Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

The Eve of Battle

Thorin had retired to the Throne room some hours before, in the wake of Gimli's expulsion, taking a pale Bilbo with him. Bilbo had emerged, some time after, shaking his head and not speaking to anyone. He had scurried off and no one had seen him since. Dwalin couldn't rightly blame him; Dwalin was having a hard enough time seeing his best friend thus, and Mahal knows Bilbo's relationship with Thorin was greater than that, even if neither of the idiots had made any formal declarations, to each other or the rest of them.

Dwalin growled, and Balin looked up at him. His brother was wearing a pair of spectacles he had found in the powders room, and from the way he handled them, Dwalin was sure he had known the previous owner. Still, Balin's had been lost to the Elvenking, and it was good to see his brother wearing the glass he now needed.

"Easy, brother," Balin said. He was looking over a piece of dusty parchment, the writing faded to a point where, if Dwalin didn't know it was there, he would have said it was blank. "Growling won't help."

"Aye, maybe not," Dwalin muttered. "But it makes me feel better."

Balin smiled tightly and turned back to the parchment.

The company had all been thus subdued since the scene on the battlements. Poor Glóin had sat at a table, openly weeping even as Óin and Bofur tried to get through to him. It was no good. Fíli had said little as well, instead turning to sharpening his weapons with a single-minded focus. His jaw clenched rhythmically, and it made the braids of his mustache sway. Kíli fletched his arrows on autopilot.

It was as if their youngest member had taken all the life with him.

"There," Dori said, placing a cup of something hot next to Glóin's elbow. "Drink that, now. Things will look better in the morning. Maybe King Thorin will--"

"Do nothing," Fíli snapped. "King Thorin will do nothing, because that dwarf," he pointed with his knife, "is no longer my uncle!"

"Fíli!" Balin snapped.

"Oh, come off it, Balin," Kíli said, sneering. "He's right and you know it."

"Thorin would not abandon his word," Fíli said. "Thorin would not turn away when there were those in need. Thorin would not banish his own cousin, and certainly not so young!"

"That's enough!" Balin cried out, and everyone stopped to look at him. "This is not easy, I know. This is not the first time I've had to watch my King succumb to the sickness. I had prayed that Thorin would be spared, but. Well." Balin closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were hard. "None of it matters now. He is the king, and we must follow his lead until we no longer can."

"But what's the point, Balin, if this is his lead!" Fíli said. "I understand, Balin, I do. Better than most. But at what point do we recognize the danger? When the elves overrun the mountain? When their blockade starves us out? We cannot survive this way."

"Then we do not survive," Balin said.

"Bugger that," Dwalin said, and stood, and stalked off to the Throne room "Thorin will see reason."

"Brother!" Balin called after him, but Dwalin did not turn.

Thorin was indeed in the throne room, seated at the far end of the long walk. He was slouched down in the throne, as if he was weighed down by a far many more years than he had. His eyes glittered in the the darkness, as with fever. Dwalin fairly stomped down the walk, his gait not changing even as his resolve began to waver.

The Dwarf on the throne did not look like the Thorin he had grown with, fought for. He was muttering to himself, and did not seem to even notice Dwalin's presence.