Story [Hobbit] Excerpts From Thine Hatred To Crown

Nyota's Heart, glad the talk between Thorin and Bilbo turned out okay! Bilbo isn't a character I've written much of, and I feel like I don't have a really clear conception of him or, for that matter, Hobbits in general and the Shire as a setting. I can, however, fake it well enough to make it, at least in shorter, standalone scenes. Such as, conveniently, the ones in this fic.

Mira_Jade, I can't exactly take credit for Thráin's parting words to Thorin, as that's straight from the DOS EE. Gandalf's delivery of Thráin's message, of course, is all mine! I do worry that I'm making Thorin a little too... crazy in his one-sided conversations with the dead. He's functional, because he won't allow himself to fail in what he perceives to be his duty, but also depressed and arguably not coping well with his losses. Any concrit you or others can offer here would be very welcome!

Speaking of characterization, I'm kind of back in more familiar waters with this update. That is, writing Bard, lol. I originally redacted the summary for mature content, but the gist of the gen part of this story is that Thorin and Bard learn to be friends. So, expect these two to interact a lot from now until Bard leaves for Dale in the spring. The fic will hopefully still be interesting, even with the shift in focus. Finally, Bard has 32,000+ words of history with the Master too ugly for this site that I can answer some questions about, if necessary.

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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?

TBC​

 

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.

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, thanks for sticking with this story! Which is long-winded and has, perhaps, taken (will take) some strange turns, lol. One of the most interesting things about The Hobbit, IMO, is the power triangle of Thranduil, Bard, and Thorin/Dáin, but I find that the perennial Elves vs. Dwarves rivalry and, since BOFA, the just as storied alliance of Elves and Men, lol, are given rather more attention than relations between Erebor and Dale, though this is in fact the strong foundation of the Wilderland's northern defenses come the War of the Ring. With Erebor and Dale/Laketown both falling victim to Smaug, their similar positions as uncrowned kings in exile to an impoverished people, Thorin and Bard actually have a lot in common with one another. That, sadly, in the welter of anger, greed, blame and guilt, injured pride prior to the Battle of Five Armies, their canon selves never really had a chance to realize. Film!Thorin, especially, is verging on hypocrisy when, for instance, he says that the Lakemen should be glad to have survived Smaug without also demanding aid from him. Were you so grateful to have escaped Smaug, your kin dead and your home lost, that you didn't resent Thranduil for turning you away when you needed help, Thorin? Yeah, I don't think so!

As for the Master, he's kind of the fly in everybody's ointment, lol. He's the primary antagonist of this fic, so he's a deal more dangerous than he is in the films, where he and Alfrid serve mostly as comic relief. DOS seems to imply that Bard is in fact part of some underground movement to oppose the Master's rule--the call for elections, the secret stash of makeshift weapons, how quick his children are to accept spies on their home and conspiracy meetings. Had Thorin and company not arrived, I can imagine that growing popular unrest would've either forced the Master to hold elections he is sure to lose or removed him from office if he refuses to, by arms, if necessary.

Generally speaking, being a dissident in a borderline police state, the Master having the Laketown guard in his pocket, is not a safe occupation for you or, worse, your family. There's much that the Master could do to make Bard's life hard, if he were willing to abuse his authority, and suffice to say, in this story, he does, feeling equally threatened by Bard and jealous of him. Their ugly history dates back to when Bard was in his mid-twenties and less wary, less grim, a promising young guardsman soon to be made captain of a company of archers, more than a decade before the events of The Hobbit. The rest I'll leave to your imagination... and Thorin's!

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"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.

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, Thorin and the gold sickness is a somewhat... thorny characterization issue, I find, and one exacerbated by the films, wherein the Dwarves aren't quite as obsessed with reclaiming their treasure, per their book portrayal, as opposed to their home. I'd even hazard that the fandom tends to be more sympathetic towards Thorin's viewpoint than Bard's or Thranduil's, the Elves and Men seen as the aggressors or at the very least undiplomatic in arriving on Erebor's doorstep with two armies to extort from the Dwarves the wealth of their people. Personally, I think it's rather more complicated than that.

For starters, when they decide to march on the Mountain, Bard and Thranduil believe the Company to be dead and Erebor's treasure, which Bard does have a claim to as slayer of Smaug as well as heir of Girion, to be lying unguarded for, say, a passing horde of orcs to rob. From this standpoint, bringing along as many hands as can be spared to move and/or defend the gold is just sound logistics and strategy. Of course, the situation changes unexpectedly when they find the Company alive, and Bard must now negotiate with the Dwarves.

However, there's one fact, frequently overlooked, that would make it hard enough for Bard to trust Thorin in good faith, IMO, that he might see the Elven army as insurance against any funny business. Well, this aside from whatever bargain the Men have already struck with Thranduil to, for example, pay for the relief aid he's providing them from their share of the treasure. For a week or so after Smaug's death, Thorin does not once send a messenger to Laketown or something to ask how the Men are faring, though he knows the dragon went there to exact vengeance. That's like watching your neighbors' house burn down and not bothering to call 911 or check if they're okay. Your neighbors would not be happy with you, even if you played no role in causing the fire.

Which really exposes the flawed conception of the Dwarves' plan to retake the Mountain from Smaug--in the films, not the book, wherein they had no plan to speak of, lol. A consensus should have been reached with the Elves and Men before Smaug's sleep was disturbed. This very likely would've involved promises of a share of the treasure if the quest succeeds, anyways, because the Dwarves are inherently asking the Elves and Men to risk their lives and livelihoods against an angry dragon.

Er. Can you tell I've given this some thought?

On-topic, Dís is slated to come to Erebor in the spring, along with a whole slew of other people, lol. It'll be tens of thousands of words yet before I have to worry about how to handle her conversation with Thorin. Meanwhile, the Dwarves and Lakemen (soon-to-be Men of Dale?) learn to cohabit, as do Thorin and Bard. Hope you find the process interesting!

---

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.

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, though Thrór's and later Thráin's Dwarf Ring is in the extended editions as part of Gandalf's White Council/Dol Guldur storyline, so far as the theatrical cut of BOFA goes, my best interpretation (FWIW) is that Peter Jackson chose to portray Thorin's descent into madness as dragon sickness. Which is not entirely without basis in canon, for the book says of Thorin's refusal to treat with Bard: "[Bilbo] did not reckon with the power that gold has upon which a dragon has long brooded nor with Dwarvish hearts. Long hours in the past days Thorin had spent in the treasury, and the lust of it was heavy on him." And Tolkien's dragons do have the power to cloud minds and bend wills, through speech at least, if not by their very presence, exerting an influence that can last and linger--Glaurung being the prime example but also Smaug in his conversation with Bilbo.

In fact, I'd guess that this connection might be one reason why Smaug dies at the start of BOFA instead of at the end of DOS, as many have argued would've been better pacing. Bard kills Smaug but, in a thematic sense, Smaug isn't yet dead because in his absence Thorin has become the dragon--King Under the Mountain, a title Smaug claimed, as well--brooding over Erebor's treasure and unwilling to part with one coin of it. Thorin repeats some of Smaug's lines verbatim, in the dragon's voice thanks to the magic of sound effects, lol, and sort of... lurks around the Mountain, serpent-like, scaring the bejebus out of poor Bilbo. Even Smaug's musical cue attaches itself to Thorin, IIRC, a sinister vibe in his more threatening scenes. Hence why, in the end, Smaug's shadow appears in the gold floor--a reminder of the Dwarves' earlier failed attempt to defeat Smaug, perhaps, and the consequences that followed--during Thorin's hallucination sequence. When Thorin finally throws off the gold sickness, then, he rejects Smaug's legacy and banishes the ghost of the dragon for good.

Anyways, I'd like to think that I'm sympathetic to all parties in the pre-BOFA debacle. I pretty much have to be, lol, because Thorin and Bard can't be friends, IMO, without some acknowledgment that neither was at his best then. Though, at times, I really wish more people would write this, as you say, unlikely relationship. It's hard struggling along by myself, trying to judge whether this or that is in character and plausible, with no fandom consensus about seemingly anything except their mutual antagonism to serve as a guideline, if not a rule. Makes me a frustrated writer! Who inevitably winds up stuck on the oddest ideas... Don't say I didn't warn you!

I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments. You always have kind as well as helpful insights to offer, and your consistent attention to the prose is a rare gift, in my experience, among reviewers, that I'm very thankful for. My writing tends towards... ornate, lol, and I spend a fair bit of my editing time hacking away at overwrought analogies and too-long sentences that read like a thesaurus. It's so nice to hear when a particular description works well!

---

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.

TBC​

---

Controversial as Kíli/Tauriel is, I decided to give the pairing a try, though I'm not above rewriting their storyline in BOFA to suit me, lol, since I'm already far in AU territory on that point. The thing to remember, I suppose, is that Thorin doesn't have an inside perspective on their relationship and thus may be under some misapprehensions about the nature of it.

 

Mira_Jade, yeah, you're quite right: Glaurung! 'Nough said! My love of verbiage definitely got the better of me last time.

Anyways, glad my obsessive re-reading of The Hobbit can be of help! Though I admit, given my fandom interests, I've paid far more attention to the second half of the book than to the first. Especially the chapters on events before and after the battle, which I find tend to fall into summary more often than I'd like on top of the narration's obfuscating POV limitations. Oh, to be a fly on the tent wall during Thranduil and Bard's council with Gandalf after Bilbo leaves!

Thorin will have at least one conversation with Tauriel, the one he's been both seeking and dreading, but it might not be a very long one. Tauriel will meet Dís, too--she still has Kíli's runestone, after all--but perhaps off-page, depending on how the timing of all the spring departures and arrivals works out. While I like Tauriel's character well enough, similar to Bilbo, I don't feel as if I've got a real good handle on writing her, so her appearances in this story will be few and in between.

On a totally unrelated note, I wrote another one-shot that I'm not sure complies with forum guidelines. Can I PM you a link to the fic for review? It's short, for me, at only 3,500 words or so.

---

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.

All eagerly awaited the melting of the snows, heads filled with plans to build and plant. Thorin, though... Part of him dreaded the great labors ahead. Glad as he was for the air of industrious optimism that pervaded the Mountain, it was exhaustion that he felt more often than not. Weariness weighted down his limbs as the hours of the day blurred into one continuous stream, time marked only by meetings and meals. Watching his people and Bard's mingle in the dining hall--the Men were fond of staging plays there in the evenings, alternately bawdy tales of romantic entanglements and swashbuckling adventures in exotic climes--always brought a smile to his face, but he sat apart, in the midst of the laughing crowd. As if he, too, were asleep and dreaming.

It was the way he spent his nights, however, that made his sense of unreality palpable. Conscious of his need for rest, he would take to his bed determined to not leave it until morning, and he was on occasion successful in that, for which he was grateful.

Other times, Thorin woke, in the dark and to no sound except his own breathing, hours before the sunrise. He'd sighed at this return to routine and dressed with practiced movements; there was some stubborn inkling in his mind that the arrival of the Men would change his weakness, as so much else. Kíli must have wanted news of his Elven captain, who had herself so recently been awoken from slumber. Thorin didn't find out.

As he walked the familiar path through echoing halls to the catacombs, his feet instead decided to detour again to the treasure chambers, moved by a vague hunch. He questioned the guards, learned that his instincts were correct and, after a moment's hesitation, entered, trying to skirt the places where the gold piled deep as he searched for Bard.

Thorin had no clear idea then of what to say to the man, aside from assuring himself that Bard was as well as could be expected given that he was frustratingly elusive and his son evasive when Thorin inquired after him. If you could give me less cause to worry... Resisting the urge to glower at the heaps of coins and gems, Thorin reminded himself that Bard was a stranger still to the scrutiny, by friend and foe alike, under which a king lived.

Bard had turned his attention to where the weapons scattered throughout the hoard were being collected. Some would go to Erebor's armory, the plainer axes and shields scaled for Dwarven hands, but it had not yet been settled what was to be done with the rest. There were arms and armor so elaborately ornate that it was not fitting for them to be wielded or worn by common guardsmen, though the Company had donned and used similar before the battle for lack of anything else, and a significant number of the finest items were of a size for Elves or Men, kept to gift and trade. Thorin had huffed, unsurprised, to see Bard at a rack of bows, testing the draw of one curved like Kíli's, the tips bending away from the archer.

While Thorin preferred the sword or ax, he was not entirely incompetent with the bow, able to identify different weapons and roughly judge skill, though not with Kíli's studied expertise. All Dwarvish bows were of this type, for reasons Thorin didn't understand despite Kíli's repeated attempts to explain it, and the design was not unknown to the Elves, even popular with the Easterlings, but the Men of the Lake seemed to favor straighter longbows. Bard, certainly, was as intent on examining the bow in his hands as if he'd never before held one of its like. For possibly the first time since they met, Bard was relaxed and unconscious of it, his guard down; Thorin had not missed the rare chance to observe the man without his notice, stopping half a dozen paces from him.

Kíli was unstinting in his praise of Bard the Bowman, Thorin remembered. He'd sought his sister-son's opinion as the Company, wet and miserable, clung to the pilings beneath the boardwalk alongside Bard's home, waiting for the signal to make their ignominious entrance. Bard's skill with the bow was an anomaly, his weapon finer than anything else he owned as well as illegal, given how he'd secreted it away in a compartment in the deck of his barge; Thorin hoped to take a better measure of the man by assessing that skill. And if it could brighten Kíli's wan face to talk of the archery that was his passion, to be of aid in counseling Thorin on a matter the rest knew naught of...

