Chapter Text
Prologue
T.A. 1995, Framsburg
“My King is cold…” croaked the desperate voice of the woman who knelt beside the corpse, holding his hands tightly in hers, as if the heat from her own being could reignite what had been snuffed from his.
“My King is cold,” she whispered again, her voice so soft that more steam than sound itself came from her breath hitting the frigid air. “And no forgiveness shall come to those who bestowed upon him this fate.” She mumbled even softer, as she pressed his lifeless, heavy hand to her trembling lips and closed her eyes as she placed a final chapped kiss to his skin.
The light dusting of snow around her shifted as she rose to stand, and stains from the wet, cold dirt lingered on her skirt where she had knelt beside her husband for the last time. Her lips, cracked from the biting winds, were no longer trembling, but pulled in a taut line across her face. Not a smile, nor grimmace…simply the vain attempt from a grieving Queen to show her people the bravery they needed in this time.
Her chin did not waver as she held it high, proud and determined through the pain, as she watched her sons and the king’s brothers lift and carry her beloved, their king, to his final resting place in the earth.
“Nú on théostrum licgeth Fram se léofa
hæ´letha holdost.
(Now dear Fram lies in darkness, most loyal of fighters)
ne sceal hearpan sweg wigend weccean;
( The sound of the harp shall not wake the warrior;)
ne winfæ´t gylden guma sceal healdan,
(Nor shall the man hold a golden wine cup,)
ne god hafoc geond sæ´l swingan,
(Nor good hawk swing through the hall,)
ne se swifta mearh burhstede beatan.
(Nor the swift horse stamp in the courtyard;)
Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
(An evil death as set forth the noble warrior,)
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
(A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels)
on Meduselde thæt he ma no wære
(In Meduseld that he is no more,)
his dryhtne dyrest and maga deorost.”
(to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved.”)
“Beloved…” The queen struggled to breathe out the last word, as she tried not to flinch at the sight and sound of the stone door closing over the grave of her husband. A senseless death for a man worth more than the entire hoard of Scatha. She knew of the notorious greed of the Dwarves, just as all others knew. A greed that was so vicious…that at one point, she could scoff at the notion, as if it were just a cruel exaggeration.
Were the Éothéod not also subjected to harsh accusations? Were her people not mocked by Elves for their lack of written word, as if runes on paper, bound and stored away was the only way to prove one’s worthiness as an intelligent being? She had wanted to believe that Dwarves were much the same. Perhaps they were greedy, in the same way the Éothéod were illiterate.
While her people did not depend on a writing system for their history, stories, and culture, they were still intelligent people. She had wanted to believe that, though the Dwarves loved their gold and gems in their mountains, they still valued life and loyalty more.
She could no longer recall the days since she had received the message. Runes had been shakily written onto worn parchment, informing her of her beloved’s demise…and she had wished she was as daft and dim as they were accused. She wished she could not read the words etched on the paper, just as the sight of her husband’s corpse was etched against her eyelids, giving her no peace.
“Scatha the Worm is dead.”
The letter had said at the beginning. Joy filled her heart, and a smile crossed her face brightly as a sense of freedom from dread came over her.
“Slain by Fram…”
Her heart pounded louder with excitement and pride. Her husband, the king and proud warrior of their people had done what so many others had failed to do.
“...Our King has died.”
Her feet did not stop moving her forward, even as the letter became blurred. Her bright blue eyes now hazed over with sudden grief and accompanying tears. The pounding in her chest, unlike her feet, came to a sudden stop, as if her own life had ceased in that very moment. She choked back violent sobs as her pace quickened, and soon, her bare feet were stepping in the first layer of fallen snow of the season. She fell to her knees, shivering as she collapsed onto the steps of their hall, the frost nipping at her skin, and her golden hair blowing wildly around in the winds and flurry of snow that fell from the grey sky on that terrible day.
