Hobbit Fic: Thine Hatred To Crown (Part 1.1)

[zincpiccalilli]

This is my very first time writing Thorin and the Dwarves in any detail, not to mention the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies, so the chapter caused me... some anxiety. I could probably do with a bit of dedicated research into the history and culture of the Dwarves, both canon and fanon, rather than relying on my general knowledge of The Lord of the Rings appendices and what I've gleaned from other people's stories, but I was impatient to begin. As it happens, I have need of haste because the word count has doubled, at least, from that of Chapter 2. Which means, yep, there's more to come, despite the length of this section!

Per the prompt from the Hobbit Kink Meme, there will eventually be non-graphic discussion of rape. This is, however, towards the end of the chapter and has yet to be written. Until then, the fic can easily be read as gen or pre-slash edging ever so slowly into an unexpected romcom, with no warnings. Well, aside from one for the angst that's pretty standard for post-BOFA stories from Thorin's perspective, especially as I've tried to be as canon conscious as possible within the limits of this AU mash-up of book and film.

Thorin Oakenshield/Bard, Master of Laketown/Bard (TW: Rape, Torture)
Every once in a while, the Master of Laketown had Bard brought to his bed as an object lesson on their respective positions. After Bard becomes King of Dale, he begins a relationship with Thorin, whom he eventually tells something of his past. Thorin, furious, dishes out a very generous serving of bloody cold revenge.
Thine Hatred To Crown
Thorin

· · ·

Revenge should have no bounds.
- Hamlet, Act IV, Scene VII

· · ·
Thorin Oakenshield had not been given to rashness since he reclaimed Erebor to rule as King Under the Mountain. When he'd first awoken after the battle, he had thought only of making amends before death took him: To Bilbo, whose brave service in a cause not his and friendship, care, deserved a better turn than to be summarily accused a traitor, threatened and exiled. To Fíli and Kíli, whose voices as survivors of Laketown's ruin and as his heirs, his closest kin, should have carried more weight in his counsels. And to the rest of his company, whose honor and loyalty had demanded that they stand with him to the end, no matter how bitter an end he made. Even to Bard, whose singleminded determination to see his people done right by Thorin could respect, the will that had, wed to skill and luck, at last laid low Smaug the Magnificent.

Upon what he was certain would be his deathbed, a deep, persistent ache in his chest that was too dulled to be anything but a mercy meant to ease his passing, Thorin found that the wrongs he'd taken such offense at in his stiff-necked pride-the snarling beast under his skin that would suffer no slights nor ever bow to another's power-did not amount to so very much when balanced on the scales against his own sins and the wonder of Erebor finally, finally restored. He would not be able to see the latter through, he thought, with less regret than he expected, but the former was within his ability to redress. Unless...

Thorin sat up with a wrench, only to fold in pain, a wetness spreading beneath the bandages wound tight around his bare torso as his flesh tore anew, his ribs grinding. He hated the choked scream that clawed its way up out of his throat, so weak, so helpless, when the fates of everyone he cared for were unknown to him. Do they yet live? His vision swam, blackening at the edges. Panting harshly, he fisted his hands in the blankets to keep himself from falling back down onto the bed. They must... A struggle he ultimately lost, like so many others, along with his consciousness, but not before Bofur's hat came into view, bobbing anxiously at his side and presumably safe atop Bofur's head. One, Thorin counted, his relief trailing him into the dark, a bright spark.

When next he woke, it was to Óin's touch, gentle but firm, careful and knowledgeable. Two. "-needs to rest. Healing can't be rushed, especially after some fool tears his stitches trying to get up from bed." Though Thorin's ears felt stuffed with wool and his eyelids as heavy as if they were carved of stone, he had no trouble recognizing Óin's exasperated healer's voice, which was so often accompanied by a fearsome scowl at his uncooperative patients. "This Elvish medicine, though... Say what you will about the Elves, they've more skill in the arts physic than any other race." A sigh. "He won't be pleased to owe them his life."

"But he will live," said a second voice, bluntly pragmatic, "and that is all that matters." Suddenly, a rolling laugh, as welcoming as a fire blazing in the hearth on a cold winter's night. Glóin, thought Thorin, warmed. Three. "Now I'm sure he'll recover. See how he frowns at being in debt to those..." Sleep dragged him down again.

Not until his third awakening was Thorin truly aware. It was night when he slowly blinked his way into consciousness. He lay in bed still, the off-white fabric of a canvas tent stretched overhead. There was a candle lit on the makeshift table beside him and a quiet presence. What had been a muted ache in his chest had seeped into his limbs and swelled into a gnawing pain, so fierce it robbed Thorin of breath as it crested at every movement, but he turned his head, gritting his teeth against his body's protests. Ori-four-sat on a stool, head bent, engrossed in...

He was knitting, Thorin decided, bemused, long wooden needles dipping deftly as he wove together thick strands of yarn, blue as a robin's egg. Where he had found yarn and needles Thorin could not guess, though he was grateful for it, glad that this youngest member of his company was not so hardened by war that he no longer took pleasure in the soft, steady weft and warp of good wool. Ori's eyes were shadowed, an angry scar running jagged down the left side of his face from temple to chin, and propped on the bed was a pair of crutches.

Ori, Thorin tried to say, but his mouth was dry, his tongue a numb weight, and he could only manage a pitiful croak. He was heard, nevertheless; Ori's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "You... Y-You're awake!" he stammered, hastily setting his knitting down on the bed so he could flutter both hands over Thorin's bandaged wounds. "Oh, drat it! What did Óin say to do if..." Trailing off, Ori studied the motley array of glasses, jars, and bottles on the table, gaze finally settling on a cup of water, already filled, a pitcher next to it. "Yes, of course!" He scooted his stool closer before holding the cup to Thorin's chapped lips with one hand, the other cradling Thorin's head. "Drink," said Ori, and Thorin obeyed, dazedly wondering when Ori had learned to command like Balin, unyielding as the bulk of the Misty Mountains for all that his tone was courteous and honeyed milk to the ears.

The water helped, and Thorin's mind cleared, though pain frayed his thoughts at the edges. He wanted to ask who else yet lived but, suddenly, he feared, doubts of his own strength touching his heart like icy fingers. Could he bear to hear that Bilbo was dead, his curly head cloven into a red mass of bone and gristle by an orc blade? That Balin and Dwalin, who'd survived the slaughter of Azanulbizar, had fallen? That Fíli or Kíli...