"The skill of the Elves is as great as the tales say," Kíli had enthused, not the slightest bit deterred by Dwalin's low growl or Thorin's sour look. Worse, neither of them could dispute the truth of Kíli's statement. No archer Thorin had ever seen or even heard of could've matched the feat of hitting target after live target while hurtling down a whitewater river, footing dangerous, though the blond Elf's fleet grace put the lie to that.

"But to meet a Man whose talent doesn't pale in comparison..." Kíli mused, brow furrowed. "Uncle, I wager that he's shot before with Elves." Kíli's voice was wistful beyond his younger self's dream to learn from every master of the bow no matter their race, but Thorin had been too startled to notice it then. Was it not indeed strange that a simple bargeman had called the Elvenking by name?

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, now I feel kind of bad that I don't actually elaborate on Bard's adventures in the Woodland Realm, lol, in this chapter or any other I've written and planned. The gist of it is that there were spiders and heroics, a stay in the healing ward, accusations of trespassing, and archery contests, and Bard ended up staying near a month as a guest in Thranduil's halls, not wholly of his own volition, his disappearance giving the Master conniptions for fear of some Elven conspiracy. But, yes, I did wonder how it is Bard, a lowly bargeman, learned Thranduil's name and why he chooses to use it when most of the Lakemen, including the Master even, probably know Thranduil as, simply, the Elvenking. To be sure, this oddity of the book is largely because Tolkien didn't know Thranduil's name then either.

Also, weirdness incoming! This section's not so bad, but the next several of Thorin and Bard getting to know each other have an element of... pseudo-worldbuilding? Well, whatever you want to call it, it's entirely the fault of my tendency to overthink everything, hung up on pointless details. So, uh, sorry in advance?

---

At his demand for an explanation, Kíli had observed that Bard nocked his arrows, which were so long as to be almost unwieldy, with a twisting side sweep from his angled back quiver--Kíli tried to mime the motion for Thorin's benefit; Fíli had to fish his sinking brother up out of the water by the collar--that was unlike any taught by Men. Or at least Men west of the Misty Mountains, Kíli admitted, thoughtful. He was not familiar with eastern traditions past what stories he'd managed to wheedle from traders of Haradrim archers thundering into battle atop giant oliphaunts.

"There's something Elvish about that bow of his, too. The curve of it or..." Kíli groaned in frustration. "If only I could've gotten a closer look at it! The wood is yew--I'm sure of it--but it's taller than any hunting bow and must draw at a hundred pounds and ten, twenty, maybe more. Yet he shoots with accuracy enough to leave my hand unscathed!" He studied said hand, turning it this way and that, fingers curled around an imaginary stone, with a frankly admiring gaze. "Speed's not bad either, though not so quick as the Elves, of course. His range must be, oh, two, three..." Fíli and Thorin had exchanged a bemused glance at Kíli's distraction; they'd long figured that questions of archery left little room in his head for other concerns. But Kíli was smiling, the pain of his wound temporarily forgotten, so they did not interrupt.

Watching Bard run sure hands over a bow's smooth wood, Thorin could at last see something of what Kíli had so admired in his fellow archer: clean lines and a steady, unshakeable control, no sign of strain across arms, shoulders, and a back strong enough to easily draw a bow a full head taller than a tall Man. He wondered if Bard had trained with the Elves, as Kíli guessed, or if he came by this effortless power naturally as soon as a bow was placed in his hands. Glimpsing the boyish smile on Bard's face, his eyes bright, Thorin thought it might be the latter. Though he'd meant to leave the man in peace, he found himself saying, "I will make you a gift of any of the bows here, if you wish it."

He regretted speaking barely two words in because he'd well and truly startled Bard. Who tensed and spun in a tight quarter circle towards Thorin's voice, bow lowering to nock an arrow that his hand reached for but wouldn't find. Upon recognizing him, most of Bard's wariness eased, Thorin was inordinately pleased to note, though he felt the long-suffering sigh that followed was uncalled for.

"Oakenshield," Bard greeted with a nod, before putting the bow he held back in place on the rack with the others. His fingers were reluctant to part with it, lingering on the grip of polished horn. "Your offer is generous," he said after a pause, "but..." He pulled his coat about his body against the subterranean chill. "These are very fine weapons."

Thorin had frowned. He couldn't imagine why that would be a problem. "And you are a fine archer. Surely, the skill that slew Smaug deserves a bow worthy of that deed?" No matter his losses and grievous they were, Bard ought to be proud of killing that beast, Thorin deemed, avenging in one mighty blow the dead of Esgaroth, Dale, even Erebor. His forefather Girion, whose sacrifice had not been in vain, and his daughter Sigrid.

According to Fíli and Bofur, who'd caught the fateful moment, Bard hadn't even loosed the black arrow from the windlance like Thorin originally believed; Smaug was too old, too canny not to recognize and destroy the weapon that had nearly been his doom two centuries prior. Rather, Bard had broken his great yew longbow making a shot that, by all rights, should have been impossible. The black arrow was no normal arrow: twice the length, if not half as heavy as its size implied. It was, after all, forged hollow and of a lost metal alloy in a crafting no Dwarf alive could equal; Thorin would've liked to see it in action under better circumstances.

Bard apparently didn't agree, shaking his head slowly. "No," he insisted, jaw tight and the fingers of his left hand flexing. He smiled mirthlessly at Thorin and added, "I have a history of losing fine gifts. No, a simple bow suits me." This had struck Thorin as inexplicably foolish. And, judging by Bard's forlorn expression, was not what he desired either.

In battle, a warrior's life depended on the quality of his arms as much as on the strength of his sinews, the courage of his heart, and for this reason, Dwarves traditionally forged personal weapons, matched in every way to their owners, under the critical eye of a mastersmith. Also coveted were heirlooms that had faced the trial of combat and proved their mettle; the Elves had returned to the Company their confiscated belongings, among which was an ax Thorin knew Glóin intended to bestow upon Gimli. Whether the honor of receiving a weapon that had hewn trolls, goblins, and giant spiders across the breadth of Eriador, from under the Misty Mountains to the depths of Mirkwood would mollify Gimli's resentment at being barred from the victorious quest? That remained to be seen, but Glóin was hopeful.

Grunting in dissatisfied annoyance, Thorin was about to press the issue, maybe as a diplomatic overture Bard couldn't refuse, when the man cut him off, asking, "Perhaps you could tell me what these are?" He gestured at a table laid with oddities from Rhûn and farther abroad that Thrór had collected, courtesy of foreign emissaries and traders eager to win the King Under the Mountain's favor.

One of the later additions--a thin, edged throwing ring of intricately etched gold and dark steel--had landed him and Dwalin in the healing wing to the combined wrath of Óin, Fundin, and Thráin. The concept of spinning the handleless ring off a finger or two was not hard to grasp, but the execution had involved more ducking than aiming and too many fingers sliced for their fathers' comfort. Thorin allowed himself an inward chuckle at the memory, before glaring at Bard. Who glared back, arms crossed and utterly unapologetic about his transparent attempt to forestall more questions.

Taking several deep breaths, Thorin reined in his temper to a voice that sounded rather like Balin's. It would not do to fly into a rage over so petty a slight. He hardly understood himself why Bard's stubborn resistance to his every boon irked him so. Did the man not know how to accept a kindness, unless it was on behalf of his people? Or was it Thorin who he rejected, even if he could not do the same to the King Under the Mountain?

I shall wait and try again, he decided. There must be something Bard could want of him that was not for others. And then he would finally be free of this... This debt, thought Thorin. Relief had shown briefly on Bard's face when Thorin walked to the table, picking up a pair of fishhook-shaped blades. He swung them and latched the ends together with a snick, telling Bard the tale of two travelers, master and apprentice, who had entertained his grandfather's court with an acrobatic fighting style from some far country on the shores of the eastern sea. It was another happy memory and for a few hours, as he recalled for Bard the origins of these outlandish weapons, Thorin was untroubled by shades of the past or future.

So began a new nightly routine. Thorin would open his eyes to darkness and silence, hours before dawn, dress with practiced movements, and find Bard in the treasury. He wondered if the man was always awake at such times, sleeping during the day. Though he supposed wryly that he was not one to chastise Bard for his nocturnal wanderings.

Their meetings grew more comfortable, as Bard came to expect him, yet happened in a world apart. A secret between the two of them that neither acknowledged in the light of day. Frankly, Thorin shuddered to imagine what the Company would say of this; Bofur would probably make an unfortunate comparison to lovers' trysts. Yes, better that nobody else was privy to these dealings of his and Bard's. It was not as if they discussed anything of consequence, after all.

Bard had a curious mind and many questions, upon realizing that Thorin would answer them. While this surprised Thorin, contrary as it was to his impression of Bard as a guarded man whose interests were strictly practical and focused on his family's well-being, it was a good trait in a king. The second night, Bard was studying the sorted tableware, squinting at his distorted reflection in a large silver platter, when Thorin arrived.

"What's the use of so many fancy dishes?" he said, tone plaintive. Thorin had let out a sharp bark of laughter, Bard eyeing him strangely. Fíli had actually demanded the very same explanation of Dís, etiquette the only lessons he had little patience for; Thorin himself had once asked a busy Thráin, who'd answered, distracted, "Your mother enjoys the envy of her guests," in his wife's hearing and was subsequently banished to the settee in the sitting room for a week.

TBC​

---

I know diddlysquat about archery beyond what I can learn from Wikipedia and ten-minute Google searches. Let's just pretend there's something distinctive about Bard's form. Besides that his arrows are CGI. XD

Details of Bard's bow and the black arrow come straight from Weta's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug Chronicles: Cloaks & Daggers and the DOS EE. The former is 2.2 meters (7.2 feet) tall, inspired by the traditional English longbow but with a strong Asian influence, which I believe accounts for its size and flatter profile as well as Bard's behind-the-ear draw, seen also in Mongolian archery and Japanese or kyudo. Luke Evans is 6 feet (1.8 meters) in height, and I've eyeballed Bard's regular arrows--minds outta the gutter!--at 3 feet minimum, up to over 4 feet in length.

The black arrow is some 2 meters (6.6 feet) long and, in my headcanon, is forged of a space age metal with a better strength-to-weight ratio than steel, now forgotten. Titanium aluminide (TiAl), for instance, a superalloy that's resistant to deformation at high temperatures, corrosion and oxidation, with modern applications in jet engines. I mean, Smaug is not unlike a jumbo jet, right? And in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (Book II, Chapter I, "Many Meetings"), Glóin does say, 'But in metalwork we cannot rival our fathers, many of whose secrets are lost. We make good armour and keen swords, but we cannot again make mail or blade to match those that were made before the dragon came.'

​

 

Mira_Jade, this section of the story is sort of... overstuffed with details, lol. While casting around for a way to keep Thorin and Bard talking, I hit upon the bright/crazy idea of what I now jokingly (but accurately) call a walking architectural highlights tour of Erebor. Bard has this one line in DOS (paraphrasing?) after Thorin and Balin tell Bilbo about Girion's last stand: "You speak as if you were there." And I realized that, for all his memories of terrible things, Thorin knows more of both Erebor and Dale at the height of their power centuries ago than Bard possibly could. Not with the way Men forget as the generations pass, left with only an impression of peace and plenty, golden bells ringing, distant from the daily grind of life in Laketown as the destruction of Dale might not be, the shadow of the dragon ever present.

On a totally shallow note, it's just very pleasant to imagine Thorin as a storyteller, with Richard Armitage's voice. Well, let me know what you think! I might have gotten a wee bit carried away worldbuilding--fantasy engineering geekery, yay!--and not done enough work on characterization... Hopefully, Thorin and Bard's motivations in this... deeply weird plotline aren't lost in all the detail.

laurethiel1138, I'm sorry I haven't mentioned it before, but I really appreciate you taking the time to "like" my posts. As a still rather novice writer, I crave reassurance that people are enjoying what they read. However, as a habitual lurker myself, I can understand not having much to say to the author afterwards, and I know my wordiness probably doesn't help that! So, thanks for your continued interest!

Finally, this chapter is complete as of yesterday, at 50,000+ words! Since I don't have to worry about running out of story anymore, lol, I thought I'd start posting in longer installments. I'd hoped to push through all the spring comings and goings, but I kind of need a break from this fic, much as I love it to bits.

---

"It is..." Plates in silver and gold, stacked high on the workbenches. Next to them, bowls and goblets of various sizes studded with gems and, on the ground at the foot of one table, a massive soup tureen, embossed with ram and boar heads, that could probably serve as a Hobbit's bath. Even the cutlery shone golden, handles and the flats of the knives engraved. "...an extravagance." Bard snorted. A corner of Thorin's mouth had twitched upwards at the inelegant noise. "Most of this was for formal occasions--banquets with hundreds of guests, state receptions--or simply decoration," Thorin added mildly.

He felt it prudent not to mention that the royal family and many nobles regularly dined upon fine china accented in gold, so as not to offend Bard's frugal sensibilities further. The man was frowning at the full place settings spread on another table, part of a painstakingly reassembled collection of at least three hundred pieces undergoing a final check before storage. He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, then said to Thorin, "Do you... Could you teach me?" There was something shy in his gaze.

