Clarity of Vision, Chapter 30/32
Title: Clarity of Vision, Chapter 30/32
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin, Dís, Thrain, Thror, Gimli
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4400
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: Thorin returns to Erebor, and Bilbo Baggins enters the Lonely Mountain for the first time.
"Curse this cold!" snarled Dwalin, blowing into his cupped hands and stamping his feet. "Couldn't we have returned in summer, when the shadow of the mountain lies cool upon the land?"
Bilbo winced as a gust of wind skittered up the slopes of Erebor, seizing his cloak and snapping it around him.
"I shall take your words as the jest they certainly are," said Thorin, pacing. His eyes were shadowed, and he kept glancing at a patch of stone that he had sworn was a secret door that Dís would soon open from the inside. He had grown taciturn since parting with his sister and the rest of the larger company, and Bilbo found himself missing Fíli and Kíli's chatter intensely. Cheering words seemed to falter in the bleak wind, and the locked and hidden door seemed somehow ominous.
He noticed, however, that Thorin had moved to stand between Bilbo and the worst of the blustering wind.
The half-moon peeked above the craggy cliffs of Erebor, bathing their little outcropping of rock in silver. They stood in silence, shivering in the icy wind, and then suddenly Bilbo jumped back with a muffled cry.
Torchlight flooded from a crack in the cliff face, and Dís peered out from the mountain at them. "Welcome back to Erebor, brother," she said as she ushered them into the Lonely Mountain.
Thorin heard Bilbo take a breath as they stepped into the narrow passage etched with sigils and carvings. "I've seen this," Bilbo whispered. "In the Lady's mirror."
"We three--Frerin and Dís and I--came here often as children. To have some time away from court." And away from our father, he did not add, but Dís's eyes flickered to his, dark with old memories.
"Thorin," she said, and he realized that her mouth was drawn and tense, "Father wears the Ring of Durin."
Thorin heard Dwalin and Balin suck in breaths of shock and kept himself from cursing with an effort. "Is our grandfather--"
"--He lives," Dís said hastily. "Or so Father--" she swallowed and started again, "--so the Prince-Regent claims. But he says that King Thrór has abdicated the throne and named him the ruler of Erebor."
"We must find my grandfather," Thorin said. "Do you believe Thráin knows we're here?"
"I don't believe so," said Dís. "His face when we entered the hall…" She shook her head. "He recovered quickly and has called a great feast this night, in honor of 'the return of his beloved family.' I slipped away for a moment. He had two of his spies following me, but--" She smiled, "--I went to visit Mother's tomb and lost them in the catacombs." Her smile flickered out. "Put up your hoods and let us make haste," she said, and stepped out in front of them, her torch casting wavering shadows across the rock.
"Thorin," said Bilbo as they walked, "Your sister mentioned a Ring of Durin?"
Thorin nodded. "It is one of seven great rings given of old to the chiefs of each clan, the last remaining. They were created by--" He stopped, touched by a formless unease, and had to force himself to continue, "By a great force of evil in this world who went by the name of Annatar, the Gift-Giver. But his gifts were like his heart, false and treacherous, and he meant all along to enslave us by linking the Seven to the One Great Ring that he forged for himself. But my people proved too resistant to his wiles. They never turned Durin's folk to evil, but we used the powers of the Rings to increase our wealth and power. He was a mighty craftsman and taught the elves much--never enough to compare with the Khazad, of course--and they made many rings of minor power that remained unlinked to the One." He smiled at Bilbo, trying to banish the shadow of worry from his mind. "Perhaps your ring is one of those."
Bilbo laughed, and Thorin marveled at how the merry sound seemed to lift the gloom from the shadows and from his heart. "I'm trying to imagine an elf-lord of old painstakingly crafting a ring with the awe-inspiring power to turn hobbits invisible," he said.
"In any case, the Ring of Durin is the symbol of our rule. It is...difficult to imagine my grandfather choosing to give it up."
The passage came to an end in a sheer wall, but Dís touched a section of it and it slid open to reveal a great hallway, now empty. From far away came the sounds of revelry, and as they slipped into the vast hall with its towering pillars reaching upward out of sight, Thorin heard Bilbo gasp quietly. "So beautiful," he whispered, and Thorin felt his heart fill with pride and fear.
"I will return to the party and keep an eye on Thráin," said Dís. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small key. "The key to the king's chambers. I took it from him when he embraced me in welcome."
Thorin took it from her and raised an eyebrow. "You have learned some...unorthodox skills in my absence, sister."
"Indeed," she said. She smiled and reached out to tug his beard lightly, as she had as a child. "Go with Mahal's luck and my love, my brother."
Bilbo tried to keep up with the dwarves as they hurried through the halls, but his eyes kept getting drawn to the wonders of the halls of Erebor: golden veins sparkling within a marble pillar, intricate carvings that seemed to interlock in dizzying patterns.
"You have seen the great halls of Khazad-dûm," hissed Thorin as he stopped to pull Bilbo away from rapt contemplation of a lamp made of a single massive amethyst. "This is not new to you."
"I'm sorry," whispered Bilbo. "But...Khazad-dûm was like a grave, dead and gone. This place…it lives. It breathes."
Thorin stared at him a moment. Then he brought his forehead to Bilbo's, a brief touch. "Thank you," he murmured. Then he tugged Bilbo's arm. "But I shall give you a full tour later; for now we must make haste."