The day they buried her love, the sky was too bright. A bright blue, with no clouds to marr the sun. It was as if her pain was being mocked by the powers that be. That her husband did not deserve to have the sky cry for him as his people did. That his funeral should instead be a day to feel bright on, and merry and cheerful. She could not comprehend it at all, as she finished her song, and allowed her tears to flow as she stared up at the blinding, taunting sun.
She was the last to leave his grave, when the sun was no longer in the sky, and the blue turned to black. The stars twinkled and the moon lit the path back to her halls. She would no longer walk hand in hand with her King. She would no longer sleep by his side, and wake up to his smile and gentle touches.
The Queen, the Widow of Fram, would forever be alone, because her hopes had been wrong and misplaced…for Dwarves were, in fact, greedy. It was not Scatha the Worm who had led to her husband’s doom…but the Dwarves who felt insulted by his claim on the Dragon’s hoard. Finding insult in the gift given, they had killed him in cold blood.
As she sat on the side of her bed, trembling from the cold, which had never felt so penetrating until now, she couldn’t help but snarl viciously as the pain continued to fester in her soul. As she sat in her sorrow and grief, it continued to metamorphosize into something less than pure. The foul deeds that befell her family now tore at her insides, and her very being felt as if it were being twisted into something she never thought she could be.
She did not believe in wishing ill on anyone.
She did not care for the idea of revenge.
She did not want harm to come to an innocent…
But as she sat, she changed. Her mind growing dark and her heart becoming cold, as within herself, she began to succumb to the sorrow and anger that threatened to take hold of her, body and mind.
And so she allowed it.
She screamed into the night, into the cold, dark room she had shared for decades with her beloved. She cried desperately, and clawed at the fabric of the bed…and while the turmoil within her grew, and her own sense of reality continued to turn askew…she found a gift from her husband.
A gift from her King when he asked for her hand, a dagger from his family line, one that was handed down from father to son, and gifted to their intended as a sign of their ability to protect.
But Fram was no longer there to protect…and in the end, a dagger such as this was similar to the tool used to remove her husband from the world.
She gripped the dagger in both hands, steady and firm and unwavering as she pointed the tip of the blade at her chest.
“May the greed of the Line of Durin be its downfall. May it fester and grow and continue until your line has vanished from Arda! May your greed tear your line asunder, and your kings value cold gold over life and limb!”
The pain would have been sharper if she was fully aware of her body at that moment…yet the dagger slid through her flesh and bones with the strength she did not know she had, and the same ease as slicing fresh bread. There was no fear left in her, as only vengeance remained. Removing the dagger from her body, she gasped a gargled, shock breath in, only to smile harshly as she felt blood beginning to pool at her torso, and bubble up her throat and out her mouth.
“With the blood on my hands, and the blood on yours…I curse your line…sick as dragons…” She spat, watching with hazy vision as the blood spilled from her lips.
“May greed be your undoing.”
Those were the last words of the Queen of the Éothéod, Wife of Fram, and mother of two sons…Each name but Fram’s lost to history. Never written. Never mentioned…becoming lost to time as any who remembered them faded away with the passing years.
May Seventh, 2951
To Lord Balin, Son of Fundin, Ambassador to the King of Erebor and my Dear Friend,
How pleased I am to receive such a letter from you! It is a rare occurrence now that we have any correspondence that is not more political in nature. I, sadly of course, understand that our lives are quite political and thus it is hard to stray away from the topic when that is the world in which we both live. That being said, to receive such an auspicious invitation to such an important event, I cannot help but feel blessed.
Of course I know I am more than welcome to return to Erebor at any time, and that I may attend any and every Durin’s Day celebration should I wish it. I need you to know, My Dear Balin, that I do, in fact, wish to attend each Durin’s Day celebration. I know you know that I am quite busy with my tasks in my own home as well as my duties as ambassador, and have found it quite a hassle to find time to tend to non-work related things. I am quite the busy hobbit, as you can imagine.
