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lathalea · 8 months

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The Arrival

Yes, my beloved readers, it's time for another Thorin fic from yours truly!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader/OC (pick one) Rating: G Warnings: none Author's notes: Thorin and his Company have reclaimed Erebor and started rebuilding their kingdom. Everything seems fine except for the fact that the King Under The Mountain is eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone very dear to him... Also, I want to apologise to Peter Jackson for stealing some lines from An Unexpected Journey and J.R.R. Tolkien for appropriating and rephrasing one sentence from The Lord of The Rings. I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? You can find this fic on AO3. For @legolasbadass 💙💙💙

Khuzdul: Iglishmêk - dwarven sign language Kurdelê - my heart Lukhdelê - my light of all lights

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the second of his name, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Durin’s folk, was not a patient Dwarf—and yet he waited. He had been standing on the main terrace above the Great Gate of Erebor since the moment when the first rays of the morning sun gilded the distant peaks of the Iron Hills. His eyes, however, were turned towards the west, where the jagged tops of the Misty Mountains grazed against the pink sky. As he took a deep breath, fresh spring air filled his lungs. It was his—and his people’s—first spring in Erebor since it was reclaimed. The winter after the Battle of Five Armies passed in a blink of an eye. The kingdom was being rebuilt and prepared for the returning Dwarves, food stores had to be replenished, new trade agreements had to be signed… but among all those duties, something else kept Thorin awake until late on many a night. His memories.

The memory of a pair of hands gently resting on his shoulders as he sat behind his desk, and the sweet timbre of the voice that went with it, ��Come, Kurdelê, it is time we reposed for the night, those reports can wait until the morning.”

The memory of those soft, sweet lips pressing innocently against his cheek and murmuring something scandalously indecent into his ear.

The memory of how her body felt in his lap, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his, her silver laughter as she pretended to scold his rash behaviour, so unbecoming of a king.

The memory of her bare skin in candlelight.

But there were other memories, too. Their lengthy late-night conversations about anything and everything. Their secret escapades to the market, or to an inn, dressed as common folk, pretending to be a couple of travelling merchants. Their wanderings through the Blue Mountains in search of the best view of the sea in the west (his choice) and the most beautiful flower glades (her choice).

During the lengthy council meetings he had to hold almost daily in Erebor, he would recall how much her presence changed the dynamics of similar gatherings back in the Blue Mountains. Her reasoning was swift, and her no-nonsense approach to the matters of state made even the most ancient council members nod in approval. Even now, he would—out of habit—turn to his right, wishing to discuss a matter with her or ask for her insight. But she was not there, and so he would give out a dissatisfied grunt and return to the matter at hand.

He knew that the only thing he had to do was wait, and he abhorred it. But there was nothing to be done. No sane person would risk crossing the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter. Now, however, the spring came into its own right. And he sent his best men to the High Pass to oversee the approach of the first dwarven caravan from Eriador. It was supposed to bring the first group of his people returning home, merchants, masters of craft, their families and belongings… and her. The whole Erebor was waiting for the arrival of their kin—the symbol of a new beginning for the Mountain and its dwellers. Many eyes turned to the west, counting the days, making wagers, discussing the route the waggons must have taken, and the current road conditions. It seemed that in those days, only one topic existed: the caravan.

But Thorin could only think of her lovely hand in his. Of her kindred touch.

As soon as a raven brought word from the caravan, reporting that they have succesfully crossed the mountains, he could not stop himself from looking to the west, and hoping.

This was the fifth day he spent on the terrace, waiting for any signs of the caravan’s approach.

On the first day, Gloin waited with him in hopes of seeing his wife and son, but was called away due to some issue in the treasure chamber. Thorin stayed, cursing the enchanted forest (and its haughty king, for good measure) for daring to obscure his view. Sadly, neither the forest nor its king moved out of the way.

On the second day, Dwalin asked Thorin whether he was growing mawkish in his dotage, staring at the edge of Mirkwood like a lovesick whelp—a question he had to take back on the training grounds.

On the third day, Dori asked whether Thorin would rather wait inside, on account of that nasty rain, and drink some warm tea with honey. No, said Thorin, he would not. And that envoy from the Iron Hills could join him there, on the terrace, by the way.

On the fourth day, Nori, Bifur and Bofur kept Thorin company, amusing him—and themselves in equal measure—with the latest gossip straight from the taverns of Erebor (all two of them, for now). He had no idea that several hundreds of dwarves, mostly newcomers from the Iron Hills and the White Mountains, could wreak such havoc. And marry so swiftly and in such numbers. Spring was truly in the air.

Now, on the fifth day, he stood alone, and waited. Roac was circling the Long Lake below, giving out a single caw from time to time, “Still nothing.”

And then, a hunting horn rang out in the air. Thorin knew its sound all too well.

“Balin!” he exclaimed to his friend who sat in the hall beyond the terrace. “Sound the alarm!”

The elderly dwarf raised his head from above a piece of parchment, slightly puzzled.

“Call out the guard,” Thorin insisted, feeling his impatience take the better of him. “Do it now!

“What is it?” Balin rose from his seat, his scroll forgotten.

“The caravan!” Thorin gestured excitedly—perhaps a tad too excitedly for a Dwarf of his stature—towards Mirkwood, where a long line of waggons started emerging from the forest. “They will be here soon!”

She will be here soon.

Over a year passed since the last time he held her in his arms, since he braided the silky dark waves of her hair, and since he looked into the brilliant, wise eyes of the woman he loved. To him, it felt like an eternity, and in that very moment, as he hurried down the stairs that led towards the Great Gate, he made a solemn promise to himself.

When the caravan arrived, most of the Dwarves were already gathered outside of the mountain. The guards held their heads high, presenting their weapons in an honorary salute, not leaving their posts, but even they cast curious glances at the newly arrived, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd. Thorin smirked at his thoughts. They looked as impatient as their king.

He knew the protocol of such meetings like the back of his hand, requiring him to stand by the gate, look regally, and welcome the newcomers to their new—old—home. His resolve wavered, however, when he saw a familiar figure clad in a green, fur-lined gown getting down a waggon, helped by one of the guardsmen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and then stopped, recalling who he was and what he was expected to do. He was also not allowed to leave his post, just like his guards. Instead, he observed from a distance, admiring the way the waves of her hair fell down her shoulders as she looked around, perhaps slightly disoriented, taking in the surroundings. Thorin saw the exact moments when her gaze rested on the mossy stone shaped by his ancestors into statues of warrior kings. Then her gaze moved down, focusing on the green marble of the Great Gate. Her eyes widened, her lips formed an “O” and then moved, she spoke something, but her words were lost in all the commotion. In that very moment, she reminded him of that bright-eyed maiden he had met for the first time in a mountain meadow half a world away; the maiden who laughed at his abysmal jokes, who fit so well in his arms when they danced, and who accepted his awkward courting efforts. The time that passed between then and now did not take away her ability to wonder and enjoy the world around her. She endured so many hardships on the way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, so many cold nights on the road, faced so many dangers, and yet she never wavered in her decision to leave the Blue Mountains behind to be with him and their people. Now, she was finally here and, at last, he felt complete. Being able to see his own kingdom—their kingdom—through her eyes, and to see how amazed she was at the view, was a reward on its own.

