Chapter Text
Life was a funny thing. It was something one was stuck in, with very little choice as to how it would progress. It was something that was supposedly changeable, but that no one actually bothered to explain how to change.
it was made up of endless moments that bled together. Endless duties and choices that eventually made an individual what they were.
Thorin had lived for a hundred and sixty eight years made up of such moments. He’d had very little in the way of choices, but an endless amount of the duties.
And he was so tremendously bored of them.
Every cursed day was the same. He rose with the sun and ran through his home. After an hour of such exercise, he lit the fires for breakfast and went to the bathing chamber to clean himself. He then returned to the kitchen to greet his mentor and enjoy breakfast with the teacher and his guard. They then went to the upper most balcony and surveyed the land they could see. If anything exciting could be seen, Balin would teach on it. Otherwise, they turned to their books while Dwalin cleaned the swords, axes, and spears.
They were impeccably clean, as they had never been used in actual battle.
They then went to eat a lunch that was prepared for them-he’d never asked how. After their meal they went to the lowest level, at the heart of the house. Dwalin sparred with him and taught him how to wield every weapon they had. He had mastered over twenty types. Balin would tend to records at that time. He wrote in a language that Thorin didn’t know.
They went over smithing after dinner. On occasion they would sit on the balcony and enjoy a smoke.
It wasn’t a poor life, but it was a dull one. It was simple and very well worn. Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin could do it all with very little, if any, thought.
Because there was nothing else they could do. For a hundred years, Thorin had followed the same routine.
He could not recall the feel of grass beneath his feet. He had never danced in the sunlight or slept against a tree. He had never seen the sea, and had never delved into its cool depths.
He had lived nearly his entire life in this tower. At least, he had very few memories of a time before the tower. He supposed it was something he should be grateful for. It had always been there, and Thorin had always been a part of it, as had Balin and Dwalin.
Sometimes, when the nights were long and the darkness thick, he would feel the urge to weep for his friends. Never for himself. He had ceased weeping for himself before he had come of age. This was his life. The jail gilded to look like a castle.
But his friends… He had never received a true answer to any of his inquires as to why they were with him. They had simply, like him, been there. Yet he knew they had chosen to do so, where he had been forced. How could one ever repay such friendship? Such loyalty?
And it was all because of his Grandfather’s madness.
When he was younger, before the tower, he had lived in a beautiful mountain. Erebor. Just the name was enough to make something fierce ache in his chest.
It did not do to dwell on such things.
The tower was his home until he was freed from it. It was guarded by the best defenses, and the likes of anyone freeing him were not high.
Not to mention the curse that was also in place. His captor had been exceedingly thorough.
The sun was especially bright the morning that life would change. He’d woken to the sound of spring birds calling for mates and pushed himself stiffly out of his fur-strewn bed. He’d greeted the day with a nod and stretch before slipping out of his bed. He could feel the tingling in his spine that signaled it was Friday. The curse would once again take effect that evening.
He still had nearly twelve hours to enjoy before the sun set though.
He slipped off his bed and shoved his feet into boots before donning a clean tunic. He swept his hair back in a thick braid and secured it with a bit of leather. He stretched his arms and legs and then jogged out of his room. The hall was empty, as always. He ran down the length of it, keeping his ears trained to anything out of the ordinary. The walls, which had once been brightly painted and were now faded from years of neglect, flashed by in a stream of familiar, muted colors. He ran through corridors, down stairs, under arches, and over slim bridges.
He knew every stone, every brick, and every corner of this tower.
The kitchen was cool from neglect through the night. The wood was sitting out, ready to be used. He piled it and its kindling into the fire place and tended it until he had a fair fire blazing. He enjoyed the way it chased away the kitchen’s chill for a moment before stiffly rising. He stepped back to inspect his work and gave his head an approving nod. A turn on his heel followed by a few steps and he was out the door. He heard a rumble coming from the floor, deep in the house and fought the urge to sigh.
His protector was up then. Likely put out by the cheerful morning birds. He was typically of a dark mood on Fridays. Thorin suspected it was fury at not being able to reach him in the nights.
That was enough to make him shiver with distaste. He had no wish to know why a dragon would want his company.
He made his way back to the upper levels until he was at the chamber next to his room. The bath was already filled, and towels had been laid on a table along with a brush and hair oil.
It was all the same as it had always been.
He took his time in the bath, trying to soothe his already sore muscles. There was an ache deep in his chest that wouldn’t be relieved until tomorrow morning.
Finally, when he began to prune and there was no longer any excuse for waiting in the tub, he climbed out. He braided two plaits into his hair and secured them with beads before redressing. Satisfied with his appearance, and needing to move to relieve the ache, he left the bathing chamber and went back down to join his friends for the morning meal.
“There you are, lad. Mind grabbing the butter?” Balin’s cheerful tones rose above the sound of a discontent growl in the basement. Dwalin came in behind Thorin, brushing his arm as he passed through the narrow door. Thorin put the butter on the table as Balin brought scones and bacon. Dwalin put the plates down and sat down ungracefully. He wouldn’t really wake up until after he’d eaten and had a drink.
