Hobbit Fic: Thine Hatred To Crown (Part 1.3)

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Bitterness twisted his lips, the ugly expression sliding smoothly onto his face after the countless times he'd been struck by the irony. He'd believed he was at last rid of the Arkenstone with honor. The ill-fated jewel would be held forevermore in a pillar at the heart of the catacombs, he decreed, spilling its white light, as if a captured moon, upon the hallowed dead.

And, indeed, the patterned bands of gold and truesilver inlaid across the walls, floor, and even ceiling of the chambers where the lords of Erebor slept in tombs of stone shimmered with an unearthly beauty bathed in the Arkenstone's radiance. An awed gasp had swept through the gathered crowd as Thorin lifted the Arkenstone into place, his hands burning against its cool sides. The relief panels graven by the finest stonemasons among Dwarves sprang into flickering life with scenes of the world and their storied history; tens of thousands of tiny gems, flecked over every surface, flashed with mirrored rainbows, the stars in this created sky.

Thorin had withdrawn unnoticed as soon as the ceremony ended. It'd been his intention then to never again gaze upon the sight whilst he lived, unless duty demanded it of him. How quickly his resolve had broken! For reasons he could not, would not understand, his mind sought refuge in the company of the dead when tallying losses put a tired ache in his bones and he doubted, to his shame, whether Erebor could be restored to prosperity. Prudent as it was to question his own competence in view of recent events, that he should fault, even in the privacy of his thoughts, the dedication and skill of his people was unacceptable.

Making his way past the treasure chambers to the catacomb stairs, Thorin wondered who awaited him there tonight, standing vigil next to their tombs or, in the case of his sister-sons, perched rather irreverently atop them. Fíli and Kíli were always brimming with youthful energy, as happy as he'd ever seen them in life and eager for news. They pestered him to tell them of how went the reconstruction.

Why not keep the gold spatters in the Gallery of Kings, Uncle? They're too many to scrape off, and they'd be a great conversation starter! Perhaps, Kíli, except I have no wish to speak of our failed attempt to kill Smaug. Uncle, are the foundries to be overhauled? We left it a mess, and with Great-Grandfather's statue gone, there's no crafting that calls for so much gold. That will be decided in the spring when work begins on those areas, Fíli, though I feel at least one of the furnaces can still be of use, as I've been considering that bars would be easier than coins to store and transport...

All that he'd never have a chance to hear Fíli and Kíli talk of, as the home they'd never know slowly but surely regained its former glory. Many had not lived to see it. And when those names seemed too many, it was his sister-sons who greeted him with twin grins of delight, their interest in Erebor's affairs keen for those who'd left the circles of the world.

Other times, Thráin greeted him with a solemn nod from beside a tomb that was empty. Only for now, Thorin reminded himself. Only until Dís could bring what personal effects they had of their father: a magnificent war hammer, the last of his own forging, and a full set of armor commissioned for him on the occasion of his birthing day by Thrór not a decade before the coming of the dragon that he couldn't bear to don after Erebor's fall, both enameled in the deep red he favored; a wide and ornate belt wrought of gold and rubies by his future wife as a courting gift in assent to his suit that he'd worn on every anniversary of the day they wed to please her, even long after her death.

He'd wanted to recover his father's body from Dol Guldur, but Gandalf counseled against it, the shadow in his eyes giving Thorin pause. "The master of Dol Guldur was well versed in dark spells," Gandalf said reluctantly, suddenly unwilling to name Sauron, "and it took magic of equal strength to defeat him. Such power cannot be used, for good or ill, without consequence and leaves a... scar upon the land, a dissonance, that is a trap as fatal to trespassers as any the Dark Lord could devise."

Thorin's mind had gone then to Mirkwood, its twisted paths and poisoned streams, the trees, the very air pressing close. Gandalf watched him cannily from beneath the brim of his hat. "Yes, I see you understand me. I've asked the Elves to patrol the surrounding forest but to keep their distance. I ask that you also bar your people from venturing into the ruins." And Thorin had agreed.

"Had my father any words for me?" he asked after a moment. The taste of futility was sour in his mouth and all too familiar from his desperate search for Thráin among the slain of Azanulbizar.

"Only his love," was Gandalf's gentle answer. Thorin had rubbed at his prickling eyes with tightly balled fists at this, swallowing the cry that clawed up his throat.

Now, whenever Thráin took his leave of Thorin on his nightly visitations, he said, voice fading, Remember that I love you, my son. Thorin would promise to and thank his father for the advice-small yet helpful insights about managing resources, labor, which Thráin had cause to learn sooner and in greater detail than usual as Thrór turned away from the daily workings of his kingdom. The room was invariably empty of anyone but Thorin when he looked.

Was this the first sign of some creeping madness? It was not the gold sickness, consuming him from the inside like fire did tinder as he remained unaware. There was a... steadying feeling in speaking to his ghosts-impossible, Thorin knew, a figment of his unrest-and they did not intrude into his life beyond whispers at the edge of sleep, provided he lit a candle in dark halls and kept himself wholly occupied with his duties during the day.

In the latter, he had the aid of the Company, who had yet to give him any indication that his behavior was cause for alarm. Worry, yes, he saw sometimes on their faces. But this was the concern of friends, Thorin judged, not the fearful wariness of subjects dealing with a king lost to reason. For it was his poor appetite, his infrequent bouts of lethargy, and his disinclination to mingle at the weekly gatherings, which always ended in drinking and song until the wee hours of the morning, that warranted such expressions.

Thorin did what he could to reassure them. He feigned ignorance when Óin or Dori or Bifur ladled a little extra soup into his bowl, sliced him a slightly larger piece of bread, and he made sure to eat all of those meals, at least. He let Nori and Ori drag him from bed with pleas that he must help them sort through this pile of fancy silverware etched with the royal seal or that stack of diplomatic correspondence written in his grandfather's hand while he let Balin call for tea breaks and snack breaks, afternoon naps and early stops to their after supper councils so he could deftly suggest that Thorin retire for the evening as they shared a bottle of wine.

He'd once or twice played the harp-a beautiful instrument of gold strung with silver, sound still sweet, that Nori had found hanging on a wall in the treasury, undisturbed by Smaug-at Bofur's tireless urging when the Company took it upon themselves to entertain at a gathering. Thorin could admit he enjoyed himself, might have smiled, even, at the rollicking tunes Bofur led them on, his clarinet swinging from high note to low as their audience clapped and stomped in time to the music, tankards of mead sloshing. But he would spend the next few nights listening to Fíli and Kíli complain that such-and-such piece needed a strong fiddle line, that Balin's viol needed tuning or maybe new strings entirely, they could not agree, that Ori needed to breathe deeper to hold long notes on his flute...

