time to the beats.

“Ha! Ha! With weapons drawn!
We'll march and march until it's dawn!

Ho! Ho! We'll whet the axe!
For dwarven skill their army lacks!

Ha! Ha! The arrows fly!
Our mighty steel will cloud the sky!”

Then the dwarves began to move, turning to march off the stage in unison. But as each line of dwarves marched into the wings on the right, a new line appeared from the left in a never-ending circuit. The seven fathers, still on the platform, began to stomp and clap, and Fróra opened her mouth.

“I have never seen an army so ferocious,
never fought a cause so seemingly hopeless,
what good could come of war with the enemy?
I ask Mahal: is victory our destiny?
Or will my kind die dreadfully, our story bare runes in an opus of pedantry?”

The words spilled rapidly from her lips, each sound hitting a beat from the woven patterns of drums, boots, and metal.

“Bigger armies have fought him, been beaten, forgotten,
Are we mining for gold with but clay at the bottom?
Spears will be shaken and shields will be splintered,
Pray it be only the orcs that are injured!
May the winter of evil be downtrodden under the boots of an oncoming spring unhindered!”

“Ho! Ho! To work we go!
To save our friend and end our foe!

Ha! Ha! Our blades are drawn!
We'll leave no orcs to see the dawn!

Ho! Ho! So raise your axe!
Strength and love their army lacks!

Ha! Ha! Our words will fly!
With noise enough to shake the sky!”

Then Dwolír stepped forward, the marching army of dwarves still stepping perfectly in time. Thorin's very heart beat along, and he barely noticed Frerin's heel kicking against his shin with the rhythm.

“Five, ten, twenty hundred,
in a fight our kind's abundant,
Never say we flee from fights!
Against our strength there are no slights!
When the Enemy against us smites,
we'll rise again, to greater heights!”

His verse drew a bellowing cheer from the audience.

Then Órva moved to the front of the platform, slamming the end of the pikestaff of Náin II into the floor along with the beating of the drums.

“We the strongest unified and fortified beings who will stand beside Mahal with nothing short of true devotion,
stone-born pebbles of a notion,
we who caused such great commotion, forced Eru to put in motion dreams of elves beyond the ocean.

Mahal was told to end our lives, to think of only crafting knives of sleeping steel, but when he sees how life survives,
his mighty heart the sight revives,
and in us all his love yet strives to craft us stronger, fiercer, harder, and so we know his work still thrives.

We were woken all alone, but in the stone our maker's love is always shown, so there's no war that we can lose,
and even though we do not choose our death,
To save our dearest Elbereth – whose elven kind may dwarves refuse to help us on our dying breath,
We creatures carved from love and light,
will gladly go into the fight!”

Thorin could hear Frerin's howl of delight through his own cheer, many of the dwarves in the audience on their feet with excitement.

“Ho! Ho! To battle we go!
To fight this fight and best our foe!

Ha! Ha! With weapons drawn!
We'll march and march until it's dawn!

Ho! Ho! We'll whet the axe!
For dwarven skill their army lacks!

Ha! Ha! Our arrows fly!
Our mighty steel will cloud the sky!”

The final line of dwarves ran from the stage, all the seven fathers following them with a mighty roar, save one.

Durin stood alone on the platform, the music and the cheering dying away to nought but a hushed murmur as the lights dimmed, a single pure beam drifting down over his form. Above his head seven stars twinkled into life, forming the crown in the skies.

“In the eye of the storm there is quiet, for just a moment,” he sang, his voice the only sound in the vast, dark cavern. He held his sword down loosely by his side, and while his tone was quiet, every word was carried forward.

“Five, ten, twenty hundred go to die fighting an opponent,
stronger than the march of time,
born from the void of Eru's mind.

In their deaths and injury I am compliant, without atonement.
This is the quiet I know now my maker's tone meant,
When he told me, child, if you'll be king,
death is what your words will bring.”

Thorin swallowed hard, a strange mixture of misery and relief sliding down his spine. To have to order his people to war, to send away families who may never return... the thought haunted his mind – awake, and asleep.

“In the eye of the storm there is quiet, for just a moment.
How many will die, will there be blood of my own spent?
And if I survive while others fall,
Will their end be worth it all?

In the breath before war there is silence, a crystal moment.
Thousands of visions swirl, of victory and shattered bone rent
in two, in sleeping glory,
Thus ends their story.

Let us remember them in silence, for just a moment.”

At that, Durin stopped, and the chamber was utterly still. Even Frerin was frozen, his weight warm against Thorin's chest.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, burying his face in his little brother's hair. His life had been blessed with peace and prosperity. Their people were happy, and no dwarf was left wanting for food, clothes, or shelter. No enemy came knocking at their doors.

But Thorin was not naïve enough to think such tranquillity could last. One day suffering would arrive, in the shape of war, or hunger, or some other scenario he'd yet to imagine. All he could do was try to prepare for whatever may come, and provide those who trusted him with whatever he could.

