Chapter Text
Of all the money that e'er I had
I've spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
-The Parting Glass
To Thorin, battles were strange things outside of time. A single breath that extended indefinitely, with no true beginning, and no foreseeable end.
It was a strange presence that existed as a constant flow of thought. One long stream of training and instinct tied together in movements that would hopefully see him through to the end of the battle.
Such was the way it had always been for Thorin. Since the first time he had lifted his sword in battle at the age of twenty. He was aware only of whatever weapon and protection he had, and who or what was in front of him. If it was a friend, he moved past them without a spare thought. If it was an enemy he killed it. He had only ever failed to make it to the end of one battle, and he had seen his enemy fall at that time.
Survival was the obvious goal, victory the second. The Battle for Erebor was no different. It was a constant blur of death, of blood, of dirt, of pain. He could hear the shouts of the fallen around him, and shouts of rage from his fellow fighters. He was always silent when he fought, unless he was attempting to rally fighters. His father had taught him not to waste his breath with shouting.
The breath had ended with a blow to his side. He’d managed to step outside of the strange headspace that battles encouraged long enough to see his nephew, golden hair shining in the waning sun, attempt to step in front of a ending blow. He’d shoved him forcibly aside, knocking Kili over as well. The blow had landed and brought him to his knees.
His life blood had spilled across the desolate ground as he watched his nephews take down the enemy of their family. He body grew cold as the orc gave one last shout of defiance before his head was separated from his body. The orc fell, dead, and Thorin exhaled.
He woke up briefly to searing pain before the darkness claimed him again. He could see a bright lady watching him, but counted it as nothing more than fevered dreams.
The next time he woke it was in a tent with a terrible amount of pain, and four dwarrows watching him. Óin was cleaning bloodied hands in a pot, Fíli was helping Kíli stand, and Balin was glaring. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and it took him several goes to make any words at all. When he finally did make a sound, it was only one word.
“Bilbo?”
“He’s alive and aiding Bombur with feeding everyone else. Do you want us to send for him?” The words were spoken too quickly, tripping into each other in their rush, extremely unlike Fíli. Fíli who always took his time with whatever he said. Who always bore in mind the power that words could hold, unless he was teasing his brother or mother. It was a sign of worry, one that Thorin had no time to address. He was dying.
He was dying. It was strange to be aware of such a thing. He had always imagined he would die on the battlefield without time. Alive one second, and gone the next. There would be no time for breath, for thought, or remorse.
He had little time, but it was enough, it would be enough to make right that which he had made so very wrong.
Fíli stood before him now with wide eyes that spoke openly of terror. He had never seen Erebor before this quest, and now he was to rule her.
They would have to be strong. He could not allow them any weakness. Erebor would be difficult to rule, harder with his passing. There would be those who would say that Fíli was not fit for rule.
“Yes. I must speak with him.” Balin gave his head a sharp nod and rushed from the tent. Óin eyed him with a frown and gave his head a shake.
“There’s nothing more I can do, my King.” The healer’s hand ran along the bandages that covered his torn chest. It was getting harder to breath.
“I know. Thank you.” He laid his hand on top of Óin’s and met the dwarf’s dark eyes. He was one of the few members of the company that had been with Thorin since the beginning. He had mended him after every battle, offered council when it was needed, and a smile when it seemed incapable of being found else where.
There was no time to say any of what he wanted to. His breathing was already labored.
Óin nodded in apparent understanding and stepped back. His gaze hardened and he gave his head one more nod before turning and leaving the tent as well.
“Uncle? Kíli croaked, his voice thick. His hair was falling in a stringy mess around his face and tears streaked his cheeks. He looked so very young. They both did. Far too young to bear the weight they now held. At least they had each other.
“You fought bravely. You both did. I am proud to call you kin.” Kíli stumbled closer and Fíli moved to help him kneel by Thorin’s bedside. The blond dwarf grabbed his hand while Kíli fisted the blanket. “It will be difficult now. Do not let them question you. Listen to Balin’s advice. Tell Dís I asked you to come with me. Accept any help that the men of Dale will offer you, and offer them lodging for this winter. You will have need of their friendship. Return their gold to them as well.” He swallowed thickly and fisted the mattress on the far side of the bed, fighting down a wave of nauseating pain. He could no longer feel his feet. “Kíli,” he gasped, his nephew, barely of age, nodded, more tears showing on his cheeks. “do not trust Thranduil. He has shown what is in his heart. When you trade, build relations with his elves, they will treat you more fairly.”