When more of our people have come home, will there be concerts and plays in the grand amphitheater again? Kíli. You and Mother should attend, Uncle- Fíli. Then their words ran together, as tended to happen when they were excited. Get your minds off work, work, and more work! Show royal patronage of the arts! "Yes," he would say, "yes," voice echoing hollowly in the perpetual hush of the crypts, and he would miss his sister-sons so acutely he did not think he'd feel a difference if Azog appeared to flay his skin to the bone.

It would be Fíli and Kíli tonight, Thorin finally decided, before amending, Perhaps Grandfather. He'd become practiced at guessing when he would wake in the dark to silence, unable to sleep for the whispering voices that led him down and down, down into the deep beneath the Mountain, where the dead awaited him. Thrór visited him less often than did his sister-sons or his father and had less to say, as well. Rather, the two of them would stand together in wordless penance as Thorin's candle burned to a stub, their guilt and shame binding them as tightly as the tainted blood in their veins. Those feelings were close to the surface now, Thorin knew, the suffering his actions had caused, however unintentionally, having come to his gates.

Thorin had been holding unofficial court, sitting alone at a table in the dining hall after the dishes were cleared with some old mining records to read so any who wished to could bespeak him, when one of the sentries posted on the ramparts reported that a column of about fifty approached on foot from the direction of Dale. He'd sent for Balin and mustered the guard-a precaution that, as the men neared, proved unnecessary.

For this was no enemy raid. The group's progress was slowed by carts laden with meager possessions and supplies, livestock, bedraggled women and children, the elderly, the infirm. Once Thorin determined that the Lakemen, Bard's tall figure in the lead, were not being pursued, he went forth from the Mountain to meet them, Balin and a score of guards trailing. He would not greet Bard as he'd done in their earlier parley, from atop a barricade. Not when he suspected, rightly, that Bard sought refuge for his people.

"Hail, Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain," said Bard, voice hoarse. "We beg shelter of you till spring." And Thorin had looked upon Bard with rising alarm. The man was almost swaying on his feet in exhaustion, his left arm bound to his side under his battered coat. The same dun-colored hide he'd worn when he first found the Company on the banks of the Forest River, though Thorin remembered him in warmer, finer blue. His face was pale, drawn with pain and, Thorin was startled to see, bruised along his jaw and across one cheek, as if he'd been struck.

Bard had swallowed hard at Thorin's questioning appraisal, body tense as a taut string. He was thrumming with a nervousness Thorin did not expect of a man who'd slain a dragon. "We would be glad to welcome you and yours, Lord Bard," Thorin answered, startled again by the disquiet in Bard's eyes at hearing himself titled as his deeds and wealth deserved. "But I was made to understand you would be wintering in Esgaroth, to remain there until the Men of the Lake had rebuilt their town"-Thorin suppressed a wince of his own-"and all was in readiness for you to reclaim Dale."

"Things have changed." The words were flat and told Thorin little while implying much, none of it good. "I cannot stay in Laketown," Bard finished heavily, and his expression was grim. Those of his son, at his side, and of his followers behind him could only be called mutinous, however. Thorin caught the angry mutter of the Master's name before Bard flinched, turning to quell the resentment with a glare like molten steel. When he moved, the collar of coat and shirt pulling open, another set of bruises, unmistakably fingermarks, stood stark against his throat in the fading light.

Greed can make beasts of men, thought Thorin, an ember of wrath glowing beneath his ribs. He and Balin exchanged a glance, Balin's lips thinned into a white line. The Dwarves of Erebor had made their position clear: To Bard, heir of Girion, who had done their kingdom a great service by killing Smaug, would go a fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, to be spent as he willed in aid of the people of Esgaroth and the refounding of Dale. Not a single coin of gold or silver would be paid to any other, for in truth Thorin mistrusted the Master of Laketown. Who would have taken his sister-sons, Óin, and Bofur hostage after rousing a mob against them had not Bard forewarned them to leave for Erebor, then swayed the survivors of Smaug's attack otherwise.

Seeing the evidence of violence on Bard's person affirmed his judgment of the Master's character, though this brought Thorin no satisfaction, for it left him with a petty despot not a day's trip downriver from Erebor. And an honorless coward, he added with a grimace, all the more dangerous for his serpent's tongue. Despite rumors that the Master fled before the dragon with no consideration for his town's defense or evacuation, he'd apparently managed to talk himself back into favor with his subjects.

Not for the first time, he wondered why Bard didn't oust the Master from power in the weeks after Smaug's demise at his hands. Surely, Bard had the prestige and the ability, too; he'd had no trouble rallying his scared men, many of whom were more accustomed to wielding hoe than sword, during the battle and was bold enough in arranging matters as he deemed fit when it came to the care of the needy, according to Balin. Yet he submitted to the Master's authority, over and over. Even when the man set a pack of thugs on him, Thorin could only assume, to drive him from Esgaroth and eliminate a rival, secure in the fact that Bard's integrity and compassion would never allow him to stop the shipments of gold that will keep the townsfolk fed through the winter. I know Bard is no fool nor blind. Why does he not act to foil the Master's schemes?

"Da," said the girl, Bard's younger daughter, tucked into his side opposite his son, "are the Dwarves not going to let us stay?" Her question was soft and plaintive, muffled by the large woolen scarf wrapped snugly about her head and neck, blue as a robin's egg. Her brother, meanwhile, had edged protectively in front of their father and was glowering at Thorin. Who suddenly realized he'd been staring at Bard, teeth grinding in frustration. At least Bard also seemed a trifle surprised at the interruption. He peered down at his daughter with a slow sigh, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.

When Bard met Thorin's eyes again, he tilted his chin up, gaze challenging. There was... something in Bard's posture that continued to vex Thorin. A bracing against a blow that could not be evaded, as if he knew exactly what Thorin had been thinking, expected it and accepted it, meek in a way Thorin struggled to reconcile with the commanding nobility that was stamped so clearly on the man now.

