Chapter Text
Present Day
Fourth Age
Erebor
The funeral had been one of the smallest ceremonies to be held in the great halls of the mountain. ‘All the better,’ Minnian thought. ‘She was never one for pomp and circumstance. Never thought she deserved it.’
His beard had greyed fully now, and he barely recognized his own reflection. He’d lived a long life. A full life. He could ask for no more than that. He could feel something calling him as it called her, a sweet, welcoming voice he yearned to follow. He knew his task was done as hers had been, and the world was transitioning into a new age. With the one ring destroyed, with the Silmarils finally put to rest, he could leave the world in peace. Like his wife.
And his sister.
Finding that he was unable to sleep, as usual, he had gotten up and shuffled his way to the long empty burial chamber where the queen was laid. Next to her king.
As always.
He remained still in the chamber, watching the flickering of the nearby torches.
“I remember when you were born.” His voice shook, echoing in the dusty room, tears falling down his cheeks. “I was only two summers old, but one never forgets the day that he becomes a big brother.” The torchlight flickered merrily, appearing to dance.
“I knew it was the best thing to ever happen to you.”
He laughed. “And I knew from the start that you were a troublemaker.” Then the laughter strained and choked. “I miss you.”
“I am never far away. I am in your heart. As you are in mine. We will be together soon.” A strong, soft wind filled the room, causing the flames to flicker once more. “Remember.”
And that night, as he laid in his bed, he did. The calling was almost upon him now, and he found himself longing to go, to see his family and friends again that had already taken their place in the stars. For the last time, his fingers flitted through pages of parchment engulfed in a deep red binding, the words written by a different hand many years ago. He caressed the page he was on lovingly as he flipped to the next, only to watch a single piece of parchment fall to the floor. He smiled at the familiar parchment, this was far from the first time he’d read it, after all, and reached down to inspect it.
My Dear Frodo, it read. The man smiled as he remembered a young hobbit boy with unruly dark hair. Then he felt the accompanying pain in his heart whenever he remembered such lost innocence. Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he continued to read.
You asked me once if I had told you everything about my adventures. And while I can honestly say I have told you the truth…I may not have told you all of it.
‘Probably for the best,' Minnian thought, not for the first time since he was given the book by one Samwise Gamgee. It was no secret how hard he had taken his sister’s passing after all, and the kind-hearted hobbit had parted with the treasured book simply because she was in it.
I am old now, Frodo. I’m not the same hobbit I once was. I think it’s time for you to know what really happened.
It began long ago in a land far away to the east, the likes of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale: Peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth…Erebor.
She had loved Erebor. She always had, even as a child. He still remembered her pleading on the day the beast came and, all things considered, it should have been obvious as to why.
Stronghold of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, mightiest of the dwarf lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson.
His grandson. ‘Thorin Oakenshield.’ His mind automatically clarified, remembering a stern, cantankerous dwarf that somehow made his sister smile. ‘She would have died a thousand deaths for him.’
He still was unsure if the dwarf deserved that much loyalty, but the animosity he had once felt was entirely gone. He had been a good dwarf who made his sister happy, and Minnian could ask no more than that. Unable to continue down that train of thought, he kept reading.
Ah, Frodo, Erebor. Built deep within the mountain itself. The beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it: The Heart of the Mountain.
The Arkenstone.
Minnian frowned. The damned rock. They hadn’t known that a Silmaril hid inside its sculptable diamond coating, rendering it able to be held. All they had known was that it had been nothing but a source of grief since a younger Thorin had approached her, filling her head with thoughts of dragon sickness, madness, and a kingdom in need of saving.
He kept reading.
Thrór named it ‘The King’s Jewel’. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him. Even the great Elven King Thranduil. But the years of peace and plenty were not to last.
As the great wealth of the dwarves grew, their store of goodwill ran thin. No one knows exactly what began the rift. The elves say the dwarves stole their treasure. The dwarves tell another tale. They say the elf king refused to give them their rightful pay.
He never fully understood their elven uncle. He was so caring, he was cruel. He was so wise, and yet so prideful. His animosity for the dwarves had peaked with the death of his wife, and yet…
It is sad, Frodo, how old alliances can be broken. How friendships between people can be lost. And for what?
Eventually, he fought for them. Because Nayla fought for them. Minnian’s heart constricted at her name.
Slowly the days turned sour, and the watchful nights closed in. Thrór’s love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things follow.
He put the book away, the letter folded inside, too tired to continue. And with that, he curled up under the pelts, feeling tears drip down his cheeks.
He fell asleep to the sounds of flutes.