Whatever other failings I am guilty of, cowardice has never been one of them. Thorin was startled by the brush of wool against his knuckles, fleecy and feathery fine; he'd twisted the blankets up until Ori's knitting rested within reach. Weak, he couldn't stop himself from smoothing his hand over the yarn, again and again, the neat rows of stitches looping beneath his palm a small comfort. I am not my father. The thought rang hollow. Had he not believed the same about his grandfather's madness? Forcing the words past the lump in his throat, Thorin said, "Ori, tell me what-" He couldn't continue, a cough grating across the underside of his ribs as it pushed the air from his lungs.

Ori, brows drawn together in concentration, was stirring with a spoon the carefully measured contents of several bottles in a glass, the sides of which were stained by repeated use of the thin dark brown syrup. At Thorin's half-finished question, he glanced over, eyes falling on how Thorin's hand lay upon his knitting before darting away back to the foul concoction he no doubt intended to feed Thorin in short order.

"What I'm doing with knitting?" he said, with a nervous laugh. "I'm no good hauling stone with the work crews, you see, having to lug those"-he jerked his head at his crutches-"around. Óin's got me mixin' up medicines for him, and I saw some of the Men are coming down sick with the chills, nothing but the clothes on their backs to wear, so I went lookin' and-what do you know?-there was still yarn fit for knitting, that the moths hadn't eaten all to threads, in one of the lower storage rooms." Another nervous laugh. Ori talked in a rush, words tumbling one over the next, and his voice was high, squeaking, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears. "Been keepin' busy knitting when Óin's got no use for me, which is most o' the day, to tell it true. A lot of scarves, since those are the quickest to do, even for them too tall Men, some hats, some mittens..."

Thorin frowned. That was not what he meant, and Ori... Letting the technical intricacies of knitting wash over him, Thorin noted how Ori avoided his gaze, head ducked, fingers fidgeting against the glass they held. And he knows it well. A cold suspicion grew in his gut-a hard, roiling ball of ill feeling that sent creeping tendrils of unease throughout his body. What does he seek to hide from me? He could not move, could not breathe, dread twining around his chest and limbs, his throat, a strangling vine. Ori's eyes rounded with alarm, and he fumbled to bring the glass to Thorin's lips. "Drink," he said again, less command than plea this time. Thorin would've refused until he had his answers, but Ori whispered, "Please," and no member of his company should ever have to beg such a thing of him. He drank.

Óin's tonic for fever, aches and pains was as vile as he remembered from the aftermath of his more dangerous youthful follies, bitter and of a strange consistency that was slimy and sticky both at once. Thorin grimaced, fighting not to gag, as Ori fiddled aimlessly with the jars and bottles on the table, rearranging them. You will not escape me so easily, he thought, grimly determined, though not without pity for Ori as the reluctant bearer of what was certainly bad news.

But even as his mouth shaped a demand to know all that had happened since he fell on the battlefield, the heaviness of sleep spread insidiously through his arms and legs. I've been tricked. The look of relief on Ori's face was plain despite his increasing muzziness and drooping eyelids.

Right before he lost consciousness-again, a fact he was beginning to resent-the tent flap opened, admitting another visitor. "Ori, Nori told me you'd missed supper, so-" No matter that the voice stopped mid-sentence, Thorin had heard enough to identify the speaker, a little fussy and tone one of motherly concern. Dori made... Five. It was a struggle to focus. And... Nori, too. Six. Half the Dwarves of his company accounted for. Better than he feared but still so much less than he hoped.

"I couldn't-" Ori's breath hitched. "H-How are we going to tell him?" A sharp twist of worry pierced Thorin's cloudy distance at the hiccuping sounds that came from Ori, soft and stifled. Tell me what? he wondered absently.

Dori padded closer, setting something down on the table. After a long moment, Ori's sobs gentling into sniffles, Dori said only, "Eat your greens, Ori." It was kindly said but sad. And Thorin slept with the ghost of his father's hand upon his head, warm and broad, smoothing over his hair as they talked solemnly of how Mother had gone to stay in the halls of Mahal, father to all their people. "A beautiful place, my son, grander even than the Mountain, where she shall be waiting, smiling, to welcome us home when the day comes."

The bright light of the midday sun shone white through the tent fabric when he woke again, alone and feeling irritable. He would not swallow another of Óin's confounded potions-and no amount of pleading would sway him!-until someone told him in no uncertain terms how fared his sister-sons, Master Baggins, and the remaining four members of his company who'd yet to show themselves. Teeth gritted, Thorin built up a blistering head of steam to unleash on his next nursemaid. Which was utterly deflated by the welcome sight of Dwalin's tall, wide-shouldered frame in the entrance, clean-shaven head gleaming proudly.

"Good," said Dwalin with little ado. " 'Bout time you woke." He inspected Thorin with a gimlet eye that he'd learned from their former armsmaster while Thorin stared at Dwalin, thankful that some thoughtful soul had propped him up so he wasn't flat on his back like, Thorin admitted sourly, the invalid he probably was. The pain had receded into a dull ache once more, with the occasional twinge, easily ignored, but this reprieve felt lasting, less a mercy granted to the dying. And I'll need my strength. This was Dwalin at his most difficult, scowling fit to send a legion of orcs running for the dank holes they crawled from and ornery as a bear with a sore paw. Or a mother with cubs to defend. Thorin nearly smiled at the old jab.

"Dwalin-" Thorin rasped, his breath catching in his throat before he could say more, though what he didn't know. His eyes burned, and he blinked furiously. Besides the addition of a bevy of new scars, thin and faded, across his knuckles, Dwalin was unchanged, as familiar to Thorin as a warm coat worn comfortable by years at his back, shielding him from wind, rain, and snow. He could not bring himself to be the least bit intimidated by Dwalin's black mood or his stomping prowl around the tent, as if checking the corners for spies and assassins.

The bowl of broth that Dwalin thrust into his hands was a surprise, however. It was half filled with the simple soup the healers were fond of-nine parts water, salt, and herbs, one part assorted boiled beans and vegetables ground into a fine paste. There was no spoon.

