Fanfic The Broken Shield

[Sons of the Woodland King]

The Broken Shield
by SOTWK​

Summary: Thorin and Frerin, the young Princes of Erebor, rise above the grudges and prejudices of their forefathers to forge an alliance with the Elves of Mirkwood during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. But the tenuous bonds of friendship are shattered when tragic losses suffered by both sides lead to grievances, misunderstandings, and an even greater divide between the two races.

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PART ONE
Third Age 2791
Dunland​

With a furious scrape of chair legs against the floor, he was out the tavern's door faster than Thorin could have anticipated.

"Where are you going?!" Thorin scrambled after him, nearly colliding with a hapless barmaid and her fully laden tray in his haste. "Frerin, stop! Wait!!"

But his brother did not listen; he did not even slow his angry pace. This had become a disturbing pattern with Frerin of late. The steady, reliable young dwarf who used to never question anything his elders told him, was mutating into a stubborn goat who seemed to challenge half the orders he was given. Whether the change was due to Frerin's recent achievement of reaching the age of maturity, or because of the lady that had inflamed his passions to reckless heights, Thorin could only guess. He only wished his little brother could have picked a better time to lose his heart and head to a dwarrowdam.

But he probably should have kept this opinion behind sealed lips.

"I said stop!" Thorin finally came close enough to seize the retreating dwarf's shoulder. "If you would only listen--!"

“And what would listening get me?!” Frerin flung out his arm to wrench Thorin’s grip off him. “More reasons why I shouldn’t pursue my own happiness? If I wanted those, I would have gone to Father or even Dis instead of confiding in you.”

His words reeked of a hurt that lashed at Thorin. In happier times he might have beamed with pride to hear himself being compared to King Thrain. Now he flinched at it, knowing it was intended as an insult, especially coming from Frerin.

“My counsel on the matter is for your own good." Mahal! The words stumbled out of his lips before he could stop himself from proving his brother right. That was exactly the condescending line their father would say.

"Why do you all insist on knowing what is best for me?!" Frerin exclaimed. “I love Ezri, and she has always loved me, and I am blessed to be chosen as her One. Do not dare imply that you can offer a greater life than the one I can share with her."

"Frerin, you are a Prince of Erebor," Thorin stated calmly, even though he actually wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake sense into him. "When we reclaim our home from the Dragon, it shall rise back to its place as the greatest kingdom on Middle-earth. Your proper place is home, where it has always been, Under the Mountain. Not…here!"

He threw his arms out at their village surroundings, unconsciously revealing his disdain with a sneer. "You have a higher purpose beyond staying in Dunland, eking out a living as a common blacksmith, peddling your craft to Men for a pittance."

"You know I care not about my crown or title," Frerin declared. "I have said it many times, emphatically, for years now. But you all turn a deaf ear because you refuse to accept my choice."

Thorin guffawed and clutched at his hair with both hands, as though it would help him hold on to his dwindling patience. "You are mad if you genuinely believe Father would ever accept you renouncing your birthright."

"Which is why I came to you!" Frerin shot back. "I thought if anyone still might understand and care about my wishes, it would be my brother. Or is it asking too much for you to take my side on the matter?"

“Frerin,” Thorin sighed. “You have not thought hard enough about this. This cannot truly be what you want in life.”

“Not all of us seek heroic glory in battle, or legendary fame from great deeds, or gold and jewels one could do nothing with but pile and hoard,” Frerin said. “Some of us desire nothing better than a cozy home to return to at the end of an honest day’s work, where a hearty dinner and a wife’s kisses await, and the songs and laughter of little ones.”

Thorin finally softened as he regarded the earnest conviction on his brother’s face. “So is that it?” He shook his head. “You would stay behind and leave us to deal with Azog and his armies, and all the challenges that still lie in the long road ahead?”

“That is not what I said.” Frerin moved close to grip Thorin’s forearms. “It was my grandfather too whom they murdered, and make no mistake, the same fire burns in my belly to seek vengeance. I will go to war against Azog with you, and only after we have won shall I return to make a bride out of my betrothed.”

His grave face cracked into a smile. “I know you need me to watch your back, your Highness . I will not make you beg for my axe.”

Thorin chuckled weakly and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, however can I repay such magnanimity?”

“By returning the favor. By helping me to return home safely so I can make good on my promise to Ezri.”

By my life, I shall. Thorin vowed silently. But before he could open his mouth to tell his brother so, they were interrupted by a shout from further down the dimly lit street.

“Thorin! Frerin!” When the figure in the shadows came up to meet them, Thorin recognized their kinsman, Balin, slightly out of breath. “Finally--I have been searching everywhere! You must come to your father’s house immediately. The King has called for a council and everyone awaits you.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. “A council at this hour? What could be so urgent?”

“An elf has turned up requesting an audience with Thrain.” Balin’s voice dropped to a tense whisper as he looked meaningfully at Thorin.

“A rider from Mirkwood, bearing a message from the Elvenking Thranduil.”

 

[Sons of the Woodland King]

PART TWO
Third Age 2793
The Greylin River​

Thorin could not recall ever seeing a full moon so large and bright, a great lantern high above the valley, illuminating the military encampment sprawled out by the riverbank. Dwarves preferred to fight their battles underground, in tunnels and caverns where their skills gave them certain advantages, so something about being out in the open, in clear view of their enemies, made Thorin uneasy. But King Thranduil had sent out keen-eyed scouts who reported no signs of hostile elements nearby, and the roving Elven patrols kept constant watch of the perimeters while the remainder of the army took their rest.

At daybreak, a few short hours away, the entire combined force of nearly six thousand strong will commence their march towards Gundabad, and their people’s great war against the Orcs shall begin.

