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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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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

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Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

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aspenrockymountainhigh · 1 month

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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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elvain · 5 months

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At the Heart of Time

The fifty-seventh time that Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, heir of the house of Durin, came back from the dead, he realized something. Something he had never thought or known or remembered or forgotten before.

Though it must first be noted that this tale begins a long, long time before that moment, as many tales often do, for we are never quite sure of where our beginnings and our ends may one day lie. Thorin’s story, however, does have a beginning – only one. That is the beginning we shall begin from.

The beginning of the tale of Thorin Oakenshield.

read the rest on AO3.

#the hobbit fanfic #tolkien fanfiction #fic: heart of time #writermk #i am so nervous about posting this so i am not tagging this as anything else.#please rb to boost!

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aurore-parle-de-ses-idees · 8 months

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Unexpected, Corunir?

corunir hangs out at zudrugund! and then there are visitors :)

Books of herb-lore and children’s rhymes, reports on the great water-wheels below and the journals of long-dead dwarves. Any of it interesting enough- the ones he can read, anyway- but nothing that makes any good sense of Nár’s ramblings. Some give context, at least, for the things he references, but that does nothing to make it make sense. But perhaps he is looking for sense where there is none.

There is one journal that catches his eye. This one has not been often opened, he thinks, and when he turns the pages they crack and the binding sheds dust- or maybe dried mud. Not much of this one has been filled, but he can read what there is.

He thinks soon after that he should not, that this is someone else’s life, terribly personal and not for another’s eyes.

Frithgeir had told them Nár’s tale, in broad strokes. Vague as it was, it still cut nearer Corunir’s heart than he expected. Perhaps that was why he had volunteered to remain at Zudrugund while the rest of the Company returned to Lhanuch, even when Golodir had looked at the library with indifference and declined to stay.

This journal was Nár’s, he thinks. It speaks of a long journey over the mountains, and of his king, and of waiting.

And waiting.

He bid me remain, and so I did.

But Thrór had not come back, and Nár had not gone after him, and they had both returned in pieces.

Corunir shuts the journal with a harsh snap, loud in the cavernous, empty library, and shoves it ungently back in its place. It is not for him. Not for him, though he knows Nár’s grief all too well.

It gives him no great insight that he had not come by already, but his heart aches for the old, lonely dwarf- and for Frithgeir, too, as unwilling to leave Nár as Nár had been to leave his lord. They must often want for company here, high in the mountains and far from any friendly face, much less those of their kin.

A pounding comes at the doors to the library. Corunir looks up. The pounding comes again, heavier than the knock of the Rangers would be, if they would knock rather than enter unannounced. Corunir approaches the door. From the inner halls, Frithgeir appears as well. There’s no sign of Nár.

“Who goes there?” Frithgeir calls through the heavy door, sliding aside the cover over a narrow peephole.

“We’re looking for someone,” a stranger calls back. None of the Company’s voices, for certain. Orcish, Corunir thinks. He draws his sword. Frithgeir glances his way, and takes an axe of his own from a stand near the door.

“Well, we don’t have anyone,” Frithgeir says. “So you had best be on your way. It’s no good being caught up here in a storm.” The stranger laughs, then, and pounds on the door again, calling to someone behind him in a different tongue.

“Frithgeir,” Corunir says urgently, “is there a side door? Any other exit?”

“One that comes out far too near this one to be useful,” Frithgeir says grimly. “There are others deeper in the halls, but I don’t know where Nár is and it may take longer to find him than we have.”

Corunir jumps back from the door as it shudders under some terrible strength. Troll? Battering ram? What do they even want? “Find Nár,” he says after a moment’s deliberation. “Tell me where the near door is. I’ll buy you what time I can.” Frithgeir looks at him sharply.

“What, you think you can take all of them on yourself? Do you hear how many are out there?”

Corunir smiles grimly. “Not at all. I may be able to delay them long enough for you and Nár to escape, though.” Frithgeir stares at him for a long moment, unreadable.

“This way,” he says abruptly, leading Corunir at a run through the halls of the abandoned delving. They come to a narrow door hidden in an empty room and catch their breaths, listening to the pounding echoing through Zudrugund. “On your mark,” Frithgeir says, readying his axe. Corunir looks at him and he glares back. “This is my home,” he says darkly. “Whatever they want from it, they will not have it.” Corunir hesitates, but there is no time to argue, and who is he to deny Frithgeir this?

