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The orcs seem to come from nowhere.
Gandalf is quick to urge the hobbits to hide, but there’s hardly anywhere to go. The landscape surrounding Erebor is sparse, the land still recovering from the dragon fire from decades before. Frodo and the others make do with their swords and frying pans, cutting down the beasts that get too close and that the others are unable to stop.
Fortunately, the assault is quick-lived.
As Legolas pulls another arrow from his pack and Boromir yanks his sword from an orc’s face, a horn bellows out from a small patch of woodland and stops the orcs in their tracks. Armored dwarves surge from the trees, roaring and raging, and the orcs don't stand a chance. The ones that are able to run do so, no doubt to tell Saruman of the dwarves of Erebor, while the rest are butchered.
When the danger has dissipated, a large dwarf comes forward on a ram. Long, gray hair falls from his head, two long braids embellished with silver beads framing either side of his bearded face. A simple crown made of leather sits on his head, and Frodo can see oak leaves adorning it.
The king under the mountain from Gimli’s tales.
Thorin Oakenshield from his uncle’s.
“Gandalf,” the dwarf king says in greeting. “Putting more hobbits in danger, I see.”
He climbs off his ram and steps forward. He’s tall for a dwarf, made larger by a blue coat with fur shoulders and heavy boots. His eyes dart around the hobbits as if he’s looking for someone before they land on Gimli, who bowed the moment the king hit the ground.
“Welcome, Gimli, son of Gloin,” the dwarf king says. His voice is deeper than Frodo imagined. “What brings your company to these lands?”
He says company like a curse. Frodo shares an uncertain look with Sam. His uncle had told him of the dwarf king’s gruff nature, but it had been coated in a layer of affection. It certainly didn’t feel very affectionate coming directly from him.
Here, Gandalf swoops in to explain they’re on a journey of grave importance, the details of which he cannot share, but Thorin’s assistance would be greatly appreciated.
The dwarf king seems unimpressed, especially when locking eyes with Legolas.
“Your Mirkwood friend is not welcome here,” he says, to Frodo’s dismay.
Before Gandalf or the others can say anything, Frodo steps forward. He gives a respectful bow to the king before he says with more bravery than he has, “I will vouch for him.”
The dwarf king’s eyes zero in on him. In the sun, they’re a startling shade of blue. “And who are you, Master Hobbit, whose word would vouch for the elf who locked me and my kin in prison for merely looking for food?”
Frodo doesn’t see Gimli’s head whip around at Legolas, but he does set his jaw and straighten his back. “I am Frodo Baggins,” he says, and at this, he pulls at the neck of his cloak to reveal the mithril shirt his uncle had given him. “Nephew of Bilbo Baggins, khuzdbâha.” He fumbles a little over the khuzdul, but the word is understood.
An expression comes over the king’s face Frodo can’t quite describe. Wistful, maybe. His eyes dart from the mithril to Frodo’s face and back again. His eyes, Frodo realizes, have softened. All at once, the stories his uncle told him of the king come back to him in a different light. Oh, he thinks.
“Your word is good, Master Baggins,” Thorin Oakenshield says finally. To Frodo and the others, he says, “Welcome to the Kingdom of Erebor.”
**
He’s standing alone in one of the mountain halls to catch a moment of silence when the dwarf king finds him again.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin says. “How are you liking the mountain?”
“I’m enjoying it,” Frodo says honestly, smiling. “It’s an awful lot like being back at home.” At Thorin’s curious look, he explains, “My uncle is very fond of dwarves. It’s not uncommon for him to host many at one time, especially at Yule.”
Something lights up in Thorin’s face again before it dims a little. “I am sorry I have not visited the Shire. My duty is here with my people, you understand.”
“My uncle never showed any malice, do not fret,” Frodo says. “He’s on his way here, actually, once his stay in Rivendell is over.”
It’s as if Frodo had told him he had killed Smaug himself. Thorin’s eyes dance with an elation he had never expected to see from the king. “Bilbo is coming here to Erebor?”
“Yes,” Frodo says and he can’t help but laugh. “The two of you really are great friends, aren’t you. My uncle has said as much, but I did not realize… That is—” He coughs.
