Chapter Text
Thorin is many, many things. He is selfish, arrogant, prideful, his temper is short and he knows, deep down, he is greedy (it scares him, this greed, because Thròr was the same and he isn’t his grandfather, doesn’t want to become him). But, despite his flaws, he is not a liar. He doesn’t lie to himself, nor to his kin, or anyone really.
It’s always been one of the few things he’d always stood by. Lying wasn’t honorable and one of the only things he’d had left when he’d been walking all over Middle-Earth with his starving people had been his honor. He’d refused to let it go, had vowed to himself he would be a good King for his people despite the lack of a kingdom to rule.
And so, he doesn’t lie when he tells Kìli he’s staying in Laketown because he is a liability. It is true. His sister-son is hurt and carrying him will only lengthen their journey to Erebor. He doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t say the whole truth either. Because hiding behind duty is so much easier than admitting the fear gripping his heart when he sees his nephew, his boy, his son in all but blood, skin clammy and pale, eyes hazy and limping dangerously. It’s so much easier to say leaving him behind is for the good of the Company when his true motivations are not those of a king, but of an uncle. A desperate, terrified uncle.
Kìli is angry. He spits curses at him, tells him he can’t make him stay. But Thorin is nothing if not stubborn and he orders him. He breaks his heart, tells him he would slow them down. Once again, it isn’t a lie, but if Thorin really wanted Kìli to come or if they had to flee, Mahal knows he would carry the boy on his back. Kìli knows it, he thinks. And perhaps that makes it worse. Because his nephew thinks he doesn’t want him there, he thinks he is a burden. Thorin won’t forgive himself for the horrible thoughts he put in his mind, but better those than not forgiving himself for his death.
Fìli, his little lion, immediately defends his younger brother. Unbidden, Thorin thinks of himself, younger and happier, taking Frerin’s defense for everything and anything. It’s funny, he thinks bitterly. While Fìli looks like Frerin and Kìli, like him, their tempers are the opposite of their lookalikes. But neither of them have been touched by war and greed, not really. Kìli still smiles brightly (Frerin had lost that smile after the dragon, he’d only regained it in his last moments, as Thorin held his broken body, tears streaming down an ashen face. The Crown Prince had reassured his older brother softly. He was glad he’d fought with him, don’t cry he’d be seeing Amad soon…) and Fìli hadn’t watched his world crumple to the ground. By Mahal, he will do everything he can to ensure neither of them ever live what he and Frerin had had to endure.
Fìli tells him he can’t leave his brother. He recounts the stories they have both grown up hearing. He can’t deprive Kìli of that, he tells him. Thorin can. He does. Selfishly, he tries to keep Fìli with him, with the Company. While Kìli’s focus had always been on the journey to Erebor, Thorin knew his elder sister-son had concentrated mostly on setting foot in their ancestral home. He wants to give them everything. They are the reasons he’s started this foolhardy quest. He would have never been content in the Blue Mountains, but being alive with Dìs had been more important. But he couldn’t let his boys suffer the poverty he and their mother had lived through. He couldn’t imagine Fìli and Kìli gaunt with hunger like his baby sister before his trade had truly started to work. He refused for them and their future children to have nothing when they deserved everything.
When Fìli tells him he belongs with his brother, Thorin has never been prouder. By all means, he should be angry. A future King should always put his people before himself and his family. But when it comes to his sister-sons, Thorin had always been an uncle, never a King. Fìli, Kìli and Dìs had always been more important than his subjects. His work as a smith had never been for his kingdom, only his family.
They leave the boys behind.
Dwalin sends him a knowing look and Balin shakes his head in disagreement. His old friend doesn’t agree with his unkingly behavior, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to do something about it. Gloìn, with his son at home, gives him an approving look, though he does seem saddened his brother won’t be with him when they enter Erebor for the first time in years. Bombur’s eyes are watery and Thorin is once again reminded of their cook’s 14 children.
It’s Bilbo that surprises him the most. He seems to know what Thorin is doing and why. He wouldn’t understand , not really, but the glint in his eyes is knowing. He knows Thorin only told half of the truth, he knows what he didn’t say and most importantly he knows why Thorin did it. It’s a little scary to realize someone knows you so much, that someone understands what can make you tick and what the motivations behind your actions are with only a glance. At the same time, it’s reassuring. He’ll always have someone to defend him or to knock some sense into him.
Then the gold-sickness happens. He screams and rages, he distrusts and hates. He turns his back on his boys and he dangles Bilbo from the rampart.
Coming back to himself and remembering what he’s done to his Company, to his nephews and to Bilbo is… It’s horrifying and he has to swallow back the sickness he feels in his throat, lest it splashes all over the golden floor he hates, the pricey armor he despises and his own person, whom he loathes .
He gets up.
Kìli is angry -as he should be. He spits into Thorin’s face, nose to nose. It’s not my blood , he tells him. Secretly, Thorin wishes it was. Wishes he could keep his nephews away from the fight. He wishes he had the power to secret them in the deepest part of Erebor while the fighting roars outside. But Kìli is seething and Fìli is standing defyingly tall and Thorin knows he can’t keep them away. It is, after all, not in their blood.
