Loving Gin

Human age equivalent 28 - 35

There was a gentle tap on Thorin's knee. It took a moment for the tenderness of it to register in the grieving dwarf's mind. Opening his eyes for a second, he was startled by the light in the cavern. It was as if all the fireflies in Erebor had escaped through small vents and cracks and took flight and refuge in this one solitary cavern of Tumunzahar.

Dís had kept her word.

"Yes, Fili?"

The little blonde peered closely up at his uncle. "Time to eat. Mama says to please come."

Thorin looked at him for a moment, Fili's resemblance to Thorin and Dís's long-dead brother alarming. Finally, he said quietly, "I will be there shortly. You go along."

The little face hardened, a fierce look that in years to come, Thorin would recognize as stubbornness inherited, marking him as one of Durin's sons. "Mama says if you not come to eat, she will send Kili!"

Thorin grimaced. "That would be most horrible, Fili. I will remember that." He turned the child around, facing the door way and patted him on the rear-end "Go on now. I will be there shortly. I promise."

~~~...~~~

Going to the Greenwood to beg from Thranduil was out of the question.

Going to the Iron Hills was ruled out. Thráin was very vocal about that not being an option.

Thrór was equally vocal about re-establishing the mines in Khazad-dûm.

The Dwarves settled quietly in the caves for some days, waiting to see if the dragon would leave or scout about, which he did neither. It was obvious that Erebor was now his, at least for the time being, until the Dwarves could gather the Dwarf Kingdoms and unite them against the dragon.

"We cannot do that without the Arkenstone!" Thrór snarled for the umpteenth time. "Had you let me go after it-"

"You would be dead and king of nothing!" Thorin shouted back. "Your gold would be for naught!" With that, the younger dwarf turned on his heel and stormed deeper into the caves, all assuming he was off to check on his wife.

Thrór watched as his grandson disappeared into the cool over the cavern. "What is with him?"

"Too heavy a burden," Thráin whispered, where his father could not hear. "Too much heartache."

"What? I cannot hear you when you mumble!"

Thráin steeled himself before turning around. "When Thorin sees to Gin and calms down, the three of us must make a plan for our people. We cannot live here in the caves until that dragon dies. We have to find a home for us, for our people."

"Bah! Next you will tell me we need to move the king's seat to some seedy elvish pub in Druwaith Iaur!"

Thráin shrugged. "That would be a start," he admitted much to his father's disgust. "When has anyone forged the mountains of Ras Morthil?"

"Never. 'Tis too close to the sea! Might as well reforge the Blue Mountains, although there is nothing there."

"There is iron in the Blue Mountains." Thorin had not left or wandered far, apparently. He leaned against the wall, inspecting a shriveled apple in his hand.

"There is mithril in the Redhorn!" Thrór quickly interjected.

"There is a balrog in those mountains! Have you forgotten?"

"How long has it been since that balrog has been seen?" The three dwarves now stood in a tight circle, fingers pointing at each other, the vocal pitches of their voices raising high in anger and heard deep into the caverns. No one dared interrupt, separate them. When the Sons of Durin spoke in elevated, heated voices, the earth would shake and no one could stifle them.

Not even their wives.

But they knew they could not stay where they were.



Weeks later, Thorin and what was left of the populace of Erebor found themselves following the River Celduin south, much of what was stored in the caves packed for their own needs. They had not been subtle about the taking of the goods and the people of Esgaroth didn't seem to notice, to be honest. With the sudden realization that a living, breathing fire-drake was now in residence in Erebor, they were making plans to move the city onto the lake, creating a sort of lake town, in effort to protect themselves. The dwarves bartered for wagons, some cattle and a few horses and ponies to draw them. Balin snorted that the Men of Esgaroth were not well-versed in the fine art of bartering, snickered that the dwarves received the goods at a fraction of their worth, but the truth was, the inhabitants were more concerned about other things, especially with the influx of the survivors from Dale and the leaving of the dwarves.