It’s Thorin’s turn for his eyes to dance with mirth. “You are much like him,” he says, and it’s as high praise as Frodo could hope for. But then the smile on Thorin’s face dips a little, and he’s just a little bit scary again. “This quest you are on with the wizard,” he says. “Gandalf says he cannot give details.”
Frodo nervously reaches for the ring hanging down by his chest but stops when he notices the king’s eyes tracking the movement. “It’s for your own safety, I assure you,” he explains. “Your people have been through enough heartache. If I were to tell you what our quest involves, I would fear for your downfall.”
Thorin stares at him with heavy eyes while he takes in this information. At last, he gives a single nod. “Very well, Master Baggins. I take you at your word.”
Frodo swallows. He doesn’t take the king’s words lightly. Still, he follows Thorin when the king steps away back into the larger hall. In a low voice, Frodo asks, “Is it true what my uncle says of you? That you defeated your dragon sickness on your own?”
A graveness comes over Thorin’s face. He reaches up and gently touches the crown of leather on his head. “It is true,” he says, “but at great cost. Would I have come to my senses sooner, many lives would have been saved.”
“But you did,” Frodo insists, “come to your senses, I mean.”
“I did,” Thorin agrees, eyeing Frodo at his intensity. “But I still take precautions. You may have noticed we do not decorate with gold like we would have in the past.”
“How did you overcome it?” Frodo asks, and his hand makes its way back to his chest, just over the ring.
Thorin eyes the gesture. He asks, “Why are you so keen to know, Master Baggins?”
Frodo swallows. “I fear I… may have a similar affliction. Not dragon sickness, but something—How did you overcome it? Please.”
Thorin meets his eyes and holds them. It’s a lot like looking up at his father, he thinks.
“It sounds like you, doesn’t it,” Thorin says, and Frodo’s blood runs cold. “The thoughts in your head. They sound like yours. That’s how they slither in and get you to listen.”
“How do you—?”
Thorin cocks his head and Frodo swallows. He did ask.
“I don’t know how to stop it,” Frodo whispers. “It is a burden I must carry and cannot part from for some time, but when the time does come, I fear what might happen. That I cannot complete the quest. That I will fail everyone.”
Without thinking, he’s reached up to clutch at the ring beneath his cloak. He doesn’t know what’s made him spill his secrets to this dwarf, but when Thorin reaches up to take his wrist, he doesn’t flinch back. There’s no greed in the king’s eyes. It’s as if he’s seeing Aragorn a hundred years down the line.
“I will not lie to you and say it is easy,” Thorin says. His voice is as grounding as the Lonely Mountain itself. “And you will, indeed, carry this burden with you until the end of your days. But you can manage it, Master Baggins. Frodo.” He squeezes Frodo’s wrist gently.
“How?” Frodo pleads.
“It is a matter of recognizing the thought. Do not run from it. A snake in the grass only chases. Catch it. Hold it. Recognize it. Is it reasonable or baseless? Is it food for your fear? Does it sound like your uncle or does it sound like the gold? Twist it. Examine it. And then let it go, and throw it from your mind. There will be times when you cannot recognize what thoughts are yours and what is the gold’s. It will be frightening, but it will not last."
"In moments like those," Thorin continues, "when you fear you are drowning, it may help to think of something so ridiculous it brings you back to yourself. Perhaps of your elf friend in his undergarments." At this, Frodo snorts an unexpected laugh, and Thorin smiles. "Disrupt the voices, and it becomes easier to hear yourself. The journey does not end here, Master Baggins.”
A calloused thumb sweeps over his cheek and Frodo startles. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. And in front of Thorin Oakenshield!
But the old king merely nods once, solemnly. There is no judgment in his stare. “Of course,” he says, “removing the gold so it cannot whisper is also a step in the right direction.”
Frodo manages a small smile. “That is the plan, yes,” he says, “so to speak.”
They walk together down the hall to reunite with the others and, in the king’s presence, Frodo thinks he understands his uncle a little better now. Though he has no butterflies for the king himself, the dwarf certainly has a presence he’s sure would seduce even him on an adventure to fight a fire-breathing dragon if he were asked.
But, Frodo supposes, it’s best to fight one dragon at a time.