A willing heart, he’d once said, for when I called, they answered, he’d pledged. He asks once more. They all stand up.
Before they leave the relative safety of Erebor, he takes his two nephews away. He’d knocked foreheads with Kìli earlier, but he hadn’t spoken to his eldest sister-son. He makes them promise to live to see another day. Makes them swear they will not come to his aid if it puts their lives at risk. Kìli draws himself up, ready to protest, when Fìli’s hand on his shoulder stops him. His eyes are too old and too understanding. Thorin hates it, he hates it even as Fìli promises, for the both of them. His boy knows they can’t afford to lose both kings or the Crown Prince and maybe he knows Thorin would never be able to live with himself if the price for his life was their deaths.
He grabs them close, their heads forming a tight knit triangle and he hums softly, just like when they were youths. He wishes he’d spent more time with them. He wishes he told them more often how proud he was of them, how much he loves them. He tells them now. Their eyes (so young) shine in happiness. It still feels like it’s not enough.
He knows it’s because they might die. It doesn’t change the feeling.
They fight, side by side. He’s proud.
He sends them to scout. It’s safer, he thinks. Azog will send his forces head-on, he’s never been one to hide behind a fortress. He and Dwalin will take on what the pale orc sends them and his boys will be safe.
Then Bilbo appears and Thorin… He’s relieved . It feels like a patch of happiness in a world of darkness. He thinks maybe he didn’t screw everything up and there may be a chance for him, for them .
The hobbit’s words make his blood run cold. It’s a trap .
He hadn’t sent his boys to safety, he’d sent them to their deaths.
It feels like the end of the world when he sees Fìli, bright, young Fìli dangling from Azog’s disgusting hands.
Anything , he thinks, begs , anything but this .
He knows the orc won’t let him go, but he can’t help but hope as he looks into Fìli’s terrified blue eyes. He reminds him of Frerin.
Except, when the blade pierces him, it’s a thousand times worse than when it did his brother. This is agony. His soul is screaming and his heart is shattering into too many pieces to even count and the world isn’t right anymore. Not without his little lion in it. He thinks he speaks or screams. Maybe he sobs.
His body, when he falls, seems so much smaller. He knows a young dwarf has just fallen, but the only thing he can see is a fair headed child, baby fat bulging his cheeks as he asks about his uncle’s travels and the halls of a home he’d never seen. He can only remember showing him how to braid and how quickly he’d taken to it despite his chubby little fingers. He remembers how, while he was learning common, he would literally translate expressions, to his and Dìs’ delight.
Kìli’s scream is what snaps him out of it. His vision fills with red and he would be more worried if it wasn’t the only thing holding him up.
He charges and the only thing in his mind while he fights that filth is the laughter he’ll never hear again.
When the elf-maiden cries out, whatever was left of him dies. He knows that scream. Dìs let out the same one when she learned Vìli had perished.
He knows he’s lost his boy, his little bird. He thinks of scraggly brown hair and eager brown eyes. He thinks of how, when he was younger, Kìli used to sing and hum throughout the day as he practiced his braids and his letters. He thinks of the first time he picked up a bow, of how natural it looked in his little hands. He thinks of his mischievous smile and his pranks and he thinks he’s never going to hear the loud laughs of his little bird ever again.
It isn’t really a choice to let Azog’s blade slay him. It numbs the pain. It makes him forget the shards of his soul and the edges of his heart.
Killing Azog brings no joy, no relief. The orc-filth already killed what he had to protect.
When Bilbo comes into view, he feels again. Remorse, pain, shame, guilt, love .
When he looks into those beautiful eyes (he never managed to find out their exact color) he thinks it’s quite sad of how they never got the chance to be . He thinks of the almosts. He thinks of the what ifs.
Bilbo begs him to stay. He doesn’t have it in him to tell him he doesn’t want to without his boys.
Thorin had never fancied himself a coward. But that’s what he is, in his last moments.
He tells Bilbo to go back home. He doesn’t tell him he loves him. It aches and the words scratch at his throat, desperate to get out. But he doesn’t say it.
But a coward he might be, selfish he won’t be in his last moments. Not with Bilbo. Never (again) with Bilbo.
He doesn’t plan to survive, can’t without Fìli and Kìli. He thinks desperately, and not for the first time, that he should have died instead of Frerin. His brother would have never gone on this quest. His nephews would be safe and sound. Dìs would still have her sons. His heart burns when he thinks about her. She is the last direct descendant of Durin. Her boys and her brother are dead. He is glad he won’t hear her screams of anguish or see her tears of pain. It’s selfish.
But not with Bilbo. He doesn’t tell Bilbo he loves him, doesn’t want the heartbroken hobbit to think of the possibilities they’ll never have. He isn’t that cruel. Still, he desperately holds on to that small hand and he stares into those eyes and thinks he can die contendly if they are the last thing he sees.
They are.