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling when her eyes finally met his.

“Welcome home, my…” he began signing in iglishmêk, in that discreet way they often did on official occasions when the eyes of many would rest on them.

A light flush bloomed on her cheeks, she responded with a smile, and began walking towards him, oblivious of her escort and the joyous crowd around her, forgetting about the protocol, moving faster and faster, a giggle escaping her lips, her braids danced in the wind, her cloak flowed behind her, and…

“Thorin!” she called him in that melodious voice of hers, and there were diamonds in her eyes, or perhaps it was only his vision that suddenly turned very blurry, and he opened her arms, and thought “the Abyss take the protocol!”, and he rushed towards her, ignoring Balin clearing his throat in embarrassment, because she was finally here, and he had waited long enough—and they finally met halfway.

He wrapped his arms around her and felt her pressing into him, and there was laughter, and more tears in their eyes, the diamonds of happiness, those most precious among gems, and he was finally able to finish that sentence.

“Welcome home, my wife,” he rasped out, pressing his forehead against her, breathing in her familiar flowery scent, the one he adored so much. This was her, finally her, in his arms, and only she mattered in this very moment, not the crowd cheering around them, witnessing this moment of tenderness between their ruling couple, not even his kingdom, nor the world around them—now, it was only her.

“I missed you, my love,” she murmured, holding tight onto him, as if she wanted to make sure he would not disappear, and a wave of warmth washed over him. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, with you, after all those months…”

“Neither can I,” he agreed, cupping her cheek tenderly and eliciting a small sigh from her. “It was much too long, Lukhdelê.”

“Aye, it was,” she nodded, her eyes searching his face, as if learning it anew.

“I made a promise to myself,” Thorin continued. “Never again.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head in that alluring way of hers, and he had to suppress the improper urge to kiss her passionately in front of his people.

“Never again shall we part for so long. I crave you by my side, my heart,” he stated, bringing her hand to his lips.

“Then I will be looking forward to you upholding the promise,” she graced him with a teasing smile that made his blood run faster. “We have been apart indeed for too long, and so were our people. I believe it is time for us to work on improving their morale, would you not agree, my king?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen,” he agreed and took her in his arms again, and then their lips met. Sweetness intermingled with warmth, tenderness fueled the fire inside them, and he cared not that they stood in front of the gate in the sight of many.

After all, who cares about protocol when you have to properly welcome your wife home?

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months

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Spiced Wine

Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: brief alcohol use, dancing, fluff, romantic tension

Word Count: 2.2k

During a winter festival, you dance with a stranger.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Winter is knocking on the door.

There is a thin dusting of snow upon the ground. All of Erebor and Dale is out this evening with little regard for the chill. The solstice begins tonight and with it comes the changing of the season along with celebrations to mark the end of the harvest.

You stand just outside Erebor’s massive doors. A large crowd enters, seeking the warmth within the dwarven halls. King Thrór is hosting a massive feast full of food, lively music, and dancing. While Erebor is the host, all of Dale is invited, and that also includes many of the surrounding communities.

This will be your first time entering the dwarven kingdom, and you’re nervous. Sweat blooms in your palms, and you aren’t sure whether you should see this through or turn tail and go home.

But if you return home, you will be alone, and you’re sick of being alone.

Your life in Dale is pleasant, and you enjoy working in one of the few bookshops, but it is almost always only you. Most of your family is gone or dwelling in faraway places. There is only you to rely on, and over the last few years, more and more of the men in Dale have been…forward with their intentions.

Their attention is nice, but it’s also exhausting. Every time the bell over the door rings, you expect it to be a customer. Most of the time it’s one of the many single men wishing to speak with you. You have to put on a smile and get through it as best you can.

You want to enjoy yourself tonight, even though you’d rather return home. Fortunately, you haven’t noticed any of your admirers, and you’re silently thankful for it. The last thing you need this evening is to chase off your group of men. They’ll follow you around, and then everyone else will avoid you.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you turn your nerves to steel, and walk through the massive entryway and into the main hall of Erebor. You follow the crowd, moving with them as they veer to the right, entering through several small archways.

As you near, you spot several tables. There are masks resting upon the wood in little rows, and you silently thank all the gods you know. Walking up to the nearest one, you consider your options. Before you is a beautiful assortment, each mask unique and different. The craftsmanship is exceptional. You settle on a gold mask that will cover everything but your eyes and mouth.

Securing it in place, you feel much lighter than before. With the mask, your flock of men will not find you, and even if they do, they might not realize that it is you that they’ve found. From there, you become one with the crowd, walking beneath more arches until you’re herded into the grand banquet hall.

The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of smooth stone. The ceiling is high, and the pillars that support it are intricately carved with the images of dwarven kings from ages before. Hanging from the ceiling are strands of lights and different flora from around the area that thrive in the frigid temperatures. Those same plants are also around the room in various arrangements and displays.

The large room is separated into two sections. On one side is the food and drink. There are long tables there as well. People gather around the tables of food and near the massive barrels where people fill their cups. A good many attendees are also seated at the long banquet tables where they talk amongst themselves while they eat. The other side of the room hosts the music and people dancing.

Everything is warm and comforting. With the mask, you’re beginning to relax. You can do this. Walk the room, chat with a few people, eat some delicious food, and partake in a glass or two of strong drink. Then, you can return home, and curl up in bed with a book as the snow falls.

Starting at one end, you do a small lap, eventually making it to the large casks where people fill their cups. You delicately reach for a goblet and present it to one of the dwarves who guards the taps.

“What will it be, lassie?” he asks with a kind smile. His wrinkles crinkle when he grins.

“What do you have?”

“Well,” he begins. “There are lots of options, but there is spiced wine that just came in. It’s strong, flavorful, and filling. You won’t need much to make your toes warm.”

You laugh. “That sounds lovely.” You hand him your cup and watch as he fills it almost to the top. “Thank you.”

You take the cup and bring it to your lips. The flavor bursts on your tongue and your shoulders sag with happiness.

“Good, isn’t it?”

You nod and lightly wipe at the corner of your mouth. “Indeed. Many thanks.” He inclines his head and starts speaking with a new guest.

As you step away, you sense a change, as if someone were watching you. Pausing, you scan the room, making sure to not appear obvious in your observation. Has one of the many bachelors from Dale noticed you? Do they see you at this moment?

When you don’t notice anyone staring, you push out into the crowd, doing slow sweeps with the turn of your head. Still, nothing and no one grabs your attention. Frowning, you stick to the perimeter, stopping to chat with a few people you know.

Deja, the woman who runs the flower shop next to the bookstore you work in, leans against a nearby pillar. A man has her cornered, talking her ear off, and she’s not even paying attention. Finding your in, you saddle up beside the man.

“Deja! I’ve been looking for you!”

At first, she frowns, but then she grins mischievously and grabs your outstretched hand. The man sways a bit, and nods in confusion, stumbling off to find another woman to talk at.

“Didn’t recognize you under that mask,” she laughs, the two of you making a home against the wall.

“Trying to avoid notice,” you reply, sipping on your wine.