He never wanted to lead his people into battle, though he would if he must. If the need was great enough, if the victory was valuable enough, he would march his kin to war. He'd carry the weight of their loss in his heart, as the mountain would carry their bodies while they slept.

In the end, he thought as he held Frerin tighter, sleep was all it was. Any who died would simply wake in Mahal's halls with those who had gone before.

What had they to fear from death when reunion waited beyond the stone?

Durin looked up at the audience, pressing his hand to his chest.

“Heart filled with Mahal's art, I find the courage he sent,
and oh, what a splendid end,
to be fighting for our friend.”

Then Durin stepped forward and raised his sword high in the air. The silence shimmered with tension, the attention of every dwarf trained on the single figure upon the stage.

“We go now to meet our foe, and kin cannot tell us, indeed, the order of our fate,” said Durin, a tremble of emotion in his voice. “But though I lead us into war, ah! For such a cause as this, to find our end in mighty battle would be bliss! Du bekâr!”

The echoing roar made the stone beneath Thorin's chair shudder, and he was driven to his feet along with the rest of his kin. His arm was still tight around Frerin's waist as he held him in the air, the little dwarf waving his arms and bellowing, “Du bekâr!” as loud as he could.

Durin called out once more and leaped from the platform, rushing off the stage and into the wings with his sword aloft.

Before the audience could even draw breath, the drums began once more with a resounding crash, and a torrent of what were clearly orcs burst from the right side of the stage. Trumpets blared and great gongs sounded, and legions of dwarves in splendid armour poured from the left. The two armies met in the middle, a chaotic mesh of swirling bodies and swinging weapons – though as Thorin paused to catch his breath and make sure Frerin's feet were firmly on the railing and he had a tight grip on the pebble's tunic to stop him from falling, he realised every step was intricately planned. Dwarves and orcs bowed and ducked and rolled and jumped to the thunderstorm of drums and brass in a violent, frantic dance.

Then the performers jumped from the stage in waves, orcs and dwarves alike running over the top of the narrow borders between the boxes around the audience. From the left wings of the stage the seven fathers appeared, Durin in the lead. The platform had disappeared, and while the lights were bright, a shadow fell across the stage.

A cloud of green smoke belched from the right wing, and Frerin yelped, turning to cling to Thorin. He took a half step back from the railing, holding his little brother close.

The shadow deepened, and from the dark stepped a figure taller than even Elbereth. It was clad in great sheets of rusting iron, the metal screeching as it moved.

For a moment pure terror washed through Thorin. Was this not the ancient enemy itself, here in Erebor!? Then he noticed wheels around its feet, and the great cogs and levers around the body – the chest wide enough to hold several dwarves who might, he realised, operate the machinery to make the figure move. It hissed with green smoke, and its limbs were too long, too spindly. Glimmers of white shone through the metal, like bone beneath armour.

Frerin whimpered and Thorin kissed his forehead.

“Look, naddith, it is only metal and gears. See? There's space in the chest for three or four dwarves, to move all the parts. Don't be scared,” he said, tucking Frerin's head against his neck, the pebble still peeking out to watch the play.

The audience in their boxes were on their feet, and Thorin noticed many of the dwarves were giving the orcs a good whack as they ran past. He laughed as one particular orc lowered himself enough so that a pebble, no more than three or four years old, could give him a resounding thump on the head to the delighted cheers of its family.

Then Dís cried out and Thorin's attention jerked sickly to his left. An orc had scaled the walls to the box, and was clinging onto the railing. Though the orc was clearly just a dwarf in costume, Thorin's heart fluttered like a trapped raven. But before he could even call out, Dis was giving the orc a smack to the nose, and with a dramatic cry of, 'slain! Slain! I am slain!' the monster threw himself backwards where he was caught by his fellow actors.

Frerin laughed, and as the next one appeared to the right, he wriggled in Thorin's arms.

“My turn! My turn! Du bekâr!”

“Go on, my gem!” cried Thráin from behind them, and Thorin held Frerin out enough the little dwarf could aim a firm kick to the orc's shoulder.

“Alack! Alack! Slain by the prince!” cried the orc as she too tumbled down into the waiting arms of those below, much to Frerin's loud delight.

On the stage, the seven fathers were weaving an intricate dance around the hissing, screeching form of the enemy, and everywhere they hit, red smoke issued forth in streams. Weapons were thrown between the fathers, caught and wielded with expert dexterity as they used each other as extensions of themselves.

Then a crash from a massive gong sounded out, and all the orcs and dwarves along the narrow walkways froze in place. The lights dimmed, illuminating only the stage and the figures on it.

With a final war-cry, Durin was lifted into the air by the other companions. His sword flashed with light as he plunged it deep into the chest of the enemy. A terrible screeching, wailing noise battered at Thorin's ears, and the stage was flooded by a deep red billow of smoke.

The lights went out.

