The Hobbit: The Gathering, Chapter 3

[aegistheia]

Title: The Gathering
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General
Word Count: ~480
Warnings: Dark themes, including violence, gore, starvation, and refugee psychology. Also a drunken timeline mash of both the original and the movie events where possible, no thanks to Tolkien himself not knowing/writing down half the secrets of the Dwarves in his mind, and Sir PJ and Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens simplifying it into a giant accounting mess where the years don’t add up and my literary headcanon got flipped ass over teakettle and etc.
Also Archived On: Livejournal; Archive of Our Own.
Summary: Twelve dwarves, one wizard, and one hobbit answer Thorin Oakenshield’s call for companions on the quest for Erebor. This is a story of their marshalling.
Series: Part 1 of The Tales In-Between series.

III

“Thorin,” Óin says, striding into the royal ceramic studio. “A word.”

Thorin straightens, looking surprised. He is streaked with coal-dust and sweat, inevitable byproducts of preparing the kiln for his bone-dry stoneware. “Cousin Óin. This is a rare pleasure.”

“The ravens are moving. Have you heard? Speak up,” he adds irritably when Thorin opens his mouth, “you younglings are so soft-voiced these days.”

Thorin pauses, looking slightly uncertain. But his voice is gratifyingly more clear when he does speak. “I have not heard. The ravens, you say?”

“Aye. Word from the Shire says they head north-east, and the merchants whisper that they are flocking to the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin inhales sharply.

“They are returning, Thorin.” Óin’s voice drops of its own accord. “After one hundred and sixty years, the birds of Ravenhill are returning. Thrushes were seen flying there, too. It is portentous.”

“I must think on this,” Thorin mutters. “Why, after so long? What has that foul beast been doing?”

“It is an omen of the dragon’s doom!” Óin barks. “But not of whom will be instrumental in his downfall! Thorin, we need information, and we need it now.”

Thorin stands decisively. “I am heading to Bree to speak with a few contacts in three days’ time. I will source for news then.” His eyes flash. “If dragonfall is indeed to come, I will not allow the home and wealth of our people to be plundered!”

Óin nods, sharp and approving. “Keep me informed. I will divine for more readings in the meantime.”

Thorin turns to face him fully at that, and bows. “Your input will be very valuable, Óin. I thank you.”

Óin grunts, waving him off. “Thank me after you return from Bree, lad.” He leaves Thorin staring into the kiln’s unopened doors with unseeing eyes and a roiling heart, well aware that the same live tension is running through his every step. It is a painful thing, to hope against all that they have lost. Their people are no longer proud masters of stone empires across the land; they now eke out barely sustainable lives under the plough of shadow and uncertainty.

They know better than to hope, though; they are survivors of the sack of Erebor and the carnage of Azanûlbizar. They cannot just hope. They must act. They must fight.

Dwarves are vengeful creatures, slow to forgive, slower to forget. The young do not know the Lonely Mountain, and do not know the terrible greed in the cursed worm’s eye that had spelled the doom of their kindred. The young do not know the fatality that had bowed the backs of their Kings-in-Exile in the pitiless years of their wanderings. The young do not know what it means, to live as penniless children of the greatest Dwarf Father in Middle-earth.

Óin knows. Óin has not forgiven. And Óin will not let the young forget.

II< >IV