vix_spes

Dwalin had known, the minute that he saw Balin hurrying towards the training fields with a concerned and harried look on his face. Thorin hadn’t turned up that morning and, if Balin had come himself rather than sending an apprentice, then he was worried. In truth, while a pang of concern lanced through him, Dwalin wasn’t surprised by the turn of events. This was inevitable, and it had been brewing for weeks.

Barking out some sharp commands in Khuzdul, Dwalin dismissed the dwarrows that he was training. Those of Durin’s line may not reside in Erebor at this precise moment but that didn’t mean they had to forget everything; a Durin would sit on the throne of Erebor once again and if it wasn’t Thorin, Dwalin would eat his own beard. His men dismissed, Dwalin turned his attention back to his brother.

“Dís? Freydís?”

Balin shook his head somewhat grimly. “Neither of them has seen him. Dís thinks his bed hasn’t been slept in. they’re going out of their minds but Víli is with them.”

“Good.”

“You know where Thorin is.” The brothers Fundin were as different as night and day but they could read each other like a book.

“Not for certain but I have a good idea. You deal with the council, keep them calm and out of the way, I’ll bring him home.”

Dwalin wasn’t lying; he didn’t know for certain where Thorin was, but he’d be a piss-poor excuse of a Captain of the Royal Guard and an even poorer blood-brother – no better than an elf – if he didn’t know the location of all Thorin’s preferred bolt-holes. Most of them were close to the settlement of Ered Luin (and known by various members of his family) but, given everything that had happened, Dwalin was confident that Thorin would have gone for the most remote.

It had been three weeks since they returned from Azanulbizar, having been defeated by Azog and his Gundabad orcs. Three weeks since Thorin had last his grandfather, father and younger brother. Three weeks since they had buried far too many of their own men. Three weeks of Thorin pretending that he was okay, that he wasn’t struggling under the weight of having been named King-in-Exile following the death of his grandfather and his father going missing. That dealing with the council as well as his heartbroken Amad and nadadith wasn’t taking every ounce of strength that Thorin had left. There was only so much pressure that one dwarrow could deal with and, no matter how much he protested, Thorin wasn’t infallible.

Dwalin breathed a little easier when his gut instinct was proven right, and he found Thorin exactly where he had expected to. Ignoring the visible signs of tears that lingered on Thorin’s cheeks, Dwalin slumped down to sit next to Thorin, not saying anything but pressing their shoulders together so that Thorin knew that he was there. He waited patiently as Thorin drew several hitching breaths.

“It’s ridiculous. What would my Adad say? Or worse, my ugmil ‘adad? I’m supposed to be a King, even if my people are in exile; I shouldn’t be here sobbing like a dwarfling.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes; and people said that he was stupid. Turning slightly, he grasped Thorin’s face and knocked their heads together slightly. “Thorin, bâha ê ugmal. You may be my murkhûn and my King, but you’re being bloody stupid right now. After everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve lost and is now expected of you, you have more right than anyone to break down. Do you think you’re the only one? Ask Balin how many times I’ve cried on him. You may be king, but kings are still allowed to cry. You’re a son, a grandson and a brother before you’re a king, Thorin.”

The words, coming from Dwalin and with such sincerity, proved to be Thorin’s undoing. Dwalin wrapped his arms around shaking shoulders and held on as Thorin sobbed in his arms. There would be time enough for Thorin to hide his emotions and bear the mantle of king. For now, he needed this opportunity to break down, to be nothing more than a dwarrow grieving for the loss of his kin.