It was terrible, but they would have to have Mirkwood’s support. Erebor and Laketown were fairly ruined and winter was swiftly approaching. They would have to trade for food. He was not foolish enough to think that Thranduil would be kind. The Iron Hills had no where near enough to feed them all.
He had been such a fool. Blinded by lust for the gold and power that it promised. When he had opened the secret door to Erebor he had only seen it as a way to finally provide for his people. They would never have to beg again.
Then he had seen the hoard of gold, magnificent beyond measure, and his heart had changed. He saw not only a means to provide, he saw power. They would make others beg.
He had turned no better than Thranduil. He had denied the people of Laketown anything. He had, in his heart, intended to give them the gold of Dale, but nothing more. He had not wanted to even offer them shelter. Dwarrows would be the first to settle in Erebor, and no one else.
There was no more advice to be given. He had no time for anything else, and his strength was waning fast. He needed to see Bilbo, to make things right between them. He had to thank Balin and Dwalin for their unending service, and make certain that Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur were knighted. Fíli and Kíli would see that everyone else was given the proper status, but they were all of noble blood.
So little time.
“Namad-inùdoy,” (sister’s sons) he quietly intoned, and lifted his working hand to grasp the back of Kíli’s head. He brought him close and pressed their foreheads against each other for a moment before releasing him and doing the same with Fíli.
The pain in his broken body was nothing to the pain in his heart. He had to remind himself that this was a gift. He was given the time to make a few amends. There was not enough time to truly say all that he might wish.
He had never been very good at speaking his heart. Even now he could not say the four simple words he so wanted to. I love you both. It was a weakness he could not allow himself. He had to be strong, even in death.
The tent opened again and Fíli stood up. He helped Kíli do the same and gave Thorin a long look before stepping back.
He was being memorized. It was odd to know that someone was trying to remember you because they did not believe they would meet you again.
They walked away, revealing Balin and Bilbo in the tent entrance. The sunset shone behind them, making it hard to see any details in their faces.
He motioned with his hand for them to come in. He felt terribly cold.
Bilbo approached slowly while Balin turned to stand guard at the entrance. He laid a soft hand on Fíli’s shoulder as they left.
Bilbo was bruised on the right side of his face, and had a bandage on his left arm. He looked otherwise unhurt. His hair was matted with knots, the bronze curls no longer quite so bright.
Thorin’s chest ached at the sight of him. Bilbo, the hobbit he had never wanted along. He had thought him too weak to go on such a journey. He knew what cruelties would lie before them and saw no point in taking someone so innocent and naive on such a thing. It would be nothing but madness and torture.
Bilbo had proven him endlessly wrong. He had won Thorin’s respect and friendship and repaid it with a brightness that was beyond value in such a dark quest. He had softened Thorin’s heart at some point on the journey, and now it felt like he would die from what he had never said rather than the wound in his chest.
He had fancied himself betrayed (he had been) and he had allowed that to cloud his judgement. What words did one say to fix that?
They had acted too rashly, and neither had taken a moment to simply listen. Bilbo had stolen their most sacred artifact, and he had very nearly killed him in retaliation and rage.
“Farewell, good thief,” he started, swallowing thickly as Bilbo knelt at his side. The hobbit’s eyes were dull and tired. Full of pain and memory that Thorin could not soften.
Oh how he had failed. “I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed.” Bilbo’s eyes widened and his breath hitched the tiniest bit. Thorin wanted to reach out and comfort the small creature, but he could not. He had to remain strong. “Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate…”
He would go to his death remembering the fear and resignation in Bilbo’s eyes. He would not touch Bilbo, not even now. He would never touch Bilbo again. His heart thumped at the thought, painful and tired. His breath was already ragged or it might have left him in a gasp. As it was, there was no sign of his faltering will. Of the bone deep need he had to reach out and cup Bilbo’s cheek. It was dangerous to consider even now on his death bed.
He was not meant for such things. He could not afford to feel them. He had forfeited all right to them in his madness.
“There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure.” A heart that was worth more than gold, a voice that could light any darkness and a will to make the cruel world better. What words could describe a creature who gave up his own home to help thirteen unknown, lost, and lonely dwarrows reclaim their own home? Loyalty, honor, a willing heart… Bilbo had proven each. Would that he could do this quest anew and change how it had happened.
They would have avoided both Mirkwood and Laketown for starts. He would have gotten the door to Erebor opened, and waited for Gandalf after. Perhaps the wizard would have resisted the call of gold.