She snorts and leans in. “I don’t think you’re successful.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

She points her chin to a spot across the room. You follow the direction and immediately freeze. There is someone watching you. It’s one of the dwarves and the finery he wears is a deep royal blue. Interwoven into the fabric are threads of silver and metalwork that speaks to influence. He wears a silver mask that matches all that detail work. His dark hair is neatly braided, and pulled back, but you notice the soft waves and the way he holds himself.

“You’re mistaken,” you laugh nervously, this time taking a large gulp of your drink.

Deja shakes her head. “Then why is he heading this way?”

“He isn’t,” you insist, and Deja laughs loudly.

“Hand me your drink.”

“What?”

Deja snatches the cup right out of your grasp. “He’s going to ask you to dance.”

You’re about to snap back, but Deja is right. He is right there in front of you and Deja is walking away quickly, enjoying your spiced wine.

“May I ask for a dance?” The stranger presents his hand, palm upward. The rough timbre of his voice is surprising. Your body responds to it, a small piece of you buzzing with pleasure.

Maybe it’s the spiced wine finally making its way into your system. “Of course,” you answer, taking his presented hand.

Your stranger leads you out into the group of dancers. The song that begins is slightly upbeat, and you allow him to take the lead. It is a song and dance you are not familiar with, but he makes it easy to keep up, and you don’t stumble over your feet or his.

His control is impressive. Elegant, but strong. Purposeful. There is power in every step, as if he is in battle and not moving through a coordinated dance.

“I do not know your name,” he says, spinning you into his arms.

You move away, and for some odd reason, your body doesn’t like that you do. It wants you to curl back into him. It is such a strange sensation.

“And I do not know yours,” you tease, not knowing where this sudden flirtatiousness is coming from. Is it from the wine? Surely not. You didn’t even drink half of it. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re wearing a mask, and he is a stranger. There are no stakes.

The music cuts out, and then the two of you are face to face. Mere inches apart.

The music swells and begins a slower tune.

“Another? So that I may know your name?” He asks so kindly. You cannot refuse him.

Nodding, you allow him to slip an arm around your waist and pull you close. You lick your lips, preparing to give him your name, but notice how his blue eyes track the movement of your tongue. It sends an immediate heat to the space between your legs.

You give him your name, and he hums softly like it pleases him to hear it.

“I am Thorin,” comes his reply. He looks expectant, as if waiting for some sort of reaction, but the name isn’t entirely familiar. There is a slight sense of knowing, but it escapes you.

Perhaps the wine is doing more than you previously thought.

“It’s a pleasure.” You bow slightly, and you notice a bit of color blooming near the edges of his cheeks.

The two of you slowly move with the crowd of dancers. His hand on your waist is like a brand. It is hot, as if melting through the fabric of your dress to touch your skin. It feels like a new crush, like one you had when you were younger, and your emotions ran wild.

While the hand on your back is fiery, Thorin’s strength is palpable. The way he guides you across and around the dancefloor is a testament to that. Even wearing such finery, you see the ripple of muscle underneath. Your own hand, which rests on his shoulder, also clearly picks up on his strength.

There are plenty of men in Dale who are warriors. Several of them even actively pursue you. So why is Thorin any different? Why is your body responding to him like it’s as natural as breathing?

At this point, you cannot put it all on the wine. Maybe it’s because you don’t feel pursued, nearly hunted down every day. He is not pushing, and that is a welcome respite from the many months of men wearing you down, hoping that you’ll simply give in.

“You are from Dale?” he asks, guiding the two of you into a turn.

“Yes. I run a bookshop there.”

He smiles and you instantly melt, loving the attention. “You’re a reader then?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“When I have the time, I do enjoy it. Yes.”

The people around you fall into a dip and Thorin responds in kind. When he brings you back up, your foreheads are nearly touching, and your mouths could easily close the distance if one of you made the first move.

Perhaps it’s only a second, but the two of you hang there in that moment. Close, but not closing the distance. Thorin’s blue eyes are piercing. Sharp. They are like steel swords. You are cut through, down to your core, and you are unable to look away.

The music tapers off, but Thorin does not pull away. He does not remove his arm from around your waist. And you do not remove your hands from him.

“I should go,” you murmur, but make no move to break contact.

“Should you?” asks Thorin, his head tipping to the side as he examines you.

And you do draw back from him, even though it’s painful. Thorin releases you, but remains unmoving, his hands slightly outstretched before him as if you’ll step right back into them.

“Thank you. You’re a lovely partner to dance with,” you say just as the music begins to swell again.

Thorin bows deeply, and the gesture momentarily steals your breath.

“Enjoy your books. Perhaps you may find me amongst your shelves one day.”

He turns and leaves, disappearing into the crowd. Turning on your heel, you bolt for the door, your chest heaving as your heart hammers.

Deja steps into your path and her hands grab your shoulders. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” and you almost choke on your answer.

She frowns, her brow creasing. “Did he hurt you?”

“No!”

She sighs, her relief spreading across her face. “Oh, thank goodness.” Deja releases your shoulders and places her hands on her hips. “I’d end up in Erebor’s dungeons for assaulting the crown prince if he had.”

“The what?” you splutter, eyes round and alert as you turn around to look for Thorin.

“Did you not know?” asks Deja skeptically.

You swallow, and don’t answer.

“By the gods,” laughs Deja. “What did he say to you?”

Gripping the front of your dress, you turn back to Deja. “He said he might come to the shop.”

Her eyes widen a moment before a mischievous grin spreads across her face. “He likes you.”

“Don’t say that,” you hiss.

Her laugh is loud as she grabs your wrist and guides you to the exit. Tucking her arm around yours, she pulls you in close. “You’re giving me detail of this encounter.”

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sotwk · 3 months

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Historical Event in the SotWK AU:

The (Non)Involvement of Thranduil in the Sack of Erebor

Could Thranduil have helped kill Smaug and save Erebor?

Disclaimer: The content in this post is mostly headcanon created for the SotWK AU, founded on canon details from the books and movies.

Context: Timeline of Thranduil's History in the Third Age

c. TA 1000-2000 - Thranduil, his family, and their people spend one thousand years fighting and enduring against the rise of Dol Guldur and the darkness and evil creatures that have infested and overrun the southern regions of Greenwood the Great.

Alas, by TA 2000:

Nearly all the woodlands south of the Old Forest Road had been abandoned.

The Woodland Realm's population had been reduced to nearly half of the great number it reached during the Golden Age of Thranduil's rule.

Many Silvans were killed by the onslaught of spiders, orcs, and other dark creatures or poisoned by the sick forest itself (air, water, food). A few even faded from grief and despair, which never before happened to the resilient Silvans.

The Silvans' famously high birthing rate dropped to nearly zero, leading to a "lost generation" and fears of gradual extinction.

TA 2063 - Crown Prince Mirion dies in direct combat against the Necromancer, resulting in Thranduil's vengeful razing of the fortress (SotWK HC), and the Council of the Wise's investigation (through Gandalf), all of which forces Sauron to abandon Dol Guldur. This begins the period known as the Watchful Peace.

During the 400 years of the Watchful Peace, the Silvans regain hope and courage, and with that, their ability and desire to have children again.