Gin was most put out, being forced to travel in a wagon once the barges dropped them off. She was pale, losing weight and it worried Thorin to no end. Thorin listened to her fuss to her heart's content, only to shake his head when she was finished. Any attempt she made to get down or off was promptly halted when Thorin or Dwalin set her right back into her seat.

Thorin found himself presented with a cold back the first few nights on the road, but eventually, she snuggled in.

They spent a month, traveling up a small tributary that led into the Mountains of Mirkwood, but scouting and test mining showed there were nothing but veins of useless rock in those hills.

Not to mention, an emissary from Thranduil's court let Thrór know that anything found of worth was property of the Elven King. And they would be paid for their mining services accordingly.

What the emissary seemed to think was appropriate pay was a sick joke. The curses that fell from Thrór's mouth were most succulent and they caused Thorin to want to take ink and parchment to take notes. He and Gin giggled into the night when he told her what his grandfather yelled at the Elf, who had no idea what the Dwarf King had cursed. It was rumored that the Dwarven King almost frothed at the mouth and threw what had been brought from what little mining there had been down at the scrawny Elf, as he scurried away, hitting him on his non-existent rear-end.

That bit of news made Gin howl with such laughter, Thorin watched her in awe. Surely, she was healing. There was color starting to return to her cheeks, her beard filling out as a Lady Dwarf's should.

It was decided to take the Old Forest Road through the Greenwood to the plains that lay east of the River Langflood. Once outside the forest, the dwarves settled for the winter months in a moderate sized village, the males smithing and tinkering in exchange for shelter. Several, like Dwalin, guarded the village at night, wolves being a constant threat to livestock.

To Thorin, it was if they had no plan, wandering aimlessly, and that seemed to upset him most. Normally, Thráin was the planner of the three, leaving the business of ruling up to his father and the business of being young up to his son. But since Thrór's greed had gotten to the best of him and cost the Dwarves Erebor for now, Thráin was becoming more vocal and more of the younger dwarves, what were left, looked to him for guidance and leadership.

One particularly cold night, when the tavern was empty, the Sons of Durin gathered around a table, with a few of the more trusted dwarves; Fundin and his sons, Dwalin and Balin.

"We canna stay here when t'snow melts, lads." Fundin was wise, but his wife was wiser and it was no secret that the two of them spoke often of the dwarves' plight. "We need to decide where we need to be, where we need to go an' we need t'be doin' it quickly!"

"Aye," Dwalin chimed in. "An' we need to be well armed." It was one of the few nights he didn't take the night watch. "We've killed or wounded wolves almost every night fer weeks." He leaned forward, making the table come in closer so they could hear his whisper. "We've no' said nuthin' but we've killed three orcs in t'last' tew weeks." He leaned back with his arms crossed, new tattoos showing clearly on his hands.

"Orcs?" Thrór hissed. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

Dwalin shrugged. "Y'dinna ask."

Balin stared at the steaming mug of honeyed ale in his hands. "I think we should discuss every option, regardless of age or improbability. We do need to have a place or a plan. And we need to set it in place and do it quickly."

"And we are Dwarves; the sons of Durin the Deadless," Thrór chimed in. "We do not give up."

Thráin reached into his outer tunic and pulled a rolled hide, age darkening the edges. "This is a map of Middle Earth, drawn in the end of the Second Age." He unrolled it gently, picking up the empty mugs, wiping the bottoms of moisture before using them to weigh down the edges of the ancient animal skin. His fingers traced across the top, tracing the mountains. "We could return to the Grey Mountains. We know there is gold and gemstones-"

A finger stabbed angrily onto the map, the tip pressed at the large 'V' shaped valley in the mountains. "The Withered Heath is the breeding ground for the dragons!" Thrór spat. He was standing and leaning over the table, blocking the light. "'Tis why we left the Grey Mountains to begin with and in case you have not realized it, 'tis most likely where Smaug came from." He sat back down, his face in a livid grimace. "Do not waste my time on fanciful fantasies!"