Shaking his head sharply, Thorin said to the girl, "Fear not, my lady. The hospitality of the Dwarves is not so quickly retracted once granted." He smiled to watch her blush prettily at the courteous address, saddened that her eyes were raw from crying. "Come!" he said to the group at large, belatedly contrite that he'd kept his guests standing in the growing chill. "There are fires in our halls to warm you, soup, mead and ale to fill your stomachs, blankets, beds." And a ragged cheer had sounded down the column, men, women, and children animated with renewed energy at the prospect of an end to their long winter march. Only Bard was quiet, eyes shut as he nodded absently at the chatter around him, men clapping him on the back and women leaning in close to kiss him on the cheek in their exuberance, his daughter tugging excitedly on his sleeve. Thorin thought, a bit amused, that the man looked miserable under all the attention, stiff as a pillar of stone. His shoulders hunched at every touch.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of activity, Thorin ordering the entire able-bodied population of Erebor save the healers and sentries, some three hundred Dwarves, to prepare quarters for the Lakemen in the guest wing, find room for their stores and livestock-glad as Thorin would be to have fresh eggs and milk, beef, pork, they'd have to purchase feed from Rhûn or, unhappily, the Elves-and generally see to their comfort. Snow was falling thicker and thicker from the lowering skies by the time he followed the last of the refugees inside. They'd been fortunate in beating the storm to the Mountain and, as Thorin walked amongst them in the crowded dining hall, these tired and hungry people in their threadbare clothing, the flame of his anger had been fanned. Just what game was the Master playing at with Bard?

Determined to hear answers, Thorin had sought out Bard. To his annoyance, the man was not in the dining hall with his children-and where was his elder daughter?-nor with his men sorting their supplies, the women spreading sheets and blankets on the cots in the barracks where most of them would sleep. Finally, Nori, carrying an armful of bedding heaped half as tall as he, directed Thorin towards a small private suite that Balin as well as the Lakemen had insisted that Bard and his family take.

He'd received no reply to his knock or request for admittance and, impatient, let himself in, thinking Bard to be in the connected bath, which was divided from the bedchamber by another door, or not present at all. Instead, Bard was sitting on the bare stone floor, back pressed to the footboard of the bed and arms around his drawn up knees. At his side was a knife, lying close at hand atop his folded coat and sling, a candle, a roll of bandages and a shallow basin with a washcloth hung over its rim, the water within a light pink. Thorin had stopped short, blinking at the sight. Bard's gaze was distant when he entered, but it sharpened abruptly at the near noiseless scuff of his boots, focusing on Thorin with the unerring, piercing accuracy of one of the man's arrows, for all that Bard had been deaf to the world not a minute before.

"What do you want?" Bard said, tone clipped, and Thorin had to bite down on an equally rude retort. The sleeves of Bard's tunic hitched up momentarily as one hand, Bard moving the still healing left arm gingerly, dropped to the knife handle, the other to the floor, palm flat to push off it if needed. Thorin scowled at the implicit insult-as though he or any other Dwarf would seek to do harm to a guest and ally invited under his roof!-then breathed deep, forcing himself to calm.

More bruises marred Bard's wrists, discolored rings that spoke of ill treatment worse than Thorin had guessed. He could not blame Bard for his caution. From what he'd been told by the Men, those marks were the result of Bard's second arrest in as many months on spurious charges and in a place, by people, he knew far better than he did Erebor or Thorin.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, jaw tight. He'd also seen enough. Form demanded that he message the Master of Bard's safe arrival with his followers, but Thorin thought the Master could use a reminder that, without Bard's generosity, he and Laketown had no claim on Erebor's treasure that the Dwarves would recognize except pity. Which wore thin with every indication, mapped across the Dragonshooter's skin, that the gratitude of Esgaroth was a fleeting, fickle thing. "Do you need-"

"No," was the curt response and a baldfaced lie on Bard's part with his blood staining water and cloth. Thorin felt a sudden urge to grab Bard by the arm and drag that stubborn, prideful attitude of his unwilling to the healers. Did the man understand nothing of his position? Hailed as a hero by the Men, unusually friendly with the Elvenking, and bound to the Dwarves by the debt they owed him, Bard was in uniquely good standing with all three races. As King of Dale, he would be a political hinge upon which diplomatic and trade relations throughout the region would turn. If, that is, he didn't tax himself to sickness or death first. Thorin stoutly ignored Óin's voice in his head, chiding him that he was no model patient either.

Fuming, he made to step closer and argue his case. But Bard had blanched, his grip on the knife spasming, and said, simply, "...don't," in a low rasp that was half threat, half plea. Thorin frowned. What was there to hide? The Lakemen all knew of Bard running afoul of the Master's thugs and were not shy about airing his grievances in his stead; no shame attached to Bard for this incident. Nor was his reluctance to waste his people's energies on civil strife accounted as cowardice with winter upon them.

Bard finally seemed to sense Thorin's disbelief, for he continued, "Truly, I don't need- I'm un-" He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and visibly changed his mind on what he planned to say, his next words coming slower and more difficult. "My hurts are not serious. Just a few... scratches that I've already seen to and bruises that will be gone in a week or two." Then why have you yet to let go of that knife? wondered Thorin. Bard's knuckles were white around the handle, faint tremors crawling up his arm. His voice, however, was smooth as chipped flint and as hard. "I thank you for your concern, Oakenshield, but it is not needed." Nor wanted, Bard's expression said, his mouth firming in dismissal.

Thorin had bristled at being so brusquely refused. "As you wish," he gritted out. Then, in a last attempt at courtesy, he offered, "There are other chambers that you and your family may stay in, if your daughters would like a bed of their own." He vaguely recalled glimpsing several sleeping alcoves in Bard's former home, and Balin was arranging for the larger families-there was one extended clan with a dozen members, young and old-to occupy some of the more extensive suites. When Bard's face shuttered, gaze going cold, Thorin knew he'd made a grave mistake.

"I have only one daughter," Bard said, and Thorin almost would've preferred that the man stab him with the knife, rather than with this polite statement of fact, wrung dry of all emotion. "I bid you a good night, King Under the Mountain." Thorin had no memory of leaving. One moment, he was staring at Bard, stricken, then in a blink of an eye, he was outside in the hall, door shut behind him, trying to put a name to the face of Bard's eldest child and failing, failing. He'd braced his hands against the wall, fingers digging into the stone, as he fought not to scream. How could he have been so callous? So stupid?

"...fire in the night, all those people who burned..." He'd known that a full quarter of the town perished in the inferno of its destruction, but somehow he never made the connection between those grim numbers, still better than they could've been by Bard's bravery, and mothers who'd lost their sons, fathers who'd lost their daughters, brothers and sisters torn apart, families and friends-the incalculable sum of human suffering.