“Send out the old dwarf,” the orc-commander’s voice says, muffled through the door. Frithgeir’s face darkens with rage. “And then maybe the rest of you can go.”

“They will not have Nár,” he snarls, wrenching open the door and flying out with a terrible cry. Corunir mutters to himself for only a moment and follows, pulling the door shut behind him and falling on the orcs with Frithgeir. There really are quite a lot of them, he thinks, and considers the long, long road down the mountain, and despairs of any help. We’ll make the best of this, then.

#lotro #ask games #my stories #corunir #frithgeir #:D #corunir :handshake: nar: [aaaaaaaaaaaaaa]

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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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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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mrkida-art · 10 months

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The children of the Dáin I, the crown prince of Durin's Folk.

The eldest, Thrór, the future king under the mountain.

The younger, Frór, destined to die. And the youngest, Grór, the future lord of the iron Hills

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milesasinmorales · 1 year

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We as a society should start acknowledging the similarities and parallels between Thrór and Thorin past just the good sickness. It’s really interesting to look into! Kind of tragic actually

#like they both were the eldest of three siblings #one of which died at a very young age #and they both also lost their fathers and their kingdoms early in life aswell #I wish the book and movie delved more into that #I just think Thror has the potential to be a very interesting character #hell his siblings too!#Mr Kida is honestly leading the cause #you should all checkout their work!#anyway I want more people to be interested in Thror is character!!#thrór #grór lord of the iron hills #grór #Thrór king under the mountain #frór #frór and frerin also both start with f…#sons of durin #dwarves #tolkien dwarves

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 8 months

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Vassal of the King (part 1)

Frerin x OFC

Author's annotations are here!

*****

Frerin is twenty-four years old when his future is discussed -albeit briefly- for the first time.

The occasion is a momentous one, the anniversary of his grandfather’s accession to the throne or of the foundation of the kingdom; Frerin is not completely sure and indeed, in his mind the two concepts are almost equivalent. Thrór has been King of Erebor ever since he was born, and in the mind of the youngest prince of Durin’s Line he and the Mountain are practically one and the same; both have always existed, and will keep existing forever.

Frerin has no doubts about that.

The ceremony lasts until sundown. Frerin stands next to his siblings (Dís between him and Thorin, in order of age) at the left of the throne, while his parents, the heirs, stand at the right. The whole royal family is reunited around the King as his allies pay homage to him: Men, Elves and Dwarves walk in front of Thrór, who welcomes them with varying degrees of courtesy.

The ceremony is boring as well as interminable. Frerin, still as he has been taught to remain, feels himself suffocating in the rich, heavy clothes his mother has forced him in; his feet hurt after so many hours spent standing, and the ceremonial braids uncomfortably pull his hair. He wishes he could sit, unbraid his hair, and go play outside; but he knows he cannot. He is young, but not so much that he does not realize that even one young as he is has duties to attend to during such an important event; he is a member of the royal family of Erebor, and he has to behave accordingly so as not to shame his father and grandfather.

Because of this, Frerin orders himself to endure; he bows his head in front of the visitors and remains otherwise still, his back ramrod straight and his face held high with a proud expression he has copied from his father and that looks vaguely comical on one so young. Thorin glances at him and nods to express his approval, and suddenly Frerin feels five inches taller: he really wants to make his father and grandfather proud, but there is nothing, nothing in Arda the young prince yearns for more than his older brother’s approval.

Finally, the ceremony comes to an end. There is still time before the evening banquet, which gives Frerin some well-deserved time to play with the other children of the family: his sister and favourite playmate Dís, and his cousins Dwalin and Glóin, both older than them but who seem to easily forget it, and soon the foursome is busy happily playing tag.

Frerin runs and screams and has the sort of fun only small children know, focused on the present and unmindful of the future and the responsibilities it will bring; his mother also screams, when he and Dís attempt to hide not behind but under the dresses of some of the court’s ladies. Thorin, focused on his role as future King, attempts to reprimand them and somehow finds himself dragged into the game; Frerin notices that Dís tries her best to be in Dwalin’s team every time, but he is still too young to understand the intention behind it.