"Eat." Dwalin nodded at the broth, voice gruff and a challenging glint in his eye. "Balin'll be here soon with business for you to see to." Having apparently said his piece, Dwalin showed Thorin his back and stood like a stone sentinel, arms crossed, glaring, Thorin imagined, at one canvas wall. With a frustrated growl-he would pry no answers from Dwalin now-Thorin tested the weight of the wooden bowl in his hands.

He was weaker than he supposed, arms trembling to lift the bowl the mockingly short distance to his lips when before they'd wielded hammer and sword untiringly for hours. It took all his concentration not to spill the soup. Thorin knew he should be grateful for the first food he'd been able to feed himself in days, maybe weeks, a warming broth that was nourishing as well as tastier by far than Óin's medicines, and that Dwalin hadn't decided to set him a harder task, with a larger bowl or, worse, a full one, contents hotter. But it'd never been in Thorin to be satisfied counting his blessings. His hands clenched around the bowl, shaking, as he fought to tip it high enough to drink the dregs.

When he was finally finished, his strength sapped, he would've dropped the bowl end over end had not firm, callused hands cupped his, steadying his tired fingers against the sanded wood. "You'll do," said Dwalin, tugging the bowl from Thorin's unresisting grasp with a strange, quiet care. Thorin's heart stuttered, remembering a younger Dwalin meticulously cleaning rent armor and broken weapons of blood in the sun-silvered waters of the Kibil-nâla. So that the slain could be accorded all honors upon the funeral pyres, he'd explained, thumb rubbing slow circles over a dent in Fundin's helm, washing away grime until the metal glistened.

"Dwalin, tell me-" But Dwalin had turned towards the entrance. Where, Thorin was startled to see, stood Balin, hair a white halo around his face, his expression grave. Without another word, Dwalin left them, a slump in his usually straight back and the bluff, bracing presence that had filled the tent when he first arrived nowhere in evidence, subdued. He clasped his brother's shoulder momentarily in parting. He did not once glance at Thorin.

Balin seated himself on the stool at Thorin's bedside, movements careful. For all that he was the oldest of Thorin's companions, a promising young councilor, whose talent for diplomacy had already been marked, in the service of Thorin's grandfather when Thorin was but a stripling, Balin had never looked so weary as he did now. His skin was paper-thin in the light, fragile and webbed with cracks, sleepless nights of worry etched in deep lines on his brow and at the pulled down corners of his mouth. Thorin tensed as he waited for the blows to come, his breathing shallow. Balin, at least, spared him the agony of asking again, desperate for even bad news.

More than a week, almost two, had passed since the battle. Thorin had lain unconscious for most of that time-at the advice of the Elven healers who wrested him from death's grip, Balin told him, to lessen the pain of his recovery and the stresses on his mending body-in the camp on the edges of Dale with the other grievously wounded. The bulk of the Elven army and the Men of arms who were still able had removed farther south and west in close pursuit of the fleeing goblins, that had not drowned in the River Running. By Thranduil's latest messengers, they'd driven their routed foe into the marshes about the Forest River, where it was expected the greater part of the fugitives would shortly be slain. The survivors, wrote the Elvenking, were free to make their escape into the trees. There they would be hunted at leisure by the roving forest patrols, if they did not fall prey to Mirkwood's darker denizens first or simply perish of thirst and hunger in the trackless shadows.

While no love did Thorin bear for the Wood Elves or their king, whose haughty voice grated at his patience even heard thirdhand, their hatred for the goblins could not be questioned, burning cold and bitter. Thranduil would not rest until the blades of his warriors had been stained black with the blood of every last goblin in these lands. Good, Thorin thought viciously. On ridding the world of this blight, he and the Elvenking agreed.

Dáin was dead. Fallen in his defense.

His cousin had fought to reach his side, red ax hewing a path through the enemy, when Thorin finally succumbed to the injuries he'd sustained in his final combat with Azog. May the carrion crows feast on his pale carcass. Dáin had stood his ground against the pack of wargs that came ravening. Mounted upon their backs was Bolg's guard, orcs of monstrous size wielding steel scimitars, tasked by Bolg with retrieving his father's body and taking the head of his father's killer. One after another, orc and warg died beneath Dáin's ax, until he was spattered black from iron helm to iron-shod boots. He bled from dozens of cuts, large and small, swaying on his feet in hurt or exhaustion or both, when Bolg himself dealt the fatal blow.

Thorin had been saved the same fate and Dáin avenged by Beorn. The skinchanger had appeared unlooked for, in his bear shape, and crushed Bolg with a single snap of his great jaws, his wrath a living thing that doubled, trebled his size until he seemed a giant. He bore Thorin to safety out of the fray, then swiftly returned to it, the tide of the battle turning.

The goblins, now leaderless and with Beorn moving unopposed through their ranks like a scythe through ripe wheat, broke formation, scattering in all directions, seized by a senseless terror. And so began the relentless chase of many days. Thorin listened in amazement as Balin recounted what was already becoming known among the more poetically inclined Men as the Battle of Five Armies. Never would he have guessed that isolated, reclusive Beorn would rush to the rescue of the beleaguered armies of Elves, Men, and Dwarves. Nor that the Eagles would marshal their forces and fly from their eyries high in the Misty Mountains with numbers not seen since the Elder Days. Truly, worthy deeds that will live long, celebrated in tale and song. It was reckoned by some that fully three-quarters of the Wilderland's orcs and goblins had been put to the sword, though Balin felt that overoptimistic.

As for Dáin, Thorin found that, saddened as he was by his cousin's death, he was not grieved. Durin's heirs had ever died hard and often young in this darkening age, and Dáin had not gone quietly but standing tall, his bloodied ax in hand, the bodies of his slain foes strewn at his feet like so much chopped kindling in a deed that would be told and retold over many a tankard of ale in many a hall, inn, and tavern. Durin's folk will see to that, thought Thorin. And Beorn tells of how Dáin lived to see his vengeance upon Bolg. Thorin hoped Dáin had breathed his last knowing that the day was won and Erebor reclaimed for their people.

"Dáin lay in state for three days in the upper audience chamber," reported Balin, "which, fortunately, was in need of no more than a thorough scrubbing and replacement of the hangings with some Nori had dug up out of storage." Thorin remembered that room, a smaller version of the Gallery of Kings on the lower levels, generally used for more intimate occasions when the King Under the Mountain was hosting his closest kinsmen, and deemed it fitting. "The Company took turns standing the watches as honor guard, alongside Dáin's surviving captains."