He had blinded himself. He who'd watched as Dwarves that stood proud at his side for their initiation as warriors were crushed beneath Smaug's taloned feet and roasted alive in their armor, wailing high and thin as metal melted like acrid wax. Who'd heard the grind of crumbling stone, burying the fleeing, and smelt the gagging stench of charred meat, soot greasy on his lips. Men, women, and children-all were as sheep before a wolf, vermin in truth, to the dragon, whose cruel malice was boundless. Thorin knew this. As surely as he'd cleansed and prepared for burial with his own hands the desiccated bodies of the last of his people in the western guardroom, left by Smaug to a slow, wasting death in the suffocating dark, fearful and trapped.

And ramshackle Esgaroth, fishing its trade, unlike Erebor held no attraction for Smaug except what terror he could instill in its inhabitants before slaughtering them in revenge for the injury Thorin had done him. It was a bitter satisfaction that Smaug's arrogance proved his downfall; he'd been too intent on toying with his prey, lazily setting the town ablaze and flying low over the escaping boats, to take notice of a lone bowman.

Bard's stoic composure during their parley suddenly seemed remarkable, angry though his words had sounded to Thorin then. Thorin could not say that he would've treated at all in Bard's position, confronted with willful denial and a mighty army at his back. His kin newly laid to rest in the smoldering wreck of his home. Bard's daughter had been tall and lovely, lithe but strong as a young tree in fresh bloom. She'd struck Thorin in their brief, now only, acquaintance as practical and capable and much loved by her father.

Why did Bard not spit her name in his face? Of how Laketown had welcomed the Company and aided them on their way to the Mountain, of Thorin's promise that all would share in the wealth of Erebor, Bard spoke at length, no matter that he'd opposed the former because he valued the latter less than the safety of his family. But not once did he touch on the loss that family had suffered, his personal grief pushed so deep within Thorin was fooled. He'd spent long minutes in the hall outside Bard's door finding a reason: If Thorin could not be moved by the plight of hundreds, what was the death of one girl to him?

"-ire? Sire, are you well?" Thorin blinked owlishly at the concerned face of the guard before him. At some point, his feet had stopped. How long he'd been standing there, lost in thought as the guard tried to get his attention, Thorin could only imagine, flushing.

Just as well Dwalin is gone. With Dwalin not due to return from the Blue Mountains till spring, the Dwarves on watch and patrol reported directly to Thorin. Otherwise, he had no illusions that his nocturnal wanderings would remain a secret from the Company. Who would descend on him with questions he wasn't sure he could answer. Not if he wanted to keep his nights unattended.

"Yes. I was-" Was what? Realizing again what a hash he'd made of things after the hidden door was opened? Heavy on his shoulders as the awareness was that Bard had judged him to be so consumed by greed and ambition that the lives of innocents meant nothing to him-and he could not even say that Bard was wrong about who he'd been then-Thorin had eventually forced himself back to the dining hall. Resolve filled him with each dragging step, to care for Bard's people as he should've done from the moment Smaug left the Mountain for Esgaroth.

The good cheer of the Men at having a warm meal to eat, their gratitude at having a warm place to sleep, their children tucked close-it shamed Thorin. His cheeks still hurt from the false smile he'd worn for hours as he played the gracious host, assuring the Lakemen that, no, their presence was no trouble, that Erebor had resources aplenty, of course, especially with the additional supplies they'd brought, to support all through the winter. Until at last they were bedded down for the night, tired but hopeful. It was somewhat of a relief that Bard's son, at least, had not forgotten Thorin's responsibility in his family's sorrows, stance wary and an accusing glint in his eye as he inquired after his father, his sister's hand clasped firmly in his. Thorin had called Ori over to guide them to their quarters, the girl's sleepy parting wave at him a blow that stove his chest in.

"I was thinking," he finished weakly. Seeing the guard's hesitance, Thorin cleared his throat and said in his most authoritative voice, "As you were." Yet the guard lingered, neither saluting nor returning to his post. If I don't want Balin to hear of this tomorrow... Thorin bared his teeth in what he hoped was a winning grin and lied, "I, too, am about to head back to where I should be: my bed. This walk has settled my mind." He frowned when the guard only looked more anxious.

"My lord," blurted the guard, "we-that is, me and the other lads on gold watch tonight-we are sorry to have to disturb you, but we truly don't know what to do with the man." What man? Thorin had the unpleasant suspicion that he'd missed the beginning of this conversation. "Lord Balin granted him permission to enter the treasury unescorted, and we'd not heard elsewise, so we let him pass, but he hasn't come out and..."

While, as a rule, Dwarven sentries did not fidget on duty, the way this one shifted from foot to foot suggested that he badly wanted to. "Could you... go in and speak to him, sire?" the guard asked, eyes pleading. It must be Bard, for who else among the Men would have such leave? After the debacle of earlier, however, Bard was the last person Thorin wished to meet, and since they'd taken up residence in the Mountain more than a month ago, he'd avoided the treasure chambers, keeping abreast of the ongoing sort of the gold through daily tallies, figures and assessments laid out in neat, black columns and rows on paper. So it was with a coil of apprehension in his gut that Thorin nodded, gesturing for the relieved guard to lead him to Bard.

Bard, thankfully, had not ventured far into the treasury. Thorin remembered well how treacherous the footing was where the gold piled deep; every step had sunk into the loose mass of coins and gems until he crawled upon all fours like a beast in his haste. He descended the stairs slowly this time, to where Bard sat at the bottom, gold sloping away from under his worn boots to the cleared workspace where Dale's fourteenth share was being separated by cartweight for storage in an adjoining vault. The man seemed wholly fixated on a jewel-encrusted goblet he turned over and over in his hands, his back to Thorin, but he tensed before Thorin was within two flights of stairs from him, somehow aware of his presence and his identity.

"Great as the tales are of your grandfather's wealth, I never imagined that it would be like this," said Bard. He glanced briefly at Thorin as he came to stand on the steps, a little farther down past Bard so their heads were level. Thorin could admit, too, that he was not eager to make eye contact, though gazing out over the vast expanse of gold, glittering in the firelight of scattered cauldrons, brought him no joy either. He felt nothing. Not mine, he thought, strangely detached, as his eyes traveled from a filigree necklace set with opalescent stones to a round shield plated in gleaming electrum. Not mine.

From Bard's low exhale, some of the strain between them easing, staring at Thorin's back suited him just fine. "I did not have the chance to tell you before," he continued after a pause, "but it was wrong of me to threaten you with war when you and your companions numbered only thirteen." He laughed, quiet and self-deprecating. "Fourteen, if one were to count the Halfling.