Seeing Thorin's blank look, however, Bard shifted nervously, glancing away to trace a slow finger along the filigreed rim of a plate. "I... I was born to wood and clay. Cheap tin and glass. Haven't owned more than a dozen dishes since--" He stopped abruptly. It was a long moment before Bard continued, voice thick. "I would not shame my house or my people now that"--he swallowed, struggling with the words--"now that such riches are mine. Not in any way." This last was low and fierce, certain, while Bard's claim of his rightful wealth was not.

Thorin had raised an eyebrow. Bard sounded as if learning table decorum was as grim an endeavor as preparing for war. Perhaps it is, he thought carefully, considering for the first time that, for all Bard's boldness, almost insolence, he had no experience of court life.

As Thorin's tutors, Thráin, and Balin had repeatedly instructed him, kingdoms were forged not only to the hard ring of gold and steel but by the softer wiles of diplomacy, which flattered and enticed as much as bargained and threatened. He'd just never had the temperament to be aggressively sociable, like Balin and Dís could be, charming their companions with their impeccable manners before the appetizers were finished. But looking at Bard, who was growing more wary as his silence lengthened, Thorin was sure he could be of aid in this. The Dwarves of Erebor had often hosted the Men of Dale and vice versa when Thrór still valued the goodwill of his allies.

Hundreds of candles would burn in great chandeliers throughout his grandfather's hall as Men and Dwarves feasted and danced into the winter night, the kitchens serving up course after course on some of these very plates as the wine flowed freely and musicians of both races played the sprightly tunes that didn't call for partners of like height. Disgracefully little work would get done the next day, Thorin remembered with a fond smile, and a season later, Girion, as his father had before him, would extend an invitation to a fair in Dale, the whole year thus marked by celebration and the renewal of ties.

He shook his head; Bard was staring at him strangely again. The man's expression had then turned startled at hearing Thorin say, "Let us begin with what's in each place setting." Naming the different forks, Thorin was reminded of the harried Dwarf, master of protocol, who'd taught him, Dwalin, and Glóin. Bard, fortunately, proved a more apt student without the aggravations of cousins, and they passed a couple nights revisiting the festival days of Erebor and Dale. An old tradition that may yet be revived, thought Thorin, at the intrigued spark in Bard's eyes. He would like that.

The fourth night, they spoke of the Mountain's metal and mineral wealth. Bard had found the trays where gems were being sifted by type and quality. He'd been astounded by the variety of stones: rubies red as blood and citrine topaz, emeralds, sapphires, and amethyst; banded onyx and cat's eyes, iridescent opals, milky green jade and pearls of every shade; glittering diamonds by the handful. His voice was a whisper, hoarse with stunned awe, as he asked, "Do all these come from here?"

Picking up a perfectly round pearl, Thorin rolled it between his fingers, admiring its rosy gleam and hesitating. Trust the man to hit upon that. He shot a disgruntled look at Bard, who had eyes only for the fiery play of colors across a large blue-green opal. His aim is uncanny with more than arrows. Sighing, Thorin admitted, "No. Though the Mountain is rich in gold and to a lesser extent, silver, no gems but diamonds were mined here and that in limited amounts." It was inevitable that Bard would learn of this. "Much of the rest came to Erebor through Dale."

Bard seemed thoughtful. At last, he said, slowly, as if testing the soundness of his words, "I had wondered that my ancestor paid you in your own goods, but the necklace was not wrought by Dwarves?" Thorin nodded. Lord Girion's emeralds had been one of the richest commissions in Erebor's recent history: five hundred of the purest stones from Far Harad, set in silver and platinum by the guild jewelers of Minas Tirith, whose skill was artful even in the estimation of the Dwarves.

He knew from Balin that Bard had inquired after the necklace as the first shipment of gold to Laketown was being readied--out of curiosity, apparently, about a family legend--and been surprised to receive it back. For the splendid coat of mail for Girion's eldest son had never been completed, the Mountain's supply of mithril always in high demand, before the coming of the dragon. And son had died with father in Smaug's attack, leading the city's defenders, while his mother fled down the River Running with his younger brother. Thorin wondered what Bard had done with the necklace.

"Could you tell me of these gems?" Bard had said. "Where they come from? Their worth?" There was an anxious note in Bard's questions. Thorin eyed the man and refrained from sharing his suspicions that hopeful traders would begin converging on Dale in the spring, drawn from the ends of the world by rumors of gold and a king new come to his crown. Bard would discover that soon enough for himself. And will need his wits about him.

Finally, on the fifth night, Thorin lost his patience halfway through a description of Erebor's steam-driven coin presses that Bard had trouble following and said, "Do you not tire of looking upon gold?" Bard stiffened at his tone, the wariness that had gradually worn away as they met over and again returning like a bowstring snapping back into place. Thorin had but a moment to rue his temper.

"Gold may be a common sight to you," said Bard, hand clenched into a fist around the coin he held, "but not all of us have been so fortunate, Oakenshield." Thorin had to show his back to the man, stung, before he undid their accord entirely. He had not felt so very fortunate when leading his homeless and starving people, selling what few possessions they'd saved from the dragon for paltry coin so that their children, at least, would not go wanting. While it was true the Dwarves of Erebor had grown accustomed to wealth when the Lonely Mountain was still theirs, in a way, that made their exile harder to bear, hearts ever yearning for the faded glories of their past and filled with too much pride to be content ironmongering in the towns of Men. So his grandfather had gone to his doom before the gates of Khazad-dûm and him nearly to his.

Behind him, Bard sighed sharply. There was the clinking of a coin dropped to join its fellows, then he said, "I'm sorry. That was unfair of me." His expression was contrite when Thorin turned to him, nodding briefly in acceptance.

"In truth, I know not where else to go," Bard confessed. He laughed weakly. "Your map of the Mountain's rooms was hardly needed, for we are all too frightened to venture beyond the entrance hall. Even the young ones, though they enjoy daring each other to try the stairs." In search of this very treasure, thought Thorin, Bard catching his eye with an amused glint in his own.

"What I meant is that there is more to Erebor than gold." Perhaps he didn't have to explain himself, but Thorin's mind rested the easier for it. Bard's gaze cleared, lit once more by curiosity. He does not seem so grim at such times, Thorin mused, and fast on the heels of this came the realization that he wanted Bard to see Erebor's wonders, to hear of Erebor's storied history.

So many of the latest chapters in those annals had been marred by strife and death that he'd forgotten the years of plenty, when king and kingdom both were strong, with the friendship of Elves and Men. Now, as he recounted them for Bard, the details of happier days were blooming into life with color to shame a meadow of wildflowers in spring, vivid as they had not been since he sat by the fire in the home Dís built with her husband, Víli, telling a wide-eyed Fíli and Kíli similar tales. "I could show you some of the Mountain's other views, if you wish," he offered, aiming for casual but missing the mark, by Bard's stare.

Thorin refused to flush under that close scrutiny, spine rigid. Enough visiting dignitaries had likewise been guided through Erebor's halls--not by the King Under the Mountain himself, granted, nor in the dead of night without an escort--that Thorin did not think his suggestion so strange. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together at his back, and looked down to nudge a goblet to one side with the toe of his boot. Just as he was about to retract his words as an empty fancy, Bard said slowly, "What do you propose?" Thorin's head snapped up, but he couldn't read Bard's face, in profile and partly hidden by his hair.

It was an odd business, trying to schedule their sleeplessness; neither of them was willing to brave the day with this. Bard admitted, teeth gritted, that he was usually out of bed half an hour before Thorin, once he was sure his children would not wake at his absence. Nodding and silently wondering again what haunted Bard so, Thorin said, "Would you consent to wait in the dining hall for me? Only for the half hour, and if we fail to meet there, I'll come to you here."

After a moment's hesitation, Bard agreed. He still acted like a man worried, however, biting his lip in a way reminiscent of his son, so Thorin added, "The night watch keeps a pot of mulled wine warm on a side hearth in the kitchens. Help yourself to some, though if anyone asks, you didn't hear of it from me." It was an unspoken understanding that the lords and captains would feign ignorance about such minor liberties, despite the fact that most of them had themselves been guardsmen. A small, startled smile curved Bard's mouth. Thorin went to breakfast after they parted at the entrance to the guest wing feeling lightened and already planning which sights to show Bard.

Over the next few weeks, they roamed Erebor together. Their first destination was the grand amphitheater, which in a stroke of good timing was being surveyed.

While one of the most spectacular halls in the Mountain, the large fan-shaped room, stage at the apex, was best seen when the great chandelier of crystal and gold was lit, the walls and high ceiling gleaming with golden scrollwork and enameled mosaics of precious stones in every color. Dwarven aesthetics tended towards geometric lines, strong and angular, but the amphitheater was a departure of sorts; prominent in its design were polygons of so many sides that they appeared as circles from afar, set one within another in delicate, abstract patterns conceived by a dwarrow who was as eccentric as he was brilliant. The result was unique and utterly stunning.

Bard's reaction did not disappoint when Thorin led him in after pouring enough lamp oil, left by the work crews, into the runnels of the chandelier to burn brightly for a couple hours. The man's bemusement at being commanded to wait alone in the dark with one of their candles while Thorin rushed off to make preparations was swept away by his awe upon entering the amphitheater in all its shining glory. He'd cursed, a heartfelt oath that tripped from his tongue unintended, and Thorin had smirked.

Slowly and in appreciative silence, Bard walked the perimeter of the room, Thorin at his side. Finally, fingers tracing a shard of pearly opal that bore a passing resemblance to a leaf on a tree--if trees were towering columns of butterflies, their branches outstretched wings and their leaves feathers haloed in light--he swallowed hard and said, "I did not know that Dwarves honored the arts so."

Thorin grunted. He was well aware that Dwarves were commonly held to be uncultured brutes, at worst, who at best simply had no love for things that were not dug out of the ground, aside from fighting and drink. But Dwarves loved craft above all, and exquisitely wrought notes of music were no exception, though they were more mutable than stone and metal. Music was a vital part of a young Dwarf's education for other reasons--

"It teaches rhythm and, in ensemble, coordination," he told Bard, "skills that are needed at the forge." It was not unusual for smiths to sing as they shaped gold and steel hot from the fires, the ring of their hammers a counterpoint to the melody. "All Dwarves learn an instrument, though not all continue the practice past their majority."

Bard eyed him with interest. "And you, Oakenshield? What instrument do you play?" Thorin faltered in his steps, suddenly and inexplicably shy. What did you expect, you fool? he berated himself. It was not as if it were any secret.

"The harp," he said stiffly, trying not to sound defensive. It was a rarer choice among the nobility, who generally preferred string instruments to the wind, brass, and percussion of lower ranks, but his mother had loved so the harp's sweet and mellow tones.

"It suits you," was Bard's judgment, his brow furrowed, and Thorin exhaled quietly. The memory of his mother's proud eyes as he recited for her the newest piece he'd learned curling warm in his chest, he asked Bard, "What of you?" Bard's reply was a rueful chuckle.

"Never had the time," he said, shaking his head. "Or the temperament." Somehow, Thorin doubted that; the man could not have mastered the bow without patience and dedication. "My wife--" He stopped abruptly. It was long moment before Bard continued. "My wife... She played the clavichord."

That surprised Thorin, for such instruments, an invention of the Gondorian court, were costly and difficult to procure so far north. Even Erebor had only boasted a few, reserved for their most talented composers and instructors. Bard seemed embarrassed under Thorin's gaze, explaining, "I wed above my station," self-deprecating but not without humor.

"She... used to tell me I could sing the thrushes from the trees," said Bard softly after another lengthy pause, eyes distant. The timbre of Bard's voice, rich with a faint quaver, caught Thorin; all the edges were rounded by remembered joy and an old sadness too deep for words. "I always jested that love had made her deaf as well as blind." And Thorin wondered.

--that they discussed on the companionable stroll back to the guest wing, neither in any hurry. The chandelier had been burning dimmer by the time they left the amphitheater, casting shadows that brought the mosaics to flickering life. Jeweled birds in wing and fish leaping through rolling waves, the deer hidden in spiraling growths of forest that Bard had delighted at finding--the images stayed with Thorin into the day and the next. Would it be fitting, he thought, to formally commemorate their return to Erebor with an evening of music?

Performances in the grand amphitheater were occasions, attended by everyone who could reserve a seat. All would dress in their splendid best for the gatherings before the show and during intermission, which Thrór and later Thráin often used to mingle and converse freely with their subjects, hearing news of births, marriages, and deaths, trade and craft, as well as rumors and, inevitably, talk of politics. Even in his sickness, Thrór had exercised his royal prerogative as leading patron of the arts to arrange the program.

The final curtain before Smaug came fell on the heroic saga of Azaghâl, Lord of Gabilgathol, and his defeat of Glaurung, Father of Dragons. His grandfather had been in a querulous mood for some days since Lord Girion sent word of sightings in the Withered Heath of a great flying beast, convinced the Elvenking had a hand in alarming the Men, but he'd relished the slaying of Glaurung, applauding loudly after the cleverly constructed wooden puppet, animated by three Dwarves from within and gilded in golden scales, retreated offstage, mortally wounded by Azaghâl's dying blow. Thrór watched avidly, eyes gleaming, as Azaghâl was borne up by his men, who marched from the field to a paean that was widely esteemed as one of the finest ever scored.