TA 2210 - Thorin I abandons Erebor to join his kin in the Grey Mountains in TA 2210. The Lonely Mountain is abandoned for three-hundred and eighty years.

TA 2460 - The Watchful Peace ends. Sauron returns with increased strength to Dol Guldur.

TA 2509 - Princess Itarildë’s mother, Nimeithel (oc), dies trying to defend her cousin Celebrían from the Orcs. Lady Celebrían sails to the Undying Lands the following year, and Queen Maereth is devastated by the loss of her two dearest friends.

TA 2589 - When their halls in the Grey Mountains come under attack by Cold-drakes, Prince Arvellas dies attempting to aid the Dwarves (defying his father's orders for the only time in his life). Dáin I and younger brother Frór are both slain, and Thrór inherits the kingship.

TA 2590 - King Thrór returns to Erebor with the Arkenstone to re-establish the Kingdom under the Mountain. Thrór's younger brother Grór leads others to the Iron Hills.

TA 2601 - Prince Turhir leaves Mirkwood, unable to cope with the trauma and guilt over his brothers' deaths. (Further details withheld to avoid fic spoilers.) His departure strains Thranduil and Maereth's marriage in a way it has never suffered before.

TA 2746 - Thorin (Oakenshield) is born in Erebor. Maereth sends gifts to honor the birth of the new prince, in an attempt to heal the friendship with the House of Durin that was broken after Arvellas's death. The gifts are accepted, but the rekindled friendship remains tenuous, especially since Thranduil has lost his desire to remain allies with the Dwarves he holds responsible for Arvellas's death.

TA 2760 - The continuing strain on their marriage forces Maereth and Thranduil to agree they need time apart. Maereth leaves Mirkwood to reside in Imladris for several years. (This is the only separation they have in the 2,900 years of their marriage.)

TA 2765 - Thranduil (trying to prove to his willingness for peace with the Dwarves again, as Maereth wants of him) commissions the jewel-smiths of Erebor to make a necklace from the White Gems of Lasgalen. However, when he comes to claim the finished necklace, he is turned away by Thrór, who (under the influence of dragon-sickness) claims that the gems were ill-begotten treasure from Khazad-dûm, and belonged to the Durins by birthright. Thranduil holds in his anger at the insult and does not press the matter, not wishing to completely sever the alliance that means so much to his wife.

TA 2770 - Smaug lays waste to the town of Dale and captures Erebor with all of its treasure.

tldr: Thranduil was not at his best when Smaug came to attack Erebor. He had many problems of his own, and he had very legitimate grievances against Thrór and his kin.

Unfortunately, Thrór was never forthcoming with his grandson, Thorin, about the deep history between the Durins and Thranduil's family, so as far as Thorin and his people believed, the Elvenking and his family just "lacked all honor". Nothing could have been further from the truth.

How did Thranduil react upon hearing of the attack?

The Elvenqueen was still in Imladris during the attack, and was therefore not present to give Thranduil council. Because of their separation, Maereth's mind was closed off to Thranduil's, and so she could not be reached through ósanwe. The younger princes, Gelir and Legolas, lacked the ability to telepathically communicate across that great a distance.

It was Gelir and Legolas who pushed their father to ride out with their army to help the Dwarves. Even though the bitterness of Arvellas's death still remained, Thranduil heeded his sons.

They had a solid plan to kill Smaug.

Thranduil had fought against fire-breathing dragons during the War of Wrath, and he knew what it would take to kill one: nothing short of a hero's self-sacrifice.

There was one weapon in Mirkwood that was surely powerful enough to pierce dragon hide and flesh: the great broadsword (or claymore) of the late Crown Prince Mirion.

Mirion's sword was forged by the prince himself (he was the best bladesmith in the realm), and was made from a special steel sourced from Khazad-dûm centuries before its fall. (Thranduil's sword was made from this same steel, which was also crafted by Mirion and given to his father as a gift.)

The sword was so large and heavy, only three people were known to be able to wield it: Mirion, Thranduil, and Turhir. Only Mirion had the strength and sufficient practice to wield it single-handed when needed.

Therefore, any attack using the sword would have to be carried out by the Elvenking himself.

For reference, Mirion's broadsword is about as massive as "Ice", Ned Stark's Valyrian sword from Game of Thrones.

In order to defeat Smaug, Thranduil's strategy would have been to attack the dragon himself with the sword. Gelir, Legolas, and the rest of his army would provide enough diversion to allow the Elvenking to get close without being burned by dragonfire.

What actually happened during the attack?

Thranduil was gripped by indecision and did not act as soon as he received the news of Smaug's descent. He already knew that any action they take against the dragon would mean loss of life for his people, and that made him hesitate, which caused some delay.

But he DID gather his army, his last two sons (who refused to be left behind), and marched out with the intention of engaging.

However, once Thranduil saw with his own eyes he fiery wrath of Smaug and the destruction he was capable of, and sensed the dragon's greed and evilness, the reality of the situation and the weight of old memories crashed down on him full force.

He remembered how he almost died from dragonfire, how painful those burns were, and how long it took him to recover from the physical and emotional scars. (And he only survived due to Valinor-level healing!) Did he want his soldiers to suffer the same, even if they survived?

He remembered that he had already lost one son (Arvellas) to dragons, who gave his life to help these same Dwarves, and received little gratitude for it in return. Was he ready to risk his last two sons?

And lastly, Thranduil realized, with almost full certainly, that killing Smaug would cost him his life. Was he ready to leave his wife a widow, his sons fatherless, and grandson saddled with the burden of kingship in such dark times?

The answer to all those questions was NO. So he made the difficult decision to turn back.

Thranduil's real mistake (that you can fault him for. Maybe.)

An argument could be made that even if Thranduil didn't want to directly engage with Smaug, he could still have sent his army to shield the Dwarves of Erebor and the people of Dale and help them get to safety. Less civilian lives could have been lost.

They didn't have to completely turn around and go home. They could have still tried to to something--as his sons (especially Gelir) would argue later on.

However, at that point, Thranduil choked on his reluctance to risk anything any further, after everything his family and kingdom had already been through. His sons were especially chomping at the bit to slay the dragon, and things could have easily gotten out of hand if they stepped into the same field as Smaug.

By retreating completely, Thranduil eliminated all risk.

And yes, the bitterness of Thrór's treatment (those damn jewels), and the way Arvellas's death was handled (the Durins never properly honored the prince's sacrifice) still lingered. It certainly factored in the decision to (selfishly?) leave the Dwarves to their fate.

Thranduil HAD warned Thrór "of what his greed would summon", especially after the fatal attack of the cold-drakes on the Grey Mountains. And Thrór certainly did not listen.

What was fair, then? How much responsibility still fell on Thranduil to help the Durins, given all these facts?

Aid was delivered in the aftermath; but the Dwarves considered it "too little, too late".

When Smaug had finally locked himself up in Erebor with his precious treasure, Thranduil did send out aid to the refugees of both Erebor and Dale. When Elvenqueen Maereth finally returned from Imladris, she spearheaded this effort.

Mind you, it's not like Mirkwood was swimming in excess resources at this time. But they still gave whatever they could to the thousands displaced, including medical aid, food and clothing, and even temporary shelter.