"How I expected you to produce, on short notice, a twelfth of this... I don't know." Bitterness crept into Bard's voice, surprisingly old for one who could not have seen fifty years of life. He was younger than Fíli and Kíli, Thorin realized with a jolt. Younger than Ori and even Gimli, who Glóin had adamantly refused a place in the Company. "There wasn't much that I knew then, aside from my own anger and fear." The sentence ended in a whisper. Age was reckoned differently by their races, Thorin reminded himself, and Bard was considered a man grown, a father and a widower, a leader, yet...

"What blame there is to be had for events then surely must be shared by many," Thorin found himself saying. A ludicrous spectacle they must have been! He could almost believe it to be a comedy in poor taste, were it not for-his lip twisted, and he had to squelch a vicious desire to grind the coins beneath his heel into gold dust, fruitless as that would've been-the ruin they'd courted, squabbling over baubles as their foes marched against them in force. If Elves, Men, and Dwarves had united sooner, could they have mounted a stronger defense? Spared the lives of some who'd died? "Myself not least. There were older heads who acted no wiser than you." His words were blunt. The Elvenking, for one, and Gandalf Thorin did not recall handling the situation much better. Would he never be done choking on the what-ifs?

Suddenly, Thorin tired of this talk. Of what use are regrets? "Lord Bard, why do you think on these things?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bard flinch. Though whether at his tone, which was sharper than Thorin intended, or the title that sat so inexplicably ill with the man, he could not guess. When Bard did not reply, Thorin turned to look at him and immediately felt lower than a snake for giving his temper free rein. As if I'd learned nothing of patience these past months.

Vulnerable was how Bard seemed and young, despite the silver threaded through his dark hair. He'd set down the goblet he was studying to draw his coat tight about his body, shoulders hunching and gaze focused on some point to the side, swallowed in the gloom of the chamber's far reaches where even the gold shone dim. Thorin was struck by a memory, of the wild fox that slipped into his camp one night while he chased rumors of his father in Dunland.

He'd slept lightly and kept Deathless close at hand, as the Dunlendings were not known for their hospitality to travelers, constantly warring with the Horse-lords to their south. At the rustling of grass, he rolled into a crouch from his blankets, expecting to confront brigands, only to find himself face to face with a lean fox, its russet fur limned in white by the moon. Bard's stillness was the same as that fox's-wary and watchful, in a way that exceeded human senses and instincts, poised on the edge of flight. Thinking of how quickly the fox had vanished, darting into the brush as Thorin stared, frozen in mid-motion, he opened his mouth to apologize.

But Bard spoke first. "You're right," he said, voice strained. He let out a forceful sigh, eyes closed, and tension leaked from his tall frame like juice running from a smashed fistful of berries, red and tart. "What's past is past. It... doesn't matter. Not anymore." Thorin wondered who Bard was trying to convince. Men were no better than Dwarves when it came to forgetting and forgiving, for all that their lives were half as long; they bequeathed their hatreds to their children and their children's children, until the reasons why they fought were utterly lost.

"I suppose I owe you an apology, too, for the guards waking you," Bard added, expression one of wry humor and false good cheer that Thorin inwardly winced to see. "Won't happen again." His words took on the sound of a dire vow.

"No," Thorin said hastily. "No, it's no trouble." He would've been awake regardless, and he understood the need to escape the confines of one's room, the walls shrinking to form a tomb of stone, even if he didn't know what haunted Bard so as to drive him from his family's side to wander Erebor's empty, echoing halls. "You have my leave to go where you wish, at any time, save for personal quarters and areas that have not yet been deemed safe by the surveyors."

Upon further reflection, however, Thorin would rather not have curious Lakemen exploring the foundries and gold mines. There were clearly aspects to the cohabitation of their peoples that they had to discuss. With a frustrated noise, he amended, "Keep your men to the guest wing and main entrance hall for now. I'll have floor plans sent to your rooms with common and restricted spaces marked." Bard nodded, looking a little nonplussed. "Your permission to enter the treasury unescorted stands, and I shall inform the guards not to disturb you while you're here." At this, Bard slumped in faint relief, and Thorin felt mildly pleased that he'd read aright the man's motives for sitting alone, surrounded by cold, silent treasure, while his children slept sound in their bed.

"You have my gratitude, Oakenshield," said Bard. Thorin inclined his head in acceptance, before turning back to the gold that held no more attraction for him, their conversation over. He did not mind Bard's presence so much once the other grew accustomed to his, the last of Bard's seemingly ingrained caution unwinding in small, gradual increments as the two of them waited together for the predawn change in watch.

Thorin had discovered, through mortifying experience, that if he were not in the guest wing when one of the Company came to fetch him for breakfast, they would rouse everybody and ransack the entire Mountain from top to bottom in search of him. At least the Company was as embarrassed as he when they finally tracked him to the dining hall, where he'd been looking in confusion for the cooks and at the bowls of porridge abandoned half eaten on the tables. Balin, especially, had the air of one who hoped for the floor to melt away under his feet, when Bofur, with his typical frankness, blurted, "Oh, thank Mahal you're alive!" to Thorin's raised eyebrow, his stiff, suspicious, "And why wouldn't I be?"

A great deal of evasive stammering had followed, Thorin torn between being touched at their concern and insulted. He was not an honorless coward, to deny Dís her due. And Mahal created us to endure. But, watching Nori and Ori take turns unsubtly kicking Bofur in the shins as Balin and Dori offered conflicting explanations, none quite credible, Thorin could not fault them for this momentary faltering of their faith in him. They had stood staunch by his side in all else. At Óin's shooing, they'd resumed the important business of eating, and except for a final gentle cuff on the ear that Bifur gave Bofur as they walked to their table, Thorin in the middle, it was a day like any other.

Later, Thorin would realize how fortunate he was that the searchers had begun in the upper levels, with their many precipitous ledges and bridges, while he took several of the less traveled passages up from the catacombs to the dining hall, obliviously doing a spot of surveying. That nobody, then or afterwards, thought to question the night guards, gone to their beds before all the commotion.

He was more careful now to keep the Company informed of his whereabouts, helped by a new awareness of what his restless spirit sought, and the Company not so quick to distrust him with his own well-being, their fears proving to be unwarranted in an episode they were not keen to repeat. Not that Thorin had any doubts search parties would be sent out again if he were ever so delayed as to not make an appearance by mid-morning.