Grimacing, Thorin could only speculate now who Thrór's mind had seen playing Azaghâl's role or if, in his blind arrogance, he truly believed Erebor safe from the dragons that had plagued the Grey Mountains and finally driven them from there. He had not balked at revising history to suit him, after all; while relations then between them and the Elves were strained, the ancient Dwarves of the Blue Mountains had not failed to hear of Glaurung's reappearance or his death at the hands of a Man. A tale told again, with a change of actors.

In the end, Thorin reluctantly set the reopening of the grand amphitheater aside as a matter he needed Dís's counsel on. His sister had a far more comprehensive knowledge of concert pieces than he and would be able to select a suitable program, he did not doubt, that could both be staged with the performers available and was politic, striking the right tone with the audience.

Which, Thorin hoped, would include Bard and his family as special guests of the king. The sound of a full orchestra in the amphitheater, playing to a rapt crowd, was an altogether different experience from the sight of the empty, if impressive, room. Sections of the walls were paneled in wood, the floor carpeted, and the seats upholstered in rich red velvet to enhance the acoustics. Bard could not have been afforded many opportunities to attend such entertainments and would enjoy it, surely. He frowned. Though the fabrics were in want of a thorough cleaning, maybe replacement. In the spring, he promised himself.

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, I do have a bit of headcanon about Bard's wife that I may at some point develop into a backstory: She was the middle daughter of a wealthy merchant, nouveau riche a few generations back, whose family didn't approve of her marrying young essentially an impoverished patrician - a suitor of noble (if disgraced) lineage but no means beyond what he could earn as a guardsman and doing odd, menial jobs around town. After the deaths of his parents, Bard lived as almost a drifter, which didn't much impress his wife's family. They might have eloped, Bard only nineteen, and she was disowned, though her older sister and brother tried to keep in touch. When she was pregnant with Tilda, they thought their fortunes had at last turned for the better, Bard about to be promoted to captain of a company of archers, but things... didn't work out so well.

Hmm. Now that I think about it, if any of his wife's family still lives in Laketown, what do they make of the fact that the man they dismissed as a ne'er-do-well has slain a dragon and come into a crown on top of unimaginable riches? Bard does hold as close to a grudge as he's capable of against at least a few of them, though, because they didn't come to the funeral and he received very little support from them in caring for Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda when he really, badly needed it. Well, I'm going to have to figure out a way to work all this into the story! No thanks to you!

---

Encouraged by the success of their first outing, Thorin next showed Bard the one crop that was cultivated under the Mountain. It'd been difficult to explain that it was not grown for food or fodder or, indeed, any sort of consumption, as even the Shire's famed pipeweed was--

"Mushrooms?" Bard looked nonplussed, then with a sly glance at Thorin, added, "One might mistake you Dwarves for Hobbits." Thorin snorted. No people could covet mushrooms as Bilbo's did. On the road to Rivendell, he and Bombur had shared every conceivable mushroom recipe, until Thorin was ready to bake them stuffed with sausage, cheese, and onions.

"They are not for eating," Thorin said firmly. "Have you not marked the green lights that shine only in the dark?" He pointed at a clay pot the size of a Man's head, top covered with a latticed dome, set on a high, recessed shelf cut into the wall for that purpose.

Bard studied the pot, gone dim in the light of their candles, noting the others like it spaced at regular intervals up and down the hall they walked. "I thought perhaps they were some glowing ore," he said with an easy shrug.

"Such ores do exist, aye," conceded Thorin, "but they do not live and make a light of their own." Phosphorescent green painted the stone with decorative emblems, each lattice different. "Foxfire, we call it."

"Does it ever... burn out?" Scratching his chin absently, Bard tested the idea of poisonous mushrooms that were not bound for the plate or an apothecary yet were prized enough to farm in quantity. A source of light that did not smoke as did wood and coal, however, was as valuable to the Dwarves as food and medicines.

Thorin nodded. "They must be replanted in richer soil by rotation lest they die." In the decades since Smaug took the Mountain as his lair, all the foxfire pots had guttered out, but the fields still grew in their damp hall, though deprived of compost from Erebor's kitchens and privies.

"Mushrooms," Bard repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Glowing mushrooms..." His smile was wondering and young in that way which had at last stopped startling Thorin. " 'Tis passing strange." Thorin hid a smile behind his hand.

--until Bard stood gaping on a ledge over a floor sprouting in mushrooms, the vast hall bathed in an eerie green light that was steadier than that cast by any flame. As they descended the stairs, to Thorin's amused forbearance, Bard paused frequently to just stare. While at first impression, foxfire burned everywhere, the mushrooms were actually planted in rows; open aisles ran between the wide, shallow beds, which were stacked three high past Bard's waist. Deep troughs lined the walls for water and compost, tools hanging above them.

"Is there not a spot in this whole mountain that's unadorned?" asked Bard with a huff, upon noticing the thin veins of silver branching across the floor. The beds themselves were supported by carven columns and arrayed in geometric shapes that drew the eye to the silver, glimmering in reflected green.

Thorin merely raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. He thought the answer to that rather obvious. Bard huffed again, before turning to the mushrooms, tentatively poking at a large one with his finger. When he raised the finger for inspection, rubbing at the skin with his thumb as if expecting it to begin glowing, too, Thorin had to cough or risk laughing at the man. After this, Thorin felt it safer to survey the beds for brightness, which would decide what clusters were harvested for the pots, Bard eyeing his back suspiciously.

Unkind though it probably was, Thorin found a certain pleasure in nettling Bard. He did not believe it to be the ill will he'd once borne towards the man; that had, like other far older grudges, been washed away by blood. Yet neither could he say exactly why he was gripped by an urge to constantly try Bard's dour self-possession. It vexed him to see Bard sitting alone at a table in the darkened dining hall he never visited at mealtimes, mind a thousand leagues removed from his body as he nursed a cup of mulled wine and waited for Thorin.

Was Bard remembering his daughter or brooding on the dragon? The horrors of the battle or the years of toil ahead in Dale? Part of Thorin knew there was wisdom in leaving Bard be--not all sorrows and cares wanted to be lifted; this he well understood--but now that he'd seen Erebor resplendent through Bard's eyes, marvels around every corner unsullied by memories of its fall, he could not help prodding the man into shows of emotion, whether interest or exasperation. The Bard who groused irritably at being led up endless flights of stairs--

"How is it," muttered Bard, the thread of a whine in his voice, "that anyone had the energy to work after climbing so many stairs?" He slumped heavily against the wall on the landing, wiping at the sweat beaded on his brow with the back of one hand.

Perched several steps above, Thorin said, "We Dwarves are hardier than you Men," though it came out a little short of breath. He did not like to admit it, but his stamina was not fully recovered, and he was as glad for this rest as Bard. Whose face scrunched comically, torn between skepticism and pique at Thorin's glib reply.

Do not be surprised, when you ask an impudent question, to receive an answer in kind, thought Thorin, with some glee. "And I suppose wood and oil, coal, gold--all was carried from the Mountain's foot to its peak upon your backs?" Bard scowled, daring him to claim Dwarves needed no mechanical aid to move supplies by the ton.

He pretended confusion at Bard's disgruntled gibe, asking innocently, "Is there another way to do it?" Bard squinted at him, not fooled in the slightest. With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and stretched his legs, before reaching his arms over his head, back arching catlike.

There were, in fact, freight lifts that stopped at all levels of the Mountain and were as often packed with Dwarves as with loads of wood, oil, coal, and gold. There was a reason, too, why residential quarters were situated above the mines and forges, despite how it complicated ventilation, and the treasury below everything else save the catacombs.

But Bard didn't have to hear of that. "Come," said Thorin, suddenly impatient. "The night is waning as you dawdle." He beckoned the man to follow and turned determinedly to scale the stairs ascending into the gloom.

A sigh behind him, then footsteps. "Can you at least tell me where we are headed?" Bard sounded plaintive; Thorin smiled. He would forget his complaints soon enough, a moment Thorin looked forward to.

--and chuckled at the almost playful touches hidden in the Mountain's carvings was one whom Thorin could, perhaps, come to call friend. It would serve to bind Erebor and Dale closer, Thorin reasoned, and foster by example amity between their peoples: a sign that past grievances were forgiven, if not forgotten. But after Balin, concerned, mentioned that he'd been distracted for days, asking why without asking, Thorin was forced to consider that his motives in wandering Erebor with Bard were not so impersonal as securing their alliance. In council and at meals, a part of his mind riffled through his memories for their destination the next night and the next, choosing and discarding as he thought Bard might like.

Am I so lonely? It was not as if he lacked for company and good company, in the stout Dwarves who called him their king and whose work in restoring their home, with the cheer in their hearts as much as by the craft of their hands, made him so, so very proud. While they'd become as comfortable as could be hoped meeting and speaking to one another, Bard was still a hard man to know, caution sitting under his skin like a battered suit of armor he'd worn in so many battles he no longer felt its weight. At times, it set Thorin on edge.

There were no dragons here that must be slain, he wanted to rail. No orcs and goblins, nor even a conniving Master, jealous of your wealth and renown. Bard should count himself fortunate that his greatest foe was not the flaws in his own character. As swiftly as it came, however, Thorin's ire at Bard would pass. For who, hurt once, would not try to deflect the next blow?

It is a cruel jest to be so discontent with what men have spent their lives seeking. He would abdicate his crown without hesitation, accept exile or death, if only Fíli and Kíli could take his place, and he knew Bard had never desired more than for his children to be happy for the rest of their many days. Did Bard, too, feel a failure and a fraud? Given how he flinched at his title, Thorin suspected so.

Such words would not be received well, of course, so Thorin did not say them, having learned something from his mistakes. What harm was there, after all, in laying aside worries and obligations for a few hours every couple nights? He thought his ghosts would allow him this, just until the Men departed for Dale in the spring, and Bard's daughter--Sigrid, Thorin reminded himself--had not seemed one to begrudge her father any joy. They continued to roam Erebor together, walking as if in a pleasant dream and careful to not wound each other unto waking.

He showed Bard the lake tucked beneath the Mountain's peak. Placid and black as the night sky, the waters mirrored the seven sparkling white lights hung from the ceiling in tribute to Durin. At Bard's insistence, they rowed out in the skiff used to sound the lake's depth at its center; Thorin was certain Bard suggested it to discomfit him and sat with arms folded over his chest, face impassive, as Bard took them on a relaxed loop around the lake with long, practiced strokes.

Dwarves did not fear crossing deep waters, per se, but neither did they enjoy it. Some could not swim, including several members of the Company, and they were often so laden with weapons, provisions, and other accoutrements when traveling that they sank under the weight. Though, Thorin remembered with a wry smile he turned on the lake, he could at least trust Bard not to drown him this time.

When finally Bard had rowed his fill, Thorin told him of how the lake was created--

"Thráin, first of his name and founder of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, bade his folk to harness the waters that ran then in nameless little streams down the slopes to drive the great wheels in the forges," Thorin said, voice echoing above the lapping of ripples against the far walls and sides of their boat. "And so was born the Running River."

"I'd always heard that the river sprang from the rock at the Mountain's base," mused Bard, frowning. He pulled easily on the oars, rhythm unbroken as he unerringly steered the skiff towards the stairs that descended into the lake. "Was that wrong?"

"No, but it is not the full tale." Thorin stared at the sweep of the oars, usually more paddles, since Dwarves hadn't the reach of a tall, lean Man. "A river flowed from the Mountain into Long Lake before the Dwarves came, but it was not the waterway it is now." Bard hummed, and Thorin thought he might like to see the spring, too. It was surprising after its own fashion.

--as their boat cut smoothly through the water back to anchor, trailed by waves capped in candlelight and the flickering white sheen of Durin's crown of stars.

He showed Bard the library, so extensive it occupied them for two nights. The map room was one of the few common halls to boast windows: narrow and angled as the Mountain's sides were, stretching from ceiling to floor. Upon the latter, in the central space enclosed by shelves and reading tables, was a map of the known world formed of inlaid marble and granite in many colors. Silver ran the rivers and lakes, the seas etched with breakers, and gold touched the peaks of the mountains like the sunrise.

Bard found the lands to the east of particular interest, unfamiliar as they were to him. While south of the Sea of Rhûn was a country as strange to Dwarves, from the Red Mountains in the far north to the Yellow Mountains that led to the eastern sea, their kin had traveled. Contact with the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks and Stonefoots was sporadic at best, but maps were always among the wares traded, along with rumors. Dáin, for one, had been better informed than most; Lady Eir was of the Stiffbeards and met her husband at Azanulbizar, when last the seven clans had joined their strength.

So engrossed was Bard in his study of the map that he failed to notice Thorin clearing his throat, at first politely, then more forcibly. In the end, Thorin moved to block the man's path as he slowly walked the length of Rhûn. The half startled, half sheepish expression on Bard's face when he looked up from Thorin's tapping foot to his pointedly arched eyebrow was a new one.

They did eventually see the rest of the library. As Bard browsed the shelves, each rising to the ceiling in levels lined with balconies, staircases, and sliding ladders--

"Is this Dwarvish?" asked Bard. He flipped another page in a tome, resting open on a lectern, made entirely out of beaten gold plates and bound with silver rings. It was one of dozens of its like shelved on this level alone; the note of incredulity had yet to leave Bard's voice.