As you know, I make frequent trips between the Shire and the other lands here in the West, so finding time to return to you all has been a daunting task…though one I wish I could manage. Unfortunately, I will most likely be occupied with my work right up until Winter starts, and my love and care for you all is not enough to send me across the Misties in the thickest of the falling snow. I do hope you understand.
I will try my hardest, of course, to visit soon…be it for Durin’s Day if I am able, or sometime in the New Year. To know that my hard work has paid off and allowed your Kingdom to succeed. I wish to see it with my own eyes, and I do hope that day will not be so far from now…yet, I cannot say when with any certainty.
My appearance in Erebor aside…
I worry for His Majesty as well. His letters have dwindled immensely in frequency, much to my great disappointment. When I do receive a reply from Thorin, it is more brief than his typical ramblings and tangents (I say with fondness, mind you). His script is also lacking the finesse it once held, as if his grasp on his quill is no longer stable. I feared it was an injury he wouldn’t inform me of…not to ever assume it’s my business, but I do like to be aware of the happenings of my friends, especially regarding their health.
I know I have not been the best as of late with speaking of my personal life, so I cannot expect for you all to do the same. Given, my personal life has been lacking, as I said. Work and personal time has become one and the same, and I know too well that Thorin has the tendency to do the same.
I hope I can find the time to make it to Erebor. It pains me to be far from my friends as I miss you all too. Very much. I miss Thorin too…more than words can express, if it is not too forward of me to say as much. If you’d be so kind as to remind him to send me a letter every now and again, as his words are sorely missed. At this point I’m receiving more mail relating to work than I am personal letters, and it has left me feeling rather alone.
I know I’ve also been lacking in letters, checking in on how you all are fairing. I promise, when I have accomplished what I am currently working on, I shall makeup for lost time. That is my hope.
If I am unable to visit Erebor, do remember that tea time is at four, and my door is always open for whenever you might want a visit.
Always your friend,
Lord Bilbo Baggins of the Hill, Ambassador to the West.
Chapter One
To say that Thorin Oakenshield was small would not be a lie.
Of course there were many creatures who resided in the great lands of Arda that towered over the dwarf king. When the fire drake claimed Erebor as its own, he surely saw Thorin as a minuscule speck, daring to stand his ground against him. When Azog the Defiler slaughtered his people and beheaded his grandfather, despite losing a limb to the dwarf, there is no doubt he looked down upon Thorin as if he were a small pebble beneath him. Where his foes may have seen him as small in size, it was the elves who saw him small in being.
Thranduil and his Silvan elves saw Thorin as not only diminutive in stature, but also brief in his time on Arda. He was insignificant in the grand scheme of everything in their eyes.
The men folk were much the same in their disdain, having the advantage of height and population, while dwarrow were superior in terms of their time before Eru’s gift was given. . These differences were not what caused the men to consider Thorin small…but their own memory of how small-minded they perceived dwarrow to be. Greedy and stubborn and selfish is what they saw, never able to look past the history books that were written by elves.
Hobbits were the only creatures in Middle Earth who could claim that Thorin was not small. Even the tallest hobbit would be at least half a head shorter than the king, and the average hobbit roughly stood just at his shoulder. So hobbits would never call him small…instead, they’d look upon the dwarf and offer him whatever food they had on their person before heading off on their merry way.
His own people, on the other hand, wouldn’t say a thing.
To say that Thorin Oakenshield was small wouldn’t be a lie.
To say that Thorin Oakenshield was small would be an incredible insult.
Where outsiders believed dwarrow only valued gold, they themselves knew what they valued, such as family and friends, honor and skill…and perhaps above all was honesty. To lie to another was an unkindness, and to lie to a king was an offense against the crown.
And so the people of Erebor did not say that Thorin Oakenshield was small…
The people of Erebor did not say anything at all.
They would bow politely when they saw their king shuffling past them, and he would nod his head in reply.
They would praise him for his humility, and admire how humble he was and aspire to be much the same.
For the initial years since the kingdom had been reclaimed, even the company and Thorin’s family viewed his behavior as something honorable and inspiring.