They ran up the last stairway and found themselves in front of a vast door gemmed with sapphires and moonstones. "Halt!" said the guards on either side of it, lowering their pikes in unison to guard the way.
Thorin threw back his hood and stepped forward, and his voice rang through the hall: "It is I, Thorin, grandson of the King!"
The guard on the right stepped forward, and his pike wavered. "Prince Thorin?"
"Mîn, daughter of Lîn," said Thorin, speaking to the guard on the left. "And Gimli, son of Gloin. I return with a cure for my grandfather. If you love the line of Durin, let me pass!"
There was a breathless moment of silence; Bilbo heard Balin loosen his weapon in its scabbard. Then Gimli sank to one knee, and Mîn followed suit.
"Welcome home, your highness," murmured Mîn. "And...forgive us."
"For guarding your king?" Thorin stepped forward and clasped both their shoulders. "There is no apology needed."
Then he took the key from his pocket--only Bilbo, standing by his side, could have seen the faint tremor in them--opened the door, and stepped into the king's chamber.
"Stay here and guard the door," Dwalin said to the guards as they stepped into the dimly-lit room, letting the doors swing shut behind them.
It was a sitting room, filled with ornate furniture, the walls hung with tapestries. Light glimmered from iridescent stones set in the walls. But the furniture was in disarray and covered with dust, the tapestries hanging askew, some half-torn-down. A scent of decay and rot hung over everything, and Bilbo took some shallow breaths through his mouth, heard Balin swallow hard.
Carefully, they walked through the room to the far side, to a smaller set of doors. Glass crunched under their boots, and Thorin stopped to make sure Bilbo's bare feet avoided the jagged shards.
He put a hand on the door handle and swung it open.
The smell hit them first: a fetid reek of ordure and illness. Bilbo swallowed and gagged before fumbling for a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. The rooms were totally dark. "Grandfather?" Thorin whispered, stepping forward carefully.
Somewhere in the darkness, something whimpered.
Behind them, Bilbo heard Dwalin cursing in a thick voice as he struggled to light a torch. When it finally blazed into light, Bilbo almost wished he hadn't succeeded.
On a bed shoved into a corner of the room huddled a dwarf, his eyes animal-bright, his long beard snarled in knots and stained with yellow saliva. The bed was caked with filth, buzzing with flies.
"Grandfather," Thorin moaned.
The dwarf on the bed raised its hands and shook them angrily, and chains rattled.
"You can't have my gold!" Thrór cried in a cracked, mad voice. "I won't let you!" He scrabbled in the pile of offal, clutching it to his breast. "It's mine, I tell you!"
Thorin staggered forward to fall to his knees by the bed and seize his grandfather's filthy hands in his own. "My liege, my King, grandfather," he stammered. "It's Thorin, I've come to--"
And then his eyes fell on Thrór's hand.
Bilbo heard Thorin sob once, a horrified sound of shock and anguish, and Thrór wrenched his mutilated hand away. "He took my ring," wailed Thrór, "But I never gave it to him, no, I never did! I'll never give up anything that's mine, never--"
Thorin stood then, and rage was an icy flame in his face as he unsheathed Deathless. "I will kill him," he said, his voice as ancient and cold as stone as he turned from the bed.
"Thorin, no!" said Balin. "The tea, the cure, you mustn't leave the king now."
Thorin stared at him a moment as if at a stranger. Then he sheathed Deathless with a snap and grabbed the canteen that Balin held out with shaking hands. He turned back to the bed and sank to his knees once more. "Grandfather," he murmured, and Bilbo's heart ached at the gentleness in his voice, "I come with a cure for your illness."
Thrór's mad bright eyes focused on him. "No," he said. "You bring me only poison, you bring me only lies, you wish to steal what's left to me--well you won't, do you hear me! I won't let you, I'll kill you first, I'll kill you--"
He lunged forward, straining against his chains, and snapped at Thorin's face like a rabid dog.
"No, you won't," said Thorin, and Thrór stopped, puzzlement creasing his filthy face. "You would never hurt the Line of Durin, no matter how lost to the sickness you were. This is why I gave you my fealty--and my love," he finished in a bare whisper.
Thrór shook his head, confused. "Thorin?" he murmured, peering at the man before him. "But Thorin is but a lad, and you are a dwarf full-grown." He touched Thorin's face with a broken claw of a hand. "I don't understand," he muttered, querulous. "Why would my grandson bring me poison?"
"It's not poison, your majesty." Ignoring Balin and Dwalin's startlement, Bilbo stepped forward. "If you drink it, it will restore your kingdom and all your riches to you."
"Yes, exactly," said Thorin eagerly, holding out the canteen once more. "This drink will give you the power to regain all that you have lost, my King."
The king squinted at Bilbo suspiciously, then looked at Thorin. At least, he reached out with trembling hands and took the canteen and drank deeply.
Everyone stared at him in anticipation, but he drew away from them, fear back on his features. "You said I'd have all my gold back," he muttered. "Where is it? Fetch me my gold, boy!"
Thorin put his hands to his face and sat in silence for a moment as his grandfather shivered and gibbered. Then he rose. "Break his chains, Dwalin," he said.
"With pleasure," Dwalin said, and stepped forward with his axe raised. Thrór cried out in alarm, but there was a sharp sound of metal on metal and the chains shung free.
"You can't make me leave!" Thrór cried, shrinking back on the bed, clutching the filthy blankets to him as though unaware he'd been freed. "This is all I have left!"