Thorin massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his right arm resting heavily against the lyre propped upon his thigh. He had tossed and turned uncomfortably in his cot whilst Frerin snored away on the other side of their shared tent, before he finally gave up on sleep. He took his golden instrument and hiked a distance away from camp, seeking out a secluded spot at the eaves of the forest where he could play in peaceful solitude. Music, especially melodies played by his own hands, was usually effective at soothing his nerves, but even an hour later the anxiety that had taken root in his chest ever since they set out from Dunland still refused to be tamed.

Thorin laid his fingers against the lyre strings to try once more, searching his memory for the tune of a childhood lullaby. However, the very faint rustle of shifting undergrowth caused him to leap up to his feet instead. The lyre fell to the ground with a thud, and his hand closed around the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt.

The tall, lithesome figure of a lady stood just a few feet away from him, close enough that he had to tilt his head back just to gaze fully upon her face. She appeared unperturbed by the dwarf's aggressive stance, although the four Mirkwood soldiers that stood just behind her noticeably tightened their grips on their spears.

"Prince Thorin." The lady dipped into a graceful curtsy before him, sinking so low that the voluminous skirt of her dress pooled against the patchy grass. "Good evening."

"Queen Maereth," Thorin answered, bowing from the waist in return.

The Queen of Mirkwood affixed her soft gaze and warm smile upon him, and the tight knot in Thorin's chest seemed to finally loosen. Although they were only recently acquainted, Thorin had been in the presence of the Elvenking Thranduil's wife multiple times already over the past few months, for she sat at her husband's side in every single meeting held between the Dwarven and Elven leaders. The Queen's beauty, a pure and natural radiance that surpassed the rarest and finest gemstones ever unearthed in Erebor's mines, did not escape the dwarven host's attention, and enchanted most of those who laid eyes upon her.

At the same time, something about the ethereal presence of Queen Maereth unnerved Thorin's father. At the council gatherings, King Thrain avoided any direct communication with her, muttering to the side that military dealings should only be between one king and another, as was “proper”, although he never dared suggest dismissing Thranduil’s wife from the meetings. And true to his principles, he left all interactions with the Elven host, their supposed allies, to his lieutenants.

Frerin surprised them all with how instantly he developed a camaraderie with the Mirkwood elves. It was only a week ago that the Elven army had arrived to join the Dwarves and set up camp alongside theirs by the Greylin River. By nightfall of the first day, Thorin found his brother at the Elven camp, the lone dwarf sitting around the fire with a group of Mirkwood soldiers, deep in his cups and slurring in speech. As an aghast Thorin dragged him away, Frerin chortled about how he shared a name with his new elf-friend, Feren. Since then, the younger prince continued to spend more time with the Elven soldiers than with his own people, and Thorin decided there was no point in preventing the phenomenon, if even the kings of their separate camps seemed unbothered by it.

Unlike his father and brother and their quick judgements, Thorin remained unsure of his feelings towards their new allies. Cautionary tales passed down by Dwarven elders warned heavily against trusting Elves, and the Sack of Erebor, an event that he himself witnessed, gave damning evidence of Mirkwood’s questionable loyalty. And yet there they were, about to launch perhaps the greatest war effort in the history of their race, and they would be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with a previously sworn enemy.

Alas, Thorin’s father had not allowed him to attend that first meeting with Thranduil, so the prince still did not know what had led to the sudden alliance, and Thrain stubbornly refused to enlighten even his own sons.

"May I join you?"

Queen Maereth’s words pulled Thorin’s mind back to the present, and as his attention shifted back to her, and he beheld her lovely and tender smile, the answer dawned on him, clear as the sun emerging from the cover of dark clouds.

Her. It was because of her. Of course.

Stunned by his own epiphany, Thorin could only utter a vague grunt, but he nodded in assent, which seemed good enough for the Lady.

She addressed her guards with a few words and, much to Thorin’s surprise, all four promptly bowed, turned about-face, and disappeared into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

He watched in helpless fascination as the Queen settled upon a low flat stone, mindless of the damp dirt on her fine green gown. Perhaps it was the absence of the silver crown she always wore to the councils, or the wildness of their forest surroundings, but there suddenly appeared a pleasant earthiness to the Queen that Thorin had never noticed before. Not an ounce of her Elven beauty was diminished, but it shifted somehow from being a piercing and untouchable flame, to a warm and inviting hearth.

Thorin stepped slowly towards her, their faces now at level with each other. "You did not have to send your guard away on my account."

"I prefer we have our privacy, and they are not needed here,” the Queen responded. “I told them I will be safe in the company of a great warrior."

A bold assumption to make , Thorin thought, although internally her words made him glow with pride. He was a near stranger to her and had done nothing to merit such confidence. But as he gazed upon the fair vision she made sitting there, like a delicate flower freshly bloomed from the earth, Thorin felt a swell of protective instincts from his gut. A fierce conviction that he would spill his own blood before letting any harm come upon someone so pure and trusting.

A long, unbroken silence hung between them as the Elvenqueen stared at Thorin intently, unabashedly. Thorin did not meet her eyes, nor did he shrink away from the attention. He bent over to pick his lyre off the ground and rest it against the base of a tree, but he remained standing, now closer to the Queen than any of his kin had ever come before.

“Forgive me,” Queen Maereth said at last. “I am sure you are wondering why I have sought you out alone like this.”

“Perhaps you have words for me that you wish not for my father to hear?”

“You are as wise as I thought, Prince Thorin.” She smiled and folded her hands across her lap. “But I also thought mayhaps you too have things to say to me away from the ears of others. King Thrain has made clear that he has no interest in anything I have to say, but I sensed it is not the same with you.”