"And what arrangements have been made for Dáin's burial?" Thorin asked. He would gladly see his cousin laid to rest deep beneath the Mountain but was uncertain whether Dáin's widow and son-his namesake, Thorin dimly realized-would prefer that their fallen lord be brought home to the Iron Hills that he'd ruled for over a century and Náin and Grór before him.

Balin's ear, as always, did not miss the unspoken. "Dáin's wish was to be entombed beside his father and grandfather," he said. "An escort of twenty-four left a week past to bear his body back to the Iron Hills." Of the some six hundred Dwarves Dáin had led, a third had fallen on the field of battle and been buried under stone cairns in the eastern foothills of the Mountain, from where they could greet the dawn each morning and gaze homewards.

The enemy dead were yet being cleared from the ruins of Dale in their thousands and consigned by the cartload to the cleansing flames of a mass pyre far downwind of the camp. Burning day and night, the fires had been started with and were fed from Erebor's vast stores of lamp oil rather than the precious little wood that survived in the Desolation. These unlikely trees included stunted apple orchards that Bard nonetheless hoped might one spring blossom again and fruit.

Another overoptimistic view of the future, perhaps, but no one begrudged the Lakemen their plans to resettle Dale. Not with hundreds of husbands, fathers, and sons upon the slow funeral barges that were rafted down the River Running by the Elves, who had no small number of their own slain to lay to rest in the cool shade of their beloved beeches. Balin's voice cracked when he spoke of the dirges the Elves sang as they went about their solemn duty. An unearthly sound it was, he told Thorin, eyes distant. Their fair immortal voices carried over the water, clear as cut crystal and rounded smooth, the lilting, weaving notes of the melody lingering in the air long after they'd passed, like a ringing of silver bells in an empty room walled in seamless, flawless stone. The work crews would stop to listen, even the Dwarves, who mourned in silence by custom. Their songs were meant for the living alone, whether raucous drinking tunes or melancholy hymns full of memory.

Shaking his head and refocusing, Balin continued, "The work crews have made quick progress clearing the barricade and debris from the front entrance and hall. From surveys of the adjoining rooms, we will not be without sound shelter this winter, but the damage done to the treasure chambers and foundries by Smaug while pursuing us is... considerable."

Then, incredibly, a hint of a smile, frail and tremulous, curled in Balin's beard. Thorin was heartened to see this slightest sign that his old friend's sly humor was not lost. "The gold plating the floor in the Gallery of Kings must be removed, as well, of course. It is far too soft a metal to stand wear and a distracting temptation besides to every visitor who would make off with a chunk or two." Thorin grimaced at that, feeling chagrined, though he could hardly be blamed for not thinking of the cleanup at the time, a live and angry dragon at his heels.

Expression grave once again, Balin said, "There is also some... dissatisfaction among Dáin's followers." At Thorin's sharp glance, he added hastily, "They are all of them loyal Dwarves and true-of that, there can be no doubt-and they are agreed that, had a bargain not been struck with Bard, leaving the Arkenstone in the hands of those who'd come by it against the king's will and laid siege to the Mountain... Those were insults that could not be borne." Balin paused, stroking his beard in what Thorin had learned years ago was a nervous gesture. "But since the battle, there has been much converse between the armies, and having heard of events in Laketown and of the parley before the gates from the Men, many have begun to wonder how it is that the Arkenstone found its way to Bard and why."

Thorin rubbed a weak hand over his face. And so the mistakes of the past continue to haunt me. His fears were realized when Balin finished, "There are murmurings, though quiet still, of Thrór's name and of Thráin's. And of the folly of the march on Khazad-dûm, his opposition to which Dáin has never sought to hide."

Dwalin and Glóin had both been privately furious at Dáin's refusal to support Thorin's quest, holding his decision to be cowardly, borderline treasonous, and Balin disappointed, if not surprised. While Thorin had hoped for more than a promise of reinforcements should he prove successful, neither could he condemn Dáin's caution. Unlike all his cousins but Thorin himself, Dáin had to look first and foremost to his people. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills had answered an exiled King Under the Mountain's call to arms before and mustered their strength to reclaim an ancestral home long lost to a terrible evil...

To meet with failure and death. Thrór, Thráin, Frerin, Fundin-they were not the only losses the House of Durin suffered that day. Náin, too, had fallen, leading a score of warriors on a sortie that reached the very doorstep of Moria. None but his son lived. And of what he saw in Moria's black depths, Dáin refused to speak, save for once the morning after the battle, his face gray, to counsel that entering Khazad-dûm be put from their minds. "Within the shadows, a greater shadow waits for us still that cannot be overcome by any power of ours."

Durin's Bane, Thorin mused. The ancient foe that had driven them in flame and smoke from their great kingdom, lurking in the darkness. Just as Smaug did. And not by Dwarves was the dragon slain. That his part was less one of hero than that of villain was a bitter realization. His surety in the rightness of his actions had burned fever-hot through every fiber of his being when he treated with his enemies at the gates, his grandfather's crown heavy upon his head, but now he doubted, wondering whether that fire was fueled by greed instead of outrage.

When three days and three nights had gone with no sign of the dragon, a premonition of Smaug's fate crept into Thorin's heart, the silhouette of the windlance against a leaden sky clear in his mind and the grim visage of Girion's heir, hands steady as he peered down the length of an arrow at what had so unexpectedly washed up on the banks of the Forest River. Bilbo argued then that one or two of the Company should be sent to Laketown to see how matters stood there. Glóin had offered to make the daylong trip, as had Bifur and Bombur, but Thorin dissuaded them, saying that he needed their eyes to search for the Arkenstone, without which he had not the authority to summon the clans unchallenged to Erebor's defense, whether against Smaug or the treasure seekers who'd rob them of all that their people had labored to build once word spread that the dragon's hoard lay unguarded.

"We can do nothing for them now," he'd said gently to Bilbo and Glóin's worried faces, Bifur and Bombur at their sides in silent support. "Let us finish the task we set out to do and make safe the Mountain. If"-fear for Fíli and Kíli threatened to choke him but, no, no, he refused to believe his sister-sons dead-"they live still, they will know to come here."