Bilbo saw Thorin's face twist with pity, and shame, and grief intermingled. "That's not true, Grandfather," he said softly. "You will always have those of us who love you." He put his hand on his sword-hilt. "I shall return and take care of you," he said. "But first I must find my father."
He looked at the rest of the party. "Stay here with the King," he said. "Keep him safe and secure." Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but he shook his head. "I will not risk the lives of those I love against my father," he said. "Yours above all."
He turned and was gone, his strides breaking into a run as he threw open the door.
"We'll need hot water," said Balin, turning in circles as he cast wild glances around the room. Dwalin was trying to comfort Thrór, who had gone silent once more, gazing after Thorin. "For pity's sake, we must get him into some clean clothes, I can't bear it. Bilbo, do you see any--Bilbo?"
He stared around the room.
"Why, where has that hobbit gone?"
Thráin, self-styled King Under the Mountain, raised his finest goblet gemmed with rubies as red as fresh blood, garnets as red as old blood. "It is a time of great sadness for Erebor, my people. First, the illness of the King which yet grows apace, grieving our hearts. And now my son, Frerin, rests forever in the heart of the mountain. But in this time of deepest darkness, we have yet cause for joy. For my dear daughter has returned to us from the west, and with her our cherished grandsons." He paused to let his words roll through the great hall and smiled at Dís. "The one light in all my sorrow, the dear hope for the future of Erebor, we welcome you back to our loving arms." The Ring of Durin gleamed dully on his finger as he raised his hand in blessing. "Tonight we put aside our grief to--"
A distant boom echoed through the hall, as if great stone doors were thrown open somewhere. Thráin paused, then forged ahead:
"We put aside our grief at our tragic loss to celebrate the safe passage of Dís and--"
Another boom, this one closer. Thráin licked his lips, then gestured to two of his guards, who moved closer to the doors. "Of my precious daughter Dís, the greatest jewel of all my--"
Bang! The heavy granite doors of the banquet hall were hurled open, and the court burst into murmurs at the sight of Thorin standing in the doorway, his naked blade in his hand.
"Thráin!" bellowed Thorin. "Usurper! Kinslayer!"
Thráin glared at the apparition of his son, and the calm confidence in his face slowly fractured and crumbled into scorn and fury--and fear. "You!" he cried, whirling to point with a shaking finger at Dís. "You viper, you abomination, you have betrayed me!"
"Father--" started Dís, but Thráin cut her off, his eyes glinting scarlet with rage in the light of the torches.
"You have been plotting against me from the very beginning, plotting to overthrow me and give my birthright to him!"
Thorin stepped into the room. "There is blood on your hands, Thráin."
For an instant, Thráin raised his hands to stare wildly at them. Then he laughed, a sound like shattered glass. "You are a liar as well as a traitor! My hands are clean!" He held them up, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd.
Thorin moved forward, and step by slow step Thráin cringed backward. "You sent brigands to intercept and kill my sister and my sister-sons. You chained my grandfather, your King, to his bed to die of neglect." His voice was steady but filled with inexorable rage. "You are no rightful King Under the Mountain."
Thráin's face twisted. "Curse you! I shall be the last of the Line of Durin, the final apotheosis of our glorious blood! It is my destiny! I had to sacrifice my dearest child, my only loyal child, to achieve it--I certainly will not allow you to stand in my way!" Gasps echoed around the hall, but he ignored them and gestured at his guards. "Kill him!"
The guards hesitated, looking at each other. Thorin walked past them toward his father, not sparing a glance for them.
"Kill him!" shrieked Thráin. "Obey your King!"
"Yes," came a voice at the door. "Obey your King."
Cries broke out as Thrór stepped into the hall, supported on one side by Dwalin and on the other by Balin, flanked by Gimli and Mîn. His steps were faltering, but his eyes were clear. He raised his hand to point at Thráin, and the gasps turned from shock to horror at the sight of it. "Thráin, once son of Thrór, give back the ring you stole and surrender yourself to justice."
Thráin's hands twisted in his own beard, tearing at it. Bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. But as Gimli and Mîn stepped forward, he pulled a knife from his belt and hurled it at Gimli, catching him in the shoulder. As Gimli fell back, groaning, and Mîn and Thorin leaped forward, Thráin pressed a panel in the wall and disappeared into a passage behind the throne, which sealed shut behind him.
Chaos broke out: some people rushed to attend the king, others to aid Gimli, some to try and open the passage. Thorin stood immobile amongst the surging throng, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. Then suddenly he sheathed Deathless, turned and ran from the room, unnoticed by almost everyone in the mayhem.
Almost everyone.
The halls of Erebor blurred around Thorin as he ran toward the library, throwing open the door and scrambling for the furthest wall and the secret passage hidden behind the bookcases there. It swung open to reveal a tunnel heading downward and to the east--and deep below, a light glinted off the curving walls. It had been a gamble--a guess that Thráin's hidden door connected to the same maze of tunnels that the one he had found as a child did--and it had paid off.
Thorin plunged into tunnels, following the flickering light.
He caught up with Thráin far to the east, as he struggled to open the door to the outside and safety. On the other side of the door lay the foothills of the Lonely Mountain and the wild eastern wastes; as Thorin rounded the corner he could see the door shift and a thread of dawn sunlight limn it, brilliant in the darkness.
"Not one step further," said Thorin. Thráin whirled to stare at him as he pulled the second flask from his belt, held it out. "Please. This is a cure for your illness. It will help you."