It had certainly bested man, elf, and dwarf. Even Bilbo had claimed the Arkenstone before he knew its worth.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” Bilbo drew in a shaky breath and Thorin fancied he saw tears forming in the hobbit’s eyes. He could not look away regardless. “But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”
Words flittered around his head but he couldn’t say any of them. He could barely feel his body, and it was growing darker as he slumped against the bed. Bilbo stood shakily and, with a gasp, he fled the tent.
Thorin’s heart constricted in pain as the hobbit disappeared around the corner. He had wished to hear his voice one last time. He would never know if Bilbo had forgiven him now.
It was fitting, really. He certainly had not earned such forgiveness. Regardless of Bilbo’s actions, he had very nearly killed him. He had banished him without listening and had treated him as far less than a friend.
Balin knelt at his side and felt his brow. “I’ll fetch Óin.” He was gone before Thorin could tell him not to. He didn’t think he would make it until the healer returned. At least there had been a witness. Bilbo would not now have to worry about being denied what was rightfully his.
“Is that it?”
The voice was like music on the air and made Thorin think of his childhood. He felt, more by the moment, as if he was back in his mother’s arms while she rocked him and sang him to sleep. “You will say nothing of your true heart?” The voice changed and he found himself remembering the garden outside of Bilbo’s house, the scent of flowers and vegetables heavy on the air. He blinked, trying to find air to clear his vision. His visitor, apparently aware of his limitations, moved nearer. There was a moment of struggling for air, and then a face, glowing faintly and more lovely than any he had ever seen, was peering down at him. She had elven features, high cheekbones, pale skin, pointed ears, and her eyes were green. Her hair was long and golden, curly with beads woven into a few braids that shone like starlight.
He was dying and hallucinating. There wouldn’t be time to bid his oldest friend farewell. He should have spoken while Balin was near. He would have asked that he relay his thanks to Dwalin as well...
He sent a fervent prayer to Mahal that his guard was still alive. It was hard to gather his thoughts.
“Even now, when there is no harm that can come from it, you will hold your tongue? Does he not deserve to know the truth?”
The words made no sense to him, and he could not draw in a single breath to respond. The lady, who was glowing faintly with a golden light that made him think of sunlight mornings, blinked. Her brow furrowed in mild concern and then her expression cleared. She waved a hand over Thorin’s chest and he found air for his lungs.
“What,” he managed between greedy gulps of air, “do you speak of?” It occurred to him, somewhat distantly, that it was not normal to carry on conversations with glowing women who just appeared out of thin air. Then again, Thorin was very well acquainted with madness. This was just one more facet of it. He had hoped to die with a clear mind.
“Your heart, Thorin Oakenshield. The one that you will not speak of even now.”
And apparently his insanity wished to berate him. His father and grandfather hadn’t suffered such things. “I have spoken my heart.”
“Not once did you utter a word of love.” Her eyes darkened, looking like trees before a rain. Vibrant and dangerous. He didn’t know why he was seeing such a thing now.
“There was no need. My nephews know of my-”
Her eyes flashed like lightning and the air seemed to crackle. “Fool. Mountain’s son, you are dying. There is no time to argue such things with me. Why will you not tell even one of them that you love them? You spoke of what it was to rule, you thanked another, and finally you spoke of friendship. Not of love.”
That was love. For Thorin that was a declaration, more than he had ever previously given. He could never be compromised in such a way. Not even in death.
And who was she, strange glowing creature, to tell him how to live? Why was his madness toying with him in this way? “I will not. I have said all that I wish.” That, of course, was not remotely true. He would cherish a moment to embrace his nephews. To thump heads with Dwalin and truly thank him for his sacrifices. To apologize to Balin for not understanding.
To hear Bilbo’s voice light with laughter. “And If I gave you a chance?”
His madness was cruel beyond measure. He should have destroyed the stone when he was a lad. It would have saved him much grief. “I would continue as I have.”
It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The lady frowned, and she suddenly seemed as cold as moonlight on a winters night.
The air grew warm around them, far from pleasantly. The lady stood taller and raised her hand. She ran it over his body, hovering just above him, and sang something in a language that he couldn’t understand. His skin tingled at the words and it felt like there was a vise squeezing at his heart. He gasped vainly for air as his side flared with pain as the lady’s eyes met his. “Hear me now, stone-tender. You will walk this earth, doomed to see and absorb what you fear until you embrace it. Until you can speak your heart and understand the heart of others, you will lack the control you so cling to.” Her eyes seemed to grow brighter until he could see nothing else, and then the pain was too much. He tilted his head back and cried out, his eyes clenching as the world roared around him.