And thus, when he heard the guards greet their relief, voices tiny and distorted, he started back up the stairs, feeling lightened. The cringing part of him that had dreaded seeing the treasure-expected the fever-hot lust for gold to burn in his flesh, reignited-was more settled, though Thorin knew it would never be excised completely and was resigned to the fact. Thankful, even, for another check on the sickness. I pass the test. He smiled mirthlessly. This time.

Only a couple steps and he stopped, unable to leave without a word to Bard. Who was, in truth, not like to notice the lack of courtesy. Bard's interest in the gold had apparently waned; his eyes were instead on his hands, the right rubbing at the bruises around his left wrist as if he could, against all logic, press them out of existence or at least deeper into the skin, out of sight. Thorin cleared his throat, but whatever he planned to say-good of us to have had this talk, breakfast will be served in two hours, come to me should you and your men require something?-it withered into an uncomfortable silence when Bard turned on him a gaze as blank as wet slate.

Not hostile, no, Thorin decided, uneasy at these unpredictable shifts in Bard's mood. Merely... remote. Bard was a plain man not given to fancies, and it was jarring to see in him a detachment which rivaled that of the Elves, body a vessel spun of air and glass for a mind that was elsewhere. "Can you find your way?" Thorin finally asked. He ignored the double meaning and the crawling sensation that he spoke to a husk in the shape of a man.

Just as Thorin reached out with a cautious hand to shake the nearest shoulder, Bard's consciousness snapped back into his body. He jerked, as though he'd been startled awake from a dreamless sleep, blinking. Thorin grunted when Bard's hand reflexively caught his by the wrist, wrenching his arm sharply away and down. Luckily for them both, before Thorin's own battle-honed instincts could mistake Bard's actions for an attack, Bard looked, still a bit dazed, at where his fingers were locked vise-like around Thorin's wrist and hastily released his grip, expression horrified.

"F-Forgive me," Bard said hoarsely, head bowed so that his hair hid his face. He clenched his trembling hands together, fingers twisted at ugly angles, his forearms resting heavily upon his knees.

Thorin flexed his fingers; Bard's grip had pinched some of the feeling from them, though it would take more to bruise Dwarven skin as Bard's was. "I am overtired, Oakenshield," Bard explained, as Thorin eyed him in belated recognition. "I-" Swallowing, Bard tried to continue, but his voice broke. The wounded noise that forced its way past Bard's gritted teeth hurt to hear.

Dwarves were, on the whole, a hardy folk, their bodies and wills created to resist the evils of the world, whether these were of another's making or simply the vagaries of fate. Azanulbizar and the terrible war that had ended there, however, not thirty years after Erebor's devastating loss had been misery too much even for them. This wild veering between a numbness to everything except images in the mind and an almost painful acuity of the senses, the sights and sounds, smell and feel of normal life overwhelming, threatening-it was familiar to him.

He was but a bargeman, thought Thorin. While Bard had certainly proved his skill as an archer and wielded a sword well enough to survive the battle, slaying dragons, orcs, and goblins was nothing he'd ever trained for. Even without the added burden of leading the stricken people of Esgaroth when the Master was negligent, which by all accounts was often in the weeks following Smaug's demise.

"Then you should rest," he suggested, tone deliberately light. Bard was calming-remarkably fast, and Thorin wondered at his iron control-the only remaining sign of his distress the hand that had fisted in his hair, tugging, in what seemed like aborted attempts to pull it out by the roots. "Come," Thorin said. "Let me show you the shortest path from here to the guest wing." He could not turn his back on the man now and, what's more, he had no desire to spend his morning dealing with panicked Lakemen, asking after their missing lord, if Bard didn't return to his children before they woke. Bard's son held little trust in Thorin. I cannot blame the boy for that.

Bard nodded curtly, standing in a motion just as abrupt. "I would appreciate it," he said, and his voice was filled with jagged gravel. Yet it was clear from Bard's rigid stance that he wanted Thorin to forget his moment of weakness. This need, too, Thorin understood.

He and Bard walked in mutual silence back to the man's quarters. Dwarves moved through the halls, most heading to breakfast, but there were few Lakemen about, Bard's people likely exhausted still from the daylong journey to Erebor. They were greeted with respectful calls of "my lords" and "Your Majesties" that Thorin acknowledged with brief nods. Bard beside him, trailing a bit, wasn't as inclined to answer, stiffening each time, and Thorin thought with an inward huff of disbelief that Bard had better accustom himself to receiving deference sooner rather than later.

You are not a bargeman anymore, Dragonshooter. Thorin would bet the whole treasury against Nori or Dori, who had something of a reputation as a cardsharp, that a crown would grace Bard's head inside five years, over his protests. Fíli had been right: Bard cared nothing for titles and sought no power unless it were to protect that which he loved. It would not have occurred to him that Thorin could value face above life, refusing to treat with him so as not to appear weak before the gathered armies of the Elvenking and Iron Hills alike. Erebor and Dale depended on them reaching a closer accord; Thorin was content to be grudging allies with Thranduil, whose realm did not border his, but not with Bard.

When at last Thorin stood in front of Bard's door once again, watching him enter with a whispered thanks, he said, haltingly, "Your daughter. What was her name?" It would not change the past to hear it nor lessen his guilt, but Thorin was not who he had been, and it mattered to him now. That he recognize Bard's loss in this small, inadequate way. He straightened under Bard's coolly assessing stare, shoulders tense to brace for a bitter rejection or, worse, accusation. Ruin and death.

A faint voice drifted from within the room, high and childish-Bard's surviving girl. "Da, is that you? Where did you go?" A rustling of blankets and an unhappy murmur from Bard's son. "I woke, and you were not with us, l-like... But Bain wouldn't let me go find you..." Thorin was struck by how Bard's features softened.

Grim was the word that came most readily to mind when describing Bard. His look was wiry and angular, weathered by hardships that had left their mark in the thin creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the calluses on his work-roughened hands. At the first sound of his children, however, his brow smoothed and affection lent his face a warmer cast. The walls of suspicion that seemed an inseparable part of the man, keeping all at arm's length, split apart, but it was less the forcible breaking Thorin had witnessed earlier than the opening of a hidden door, a path to Bard's heart known only to two. A pang stabbed through Thorin. Was I not the same with Fíli and Kíli? Frerin and Dís?

"Go back to sleep, sweetling," said Bard, half turned towards the bed. "I was just on one of my walks. We're safe here." There was a drowsy hum of agreement before his children fell into the steady rhythms of rest, their breath whooshing quietly, soothed. A suggestion of softness lingered in Bard's eyes when he turned back to Thorin, the hard line of his jaw gentled. "Sigrid. Her name was Sigrid." He wondered who had named her, Bard or his departed wife.