The men of Dale accepted the aid and help in finding new dwellings, including resettling in Esgaroth.

The Dwarves accepted the Elves' aid, but only to some extent.

Thrór wanted Thranduil to prove his allegiance by helping them to force Smaug out of the mountain, which of course Thranduil flatly refused to do.

The proud and angry Durins therefore declared him and his people faithless, and chose to move south to Dunland, instead of accepting Maereth's offer to help them rebuild near Mirkwood.

The Elvenqueen's final attempt to reconcile her family and people with the House of Durin would be during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs (TA 2793). However, her tragic death only worsened the divide between Thranduil and the House of Durin; we see this in Thorin's anger during his capture in the events of The Hobbit.

It all ends happily.

Healing and reconciliation would finally be achieved a century and a half later, during the Battle of Five Armies (TA 2941), where the Elves of Mirkwood play a role in saving the lives of King Thorin and his nephews. Once Erebor is reclaimed by the Durins, the two kingdoms become fierce allies and remain so for the rest of their histories.

(Yes, the SotWK AU is proud to be a Durins Live AU. <3 )

This HC post was written in response to an Anonymous request for a "Family Historical Event" submitted back in July 2023.

For more Thranduil/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @acornsandoaktrees @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @conversacomsmaug @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @fizzyxcustard @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @glassgulls @heilith @heranintomyknife23times @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @lemonivall @quickslvxrr @spacecluster @stormchaser819 @talkdifferently6 @tamryniel @tamurilofrivendell

Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

Fanfiction Masterlist

Fanfiction Request Guidelines

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aspenrockymountainhigh · 29 days

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Thorin was born in T.A. 2746, presumably in the Lonely Mountain where his grandfather, Thrór, was King under the Mountain. Thorin was still a youngster (aged c. 24), by Dwarves' reckoning, when the dragon Smaug descended upon the mountain of Erebor in flames. Smaug left the mannish town of Dale in ruins and killed many dwarves who were inside the mountain. Thrór and Thráin (Thorin's father) escaped using a secret Back Door. Meanwhile Thorin was one of the few Dwarves who were not inside the mountain at the time. Thus the surviving Dwarves of Erebor were driven into exile and Thrór, Thráin, and Thorin fled south and ended up to Dunland.

#thorin oakenshield #the hobbit

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milesasinmorales · 1 year

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Me when I think about how Thorin was the eldest of three siblings (Dís and Frerin) one of which died horrifically at a young age (Frerin, age 42). About how Thror was also the eldest of three siblings (Frór and Grór) one of which who also died horrifically at a young (Frór, age 37). About how they both had to step up to be king when they were still so young because their fathers died in battle. About how both of them lost their homes to dragons. About how the ransacking of Ered Mithrin was probably just so much worse than the ransacking of Erebor because it lasted for 20 years. Thinking about how Ered Mithrin was attacked by the cold drakes so instead of dying by dragonfire all those dwarves died by tooth and claw. About how Thrór (and Grór) both had to watch their brother and father be barbarically torn apart. About how Thrór then had to see his greatest accomplishment, Erebor, fall to dragonfire. About how Thrór and Thorin were both SO MUCH MORE than the gold sickness…

#I may not have worded this as well as I wanted too #can you tell im in a mood today?#thrór #thrór king under the mountain #grór #grór lord of the iron hills #frór #thorin oakenshield #lady dís #frerin #line of durin #sons of durin #dwarves #Tolkien dwarves

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orcristwielder · 2 years

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• THE RAVEN CROWN •

IT IS SAID THAT RAVENS WERE A SYMBOL FOR DWARVES. They are used in the way of communicating among those across all of Middle Earth. The crown had been fashioned as such in the days of old, making it's way down the line until it came to rest upon King Thrór's head during his reign as King Under the Mountain. It was ultimately lost at some point, but somehow found it's way to Thorin when he and the company reclaimed Erebor.

Ravens are fierce creatures. Intelligent, but most of all they're trusting to those whom they deem worthy of said trust — much like dwarves. Dwarves are loyal to a fault gaining their trust is not quite easy. It's only fitting as to why the raven is a symbol for the dwarves of Erebor, and for the crown of the King.

#¤— i will take each and everyone of these dwarves over an army from the iron hills • headcanons #ravens #raven crown #symbolism #tolkien #thorin oakenshield #thror

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mrkida-art · 11 months

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Young Thrór (And one Grór) sketchdump

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luna-writes-stuff · 2 years

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April Tolkien Challenge; Day 26

The Black Arrow

tap picture for better quality

——

The arrow that would eventually slay the dragon Smaug; the Black Arrow. Shot by Bard the Bowman from Laketown, the arrow found its mark between the loose scale in the creature’s armor. It has been known to be a reused weapon, meaning Bard had often shot with it, but always retrieved the arrow, as Beleg had done with his arrow Dailir.

The weapon was forged by king Thrór himself, of the Lonely Mountain. The arrow was given to Bard’s ancestors, supposedly Girion being the first to receive or use it. In the Hobbit films, it is known Girion had failed to kill the dragon earlier, though this is not mentioned in the book.

In the year 2941 of the Third Age, Bard managed to finally shoot the beast down, after a Trush informed him of Smaug’s weak spot. The animal had overheard the conversation between the dragon and Bilbo Baggins, and choose to warn Bard. What happens with the arrow after Smaug has been slain is unknown, but it is possible it stuck within the dragon as it sunk to the depths of the lake. As men were still frightened of coming near the dragon’s body, even after decades of his last breath, it is highly likely the arrow remained with the creature, as did a small amount of the treasure of Erebor that got stuck between Smaug’s scales.

——

Sources:

-One Wiki To Rule Them All

-Tolkien Gateway

-The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien

-The Hobbit trilogy films, Peter Jackson

#april tolkien challenge #jrr tolkien #Tolkien #the hobbit #lotr #the lord of the rings #the silmarillion #unfinished tales #history of middle earth #black arrow #bard #bard the bowman

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devilshalf · 1 year

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Journey to the Past

Fandom: The Hobbit, Post Smaug and Pre-Quest

Characters: Dis/Vili(OC), Thorin, Balin/OC

Summary: A young dwarf with no memory of her past is on a journey to find her family when she meets a dashing young stranger who tells her how she has the same eyes as the long lost princess. Valiantly offering to take her to the royal family out of the goodness of his heart, and absolutely nothing to do with rewards.

There was a time, not so long ago, when dwarves lived in mountains filled with fine jewels and veins of gold so thick and long, they had yet to find an end. The year was 2770 and Thrór Son of Dáin was The King Under the Mountain, Ruler of the Seven Dwarven Kingdoms and Protector of Erebor. His line of succession was held strong in that of his son Thráin and grandson Thorin, it was a time of wealth and prosperity for all dwarves but none more than the royal family. The royal halls of Erebor were filled with every gem, gold flowed from their treasury even as they spent it on the most extravagant of parties; parties that could last for days with no reason at all. However, the feast for the King’s youngest grandchild’s tenth name day was said to be the most lavish one yet, merchants had flooded to Dale as even the race of man rejoiced. For you could ask any man, dwarf or even elf and they would all say the young Princess Dís shone brighter than any gem, her smile able to light up the darkest of mines with eyes so blue the seas envied her. She was loved throughout her kingdom, dotted on by every member of her family she loved them all back but held a special place in her heart for her brothers.