Thráin and Balin walk past them. Frerin’s oldest cousin is calm and serene as always; there is not much capable to make him lose his temper. The King’s son is instead unusually content and in a good mood, a sign that the talks with Erebor’s allies are going well and the Greenwood Elves are less intractable than usual.

The children suspend their playing and line up in front of the crown prince; Thráin’s austere face is touched by undisguised fondness as he rests his hand on each of their heads, murmuring a blessing.

"You can stay here and play until it is time for the evening banquet." he gently warns them "But from then on I will expect to see you all on your best behaviour. Is that understood, young ones?"

"Yes, my prince." the five young Dwarves answer as one.

"Very well. Go back to your game, then."

The children do not need to be told twice; Frerin lingers to hug his father, and Thráin’s good eye smiles while the prince caresses his younger son’s blonde hair. "Mind your clothes." he gently warns the child "If you tear them, your mother will make sure you have to eat standing for a week."

"Yes, father."

Balin and Thráin observe the young prince as he joins his playmates.

"What do you think will become of him?" the younger Dwarf ask; they are alone, and because of this he can address the crown prince as informally as he would do with any of his older relatives.

"What do you mean?"

"Frerin. Thorin will be King after you and Dís… with the dowry she is entitled to the princes of the other six houses will undoubtedly compete for her hand. But Frerin…"

"Frerin is a prince of Durin’s line." Thráin decisively interjects as they pace the internal patio of the palace, even though Balin has not suggested otherwise "Whatever path the Maker will chose for him, he will excel."

Balin smiles, his hair and beard not yet touched by white. Even he is young still; even he, the wisest member of the future Company, has no idea of what is to come. "I do not doubt, uncle; but think about it… there is so much he could do. The Iron Hills, for example; Náin has no heirs, and should he remain childless, if you send the child to his court he might decide to adopt Frerin so that the crown remains in the hands of our family. Or, you could send him as ambassador to one of the other kingdoms…"

"Father! Father, look at me!"

Frerin is sitting on Glóin’s back, the other child lying prone on the floor’s polished stones. The flame-haired Dwarf pants and fidgets, but somehow his younger and lighter cousin was able to knock him down and immobilize his arms and legs so as to prevent him from standing.

The laugh spilling from Thráin’s lips explodes in the stone-walled patio, washed in the light of the setting sun. The prince reaches the children, lifts his younger son in his arms and throws him in the air before catching him again; Frerin’s laugh echoes his father’s, his blond hair spilling from his braids like the tail of a falling star. "Again, father! Throw me higher, please!"

Thráin complies, again and again until he and his son are both breathless. "A fledgling fighter!" he exclaims, ruffling his hair in a way that irreparably ruins the braids Frerin’s mother has spent an hour making "A future warrior, no doubt, just like his grandfather! Well done, son."

He kisses Frerin’s cheek, and the child smiles, even though his father’s beard scratches; there, safe in Thráin’s arms, he feels he could live forever.

"An ambassador? Maybe." the prince of Erebor concedes, turning to look at Balin once more as he easily holds his son against him with one arm "But not in the Iron Hills. Náin is not so old after all, and he has been married only for a few years. I think Frerin will remain here in Erebor, as his brother’s vassal. But we will not have to think of that before many years."

The prince smiles at his son; it is a smile Frerin will hold in his heart for the rest of his life, and that one day he will see again on the face of another little Dwarf of his line. "What do you think?" the prince inquires "What do you want to do once you have become adult? You want to stay here in Erebor or go somewhere else?"

There is no doubt in Frerin’s heart, nor suspicion that the events may develop differently from what he expects - from what he wants. "I want to stay in Erebor." he announces; he does not know what a vassal is nor what his father and older cousin were discussing about, but of one thing he is certain: Erebor is his home, the home of his family, his friends, everyone and everything he knows and loves. Why on Arda should he want to leave? "I will stay here forever with you and mother, and help you with the job of the King."

Balin smiles; Thráin uses irony to hide how moved he is. "Forever is a very long time." he warns his son as he puts Frerin down "You will have plenty of time to change your mind."

Glóin, red-faced with embarrassment, demands a rematch, that Frerin graciously concedes.

The game is back on.

TAGGING as usual @starlady66 and @elvenenby.

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

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