Chapter Text
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The halls of Erebor remained restless even when most were asleep.
Despite the late hour, the great feast having long since dwindled down, the familiar hum of forges could still be heard from deep within the mountain. The echoes of hammers ringing against metal only reached these halls as a faint whisper - soft enough that one could doubt if they told of current work or were simply audible trails hammered into the mountains permanently. Because as much as the dragon had taken from them, Erebor was nothing if not a display of permanence. Time may change most other things, but what is carved into would remain through the ages.
Thorin stood as the embodiment of that legacy.
The heavy doors had long since closed behind him, though the memory of the feast still pressed against him like walls drawn too close. Just like a hammer against metal, the warmth and noise of celebration still echoed through the hall. A golden glow cast by lanterns woven by silver and iron lingered across the polished rock beneath each step he took. Spilt ale and mead painted the tables and occasionally overshadowed the reflected light of the cold stone floor. Bones from poultry and whole boars, bread and a few cracked plates were scattered across the tables.
Five years.
Five years since the Battle of Five Armies.
Five years since the prophesied King under the Mountain became the ruler of Erebor.
The anniversary feast had been grand even by dwarven standards.
The great halls had brimmed with laughter and song from dawn until deep into the night. Entire boars had been roasted above mighty fires. Casks from allied cities and kingdoms had been emptied at a near alarmingly rapid pace. All had celebrated regardless of title or status - miners, craftsmen, nobles, merchants, royals, smiths. Residents and guests alike had wanted to take part in filling the Lonely Mountain with enough noise to wake the dead beneath its roots.
And through it all Thorin had been the center of attention. The steadfast king and ruler of a nation destined to once more become the mightiest and most prosperous of all the dwarven kingdom. Songs had been sung in his honor. Poetry recited about his accomplishments. Praises and blessings all in his honor. King under the Mountain. Restorer of Erebor. The rightful heir of Durin. A hero amongst his kin.
None of these titles startled him the way they once did, instead settling upon his shoulders like the familiar weight of armour long worn. Despite it all, with each passing year Thorin found himself listening to the songs as though from an increasingly great distance. Not with bitterness, nor grief.
That, perhaps, would have been easier to understand.
No - what unsettled him most was the absence of feeling altogether.
The songs had risen around him rich with triumph and memory. Voices had echoed through the hall recounting their victory against Smaug, though the burglar was often left out of the anthems. They sang of the reclamation of Erebor, the rebuilding of the kingdom, the prosperity now flowing once more through the Mountain and into Dale below.
The king had listened. He had looked upon the halls restored to splendor beyond even his memory of the time before the dragon. He had looked upon his people thriving.
Yet he felt nothing. Not truly.
The realization had settled quietly within him over the years, so gradually he had scarcely had time to notice when or where it began. At first he had thought it to be exhaustion. Then he had attributed it to the lingering wounds of grief. After that he had considered that it may be that strange numbness which often follows the fulfillment of a long pursued goal. Or perhaps it was the aftermath of gold sickness that was slowly seeping out of his veins.
Yet the feeling had only deepened.
Like standing beneath stone worn slowly hollow by dripping water - a refusal from even rock itself to remain permanent.
Thorin slowed near one of the great archways overlooking the lower halls. Below him Erebor stretched vast and golden beneath the light from a thousand lanterns. Bridges crossing immense chasms carved deep into the heart of the Mountain. Forges burning in distant chambers cast a warm glow on the otherwise cold lower floors of the kingdom. Endless stairways wound downward into the shadows and glowing embers.
Beautiful. That word still came easily. It still rang true, perhaps even more now than when he was a child.
A kingdom revived. Alive. Healed.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, Thorin had begun feeling as though he alone remained unchanged. That his permanence went deeper than the rocks.
He rested one hand against the stone railing, focusing deeply on the cool beneath his palm.
Behind him footsteps approached softly. Not cautious enough to belong to a servant. Not heavy enough for a guard. Not drunk enough for the Company.
“Though the celebration was one for the history books, I fear the feast is over, dear brother.” Dís spoke gently.
Her voice carried the same warmth it always had, even back when they were young children - rich and steady as the fire of a hearth.
At last, Thorin glanced back.
She approached him wrapped in deep blue and silver, the jewels woven into her dark braids catching the lantern-light as she walked. Time had marked her more gently than it had him, though grief had left its traces upon the both of them long ago.
There were few people within the Lonely Mountain and beyond who still looked upon Thorin first as a brother rather than a king. Dís had never stopped.
She came to stand beside him at the railing, following his gaze as it returned out across the halls below.
For a while neither of them spoke, before Dís sighed softly.
”Something troubles you.” she spoke, more as a matter of fact than a question.
Thorin exhaled through his nose and let out a slight chuckle, though the smile never quite reached his eyes.
”You say that every year.”
”That is precisely what concerns me.”
Thorin looked at her briefly, but upon meeting with concerned eyes and worry lines, he promptly turned his gaze back to watch over the mountain.
Far below, a burst of laughter rose from one of the lower bridges before fading once more into the vastness of the Mountain.
Dís studied him quietly.
”The halls sing your praises tonight,” she said at last. “Even now they likely still sing them.”
”The halls have also had enough ale to sing the praises of a cracked anvil if it stood still long enough.”
That earned him a quieter laugh, contagious enough for a slight smile to form upon his worn and worried face.
”You rebuilt a kingdom from ruin, Thorin. You speak of it as though that were some small feat.”
”The mountain rebuilt herself. I merely survived long enough to witness it.”
”And you guided it there.”
Her tone was not corrective, nor was it argumentative. She merely remained gentle. Certain of her words in a way Thorin used to find comforting.