Thorin glanced over and said, "Aye, though it is a secret language." Bard acted like a boy caught stealing sweets, stepping hastily back from the lectern and one hand raking through his hair. "We do not teach it to outsiders. You may still look upon it, of course," Thorin added after a suitable pause, smirking.

He almost laughed at the glare Bard shot his way; if it were not so undignified, Thorin thought Bard would've stuck out his tongue at him, as the children of Laketown did in their games. Watching Bard lightly trace the engraved runes reminded Thorin, oddly, of Elrond, however, and that exceptions had been made in the past.

--Thorin answered his questions and eyed the statues scattered throughout the library of Dwarves holding not axes or hammers but scales and sextants, chisels and quills.

He showed Bard the gas lights in the old quarter, once the metal pipes that carried the gas from a chamber discovered deeper beneath the Mountain than even the catacombs had been deemed sound--

"They're... blue," Bard whispered. Each light was trapped in a globe of gold and glass fed by piping in the walls. The characteristic blue flames spiraled like a string of falling stars down into the abandoned mine, converted for shops and markets after the gold was played out. It was a striking sight and, Thorin knew, one that had cost his forefathers in blood as well as sweat to build.

--and the spring from which the River Running flowed--

"Do not touch the water," Thorin warned. "It is as hot as if it'd been set in a kettle to boil." Bard, crouched beside one of the steaming pools in the rock, nodded but continued to peer at it curiously. "Legend tells that the spring is heated by Mahal's own forge under the world," he said, debating whether to invite Bard to bathe in the lower, cooler pools. Men could be strangely prudish at times.

--until it became so routine to meet Bard at night it was a shock to see him in council during the day.

A week into the new year, celebrated in solemn fashion with an evening of hymns, Bard had finally shown his face at supper. Granted, towards the end and only to schedule an audience with Thorin to begin talks on the reconstruction of Dale. He did not stay to eat, greeting some of the Men before leaving for his rooms again, steps hurried and his son at his heels with a tray of food. Thorin stared after him until Balin coughed to get his attention.

"That one's not too fond of company, is he?" said Bofur, to grumbling agreement from the others around the table. He does not object to mine, Thorin thought absurdly, then, shaking his head, sent word for Master Dofur to attend the council tomorrow afternoon. Bard had plans of Dale he wanted them to review, and Dofur was a skilled draftsman known to him.

Bard's plans were more sketches and not any kind done by surveyors, though they'd been drawn on the oversized sheets of thick parchment used by the Mountain's architects and engineers, marked in one corner with Erebor's official seal next to an empty bracket for the maker's personal stamp and signature. "Courtesy of Lord Nori," Bard explained at Thorin's questioning look. He hung by its strap on the back of his chair the tall, sturdy leather tube, embossed with the same seal, that he'd stored the plans in. "Gilvagor drew these for me after the battle." His mouth twisted into a rather sour expression. "He was my Elven guard, assigned to me by King Thranduil, and had some talent in art. I do not know if they will serve as guides for your builders."

Thorin exchanged a tolerant glance with Dofur, who was thumbing through the loose sheets, stopping only to stroke his beard. Elves! The vines crawling up the walls were meticulously detailed, the path of every straggling branch traced, and in one drawing was a thrush perched upon a cracked windowsill, so lifelike Thorin imagined it would cock its head and take wing at any moment.

Still, the shape of the stone was apparent and some sense of the wear, in the Elf's shaded textures. There were multiple views of Dale's streets and squares, as well as high angle perspectives of the city quarters that this Gilvagor must have climbed the Mountain's arms to draw, his long Elven eyesight put to good use.

TBC​

 

Only two more updates to finish off this chapter, yay! After that, a much needed break from this fic. I'll write a couple cracky one-shots (already am, in fact), then hopefully return to "Clothes Make The King," which has gone without any progress at all since last September.

---

You have not been idle, thought Thorin, amused to learn that what he'd previously believed to be restful strolls about Dale, a king acquainting himself with his kingdom, were in fact Bard working, very much against his healer's commands. Thorin hoped, for this Elf's sake, that he at least had the self-preservation to forbid Bard from scaling too many heights in their surveys; Thranduil's wrath was not a thing to be courted lightly.

Bard rubbed his chin with one hand, the other searching the papers spread across the table for an annotated map of the whole city he pulled out from the pile with a pleased noise. Anxiously, he asked, "What do you think, Master Dofur?"

Dofur hummed contemplatively, then nodded. "These will serve. I'll have to draft properly configured prints for the stonemasons to work from"--he tapped the simple measurements jotted in a bold hand along the margins of the drawings--"but I expect no more than a few hours' surveying on site will be needed, to test the foundations and match the existing rock, before construction can begin, weather allowing." Bard sighed to hear this, at last sitting heavily in his chair. "With your permission, sire?" Man and Dwarf both turned to him.

"Granted," said Thorin. "To our allies, the Men of Dale, Erebor shall task four shifts of fifty Dwarves each for the rebuilding of their city, the force to increase by another hundred during the summer months." Bard's eyes widened, and even Dofur seemed a trifle startled at the numbers, before grunting in approval. Balin, of course, keeping the record of this council, was unsurprised; he and Thorin had discussed the matter in advance. With the aid the Men had freely given this winter and, more than that, the indomitable spirit they'd shown, as resilient as any Dwarf's, Erebor's current residents would be glad to help in Dale, and Thorin's kin from the Blue Mountains would not refuse him.

"That..." Bard swallowed. "That is generous beyond my expectations, King Thorin, but do you not need most of your hands to labor in the Mountain?" Out of respect, Thorin pretended consideration; in truth, his mind was set. While, yes, much remained to be done--the mess in the foundries and Gallery of Kings, for one, had yet to be put to rights--the greater part of it was inspection and cleaning, sorting the countless possessions discarded as their owners fled the dragon. Thorin gripped the armrests of his chair hard. How fortunate, he reflected bitterly, that Smaug had been too lazy or too greedy to rise often from his bed of gold.

"Work on the Mountain's halls will proceed apace with our kin from the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains coming in the spring." Thorin forestalled Bard's protests with a raised hand. "You forget, too, Lord Bard"--he frowned slightly when Bard flinched--"that unlike Dale, Erebor is not open to the elements. Fair weather or ill, we can labor, and we shall have all of the winter to devote our efforts to the Mountain alone." Bard looked down at the map of Dale, the city framed by his hands, brow furrowed. Must you be so stubborn? Thorin thought. "I'll not have it said that the Dwarves of Erebor let their friends live without sound roofs over their heads to stay the rain and strong walls to shield them from the bite of the wind. No, do not seek to move me from this, for you shall fail."

Halfway through his speech, Thorin began to feel a little... embarrassed. A feeling not lessened by the way Bard stared at him and Balin, too; Master Dofur, at least, was politely ignoring his liege's sudden stream of impassioned words. But Thorin meant what he said--every single word--and had vowed to himself near a month ago that he would care for Bard's people until they were more prosperous than before Smaug destroyed their home, so he gritted his teeth and finished speaking. A long pause followed, then Bard said, with a small, wry smile, "You make a persuasive case, my lord. I concede and gratefully so, on behalf of Dale."

Thorin nodded, ducking his head to clear his throat and hide behind a fist the smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. "Now," he said, tone businesslike, "I suggest that we focus our energies on repairing one sector of the city, the least damaged perhaps, large enough to comfortably house your people and any others--I'd guess several hundred at most--who might join you from Laketown or farther abroad in the coming months." Bard arched an eyebrow at that, skeptical, but Thorin was confident in the draw of Bard's leadership over the Master's and of his fame as a dragonslayer, with wealth exceedingly great.

At any rate, the man did not object, simply pushing the map forward for Thorin and Dofur to study. He pointed to the part of Dale sheltered against the Mountain's southern spur, which had escaped more of the devastation wrought by dragon and battle than any other by virtue of not being on the direct line of attack from the valley's entrance to Erebor's gates.

The next couple hours were productive and, by the end, Dofur had a tentative schedule of buildings for the work crews to restore, with former inns and boarding houses given precedence. Thorin was so satisfied with what they'd accomplished that, as their meeting wound down, an invitation for Bard to sup with him was on the tip of his tongue.

Bard did not cooperate, however, saying with a curt shake of his head, "We have yet to discuss the matter of payment." His face was set in hard, grim lines; Thorin sighed inwardly and caught Balin's eye, where he found an irritatingly knowing glint. He stifled the urge to grimace. Balin had been right, as usual.

He had hoped to defer this topic until some estimate of the labor and material required could be made. And, he admitted, in the interest of beginning his official relations with Bard as Lord of Dale on a friendlier note than how he'd treated with Bard, a Man of Laketown. Balin had bluntly told him that he was a fool to think Bard would delay chiseling into stone the specifics of their deal, too wary and too proud, as well, to accept charity with no promise of recompense in turn. What's more, as kindly disposed as the Dwarves were towards the Men now, fair trade must be the foundation of the peace between their kingdoms in the future, as it was in the past.

Part of Thorin had realized he hoped in vain. Bard was not one to suffer being indebted for long--in this, they were much alike, though Bard, frustratingly, was not as conscious of what he was owed as he was conscientious of what he owed--but the Men's resources were few, their choices fewer, and Thorin would not beggar them when they were still all but homeless. Seed and feed, stock, iron and oil, cloth. A dispossessed people had an unrelenting need for gold, Thorin knew all too well, without also bearing the cost of rebuilding a city. Nor do I wish to shame you, he added silently, taking in the thin, white press of Bard's lips.

"While none can gainsay you in how you spend your gold, we should not like to receive it back," Thorin finally offered, trying to keep his voice neutral. Bard would not appreciate condescension and pity even less so. "In light of the events that brought us to this day, I'm inclined to waive payment for our services until Dale's fortunes are once again sound. There is no rush to--"

"No." The word cut through his as cleanly as Orcrist through a goblin's neck and with near the same force. "We have the means to pay you this year for this year's work: not in gold, but in food." Bard's eyes, shadowed by anger, bored into his. So much for not giving offense, thought Thorin, holding tight to his own temper. "A portion of our grain harvest, roots and greens, apples," Bard continued, syllables clipped as if they pained him to say. "Was that not the way of old between Dwarves and Men?"

You know well that it was. Dwarves could till the land at great need, but their hands that shaped stone and metal with unsurpassed skill were clumsy in sowing crops and harvesting them, the earth reluctant to yield them this bounty, and they did not have the ease of Men with horses or oxen. In practically every way, the partnership of their races was ideal. Food in exchange for gold and steel. Which the far roaming Men would trade and wield to extend their dominion while the Dwarves remained content in their craft, unassailable in their mountain fastnesses. "Be that as it may," said Thorin, "and as welcome as a return to such an arrangement would be, I could not countenance it if--"

"It is not your place to allow or forbid it," Bard snapped. "King Under the Mountain you are, but we are neither your subjects nor your vassals." Thorin narrowed his eyes, stung. While it was undeniable that the Men were at a disadvantage, dependent as they were on the goodwill of their Elven and Dwarven neighbors, somehow, in the wandering course of their nights together, he'd come to believe that Bard trusted enough in his honor now to rest assured that he would not exploit that weakness. Injured pride--do you think so little of me?--and a weariness his shoulders threatened to slump under warred within his breast.

He had done what he could to show the Men that Dwarves could be generous to their friends, with no talk of debt or bargains, and he'd felt that a strong rapport had been built in the weeks their people lived and worked side by side, any lingering ill feeling from their quarrels before the battle soothed by the care that sprung from familiarity. But, clearly, Bard was unconvinced of their--his--intentions.

"This is all that we would give freely," Bard continued, chin tipping up in challenge even as his throat moved nervously, "and it is worth your labor." And until Dale's once lucrative trade contacts in the south and east were re-established, dealing in silk and spices, precious gems, and other imported luxuries much in demand from Erebor to the Woodland Realm, foodstuffs were also the only commodities Bard could offer. "Do not think that, by refusing, you can"--he paled, seeming almost fey in his determination--"you can force us to stay beholden to you, until you want to take a favor of your choosing."

A strained silence descended. Where is this... defensiveness coming from? Bard had been pleased with their reconstruction proposals. Thorin was sure of it; he recognized the looseness of limb as Bard pointed out the locations of buildings, likely prospects for repair, from when they walked back to the guest wing in the predawn hours, conversation easy between them and the corners of Bard's eyes crinkled in a smile. The pinched expression on Bard's face now, neither the guarded nor angry suspicion that marked their earliest association, made him half a stranger to Thorin again. He could not help scowling, frustrated.

Master Dofur glanced from him to Bard, deft fingers quickly rolling up the drawings of Dale. Rising from his seat, he slipped them back into their holder, the strap of which he then slung over one arm, not a motion wasted. "Sire," he said, with a brisk nod at Thorin, "as I have the plans and know my lords' wishes, should I--"

"Yes. Go." Thorin did not look at the other Dwarf, gaze fixed still on Bard. Who broke their stare to study his hands, clasped tightly together on the table before him. "I expect preliminary drafts of the discussed spring renovations to be ready for approval by Lord Bard and me in a fortnight," Thorin ordered, noting, again, how Bard flinched at being titled. He had fallen out of the habit of addressing Bard so, Bain the one who relayed official messages to his father, and could not be certain, but Bard seemed unusually tense in his reaction, the muscles of his shoulders bunching under his coat.

