Chapter Text
Good fortune had never been something Thorin allowed himself to consider. To fall into such traps of superstition was to rob himself of all choice over his own destiny. It was not luck which had pulled him through the vagaries of battle wounds that should have seen him into Mahal's halls. Nor had it returned him to his rightful place on Erebor's throne. Instead, it was his own power, and that of those he considered his friends and allies, which had led him here.
It was a hobbit's cunning and a wizard's strength; his Company's determination and the dubious assistance of elves and men alike. These were the things that brought him to a place and time where he could once again call himself King Under the Mountain.
Yet this... To have come so far only to face this? It felt like foul favour. A curse from the Valar. The final hammer blow that would, at last, break him.
Thorin sat in the rickety chair before the fireplace in his chambers, staring at the faint red lines visible on his skin. They charted the paths of his veins, the sickness within him creeping up his arm. Chills suffused him, and not even the welcome heat of the fire could chase them away.
Ishrimabî Amrâdu. Death's Blemish. A slow disease with no cure, one that could sweep through a mountain hall in days, felling all it touched.
He closed his eyes, thinking of all those who sheltered from the harsh winter within Erebor's walls. They made do in a kingdom that was more akin to a tomb, tumbling into ruin around them. Repairs were underway, but they would take years to complete. He would never see this place restored to its former glory. Those would not be his days to reign.
His fate, it seemed, was sealed.
Scrubbing at his face, he got to his feet, wincing at the aches that bit into his thighs and curled at the base of his spine. His injuries from the battle, freshly healed, pained him still, and he hobbled over to the door, splaying his hand against the wood that separated him from the rest of the mountain.
He would never set foot beyond its threshold again. His last days would be spent in this chamber. He could not risk the health of his people. They already suffered much, and to bring this upon them was nothing short of unthinkable. He needed to warn Oin that the disease might stalk the halls. The healer had to know what to watch for, so that any other sufferers could be isolated as swiftly as possible to prevent its spread.
'Guard?' he called out, knowing that someone would be on the other side. Dwalin insisted. Although Erebor may be secure, there was still a chance of threat from within. Not that prolonging his survival mattered, now. Assassination would no doubt be a mercy, come the end. 'Kindly fetch Oin to my door and then consider yourself dismissed. I no longer require a sentry.'
'Sire?' The soft voice held a note of curiosity, and Thorin recognised it as Mithrin, Dwalin's new captain of the watch. She was a good dwarf: sensible but with a stubborn streak a mile wide.
'If Dwalin complains, tell him to speak with Oin within the hour. That is all, Mithrin.'
She would not disobey a direct order from her king, no matter her reservations. Thorin listened to the fading clatter of her armour: a swift march, he realised, her dignity giving way to haste. Good.
He swallowed, trying not to dwell on what he knew was coming: the upset and outrage the Company would feel on his behalf. The sadness that would be quick to wash away the joy of their return to Erebor in a thunderous wave.
At least, he thought as he grabbed a fur from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, his sister-sons had survived the battle as well. They lived, though their injuries may never give them peace in all the long years ahead of them. Erebor had its heir, and Fili would do a fine job with the Company to guide him.
He only wished he'd had an opportunity to speak to Fili of pride and modesty and how there was a time and place for both. He would have told Kili not to fret over the callings of his heart. There was not a creature in Middle-earth who could control where love made its home.
He would bid them both be strong and to learn from the mistakes of their forefathers, himself included. Not just errors of rule, but of emotion. He would tell them to be honest with themselves and with others in ways he had never managed. He would urge them to embrace love, for in the end, it was the only treasure that could truly last beyond a lifetime.
Bowing his head, Thorin let out a shuddering breath as his thoughts alighted on the one person he could hardly bear to consider: Bilbo.
Bittersweet pain that had nothing to do with his sickness bloomed beneath his ribs, tightening its bands around his heart. Therein gathered a hoard of his deepest regrets. There was much for which he wished to apologise: from the way he had dismissed him at the start of their journey to the manner of its ending. There had been chances, after the battle, as he lay delirious and half-dead in the healing tents, but every effort was a clumsy half-truth, full of far more unspoken than was said out loud.
More than once, he had considered telling Bilbo how he felt; how the hobbit had stolen his heart long before he'd smuggled the Arkenstone from underneath the dragon's nose, but the right moment never came. Now, it seemed his time had run out.
'Thorin?' Oin's voice echoed through the wood, age roughening the rasp of it.
'Don't come in,' Thorin barked, his strong words at odds with the growing weakness that hobbled his body. 'No one is to enter. The Ishrimabî Amrâdu has found me.'
