vix_spes

The shoulders of Thorin Oakenshield had borne many a weight over the years, some that he had borne willingly and others that he had been forced to bear as a necessity because of who and what he was. Over the course of his lifetime, it hadn’t always been possible to differentiate between the two when it came to which had weighed the most.

The burden that he had carried the longest, since he was old enough to know what it meant if not before, was that of his name. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, of the line of Durin. He had always known that, as the firstborn, he would be groomed to be king and with that came the expectations of not only an entire kingdom but a whole race as well. These expectations had, on more than one occasion, felt impossible to live up to. Even now, having led a successful campaign to regain Erebor and with the mountain once more the greatest dwarrow kingdom in Middle Earth after five prosperous years, Thorin still felt that burden, maybe even more so than previously.

There were many good things that came with a successful and, most importantly, peaceful Erebor and just one of those was the fact that his shoulders no longer had to bear wounded kith and kin, either to the healers or to the pyres. Thorin had hated the all too numerous times that he had had to carry wounded, even dead, comrades from the battlefield to either the healers’ tents or the funeral pyres. Those feelings had been amplified a hundred times when it had been Dwalin or one of his sister sons that he had supported. He avoided thinking about the night when he’d borne the bodies of both his brother and his grandfather on his shoulders at all costs. It was hard enough to think of those that had survived albeit affected forever, let alone the hundreds of Durin’s folk that had burnt on the pyres in front of Azanulbizar.

The most pleasurable weight by far that he had carried on his shoulders was the one that currently occupied them; namely a sleeping faunt. Once upon a time it had been his sister-sons where Frodo now lay, memories that Thorin cherished. When Fíli had been born, Thorin had been terrified to hold him, convinced that the blood on his hands would somehow taint the innocent young dwarrow but Dís had had none of it. She had simply plonked her firstborn in Thorin’s arms informing him that if Thorin dropped Fíli then she would kick Thorin’s arse to the Iron Hills and back.

Her threats hadn’t been necessary.

Just as when his Amad had placed Frerin and then Dís into his arms, Thorin cradled the precious bundle closer to his chest and fell head over heels for the newest scion of the Durin family. It had been exactly the same when Kíli had come along to join his brother. Thorin had spent countless hours with both boys nestled against his shoulder singing to them, telling them stories and the history of their people, soothing their hurts and cradling them to sleep. All of the things that he now did with Frodo.

“It’s a good look on you.”

The familiar voice came out of the shadows and, when Thorin turned his head, he saw Bilbo approaching with a soft, fond smile on his face. Accepting the kiss that his consort offered, Thorin hummed and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“What is?”

“The doting uncle. It’s one of the few times that you seem at peace; the rest of the time you like you’re carrying the weight of the world. I would see more of you like this.”

Thorin sighed, patting Frodo’s back gently as the faunt squirmed closer. “You and me both, amrâlimê. From your lips to Mahal’s