Thráin was completely unmoved by his father's outburst. "I am not wasting time on anything. I simply wish for all of our options to be laid out and discussed."

"Returning to the Grey Mountains is not an option. Næstr!"

Thráin shrugged, his fingers grazing across the northern part of the map. They traced westward across the Erid Mirthrin, to a series of peaks that could have belonged to either the Grey or the Misty Mountains.

"Ewn," Fundin pushed back from the table, his arms crossed. At this very moment, Thorin knew where Dwalin got his scowl from. "Mount Gundabad is equally out of the question."

"It was a Dwarven Fortress long ago," Thráin reminded him.

"How long ago, agmark grek?" Fundin waved his hand, as if to push Thráin's hand on. "It has long been the fortress for the Northern Orcs and it is too close to Carn Dûm for my liking."

"Angmar is an evil place," Thrór whispered. "No matter how long the WitchKing has been dead, the evil of him and his minions seeped into the Mountains of Angmar. The rock is cursed."

Thráin's hand continued eastward. "I suppose that means Mount Gram is also not to be considered?"

"Nor the Ettenmoors. Those mountains are void of anything but soft rock!" Thrór's finger pushed Thráin's aside as he moved southward over the Misty Mountains. "Khazad-dûm!" He rammed the digit into the table several times loudly, making his point. "There is mithril in the Redhorn; thick veins of it! We will recoup our losses and our wealth within a season!"

"Is that all you think about is riches, sire?" The soft voice was one who was not invited to the meeting, so her presence was a shock. Gin was wrapped up in several furs and was tucked up under her husband's embrace.

Thrór's face scrunched up in irritation. "I do not recall asking you for your opinion."

"No, but perhaps you should." While her voice was calm, her words were like jagged glass, a razor-sharp, bluntly spoken arrow with a target not many wished to tangle with. "Remember, your decisions affect all of us. 'Tis your love of gold and riches that put us in this place to begin with!"

The others looked at each other out of the sides of their eyes, watching the storm that was building between King and his grandson's wife. She spoke the truth all of them feared to say out loud. "Derg skale rofa derg legae!"

"I know my place, you old coot!" For the first time since the loss of her and Thorin's babe, Gin's voice was strong. "And before you say it," she thrust her finger in his face, "your wife would stand up to you and your mulish ways, as well!"

That stung, mostly because it was the truth. "You know nothing of my-"

"I remember Queen Kveykva well! I remember her honey oat cakes, which-" here Gin shoved her finger into the King's face again, "she gave me her recipe for! You be nice or I will not make you any!"

"I am being very nice," Thorin whispered in her ear.

"You want more than honey oat cakes," she whispered back, poking him on the arm.

"Disgusting," Thrór was not finished. "Nonetheless-"

"She would yank the bars from your beard, if you had enough beard to put bars on!" The entire table gasped at that. Beards were important to the dwarves, both male and female, alike. Many who survived the sacking of Erebor had singed or burnt beards, decades of careful growth and grooming, gone. Both Thrór and Thráin had lost significant portions of their beards.

It was quiet for a moment, while King and Granddaughter - in - law stared each other down. Finally-

"Where would you have us go, Megin, beloved of Thorin?" Thrór asked snidely.

She looked at her husband before she moved on to the map. "Where did you get this?" She tapped the hide.

"There were a few things more precious than jewels and metal, Gin." Thráin liked his daughter-in-law, a lot. For all their roaring and blustering, he knew Thrór liked her as well. In many ways, she reminded both Thrór and Thráin of Kveykva, who on most days was the gentlest, kindest dwarf-lass in Erebor, but had no qualms going toe to toe with her husband if necessary.

But this moment, Thrór snorted. "You were asked a question."