Thorin laughed, but even to his own ears it sounded uneasy. “You presume a great deal about me, my lady.”

“I do not presume; I see .” The Queen’s kind eyes flashed with firm reproach. “And when I look at you Thorin, I see Durin alive once more. The very same fire that once burned in your ancestors shines bright from your whole being."

Her unexpected declaration made Thorin freeze. Part of him wanted to wallow in such profound praises of his character, but a voice in his head decried her honeyed words as suspicious. After all, elves were notorious for employing riddles and fancy speeches for their machinations. Still, curiosity rose above all, and when Thorin regained his voice, he said, "You speak as though you knew him.”

"I knew them ,” said the Queen. “I had the honor of calling several of the great Dwarf Kings my dear friends." A fond reverie swept across her face. "But it was Durin the Third whom I loved best, he who ruled Khazad-dûm at the height of its glory."

"You saw Khazad-dûm…" Thorin whispered, finding himself suddenly breathless. His mind spun at the thought of it, of standing in the presence of one who had walked the halls of his ancestors’ now lost and ruined kingdom. An elf . He had heard the tales of Elves from the ancient ages who had been proclaimed "dwarf-friends", who built bridges between the two races, although those alliances never endured past their lifetimes. Therefore Dwarf historians wrote them off as aberrations, and not accomplishments to seek out or aspire for.

"I lived in Khazad-dûm as Durin's guest for several years," said Queen Maereth. Her eyes closed as she paused for a moment, clasping her hands together over her breast, and she murmured something in her Elvish tongue that Thorin could not hope to guess. "I shall always be grateful for the kindness Durin showed me, and to this day, many centuries passed, I have yet to find a more loyal or generous friend."

It could not be. It was too much. Thorin folded his arms across his chest and finally turned away, forgoing his princely manners. Everything she was telling him conflicted with everything he believed about the Elvenking and his family. Faithless, manipulative frauds who cared only for themselves. The Queen's accounts had to be lies…or else the stories told by Thorin's father and grandfather were.

"The White Gems, Thorin."

Thorin whirled around suddenly. "What of them?" He spoke more sharply than intended, but she could not have broached a more sensitive topic. The cause of Thranduil's ire against Erebor, the reason why he allowed the Dragon to besiege the Mountain without lifting a finger to lend aid. Those accursed White Gems that now lay buried in Smaug's hoard along with the rest of Erebor's treasures.

"What reason did your grandfather give for refusing to return them to us?"

Thorin's brow furrowed. He had been present at that fateful exchange, and had witnessed the cold, silent fury of the Elvenking when King Thror refused to relinquish the necklace he had commissioned for his wife.

"He said the gems belonged to Durin's House by birthights," Thorin said slowly. "Because they came out of the mines of Khazad-dûm…" He stared at the Queen, eyes suddenly wide as though he had been struck.

Queen Maereth smiled sadly. "I cannot blame your grandfather for coveting them. It must have pained him to see treasures from his ancestral home in the hands of Elves. But we did not steal the White Gems, or purchase them from raiders. They were a gift from Durin the Fourth himself, who wished to honor us on our wedding day on behalf of his late father."

"Did he know of this?" Thorin demanded, even as he dreaded the obvious answer. "Was my grandfather aware of this history all along?"

Now the Elvenqueen was the one to turn her face away, the voluminous waves of her dark hair momentarily blocking the sorrow that graced her features. "Truth inevitably grows distorted the longer stories are passed on, and prejudices creep into interpretations." She shook her head. "Thror made decisions on what to believe, and those are the versions he presented to your father and to you as truth."

"So this is why Thranduil despises us,” Thorin said bitterly. “Why he withheld his army and merely stood by to let Smaug drive us out of our home."

The Queen’s hand suddenly came to rest upon Thorin’s arm, her touch warm and gentle as a mother’s caress. "My husband does not hate you or your people, dear Prince,” she told him. “His inaction that day is a mistake he has come to regret, even though he would never admit it. He is a proud king, and your grandfather inflicted one too many wounds upon that pride. But my lord did not withdraw from the field that day out of revenge or spite."

“I suppose you have another grand tale to explain his motivations, then.” Thorin could not help the rush of hot anger that flared within him at the memory, and he stepped back, away from the Queen’s reach. “If you can offer a good explanation as to how your husband managed to do nothing but watch the Dragon raze not just Erebor, but the entire town of Dale…" He clenched his fists against the assault of the horrifying images the repressed memory roused in his mind. “...how he could turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to thousands being incinerated right in front of him… I would like to hear it.”

“Had I been at Thranduil’s side that day instead of across the Mountains visiting my kin, things might have been different.” The grief that descended upon the Elvenqueen’s fair face almost made Thorin regret his harsh speech. “We could not take back what had already been done, but in the aftermath, we aided survivors in every way we could.”

“If aid had come sooner, there would have been more survivors instead of dead!” Thorin growled. “If aid had come sooner, we would have stood a chance at defending and keeping our home.”

“Erebor would have been taken, even if our army had marched out to fight. That is for certain," the Queen countered. “And we would have lost so many more lives. Perhaps even the lives of the last two sons that remain to us.”

Another silence dropped between them as Thorin fumbled with her words. It was the first he had ever heard of the Elvenking having a child or heir, and he had not considered that there might be several of them. What sons? No Elven princes had arrived with the army and no mention was ever made of them at the councils.

“He already lost one son to dragons, and he refused to risk another,” said the Queen, her voice now barely above a whisper. “That is the thought that ruled my King’s decision to turn his army back.”

“I do not understand.” Thorin muttered, pangs of shame now surfacing above his cooling rage. “You have lost a son to dragons? Has your family encountered Smaug before?”

