Chapter Text
OAKENSHIELD MANOR
ELEVEN THIRTY PM
JUNE TENTH
There's a feeling in the back of his head, he thinks, but maybe it's just the humidity. A clutter and chitter and chatter, an unexpected uneasiness that hits the right spots between his eyebrows, a superficial tension he cannot nor doesn't want to stop and think about.
But it's uneasiness, nonetheless, uneasiness that sticks to his skin the same way sweat sticks to his arms, and Thorin Oakenshield taps an index against his windowpane to the darkness outside, and smirks at nothing, bitter, and maybe it's a smile to hide the fact that he can't sleep, or maybe it's the heat.
"It's worse," he says and doesn't look at Balin, old time family friend, and swallows. "His obsession grows."
"Have you ever thought-"
"No. He's too old."
"But maybe a hospital-"
"I said-" Thorin turns and snaps, eyes darting with no real rage, just exhaustion. Until the words freeze, lodged in his throat.
The floorboards creak, and the house itself moans. For a moment.
There's a muffled crash, somewhere. The sound of someone breaking in.
"Did you-" Thorin's blue eyes meet the older man's, and widen, for a second, breath nearly quiet. "...did you hear that?"
Balin nods, then, because yes, he did hear it, and it's scared him more than he'd like to show. Thorin places a finger to his lips, and arches an eyebrow. Quietly, then, he makes his way to his father's desk (old ancient wood, bought thanks to money hoarded over the years by a family expert with business and able with gold), creaks a drawer opern ever so slowly. The gun he grabs is precaution, really, the paranoid safeguard of a grandfather so obsessed with his riches he suspects even of the maids on occasion, but yet it feels pleasant in his hand, a reassurance. Balin is no less equipped- his fingers grip a shiny black glock tightly, and through heartbeat progressively quickening, Thorin feels ever so grateful for having his back so closely watched.
They make their way down marble stairs, through a house placidly asleep, save for a Neapolitan Mastiff as nervous as his owner is: the dog is whining, scratching at the main door. There's something outside. Or something inside. Either way, there's something.
And that something isn't good.
"Quiet, Durin. Quiet." Thorin whispers, hand petting the panicked canine's head, and then his back tenses, his jaw sets: gun resting for a moment against his forehead (cool against heat, sweat making eyes sting) and Oakenshield inhales, as adrenaline pumps and makes his hairs rise.
The rumble comes from his right, though, from deep within the mansion's belly: for to the right is a stairway leading down to basements and cellars. And his head whips to the side, and then his mouth widens, in horror and disbelief as fire tears its way through the room.
The explosion screams.
Thorin yells, then, grabs Balin by the arm and they run, rushing through the house. But fire burns and sinks its teeth into it all: into paintings and expensive furniture and antiquities, and into the Oakenshield family- into his father and grandfather and into his memories, a mother dead when he was a child, and although he tries, Thorin can't do it.
He can't save it all.
But he holds onto the hope, until the very last moment, as he searches through smoke, as his mind processes what has just happened, as his mind takes in the oranges and reds, the yellows, the heat, and the sound of wood giving in under him, and his knees give out, and for a moment he sees black, and blood, and emptiness. So it's Balin's turn to grab his arm, to drag Thorin out of the mess, because the two men barely make it out alive, and the ceiling collapses as the house falls, and the floorboards bend and shatter.
They tumble onto the lawn outside, chest heaving, sweat dripping, throats raw and red and sore. And Thorin coughs, over and over. He coughs and curses between his teeth, and he knows he's crying, too, but never will he admit it. But the pain in his throat tells him differently.
He roars, then, hands shaking.
The police take too long, it takes too long, they arrive too late.
ONE AM
JUNE ELEVENTH
"Name?"
"Oaken... Oakenshield, Thorin."
"Occupation?"
"Is this really necessary?" Thorin suddenly snaps at the officer in front of him, teeth bared in a snarl. He's sitting on the edge of an ambulance, shock blanket tight around his shoulders. He'd take it off, he'd stand up, even, if they hadn't already forced him to sit back down five times in a row.
"Uh--"
"No, it isn't." and the voice is cold, and comes from a tall, thin blond, eyes shining brightly in the roaring fire that still hasn't been completely put out. "It's fine, Tauriel- I'll take it from here."
Thorin's jaw suddenly tenses, as the Detective Inspector smirks wide and waves the girl away, crouches in front of the still-bleeding man.
"Thorin, what a pleasure to see you."