“How are you fairing?” Balin asked with gaiety that Thorin could easily see through.
“Well enough. What are we studying this morning?”
“Well, you can either study language or history. Which would you prefer?”
“History.” Dwalin muttered into his bacon. Thorin raised an amused eyebrow and noted that Balin was smiling.
“We’re onto Sindarin. My brother doesn’t care for it.”
“I can’t take any more of their wimpy syllables. I’ll take stories any day.”
“Surely there is another language we could learn?”
Balin shrugged. “Not one that I’m versed in, or have the books for.” He tore a scone in half and generously buttered it. “So we’ll do history.” He shrugged. “Might calm our guard downstairs. He gets tetchy when you do languages.”
Dwalin shared a look with him. He didn’t approve of the dragon’s attachment either. He’d actually cursed the dragon quite heatedly once when he’d cornered Thorin on a run.
He could still feel the warmth of the dragon’s tongue on his skin. It had been terrifying. He had not ventured to the lower chamber since. It had been years, but he could still hear the dragon calling for him long into the night on Fridays.
“History it is.” Thorin stated. He scooped some bacon onto his plate, avoiding Dwalin’s seeking hands while doing so. The dwarf glared at him and grabbed a bit more bacon. Balin ignored them both and their squabble over the bacon and continued to enjoy his scone.
The morning passed by slowly with Balin reading from the books of history and occasionally reciting bits of verses he remembered. Thorin would then recite them back until he had it perfectly.
Lunch came and went in much the same manner until it was evening. The forge was delightfully warm, and Thorin sought it out like a cat seeking a spot of sun to nap in. The heat of the fire spread over his skin, soothing the ache that had become keener the longer the day dragged on. He stepped as near to the heat of the forge as he could and let it sink into his very bones.
“No closer, Thorin. You’ll burn your hair. It takes years to grow back out.” Balin warned.
“Let him.” Dwalin huffed with a slam of his hammer. “He looked ridiculous last time and we could do with the laugh.” Thorin glared and stepped back. The ache rose back up, more fiercely than it had the previous time.”
“We’ve only a bit till sunset.” Balin added. “Wouldn’t you rather be in the-”
“No.” Thorin’s tone held no room for argument. “I would rather here. The heat eases the pain.” He glanced out the window that sat high in the room. He could see a dark blue bleeding into purple. They had little time, if any. He could already feel the change happening in his chest.
“Do you have the bandages, Dwalin?”
“Of course.” Dwalin set his hammer and tongs aside and dusted his hands off on his apron. “We have done this thousands of times. Why do you always ask?”
Thorin smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Balin always panicked pre-transformation. He enjoyed the care, and the worry helped to distract his mind from the pain and the way his skin was crawling.
He could feel it pushing against his skin. The cursed of himself straining to be free of his skin, and free of the pull to come forth. He wanted to shout, to run, to tear at his skin and dive into the fire. It wanted to be free.
Even his cursed half could not stand to be controlled.
His head was pounding and his hairs were standing on end. His skin ached in a terrible way, and his nose itched.
“Lad?” Balin’s voice sounded through the roaring in his ears. “take two steps back, you’ll hit the anvil if you do it here.” Dwalin’s hands landed on his arm and pushed him where Balin wanted him. He couldn’t see any longer. Dwalin hissed through his teeth at the sting of touching his skin (trails of smoke would be twirling up from where his hands touched Thorin’s arms) but he betrayed no other pain to the agony of the fire that Thorin would feel like.
“Thank you,” he managed, and his voice sounded horrible. A raw growl that sounded as if his throat had been scratched out.
And then it happened. Thorin doubled over, grabbing his stomach as pain hit. There was no other word that fit, just pain. The ‘charchel’ as his captor had dubbed it. The pain of all pains.
It was his body stretching, breaking apart, ripping, tearing, expanding, and folding in on itself to become something completely new. His chest and head burned, and his blood boiled in its veins. His organs exploded to reform into a different shape in a different location, and he felt his heart stop as it too changed it’s shape.
Agony poured through him with each beat of his new heart. He screamed out, unable to hold so much pain in and felt Dwalin and Balin shift at his side. They couldn’t aid him in this. No one could.
He was on his hands and knees on the ground with his head pressed into the warm stone as he would try to pant in air. His body was longer, sleeker than it had been, but his skin still changed. It went from the pale, smoothness of flesh to hard, dark scale. His face burned as his jaw cracked and stretched to accommodate his new shape. Finally his last bones snapped into place, and he was no longer transforming.
He panted against the ground, his vision slowly returning as he unfurled his wings and pushed up on his legs. He felt wobbly, but he managed to stand. He took a moment to become accustomed to his new shape and then slipped his eyes open. Colors were oddly sharper in this form, but none so clear as gold. He could see strands of it in Balin’s clothes and Dwalin’s weapons. He opened his mouth to stretch his jaw and huffed out a breath through his nostrils.
“Alright?” Balin asked. Thorin nodded his dragon head and stretched his wings.
“Alright.”