After Dofur left, bowing and assuring Thorin that he would do as bidden, Thorin sighed slowly and said, "Lord Bard, I would not deprive your people of needed food." Bard's fingers were red with the force of his grip, save for a crescent of white at the tip of each nail as they dug into his flesh. "Additional supplies are due to arrive from both the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains that should see Erebor through the year"--a lean year, Thorin admitted to himself, without as much in the way of fresh ingredients as Bombur would no doubt prefer--"while you cannot say yet whether the Desolation will prove fertile."

It was true that Dale had once been Erebor's cornucopia, rich in grains, fruit and vegetables. Equally true, however, was that none could expect the land to recover its full productivity in a mere season after centuries of lying fallow under the depredations of the dragon. He did not understand why Bard insisted upon this, and his confusion made his tone sharper than he intended. "Look to Dale first, Lord Bard, before you see to the Mountain."

Bard's jaw clenched, though he did not meet Thorin's eyes. "As we do not presume to instruct you in mining," he said, voice low and harsh, "do not presume to instruct us in farming." And the short leash Thorin had kept his temper on snapped. Much as he wanted to reach an accord with Bard--and the disappointment that pierced his chest was a barbed arrow, sinking deeper than he could've guessed--he would not stand to be insulted like this any longer, his every word misconstrued, without an explanation. But Bard gutted his indignation before he could open his mouth and say something regrettable. Which, Thorin thought, was probably for the best.

The soft noise that Bard made, all tension leaving his body in a rush as he curled inwards, was that of a man in breathless misery. As Thorin watched in rising alarm, Bard rubbed a trembling hand over his face and straightened, looking up at a spot on the back of Thorin's chair past his shoulder. There was a brittleness to Bard that Thorin could not remember seeing since that first night the Men spent in Erebor.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," said Bard, his speech more formal than Thorin had ever heard from him. The careful enunciation, as if Bard feared his tongue might falter, did nothing to allay Thorin's worry; the rounded sounds of Bard's accent had almost disappeared. "Your concerns are not unfounded, but..." He swallowed, briefly biting his lower lip. "When the dragon came, it left our fields and pastures undamaged. While some of our sheep and cattle fled into the woods, with the help of the Elves, we were able to recover most of the animals lost and harvest one last crop of, of squashes, carrots and onions, beets, parsnips..."

He trailed off, voice growing quieter and shakier until he stopped with a shuddering breath. Thorin waited for Bard to continue; the wooden armrests of his chair creaked in his grip. Finally, with a sharp jerk of his head, Bard finished, "Added to the grains to be shipped upriver from Rhûn and aid from the Woodland Realm, there will be food enough to keep us through the spring, when the fields can be replanted, till the summer harvest, and I..." On the table, Bard's fingers twitched, digging into the surface before he spread his hands flat once more, though his expression did not change--blank as wet slate. "The Master of Laketown has granted Dale exclusive rights to work the farms on the upper shores of the lake for the next five years and to fish in those waters for perpetuity."

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, Thorin won't be getting to the bottom of Bard's old wounds (and some not-so-old) anytime soon or, uh, at all here on the boards, and I believe you might know why? Anyways, the power dynamics are interesting here because I tend to figure that, despite being the most vulnerable in the months immediately following the Battle of Five Armies, the Men are actually the rising, expansionist kingdom in the region. It comes down to simple, inescapable demographics, IMO: with Smaug dead, Erebor and Dale refounded, the Men will recover all their population losses within a few generations and then thrive with a vigor neither the Elves nor the Dwarves can hope to match.

By the time of the War of the Ring, my best guess is that the larger realm of Dale is about as strong as Rohan, Brand's rule extending over a similar area between the River Running and Redwater in the east, with some 18,000-20,000 men at arms, though difficult to muster in the event of a sudden attack, again like Rohan. The township of Dale alone would probably be able to raise an army of 4,000-6,000. Which is more than the allied forces at the Battle of Five Armies combined.

Hence why, when Glóin and Gimli attend the Council of Elrond, they fear for how Brand, himself afraid, intends to answer Mordor's messengers (the Nazgûl out of Dol Guldur?). Basically, if Dale yields, both Erebor and the Woodland Realm are so goners, smashed by 30,000-40,000+ Easterlings against Dol Guldur's forces. Now, assuming that you are a farsighted king of the Elves or Dwarves, I gotta think you'd be willing to show a little generosity when the Men are in need, so when the inevitable day comes that sees Dale with greater resources than your kingdom, you may rely on the friendship of the Bardings. (Ah, do I love fantasy power politics! )

---

That surprised Thorin and, in dawning realization, he studied Bard. Who simply looked worn and not at all like a man who'd secured such liberal trade concessions, turning his head to stare blindly at a wall. A pang stabbed through Thorin at Bard's defeated posture. "Could you teach me?" Bard was keenly aware of his inexperience in diplomacy.

What was the price asked? He must have appeased the Master's lust for gold, Thorin judged after a furious moment's consideration, and was not proud of it. Picking his words with care, he said, "If a greater portion of your share of the treasure is to be escorted to Esgaroth than previously agreed upon, I would have you tell me, so that I may make the necessary arrangements." There was no reproach in his tone.

Balin and Glóin had deemed it prudent for a small contingent of Dwarven warriors to accompany Bard and the first shipment of gold to Laketown, wary of trouble in dividing it among the Men, and Thorin had sustained them, knowing that Bard himself had requested it and thinking to affirm Erebor's support of him, as the Elves had already done. The Men, then, had been the most disarrayed of the allied forces, the Master disgraced by his cowardice but nominally still their leader while Bard ruled in actuality but seemed altogether too ready to relinquish his new authority. For Thorin's comfort or, he suspected, Thranduil's, the Elvenking so unimpressed by the Master he had no qualms stranding the man beside Long Lake to march on the Mountain and take council with Bard alone.

While the distribution of the gold had been fair and peaceable, by the reports of the guards, this separation of Dale from Esgaroth as two sovereign realms was long in the making. Since, in truth, Bard slew Smaug, as the Master fled. Eyeing Bard's profile, the noble cast of brow and nose, Thorin wished again that there was more ambition in Bard's heart. Enough to oust the Master, at least, who was like to prove a thorn in everybody's side in the years to come, and bring Laketown under his crown.

"No," said Bard hoarsely, closing his eyes with a wince. "No new arrangements are needed on the part of Erebor." But then, Thorin thought, it is that you value simple things--food and shelter for his people, protection against war and oppression, a long life and a happy one--above riches and power which sets you apart, even in the company of kings. That it was the nature of the man which mattered most was a lesson Bard had yet to grasp, though Thorin could hardly blame him for fearing the corruption of gold and a crown, with the Master as an example, Thorin himself. Strange how little Bard trusted in his own strength and character, when so many others had found him worthy.

"This... boon," Bard continued, words halting, "It cost Dale nothing." Thorin was again surprised, for if not an appeal to the Master's greed... Does he hate you so much? he wondered, the circumstances of Bard's departure from Laketown falling into a different pattern. Bard's face when he turned back to Thorin had blanched to a sickly shade of pale, but his dark eyes burned into Thorin's, defiant, and his voice when he spoke this time was unyielding as diamond. "The Master's price has been paid in full, the bargain struck, and it is not for you to question it."

Hearing Thorin's involuntary grumble at that, Bard softened a bit. "I'm... Thank you, for your concern. But though we are allies, some battles the Men of Dale must fight"--and win, the line of Bard's shoulders suggested--"alone. Not every problem can be solved through the fabled stubbornness of the Dwarves." A shadow of a smile curved Bard's lips.

Thorin still felt it a travesty that the Master had leveraged the welfare of Bard's people to exile him from the place of his birth like a common criminal--and sent him on his way with a beating from the Master's thugs, Thorin remembered; his hands clenched into fists he had to pry open by force of will--but finally he nodded and said, "Very well, Lord Bard. We shall accept a portion of your harvest as payment for our services in rebuilding Dale." Bard breathed a sigh of relief. "Perhaps we could meet during the growing season to finalize the details?" That would give Bard time to assess potential crop yields and Thorin to consult the records of Dale's past tithes; now that he'd agreed to this trade, he planned to offer Bard a more than fair exchange.

Looking tired, Bard nodded. A part of Thorin wanted to sail down the River Running forthwith and take the Master to task but, reluctant as he was to concede it, Bard was right. The King Under the Mountain had no say in Esgaroth and Dale's internal affairs or Bard and the Master's dealings with each other, unless invited by one party or both to act as a mediator. Bard slumped back into his chair, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. At least officially, added Thorin, with a vicious twist of anticipation. When the Dwarves escorted the next shipment of gold to Laketown, they would leave the Master with no illusions as to whose side Erebor would stand on in his petty feud with Bard.

Aloud, Thorin said, "Supper will soon be served. Shall we reconvene in a fortnight to discuss Master Dofur's preliminary drafts?" Debating with himself after Bard's muffled yes, Thorin then asked, hesitantly, "Would you care to join me? For supper?" Bard's head jerked up, and his stare was startled, conflicted. "You could stay for the play also, the third act of which is to be staged tonight," Thorin continued in almost a babble, to his own disgust, "though I suppose, as a quite popular production or so I've been told, you've seen it before..."

He steeled himself against the itch of Bard's gaze on him, until Bard chuckled lowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Is this Lords and Ladies? Tilda's favorite is the Queen of the Elves," he said. "She's been telling me that, when she's older, she'll go out into the woods every day so she, too, can meet the boy meant for her and enchant him to fall in love with her." Bard's smile turned rueful, even as his brow furrowed at the unhappy prospect of his daughter courting. "The Elves find the play rather... scandalous."

Yes, Thorin had no trouble imagining why they might. While the play was billed as a tale of the Elder Days, the King of the Elves bore a striking resemblance to Thranduil. "I assure you that the Dwarves are enjoying the performance immensely," he said with an answering chuckle. Then sobering, he asked again, "Will you come?"

For a brief moment, Bard seemed tempted, but in the end he shook his head, his smile fading. "No, I think it's best..." One hand kneaded the side of his neck as if a cramp there pained him. "I think I'll retire early, my lord, with my pardons." Thorin nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show.

"Then I won't keep you," he said, tone light, rising from his seat, Bard doing the same. "Before I forget, I have something for you." He pushed the hefty tome, bound in aged green leather, that had rested at his elbow the whole council across the table towards Bard, who thumbed its pages curiously. "An accounts ledger," he explained, as Bard drew a finger down the neat columns of figures and descriptions, "detailing several years' worth of imports purchased through Dale, where they came from and with valuations of their market price."

At Bard's grateful glance, he cleared his throat, adding, "It is yours. One of dozens of its like, so it won't be missed." Not strictly true, thought Thorin, but he would not risk Bard refusing his gift out of a misguided sense of propriety. "There is an index by kind of all the goods traded in the back, and I've taken the liberty of including several maps, of Rhûn, Gondor and Near Harad." Bard swallowed, gently shutting the book. He searched Thorin's polite expression--just accept this kindness--before tucking the book under one arm and, with a solemn bow of his head to Thorin that he held for a couple long heartbeats, departing.

Once Bard was gone, Thorin sighed and braced his hands on the table; his head swam, feeling like it might float off the anchor of his neck. It went well, he reassured himself. Though seeing as their previous negotiations had nigh on been a prelude to war, it would have been difficult indeed for them to have done worse. Thorin grinned and must have looked a fool because a mild voice said, "I did not know that you've been meeting with Bard."

He spun on his heels to face the speaker, flushing. "Balin!" That the other Dwarf was still here had entirely slipped his mind. Balin hummed, gathering his papers into a stack that he tapped against the table until the sheets were orderly and with a certain... expectant air. Thorin coughed into a fist, shifted from foot to foot, and finally decided that such cowardice was beneath him and squared his shoulders, clasping his hands behind him as if he were a truant child called before his tutor. "Balin, I--that is, we--" He stammered to a stop. Suddenly, he did not want to share the memories of his and Bard's nights wandering about Erebor together, seized by a formless dread that putting them into words would leave them shorn of warmth and texture.

Balin's eyebrow crept higher into his hairline as Thorin remained stubbornly silent. "Well," he said at last, with a quiet huff, "kings are entitled to some secrets, I'll grant, and whatever possessed the two of you to seek each other's company"--Thorin bore the shrewd gaze Balin pinned him with stonily--"I can't complain of the results so far, as it appears to have done wonders for diplomatic relations." A pause, as Balin dropped his chin to his chest and stroked his beard, considering. "Is this why you hoped to defer settling debts with Bard for our labors in Dale? Your... friendship?"

"No." His answer was quick. And thoughtless, for as soon as Thorin uttered it, he began to doubt his motivations. Truly, he'd reckoned the Men to be without the resources to pay them, save for the gold that would've been rather poor recompense had it been given only to be received back, not a coin having moved from Erebor's vaults, but had he reached that conclusion too eagerly, in a desire to spare Bard the indignity of begging for aid? Thorin didn't know. "Perhaps," he gritted out.

Nodding, Balin advised, tone measured, "Do not forget that you are King Under the Mountain"--I could never, a part of Thorin cried, recoiling from the very idea; the cost of his crown had been too great for that--"and the day may dawn when you must weigh Erebor's needs against bonds of fellowship, just as Bard may have to, after he comes into his own as Lord of Dale."