After a tense moment, Glóin nodded reluctantly, Bifur and Bombur deferring to his judgment, as well; Bilbo was pale, lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line, but he did not ask of Laketown or of those left behind again. Their discontent showed only in how, though they scoured the heaps of gold and silver, gems, and other precious things for the Arkenstone with Thorin, when time came to rest, they climbed the ramparts above the main gates in unspoken agreement and looked southwards. Visible on the horizon past the ruins of Dale was the blue smear of Long Lake, a hazy plume of smoke rising above it.

Part of Thorin wanted to join them in their vigil, hands flat on the parapet so he could lean out, eyes straining for a glimpse of Fíli's bright hair, Kíli at his brother's side. Walking with a bit of a limp, perhaps, but unaided and growing stronger with each step towards home. But Thorin would not allow himself the comfort of clinging to his hopes. Not when he had a kingdom to secure for them all.

And so he spent his waking hours in the treasure chambers, sifting through his grandfather's vast wealth-his, now-handful by handful, stopping only to eat and sleep, his gaze still hunting for a fugitive glimmer of radiant white as he chewed his meals of tasteless cram and his bed an uncomfortable one of gold. He found many a wondrous example of his people's craft but never that most valuable jewel he sought. As more and more time passed with the Arkenstone remaining hidden from his sight, a knot of anger twisted in his chest, until he raked through the gold piled atop glittering gold, hands claws. Had he not done enough? Suffered enough sorrows and been denied enough in the hardscrabble years following Erebor's loss? Why then, after he'd at last reclaimed his grandfather's halls, was this affirmation of his victory and right to rule withheld from him?

Balin had tried once to draw him away from his increasingly feverish search; Thorin, to his shame, could not recall what he'd said, except that it'd been undeservingly harsh, accusing. More than once, he caught Bilbo standing on a ledge or staircase above, watching him with dark eyes, face tense and one hand in his pocket, the other fisted at his side. Was that when I lost his trust? He'd felt abandoned by his company, though in truth they were at his side no matter their reservations, and convinced himself that none but his closest kin, his heirs, could understand.

Yet when Fíli and a healed Kíli finally arrived, Bofur, Óin, and two armies at their heels, barely had the joyous greetings been exchanged before Thorin found himself at odds with them both. While they would never be so disrespectful as to flout their king's commands, it was clear that their wills were matched against their uncle's.

Fíli implored Thorin to hear Bard out, that the honor of a man who'd open his home-for no other reason than that Kíli was hurt, when everybody else had turned them away-to the companions of one he'd recently and publicly quarreled with could be trusted. But Thorin knew his nephew well, and what he saw in Fíli's eyes, so like Frerin's, was guilt. Fíli's own acute sense of honor would demand repayment of the debt he felt was owed Bard. For the orcs they'd led unwittingly to his children, for his slaying of Smaug, and for his later warning that they leave before the Master of Laketown roused sentiment against them. Thorin, however, denied that a few good deeds, the chiefest of which was as much self-serving as it was selfless, excused the affront of leading an army to another's home with the intent of thievery.

Worse was Kíli. Who dared suggest that the Elves might have come arrayed for war on behalf of their allies, the Men of Esgaroth, rather than seeing them for the opportunistic robbers they were, whose sole aim was to loot a treasure they had no claim to. "They are not without compassion, Uncle," Kíli had said quietly, and Thorin could not help but suspect that the redheaded she-Elf who saved Kíli's life had also bewitched him, ensnared with her enchantments his youthful spirit that loved all things seemingly fair and brave. Even if Thorin had been able to believe that one singular Elf could shed the disdain of her race to care for a mortal, much less a Dwarf, it was Thranduil who marched on their gates, and the Elvenking's heart was as ice, as hard and gleaming cold as the white gems he so coveted. He would not hesitate to use the plight of the Men to win his prize, exploiting Thorin's mercy and generosity.

Kíli had listened as Thorin instructed him on the realities of their situation, a stubborn set to his jaw, then said, "So you would deny the Lakemen aid until they come to us as beggars? You once told us of how the Elves refused our people succor when we were homeless and starving, yet you would be no better should you turn from those in need now because, having lost much, they would not sacrifice their pride, too." His voice had risen, his eyes flashing with the temper that was so like Thorin's own, which stirred in response. "And why should they? When, where we have failed and failed again, they killed the dragon that would've come back to kill you!"

Thorin's expression must have been terrible in his wrath, sudden as a spring storm, for Kíli almost quailed, before tipping his chin up, defiant. Now, the memory made Thorin queasy, wishing he could hide his face until he was alone again but knowing he hadn't the strength, his arm trembling. Letting his hand fall back down onto the blankets, he stared at his open palm. He did not like to think that he was the type who'd strike his kin in anger, but he'd been gripped then by a convulsion of emotion such as he'd never felt except in the heat of battle, his blood boiling at a threat to what was his. Fíli had stepped between Thorin and Kíli, head bowed.

"Forgive my brother his hasty words, Uncle," he'd said. "We made all speed to reach you with this news, and he is overtired, weak still from his sickness." Kíli swallowed and looked away, teeth gritted, but did not protest. At Thorin's nod, Fíli continued, "We shall, as ever, abide by your will in this and all matters of state." There was a distance in Fíli's voice, a polite deference that named Thorin king and a stranger.

Amends, he thought. I must make amends. What had become of his vow, sworn as he watched, helpless, Thrór pay more mind to his treasure than to his kingdom, not to fall prey to the same madness? Yet here he was, in his grandfather's place, Fíli and Kíli cast in his, though bolder than he ever was. His stomach lurched again. He still didn't know if Fíli and Kíli were well. If they lived... No, he refused to believe his sister-sons dead. He would see Fíli's bright hair at the tent entrance one morning, Kíli at his brother's side, to wake him with twin grins of delight, their youth tempered but untarnished. The half-remembered sound of Ori crying softly at his bedside echoed in his ears, mocking.

"-deal your treasure well, honoring all contracts, and that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills will receive weregild for their blood, reward for their fealty." Thorin blinked; Balin had been advising him on the appeasement of Dáin's followers, his face expectant, as Thorin wandered lost in the past. I have failed enough in my duty. He set aside his worries for Fíli and Kíli with a wrench, their absence like a missing limb, and forced himself to consider what he knew of the Iron Hills.