The Queen raised her eyes from the ground, and in holding her gaze, Thorin saw for the first time the truth of her age, hidden beneath her unfaded youth. The wisdom in her eyes, borne from countless years of immortal existence, made him realize the indescribable burdens she must carry upon her shoulders.

He never thought he would ever feel pity for an elf until that moment.

“I have shared enough for one evening,” she said with a faint smile. “It was not my intention to shake your faith in the things you have been taught. I only wish for you to understand better my King’s mind, and to know that our family has always valued our friendship with Aulë’s Children. My people are marching into battle side-by-side with yours tomorrow. I would have you trust that the Elves of Greenwood will protect you as our own.”

“But would they, oh Queen?” Thorin raised his eyebrows. “It remains unclear to me why Mirkwood should now do such a thing for us, when the crime committed by Azog was against our house alone.” He wondered if she suspected his father’s private theory, that Thranduil’s sole motive was to force Durin’s House indebtedness, and the Elves' so-called friendship was merely an expensive service that would have to be paid for later. King Thrain had accepted the Elves into their ranks as mercenaries, not friends.

“That is where you are wholly mistaken, Thorin.” This time the Queen frowned, and the soft lines of her face grew taut. “My family has endured unspeakable losses at the hands of the same Enemy that murdered Thror. This war belongs to us all, and so we shall take our stand together to put an end to these monsters that have taken far too much from us.”

“And what of the sons you spoke of? Might not Thranduil abandon the cause again out of fear of losing them?”

If the Queen took offense at his brazen sarcasm, she did not show it, which only deepened Thorin’s guilt. “Our sons stayed behind in Mirkwood, charged with ruling in their father’s absence.” She tilted her head to the side, pinning the dwarf with a searching gaze. “You are still too young to have children of your own, so it may be difficult to understand the fierce instinct to protect the ones you brought into this world.”

“I have no wife or children,” Thorin responded. “But I still understand the willingness to give my life if necessary to protect someone I love. I have a younger brother, Frerin, whom you have already met, but you may not remember…”

“Oh, I remember Prince Frerin indeed.” Queen Maereth’s sudden laughter was the sweetest, most musical sound that dissolved whatever bitterness lingered in Thorin’s heart. “It has certainly not escaped our attention how much your brother has enjoyed visiting our camp. My King is convinced he is mad, but it amuses him nonetheless, and I for one have not been delighted by a dwarf's charming manners in far too long."

"Just this morning he approached me, very boldly but ever so courteously, and asked me for a favor to carry with him throughout this war." The Queen gestured at her waist, where the intricately embroidered bodice of her green dress joined with the flowing skirt. "I gave him the sash off my gown and told him I would be honored for him to bear it."

Thorin felt his jaw drop, utterly flabbergasted, but when no words could pass his lips, a bark of laughter rang out. "That is the sort of thing Frerin would do," he admitted. "Particularly if he had been goaded by your soldiers, which I suspect is what happened. It was kind of you to indulge him."

"By that favor shall my blessing accompany your dear brother into battle," Queen Maereth said softly. "I shall pray it always leads him to a safe return."

“He left behind the woman he loves to come here," Thorin said abruptly. "His betrothed. I would see to it that he returns to her in Dunland to make good on his promise to marry her and have the future he desires."

"Then may it happen as you say." The Queen nodded. “But what of you, Crown Prince? What awaits your return after this war?”

Thorin shook his head. “There is no future for me in Dunland," he said flatly. “Only in Erebor. As my father’s heir, our people look to me to secure their own futures. I can seek no happiness of my own until I help reclaim our home."

There was a pause as the Queen regarded him even more intently. "You will lead your people back to the Mountain.” She spoke as though stating a fact, as certain as one would be of the sun rising to usher in a new day. “It shall be achieved by you, in time. So long as you learn to heed the counsel of the wise, of those you might regard as outsiders. Resist the flaws of your fathers, and do not be so hasty to regard the world with suspicion. The greatest victories are won with help coming from the most unexpected of places, so you must keep yourself open to receive it."

"Is that not what we are doing now, my lady?" Thorin swept his arm in the direction of the camp in the far distance. “Who could have foreseen that Dwarves and Elves would ever come together under one banner this way?”

“It is an auspicious start,” the Queen agreed. “I feel hope is renewed strong with this alliance, and that we shall prevail so long as it remains unbroken.”

“It will not fail from our end,” Thorin declared stoutly. “As a dwarf-friend, you would know that we honor our word once it is given.”

"I do believe that, Thorin, Son of Durin." She reached out to offer him her hand. Thorin grasped it, lightly at first, but was surprised by the strength he felt from those slender fingers pressed into his palm. He moved his other hand in to completely encase hers, and they sealed the gesture with an exchange of smiles.

“With all the power in me, I shall see to it that the Elves reciprocate your loyalty. Only hours from now, you shall see for yourself." Deep pride glowed on the Queen's face. "You will see the difference it makes to have the greatest warrior in Middle-earth fighting on your side."

 

[Sons of the Woodland King]

PART THREE
Third Age 2793
Mount Gundabad​

Thorin pressed his clenched fists over his eyes and pulled in a slow, deep breath that shuddered through his lungs. After the emergency war council ended and all the Dwarven officers in assembly followed King Thrain back out of the tent, the prince sat alone in the dead silence, for a long time motionless as a carven statue upon his chair. His hollow stare bore straight into the canvas flap through which they had all exited, walking off to proceed with business as though absolutely nothing of significance had occurred.

When he thought enough strength might have returned to his legs, Thorin staggered to his feet. But something in the act of just moving returned his mind to the realities of the present, to the memories of the last twenty-four hours, and the tenuous stranglehold he kept on his emotions shattered.

And finally, Thorin wept.