“In the eye of the storm there is quiet, for just a moment.” Durin's voice was gentle in the darkness, and Thorin sat down as the adrenaline drained from his body. He was still holding Frerin to him, and as he felt his little brother's arm wrap around his shoulders, he exhaled slowly and reached for Dís' hand. Her fingers were firm against his, warm, and sure in their grip.

From the wings came the sigh of strings, and the rippling notes of harps. A chorus of dwarven voices began to sing, and a gentle breeze from giant, turning fans wafted over the audience.

“Ho, ho, to battle we go,
To fight this fight and best our foe.
We creatures carved from love and light,
will gladly go into the fight.”

“In the eye of the storm there is quiet, for just a moment.” Again, Durin's voice echoed around the chamber, the music weaving around Elbereth's own song, and then the chorus of dwarven voices.

“O hear, o hear, some friendly soul!
O see, o see, my heart still whole!
O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

“These chambers ring with music, with happiness and joy.
There's life beneath the mountain, and halls that they call home
Welcome, welcome, Elbereth! Our friend beneath the stone!
Let our ways be known, oh let our ways be known.”

“In the eye of the storm there is quiet, for just a moment.”

“O hear, o hear, a singing lark!
O see, o see, my hope grows dark!”

“For just a moment.”

The stage was suddenly bathed in warm light, cleared of the red smoke from before. On a short, wide plinth, gilded with silver and gold, lay Elbereth. Around her the seven fathers were gathered, their hands clasped and heads bowed.

Then Elbereth stirred, her long limbs working to push herself up until she was sitting.

“Elbereth!” cheered the fathers, clapping their hands together and stomping.

“You have woken!” cried Órva.

Elbereth laughed, clasping her fingers to her chest.

“You've slept for seven days and seven nights,” said Bílan, beaming widely.

“We thought you gone beyond the sea, in spirit if not in body,” added Národ.

Dwólir took Elbereth's hands, helping her onto her feet.

“But where am I?” the elf asked, looking around in wonder.

“You are home,” said Durin, bowing low to her. “You are in our halls, where you are always welcome.”

Elbereth bowed in return.

“I have no words for my gratitude. You have saved my life, and risked those of your kin for my sake. Truly, I am forever indebted to you.”

Fróra took her arm with a smile.

“Come. A feast has been prepared, and you will sit with us, as guest of honour.”

Then Fróra began to lead her into the wings, the fathers following. All except Durin, who was left alone on the stage once more. He turned to the audience and began to speak.

“Thus we end the tale of Elbereth,
a friend of seven fathers, wise and strong.
Though many sleep beneath the stone,
returned to Mahal's halls, our ancient home,
be not afraid.
The elves go yonder past the sea by ship,
and men find secret peace beyond the stars,
a dwarf but waits amongst their loving kin,
and burning keeps the fiery forge within.
Be not afraid.
With only one lifetime on Middle Earth,
take heart. Be brave. What to you holds worth?”

Thorin squeezed Dís' fingers and held Frerin closer, closing his eyes as the audience burst into roaring applause, leaping to their feet.

The play was over. Thorin let Frerin wriggle from his arms and stood to join in with the applause, the actors flooding the stage and bowing deeply.

A peculiar weight sat on his chest. As if someone had placed a heavy rucksack on him, and he needed to go away to somewhere calm and quiet, and unpack it at his own pace. The chambers felt small, and he was glad for the railing to keep his balance.

Later that night, long after his siblings were asleep, Thorin sat at his desk in his room and let his mind sink into thought.

What to him held worth? He saw the beauty in gold and gems, of course. Riches from Mahal buried in the mountain paid for many aspects of life, but the wealth of Erebor didn't lie in the mines. They were relatively shallow, and though the quality was exquisite, great amounts of ore was imported from the Iron Hills and Grey Mountains. The wealth of Erebor was in the crafting and the shaping of metal, stone, and wood. It was in the hands of the greatest dwarven craftsmen since the First Age, from the great thinkers in the Mazzulibhêr, the artists and musicians and scribes.

Erebor was the beating heart of creation, as his father had said.

The gold paid for the goods from the rest of the Mountain Kingdoms, and for the trade with Mirkwood and Esgaroth. The exports of precious metal and stone kept the necessities of life flowing, but the true worth of Erebor was in the creation of wonderful things.

Thorin rested his chin on his hands, swinging his legs.

And to him? He cared for gold and gems and wonderful creations, of course he did. He had skill enough in forging and harp-playing. Military training and thinking came naturally to him, and he often foresaw problems before they arose. He could lead and follow in equal measure.

But what to him held worth?

The lingering feeling of Frerin's little arm around his shoulders, and Dís' hand in his own drifted through his mind. He saw the smiling faces of his parents, his grandparents, his friends and his siblings. His family, and his kin, and them all together in their home.

That, Thorin decided as he pushed himself to his feet and went over to his bed, was what held worth to him, and what he'd die to protect.

His family, his kin, and his home.