"Many of those who fled Erebor settled in the Iron Hills," he said slowly, "and are welcome to return or stay as they wish. I will not refuse the service of any Dwarf who seeks to restore the Mountain to its former glory, and the lords of the Iron Hills can expect seats on my council, as befits their rank and our kinship." Dáin's political skill, which had always been subtler and lighter in touch than Thorin's, was going to be much missed in the days to come. "Though... I do not think such rich deposits of ore should be abandoned. The steelsmiths of the Iron Hills are without equal, and I would see both realms attain the prosperity of old, before the shadow of the dragon darkened the Mountain's slopes, when the Dwarves of Erebor and markets of Dale were ever glad to have the works of Grór's people."

Balin nodded his approval, and Thorin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'll send a raven at once," said Balin. They'd been fortunate to find the birds still roosting in the guardpost on the heights of Ravenhill. Despite the great age of some of the ravens-one large bird in particular was bald and partially blind, flapping ponderously among the rocks-they'd proved reliable messengers to the Iron Hills, bringing Dáin in the nick of time.

For the barest moment, Balin hesitated, eyes sliding away from Thorin. "There are a few other matters that I fear cannot wait-" As if to make up for his lapse, Balin's tone was brisk and no-nonsense when he resumed, but Thorin did not think him surprised so much as resigned when he stopped Balin mid-sentence with a raised hand.

He frowned at Balin's pinched look. Stubborn and independent-minded as Dwarves were on the whole-heads as hard as the stone of their halls, according to some-loyalty to family and clan was the foundation of their culture, wound through their very bones and sinews from birth. While internecine power struggles marred the annals of Elves and Men, that was not the way of the Dwarves. To be King of Durin's Folk was to be as a father to all Durin's descendants, the eldest brother of seven, and whatever squabbles might arise between siblings or parent and child, there could be no open strife between kin, for that was the worst of wars. On this, every Dwarf agreed. Even Grandfather.

"We have bled for you and will again," Dáin had said to him before they parted where Durin the Deathless first marveled at the stars mirrored in the waters of the Kheled-zâram. And there had been nothing grudging in his cousin's voice nor in the strong clasp of Dáin's hand on his arm. No tinge of accusation, as in the farewells of the Dwarves from the clans farther east, bitter for their losses. How grateful he was then for Dáin's grounding presence! The name Oakenshield settling like a mantle about his shoulders, heavy with the gazes of those who saw upon his head his grandfather's crown, and grief lodged in his chest, sharp and tearing, he'd found that he could breathe easier in the knowledge that this most influential of his kin, of the line to which the kingship would pass should Thrór's fail, still stood stalwart beside Durin's heir despite the ills that had befallen them.

And so he spoke truly, Thorin thought with a pang. It was difficult to credit that Dwarves sworn to Dáin would show so little regard for how his cousin felt in life, causing trouble beyond grumbling. For what else could give Balin such anxiety? Veteran of countless hundreds of council room battles, some of which had near ended with an ax embedded in the table or a fellow councilor's thick skull, Balin was acting skittish as a lad upon the eve of his first skirmish, restless fingers smoothing one tail of his beard, then the other. "Have you another suggestion?" Thorin asked mildly.

"I..." Balin swallowed, head bowing as if the weight was suddenly too much for his neck. "There is another way to ease tensions, but..." His words were halting, choked with an emotion that Thorin feared to name. This was more personal than ensuring good relations with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and part of Thorin shied at the realization, an icy hand squeezing his heart. I am not my father. After a pause that stretched like a fraying rope between them, neither willing to let go, Balin said weakly, "It is... a delicate matter that can wait for a later time." He struggled to meet Thorin's eyes, and when he did, it was with a silent plea.

Thorin's throat was dry, and his tongue felt swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could press Balin for answers, he knew, as he'd meant to with Ori and with Dwalin, but... He was not ready. "Very well, Balin." Not ready to learn that... He ruthlessly cut the thought off.

Immediately, there was a relief of pressure in his chest, but it only left him sickened, wanting to retch as the growing hiss in his ears-coward, you coward-slithered around his neck like a noose, tightening. "What more is there to see to?" he demanded, hating how desperate he sounded. Balin didn't flinch at his clipped tone, merely nodding and continuing, his mask of composure fixed firmly back in place.

"The Arkenstone"-something in Thorin shivered at the name, the music in it calling to him despite everything-"is still in Bard's possession, and he would return it to you before he leaves for Laketown on the morrow." Longing punched him hard in the gut, driving the breath from him. Though he was dimly aware of Balin watching him closely, the glow of the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, was blinding in his mind's eye, streaming white through his fingers and limned in flickering arcs of color, rainbows trapped in crystal. He tensed. His hands burned with the phantom sensation of gold coins sliding clinking over his skin, cold metal warming at his touch, and a furious panic clawed at his insides, crying where, where is it.

But a voice sought him out in the dark beneath the Mountain, where all that shone was gold. "Thorin!" It was Bilbo. He looked at Thorin with beseeching eyes, his hair whipped into tangles by a gust of wind. "Thorin, I... did not mean, want to betray you, but... But you are not yourself! Would you have us and your, your cousin, when he gets here, die for a, a rock that's not needed anymore?" Why was Bilbo backing away from him? "The dragon is dead! The Mountain is yours! You..." Bilbo, with his clever mind and his courageous heart, large enough to hold thirteen Dwarves, was not made to sound so small, no matter his slight frame. "You have a home again, Thorin, and your family, maybe friends, if you would just bend a little. Isn't that worth all the treasure in Erebor?" The question was a wavering one, uncertain. And Thorin saw his own hands, fingers hooked into talons, reach for Bilbo and the bared curve of his neck, outlined against the sky.

His eyes snapped open at the brush of a hand against his shoulder. "Thorin," Balin said gently, "do you need to rest?" He was panting harshly, a thin film of sweat cooling on his brow; he shivered. Balin fretted beside him, but the memory of Bilbo struggling in his grasp as Thorin dragged him to the edge of the ramparts, intending to cast him down the sheer face of the Mountain to join the other thieves at the gates, was nearer still. I would've smiled to hear him scream. Would've been glad to see Bard's expression of shock and the Elvenking's when that body, the size of a child's, landed at their feet in a crumple of broken bones. "We can-"

"No." Had he been stronger, his guilt and shame not crushing him like a vise, he would've shouted his denial. "No, we do this now." His nails dug into the palms of his clenched hands; Thorin hoped they cut deep. Bloody crescents that might scar into reminders of what he deserved.