The Elvenqueen was dead. He might never have believed it possible, but he was one of the few witnesses to lay eyes on her broken body being carried out of the pits of Gundabad, a most wretched sight that would surely haunt him to his last day.

Immediately upon returning to camp with his company, Thorin stood before the Dwarven council to deliver his account of the battle. His report was hopelessly garbled and raised many questions he could not answer, but those present managed to cobble it together with the fragments of news and hearsays picked up from the Elven ranks and form a coherent story.

The news of Queen Maereth’s abduction had reached their camp in the cold darkness of a moonless winter night, and the chaos that had erupted from the Mirkwood host was unholy. The Dwarves were woken from their sleep by the noise of over a thousand Elves scrambling to form ranks as the word spread like literal fire setting their tents ablaze, and there arose a terrible cacophony of enraged shouts and anguished wails, spoken in a tongue they could not understand.

It was not until much later that the Dwarves discovered Thranduil had ridden out all by himself, immediately, without delaying even a moment to rally his guard, or to strategize, or to brief his confused and panicked soldiers. Without warning he simply vanished, leaving his officers uncertain of what they were to do next in such an unprecedented crisis.

Yet somehow, orders came from the absent king. The Queen had been located. At morning's light the Elven army finally set off in great haste, and after many rejected attempts to communicate with the Mirkwood lieutenants Thorin managed to force an answer out of them as to where they were marching off to, so he could lead the Dwarves to join them in the rescue.

Back to the depths of Gundabad, the orc captors had taken her, barely more than a league away. The Dwarves and Elves had spent the last three months laying a relentless siege upon the ancient stronghold, waging battle after battle, and winning decisively each time. Their armies cut through Gundabad's defenses with overwhelming ease, slaughtering the orc legions until only dredges of their filth remained, withdrawing to the deepest caverns, clinging to their nests like stubborn roaches. The Mountain should have been one final purge away from being utterly won.

Instead, their enemy had lashed out with their most devastating blow yet.

“There was nothing left for us to do,” Thorin told the commanders of the Seven Houses. "By the time our forces arrived, a thorough razing had already been accomplished. We chased down a few survivors attempting to escape, but the Elves had exterminated the rest." He paused and closed his eyes briefly, as a vivid memory flashed in his mind, and he corrected himself. "Or from what I could tell, Thranduil had carried out most of it."

"I heard he was half dead when they found him," one of the officers grunted. “And entirely mad.”

“That preening peacock has always been mad. Charging into Gundabad on his own without waiting for even a single soldier to cover him.”

"Foolish bastard."

"He was injured," Thorin broke back into the exchange, grimacing as the nightmarish image of the blood-drenched Elvenking once again crossed his thoughts. "Far more seriously than he has ever been. But he walked out of Gundabad unaided, even carrying the Queen himself. I did not get a chance to speak with him, and have not seen him since."

"He has not shown himself at all since this whole disaster started," Thrain burst out, pounding a fist on the arm of his throne. "What kind of king sends a messenger to deliver notice of his retreat? Or perhaps I should just be thankful they didn’t simply fade into the night without a word of warning!”

"Their queen is dead , Father." Frerin's tone was sharp when at last he broke his silence. Only Thorin caught the slight tremor in his brother's voice and he gratefully realized he was not the only one with grief swelling in his chest. "It is only right that they go home and lay her to rest."

"Pulling out the entire army in the middle of a campaign?!" scoffed a Firebeard chieftain. "It stinks of typical Elf weakness."

Frerin stood abruptly from his chair. "There are rumblings from the Mirkwood camp about a betrayal," he said loudly. "Committed by our people. It is being said that it was one of our escorts sent with Queen Maereth that betrayed her to the enemy, and assisted in her abduction."

A chorus of indignant shouts immediately rose in the tent, but Thorin remained silent. Frerin's friendship with the Elves still gave him reliable sources of information, and this accusation did not surprise Thorin at all. The same suspicion had dawned on him when he pondered how the ambush on the Queen's convoy could have occurred. Meticulous plans had been made to take her by a safe route home over the Grey Mountains, through passes known only to Longbeards who had long dwelt in those lands.

The Longbeards King Thrain had offered up as guides were people Thorin had never met before. They were distant relatives who came forward to answer the call to arms, claiming descent from the Gloin who once ruled over the Grey Mountains. But Thorin knew little else of these so-called relations, and he doubted his father had the time to get any much better acquainted.

“The orcs slew the entire escort to capture her! Dwarves and elves alike, indiscriminately!” bellowed another officer. “How dare they accuse us of treason, when lives of our kin were also sacrificed to shield their Queen!”

“I should have been the one to do it,” Frerin said bitterly. “I volunteered and you forbade it, but I should have insisted upon it. I should have gone to ensure Queen Maereth’s safe passage.”

Thrain stared at his son incredulously. “You are a Prince of Erebor, not some Queen's maid!” he exclaimed. “We were not remiss in our obligation. We gave her a strong and proper escort, but the mission was compromised. Our enemy outsmarted us. It was an unfortunate incident, but one we could not have predicted or prevented.”

“Unfortunate?!” Anger blazed in Frerin’s bright blue eyes. “Is that what you would call it? Bad weather is unfortunate. A spilled barrel of ale is unfortunate! The Queen of Mirkwood was murdered, when she was supposed to be under our protection! How can you be so dismissive about such a failure, that is now a stain on our honor?!"

For once, silence dropped like a stone upon the assembly. Father and son glared at each other for a tense moment, until King Thrain growled, "Leave my sight, Frerin. Do not return until you have rid your head of nonsense and cleansed your mouth of insolence."

Thorin watched his brother storm out of the tent and almost wished he could join him, but he stayed behind to hear the continued grumblings of the Dwarven leaders.

