Chapter Text
King Thror was dead.
He’d laid dead for more than one and ninety years. The once noble King of Durin’s folk; loss of their home, kingdom, and meaningful title, was nothing but a crazed beggar when he waltzed up the gates of Khazad-Dum. That was the last he’d been seen alive. Those who witnessed said his body was tossed out the gate with a pouch of coins, fitting of the statues of a thief than a king reclaiming his birthright. Thror’s head was cleaved from his neck, beard sheared, and face mard by the foul tongue.
Even when the beast, Azog, and its brute were slain: their bodies were treated to similar mockery, the same purse stuffed down the pale orc’s jaws in retribution. Even when the smell of perfumes and flowers was added to keep the stench of rot at bay. Even when his head was rejoined to his body, gilded in the armor of his forefathers. The truth couldn’t be kept.
The King Under the Mountain was dead and cold as stone.
Thror never laid living eyes again on the Lonely Mountain. But in long last, it was reclaimed. The Northern Drake was slain by the descendants of Durin’s folk and the men of Dale, now of Laketown. His body was finally laid to rest, entombed in gold along the grave of his father and his son.
His grandson, who led the march on Erebor, now took the mantle of King. The rightful title and kingdom that comes with it. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was King under the Mountain at the time of this tale.
Thror was dead. His body was beyond recognition at the time he finally came to rest. When Thorin saw the remains of his grandfather and father, he commissioned gold death masks, “I will not let them be laid to rest with that foul language scorning the halls of Mahal. They shall have their honor restored in death if not life.”
That was seven and ten years ago. Thorin was King Under the Mountain.
Thror now laid under the mountain as bones.
Yet, whispers race through the halls of Erebor. As Durin’s day passed and the skies greyed, the leaves curl and whither. The dwarves prepared for the Longest Night once again with their old allies in Men of Dale and Laketown and the newer neighbors in the Hills.
As the sky darkened once more and hours of daylight diminished, whispers of a shade, rattles, and glint of gold could be heard about the walls of Erebor. Some say the ghosts of those slain by Smaug could be seen wandering the halls as the anniversary of their demise came. Some said it was one lone figure with a face plate of gold. It mattered not that the King had prohibited the outlandish rumors- word increased. More and more as the years passed. Many maids and servants had started to refuse shifts after hours in the winter. Though no one asked Bilbo Baggins, he believed the ridiculous Dwarves see gold everywhere.
“It’s because you insist on decorating every inch of this bloody mountain with gold,” Bilbo complained one morning. He was helping the King fasten into his court armor, “You can’t be seeing things made of gold if even the chamberpots are gold. Wonder if the stools glitter too.”
The Halfling had what was coming to him later, but Thorin needed Bilbo on his side to meet with his counsel in an hour. They were going over the storage and supply count as winter swiftly approached.
“Baggins,” Thorin sighed but couldn’t lower his arms yet, “Control your tongue.”
“I shall once grown dwarows learn to stop jumping at shadows. It is much undignified of your guards.”
“And you're the picture of dignity.”
Bilbo scratched his arm, “No thanks to you. I look ridiculous. There, that should do it,”
Bilbo was clad in the wool garments and leather tunic Thorin ordered his staff to wear instead of his usual cotton. Thorin didn’t see what the issue was. The cloth was cut to fit, and Thorin had even fashioned a matching belt and scabbard for the Halfling-size sword. On the right chest was an emblem of the Durin crest- showing the Haldling's status and the privileges along with it. He was only missing armor, but Thorin had rationalized against installing mail to the creature's uniform. Bilbo was built on swiftness, not strength. Also, the Halfling did look pathetic swamped in the heavy material.
“No, you look presentable for once.” Thorin looked at himself in the mirror, checking each tie and clasp, “This one is too loose. Under the left arm.”
Bilbo readjusted the breastplate clasp. Some Kings loved robes over armor, but Thorin had been made King during a time of war and exile. He was more acquainted with knives and arrows than most and wore the armor out of habit, protection, and appearance. Thorin was a King who would always be ready for a fight.
“Is that better?”
Thorin pulled on the straps, “Aye, better. Now, put on your boots.
Bilbo’s face soured, but he did as told. Thorin heard the Halfling mutter to himself as he tied the laces. Thorin eyed the Halfling and shook his head, “With that lousy work, you’re be redoing these all day. Here.”
Thorin fastened the laces and double-knotted. Bilbo winced, “Ow! No need to be so tight.”
“You’ll kick them off again,” Thorin glared, “I know you will.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose last time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t lie. And I won’t lie when I say how much I hate these leather contraptions.”
“You complain about the cold so much. These should be helpful.”