Thorin inhaled sharply, an ache pressing at his ribs from within. He was no stranger to the personal toll rank and responsibility exacted, politics casting a shade upon every relationship, but it'd been easy to ignore that he and Bard were more than a sleepless host indulging his sleepless guest's interest in his home. It was not meant to last, he thought, tongue leaden in his mouth.

A touch of Balin's hand on his shoulder startled him. "Thorin," Balin said, expression stern, "I did not mean that Bard cannot be friend as well as ally. With careful handling and"--he smiled wryly--"not a little luck, I wager, you and he need not fear being at odds. Leastways not over anything that can't be resolved by some hours of proper talk in a council room." Thorin groaned at the pointed look Balin shot him. Trust Balin, a born diplomat, to be offended by the inept parley before the battle, a barricade between the disputing parties and armies camped in sight of all. He much preferred this teasing to Balin's reticence of then, however, too afraid for him to upset him. "For Erebor's needs will align with Dale's," Balin finished, "our two kingdoms the stronger in standing united."

So it was that Thorin stood comfortably at Bard's side as the two of them watched the children of Dale play in the snow fresh fallen before Erebor's gates. The four-day storm that had swept out of the Grey Mountains was like to be the last of the season, according to Óin, and when the snows melted, the Men would depart for Dale, laden with the tents and tools Thorin had, at their meeting a week past, finally managed to press on Bard upon the condition that they be returned within a year.

Already some of the Dwarves were beginning to lament how empty the Mountain's halls would sound without the high, pealing laughter of many women and children, recipes left unexchanged, projects uncompleted and plays unseen. The call for workers to fill the rosters of the construction crews bound for Dale in the spring and summer was answered with more enthusiasm than Thorin had hoped for, even with the inducement of pay in each household's choice of grains, meat, fish, fruit and vegetables. Individual shares for hours labored, he and Bard had decided, the rest to go as a tithe to the king's stores, though the listing of foodstuffs on offer and in what amounts was at this point tentative.

It will be strange not to see him, thought Thorin, eyes on Bard as the man shouted encouragement at Tilda and a gaggle of younger girls who were pelting a fleeing Bain mercilessly with snowballs, his outrage that his father would so blatantly favor his sister echoing across the field. Between councils to review the plans Master Dofur and his draftsmen were drawing at a prodigious rate, councils to discuss the seemingly hundreds of details that suddenly needed addressing as the Men's departure neared, and yet more councils to announce proposals to gathered groups of Dwarves and Men both, hear their concerns--a practice Bard insisted on, accustomed to Laketown's way of ruling by general acclamation, Thorin could only assume, despite how he was often white with tension at speaking before the crowds--Thorin had grown to expect Bard's tall, lean frame and habitually dour face to be a fixture of his day.

Of my nights, too, Thorin added wryly. For they continued to meet when all of Erebor slumbered, save the guards on duty. In recent weeks, however, they'd taken to sitting in the dining hall together and nursing cups of mulled wine, too exhausted to brave corridors and flights of stairs that stretched endless into the gloom.

The first couple times were... awkward. Neither of them knew quite what to say to one another without the distraction of Erebor's wondrous sights. But Bard did not tell him his presence was unwanted and Thorin did not want to leave, a niggling kernel of guilt hard in his stomach at his own reluctance to seek his ghosts in the chill of the catacombs instead. Eventually, haltingly, they learned to converse anew. Their tongues loosened by warm, spiced wine, perhaps, and the enfolding dark beyond the glow of their candles, an expectant hush in the predawn air.

No rhyme nor reason was there to their talks now. They changed topics like wheeling birds in a clear, blue sky, turning one direction, then another at a whim or the tug of a breeze. While, by tacit agreement, they still tried to keep a wide berth of the crueler parts of their histories, in many ways, Thorin found these rambling dialogues revealing of who Bard was at heart.

"Creatures of habit--that's what we all are," his grandfather had once instructed him, dressing for a dinner engagement at Dale's most exclusive crayfish house, where tables were reserved months in advance. Unless you happened to be a personal friend of Lord Girion's, of course, treating coal brokers from the Iron Hills to a local delicacy. "Likes and dislikes, the customs of a lifetime, color our view. It is always easier to convince a dwarrow to do as you wish, Thorin, if he can be made to believe it is his wont."

And Men are no different. Shrieks and laughter from the children, as Bain rallied the boys to defend themselves. Clusters of chatting adults ringed the battleground, the parents and not a few Dwarves, too, wearing indulgent expressions. Thorin allowed himself an inward smile, not ashamed in the least at plying his ever expanding knowledge of Bard's wont to free them both from the damnable council room. Bard would work himself into a stupor, if given half a chance, and unlike Thorin--who could, contrary to Óin and Balin's oft-voiced protests, admit when he had reached his limits--the fool man did not have a company of minders to curb his excesses.

So, as soon as the sun shone again, Thorin had suggested to a frazzled Bard that his children might enjoy some hours outside after a week cooped up in the Mountain--

"Winter was my favorite season." Thorin snorted, skeptical. "I won't deny that winters in Esgaroth were hard," said Bard, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, "with the cold, short rations and sickness--the boardwalks would freeze over with slush and become a hazard--but the months when ice covered the lake were the only ones I wouldn't be called away to my barge."

Thorin averted his gaze to his hands, wrapped around his cup. "Sigrid would mend clothes while Bain and I wove baskets from the rushes she'd collected in summer, Tilda soaking them for us a bunch at a time." The grief Thorin didn't want to see on Bard's face, feeling an intruder, was muted in his voice, softened by the fondness mention of his children never failed to bring forth.

"And when the weather was fair, we'd cross the bridge to walk along the shore at the forest's edge." A chuckle, rasping from Bard's throat a little unwillingly. "She would scold Bain and Tilda for playing in the snow, fretting that they'd catch their deaths, but that didn't stop her from pushing me into the tallest drift she could find."

"It was summer I loved best," Thorin said, after Bard fell silent, "when the sun beat down hotter than the fires in the forges." The peaks of the Blue Mountains would shimmer hazily, the sea a jewel-toned reflection of the cloudless sky. "My sister and her husband would drag me out to the beach so they could wade in the waves while I watched their sons."

He'd grouse but halfheartedly, Fíli's hand small and precious in his as he pulled Thorin, babbling excitedly, to where Kíli had unearthed another shelled oddity or pretty pebble, worn smooth by the tides. Blinking, Thorin drank deep, the wine salty on his lips, and Bard joined him. There was nothing more to be said.

--and been gratified by Bard's quick assent, what was surely everybody in Erebor who could excuse himself from duties for the afternoon following their example.

Fortunately, they did not have to dig their way out; the Mountain's bulk had shielded the gates, the storm winds blowing in from the north. Still, the snow was heaped high in great sloping banks that the children flopped backwards into like they were featherbeds, sending up plumes of powder. Glittering in the sunlight and a pristine white, the field was soon crisscrossed by enough footprints to herald an army--not far from the truth, Thorin thought, amused--and wider furrows where the snow had been churned by play. Bright, moving spots of color in woolen hats, mittens, and scarves were scattered everywhere.

Ori and several other Dwarves had been very busy knitting with a group of women in the evenings, the fruits of their long labors proudly presented to family, friends, and unsuspecting passersby. Not even Thorin had escaped Ori. Who'd ambushed him at the gates with a cobalt blue scarf that was looped over Thorin's head as snugly as a hangman's noose before he could duck outside. The scarf was finely made, which Thorin grudgingly approved of, the weave so close it might have come from a loom, but the generous fringes on the ends were hardly fitting. And if he sometimes caught his fingers smoothing the silky wool, well, it was only because he was unused to wearing such a thing.

At least Bard had also been similarly bedecked. Atop his coat he wore a circular monstrosity that looked not unlike a large fuzzy wreath, wound twice about his neck in coils that hung across his chest. Thorin supposed the color, a mossy green threaded through with golden brown, was pleasing to the eye and the weather, though warming, yet too brisk for a Man to forgo extra layers of clothing. Bard's cheeks and, Thorin noted with glee, the tip of his nose were red from the cold.

TBC​

 

Mira_Jade, yesh, the already written Chapter 2 is a lost cause so far as content editable for the boards goes, and of the rest (three more chapters, interlude, epilogue) I think only the first third or so of Chapter 3 will make the cut here. Good news is that there will be at least some resolution to Thorin's grief, when Tauriel departs, Dís and Thorin Stonehelm arrive. Bad news is that everything else, namely Bard's issues, will be left hanging. Here's hoping I can find an acceptable stopping point!

I do want to pick at the regional politics quite a bit more, especially the idea of the Men as the fulcrum between the Elves and Dwarves, who still generally prefer not to deal with each other, lol. The Master is another complication, as well, along with envoys from the east, who will not have failed to notice the sudden wealth of their longtime trading partners, the Lakemen.

One thing I'm not so certain of is just what Thranduil is up to around this time. Clearing his borders of spiders with Sauron's shadow for the moment gone from Mirkwood's southern reaches? He doesn't seem to be a member of the White Council prior to The Hobbit, since nobody apparently thought to tell him of the attack on Dol Guldur, but I wonder whether he has a seat afterwards. Perhaps through his kinsman, Celeborn, or Gandalf? He does later hold Gollum captive for Gandalf, likely with some knowledge of Gandalf and Aragorn's business.

Actually, if you (or anyone else) have post-BOFA political speculations, I'd love to hear them! General musings about friendship between kings even! Which is what I'm trying to figure out in Balin and Thorin's conversation, as it can be dangerous to let feeling compromise judgment and the demands of state can so easily estrange people. That is, if discussion's allowed in story threads? I admit I'm looking for inspiration.

---

He was about to point the latter out when he felt the unmistakable wet thump of a snowball hitting the back of his head. He growled. Who dares? Had the entire breadth of the Wilderland and Eriador not lain between him and Dwalin, there would've been no question who his assailant was, but as it stood Thorin could not guess; the rest of the Company were too respectful of his position as king to throw snow at him like they were still striplings at their mothers' heels. Eyes narrowed, he turned to face the culprit. Icy water trickled down the nape of his neck.

"Balin," he said incredulously. The accused, a red knit cap sitting at a rather rakish angle upon his head, did not deny his guilt. He in fact had the gall to begin scooping together more snow as Thorin fumed at him, the impish twinkle in his eye and puff of white yarn decorating the peak of his hat lifting years from his manner. Thorin sniffed. "I would've thought you too old for children's games."

"Games? Oh, no, Thorin," said Balin, carefully packing his snow into a firm but not too firm ball, "this is a contest of skill and arms." He gave Thorin a look that was at once wounded and reproving. "Old I am, aye, but even a warrior past his prime may take pride in keeping his wits and his aim sharp."

From behind Thorin came a strangled noise, then a chuckle poorly disguised as a cough. If that is how it is to be... He spread his arms in mock challenge, shifting his balance more onto the balls of his feet while moving slightly to his left. When Balin let fly his snowball, Thorin was ready.

Just as his and Dwalin's armsmaster had taught them, Thorin watched not hand nor arm but the chest and shoulders and was thus forewarned of Balin's attack. Pivoting on his right foot, he spun away with space to spare. Trickier was regaining his footing, his heels almost sliding out from under him, but he managed to stave off embarrassment with a wobble and maybe a little flailing. Bard had no such luck.

Eyes widening as he suddenly realized Balin's snowball would hit him without Thorin to block it, Bard made to step back, put a foot wrong, and fell face up into the snow with a quiet oof, a gangling sprawl of limbs. Thorin smirked. The snowball sailed harmlessly over Bard's prone body; Balin immediately started sputtering in apology between glares at Thorin.

"It appears both your wits and aim are in dire need of honing, old friend," Thorin observed dryly. Bard groaned from his hollow of snow, one hand covering his face and shoulders shaking. Thorin felt quite pleased with himself at the curl of a smile peeking out from beneath Bard's palm.

What he had not expected was Bain's shout of "Da!" Thorin glanced up, alarmed, and caught a glimpse of Bain running determinedly towards them. Before a snowball hit him square in the face. It broke apart on the bridge of his nose with a splatter, blinding him. He cursed, his skin stinging, and staggered a bit. Finally wiping his eyes clean of snow, he sought Bard's delinquent son. Water beaded distractingly on his lashes and dripped from his nose; his cheeks and beard were damp with it, the taste of it cool and crisp on his lips.

But it was not Bain who'd so brought low the King Under the Mountain. Bard had propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dancing at Thorin's disgruntled face, and kneeling in the snow next to him was Tilda. Who cast Thorin decidedly guilty looks while patting her hands down her father's sides, as thorough as Óin would've been in her place.

"Darling, I'm not hurt," Bard said softly, stroking Tilda's ice-frosted hair. Flecks of snow crowned Bard's own dark head, a net of sparkling white gems. "Tilda here was the terror of every crow that thought the fields under her guard easy pickings," he added to Thorin. "A sharp eye and a mean throw--isn't that what Farmer Vanrin always used to tell me?" Bard hugged Tilda close with one arm and dropped a light kiss upon her brow as she squirmed in bashful joy, giggling.

Thorin hardened his expression into a most fearsome scowl, though not without a struggle he nearly lost, undone by a sweet child's laugh. "My lady, you have wronged me," he intoned. Tilda gasped, aghast, just as Bain skidded to a panting stop beside his sister; Bard merely arched an eyebrow, unconcerned. "My honor and that of my house--nay, of my people!--demand satisfaction for the... grave injury you dealt my pride." Then he turned to the watching Dwarves and raised his voice, his words ringing across the field. "Sons of Durin! Will you stand idle, I ask, at this insult to your king? Du bekâr! Du bekâr!" And a roar sounded from a hundred Dwarven throats that shook the Mountain itself.