“Sister.” A voice caught the young girl’s attention, her long hair following behind as she spun to meet the voice of her eldest brother “This is for you, happy tenth name day.”

“Thank you Thorin!” She smiled gleefully as her little chubby hands clutched at the small box, opening it up her lips parted to reveal her gap-toothed grin “A new hair bead!” She squealed and passed it to her mother who was currently trying to get the young princess to hold still while she finished her hair.

“It is more than just a bead.” Thorin’s smile grew as he held out his hand for his sister to place the bead in, Frerin coming up beside them he offered out a neatly wrapped little parcel to his sister “It is a joint gift, go on open it.”

Dís’ eyes grew to the size of saucers when she revealed the intricately made golden box, she needed two hands to hold it and yet it would fit in her brothers without a problem. The runes carved along its edges their family symbols, a raven with a sapphire for its eye on the lid she adored every detail as her brothers mentioned having found the best music box maker in middle earth “A music box?” she gasped as Thorin inserted the bead she had just received, turning it thrice clockwise the lid opened and a sweet lullaby began; her mother’s voice behind her began to sing with the familiar melody.

“I love it!” Dís threw herself into both her brothers who stumbled down to the ground causing all three children to laugh.

“Come now. Off the floor, boys you will enter with your adad. Frerin no funny business, tonight is about your sister. You must all be on your best behaviour, the whole kingdom will be watching.” Their amad levelled a serious look to each of them before going to adjust their fathers’ medals, Frerin poking out his tongue at Dís who drooped her eyes and scrunched up her nose at him; Thorin shoving them both into place as their mother’s eyes darted back at them.

“The Royal Princess Freyja and the Young Princess Dís.” The herald announced their entrance, his voice carrying across the room of chattering royals and dignitaries, the entire ballroom of Erebor bursting at the seams with extravagant gold laced gowns, fur coats and bedazzled belts. Silence. The entire room flooded with awe as the mother and daughter stood together at the height of the stairs. The future queen was dressed in a pure gold gown with white gold jewels to accompany. Meanwhile, the little princess wore the opposite, a sheer dress of pure white had not one gold lacing or gem to hold it together. Instead the entirely plain tunic was the canvas for the jewels that covered her, bangles of gold attached to an intricately pattern mesh which covered her hands and hooked to her fingers, it made her hands glisten as she moved to pick up her skirt. The pair made their way down the stairs, Dís’ nose twitched with the movement as her nose ring which was covered in small sapphires had a fine strand of gold connecting it to the top of her ear; it moved with every step and tickled but she did not dare show the discomfort. Murmurs began to circle about her hair, the dark black hair of her father, which had her birthday gifts from her mother, fine strands of gold, laced into every braid. A sea full of people looked at her but the little girl only had eyes for one of them, for him, her father.

“Nâthuê kurdu” Her father, the crown prince of Erebor, bowed to his young daughter who giggled with joy as he offered his hand “Will you do me the honour?”

“Yes Adad.” Dís smiled sweetly, as he pulled her to the centre of the room, she looked around at the eyes on them as they waited for the music, so many eyes, it was the young girls first official ball and suddenly she wished to be back in her room playing with her toys.

“Look to me.” Dís looked up at her father, his gentle eyes soft and his smile reassuring as the music started, her father spinning her around she could not help the laugh that escaped her lips as others joined. She looked for her older brothers, Thorin pass with their mother, Frerin winked on his way pass as he had somehow managed to pull their grandmother from her throne, she seemed equally annoyed and pleased. Dís would not believe anyone could be happier. Then it happened. The King had been cautioned of what his greed would lure to the mountain, but all warnings were disregarded, all signs of the sickness that grew in him ignored until it was too late. It began with far off rumbles, at first thought to be a mine collapsed, but more followed and then the alarm as a voice bellowed out:

DRAGON

Dís had been with her father, he had held her so close to him she had barely been able to breathe as the people around them no longer noticing royal, noble or cook as all dwarves raced for any exit they could find. In the chaos Thorin found them when they all near collided into each other, blood stained his left leg as he clutched at it.

“Grandfather, a guard said he was going to the throne room.” Thorin panicked as his father grasped his forearms he steadied himself, he was a warrior, a prince; he could not panic.

“Thorin take your sister. Protect her. I will go back for the King.” Thrain looked to his children, Dís irrationally holding his coat a little harder

“Adad-“

“Go Nâthuê kurdu, stay close to your brother.” Thrain peeled her off him and pushed her into her brother’s arms which wrapped around her, Dís lashing slightly as she screamed for her Adad only for her screams to be drowned out by the roar of Smaug.

“Dís come. Come we must go.” Thorin wiped his own eyes as he grabbed his sister’s hand, they ran from the royal courtyard to descend the stairs when a tremble sent rocks the size of mammoths down upon them, Thorin pulling them both back just in time but the stair case was gone.

“Brother.” Dís whimpered to him as he looked around frantically, the next set of stairs was so far away and his leg burnt hot with pain.

“Prince! This way!” A voice called out, a young serving boy in plain clothes waved frantically at them over to the wall and upon pressing a firm hand a door opened “It’s the server’s staircase, take the third exit and you will be right by the main gate.”

“Wait my music box!” Little Dís cried out as she realised it had fallen from her coat pocket, but Thorin gave her no time to go after it as there was none to spare as the mountain was crumbling on top of them as that which stayed strong was set on fire.

“Dís come, we must go.” Thorin pulled her harder down the spiralling stairs, Dís certain she had never ran so fast in her life as the sunlight guided them out onto the bridge they all raced out sucking in the fresh air as smoke billowed from the mountain. They continued to run until Thorin slowed, he was looking up and he let go of Dís’ hand so he could wave, calling for the elves perched up on the ridge he called for them.

Dís, however, could not see them, she could not see a thing as the smoke stung her eyes, she stumbled back as one dwarf pushed past, she had only just been able to see the large ram hurdling towards her as she leapt back her heels hitting the barricade of the bridge. But it was not at its usual height. For if it had not been reduced on Smaug’s entrance she would have to lift herself up to even dare see over the ledge. But as the back of her legs hit the edge no further support came as her feet were launched into the air she screamed.

“Thorin!” She cried her tears only making her vision blurrier, but she could still see his figure as hands reached out for her until they clutched at one of her wrists, it was all she felt as she dangled above the raging waters below, she wiped her eyes to look at him to see the terror flood his own eyes as her little wrist slipped through the bangles.

“Dís!” He cried for her, and she watched as three dwarves stopped him from jumping in after her, terrified she screamed for him in hopes he would break free and rescue her. So many lives were destroyed that night, Erebor which had stood for so long was lost and the sweet Princess Dís was never seen again.

30 years later

“Name and reason for travel?”

“Aná and I am going home…I think.”