Thráin shook his head. "Curse you," he snarled. "How dare you challenge me! How dare you doubt me!" He held up his fist and the dim light gleamed from the brandished Ring of Durin. "I am your King, whelp!"
"You were my father!" Thorin cried, and heard the echoes die all around him.
Thráin smiled then, and it was worse than any scorn or hatred Thorin had ever experienced, ever imagined. "Once I thought I needed heirs, but none of you have proven better than a burden. Would that I had disposed of your mother before she birthed any of you." He shook his head. "I do not need your 'cure,' and I do not need you."
And he pulled a throwing knife from his belt and hurled it at Thorin.
He was just about to release the blade when he staggered sideways as if the ground had lurched beneath his feet, or as if struck by a powerful burst of air.
Or as if something heavy and invisible had slammed into him.
The blade flew awry and grated off the wall next to Thorin's head. "Run, Thorin!" cried a familiar voice, and Thráin cried out, struggling with unseen hands. With a roar of rage he seized two handfuls of air and hurled it away from him--and Bilbo flickered back into Thorin's vision sprawled at his feet, looking confused and frightened.
"It fell off," he whispered, almost to himself. "Why did it fall off, where is it?" He scrabbled on the ground on all fours as Thráin stared at him, finally straightening with a sigh of relief, the gold ring between his fingers. "Oh, I thought I'd lost you," he murmured.
Thráin's eyes narrowed as he looked from Thorin to Bilbo, and Thorin saw the hand that bore the Ring of Durin clench and unclench. "What manner of being are you, you witch-child, you ring-bearer that has ensnared my eldest son?" he said.
"I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Bilbo, not noticing the way Thorin stepped forward as if to keep him from answering. He shook his head at Thráin as if chiding a child. "And you are a very bad dwarf indeed."
"So what will you do now?" Thráin said, his eyes alive with strange dark shadows, assessing and calculating. "You cannot stop me." He stepped back toward the door and Thorin drew Deathless, let the grating sound echo off the walls.
"I will not allow you to leave," he said.
A sharp bark of a laugh. "You will not kill me," said Thráin. "No Kinslayer, no Kingslayer shall ever rule over Erebor. You will not give up your right to take the throne."
Silence filled the corridor. A small voice broke it: "No one would hear about it from me," said Bilbo, and his eyes on Thorin were full of compassion and sorrow.
"But he would know," said Thráin, with a twisted and taunting smile. "Wouldn't you, my oh-so-noble son?"
Thorin sheathed Deathless once more, then unbuckled the scabbard and tossed it aside. "Then I shall take you without killing you, or die myself in the doing," he said, ignoring Bilbo's cry of alarm, and stepped forward.
Thráin's smile never faltered. He drew two more knives and dropped into a defensive crouch.
And as Thorin drew near, he dodged to the right and threw one of his knives.
Bilbo squeaked as he found himself crushed up against the corridor wall by a broad body. As he struggled to breathe he heard the secret door grate shut and the passage was thrown into pitch darkness once more. "Thorin?" he faltered. "What happened?"
He groped forward and felt Thorin's hiss stir his hair. "Gently," said Thorin.
"You idiot," burst out Bilbo, "Did you throw yourself in front of a knife for me?"
"I shall live, thank you for asking," said Thorin, a faint chuckle blurring his voice. "I am both more armored and less fragile than you; it is but a scratch to me."
"You idiot," Bilbo said again, his voice fracturing wildly.
"You're welcome," said Thorin. "But I shall need some assistance returning to the hall."
Bilbo found that his knees were trembling, and was glad for the blackness that hid his expression. He got on his hands and knees and found Deathless, then buckled the scabbard around Thorin's waist once more. He got his shoulder under Thorin's uninjured side and they began to make their slow way back up the dark passage together.
For a long time everything was silent except for Thorin's sobbing breaths and the shuffle of their feet in the dark. "I'm not sure how to tell you this," Bilbo said.
"Yes?" grunted Thorin.
"I don't think your father approved of me."
A gust of startled, almost pained laughter. "He didn't seem to, did he?"
"Well, I'm afraid I didn't take to him either," Bilbo said judiciously.
They walked on in silence a while longer.
"What did he mean," said Bilbo, his voice slower and more thoughtful. "When he called me a witch and a ring-bearer?"
Thorin didn't answer for a time. "Well, you were invisible. And you do bear a ring," he said.
"That makes sense," said Bilbo.
"Yes," said Thorin, but his voice was thoughtful as if he were filing something away to think on later.
"Will you send a party to look for him?"
"That decision is the King's to make, not mine. But I will argue against it," Thorin said between careful breaths. "I would not risk the lives of more of my people against his madness. He has lost the only thing in this world he held dear, the throne. He is broken and he shall trouble us no more."
If Bilbo heard any doubt or worry in Thorin's voice, he decided not to point it out. "I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed," he said instead.
A broad hand ruffled his curls. "As am I," said Thorin, and they slowly made their way back to where light and life and tearful reunions awaited them.
Soon enough they would be surrounded by friends and loved ones; soon enough there would be healing and hope. Thorin--pale and bandaged but smiling--would take his place at the right hand of King Thrór, and there would be tunes from the harp and songs composed about the bravery of dwarves and of hobbits. Thrór would gift Bilbo with a circlet of gold--which Bilbo privately thought made him look rather silly--and joy and justice would rule once more in Erebor.
