Chapter Text
In Thorin’s Great Hall in the Blue Mountains, the last hummed strains of the ‘Lament for Erebor” thrummed. As the echoes of the voices died away, the assembled dwarves put down their cups untasted, as was the tradition for a promise unfulfilled. Balin looked at Thorin Oakenshield by his side, cup not yet returned to the table, eyes still gazing unfocussed on the far-off mountain kingdom of the song, now lost to them. Thorin had been so young when Smaug the dragon came and the Kingdom under the Mountain fell. Balin sighed and fidgeted with his own cup. “Thorin…,” he began but left off, shaking his head.
Thorin’s gaze returned to the present. He put his cup down carefully and turned to Balin. “’Until the day that we return’. You know of my desire. I would go to Erebor, and make it ours again.”
“But to march a company of warriors across the Misty Mountains and that forest, even with our most stout-hearted dwarrows, that one would catch wind of us as soon as we reach the plains. A smaller company, perhaps. Enough to travel there, speak to our allies of old, see what the situation holds. From there, we could send to Dain in the Iron Hills if we needed.”
“A small party? Aye, of stout dwarrows, that I can accept.” Thorin nodded.
“You remember what Dain’s messenger said,” Balin continued, “he is not certain whether that dragon still lives, for he was only rarely been seen abroad recently, and not at all for some months.” He lowered his voice to a whisper when referring to the dragon, keeping to the superstition of not naming him lest he manifest.
“The lore speaks of Durin’s Door. I think that is not mere poetry, and I as heir to the Kingdom under the Mountain should be able to pass through it.”
“I know there used to be ways onto higher parts of the chambers, true, side doors to watch platforms and such. But whether those are all destroyed, or corrupted with goblins, we don’t know.” Balin waved his hands in powerless frustration.
“We know some,” Thorin picked up an empty glass tumbler and held it up to his eye, “our kin have been relying only on what they can see through their lenses. They dare not go closer.” He took the tumbler away, blinking to clear his vision. “They can see the slopes that face to the east, and those have long since been reduced to rubble. What they haven’t been seeing are the flames or foul vapours from within.” Balin was nodding and tapping his fingers on the table. Thorin acknowledged, “As you know.”
“Yes, ye-e-ess,” Balin sighed. “Who dares go close enough?” He stroked his beard in thought. “We have trade going out to market days soon, perhaps I shall go along myself and make enquiries.”
Thorin slapped both hands on the table. “As shall I!”
“Yes, of course, I shall show you how such enquiries are made, it would be good for you to learn.” Balin showed his teeth in a wide grin.
Thorin sputtered in indignation, “You must mean you need someone there to remind when you’ve forgotten it in your dotage, surely.”
“Don’t call me Svúrrli.” Both dwarves burst out laughing at one another, briefly drawing raised eyebrows from among their fellows.