Gin's finger moved slowly down the middle of the map, tracing the Misty Mountains. She hovered over Khazad-dûm. "I remember my father telling me and my siblings stories of Khazad-dûm." She swallowed hard. Her mother and siblings had not made it out of Erebor and her father was now a haunted, haunted dwarf, withdrawn and sullen. "Stories of wonder and wealth. Riches beyond imagining." She then tapped the map. "But he told me that the dwarves there dug too deep and woke a wretched beast; a knold, a Balrog." Almost lazily, her hand drifted back to where Thráin's had already been. "It seems the Dwarves' homes have been set upon by evil, every where we turn. Which one of the Valar did we anger?" Her hand moved south again. "The southern portion of the Misty Mountains," she drifted to the area southwest of Fangorn. "Has the southern portion of the Misty Mountains been explored?"

"Orthanc," Fundin whispered. "A great and powerful wizard lives there."

Gin's hand continued to drift. She peered at the map. "Dunland."

"Sworn enemies of the Rohirrim, the Horse Lords." Thorin filled in.

"Do we care?" Thrór interjected. "I worry not for the bickering of men."

"No," Gin whispered. "You simply wor-"

Thorin chose that moment to kiss her.

"Perhaps you should take your wife to bed, Thorin."

Realizing her husband had simply hushed her mouth, she pulled away, seeing a dangerous, angry glint in his eye. Gin tapped on the mountain range east of Dunland. "What is here?"

"The mountain rock there has not been explored to my knowledge."

"No, it has not," Thráin agreed, eager to move away from the subject that kept re-presenting itself; his father's addictive love of precious metals. As much as he hated to admit it, the lure of wealth was beginning to take root in his own soul, but he brushed it off as a desire to return to the lifestyle he had had before Smaug. He watched as his daughter-in-law's hand continued to drift southward, well into Rohan. He shook his head and picked up the dainty palm. "No use going further south." Setting her hand to the side, he stabbed out specific points. "Here lies the Paths of the Dead. To enter within is to court Death and Death always wins. We know nothing of the White Mountains and," with this, his hand moved east. "Nor do we know much of Ras Morthil - save that it is too close to the sea for my self-assurance and it is located in the land of the Drúedain."

"A strange folk," Fundin rumbled softly.

"Aye," Thráin agreed. "Legend has it they live in the mists, are secretive, magical..."

"Sounds like Elves," Thorin growled. "I have had enough Elves to last my lifetime."

"In tha' case, laddie," Fundin's fingers now joined the fray on the map. "Our choices are few. We have no' th' funds to scout even an exploratory expedition tha' far away." He quickly jabbed at several places in quick succession. "Khazad-dûm, which is closer, wit' a guarantee o' mithril in th' Redhorn, Much o' th' mining equipment is still there, I suspect, although it might take a season or tew o' cleaning an' readying."

"Bu-"

Fundin continued over his son's friend's wife, drowning her out. "Th' forges might be difficult t' light, seein' how they've bin out for so long. If no' here, then aye, th' lass is right t' check intuh th' mountains of Dunland. 'Tis on our way to th' Blue Mountains."

"The Blue Mountains are under water."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Thráin shrugged. "No one's been there in how many thousands of years?"

Thrór sat snarling, not deterred from his original desire. "Gwen va knaldkarl?"

All heads but one dropped. "You are, sire."

Thrór looked over the table, seeing clearly the one set of eyes who looked directly at him. For the first time in ages, he thought clearly, remembering a time... He thrust his finger towards the only female sitting at the board; the only one who appeared ready to verbally duel with him. "Derg vare kerhvil ewnva mag þan nin ó-hœgr kild!"

Gin didn't bat an eyelash. "Mota derg skeg sitja brina."

Everyone at the table held their breath. Thrór's lip twitched. "Hnut."

Gin snorted. She reached across her husband and picked up his tankard. "Is that the best you have, ormar?"

Thrór finally leaned back, laughter shaking his sides in a way no one had seen for years. It was as if the old Thrór had returned. He shook his finger at a relieved Thorin. "You chose well, Thorin! You chose well!"