Thorin nodded. Bard spoke his daughter's name in mingled pride and grief. With another nod-he understood, remembering Fíli and Kíli clad as the princes they were in gilded mail-Thorin made to leave, but Bard stopped him. "The two of your companions who died in the battle, Fíli and Kíli?" he asked, tongue careful around the names. "Were they not your sister-sons?"

"Yes." More than a month had gone, and Thorin could finally meet such a question with composure, even if his throat threatened to close. Still, he hoped Bard was not interested in further talk. He was weary and wanted to escape to his duties; Balin and he were scheduled to begin ordering the mines for re-exploration in the spring.

Bard, to his relief, merely sighed, saying, "I see," tone low but not unkind. After a solemn pause, the man bowed his head to Thorin, right hand over heart in a fashion that he must have learned from the Elves, and shut the door. A start, Thorin thought, cautiously encouraged. Not until he stepped into the dining hall-Balin, a spread of schematics on his table instead of food, was already consulting with the master mining engineers among the Dwarves from the Iron Hills-did Thorin realize he never found out which of his ghosts awaited him, deep beneath the Mountain.

· · ·
Over the next week, Thorin saw little of Bard. At least during the day. From his tentative questioning of Bain, who fetched meals for his father, Bard slept at odd hours and had since Laketown's destruction by Smaug near two months ago, stress and injury exacting their toll. Thorin's further attempts to convince the man to seek the healers were frustrated-

"Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers when he's like this," said Bain, expression mulish, while Thorin reflected sourly that the Elvenking, who'd set Bard's broken arm after the battle, seemed an exception.

-but at last Bain, biting his lip worriedly, agreed to take a jar of Óin's all-purpose topical salve with a promise that he would give it to his pigheaded father. To do with as he pleases. Thorin discovered that he had new sympathy for Gandalf, whose mysterious agenda thus far largely consisted of bludgeoning the free peoples of Middle-earth into doing the best thing that they didn't want to. Surely, though, he could not have been so willful? Recalling trolls and goblins, the glimmer of hidden moon runes, Thorin decided that it was probably easier on what remained of his pride to let bygones be bygones.

Not that Bard was remiss in his duties, conferring daily in his rooms with the men and women he'd charged with seeing to the others, his son running messages for him. His people were eager to be of use, at his urging, once their initial awe at living in the Mountain subsided. Though stonemasons they were not, there were skilled carpenters among them who were quickly recruited to inspect and repair common furniture as well as the many pieces that were now without owners, emptied of personal effects.

It had not felt right to chop into kindling serviceable beds, dressers, tables, and chairs, beautifully carved under the layers of dust, like what had been too damaged by fire or water to salvage. Yet neither did it feel right to do anything except store these abandoned possessions, the touch of the dead ghosting across knobs and armrests worn smooth. Bifur had suggested to Bofur, who proudly shared the idea with Balin, that an auction house be opened when more had taken up permanent residence and the proceeds set aside in a royal fund to benefit the sick and wounded, orphans and widows. Thorin thought that a fine solution. So, Dori was assessing the furniture with the Men and Ori compiling an illustrated inventory, when not cataloging the library.

Work on the main entrance hall was nearing completion and ahead of schedule. Bard's men could not help much with hammer or chisel, but their backs were strong, the reach of their arms long, and they did not shy from toil. Better still, the women had commandeered the kitchens, sparing Dwarves from meal preparations and everybody from the somewhat rougher fare that had been served since Bombur departed for the Blue Mountains.

Dáin had understandably chosen for fighting prowess and endurance, not culinary talent, expecting the forced march from the Iron Hills to end in battle, as it did-a fact that showed in burnt crusts of bread, the same porridge and soup day after day. Thorin did not fully appreciate what a difference Bombur had made before until their tables were again laid with flavor and variety. Sweet and savory, fresh meat and dairy, pickled fruits, vegetables, and fish-it was amazing how a satisfied stomach could lift the spirits. The kitchens never lacked for hands willing to haul buckets of water or peel onions by the dozen, if it meant they could sit by a toasty hearth, wreathed in the smells of wood on the fire and hearty cooking.

The women even found more palatable uses for Erebor's large stock of cram, which Thorin had imagined would go uneaten until there was nothing else. Besides grinding the stale biscuits into feed for the animals, they sprinkled crumbles of cram on soups, fried strips of cram in creamy butter, and baked chunks of cram with milk, eggs, nuts, and preserved fruits to make a warm dessert, topped with sugar, that was, shockingly, delicious. A cluster of smiling women and Dwarves exchanging recipes as they scrubbed clean tables and dishes became a regular sight in the dining hall.

Bard's daughter, meanwhile, whose name Thorin learned was Tilda, was making headway in what he had thought a hopeless cause.

It was an aching joy to hear the Mountain's halls ring once more with the laughter of children, whatever their race. They were fascinated by Erebor's nooks and crannies, formed of stony geometric planes so unlike the rickety wooden structures of Laketown, and the innumerable stairs ascending and descending to places wondrous in their mystery. Soon enough, the guards were recruited by frazzled parents to keep their children, who were getting lost looking for the dragon's hoard like brave Mister Baggins, from mischief. Thorin could not but be amused at Bilbo inspiring a new generation of burglars. Wary of little fingers with a love for shiny trinkets, though, he posted keen-eyed Dwarves on every path to the lower levels.

All of the adults, himself included, breathed a collective sigh of relief when the children's energy finally settled down to a manageable level. Helped, no doubt, by the institution of daily lessons in reading, writing, and figures taught by an elderly couple, formerly the proprietors of Esgaroth's lone bookshop, and a Master Dofur, one of the Iron Hills' best draftsmen, whose generosity with his time was surprising until Nori told Thorin that his family was near as big as Bombur's.

"Get a couple gallons of mead into that dwarrow, and he'll talk your ear off about his ten, twelve bairns without stopping," Nori had said, chuckling. "Unless it's to talk about his wife!" Thorin was a bit skeptical-Master Dofur seemed as unbending as the long birch rule he rapped over the knuckles of his students should they dare be inattentive-but it was Nori and Bofur's business to know such things, the two of them gregarious and fond of drink and Balin's unofficial spies.

Of the Company, the children gravitated to Bifur and Bofur, Balin and Óin. Bifur delighted them with ingenious toys, birds with flapping wings and horses in gallop; rarely did Bofur come to supper without a giggling young passenger seated upon his shoulders, hands pulling on the ends of Bofur's hat like reins.