But for the moment, it was just the two of them in the dark together, step by step and side by side, and it was more than enough.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin, Dís, Thrain, Thror, Gimli
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4400
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: Thorin returns to Erebor, and Bilbo Baggins enters the Lonely Mountain for the first time.
"Curse this cold!" snarled Dwalin, blowing into his cupped hands and stamping his feet. "Couldn't we have returned in summer, when the shadow of the mountain lies cool upon the land?"
Bilbo winced as a gust of wind skittered up the slopes of Erebor, seizing his cloak and snapping it around him.
"I shall take your words as the jest they certainly are," said Thorin, pacing. His eyes were shadowed, and he kept glancing at a patch of stone that he had sworn was a secret door that Dís would soon open from the inside. He had grown taciturn since parting with his sister and the rest of the larger company, and Bilbo found himself missing Fíli and Kíli's chatter intensely. Cheering words seemed to falter in the bleak wind, and the locked and hidden door seemed somehow ominous.
He noticed, however, that Thorin had moved to stand between Bilbo and the worst of the blustering wind.
The half-moon peeked above the craggy cliffs of Erebor, bathing their little outcropping of rock in silver. They stood in silence, shivering in the icy wind, and then suddenly Bilbo jumped back with a muffled cry.
Torchlight flooded from a crack in the cliff face, and Dís peered out from the mountain at them. "Welcome back to Erebor, brother," she said as she ushered them into the Lonely Mountain.
Thorin heard Bilbo take a breath as they stepped into the narrow passage etched with sigils and carvings. "I've seen this," Bilbo whispered. "In the Lady's mirror."
"We three--Frerin and Dís and I--came here often as children. To have some time away from court." And away from our father, he did not add, but Dís's eyes flickered to his, dark with old memories.
"Thorin," she said, and he realized that her mouth was drawn and tense, "Father wears the Ring of Durin."
Thorin heard Dwalin and Balin suck in breaths of shock and kept himself from cursing with an effort. "Is our grandfather--"
"--He lives," Dís said hastily. "Or so Father--" she swallowed and started again, "--so the Prince-Regent claims. But he says that King Thrór has abdicated the throne and named him the ruler of Erebor."
"We must find my grandfather," Thorin said. "Do you believe Thráin knows we're here?"
"I don't believe so," said Dís. "His face when we entered the hall…" She shook her head. "He recovered quickly and has called a great feast this night, in honor of 'the return of his beloved family.' I slipped away for a moment. He had two of his spies following me, but--" She smiled, "--I went to visit Mother's tomb and lost them in the catacombs." Her smile flickered out. "Put up your hoods and let us make haste," she said, and stepped out in front of them, her torch casting wavering shadows across the rock.
"Thorin," said Bilbo as they walked, "Your sister mentioned a Ring of Durin?"
Thorin nodded. "It is one of seven great rings given of old to the chiefs of each clan, the last remaining. They were created by--" He stopped, touched by a formless unease, and had to force himself to continue, "By a great force of evil in this world who went by the name of Annatar, the Gift-Giver. But his gifts were like his heart, false and treacherous, and he meant all along to enslave us by linking the Seven to the One Great Ring that he forged for himself. But my people proved too resistant to his wiles. They never turned Durin's folk to evil, but we used the powers of the Rings to increase our wealth and power. He was a mighty craftsman and taught the elves much--never enough to compare with the Khazad, of course--and they made many rings of minor power that remained unlinked to the One." He smiled at Bilbo, trying to banish the shadow of worry from his mind. "Perhaps your ring is one of those."
Bilbo laughed, and Thorin marveled at how the merry sound seemed to lift the gloom from the shadows and from his heart. "I'm trying to imagine an elf-lord of old painstakingly crafting a ring with the awe-inspiring power to turn hobbits invisible," he said.
"In any case, the Ring of Durin is the symbol of our rule. It is...difficult to imagine my grandfather choosing to give it up."
The passage came to an end in a sheer wall, but Dís touched a section of it and it slid open to reveal a great hallway, now empty. From far away came the sounds of revelry, and as they slipped into the vast hall with its towering pillars reaching upward out of sight, Thorin heard Bilbo gasp quietly. "So beautiful," he whispered, and Thorin felt his heart fill with pride and fear.
"I will return to the party and keep an eye on Thráin," said Dís. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small key. "The key to the king's chambers. I took it from him when he embraced me in welcome."
Thorin took it from her and raised an eyebrow. "You have learned some...unorthodox skills in my absence, sister."
"Indeed," she said. She smiled and reached out to tug his beard lightly, as she had as a child. "Go with Mahal's luck and my love, my brother."
Bilbo tried to keep up with the dwarves as they hurried through the halls, but his eyes kept getting drawn to the wonders of the halls of Erebor: golden veins sparkling within a marble pillar, intricate carvings that seemed to interlock in dizzying patterns.
"You have seen the great halls of Khazad-dûm," hissed Thorin as he stopped to pull Bilbo away from rapt contemplation of a lamp made of a single massive amethyst. "This is not new to you."
"I'm sorry," whispered Bilbo. "But...Khazad-dûm was like a grave, dead and gone. This place…it lives. It breathes."
Thorin stared at him a moment. Then he brought his forehead to Bilbo's, a brief touch. "Thank you," he murmured. Then he tugged Bilbo's arm. "But I shall give you a full tour later; for now we must make haste."
They ran up the last stairway and found themselves in front of a vast door gemmed with sapphires and moonstones. "Halt!" said the guards on either side of it, lowering their pikes in unison to guard the way.