The Arkenstone had been a beacon in the yawning vastness of the first King Under the Mountain's great hall, drawing every eye to it and the throne upon which it spilled its light most brightly, but Bilbo was right. Possession of a rock, though the finest, rarest jewel ever mined from the earth, did not make one fit to wear a crown. Honor, compassion, fairness of judgment and dedication to duty, love enough not to risk people and kingdom for the cause of petty pride-such were the marks of a ruler whose rule was wise and just. When had his grandfather forgotten that? And when did I?

Exhaustion was beginning to weigh down his limbs, pain stabbing behind his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, mirthlessly, his head would burst like an overripe tomato, sparing him this scouring of his sins. Balin's look of concern had not diminished; he needed to regain control of himself. "Bard is in camp?" Thorin asked, seeking a distraction and not a little surprised. He did not take Bard for a man who'd send the soldiers under his command to chase after orcs and goblins without him. There was but one possibility in Thorin's mind. "How badly was he injured?"

While Balin stared at him in a pointed statement of who else had required the services of the healers, he did not refuse Thorin an answer, for which he was grateful. He'd rather hear of Bard's troubles than Bilbo's wet gasp as the soft flesh of his belly parted on the edge of Thorin's sword, Thorin pulling him close, his labored breathing a stutter in Thorin's ear, to pluck the Arkenstone from his pocket. A lie. I did not... The butchered meat that slid from his blade was not worth even a last glance; he had eyes only for the Arkenstone, oh, the Arkenstone, red and slippery in his hands, finally. "Tell me of Bard," he said hoarsely, swallowing bile.

Bard had indeed been wounded, but not badly enough, it seemed, for his enforced inactivity to sit well. A cleanly broken arm and bruised ribs had kept him from joining the pursuit; the morning after the battle, he could not don his coat without blanching, unable to hide how much he hurt. The Elvenking himself drugged the man into insensibility, or so Balin heard, then set an Elven guard on him, with strict instructions not to let him travel farther than Dale and certainly not to Laketown, as he wished to when he woke, angry and agitated.

"He was... insistent that he had to return to his children," said Balin, gaze dropping to his knees, where his hands curled loosely. Thorin wondered whether he, too, recalled the high, sweet voice of the girl who'd welcomed them into Bard's home, cramped and roughly built but warm, by asking if they would bring her family luck. "Not until he spoke with Thranduil's couriers did he consent to rest."

Dragonfire and ruin. Thorin kneaded the ridge of his nose. That is all I've brought the Men of the Lake. He'd excused his dismissal of Bard's claims as the only response a king could give to men who would steal by force of arms what should be asked for. Yet would he have honored his promise of gold enough to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over had the Elves retreated, the Men laid down their weapons? He did not know...

Thorin scoffed. I was reluctant to pay the cost of a few boats, weapons, and ill-fitting clothes. Nor could he blame Bard for his lack of trust, for Kíli was right, and Thorin had spit on Thranduil's word after the Elves showed themselves indifferent to his people's suffering. The same callousness he'd shown the Lakemen, consumed by his search for the Arkenstone, in the week of silence following Smaug's death. And... The Elvenking did not wake the beast and point it towards its unsuspecting victims, filled with ire. Thorin closed his eyes, wincing, hand rubbing weakly over his face. Why had he tried to deny all responsibility for the failure of his plans? What had he been thinking?

Short were the lives of Men and their vision limited, that of poor men even more so, easily swayed by sweet talk in the present but blind to the inevitabilities of the future. Smaug was cruel and capricious, bowing to no master, except perhaps his own greed. Laketown had always been at the mercy of a monster notorious for having none, whether the attack came in a year or generations later. But it was I who chose these people, in this time to bear Smaug's wrath.

Was there not a single deed to his name in the fortnight before the battle that was right, wholly and truly? He could not blame all on the dragon sickness either, for he had been himself, just the worst parts, stripped of nobility; Bilbo was wrong about that.

"Let him keep that cursed stone." The words were as much a shock to Thorin as they were to Balin, interrupting an account of Bard's walking surveys of Dale, shadowed by a watchful Elf. But the longer Thorin considered the idea, the more he felt it to be right. "May it bring him better fortune than me and mine."

What good had the Arkenstone done Thrór, stoking his desire for gold until pride became arrogance? Or me? King and kingdom both would be the stronger without the delusion that whoever held a rock, treacherous for all its beauty and allure, was somehow ordained to rule and beyond question. It would be hard to win the acceptance of his people for this, though Erebor's wealth was his to divide, the Arkenstone being no exception. Bard could, however, be convinced quicker than any Dwarf to rid everyone of the ill-fated jewel, Thorin judged, willing as he'd been to exchange it for practical gold and silver.

Balin had stilled. He cleared his throat and, expression neutral, said carefully, "Do you not intend to honor your bargain with Bard?" For a moment, Thorin was confused. Then he groaned, slumping tiredly. He'd forgotten that not only had Bard asked for a ransom but that he had agreed to pay it. For the Arkenstone's return. A fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, excluding gems, he remembered. Bilbo's contracted share of the quest's profits.

"No, I did not mean..." Suddenly, Thorin laughed, low and bitter, at this irony. When he had wanted nothing in the world so keenly as the Arkenstone, it eluded him, remaining tauntingly out of his reach in the hands of others, but now that he'd gladly see it lost to some far corner of Rhûn or the depths of the sea, events were conspiring to force it into his possession. He could not even say that this farce was unexpected; his life of late had seemed one endless series of such humbling lessons.

"Bard shall have his due," Thorin finally said, voice a rasp. And more, he thought, for it'd been out of spite alone that he'd denied Bard any of the innumerable gems scattered amidst the gold and silver, often wrought into fine jewelry, arms and armor, tableware. "Have the gold sorted to send to Laketown. As much as Bard requires, though"-Thorin winced again; the survivors of Smaug's attack would be lucky to have food and shelter enough to stave off death this winter-"offer to him the continued use of Erebor's vaults to keep safe his share of the treasure. The Arkenstone..." He had not the will to fight anymore. "I would be pleased to receive it from him," he lied, defeated.

"I'll let Bard know," said Balin, eyes worried as he searched Thorin's face. "Now, I think it would be best for you to rest until supper." Balin had the air of one who'd come to a difficult decision and was hurrying to see it through before he could change his mind. "We can speak again later." He studiously avoided Thorin's gaze as he made to rise from his seat.