"We brought this upon ourselves, joining with elves, who have time and again proven fickle and faithless."

"We have gotten some use out of them, at least. Gundabad was quickly won, and at barely any cost to our ranks.”

“Hah! Let them be cowards and run back home! We shall advance without them and show them the true meaning of grit.”

“Aye! I never liked the thought of that woodland fairy sharing in our glory anyhow!”

"Thranduil has fought fiercely for our side from the onset of this campaign, and his valor has played no small role in our victories.” Thorin was barely aware that he was shouting, not to be heard above their jabbering, but to release the frustrations that would otherwise cause him to implode. “But this war, which was never truly his to fight, has cost him his wife, his companion for thousands of years, a bond none of us can possibly comprehend. Now you mock him in his grief, calling him a coward for his need to mourn?!”

Just as with Frerin, Thrain glowered at his elder son long and hard, and Thorin thought for certain he too would be ejected from the council. Instead, the King rose from his throne, gave the prince a tight, patronizing smile, and launched into a speech that robbed Thorin of the desire to say anything else.

"I understand you and your brother had been ensnared by the charms of the Elvenqueen. Lovely and fair she was indeed, and I will not deny that her presence gave strength to our hosts. But in the end she is still just a single soul lost, one casualty in this war. And I will not allow the blame for her killing to fall on our people!” The blue gemstone of his great ancestral ring flashed as Thrain waved his hand in stern proclamation. “Thranduil was the one who risked her life by bringing her here, keeping her so close to danger. Perhaps if these Elves treasured and safeguarded their women in the ways we do, this senseless tragedy would not have occurred."

As Thorin wept quietly in the tent at the conclusion of that sickening assembly, he knew that his tears were not merely of sorrow at the fate of the Elvenqueen. He did not think he had ever been angrier with this father in all his life, or more ashamed of his kinsmen, or more disappointed in himself for his inability to tell them all exactly this.

Frerin found him slumped low in his chair when he returned to the tent. The younger prince raised his eyebrows at the pathetic sight but said nothing about Thorin’s watery eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp, disheveled beard.

“Come Thorin,” he said urgently. “The elves have begun their march. They are leaving, right now. You must come!”

“And do what?” Thorin asked dully.

“Let us go speak to them, learn of their plans! Perhaps we can get some idea as to when they will be rejoining us.”

“They are not coming back, Frerin,” Thorin said tersely. "The alliance has been declared broken by both sides. Father and his generals have accepted the Elves' departure. I have certainly heard enough crowing of how we will now triumph in the rest of this war without having to share the glory.”

"Shall we heed the words of those puffed-up wind sacks?” Frerin scoffed. “We have taken very few casualties with the Elves fighting by our side! Is pride really worth more than all the lives we can save by asking Mirkwood to stay with us?!”

When Thorin still refused to budge from his chair, Frerin gave a frustrated growl and grabbed both his arms, yanking his brother to his feet.

"We should speak directly with King Thranduil," he said, pulling Thorin towards the tent exit. "He has as much cause as we do now to want Azog’s head. Surely he craves revenge and will not find rest until the task is done."

“It is not that simple.” Thorin rubbed his temple, where a pounding headache seems to have formed. “Maereth is gone. Can you not see why our enemies targeted her? Much of the Elves’ goodwill towards us rested on her, on the love her husband and their people bore for her. We cannot replace her influence on them, the zeal she inspired in their hearts. Nothing can.”

“I think our relationship with the Elves has grown beyond that, now that we have spilled blood together. The least we can do is try,” Frerin insisted. “Or shall we stand quiet and let her death be for nothing? Because I think she would want us to bring our case to Thranduil, and make him see reason if need be--”

“Just stop, Frerin!” Thorin cried, finally snapping under the weight of grief and exhaustion. “Enough! There is nothing left to be done, and we have to accept that. It is over .”

Frerin did stop talking, for a second, to give Thorin a scathing, disgusted scowl. “Never mind, then.” He released his grip on Thorin’s arm, giving him a hard push away. “Sulk in your corner. I will do it myself.” He disappeared behind the flap of the tent exit.

“Frerin, wait!” As tired as he was, Thorin rushed after him into the evening twilight.

He did not have to venture far to find what Frerin had wanted him to come and see. The Mirkwood soldiers had departed from their now empty campsite and formed a long, wide column that snaked eastward, marching back towards the Greylin, and from there to their woodland home. Many dwarves had come out of their tents to watch the Elven army leaving in the distance, but none were curious enough to approach the giant procession.

Thorin walked quickly to catch up, keeping an eye out for the vibrant blue color and fur collar of Frerin’s winter coat.

The marching Elves paid no heed to the dwarf-prince that came up to walk alongside their lines. Thorin noticed that despite the bitterness of the winter chill, they had all removed their cloaks, leaving their fine golden armor looking oddly incomplete. Instead, long strips of jagged fabric ripped apart by bare hands were tied around the tips of their spears and bows. Thousands and thousands of crimson ribbons fluttered high in the wind, and made the slow-moving column of soldiers appear from afar like a river of running blood.

Looking ahead towards the front of the procession, Thorin finally spotted Frerin, easily noticed next to the line of towering Elves. As he surged forward to reach his brother, Thorin realized they had come alongside the most important section of the cavalcade.

On a large litter borne by the shoulders of a half-dozen Elves, the Queen’s body lay, covered almost entirely by a thick, richly embroidered coverlet, and draped over that was a shimmering silver cloak that Thorin recognized as the Elvenking’s own. Sheer white silk veiled her face, still beautiful and unscathed, but whose pale lifelessness was too saddening to look upon.