Thorin threw back his hood and stepped forward, and his voice rang through the hall: "It is I, Thorin, grandson of the King!"
The guard on the right stepped forward, and his pike wavered. "Prince Thorin?"
"Mîn, daughter of Lîn," said Thorin, speaking to the guard on the left. "And Gimli, son of Gloin. I return with a cure for my grandfather. If you love the line of Durin, let me pass!"
There was a breathless moment of silence; Bilbo heard Balin loosen his weapon in its scabbard. Then Gimli sank to one knee, and Mîn followed suit.
"Welcome home, your highness," murmured Mîn. "And...forgive us."
"For guarding your king?" Thorin stepped forward and clasped both their shoulders. "There is no apology needed."
Then he took the key from his pocket--only Bilbo, standing by his side, could have seen the faint tremor in them--opened the door, and stepped into the king's chamber.
"Stay here and guard the door," Dwalin said to the guards as they stepped into the dimly-lit room, letting the doors swing shut behind them.
It was a sitting room, filled with ornate furniture, the walls hung with tapestries. Light glimmered from iridescent stones set in the walls. But the furniture was in disarray and covered with dust, the tapestries hanging askew, some half-torn-down. A scent of decay and rot hung over everything, and Bilbo took some shallow breaths through his mouth, heard Balin swallow hard.
Carefully, they walked through the room to the far side, to a smaller set of doors. Glass crunched under their boots, and Thorin stopped to make sure Bilbo's bare feet avoided the jagged shards.
He put a hand on the door handle and swung it open.
The smell hit them first: a fetid reek of ordure and illness. Bilbo swallowed and gagged before fumbling for a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. The rooms were totally dark. "Grandfather?" Thorin whispered, stepping forward carefully.
Somewhere in the darkness, something whimpered.
Behind them, Bilbo heard Dwalin cursing in a thick voice as he struggled to light a torch. When it finally blazed into light, Bilbo almost wished he hadn't succeeded.
On a bed shoved into a corner of the room huddled a dwarf, his eyes animal-bright, his long beard snarled in knots and stained with yellow saliva. The bed was caked with filth, buzzing with flies.
"Grandfather," Thorin moaned.
The dwarf on the bed raised its hands and shook them angrily, and chains rattled.
"You can't have my gold!" Thrór cried in a cracked, mad voice. "I won't let you!" He scrabbled in the pile of offal, clutching it to his breast. "It's mine, I tell you!"
Thorin staggered forward to fall to his knees by the bed and seize his grandfather's filthy hands in his own. "My liege, my King, grandfather," he stammered. "It's Thorin, I've come to--"
And then his eyes fell on Thrór's hand.
Bilbo heard Thorin sob once, a horrified sound of shock and anguish, and Thrór wrenched his mutilated hand away. "He took my ring," wailed Thrór, "But I never gave it to him, no, I never did! I'll never give up anything that's mine, never--"
Thorin stood then, and rage was an icy flame in his face as he unsheathed Deathless. "I will kill him," he said, his voice as ancient and cold as stone as he turned from the bed.
"Thorin, no!" said Balin. "The tea, the cure, you mustn't leave the king now."
Thorin stared at him a moment as if at a stranger. Then he sheathed Deathless with a snap and grabbed the canteen that Balin held out with shaking hands. He turned back to the bed and sank to his knees once more. "Grandfather," he murmured, and Bilbo's heart ached at the gentleness in his voice, "I come with a cure for your illness."
Thrór's mad bright eyes focused on him. "No," he said. "You bring me only poison, you bring me only lies, you wish to steal what's left to me--well you won't, do you hear me! I won't let you, I'll kill you first, I'll kill you--"
He lunged forward, straining against his chains, and snapped at Thorin's face like a rabid dog.
"No, you won't," said Thorin, and Thrór stopped, puzzlement creasing his filthy face. "You would never hurt the Line of Durin, no matter how lost to the sickness you were. This is why I gave you my fealty--and my love," he finished in a bare whisper.
Thrór shook his head, confused. "Thorin?" he murmured, peering at the man before him. "But Thorin is but a lad, and you are a dwarf full-grown." He touched Thorin's face with a broken claw of a hand. "I don't understand," he muttered, querulous. "Why would my grandson bring me poison?"
"It's not poison, your majesty." Ignoring Balin and Dwalin's startlement, Bilbo stepped forward. "If you drink it, it will restore your kingdom and all your riches to you."
"Yes, exactly," said Thorin eagerly, holding out the canteen once more. "This drink will give you the power to regain all that you have lost, my King."
The king squinted at Bilbo suspiciously, then looked at Thorin. At least, he reached out with trembling hands and took the canteen and drank deeply.
Everyone stared at him in anticipation, but he drew away from them, fear back on his features. "You said I'd have all my gold back," he muttered. "Where is it? Fetch me my gold, boy!"
Thorin put his hands to his face and sat in silence for a moment as his grandfather shivered and gibbered. Then he rose. "Break his chains, Dwalin," he said.
"With pleasure," Dwalin said, and stepped forward with his axe raised. Thrór cried out in alarm, but there was a sharp sound of metal on metal and the chains shung free.
"You can't make me leave!" Thrór cried, shrinking back on the bed, clutching the filthy blankets to him as though unaware he'd been freed. "This is all I have left!"