As for Balin, Thorin was convinced that they were enamored with his beard, snowy white and fluffy as a cloud. Balin had developed a bad habit of letting some pint-sized waif of indeterminate gender nap pillowed on his beard during his afternoon councils, having found that the presence of a sleeping child precluded any raised voices. The children's favoring of Óin, however, both pained Thorin to see and was the most welcome.

When they were at lessons or play, it was easy to forget that these children had survived the loss of their home and, for too many, family in a firestorm such as had shaken hardened warriors decades their elders. But in the healing ward, their faces scrunched in concentration as they rolled bandages and sorted pungent herbs for medicines, their scars were impossible to miss. Whether a burn stretched pink across the back of a girl's arm or a boy who resembled his father so in his grim resolve.

For the assistance, Óin was grateful, always glad to impart his knowledge and patient with their well-meant mistakes, but he was even more grateful for how they cheered his other charges. While those with less severe injuries had already been released from his care, save for periodic appointments to check that broken bones were mending in place, dozens remained still, in need of long term rehabilitation or too sore wounded to move much at all. These Dwarves and Men took quickly to the children. Sick, perhaps, of brooding on their own ills and wanting to provide comfort instead of receiving it.

And, in one corner, a dying Elf was being woken to life.

Eight days passed in the Mountain before Thorin steeled his nerves to speak to the redheaded she-Elf. Tauriel, the Elvenking had named her. Only Thorin need not have bothered. She could tell him nothing of his sister-sons, lying motionless on her cot as if carved whole out of pale marble. Her form and features were unmarred except for the arm, her left, she'd lost at the elbow in the battle. Yet were it not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, she could've been a particularly lovely corpse, her open eyes staring and vacant. He'd listened, incredulous-

"The Elven healers warned me of this." Óin glanced pityingly at her from where he and Thorin stood off to one side, whispering. "Their kind is blessed with great power to heal from wounds that would kill a Man but can waste in grief, if there is not the will to live."

Anger spiked so swiftly in Thorin that it stole his breath away. He had to bite his tongue not to hiss that this Elven interloper had no right to mourn either of them and, by doing thus, deny him answers. It was with difficulty that he asked, tone harsh, "Is there any chance of recovery?"

"Mayhaps," said Óin, but he was shaking his head. "She's young for one of them, and her ties to these shores are strong. It was hoped that, should she wake, she might make her peace with the lads here, in their home, but..." He sighed, then, steps heavy, left Thorin to scowl furiously down at the oblivious Elf.

-as Óin explained what ailed her. Thorin had stayed, despite wanting to strike that impassive Elven face, there at the foot of her bed until his rage ebbed into a bleak nothingness. Clasped tight in her one hand was Kíli's runestone, the deep gray shimmering blue and green, framed by her slender fingers. Kíli would not have given away his mother's gift to him lightly. Nor had it been received lightly, from what Óin had seen. The Elf refused to part with the stone, unconsciously fighting the healers who'd tried to pry it from her grasp, though she slipped further into dreams with each dawn.

Whatever affection bound Kíli and this Tauriel, it'd been true, for her as well as him. Thorin saw that now, too late. That she had fallen defending Fíli and Kíli, an Elven princeling made a certain terrible sense; there was little in this world as dear to Kíli as his brother, and she must have been close to Thranduil's son indeed, for him to have followed her to Laketown alone. An Elf and a Dwarf... Thorin thought he might eventually have been browbeaten into suffering even so... unconventional a union, if only his sister-sons were alive to flout his wishes and the traditions of their people, Kíli defiant and Fíli at his brother's side, as always. Fíli would've plied every underhanded political trick he knew to win acceptance for the unlikely match, and neither would've been above exploiting their mother's undisguised desire for grandchildren to join her strength to theirs.

But Dís would never hold a grandchild in her arms, he remembered. Fíli was dead, and so was Kíli, the Elf he'd lost his heart to seemingly set on fleeing to the grave after him. A stifling pressure had welled in Thorin's chest the longer he gazed upon her, pushing at his ribs from within, but his skin was dry, gritty, like sand scorched by the sun.

He at last left her to sleep, his bones creaking as if they couldn't support his weight and fully expecting that he would soon hear word of her death: a quiet, merciful passing between one breath and the next. Was this what the Elvenking had meant? Thorin could believe that of Thranduil, whose notions of kindness were harsher than most. It had come as a surprise to, not four days after the Lakemen arrived, learn from Óin that she'd responded to Tilda.

Tilda had taken to sitting with the Elf when done with her chores in the healing ward, the fingers of one small hand twined around hers over the runestone and the other stroking her fire-bright hair. Óin suspected that Tilda missed her sister and looked to Tauriel to soothe that absence, the Elf having made a strong impression on her during their time together in Laketown. It'd been Tauriel who led Tilda along with Fíli, Kíli, and him to safety through the burning maze of canals, Óin said softly. And Thorin had closed his eyes with a silent curse at fate, fearing that Bard's daughter was doomed to grieve for an Elf she hardly knew.

A girl humming lullabies to one who could not hear them-the tableau was all too clear in Thorin's mind and piercing, beautiful in the way of shortlived things. It was cruel, he'd felt, to let her hope so, firmly insistent that Lady Tauriel was too brave not to wake, almost as brave as Da, that she merely needed a kind touch and a kind voice to guide her back to them, but Óin confessed he hadn't the heart to stop her, and neither did Thorin in the end nor, it appeared, Bard and Bain.

"Da says to let her try." Then, crouching to hug his sister close, Bain told her gently, "You're doing good, Tilda." Watching the girl clutch at her brother, head buried against his shoulder as she nodded, Thorin realized in a sudden flash of insight that this was more than the compassion of a sweet child or even the longing for a loved one departed. The stricken Elf reminded Tilda of somebody she cared deeply for, and he had a guess as to who.

Yet Tilda's faith proved right. The Elf woke, briefly, squeezing the girl's hand and rasping, "What a lovely song..." before falling into a lighter sleep. Tilda had beamed with happiness for the rest of the day while Óin berated himself for not considering the role of song in Elvish healing, though he admitted sheepishly to Thorin that he was ill-qualified to administer this treatment, being rather tone deaf.

His patient improved steadily thereafter, sung back to health by a dedicated cadre of more musically talented volunteers and, of course, Tilda. In truth, Thorin thought the whole affair queer. He grimaced. Elves! He would be able to speak with this Elf as he wished to in the spring.

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