"Thranduil." the other spats, teeth clashing. "It's been a while. Far too little."
Thranduil rolls his eyes and clears his throat. He brushes hair out of his face, and his thin lips are sealed tight over his teeth: his pallid, sharp face unscathed and untouched if it weren't for an ugly scar on the left side of his face.
"I'm truly sorry for this tragedy, Oakenshield, truly-"
"Get to the point."
Right now, he doesn't have the energy for the other man's slimy lies, the rhethorical hypocritical tales, the forced smiles whenever his grandfather donated funds to Scotland Yard, grin for the camera flash, strike a pose.
The police officer pulls his sleeves up, then, sighs, eyes lowered for a moment before his gaze meets the other's.
"There were no survivors." he spats, matter-of-factly, eyes going grey and dull for a moment. "Apart from you and your friend, of course."
Thorin licks his lips and blinks, once, twice, hair matted, stuck to his face. He knew this.
The moment the roof collapsed in front of him. He knew this.
"The vault. The vault. My family's vault." (The explosion was just a decoy, and this is as plain as day).
Thorin has sensed that there's something else in the officer's words, something hidden, an "I know something you don't" kind of spark.
"We sent a few men to check: little to no signs of a break-in. The fire probably destroyed most of its contents."
There it is.
"Bullshit."
Thranduil furrows his brow, but the mask doesn't slip.
"I heard-"
"Oakenshield, you could have heard anything-"
"I heard something. Balin heard something. Go ask him."
Inhale. Exhale. Suddenly, if it weren't a felony, Thorin knows he'd punch Thranduil in the face for the sick twisted pleasure he knows the bastard's taking from telling him this, because they never liked eachother, never have and never will, but the smirk that's barely hidden is there, and the policeman could care less about the impact of the tale he's telling. Maybe he's protecting someone. Maybe he's protecting himself.
"There was-"
"No, you listen. Right before the explosion, Greenleaf. There was something."
"There was nothing." Thranduil hisses. "Nothing at all."
His voice is harsh and quick and a growl, nearly, a mouthful of venom, jaw trembling.
"You're the only one who can help-"
"No, Oakenshield. No."
(he said he'd kill my men
(he said he'd-)
And with that Thranduil's up, and he's gone, teeth gritting.
Thorin shakes with rage.
The air still smells of ash.
LONDON
THREE AM
The cab they take from the hospital smells of old cigarettes and stale alcohol, but for the first time Thorin relaxes, just a little, sighs as the back of his head hits the leather seat. Balin watches him as he shuts his eyes, furrows his brow. Worried.
"We'll have to organise the funerals." the older man says quietly.
"We'd bury ash."
"Thorin-"
But he sits up, tears himself back from the illusion of sleep. The blue is back to ice, lost as it is in city lights.
"I need to find the man who did this, Balin."
"Right now, you need sleep."
"I've known you ever since I was a boy. Balin-"
"And I've taken care of you when no one else would. Sit back, lad. Sleep."
Thorin licks his lips and cracks his knuckles, eyes darting from side to side. He thinks, for a moment, frantic.
"I know a man."
"Not now-"
"Just listen. For this once."
Balin sighs, rubs a hand over his face.
"I know a man. His name is G."
"...G?"
"Yes, G. He has... connections."
Balin doesn't say a word, but his eyes skit to the floor, and he seems sad, and empty. And in truth, they both do.
"He can help me find who did this."
"Not now, Thorin. Not now."
"You saw the fire, Balin. That was no accident. That was no Goddamn accident." his voice gets a little too loud and their eyes meet, and Thorin swallows, pleading.
"I know, Thorin."
"Then trust me."
They're quiet, for a second.
"Trust me."
And just so, Balin can't help but nod.
LOCATION UNKNOWN
TIME UNKNOWN
DATE UNKNOWN
[ message ] : i am in need of... assistance. - O.
[ message ] : Yet again a favor? - G.
[ message ] : the pay will be good. - O.
[ message ] : Retribution is of little importance to me. Nonetheless, I am intrigued. - G.
[ message ] : someone has taken something from me. - O.
[ message ] : The papers insist it was nothing but a gas leak. - G.
[ message [unsent, deleted ] ] : how do you know? - O.
[ message ] : papers lie. often. - O.
[ message ] : Then you will need help. - G.
[ message ] : twelve extremely capable men i know have already been hired. but i need a hacker. - O.
[ message ] : Understood. - G.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
Your conversational partner has connected.
[ message ] : The man you are looking for calls himself Smaug. Beware. - G.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.