The years to come proved otherwise.
The king was a shrunken mess of what he once was, and he would be the first, if only person to admit it. He did not need a mirror to see the way his hair fell from his head when he combed it, He did not need a tailor to tell him he’d lost much of what little fat he had either.
Instead, he could feel it with each step he took…the way his knees would creak like an old door, how his feet would ache with the weight of his heavy cloak that kept him warm even on the hottest of summer days. He could see it in the way his now sallow skin was almost as thin as the parchment he wrote on, his blue veins nearly as vivid as the once bright color of his eyes, now sunken and dimmed.
Dís would check in on him often, more often than before. She’d stopped bringing him meals, as he scolded her for wasting such good food, and instead she began bringing him more firewood for his constantly roaring hearth, or another blanket or cup of hot tea or cider as he worked away diligently at whatever papers needed reviewing or signing.
He was weak…but his mind was strong.
His grandfather had fully succumbed to the gold sickness by his second centennial.
His father had begun losing the battle when he was nearly the same.
He himself hadn’t even realized there was an enemy to fight within himself, until at the age of 195, Thorin Oakenshield experienced his first attack from his family’s plague.
When his mind woke from the sickness, and when he woke again later after he thought he’d lost his life, Thorin made a vow to never listen to the voice within him.
A voice that sounded much like his own.
A voice that spoke such sweet words.
A voice that told him what to do…what to think.
A voice that would never leave him alone.
And so, where the former kings of Durin’s folk had failed to fight their own minds, Thorin would not do the same.
So he fought, and he fought.
“You should decorate yourself with more jewels.” It would whisper.
So the King stopped wearing jewelry.
“You deserve to be dressed in the finest clothes in Arda.” It would say.
So the King rid his wardrobe of all elaborate clothing.
“The Raven Crown fits so perfectly on your brow.” It would flatter.
So the King kept the symbol of his rule locked away from himself.
Year by year the musings in his mind became more fervent and incessant, and grew louder and louder. Yet, it was the first of these thoughts from this voice that led him to take such drastic measures.
“The hobbit is yours. All you need to do is take him.”
And so the King let him go.
He watched from the gates as his One walked away, and the ache in his soul worsened with each step that put more distance between him and Bilbo. But, through all the pain, Thorin was proud. He had let his most prized treasure go.
The years since had not been kind to the King Under the Mountain. He was a wraith amongst the living, pushing his body to its furthest limits, holding onto life by a thread and holding onto hope with what little strength he had left.
“I am your hope…”
“You are not.”
“I am what will lead you to greatness.”
“I do not need greatness.”
“I can give you all you’ll ever need!”
“I have all I need!”
“You are missing one thing…are you not?”
“…I have all I need. “
“Where is your hobbit?”
“In the Shire…”
“Away from you.”
“He has duties that do not require him to be by my side.”
“He is your One. His duties are to you.”
“He is his own person. His duties are whatever he decides they are.”
“He is yours. You want him to be yours.”
“My wants are irrelevant.”
“I can make him yours.”
“I can make him see you for what you are.”
“A glorious king.”
“A fierce warrior.”
“A powerful-“
“Silence!”
It was moments like these that had caused many a buzzing rumor to spread around the kingdom this past year, a decade since the reclamation. Dís had informed him of the rumors, that there were whispers of another Mad King.
“I am not our Grandfather.” He would remind himself time and time again.
“You are better.”
“Enough…”
“You are stronger.”
“Stop it…”
“You have the potential to become what they never could. Reach heights they never dreamed of!”
“Get out!” Thorin shouted, voice weak and weary as he glared at himself in the mirror.
“Goodness, you dwarrow are terrible hosts. That’s no way to greet your ambassador.” Huffed the gentle voice of the figure in the doorway.
No dwarf would dare tell the king he had become a shadow of himself.
But Bilbo Baggins was not a dwarf.
“Oh my!” Shuddered the hobbit in shock as Thorin turned around.
“You look terrible!”