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Chapter Text

Balin wanted to hope, he really did. But two hundred years of experience made hope something very difficult to grasp. He was loyal to Thorin without a doubt, but there was no way this quest could succeed.

But, oh, how he wanted it to. He missed Erebor. He missed the enormous arched hallways and the constant tink of the dwarves’ hammers. He missed the heat of the forges and the way his back ached after laboring over carving a single beautiful gem. He missed the songs and the parties. But most of all, he missed Thorin.

Ever since the fall of Erebor, Thorin became distant. With the loss of his father and grandfather, that distance only grew. He knew Thorin trusted him above anyone else in the company, but he also knew that Thorin kept many more secrets from him than he used to. All because some dragon stole his gold.

Gold. Balin wished he could curse that word and everything that went with it. However, he’s still a dwarf. He could never deny the longing that pulled at his heart when he recalled that hoard under the Mountain. He was terrified that Thorin would fall under the same dragon sickness that drove Thror mad. He would give up all the gold and jewels in the world to keep that from happening to his friend and king.

To him, Thorin had already proven his worth. The survivors of Erebor were safe. They were prospering in the Blue Mountains. Why couldn’t Thorin see that?

“You don’t have to do this. You’ve done honorably by our people. You’ve built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.” Balin gazed into those guarded, icy blue eyes, imploring the dwarf behind them to see his reasoning. He should’ve known not to underestimate the stubbornness of dwarves.

“From my father to my grandfather, this came to me,” Thorin held up the key to the secret door to Erebor, “They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland.” Thorin’s eyes now held a steely resolve that shook Balin to his core. His king was determined. This was about more than just gold. It was about birthright. About revenge. About home. “There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

Balin understood now. Thorin would never rest until he reclaimed his home that was wrongly stolen from him. He truly did not have a choice. And he was trusting in them - the few dwarves who loyally answered his call - to help him with his impossible quest.

So Balin replied, “Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done.” And he meant it. He really did.

Chapter Text

The battle was over. They had won. So why did Oin feel like they’d lost?

That’s a silly question, he thought as he gazed over the still body of his king lying on the ice.

He and the other dwarves had found Bilbo hunched over Thorin’s body, crying. The unmoving body of Azog lying not far off told them all they needed to know.

Oin sighed, placing a calming hand on Gloin’s shoulder as he knelt by Thorin’s side. So much death. He was old. He knew what battle was like. That still didn’t ease the numb feeling that followed.

If only he’d been here sooner… No. He couldn’t think like that. He’d seen the wound and knew that would’ve difficult even for him to heal. No, perhaps it was better this way. At least he didn’t have to do deal with the failure of being unable to heal his king.

Even so, the occasional sobs of the dwarves and Bilbo broke his heart. The procession off Ravenhill was next to torture. The remaining dwarves had frozen in their places at the sight of the Durins’ bodies. Their wails rose up to join those of the injured and grieving. Bodies stared up at him, their unseeing eyes judging him for not saving them. Oin felt tears sting his eyes. It was all too much.

His eyes noticed a young man from Laketown who looked like he was no more than nineteen. He wore an expression of fear mixed with sadness. His eyes stared blankly and unblinking at the blue sky, and a crimson trickle of blood flowed from a gash just above his eyebrows. He was so young.

It was too much. Oin felt whatever shards of heart that were left intact shatter. He knelt next to the body and cried. He cried for the lives lost. He cried for his friends. And he cried for the life this boy could have had. It was too much.

However, through his grief came a sound. A voice, so soft Oin hardly heard it. In fact he wasn’t sure he did until he held up his earpiece. But it was there. A pained, fading voice broke through the wails of sorrow rising around them.

Oin wiped his tears and glanced around for the source of the voice. He spotted him quickly enough. Lying amid the stiff bodies was one that still had life in it. Oin hurried over to the man who looked to be about thirty.

“Please,” rasped the man so quietly that Oin had to lean closer to hear, “Help me.” The man was pale, but there was still a flush of life to his cheeks, and his eyes held so many emotions: fear, hope, sadness, love. Oin felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes again. Why was he despairing? He’s the doctor! He had work to do.

“Right then. laddie. Time to fix you up,” he said, a new resolve in his voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency supplies. There wasn’t much left, and he made a mental note to restock in Erebor later.

He pulled the man’s tunic open, revealing the stab wound that was still bleeding heavily. Oin felt himself shift into routine. This was nothing new for him. He pulled out his water pouch and poured whatever was left on the wound. Then he grabbed a wad of fabric and began applying pressure to the wound.

Oin worked methodically, two centuries of medical expertise guiding his trained hands. He spoke calmly to the man, urging him to stay awake. The man fought sleep bravely and spoke slowly of his family.
“We’ll get ya back to yer wife and wee ones, don’t you worry,” Oin said, determination sparking in him once more. The man didn’t answer, and Oin saw he had finally slipped into unconsciousness. He wasn’t too worried anymore. The bleeding had stopped and he was wrapping the wound in some herbs and gauze. Already the color was creeping back into the lad’s cheeks.

“Ori,” Oin called to the young dwarf. Ori looked up at his elder, and Oin took note of the tears staining his cheeks. “Come here, lad. I need your help,” he said gently.

Ori wiped his tears and clambered over to Oin, who gently patted his back. “What’s the matter?” Ori asked, his voice quiet.

“This lad here is badly hurt, so we need to move him into Erebor. I’ve treated him some but I can treat him better there,” Oin explained.

Ori’s eyes widened, and he nodded quickly before scooping up the man and carrying him toward the mountain. Oin followed, keeping an eye out for any other injured survivors.

His eyes started watering again, but this time for a different reason. He noticed that all those still strong were walking among the bodies and helping the injured. Even through the grief, love shone. Dwarves, men, and elves were all caring for each other, all former hatred thrown aside.

The grief was still there, no doubt, but things would get better. They would survive. Sure, the sadness will linger, but they would fight on and rebuild their happiness.

Yes, thought Oin, we will be okay.