Translation from: https://islenthatur.wordpress.com/welcome/

Nâthuê kurdu – Daughter of my heart or My Daughter of Heart

#the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #dis durin #thorin #thorin oakenshield

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milfthorin · 2 years

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Frís daughter of Fringol was the crown princess of Erebor in its waning years, the beloved wife of Crown Prince Thráin II and mother of Thorin, Frerin, and Dís. She was not born of Erebor, instead born and raised in the Iron Hills to the powerful guildmaster Fringol and his wife Nalís. She was an only child, and her father doted on her extensively and taught her in all the ways of diplomacy and business. Her chosen craft was glass-blowing, though she had a talent for creating beautiful stained glass murals that dotted many of the halls in Erebor.

Along with being the Crown Princess she was named the Ambassador to Mirkwood, and after many visits to the kingdom she forged something of a friendship with the Elvenking Thranduil, though perhaps his friendship with her came with ulterior motives. Regardless, Frís loved the ways of Elves and began to incorporate what she knew into her lifestyle, in both food and dress. She even forged shaky trade routes inbetween Mirkwood and Erebor for the sake of her love for their wine.

All of the above, along with her parentage, made her unpopular with the King Under the Mountain Thrór. Dwarven custom proclaimed that no father could intervene in their child’s marriage, but he made a point of never liking Frís; he viewed her as an unworthy future queen and an unfit mother and wife. Frís at first tried to please her father-in-law for the sake of her family, but eventually she gave up and feigned love while they argued behind closed doors. Her chief complaint came about because of her first-born Thorin; Thráin and Thrór spirited away her child before he could even walk for most hours of the day, starting early to school him in the proper ways to be a prince and in turn a future king. She hated him for taking away her son’s childhood, and for ignoring her other children Frerin and Dís except in front of the court.

Frís eventually died during the sacking of Erebor by Smaug in TA 2770. That morning she had argued with Thráin and shut herself into one of the archives deep within Erebor in anger, and had simply gotten trapped and suffocated. After her death Smaug took her circlet and necklace for his horde which were later found by her grandson Fíli during the search for the lost Arkenstone.

#oc tag #uh kinda oc??#idk man #the hobbit

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aspenrockymountainhigh · 9 months

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#Thorin #thorin oakenshield #the hobbit

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oakenbranch · 2 months

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THE HISTORY OF THORIN; A TIMELINE AND RELATING EVENTS.

here offers a brief overview of the different events marked in thorin's life from his birth to his death, as well as the coming of the messenger of morder to the gates of erebor. 't.a.' refers to the third age of middle-earth's history, in the time of the sun and the moon.

T.A. 2590: king thrór re-establishes erebor, 591 years after thráin the first founded it, and 380 years after thorin the first abandons it for the grey mountains. though the alliance between durin's folk and the kingdom of mirkwood had already been made, it is strengthened by king thrór's return. the arkenstone is discovered. in T.A. 2644, thráin the second is born.

T.A. 2746: thorin the second is born. frerin, his brother, is born in T.A. 2751, and dís, his sister, is born in T.A. 2760.

T.A. 2767: the alliance between king thrór and king thranduil is ended over a dispute of jewels.

T.A. 2770: smaug takes erebor. dale is burned. fréris, wife of thráin, is eaten by the dragon. all who can escape the mountain hide, awaiting more survivors. after a week, king thranduil arrives with a host to aid erebor. however, seeing it lost and deeming it and the dwarves without hope, he turns and leads his army back into mirkwood. while some dwarves go to the iron hills, the rest of the dwarves of erebor depart to dunland. after a few months, the remaining dwarves, led by queen durís, wife of thrór, starve to death in hiding in the mountain.

T.A. 2799: the battle of azanulbizar takes place in front of moria. here, king thrór and frerin are slain, and thráin is taken captive. thorin faces azog the defiler and earns his epithet. balin and dwalin fight by his side, while their father fundin is slain. lord náin, and his son dáin, arrive late to aid the house of durin. náin is slain, and dáin ironfoot, looking into the gates of moria, sees durin's bane. the battle is won, but no one is willing to enter the mountain while durin's bane still lingers. they return to dunland.

T.A. 2800: after thráin has been missing for a year, thorin is named king of durin's folk. he and his people dare to enter the realm of mirkwood, asking for food and shelter. king thranduil turns them away.

T.A. 2802: the dwarves of erebor, now led by thorin, travel to and establish themselves in the blue mountains. in T.A. 2854, dís marries víli of the blue mountains. in T.A. 2859, fíli is born, and in T.A. 2864, kíli after. víli is killed in T.A. 2875.

T.A. 2941: gandalf comes across thorin by chance at the prancing pony in bree while thorin is out looking for thráin. through gandalf's council, the quest for the lonely mountain begins. erebor is re-taken, smaug is killed, the battle of the five armies takes place, and the deaths of thorin, fíli, and kíli occur. dáin becomes king of erebor.

T.A. 3017: an emissary of mordor approaches erebor asking after a lesser ring and a certain hobbit ...

#* ESSAYS.#i think this will be helpful to have here posted as #a reference for people interested in plotting but intimidated #by the timeline!

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 7 months

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Vassal of the King (part 6)

Frerin x OFC

Author's annotations are here!

*****

Frerin is one hundred and fifteen years old on the night he confides his secret to Verdandi.

The wedding celebrations have concluded a few hours ago. Frerin and Verdandi are alone in their new house, barely bigger than the room he has lived in until yesterday, not to mention they are still only renting it; but it is theirs, to live in and furnish and decorate as they want, not to mention that squeezing is not exactly a problem for them. Verdandi's sister, Skuld, has scattered flower petals on the marriage bed, a common auspicious gesture for newlyweds, while their mother, mistress Sygin, has used a new broom to sweep the floor of the main room, simbolically banishing negative emotions and memories out of the house; the task is traditionally carried out by the groom's mother or another female relative, but given the situation, they had to improvise.

Verdandi is only half dressed. She was perplexed when Frerin (Fjalar; her Fjalar, her husband) who had just carried her on the bed and started kissing her in a way that made her head spin, suddenly broke away from her and told he has a secret to confess.

Even through she would trust him with her life (she has already trusted him with her heart, which for Verdandi was much more precious and difficult) and he has reassured her he has nothing tragic to hide, Verdandi's mind was suddenly seized by a thousand fears. He is going to tell her that he is already married to someone else. That he has children waiting for him. That he is drowning in debt and that soon they will end up panhandling in the streets. That he has killed someone and there is a bounty on his head.

She would have expected almost anything; but not this.

"Can you say that again?" she asks; she is stammering, perhaps for the first time in her life "I think... I think I have misheard..."

Fjalar has never told her about his family. All Verdandi knows is that he has lost his parents long ago and he has no close relatives, and that his family has travelled far and wide for many years, which is the reason why he has never had a proper home. Is it a strange story, and it did not take her long to realize it could not be the whole truth, that the gaps in that explaination hid something important. His reticence both hurt and worried her (should two lovers not be sincere with each other?... unless they had something very dramatic to hide?) but she has always kept her questions to herself: she trusts Fjalar and respects his secrets. So many Dwarves come from broken homes, losing their parents as children, suffering abuse by the hands of their relatives or even being abandoned because the family could not afford another mouth to feed, and she has convinced herself this is the sort of situation her beloved had left behind him, and that he had never shared with her to spare himself the pain.

