Loving Gin

Human Age Equivalent - 25


As the dust settled and the fires in Dale were doused or burned out, the survivors of Dale decided to relocate to Esgaroth, a thriving city on the banks of the Long Lake. Girion missed with his windlance, dying in the attempt to stop the beast. He left his wife and young son bereft. Thorin and the Dwarves who survived the sacking of Erebor watched as the men of Dale moved down the river.

"They said we could join them, settle, recoup our losses and mount an attack." Dwalin was sitting on a pile of potatoes, drawing a whet stone over Grasper.

Gin was sleeping; Thorin's mother and the crone of a healer saying sleep was the best medicine for her. They had tried for so long and rejoiced when she quickened. Mahal knew she cried whenever she was awake, cried for her loss, their loss, Erebor's loss. Thorin had no idea a female could cry so much, grieve for so much.

He was hard as granite, empty, a shell.

Thrór, the king, simply stared at the stone wall of what had become his chamber. At times, he asked for his wife, who had been dead for some years. Her crypt lay deep in the mountain, waiting for when Thrór passed and, as was the way for the high-born of Durin's people, to be thrown in the Mahal's Great Forge in the lowest parts of the mountains together.

Thorin leaned against the opening of the cave, arms crossed, staring at the smoke that continued to from the city of Dale, the light of the afternoon, grey in its hopelessness. The day before, he and Dwalin had gone to the front, to the Great Gates, to find them in ruins, impassable, as was the West Gate, from which so many of theirs had escaped.

The few that had escaped.

There was no longer a way into the mountain.

"So, should we join them?" Dwalin never looked up, simply continued to sharpen his blade with his whetstone.

"No." Thorin looked to his left, to this new voice, his father. Despite having to be carried out of Erebor, Thráin had recovered quickly, not having succumbed to the gold sickness of his own father. For not the first time, Thorin looked up to him, many of their people looking in desperation to the next King Under the Mountain, even in exile, to lead them to a new home.

"No," he repeated. "Esgaroth's wealth is tied to the Lonely Mountain, to Dale. There will be no more riches coming from here and the city will dry up." He shook his head, his beard singed off in places as well as many others. "Besides, we are not fishermen, which is all that is left now. We are Dwarves. Miners, stone masons, we need the mountains, as the mountain needs us."

"Where should we go?" Thorin asked. "We cannot stay here."

"In truth, we have several options." Thráin continued to stare out into the mountainside, relishing the coolness of the mist now falling on the still smoldering city. "We could head east, to the Iron Hills, live with our kin."

"Dáin Ironfoot rules there." Fundin now joined the small group. "Thrór is king here, but I do not see Dáin handing his home over willingly, much less stepping aside. Nor do I see Thrór willing to live under his great-nephew's thumb, a poor, exiled relation; a king with no throne."

"Khazad-dûm." For the first time since leaving the mountain, Thrór stood confidant and sure. He stared out at the city of men outside the gates of Erebor, in ruins. He drew up, fury rising at the needless destruction. For the first time since Thorin was a small dwarf, his grandfather stood tall and proud, no sign of the madness in him lurking in his bright eyes. "We take back Khazad-dûm."

Thorin and Dwalin looked at each other, before Thorin addressed his father. "Perhaps, the Blue Mountains. Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar. Surely, the sea has retreated and we could resettle there."

"Aye," his father agreed. "That is a possibility. We could go, nurse our wounds. It is our original homeland. In time, we may look upon Erebor again." Thráin knew they would look upon Erebor again. There was another way into the mountain, but now was not the time. Not when so many of them had perished and not when they had no hope of receiving aid from anyone, including their own kin.

"Khazad-dûm!" Thrór's voice shook. "It is ours! It is closer! We take back what is ours."

The group looked at the king, pity in their eyes he did not see. Eventually, all of them hung their heads and made their way back into the cavern.

Save Thráin.

Together, the king and his heir stood at the cave mouth, alone with their thoughts, their fury, their grief.

"You have the map?"

"Aye. And the key."

For the first time in a long time, a half smile made its way to the mouth of Durin's son. He made a fist and raised it so Thráin could see the last, free Dwarven Ring of Power still on his hand. "We will regain our homeland and we will take back Khazad-dûm. Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!" He did not seem to realize that his son's heart froze in fear. "We will be strong again." He turned and stormed into the shadows, his voice ringing in the halls. "As soon as I grow back this cursed beard!"

tbc