Bilbo saw Thorin's face twist with pity, and shame, and grief intermingled. "That's not true, Grandfather," he said softly. "You will always have those of us who love you." He put his hand on his sword-hilt. "I shall return and take care of you," he said. "But first I must find my father."
He looked at the rest of the party. "Stay here with the King," he said. "Keep him safe and secure." Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but he shook his head. "I will not risk the lives of those I love against my father," he said. "Yours above all."
He turned and was gone, his strides breaking into a run as he threw open the door.
"We'll need hot water," said Balin, turning in circles as he cast wild glances around the room. Dwalin was trying to comfort Thrór, who had gone silent once more, gazing after Thorin. "For pity's sake, we must get him into some clean clothes, I can't bear it. Bilbo, do you see any--Bilbo?"
He stared around the room.
"Why, where has that hobbit gone?"
Thráin, self-styled King Under the Mountain, raised his finest goblet gemmed with rubies as red as fresh blood, garnets as red as old blood. "It is a time of great sadness for Erebor, my people. First, the illness of the King which yet grows apace, grieving our hearts. And now my son, Frerin, rests forever in the heart of the mountain. But in this time of deepest darkness, we have yet cause for joy. For my dear daughter has returned to us from the west, and with her our cherished grandsons." He paused to let his words roll through the great hall and smiled at Dís. "The one light in all my sorrow, the dear hope for the future of Erebor, we welcome you back to our loving arms." The Ring of Durin gleamed dully on his finger as he raised his hand in blessing. "Tonight we put aside our grief to--"
A distant boom echoed through the hall, as if great stone doors were thrown open somewhere. Thráin paused, then forged ahead:
"We put aside our grief at our tragic loss to celebrate the safe passage of Dís and--"
Another boom, this one closer. Thráin licked his lips, then gestured to two of his guards, who moved closer to the doors. "Of my precious daughter Dís, the greatest jewel of all my--"
Bang! The heavy granite doors of the banquet hall were hurled open, and the court burst into murmurs at the sight of Thorin standing in the doorway, his naked blade in his hand.
"Thráin!" bellowed Thorin. "Usurper! Kinslayer!"
Thráin glared at the apparition of his son, and the calm confidence in his face slowly fractured and crumbled into scorn and fury--and fear. "You!" he cried, whirling to point with a shaking finger at Dís. "You viper, you abomination, you have betrayed me!"
"Father--" started Dís, but Thráin cut her off, his eyes glinting scarlet with rage in the light of the torches.
"You have been plotting against me from the very beginning, plotting to overthrow me and give my birthright to him!"
Thorin stepped into the room. "There is blood on your hands, Thráin."
For an instant, Thráin raised his hands to stare wildly at them. Then he laughed, a sound like shattered glass. "You are a liar as well as a traitor! My hands are clean!" He held them up, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd.
Thorin moved forward, and step by slow step Thráin cringed backward. "You sent brigands to intercept and kill my sister and my sister-sons. You chained my grandfather, your King, to his bed to die of neglect." His voice was steady but filled with inexorable rage. "You are no rightful King Under the Mountain."
Thráin's face twisted. "Curse you! I shall be the last of the Line of Durin, the final apotheosis of our glorious blood! It is my destiny! I had to sacrifice my dearest child, my only loyal child, to achieve it--I certainly will not allow you to stand in my way!" Gasps echoed around the hall, but he ignored them and gestured at his guards. "Kill him!"
The guards hesitated, looking at each other. Thorin walked past them toward his father, not sparing a glance for them.
"Kill him!" shrieked Thráin. "Obey your King!"
"Yes," came a voice at the door. "Obey your King."
Cries broke out as Thrór stepped into the hall, supported on one side by Dwalin and on the other by Balin, flanked by Gimli and Mîn. His steps were faltering, but his eyes were clear. He raised his hand to point at Thráin, and the gasps turned from shock to horror at the sight of it. "Thráin, once son of Thrór, give back the ring you stole and surrender yourself to justice."
Thráin's hands twisted in his own beard, tearing at it. Bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. But as Gimli and Mîn stepped forward, he pulled a knife from his belt and hurled it at Gimli, catching him in the shoulder. As Gimli fell back, groaning, and Mîn and Thorin leaped forward, Thráin pressed a panel in the wall and disappeared into a passage behind the throne, which sealed shut behind him.
Chaos broke out: some people rushed to attend the king, others to aid Gimli, some to try and open the passage. Thorin stood immobile amongst the surging throng, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. Then suddenly he sheathed Deathless, turned and ran from the room, unnoticed by almost everyone in the mayhem.
Almost everyone.
The halls of Erebor blurred around Thorin as he ran toward the library, throwing open the door and scrambling for the furthest wall and the secret passage hidden behind the bookcases there. It swung open to reveal a tunnel heading downward and to the east--and deep below, a light glinted off the curving walls. It had been a gamble--a guess that Thráin's hidden door connected to the same maze of tunnels that the one he had found as a child did--and it had paid off.
Thorin plunged into tunnels, following the flickering light.
He caught up with Thráin far to the east, as he struggled to open the door to the outside and safety. On the other side of the door lay the foothills of the Lonely Mountain and the wild eastern wastes; as Thorin rounded the corner he could see the door shift and a thread of dawn sunlight limn it, brilliant in the darkness.
"Not one step further," said Thorin. Thráin whirled to stare at him as he pulled the second flask from his belt, held it out. "Please. This is a cure for your illness. It will help you."