The light-heartedness would not last long. The moment the snow melted, the dwarves wandered around the south, through Rohan, smithing as they went. These Horselords had horses and horses needed shoes and bridles and bits and other things made in a forge.

And there was not a single living creature more suited for a smithy than a dwarf.

They settled in Dunland, beneath the Misty Mountains and worked for a time, settling somewhat.

Only for Thorin to watch his wife miscarry yet again, deep in the winter.

In the early spring, as soon as the snow receded, Thrór headed with a large group of Dwarves to take back Khazad-dûm. The mountain was too close; he could smell the mithril in the air, coming down the wind. Just to see if the Balrog was still there. Just in case, he left his Dwarven Ring of Power - the only dwarven ring not in Sauron's control - with his son, Thráin.

One lone survivor came back, cowering in front of Thráin, to inform him that they had no idea if the Balrog still lived, because Orcs had taken Moria and the Pale Orc had beheaded and defiled the body of King Thrór.

When it was done and over, the beheading and despoiling of the king's body was the one thing the other kingdoms of the Dwarves would respond to, when they would not respond to retaking of Erebor. Apparently, they did not need the Arkenstone to avenge the King's death.

In the end, in the War of The Dwarves and the Orcs, the Dwarves avenged the death of their king and beheaded the Pale Orc. But the losses... Thorin looked over the battle field of Azanulbizar, seeing the dead, Dwalin and Balin, sobbing over the body of their father, Fundin. He himself was numb. His brother, gentle Frerin, who wanted so badly to go to war and fight, fought bravely and died for it.

Með was inconsolable when she found out.

In a fit, Thráin headed towards the entrance of the mountain, determined to take the prize denied his father and to avenge all those who lay dead on the field. As he headed up the way, his arm was caught in a mighty grip.

Dáin Ironfoot, his cousin and ruler of the Iron Hills, stood next to him, shaking his head. "Tha' Balrog still lives," he gasped. "Dinna go in. We have no' the strength fer it! Save it fer another time."

"Where are we to go then?" Thráin spat. "I would not go to the Iron Hills and claim yours for the throne. Dunland is poor, too poor for the Kingship of Durin's Folk!"

Dáin closed his eyes in understanding. Thráin told the truth, he wanted his cousin anywhere, save the Iron Hills. "Go to the Blue Mountains."

"There is no wealth in the Blue Mountains!"

Neither were aware of Thorin listening in to the conversation, standing on a rock, pretending to survey the destruction. "There is iron!" he yelled over the din. "We can craft with iron." He leapt from the rock he stood on, the magnitude of what he had witnessed catching up to him. Reaching for his father, tears began to roll down his cheeks. "We should grieve our dead, my brother," he whispered. "But I want away from this wretched place and never consider it again. Let the Balrog have it." With that, he stormed off, to begin the order to retrieve of bodies of the dwarven warriors and prepare them for burial.

He didn't realize he still carried the branch of oak that he used as a makeshift shield when his own shield shattered, to protect himself and he didn't hear the whispers of the survivors who saw him striding purposely through the remains of the battle, stopping to talk, take a moment, with the survivors and injured.

Oakenshield.

When they finally returned to Dunland, to grieve with the widows and to plan their move to the Blue Mountains, Thorin stood in front of the looking glass and began the arduous task of trimming back his beard, in remembrance and in honor of his grandfather and those who died or had their beards burnt off in the attack of Erebor, for as sure as he lived and breathed, Thorin knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all of Durin's Folk's problems were the fault of a fire-breathing dragon, who sat in their home and the Arkenstone planted firmly in the grasp of its claws.


tbc


Derg vare kerhvil ewnva mag þan nin ó-hœgr kild! - You were always nothing more than a difficult child!

No - Ewn

Mota derg skeg sitja brina! - May your beard stay burnt.

Next næstr

You must know your place - Derg skale rofa derg legae

nut - hnut

worm - ormar

Who is (be) king? - Gwen va knaldkarl

I - Ag
my - agmark
friend - grek