The Halfling's ears were tipped red, and his nose twitched. Bilbo Baggins was likely the most infuriating creature the King had ever had the displeasure of recruiting to his staff. He was a funny-looking thing like all his kind; seen scurrying about like mice through the halls of Erebor these days. All clean shaven, all big eyes and feet and ears too similar to the elf folk.
They were obsessed with soft things and buttons, over sturdy wear and buckles, for clothes. Thorin ordered Bilbo to swap into the dwarven attire on his shifts. He even went through the effort to have the cobbler create custom boots for Baggins and all he’s treated was with whinging.
Bilbo hobbled to his feet and stumbled about.
“What is wrong now?”
“Nothing. I simply understand the turmoil of beef brisket.”
“Baggins,” Thorin tried not to snap. He wouldn’t give the halfling the satisfaction of asking what a beef brisket was.
“Yes, your Majesty?” Bilbo’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
There were many a day Thorin wanted nothing more than to throw Bilbo out into the snow. Maybe just to see the gawking face, but that would never do with their arrangement. In exile, Durin’s folk found no allies East of the Misty Mountains and traveled west, where the Halflings of the Shire had given aid, if not a sanctuary, to the dwarves. So, when the Halflings lost their own land to war, a similar agreement was made.
Thorin initially hesitated, not liking the idea that as soon as the dwarven stronghold was reclaimed, it would be overrun with strange folk. However, Thorin’s advisor, Balin, had raised valid points. He’d owed a debt to the Halflings. His honor outways his suspicion. Therefore, Thorin decreed the surrounding hills of Erebor to be used by the Halflings and allowed them to be occupied with smials. The Halflings would till and farm the surrounding hills of Erebor, supplying food in exchange for land and protection.
After ten and five years, it was a good investment. In addition, the mutual agreement with Halflings allowed the dwarves to negate the need to solidify a trade route with the elves of Mirkwood once more.
However, suspicions remained high. Many dwarows didn’t know what to make of the strange folk. Orcs were simple: kill on site. Elves and Humans were trickier, but it was easy to know where the big folk stood. Both races thought themselves superior. The Halflings were small but weren’t dwarves, and there was not enough history between the races to know if an alliance would stand.
The outskirt networks were always made under the bounds of finances. The newly reconstructed Dale needed Erebor’s finances to keep up their trade with the Easternlanders and not starve. But the Hobbits appeared very naive about money. Their dismissal of any gold and jewels was alarming to the dwarves. Without a set exchange, the Halflings could pack up and take their food source with them. Unfortunately, Thorin learned that the Halfling's values were not mere trinkets or money but land.
Gold was one thing to realize, but land…
Thorin doubted this alliance would stand. They never did, which is why the Dwarrow kingdoms were isolated from the rest of the free folk. No other race was allowed to dwell in their mountains.
Thorin saw the elf-eared creatures strutting around the hall of his forefathers. It wasn’t right, but somehow, this Halfing had convinced Thorin to allow employees to be his kind.
“Your people see work of metal and strength as honorable positions, yes?”
Thorin nodded.
“And what of softer work? Clothes and scrolls?”
“We have no need to use other races as servants.”
“I meant nothing to suggest the dwarves of being incompetent,” Bilbo hastened, “Only, your people are few. Now, at least. The halls of Erebor need full attention to allow your kingdom to regain its former glory.”
Thorin thought about it, “And you suggest…”
“Temporary employment for my people. Cooking, mending, scribing? There’s little work in the fields in the colder months.”
“No need.”
Bilbo had not brought up the subject again until a cave collapse had drawn attention away from other jobs. Bilbo had offered to receive Hobbits from the Hills to help for the day. Then, the following week and month.
“Your kind can all sew or cook?”
“Why, of course,” Bilbo nodded, “Our needle is our hammer, and our quill our sword.”
THorin thought for a moment, “Fine. No scribing. Our word is our own.”
“Fair enough, your Majesty.”
As such, the Hobbits took and took more. Each time they took more, Thorin's attitude toward the creatures darkened. When will they ask for parts of his mountain?
Bilbo asked again, “Yes?” His tone was not mocking anymore.
Thorin focused back to the present and saw Bilbo’s usual cheek was not visible. Looking more concerned, “You look a little pale. Do you wish for me to have Balin take over the meeting? I know you find these affairs dull.”
“Dull but important. I don’t trust my Lords to be rational with the finances of my people,” Thorin emphasized the 'my' in his wording, “Now, hurry it up, Halfling. I won’t have you be the reason those fools run my kingdom into the ground.”
“I was already ready.” Bilbo collected his satchel containing his books, quill, and ink, “And it will take more than two minutes for them to do that much damage.”
“You’d be unwise to assume,” Thorin dismissed the Halfing. Bilbo was wise not to engage further on the subject.