"Balin." He was not ready. But neither did Thorin want to cling to his hopes any longer. They were a thin comfort, false, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach like a serpent waiting to strike. "Tell me of the Company." Balin sighed, almost inaudibly, the frown lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. In the sag of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine, Thorin read reluctance... and grief-a bottomless well of it. "If the news is ill," he said, the words lodging in his throat, "I would rather hear it sooner than later."

He felt brittle as hardened steel left in the cold, invisible fractures webbing his skin, but he straightened and firmed his expression into one of grim resolve. Sheer bravado, he knew, weakness thrumming through his veins, and it did not fool Balin. With a silent curse at being bedridden-he would not be able to catch Balin by the arm or follow should he choose to flee-Thorin surrendered what little pride remained to him and begged. "Balin, please." Looking stricken and unutterably weary, Balin nodded.

At first, the news was good. Bofur, Óin and Glóin, Dori, Nori, and Ori-Balin confirmed that they all lived and were well, healing in Ori's case from a broken ankle. Óin had taken charge of the wounded, consulting closely with the Elven healers who stayed when Thranduil marched with most of his strength, and Glóin was managing the sorting of the treasure, which had started the very next day after the battle in anticipation of Thorin honoring his bargain with Bard. No Dwarf spent more than a few hours at a time with the gold, however, Balin assured him, not even Glóin.

Everybody was arranged into shifts instead that rotated daily between repair work on the Mountain's stone halls, supply and salvage, kitchen duties, guard patrols, and burial details. Bombur ruled meal preparations with an iron ladle, by the accounts of his cowed helpers, Bifur and Bofur aiding and abetting his culinary reign of terror, when they weren't hauling stone to erect the new support columns in the entrance hall. Dori could frequently be found caring for Óin's patients, not least because Ori was among them, but was just as often at Nori's side as he cleared and appraised the contents of Erebor's countless storage rooms, marked and hidden. And Dwalin's sadistic glee at startling inattentive sentries at their posts was fast becoming legend, he and Dáin's captains determined to keep the camp in readiness for attack by the goblin stragglers reported to have fled east.

"Bilbo is well, running messages for me," Balin said, and Thorin breathed a sigh of relief, a knot under his sternum loosening. "He was missing on the battlefield for half a day before one of the Men found him. And he got a bit knocked about on the head." When Thorin tensed in alarm, seeing curls of hair red with blood, Balin added hastily, "Which is by now quite healed, upon the word of Óin, Gandalf, and the Elves."

Has he asked after me? Been to see me? The questions were on the tip of his tongue; Thorin bit down on them. Bilbo would be well within his rights to demand that Thorin never speak to him again, never again come into his sight. He closed his eyes-they were stinging-and tried to reconcile himself to the loss of a friendship that, though short and troubled, much of it his own doing, had been alight with the fragile promise of something good and lasting.

"I do believe the worst is behind us." That dawn upon the Carrock had been lovelier than any in more years than Thorin cared to count. Forgotten was the pain of his wounds, Azog's hated face, sneering at him as trees flamed around them like torches in the night, when the sunrise touched the Lonely Mountain's peak with rosy fingers. They descended the rocks, singing, the blue dome of the sky brightening above them and hope high in their hearts, and Bilbo was close by his side then, a shy smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, the cheer of the Company, even Gandalf's grumbling, enfolding them. But there were shadows waiting for them at the foot of the mountains, a chill mist hanging in the air, and the darkness of Mirkwood, the waters of Long Lake, and finally the echoing halls of Erebor had been colder still, cold as gold sliding over his skin.

"Thorin." The sound of his name was jarring despite Balin's gentle tone. "Bilbo sits with you every night, after Óin's tonic has put you to sleep. We usually have to come here to wake him in the mornings." Humbled anew, Thorin stared blinking at the blankets, imagining Bilbo's hand, soft except for tentative calluses from Sting, curled atop them next to his. "He's afraid you haven't forgiven him for the Arkenstone." Balin's voice was filled with affection and exasperation, as was the gaze he turned on Thorin as Thorin sat stunned into speechlessness. How could Bilbo think that, when I nearly killed him in my madness?

"It is I who must ask his forgiveness," said Thorin. He glanced uncertainly at Balin, his heart a trapped moth in his throat. "Will he see me? To talk?" If Bilbo refused to allow him to make amends... He didn't know what he would do.

"Aye, I reckon he will." Balin's smile was small but reassuring, and the fluttering settled in his chest as if he'd caught the moth in his cupped hands, delicate wings a tickle against his palms. I can take back my words and deeds at the gates. Though their friendship may be nothing more than memory, he and Bilbo could part in kindness, and for that Thorin was grateful.

For a while, there was silence, unbroken except for the faint noises of camp beyond the tent. Thorin was no fool, no matter how badly he'd acted one; he hadn't failed to note whose names Balin had not mentioned. Perhaps one or the other was grievously wounded and had yet to wake, the hopes of recovery dwindling with every passing day. Perhaps both had been maimed, lost limbs or senses or wits. Perhaps...

But, no, the hollowness that grew in him as he again saw sorrow's hand heavy upon Balin told him otherwise. "What of Fíli? Kíli?" He managed to keep his voice level until the end, when Balin looked away, swallowing a choked sob, as clear an answer as anything he could've said.

Fíli was dead. Kíli was dead.

And Thorin felt nothing. Distantly, he heard how his breathing hitched, the pounding tempo of his heart erratic. It grated at his ears like a dull file across the pitted bone of his skull, and he wished he could be rid of the sound. The cot he lay on, nestled in a cocoon of bedding, was too warm and too soft, the light that seeped through the tent's canvas walls too bright, blurring the world until there was not a sharp edge anywhere to match that of the knife carving him open from throat to navel. He felt nothing.

Deep beneath the Mountain, there were chambers where the walls, floor, and even ceiling were inlaid with patterned bands of gold and truesilver, scenes of the world and the storied history of the Dwarves graven on the panels between by the finest stonemasons of the kingdom. Gems would flash by torchlight, tens of thousands of mirrors, each no larger than the head of a pin, but it was usually dark and quiet. Thorin wanted to stretch out on his back upon one of those smooth floors and just... sleep. Until his body was as cold as it was numb.

Next »