Thorin came up to Frerin, who had finally stopped moving, and was just staring helplessly at the Elvenqueen’s body as it passed by. Thorin saw the fear and despair on his brother’s face and reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

The princes remained that way for a while, suddenly transported back to a time during their childhood in Erebor, when two little dwarves stood by the funeral bed of another deceased queen, scared and confused and unable to grasp what a motherless future held for them.

“We should go,” Thorin finally said.

"No," Frerin said brusquely. Determination renewed, he continued walking up the line, his boots crunching against the packed snow. "He is right there ."

The Elvenking rode at the very front of the column, separated from his soldiers by a good distance. Astride his great bull elk, he towered above the marching elves, but even higher above the dwarf that boldly approached him.

Thranduil's war steed was a violent, ill-tempered creature. Thorin had watched it mow down orcs on the battlefield, and once saw it nearly bite the shoulder off a Ironfoot spearman just for coming too close. The beast had to be part monster, a lethal hazard that could only be controlled by its similarly dispositioned master.

Sure enough, when Frerin strode up within scope of the elk's sight, it immediately halted in its tracks. It did not buck or make any sudden movements out of respect for its rider, but its nostrils flared as it snorted angrily and dipped its head low to challenge the intruder with its massive antlers.

Behind Thranduil, the entire procession also came to an immediate halt, and a profound silence allowed the dwarf-prince’s voice to be heard loud and clear.

"Lord Thranduil," Frerin called, stopping a safe distance before the elk beast, out of reach from being skewered or bitten. Thorin watched, aghast, as his brother sank down on one knee in a manner of greeting. "Forgive my impertinence and allow me to deliver a message on behalf of my King and our people."

Thorin froze when he realized trying to interrupt his brother, or discredit him by denying the validity of his words, would only rouse the Elvenking's notorious temper. And so he held his breath and stood aside, watching as Frerin pulled out a golden silk sash from the folds of his coat, and raised it above his bowed head.

“We mourn your loss with you," Frerin declared. "Queen Maereth was the kindest and fairest soul many of us had ever seen in our lifetime. We beseech our Great Father, Mahal, to intercede for her during her sojourn in the Halls, and to honor her as the dwarf-friend she was."

Then he rose and braved a few steps forward to offer the sash up to Thranduil, who still had not uttered a sound or moved in his saddle.

"Peace be on your journey as you bring her home to rest," he said as he waited for the Elvenking to accept his offering.

“We will await your return, when we shall rise together in arms once more to avenge her.”

At long last, Thranduil bent down to reach for the golden sash. He gripped it tightly in his fist, but still said nothing as the bitter silence droned on unbearably.

Unwilling to continue letting his brother stand there alone, Thorin finally walked over to Frerin's side. His arrival seemed to jar the Elvenking from his trance and he turned his piercing gaze towards the elder prince.

It was a sight both shocking and chilling to behold up close, the tears that streamed down the cut and bruised cheeks of Thranduil's cold, inflexible face. He inclined his head in a small, vague nod.

The elk lurched forward without warning, forcing the brothers to scramble hastily out of its path. As quickly as that, the Mirkwood army marched on, once again leaving the dwarves at the sidelines to witness their exodus.

"They will be back," Frerin whispered, an unquenchable conviction burning in his eyes. "I saw it on his face."

Thorin did not know how much he shared in this optimism, but his heart swelled with admiration and pride in the bravery his little brother had demonstrated. He just never learned how to express it in words.

"You should have kept the Queen's favor. It was her gift to you."

Frerin shrugged. "And I used it as I believe she would have wanted me to," he responded. "Whenever Thranduil looks at it, he will remember my words and the cause she gave up her life for. He will not let it be for nothing."

He touched his fist over his heart as the Elvenqueen's body was carried past them once more. "For now, we will hold the line until they return."

 

[Sons of the Woodland King]

PART FOUR
Third Age 2799
The Valley of Azanulbizar​

The uproar of bellowing dwarves and the piercing blare of war horns echoing throughout the sunless valley signaled victory. Had they really won? After six long years of underground battles that culminated in a final descent into hell, was the impossible war finally over?

Thorin reached up to swipe aside the hair plastered by sweat across his face, and only succeeded in smearing more black grime into his eyes. He gasped and clutched his left arm, feeling a shock of breathtaking pain run up from his wrist to shoulder. The bones had to be broken in multiple places, with the damage worsened by his fighting on after it had been injured. It would never regain the same strength it once had even after healing.

As close as he had come and as close as his bodily pain still felt to death, somehow he was alive and standing. The battlefield surrounding him revealed a much grimmer fate for most of the eight thousand dwarves that had marched into Dimrill Dale.

The truth of the death toll had been impossible to notice while the bloodshed continued, but after the last axe-stroke had fallen, it became clear that victory for Durin’s Folk was a questionable claim.

A deep, throbbing ache clawed up Thorin’s leg with each step he took, as he limped across the barren plain, struggling to get his bearings in the black darkness of the cloudy night. Several times, he stumbled over what at first appeared to be a boulder or felled tree, but the clink of chainmail or steel armor announced a corpse.

A handful of torches moved in the distance, as Dwarven soldiers began the task of combing through the field, seeking any wounded left lying among the dead that might still be saved. Only then did it finally sink in for Thorin that he needed to find his brother, and that immediately drove out all awareness of his own pain and exhaustion.

He staggered towards the nearest torch-bearer as quickly as he could. “Frerin. Have you seen Prince Frerin anywhere?!” The blood-stained, swollen-faced soldier merely blinked at him with confused, unrecognizing eyes. Thorin moved on to ask the next dwarf, and then another one, and so on with the same results. Finally he ripped the torch off one of the roaming rescuers’ hands and started searching the field of corpses himself, screaming his brother’s name until his voice ran hoarse.