She could not have been more wrong.

Fjalar, sitting on the bed by her side, takes her hands in his; he is breathtakingly handsome, in his blue tunic and the wedding braids in his hair, and more serious than Verdandi has ever seen him.

"My name is not Fjalar." he repeats "Or rather, it has only been so for little more than forty years. I was born Frerin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór... King di Erebor."

Verdandi is happy she is sitting, because she feels about to faint. A march of several weeks separates Tharak Bazan from the Mountain, and as far as she knows her clan has never mantained more than occasional commercial relations with the Line of Durin (or at least, such was the state of affairs when Erebor was still inhabited by her people) but all Dwarves know the story of the coming of the dragon, and the terrible fate that befell the once proudest of the Dwarven clans. She had felt compassion for them, those Dwaves she had never met, driven out of their land, forced to build a new life for themselves or to wander around in search of a way to reclaim their homeland...

And now a Dwarf of that very line is there, next to her, just a few hours after swearing before Mahal to love and protect her as long as he lived; a Dwarf who knows her like no one ever has, and who is able to make her forget her own name with a simple kiss.

And not just any Dwarf.

Verdandi's hands fall from her husband's; she is flabbergasted, and while she knew today was the day her life would change forever, she had no idea how. "You are... a prince."

"No. Well, not anymore. I..."

"A prince. Oh, Mahal..."

"Verdandi, please; listen to me." Fjalar (Frerin) implores; yes, this is what he is doing, he is begging her, as if afraid he is going to lose her in a moment; he has never looked so scared, and powerless, in this night that should be the happiest of their lives. He takes her in his arms, and Verdandi lets him, because despite all the confusion and the sudden fear (and the anger; she would not demand he share every single moment of his past, but he has been lying about his own name?!) there is no place in the world she would rather be than wherever her husband is. She loves him; she loves him with all her heart, and nothing can ever change that.

His expression is somber, but also somehow relieved; the expression of a Dwarf who feels an heavy burden being taken off his shoulders.

"As you probably know, the dragon Smaug invaded Erebor and forced us to flee from our home, with little more than the clothes on our back. I am not a prince; not anymore, that is. I have to earn my keep working like any other Dwarf in this city."

Verdandi nods, trying to recall the little she knows about the Line of Durin and what had become of its people. "You... you have a brother, do you not?" she asks, and immediately wishes she had not when she sees the heartbreak on her husband's face "The one they call Oakenshield."

Thorin. The simple thought of him, of the disappointment he must have felt after that night, is a knife in Frerin's heart. How he misses his brother, how he wishes he could see him again... even though he knows nothing would change, because he has not. "It is true." he answers, as calmly as he can "Thorin is my older brother. And I also have a sister, Dís, and many cousins."

"Oh."

Frerin brushes his fingers against his wife's cheek; she is so beautiful, he reflects, but that is only one of the many reasons he knows he will never be able to live without her. "You are wondering why I am not with them, sharing their struggles and destiny."

"Well, yes..."

"It is very simple; it is because I am a coward."

"Fjalar..."

Frerin shakes his head; he knows she is going to try and comfort him, and he does not want her to, because he does not deserve it. "No; please, this is the truth, and I cannot escape from it. When we lost Erebor... I was only a boy, but this does not excuse my behaviour, since most of us were and Thorin himself was barely an adult. For years we have wandering the wilderland, attempting to raise an army to conquer Moria..."

Verdandi bites her lip; she knows her husband is talking about the battle of Azanulbizar, and she also knows it is not an happy story. She is still wearing the shift matching her wedding dress, the one she sewed herself because she was too embarassed to ask for her mother's help on an item like that, one meant to be admired and then quickly taken off her.

"We won; but it was a meaningless victory, paid for with the blood of so many Dwarves. My grandfather had died, my father had disappeared, and I, at seventy-two, was the heir of a people without an homeland. It was too big of a weight for me, for my shoulders; I had seen so much pain, and blood, and death, on that day, and I... I could not take it anymore. I ran, like a thief; I thought of myself and only myself, I turned my back on my family and my people. Frerin died on that day, and Fjalar was born.

Verdandi does not speak; she has listened intently, thinking that this is not how she had imagined she would spend her first night as a married woman. She looks at Frerin, still holding her, and gently takes his face in her hands; he loves those hands, hands whose touch can be both gentle and sensual, hands in which the prince without a kingdom has found comfort and a peace he thought he had lost forever. He has never felt so lost, now that he should be at his happiest, alone with the woman he has just married; he knows Verdandi enough to know she will not condamn him for what he has confessed, that she will understand and console him, and that makes him feel even worse.

"I have never wanted to lie to you." he murmurs "And I should have told you about it sooner; I know. But my past does not matter, you see? I am ashamed of what I did, but I still believe I made the right choice. I have renounced Erebor, and my people; now in front of me there is a future with you, Verdandi, and the children Mahal will give us. I wish for nothing else, or more. You are my wife, and I do not want there to be any secret between us; I promise I will never keep anything from you again."

He waits for an answer, but Verdandi does not have one to give, her heart so full of conficting emotions it hurts. She looks at her husband, her handsome and gentle Fjalar (because he will forever be Fjalar for her, whatever name he had received at birth) and she thinks that what they are living is almost too perfect to be real: the possibility to be honest with each other, to leave what was behind and build a future together. There is so much she would like to ask, about his youth, and his family, but she will not; maybe he will decide to tell her about it, and otherwise... otherwise she will keep her mouth shut.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, long, hard, until for the first time Frerin is the one moaning under him. How much he must have suffered, Verdandi thinks, still a boy and alone, convinced he did not deserve a home or friends, and spending so long atoning for sins no judge would ever condemn him for. But from now on, it will be different; from now on he will be happy, and serene, and free; she will take care of that. "You should have told me sooner." she whispers "But I do not care. I do not care if you are a prince or a beggar; I do not care about your name either. You are my husband, the Dwarf who I love and who loves me, and this is the only thing that matters to me."

The time for words is over, and the two focus on taking off each other's clothes, which gradually fall on the floor. Verdandi smiles, thrilled, as she slips out of her shift and lets Frerin have a long, nice look at her. "Had things gone differently..." she begins "You would have probably married a princess, or at least a lady of a great house."

Frerin smiles; he is already touching her like he knows she likes best. "Jealous, are you?"

"Should I be?"

"As I said, I am a prince in name only, without riches or powers; I do not even have a house of my own. I doubt the princesses and the ladies of the other six clans would fight over my hand."

"Mmmh, good for them..."

Verdandi laughs, and Frerin laughs with her as he pushes her on the bed and kisses her once more, intense and devout and passionate, and then moves downward on her body, his mouth on fire. "Wife." he whispers, as if testing the word on his tongue "Verdandi, my darling wife... I do not want a princess, or anyone else. The only one I need is you."

Verdandi believes him.

TAGGING @starlady66 and @elvenenby.

#Frerin #Frerin son of Thrain #Frerin son of Thráin #The Hobbit #The Lord of the Rings #Frerin x OFC #Frerin x OC #Bellona's stuff

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