Bard was no laggard. By the time Thorin turned back, he had scooped up Tilda, who squealed in delight, and broken into a sprint towards the largest group of Men, Bain fast on his heels as his long legs ate up the distance, both of them yelling and waving frantically to rally their troops. No more amiable chatting now, the lines of battle drawn. Thorin bared his teeth in a feral grin, armed himself with a snowball in each hand, and set off in pursuit of Bard, Balin following his lead with a chuckle. "Khazâd ai-mênu!" he cried as they joined the fray.

The lowering sun had stretched the shadow of the Mountain's southern spur deep into the valley when Bard at last called a truce, the battle decided not by either side claiming victory but by the sniffling of the youngest combatants as a chill wind stirred with the approaching dusk. Dwarven coats lined with fur, their owners of hardier stock than Men, were hastily shucked to bundle up children and not a few parents, too, who were beginning to feel the bite of the cold without strenuous activity to warm them.

It was a bedraggled yet cheerful lot that filed back into Erebor, trailing partially melted snow through the entrance hall by general accord to the dining hall. Where they were met by a chorus of exasperated disapproval from the women on kitchen duty as tables and benches scrubbed clean for supper were heaped carelessly with sopping clothes. Thorin basked in the radiant heat of a blazing firepit, one of several, having stripped to his undertunic after sending for towels and blankets. Mothers scolding their children and wives their husbands, animated recountings of what was already being embroidered into a proper war--he was content to listen to the happy hubbub of his people and Bard's, all their voices mingled.

How Fíli and Kíli would've loved this! Even after they'd completed their survival training and been deemed fit by Dwalin to be added to the winter roster of guards and merchant escorts, his sister-sons had never been able to resist a good tussle in the snow. It was not uncommon for Thorin to find Dís bemoaning their childish antics as she hung their clothes to dry by the hearth or them pelting each other with snowballs, usually instead of collecting firewood as instructed, when he was on the road with them. Thorin would sit them down for a stern lecture on responsibility or some such, he remembered with a fondness that warmed him more than the steaming bowl of soup a woman pressed into his hands, but inwardly he smiled at their high spirits. And Fíi and Kíli knew it, the rascals, for they were not deterred the next time or the next.

Fíli would be at those tables, Thorin finally judged, in a quieter corner. Bard was there, straddling a bench and Tilda seated before him, with many other Dwarves as well as parents and their children, combs in hand. Thorin studied Bard's relaxed posture, expression intent but tranquil as he gently untangled his daughter's hair, and thought Fíli might have felt the same. He'd been more given to contemplation than his brother, and while he could drink and make merry with the best, by evening's end he would settle at just such a corner table, drawn to the unhurried conversations of kindly folk who had nowhere else to be for the moment.

Silver and gold clasps and beads of different sizes and designs gleamed on the tabletop. One of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills, sitting beside Tilda, was letting her examine each piece of jewelry with curious fingers as he strung them back into place with the ease of daily practice. Hoary warrior and girl-child talked, an unlikely pair, too softly for Thorin to hear--by the way he stopped often to demonstrate a braid and she to enthuse over a particularly pretty ornament, about their mutual appreciation of hair fashions, apparently--Bard interrupting on occasion with a short comment and a chuckle that made Tilda scrunch her face at him.

Kíli, however, would seek rowdier company, brimming with energy. A loud burst of laughter drew Thorin's gaze then, Ori's plaintive cry of "And I missed it all!" clear above the din. Nori, who'd also been absent, patted his shoulder consolingly, vowing, "Next time, Ori... We'll show 'em next time!" Dori didn't look quite so pleased at the prospect of a next time, a pile of soggy towels gathered in his arms, but Thorin knew he'd be charging into battle, yelling fit to scare his foes witless, right alongside his brothers when that time came.

"Aye, I say we have a yearly contest--us Dwarves against you Men!" seconded Bofur, to a roar of approval and more laughter. "Not that you didn't give us a fair runnin' today..." He collared Bain, standing unwisely near, and mussed the boy's hair to much protest, from Bain, and much amusement, from the watching adults. " 'Specially this one and his friends!" Bain squirmed free of Bofur's grasp to plop down on a bench, arms crossed and a black scowl on his face that so resembled his father's in a pique that Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek.

Soon enough, though, Bain was smiling again, ducking his head at the men's praises of his cleverness. Thorin smiled, too, his rueful rather than proud. For indeed the children had been a menace on the field and not least because most of the Dwarves were reluctant to lob anything full force at some slip of a girl. Bain had led his troops on ambushes of the small sorties Thorin sent forth from the safety of their fortress for more snow, using tactics that were honorless and, to Thorin's chagrin, proved very effective.

While the Dwarves had an initial threefold advantage in numbers, the Men held their own for the first half hour. Bard's aim was as deadly with a snowball in hand as with a bow and arrow, his forces on the whole consistently competent. Fewer Dwarves could so accurately gauge the distance to a moving target at longer ranges, being primarily melee fighters; of the Company, only his sister-sons and Ori might have been able to. Thorin must have wasted every third breath sighing, unutterably mortified, as seasoned Dwarven warriors missed their marks by the yard in their eagerness. Fíli and Kíli had spoiled him.

"But better that the odds are even from the start," Bofur lamented with a heavy groan, "so I won't have to play the turncloak again." Thorin narrowed his eyes at that. If Bofur and his fellow traitors, Bifur and Dofur among them, hadn't thoroughly enjoyed their defection, Thorin would eat Bofur's hat and gladly! The giant boulder the Men had amassed hidden from their sight behind a tall drift, then rolled careening down the slope to flatten the main curtain wall of their fortress in a smash of snow and dazed defenders who were too slow getting out of the way--Thorin recognized the work of Dwarves when he saw it.

"Come now, Master Dwarf," said one of the Men, grinning widely and crookedly, "You threw more snow at your king than the lot o' us put together!" Bofur's denials were drowned by another round of laughter, as the Men swapped increasingly embellished tales of his heroics. The good-natured boasting continued unabated, except for a hearty cheer when trays of mugs sloshing with mead and ale were brought from the kitchens.

With a huff, Thorin turned his attention to finishing the rest of his soup before it cooled. If he did not listen too closely, he could trick his ears into hearing Kíli's voice calling for a toast and Fíli's murmuring to a child's giggles. His lip twisted. Almost. The soup was too salty for his liking, he found, herbs bitter on his tongue. When his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, he stared blindly at the whorls in the wood and tasted nothing but guilt--sticking to the roof of his mouth, congealed in the pit of his stomach, sharp and sour.

How long since he last thought of Fíli and Kíli like this? He had been too occupied, he told himself, busy with his duties, strengthening Erebor's alliance with the Men of Dale and his still fledgling friendship with Bard. But the truth, Thorin realized, was that he had been too... happy. He sneered. Playing in the snow with nary a care, as though he could make up for his sister-sons' absence. What right have I? He knew exactly what he deserved.

A touch on his shoulder startled him. It was Balin, of course. "Thorin, won't you join us?" He swallowed under Balin's searching eyes, the glint in them understanding. The Company was waiting for him, expressions hopeful, at a table--actually several, shoved together in a haphazard fashion nobody seemed to mind--with Dwarves and Men of their acquaintance and, to Thorin's surprise, Bard as well as his children. While he came more often to the dining hall, during breakfast to greet his men and with Thorin when their councils ended near suppertime, never had Bard stayed so long nor to eat at any of the typically crowded tables.

Bard's grip on his spoon was white-knuckled and his shoulders hunched, but he smiled down at Tilda, nestled against his side and chattering at Master Dofur on her other side, her arm looped through his an anchor he would not cast away. Sitting opposite Tilda, the two of them framing their father as the stone sentinels did Erebor's gates, was Bain. Who also kept a hand at Bard's elbow, which Thorin noticed he would tap to warn Bard of approaching Men and Dwarves, whispering in Bard's ear to slight nods, before they could clap him on the back in half-drunken congratulations or lean over his shoulder to offer their compliments. "Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers," Bain had said, and Thorin remembered Bard's fingers locked vise-like around his wrist in unconscious reaction, one born of nerves rasped raw by too many hard trials in too short a count of days that the man was ill prepared for.

Yet Bard stayed now, on edge, try as he did to hide it. For them, Thorin thought. Tilda and Bain both snuck shy glances at Bard when he wasn't looking, faces alight with an innocent joy that their father was here and all was well in their world. The Men did much the same, reassuring themselves that their lord had no worries greater than there being no fresh-baked rolls left in the basket he refused to just call for, and this more than any riches or titles that could be bestowed upon him told Thorin a crown would someday grace Bard's head. I can do no less. Did Balin not deserve to be unburdened by his king's troubles? The Company to see that their care was not in vain, no matter that Thorin felt his gravest hurts beyond mending?

He grabbed a couple rolls from a passing tray and strode over to present one to Bard with an impatient grunt. Bard accepted with a sheepish nod before, predictably, splitting the roll in two, giving half to Bain and half to Tilda. Thorin sighed, glad for his foresight, and handed Bard the other roll to an even more sheepish thanks. But instead of eating it, Bard hesitated, biting his lip, then again split the roll in two, this time giving half back to Thorin. Who stared at the bread, soft and warm between his fingers, all of a sudden unsure what to do. He berated himself for foolishness, ate it, and took a seat across the table from Bard. It tasted far sweeter than it ought.

TBC​

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As for the next update, realistically, I wouldn't expect anything for six months upwards to a year or even more. These months-long waits between updates can be rough, I know, and I am terribly sorry for it, as well as eternally grateful for everybody's patience with my shortcomings as an author.

 

Can I just adopt your headcanon as mine?

One good thing about writing an AU mash-up of book and film canon is that I can go cherry-picking. When it comes to the timeline and geography, I tend to cleave closer to the books, wherein such details generally make a lot more sense, lol. So, despite the suggestion in AUJ that the Necromancer is a new and oh-so-mysterious threat, I figure Sauron's been squatting in Dol Guldur for some time (decades? centuries?) already, though perhaps only as a growing shadow upon the forest that the Wood Elves feel the most keenly.

Thranduil could then still have his falling out with the White Council, as you propose, without anyone cottoning on that the Necromancer is actually the Dark Lord returned. Except Saruman, who suspects but, as in the books, plays the obstructionist so he can continue to search for the Ring. Angered by the skepticism of his supposed peers to his warnings that the Greenwood is sickening and their resistance to rooting out what he believes to be the source of the spreading blight in Dol Guldur, Thranduil retreats into isolationism. In fact, maybe this is one reason why he denies Tauriel the pursuit of the spiders and orcs past their borders. He's so embittered by the failure of the Wise to act before his home became Mirkwood, infested by Ungoliant's (grand)spawn and poisoned by dark magics, that he would not now lift a finger to help them.

Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel learn of Sauron's deception, as in the films, and the more personal confrontation with the Necromancer in DOS/BOFA--brought on by circumstances rather than a concerted attack by the White Council long in the making, which I'd always imagined would involve forces from Rivendell and Lórien, as in Canafinwe's The Valley Is Jolly--is why nobody bothered to inform Thranduil of it beforehand. Even if Thranduil cut ties with the White Council, I have a hard time accepting that Celeborn and Galadriel, at least, would not do him the courtesy of a messenger, which he should have received around when the Company's imprisoned in his dungeons. Post-BOFA, I suppose mending relations is the order of the day, with a big, fat "I told you so!" from Thranduil.

As for Celeborn and Thranduil's bonds of old, I tend to assume Oropher and Thranduil were also lords of Thingol's court in Doriath, so Thranduil's around for the whole Nauglamír debacle. But I'm not as familiar with the Sil as you, and it's been a while since I read Unfinished Tales or, gods forbid, HOME! Regarding Thranduil's wife, there is the Gundabad storyline in BOFA. Which PJ's connected more strongly with Dol Guldur, same as Smaug, though how much recruiting Sauron does as the Necromancer, if any, is far less clear according to Tolkien. That's another interesting wrinkle to mull over...

ETA:

Just to clarify, while the possibility exists that Thranduil does know of the White Council's plans and this is simply not revealed to us readers due to the limitations of Bilbo's POV, if so, it would seem very strange to me that 1) the Wood Elves are all business as usual, merrily feasting in the forest and carrying on trade with Laketown, and 2) Thranduil chooses to march on the Mountain with a sizable portion of his strength when Sauron has barely left the Wilderland. From the War of the Ring, in sixty years, an army can be raised in Dol Guldur large enough to assail Lórien thrice, with a diversionary force sent to engage the Woodland Realm, and still have the numbers after being defeated to do harm to an undermanned Rohan had the Ents not been there to stomp them.

Assuming Thranduil holds his warriors back from reinforcing the White Council because he's acting as their reserve and, should they fail, he'll need every Elf to defend against a potential counterattack, why aren't he and his people in a state of war readiness? Then, later, is everybody so certain that Sauron and all his minions, too, have fled or been slain that it's fine for Thranduil to head off for weeks to squabble over Smaug's hoard? I can't answer these questions in a way that satisfies me as to there being even good communication, much less a multilateral strategy of any kind, between the White Council and Thranduil.