Thráin shook his head. "Curse you," he snarled. "How dare you challenge me! How dare you doubt me!" He held up his fist and the dim light gleamed from the brandished Ring of Durin. "I am your King, whelp!"
"You were my father!" Thorin cried, and heard the echoes die all around him.
Thráin smiled then, and it was worse than any scorn or hatred Thorin had ever experienced, ever imagined. "Once I thought I needed heirs, but none of you have proven better than a burden. Would that I had disposed of your mother before she birthed any of you." He shook his head. "I do not need your 'cure,' and I do not need you."
And he pulled a throwing knife from his belt and hurled it at Thorin.
He was just about to release the blade when he staggered sideways as if the ground had lurched beneath his feet, or as if struck by a powerful burst of air.
Or as if something heavy and invisible had slammed into him.
The blade flew awry and grated off the wall next to Thorin's head. "Run, Thorin!" cried a familiar voice, and Thráin cried out, struggling with unseen hands. With a roar of rage he seized two handfuls of air and hurled it away from him--and Bilbo flickered back into Thorin's vision sprawled at his feet, looking confused and frightened.
"It fell off," he whispered, almost to himself. "Why did it fall off, where is it?" He scrabbled on the ground on all fours as Thráin stared at him, finally straightening with a sigh of relief, the gold ring between his fingers. "Oh, I thought I'd lost you," he murmured.
Thráin's eyes narrowed as he looked from Thorin to Bilbo, and Thorin saw the hand that bore the Ring of Durin clench and unclench. "What manner of being are you, you witch-child, you ring-bearer that has ensnared my eldest son?" he said.
"I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Bilbo, not noticing the way Thorin stepped forward as if to keep him from answering. He shook his head at Thráin as if chiding a child. "And you are a very bad dwarf indeed."
"So what will you do now?" Thráin said, his eyes alive with strange dark shadows, assessing and calculating. "You cannot stop me." He stepped back toward the door and Thorin drew Deathless, let the grating sound echo off the walls.
"I will not allow you to leave," he said.
A sharp bark of a laugh. "You will not kill me," said Thráin. "No Kinslayer, no Kingslayer shall ever rule over Erebor. You will not give up your right to take the throne."
Silence filled the corridor. A small voice broke it: "No one would hear about it from me," said Bilbo, and his eyes on Thorin were full of compassion and sorrow.
"But he would know," said Thráin, with a twisted and taunting smile. "Wouldn't you, my oh-so-noble son?"
Thorin sheathed Deathless once more, then unbuckled the scabbard and tossed it aside. "Then I shall take you without killing you, or die myself in the doing," he said, ignoring Bilbo's cry of alarm, and stepped forward.
Thráin's smile never faltered. He drew two more knives and dropped into a defensive crouch.
And as Thorin drew near, he dodged to the right and threw one of his knives.
Bilbo squeaked as he found himself crushed up against the corridor wall by a broad body. As he struggled to breathe he heard the secret door grate shut and the passage was thrown into pitch darkness once more. "Thorin?" he faltered. "What happened?"
He groped forward and felt Thorin's hiss stir his hair. "Gently," said Thorin.
"You idiot," burst out Bilbo, "Did you throw yourself in front of a knife for me?"
"I shall live, thank you for asking," said Thorin, a faint chuckle blurring his voice. "I am both more armored and less fragile than you; it is but a scratch to me."
"You idiot," Bilbo said again, his voice fracturing wildly.
"You're welcome," said Thorin. "But I shall need some assistance returning to the hall."
Bilbo found that his knees were trembling, and was glad for the blackness that hid his expression. He got on his hands and knees and found Deathless, then buckled the scabbard around Thorin's waist once more. He got his shoulder under Thorin's uninjured side and they began to make their slow way back up the dark passage together.
For a long time everything was silent except for Thorin's sobbing breaths and the shuffle of their feet in the dark. "I'm not sure how to tell you this," Bilbo said.
"Yes?" grunted Thorin.
"I don't think your father approved of me."
A gust of startled, almost pained laughter. "He didn't seem to, did he?"
"Well, I'm afraid I didn't take to him either," Bilbo said judiciously.
They walked on in silence a while longer.
"What did he mean," said Bilbo, his voice slower and more thoughtful. "When he called me a witch and a ring-bearer?"
Thorin didn't answer for a time. "Well, you were invisible. And you do bear a ring," he said.
"That makes sense," said Bilbo.
"Yes," said Thorin, but his voice was thoughtful as if he were filing something away to think on later.
"Will you send a party to look for him?"
"That decision is the King's to make, not mine. But I will argue against it," Thorin said between careful breaths. "I would not risk the lives of more of my people against his madness. He has lost the only thing in this world he held dear, the throne. He is broken and he shall trouble us no more."
If Bilbo heard any doubt or worry in Thorin's voice, he decided not to point it out. "I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed," he said instead.
A broad hand ruffled his curls. "As am I," said Thorin, and they slowly made their way back to where light and life and tearful reunions awaited them.
Soon enough they would be surrounded by friends and loved ones; soon enough there would be healing and hope. Thorin--pale and bandaged but smiling--would take his place at the right hand of King Thrór, and there would be tunes from the harp and songs composed about the bravery of dwarves and of hobbits. Thrór would gift Bilbo with a circlet of gold--which Bilbo privately thought made him look rather silly--and joy and justice would rule once more in Erebor.
But for the moment, it was just the two of them in the dark together, step by step and side by side, and it was more than enough.