Silence bloomed, thick and choking, interrupted only by the joyful crackle of the fire in the hearth. The sound was obscene to Thorin's ears, normal and benign in such a moment. He could feel the pivot of history around him, the world turning from one age to the next, and he swallowed back a choking knot of melancholy.
'Are you sure, lad?'
Thorin looked again at his hands. What had started as a faint discolouration was darkening into spreading, jagged ferns of purplish red. The skin beneath each branching line held a greyish pallor, and the flesh under his fingernails had blackened as if he'd struck each one with a hammer.
'Yes.' He cleared his throat, chasing off the rasp that threatened to choke him. He could not afford to sound weak. Not now. Not for this. 'You need to examine every single person in Erebor for similar symptoms.'
'Aye. Aye.' Oin sniffed, and Thorin could hear him muttering pained curses under his breath. 'And what of you? You'll stay in there until...'
'Until it takes me.' He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. 'I have running water, thanks to the efforts of Bofur and Bifur this past week.'
'And how long before you're too weak to lift a cup to your lips? You need tending, lad.'
'No!' He pressed a shaking hand to his brow, grimacing as a throbbing pain drummed at his temples. 'No. It is as good as a death sentence to ask that of anyone. You know how swiftly this can cleave a community in two. Even the men will not be spared it if it reached Dale, and it particularly favours their young and old.' He straightened his shoulders, lifting his eyes to the faded glory of the ceiling and blinking back the sting of tears. 'The room shall stay sealed until I have succumbed. Let it be my tomb if it must. We cannot allow this to spread.'
He could almost hear Oin's silent arguments echoing through the air between them, but his mind was made up and the healer knew it.
'We'll leave food outside your door. Take it. Eat it. Even if you feel as though you can't. I'll mix you a potion to ease the worst of the pain and fever.' Oin harrumphed, muttering something under his breath. 'I'll not say farewell.'
He uttered it like a challenge, and Thorin bit back a sigh. Oin knew as well as he did that there was no recovering from this, but he suspected the healer would not be the only one to deny the inevitable. Would the others come, he wondered, and try to talk him around through the barrier of the door? Would their respect for their king and his orders outweigh their concern, or would they throw caution to the wind and place themselves at his bedside regardless?
Stiffly, Thorin limped across the room, retrieving the key from the mantelpiece before locking the door to his chambers. It was not an absolute impediment. Dwalin had no qualms about breaking down obstacles if he decided it was necessary, but he hoped it would be enough to make them think twice.
They could not take risks with Ishrimabî Amrâdu. There was nothing to be done for him, but there was still a chance for the rest of his people to be saved. If he was the source of it, then perhaps the others would be spared. It felt like a desperate hope, but Thorin clung to it. It was all he had.
The temptation to return to bed and never stir again seized him in its grasp, but he fought it. He had meant what he said to Oin. He would tend to himself for as long as he was able.
With shaking hands, he drew a cup of water from the stone sink. Bofur and Bifur had dedicated weeks to clearing out the narrow channels that riddled the mountain, allowing the fresh spring water to surge through the peak. Cold and crisp, it splashed like snow melt down Thorin's parched throat.
He helped himself to more before shuffling back towards the bed, settling on the sagging mattress with a groan. In his youth, they had been stuffed with goose-down. Now the best they could manage was straw and rags, but his aching body still appreciated the respite. The furs – old and moth-eaten at their edges, but whole – trapped some of his pitiful heat next to his frame. He curled up beneath their familiar weight, closing his eyes to block out the meek winter sunlight and letting his thoughts drift.
They flowed down the well-worn riverbed of recollection, pooling in the days of his past. He remembered the years of his childhood and youth: the vast pride that filled his chest every time he looked upon the lands that would one day be his. He recalled his first glimpse of the treasury, brimming even then, and how all that wealth had been insignificant in his eye in comparison to the splendour of his people.
Erebor had once been a hive of the finest craftspeople, merchants, healers, diplomats and warriors in Middle-earth. His grandfather had thought only of the gold he could call his own, but it had been Thorin's mother who encouraged her son to look for more in his kingdom. Riches, after all, could only buy things, but the hands of a dwarf could make almost anything.
And now his people, such as they were, would toil on without him. He would never see those halcyon days return to Erebor. Grief clutched at his heart, amplifying his aches and pains until he could barely think around their presence. They pinned him to the bed, shaking him with their power, and he stifled a groan as thought and memory became little more than the diaphanous veils of dreams.
It was the beginning of the end, and there was nothing Thorin could do to change his fate.