They had begun the battle literally side-by-side in King Thrain’s mounted vanguard, charging at the advancing hordes of orcs that flowed down the mountain slopes above the East-gate. Their cavalry rams were quickly shot down, forcing them to plunge into the chaos on foot. In the initial onslaught of the orcs, the company led by the princes succeeded in driving their opponents back, and the brothers managed to stay within reach of each other. But then innumerable creatures, including trolls and wargs, began to pour out of Moria’s gate, and the tide of battle turned swiftly ill. Thorin lost track of his men as they fell at a rapid pace, and he was swept away from the sight of his brother as night’s terrible shadows cloaked the accursed valley.

It felt like an eternity before someone finally responded to Thorin’s relentless cries. He was found on the field by his cousin Dwalin, a dwarf who should have been counted too young to join their ranks but was so robust and strong for his age that his own father volunteered him along with his brother Balin.

“Praise Mahal!” Thorin hugged tightly the cousin he had practically helped raise, glad to finally lay eyes on a surviving relation. But when he pulled back and took a closer look at Dwalin’s expression, he found no shared joy or relief, but a face crumpled with sorrowful anguish. The cold dread swept back into Thorin’s chest.

“What is it?”

“Frerin,” Dwalin choked out, cementing Thorin’s fears. “Hurry--you must come.”

They had set him down underneath a tree by the banks of the Kheled-zâram, far enough from the main battlefield so that the stench of death and decay did not overcome the lakeside air. Frerin’s eyes were closed, and he lay so still tucked between two giant roots that Thorin collapsed to his knees with a wail, fearing he was too late.

But his brother’s eyes fluttered open at his voice, and his lips parted in a blood-stained smile. “What took so long, nadad?” he croaked. “The Halls await.”

“No Frerin,” Thorin shook his head vigorously, clutching his brother’s limp hand in a grip that would have crushed stone. “You cannot go. Your place is still here with me.”

“I cannot obey, Highness.” His chest heaved visibly in dire gasps for continued breath. “I had nearly slipped away. But had to see with my…eyes that you live and will not follow… where you should not yet be.”

“Frerin…”

“Not yet , Thorin.” Strength seemed to return briefly to the dying dwarf’s hand, and he squeezed Thorin’s fingers. “Not for a very long time still.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Thorin said desperately.

“Take my braid…” His words fell to wheezing, as the final dregs of strength he had clung to swiftly faded. “Back to Ezri. I love her. As much as…love… you.”

Thorin did not leave his brother’s side for hours after Frerin breathed his last. He succumbed to a deathlike sleep with his head upon the younger prince’s chest, and wept once more when he eventually awoke to find that it had been no nightmare.

By morning’s light, the dwarves commenced gathering the corpses and stripping all their soldiers of armor and weapons, reclaiming every single piece so that none would fall into orc possession. Balin and Dwalin helped Thorin carry Frerin a long distance to the Longbeard camp set up outside the valley, where the prince’s body could receive care befitting his station.

King Thrain’s angry curses and anguished sobs filled the tent when he finally arrived, hobbled by his own near-fatal injuries, to grieve his lost son. Only then did Thorin finally leave to give his father privacy, and to seek out his cousin so he could make one more request of him.

“It would be my honor,” Balin said gravely. They sat by a campfire together as they made plans, nursing bowls of hot barley stew. It was the only food Thorin had consumed in almost three days, but it tasted like ash in his mouth as he forced it down for sustenance. “I shall start gathering materials immediately. It seems the plan for most of the fallen is to build great pyres, so while the supply of lumber might run short, there will be enough stone to work with.”

“I will scout for a suitable location.” Thorin set aside his half-eaten stew and reached into a pocket in his tunic, drawing out the braid of Frerin’s copper-brown hair that bore a betrothal bead marked with runes. He turned the small silver bead over with his fingers thoughtfully. “Somewhere on a hill with lots of sunshine. He was an odd enough dwarf to enjoy something like that.”

“Then I will build him the finest hilltop tomb I can manage,” the master stonemason promised. “But are you certain you would not rather carry him back home to his sweetheart?”

“Dunland is not home ,” Thorin said darkly. “One may argue that this orc-infested mountain is more our proper home than that place.”

Balin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Then do you have plans to return elsewhere when we are done here?”

“I do not know,” Thorin muttered. “It does not even seem to matter at the moment. Right now, I just feel nothing will ever matter again.”

He staggered to his feet, cradling his bandaged arm across his chest, and excused himself before walking off. He cut straight through the Longbeard camp, willing himself to ignore the growing pile of corpses he passed on his way out. But just outside of the campsite boundaries, another great pile caught and held his gaze--the collection of salvaged Dwarven armor and weaponry.

One item in particular ensnared his attention, for it seemed to have magically appeared in front of him at the right moment, when it might have been abandoned by the Great Gate with the orc carcasses.

He remembered the day Frerin presented the intricately wrought shield to him, the product of a whole month’s labor in the forge. There had been no special occasion; just a proud young smith wishing to prove once and for all to his older brother that he had surpassed him in at least one skill. And truly, Thorin had never borne a finer shield into battle, and he knew he never would again.

He picked up the black-and-silver shield by its edges and stared at the burnished surface that barely yielded a scratch. Only the leather strap was actually damaged, ripped apart by the sheer force of many powerful blows that had broken Thorin’s arm before it even managed to break the mighty shield. It could easily be repaired if he wished.

Instead Thorin laid his shield to rest with Frerin, and had it molded into the stone that covered the top of his tomb. Your death will not be in vain, brother, was Thorin’s last promise before he bid farewell to the hilltop grave. I will not forget the vengeance you are owed, and I will never forgive the betrayers of your trust.

THE END​