”Look at her,” Dís spoke softly, gesturing toward the halls below. “When was the last time Erebor stood so full of life? The halls are thriving. Dale prospers beside us. Our people no longer wander the world as mercenaries in exile. Children born beneath this mountain have never known dragon-fire, nor hunger, nor sleeping beneath snow and rubble.”
Thorin listened in silence.
Because none of it was untrue.
That perhaps was the worst part.
”I know.” he said at length.
Dís turned toward him fully at that.
”Do you?”
The question carried no accusation. Only concern, and Thorin frowned faintly.
”You think me ungrateful?” he questioned her.
”No.” she shook her head immediately. “Never that.”
She rested her arms lightly upon the railing beside him.
”But you still carry yourself as if you are waiting for something.”
Thorin’s jaw tightened as his sister spoke.
Below them, the Mountain glowed warm and alive. Everything he had once dreamed of stood before him. And still that strange emptiness remained.
Another moment of silence passed between them before Thorin spoke up.
”Perhaps,” he said at last, still avoiding eye contact, “I simply grew too accustomed to wandering.”
Dís turned slightly at that, studying him with the same expression she had worn when they were young and she suspected him of concealing some injury from their father.
”I think perhaps you no longer know what to do now that the ground stands secure beneath you.”
Again that strange discomfort stirred within him. It was subtle yet immediate.
”Secure?” he replied with a slight frown.
”Of course secure.” Dís sounded almost surprised by the question. “How many times do I have to remind you, dear brother - Erebor is restored. The line of Durin sits once more upon the throne beneath the Mountain. Our people flourish.”
She smiled faintly, hoping to see the same from her brother next to her.
”And for the first time in years, there is finally room again for thoughts beyond mere survival.” she continued.
Thorin kept avoiding her gaze. Any semblance of warmth and familiarity from her care for him was squashed out by the cold feeling that surged throughout his veins at the prospect of where he thought this conversation seemed to be quietly drifting.
“You are not merely a king now, Thorin. You are the future of the line of Durin.” Dís continued carefully.
Thorin froze at that. He noticed how his sister did not speak it heavily, nor as obligation. She spoke with hope. Hope he knew he should share.
Which somehow made it worse.
“Dís-“
“I do not say this to burden you,” she spoke even more gently upon taking notice of his reaction. “Quite the opposite.”
“I know.” he responded plainly.
”Most noble families of the dwarves kingdoms have spent the evening attempting to place their daughters somewhere within your line of sight.”
Thorin was unable to stop himself from letting out a low and exhasperated sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
”Then I best send their daughters my condolences.”
The two shared a smile, but Dís noticed how quickly it faded from her brother.
”You laugh,” she said softly, “but I truly mean every word I have spoken. You have done what many believed impossible. There is no shame in allowing yourself happiness now.”
Happiness. That word settled strangely within him. Distant in some way. Not that he felt unhappy either. Just like the word belonged to someone else.
He thought of the feast hall behind them. Of songs rising proudly through chambers framed by gold. Of voices praising his name. Of nobles and common folk alike smiling across long tables. Of himself seated at the end of the table feeling as though he observed the evening from somewhere far outside his own body.
And beneath that numbness lingered a thought that, despite his best effort to silence, grew louder with each passing day:
‘If this is not enough for you, what is?’
That this - his kingdom awakened, these thriving halls, a future secured - ought to have made him feel complete by now. Yet the sensation of emptiness remained within him, sharpening with each passing year. Like a hunger becoming clearer the longer one ignored it.
On days like these he found himself worried there may be a hollow running clean through him that everyone could see.
Dís mistook his silence for uncertainty of another kind.
”You need not decide anything quickly,” she said gently. “But you have spent so many years carrying duty on your own. Perhaps it is time you allow someone to lessen the weight from your shoulders. You deserve something that is truly yours.”
Thorin frowned faintly. ‘something that is truly yours’. The words unsettled him further in ways he could not explain. Because Erebor belonged to him. The throne belonged to him. The line of Durin rested in his hands. Yet standing there beneath the Mountain he suddenly felt strangely absent from his own life.
Dís spoke with love and care, yet every word she spoke chipped further pieces of him into that vast sense of detachment.
“You are a great king, Thorin.” she said quietly, resting a hand lightly against his arm.
He almost recoiled from the words. Not visibly, but somewhere deeper. Because the praise no longer reached him in the way it once had. All it did was strike stone and fall away.
And worse still - he could not grasp why.
Dís seemed to notice the discomfort. Or perhaps she simply mistook it for modesty.
“Father would have been proud of you,” she added softly.
Again that heaviness settled within the silence. Not quite grief, but something more difficult.
Thorin looked out once more across the halls of Erebor. Smithies still glowed deep within the mountain. Voices echoed in the distance through restored halls once thought lost forever. Everything endured. Everything flourished. And still that peculiar restlessness remained lodged somewhere deep beneath his ribs like an unanswered question.
“You should sleep.” Dís spoke as she slowly withdrew her hand.
”Perhaps.”
Neither of them truly believed he would.
She lingered beside him another moment before turning toward the corridor behind them. After several steps she paused.
”Do not spend so long wandering these halls tonight that you forget they are yours.”
With those words of concern, she departed, her footsteps fading slowly into the Mountain.
Thorin remained standing alone at the railing long after she disappeared. Below him Erebor glowed warm and endless beneath lantern-light and carved stone. Beautiful. Enduring. Whole.
And for reasons he could neither name nor understand, Thorin Oakenshield had never in his life felt further from peace.
Far beneath the Mountain, the forges burned on into the night.
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